La Taconuda

Catherine Nolan

Honduras is a country deep with mountains and mountain villages; unfathomably ancient places baptized optimistically with names like La Esperanza, La Paz and La Libertad – Hope, Peace and Freedom – by the Christian men who brought with them the light of civilization. This colonial period was the triumphant age of such villages, while men and gold were poured in by the Spaniards: the rough sticks and dust that made up the towns were replaced by Mediterranean architecture and expert stonework, and each town dignified by a church faced by a plaza central. It is perhaps no surprise that the natives of such villages embraced the Spanish language and heritage; even today the Catrachos, as the Hondurans call themselves, think themselves fortunate to live in a colonial town. Indeed, in many of the more remote towns, the colonial buildings are the most recent permanent structures, for no one since then has troubled much about the fate of these pueblos. In spite of the indios’ adoption of Spanish Christian gentility, however, the mountains hold much that is still pagan.

La Taconuda was one such creature. Rumours of her kind have existed almost as long as the world has known lovers. She was a spirit of the jungle, alienated from the human family, and envious; she silently came forth to wreak vengeance on those she hated, by destroying those she loved – or rather, by destroying those who loved her, since love had no place in her own heart. There was a vague but bitter tragedy in her past, and they said her true form was that of a bride, dressed in white. Ageless and ancient though she was, she now took her name from the tacones, the modern high-heeled shoes, that she wore, as if claiming that her lover’s crime was of recent memory. In her anger, however, La Taconuda rarely appeared tall and pale or vested in white, and often lowered herself to take on the form of a village girl. The girl’s admirer, if he were drawn away by La Taconuda, would be found soon afterwards, completely mad. Few men claimed to have encountered her and left with their wits intact. Most, when mentioning her, would cross themselves, hurriedly, with a wary glance over their shoulder. She was said to be very beautiful.

Maria de los Angeles was, however, more beautiful, so Jorge had never been afraid of La Taconuda. He and Maria were fiancées, novios, engaged to be married in the church of La Paz right after Holy Week. Jorge had known that Maria was beautiful even before she had smiled at him; long before, when her face had been set as if in sullen stone and when her eyebrows had lowered upon seeing him. Day after day, she had ignored him, and later she had demanded that he accomplish impossible tasks, and he despaired of ever pleasing her. She had long, straight, black hair, and her skin was evenly and transparently brown, and when he finally succeeded in making her smile, he felt that he had accomplished his life’s goal and that all the world was applauding him. Now she laughed whenever they met, and her laughter drove him madder than all La Taconuda’s wiles ever could; he turned cartwheels and climbed tiled roofs and even saved enough money to buy a burro and cart. They would be married very soon, and live with his uncle outside the town.

Jorge already lived with his uncle, but he often went into La Paz to visit his novia and her family, and tonight he had arranged to meet her for the Via de la Cruz, because it was a Friday in Lent. It was almost dusk, and after Mass the darkened streets would be full of people, carrying lit candles and singing the responses to the priest’s intonation, following him through the town and remembering Christ’s path to the cross.

Maria was not at Mass, though, and Jorge often had to drag his eyes from the open doors to the priest. When Mass was over, he looked through the congregation for her brothers. They, too, were missing.

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