The Chupacabra (3 page)

“Don't forget, Armado, the engineers are coming tomorrow to discuss the new well,” Joseph was saying to his son. “We have a water shortage on the ranch,” he explained to the girls.

“I suppose it doesn't rain here very often,” said Vanessa. “It's always raining in Ireland.”

“Oh, but it does. We have two seasons in Mexico: the dry and the wet,” Armado explained. He had a lovely accent. “We get huge rainstorms that fill the rivers and reservoirs, but in the last few years there hasn't been enough rain. Well, not on this ranch anyhow.”

“It's the curse,” Carmen muttered darkly.

Frida shot her daughter a look that silenced her. Vanessa was dying to ask what Carmen meant.

Did she mean a real curse, like witchcraft?

“Do you ride?” Armado suddenly asked Vanessa. She gave a small jump in her chair. A blush started at her neck and rose up her face. She really hated that.

“No, but I'd love to learn.”

Frida's fork stopped midair, and she stared rudely. What on earth was wrong with her now?

“Remember, the girls will be busy in the afternoons with their chores, Armado,” Frida said stiffly. “You will be part of the family while you are here, Vanessa and Nikki,” Frida explained, “and you will do chores in the afternoons, like Carmen.”

Chores? Vanessa shot a look at Armado. How about him, did he do chores too? Armado met her gaze evenly and smiled. Did he know what she was thinking?

“After your chores I would suggest that you take a siesta, but then your time is your own, as long as you do not interfere with the running of the ranch.”

What on earth did that mean, interfere with the running of the ranch? Vanessa felt a knot twisting in the pit of her stomach. She put her knife and fork down. She couldn't eat another morsel.

“In the evenings, then,” Armado suggested. “We can go riding when it's cooler.”

“Next week I will begin your Spanish lessons,” Frida went on, ignoring Armado. “For an hour in the morning, immediately after breakfast.”

Vanessa was appalled. Spanish classes with Frosty Frida followed by chores and a siesta! This was not how it was meant to be. They were supposed to be having an amazing adventure in Mexico, riding horses and running wild for the summer.

Miserably, Vanessa stared at her plate, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She suddenly felt very homesick. She missed her dad and her brothers. She was almost sorry she'd come to this weird place. She didn't dare to lift her eyes to look at Nikki; she was too embarrassed at the thought of crying in front of Frida and Armado.

The puncture wounds made by the Chupacabra are small, about a quarter of an inch in size, but very deep, going completely through the layers of muscle tissue.

Vanessa didn't sleep well that night. At first she left a window open to the terrace to try and dilute the still, hot air in her room, but the screech of unknown animals in the night and the constant buzz of insects soon changed her mind. She didn't fall into a deep sleep until about four o'clock and was exhausted when
she woke to the sound of a knock on her bedroom door.

“Breakfast is at eight in the courtyard, Vanessa.” Carmen kissed her on both cheeks and then stared shyly at her. “You look more tired than yesterday. It is the jet lag, I believe.”

Vanessa dressed quickly and found her way to the flower-filled courtyard.

Frida appeared wearing a long silk robe and gold flip-flops. She drank her espresso silently while the three girls chatted. Afterwards she showed them into a huge sitting room. Large brass fans circulated slowly in the ceiling, and the polished wooden floorboards gleamed. The walls were filled with framed photographs, most of them very old-looking. The enormous fireplace was flanked by two full-sized carved wooden dogs.

“Oh, look!” cried Nikki, her eyes on the dogs.

“Aren't they lovely? So lifelike.”

Frida stroked one of their heads, and Vanessa was surprised by the look of affection on her face.

“Marco and Polo were my grandfather's hunting dogs. They used to sit at his feet every evening when he was reading.”

Frida turned to the other dog and stroked its head in turn.

“When they died he carved these to keep him company.”

“Carved them himself?” asked Vanessa, impressed.

“Oh, yes, he was an art student in Spain before he came here. My grandmother also. She died not long after they arrived in Mexico.”

For a split second Vanessa found herself looking around the room in case there was a wooden replica of Frida's grandmother on display too. Instead her eyes were caught by glass-fronted cabinets that were filled with guns and knives.

“Wow, an old fashioned blunderbuss,” she said. She suppressed a smile when she caught Frida's frozen expression of surprise. No doubt only boys were supposed to know such things. She was dying to open the doors and take the antique weapons out, but she didn't dare.

“Is this you, Frida?” Vanessa asked instead, looking at a photograph of a young girl. She was smiling up at an older woman who was staring straight at the camera.

For a moment Vanessa thought that Frida wasn't
going to answer her. Maybe it was rude to have called her Frida. Should she have said Señora Martinez?

“Yes, that is me,” Frida finally answered.

“And that's your mother, I guess. You look so much like her.” Vanessa turned and smiled, but Frida bristled visibly and then turned away.

Confused by Frida's reaction, Vanessa turned back quickly to look at the other photos. She had meant it as a compliment. She loved it when people said she was like her own mother.

“And now embroidery, please,” Frida said.

Startled out of her own thoughts, Vanessa saw Frida holding a piece of white linen in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. So this was what she meant by chores! Vanessa had hoped she would be working with the animals, milking cows, mucking out stables. But embroidery? She hoped it would be easy to do. She had never held a needle before, never mind done intricate designs.

Vanessa flopped down on the sofa beside Nikki and dug her elbow gently into her friend's ribs. Nikki looked at her, and Vanessa grinned.

“How long do you reckon we'll have to do this for?” Vanessa said softly.

“Two hours,” Frida answered coldly. “It is part of a community project here. We sell the tablecloths and napkins to tourists and raise funds for the orphanage in Guanajuato.”

Vanessa stared down at the cloth. There was a leaf pattern outlined around the edges. They wouldn't be able to sell her effort for much, that was for sure.

“Just use the green thread and follow the outline,” Carmen explained. “It is not that hard, really.”

Vanessa secretly rolled her eyes and stabbed her needle into the cloth.

Frida left the room, and Vanessa gave a sigh of relief.

She pulled the thread through. Not too bad, she thought, jabbing the needle in again—right into her middle finger. A bead of bright red blood bloomed on her knuckle. She watched as the blood spread to stain the white linen.

She swore, shouted, outraged, and threw the cloth down.

Carmen and Nikki stared at each other and then collapsed laughing.

It was not a great start. Vanessa would willingly give every last peso she had to the orphanage rather
than spend the morning sitting here sewing politely and bleeding all over her efforts.

It was their second day on the ranch, and except for going outside on the veranda to play with the dogs, she had seen nothing of it yet, she thought miserably. Was this going to be their daily chore? It was gruesome, and she didn't think she could last a month at it.

Then an idea occurred to her. What if she volunteered to work at something different?

“Carmen, what does Armado do in the line of chores?” she asked. “I know my brothers are pretty lazy around the house,” she added in an attempt to make her question sound casual.

“During the holidays he works all day on the ranch from six in the morning. Papa has only four other ranch hands to work the entire estate. Mado works very hard.”

Carmen spoke proudly. She clearly adored her older brother.

A small kernel of envy lodged itself in Vanessa's throat, and she smiled wistfully back. It didn't sound as if she would be allowed to work out of doors anyway. That was boys' work, obviously. Maybe she
could volunteer to help in the kitchen, though? Izel, the cook, had seemed nice.

Vanessa looked out the window and caught sight of Armado cantering across the field on a beautiful black horse, lasso in hand, looking just like a real Mexican cowboy. It was all very disheartening.

“Speak of the devil!” Vanessa said out loud.

Carmen's head shot up. “Don't say that,” she gasped.

Vanessa laughed. But when she saw the look of terror on Carmen's face she stopped immediately.

“Bad word,” Carmen said.

“I'm so sorry, Carmen, it's just a saying in English,” explained Vanessa. “It's nothing to do with the actual devil. Honestly. I happened to see Armado as we were speaking about him, that's all.”

Carmen stared at Vanessa, her eyes wide. She still looked worried.

“
Esta bien
, Carmen?” Nikki touched her cousin's arm gently.

“It is just that
Rancho del Diablo
is what the locals sometimes call this place. Devil Ranch.”

“Why on earth … ?” asked Vanessa.

“I am not sure. I think it is something to do with
animals that go missing or get killed on this ranch. They say it is cursed.”

“Is that the curse that you were talking about at dinner last night?” Vanessa asked.

Carmen suddenly clammed up.

“No, no, it is nothing. I should not speak of it.”

“But why is it cursed?” persisted Vanessa. Carmen said nothing.

“Animals die all the time on a ranch, don't they?” Vanessa said, ignoring Nikki's warning frown. It was obvious that Carmen was uncomfortable talking about it.

Carmen's reply was almost inaudible: “Not this way.”

The Nahua people in Mexico date back to pre-Columbian times and are considered the direct descendants of the Aztecs. They live mostly in central Mexico, and it is estimated that 1.4 million people speak the language Nahuatl. They are a highly spiritual people and have strong belief in the forces of good and evil.
Izel
is a Nahuatl name meaning “unique.”

Vanessa volunteered for kitchen duties. Anything was better than embroidery. Frida had not been too pleased about it, but she could hardly argue with a
guest who was prepared to help out with the cooking, so she took Vanessa to the kitchen and introduced her to Izel as the new kitchen assistant. Izel was delighted with the idea. Her black eyes shone warmly, and she threw her arms around Vanessa, hugging her like a long-lost daughter. Vanessa smiled to herself. She liked this woman already.

The Martinezes' cook was the most remarkable shape. At five-foot nothing, she had broad shoulders, thick calves, a shelf-like chest and a simply enormous waist.

While Frida and Izel chatted away in Spanish, their hands clasped together and heads bent over like penguins, Vanessa was amazed to hear Frida laugh. Maybe she was only cold to Vanessa because she didn't know her. She clearly adored Izel.

Not wanting to appear to be listening, Vanessa looked around the kitchen. It was a world away from their cramped kitchen at home—about four times the size and flooded with light from the large windows to the front.

The countertop was crammed with ceramic bowls piled with fruits and vegetables that Vanessa didn't recognize. On a long shelf above the counter there
were dozens of glass jars filled with dried herbs. They had white labels with spidery handwriting on them—Izel's writing, Vanessa guessed. The jars looked more like something out of an old-fashioned pharmacy than a kitchen. Over the enormous black stove copper pots hung from brass hooks on wooden racks and ranged in size from milk pan to army issue.

Frida left without another glance at Vanessa, and Izel stood alone—a queen in her kitchen kingdom, her face beaming.

“Vanessa, I like you wash the hands with the soap, and we start.”

Vanessa was amused by the contrast of her clear, hard voice compared to her soft and rounded appearance.

“
De prisa
, hurry, we have much to do.”

Izel was standing by an enormous sink, holding up the soap. She turned on the water.

“I make it myself. It is lemon and wild ginger.”

“Sounds like you should eat it rather than wash with it.”

Izel chuckled, her chest wobbling. This was going to be much more fun than Vanessa had expected.

Soon Vanessa had learned how to chop onions
very finely using a razor-sharp knife. One slip and her finger would be off, though. This was followed by a demonstration on how to skin tomatoes by dropping them in boiling water. Things were going well.

The telephone rang in the hall, and Izel disappeared to answer it. Vanessa continued to slice mangos and eyed the result with pleasure. She was getting good at this—not the mess of pulp she ended up with the first time she tried.

Izel was still on the phone, and through the open door Vanessa could hear her voice rising and falling but she couldn't understand the words. Occasionally she shouted something like “galote,” and Vanessa wondered if that was the person's name. She finished slicing the mangos and went to the sink to wash the knife and plate she had been using.

Vanessa stared out the kitchen window at the fields, which stretched out for miles. Tomorrow evening they would be going on their first horse-riding lesson with Armado. Frida had finally given in.

Suddenly a face appeared at the window and gave her the fright of her life. It was a man's face, his nose pressed against the glass. His eyes locked onto hers, dull and impassive, and the vacant look in them
scared Vanessa. He had long, greasy hair and baggy, lined skin under his eyes. Slowly his cruel, thin lips parted in a sneer, revealing large gaps and uneven teeth in decaying gums. Vanessa gave a small scream and grabbed the knife from the sink.