Page 39 of Castle of the Cursed
La Sombra looms over the pueblo, blacker than the night itself, its lone tower stabbing the sky. Overhead, the moon is just a sliver shy of full. In two nights, la luna llena will begin—but will Beatríz be back in time to test Felipe’s great-grandfather’s theory?
“You’re going to pass our street!” calls Felipe, and I realize I’m so deep in my thoughts that I’ve marched too far ahead.
I wait for the guys to catch up. Felipe is moving slower to match his dad’s pace with his cane, and it strikes me what a big help it is for their family that Felipe runs the bookstore.
“Ya no corro carreras,” says a smiling Arturo.
I look at Felipe, and this time I take a stab at translating: “I don’t run races anymore?”
“Excellent,” says an approving Felipe. I smile back, equally pleased with my Spanish progress.
“Aquí estamos,” says Arturo when we arrive at a house that’s buzzing with noise. It sounds like the whole town is crammed inside.
Felipe casts me an apologetic look as the door opens, and I’m swept in by a tiny mob.
“Bienvenida, Estela. Soy Lucía, la mamá de Felipe,” says a squat and curvy woman with bright red nail polish and half-moon eyeglasses. She pulls me into a hug before I have a chance to extend my hand for a shake.
The next few hours are a blur of faces and names and double kisses, each person blending in with the next, forming a tapestry, all of them inextricable from one another. I think of the ledger in Felipe’s book tracing everyone’s ancestral properties. The residents of Oscuro are so deeply planted here that they seem impossible to uproot—and yet, something sent Mom packing.
The Sarmientos’ home is wooden-floored, with a warm fireplace and sloping ceilings. In stark contrast to my aunt’s house, photographs line most flat surfaces, including the walls, featuring many of the faces here tonight. I do a double take when I see that la Sombra’s crest hangs over the hearth. Beneath it, on the mantel, are candles and a single framed photo. I move closer to be sure it’s who I think it is—
Beatríz.
“Estela, esta es mi abuela,” says Felipe’s mom, and I turn to see the old woman who feeds the birds in the plaza. “Se llama Gloria.”
“Hola, Gloria,” I say, greeting Felipe’s great-grandmother.
I move in for the customary kisses, and she says, “Angelito”—little angel—and presses a hand to my cheek. “Te quemaron.”
What did she say? Doesn’t quemaron mean burn?
“¿Qué?” I ask.
“Está cansada,” says Felipe’s mom with a strained smile. She’s tired.
“What’s she talking about?” I ask.
“I get her to bed,” says Lucía in choppy English, flashing me a too-large smile.
“¿Cómo estás?” asks Arturo, swapping in for his wife almost instantly.
“¿Conocían a mis padres?” I ask if they knew my parents.
“No,” he says, shaking his head a tad too effusively.
“¿Por qué la foto de Beatríz?” I hope I asked him why they have Beatríz’s photo framed.
“Es nuestra alcalde,” he says.
“No entiendo.” I have no idea what alcalde means.
“Mayor,” says Felipe, coming over with two glasses of soda. Arturo smiles and takes off, looking almost relieved to leave me with his son. “Beatríz is the town’s mayor.”
I stare at Felipe, speechless. He holds out a glass to me, and I take it. “Want to see my room?” he offers.
“Yes, please,” I say, eager for a moment of quiet. There are so many people here that they’ve spilled out into the backyard and front lawn. They’ve been rotating indoors to meet me, and I think my head is going to explode.
We slip to the back of the house, where a set of narrow stairs leads to a basement. Picturing the attic of Libroscuro, I’m eager to enter another of Felipe’s cozy, book-lined spaces. I hurry down the steps, but halfway, I freeze.
