As we've learned on haunted places, everything spooky has an origin story, and there's no better proof than in the Spotify original fun podcast Mythology, Heroes, Monsters, Ancient Myths Mythology explores how they all got started. So if you enjoyed this episode, you're about to hear and want more. Be sure to follow mythology free on Spotify over ever you get your podcast.
Something to note, all myths have many versions and variations for this episode, we've selected those we felt were the most dramatic and entertaining and supplemented them with additional research into Mexican history. Our myths may not be the version you're familiar with, but we hope you'll enjoy them. A warning. Today's myth contains dramatizations and discussions of child abuse, graphic violence and genocide. Please exercise caution for all listeners under 13. Even in the rain, the lights of Guadalajara were magical.
Arturo was not like the other children whose parents made them fear getting sick at the slightest hint of a drizzle.
He loved these storms in the gloom building, stopped being electrical fixtures and became enormous swarms of fireflies all around him.
He leaped from puddled to puddle on his way back from school, the route he took through the city center was a convoluted maze of streets and back alleys, but he knew it by heart.
If it weren't for the traffic, he could walk it blindfolded. Arturo jumped into a particularly large puddle, delighting as the mirror surface exploded into droplets under his shoes.
He went on running toward a nearby alleyway, a shortcut to the Tongala district where his family lived.
A strange sound filtered through the pouring rain, causing Arturo to slow in the murky blue shadows. A sliver of white caught Arturo's eye. It was a woman disappearing into the alleyway. He saw her for only an instant. But something about her was strange.
While everyone else seemed to become distant shadows in the rain, she stood out like a beacon. He could hear her weeping as if she was right beside his ears.
He followed her into the alleyway.
The narrow space was nearly flooded, but the woman didn't seem to care. She was on her knees, shoulders shaking with sobs. Strangely, as Arturo drew closer to her, it seemed like the sound of her crying receded, getting further and further away. He did not know what to say. He had seen his mother cry like this before, and she usually requested a hug. But he knew better than to hug strangers her.
Hello, Miss. Are you OK?
The next time you see us, I'm sorry, I don't know where your children are, if you want to talk to a policeman, I can fetch one.
No. They cannot help me, OK? I hope you feel better Arturo turned to leave, he could take the long route today.
He reasoned he didn't want to get any closer to this woman than necessary.
A sharp cry sounded behind him when he turned back.
The woman loomed over him, her face hidden by a veil.
Don't leave me, me, Mosso, Lasantha, senora. I can't help you. I need to get home. You are home. You are at home with me.
You're mistaken, senora. I live with my umbrella so you'll be missing me. Arturo took a step back. His foot slid on the wet concrete. He teetered and for a horrible moment he felt like he was going to fall face first into the filthy water. But the strange woman caught him, and that turned out to be far, far worse. Welcome to Mythology, a cast original every Tuesday, we present dramatic stories from ancient mythology and explore their origins.
I'm your host and narrator Vanessa Richardson. You can find all episodes of mythology and all other cast originals for free on Spotify to stream mythology for free on Spotify. Just open the app and type mythology in the search bar. Today we're telling the story of LA Jordanna, the weeping woman of Mexican folklore.
She's a classic banshee figure, menacing any child who sees her because of what became of her own children. She can never enter heaven and is doomed to wander the earth seeking redemption that will never come.
Coming up, will begin the tragedy of Lajo Donna. As we've seen many times on this show, most mythological characters exist to impart morality tales or stories explaining the way the natural world behaves. But others are more like ghosts, not elemental figures representing the unknown, but echoes of the cruelty human beings inflict upon each other. LA Urana is such a figure. She's a spirit unique to Mexican folklore whose origins are shrouded in mystery. Most retellings can agree on the broad strokes of her story, but not on the circumstances surrounding it, or even when the story began, she said to be the spirit of a beautiful woman named Maria, who drowned her children in a jealous rage when she discovered her husband was seeing another woman.
Her weeping ghost now wanders the world looking for the children she's killed. Whenever a child encounters her, she repeats her original sin and drowns them.
The story of Maria is an oral one, so tracing the origin of Jordanna to a specific telling is more or less impossible. Her first appearance in writing came in an 1883 poem by Manuel Carpio.
It goes as follows Byerly though, that there are Contar pale with terror. I heard when I was a child I am an innocent child that a lawless man killed his wife Rosalia in my town.
And since then, in the dark of night, the frightened townsfolk can hear it. The moans of the suffering woman moaning as she gives in to her agony.
For a while her lament ceases. But then a long cry breaks out and alone through the streets, she crosses, filling all with mortal terror.
Then by the river, in thick darkness, she leaves crying, wrapped in her cloak. Notice this poem contains no references to infanticide, only a poor woman who was killed by her husband, whose sadness sustains her even after her death. This is the thread that unites all versions of Jordanna deep, unquenchable grief to uncover the true horrors behind the tale of LA Jordanna. We have to go all the way back to the 16th century, a formative period of Mexican history.
And like so many transitional periods throughout history, the formation of Spanish colonial Mexico was marked by tragedy.
The river was always cold, Maria's hands worked back and forth across the washboard, soaking and cleansing the fabric between her fingers. Her children, Adnen and Francisco, played up river, splashing each other with delight. The cool water delighted them in the scorching summer sun. Maria looked up.
The sun was rising higher and higher over the horizon. It was getting late. She would need to finish the washing soon.
An all too familiar sound carried them from over the ridge, a bell tolling, Maria resumed her scrubbing with even greater vigor than Francisco of anarchy.
The children responded immediately, running over to their mother. When they reached her, Maria could see a shadow of disappointment in their eyes. They were sad to see their playtime ending.
Dry yourselves. We're going back home to get dressed for church, remember? Do not tell your father I was washing clothes on a Sunday morning.
The children nodded, though Maria could tell they didn't quite understand why she was so adamant, in truth, it didn't make much sense to her either. But rules were rules. She wasn't supposed to be working on the seventh day of the week, so she only worked when absolutely necessary. Together, Maria and her son set off on the footpath back to their home. It was a short walk, but the growing heat made the air feel like fire around them.
Her children complained constantly, prompting a reprimand from their mother. Behave yourselves, Niños.
The heat is nothing to me, and it should be nothing to you either. You have the blood of Azlan in your veins.
But even as she said these words, Maria felt a pang of guilt. How could she take pride in her heritage when she had forsaken her faith? When that very day they were on their way to pray to a God she did not believe in her new home. Sangre del Salvador was an outpost of this God, a mission built by the Christians who murdered her people and gave her a new name as carefully as she could. Maria set her basket of clothes in a nook beside the door where it would not be spotted.
Then she entered her home as casually as she could. Her husband, Voskuhl, their sadiya was waiting for them inside, but something was different about his appearance today. Instead of wearing his Sunday best, he was dressed in a rough tunic. A breastplate and helmet lay nearby, freshly polished and waiting for their owner.
At Maria's entrance, Vasco turned a wolfish grin on his face.
Where've you been all this morning? I thought for a moment you taken the children and run away.
I've been making sure the children are clean for mass Myanmar. You needn't have bothered. They'll surely be dirty again before you even reach the chapel. Don't you mean we husband? You will have to go on without me. I've heard word that there is a band of Aztec rebels hiding in the mountains.
It is my duty to take my men and crush them before they have time to rally an army.
I'm confused. I thought the seventh day was supposed to be a day for prayer. Sometimes we are called away from prayer to do the Lord's work. Will will you be home for supper? I may be gone a week or more, I expect we'll spend most of the time chasing them through the wilderness like rabbits. Perhaps you should take us with you. I could translate for you and we could avoid bloodshed. My sweet Maria. We do not negotiate with savages.
The ones that are left knew there was a choice between salvation and death. They made their choice just as you made yours. These words haunted Maria even as she and her children knelt for mass in their modest chapel, she had married a man she thought had noble ideals, though he came from an entirely different land and their people had been at war. She had been taught that marriages like hers would help secure peace. But more and more, she suspected that peace was never the goal for men like Voskuhl.
He had treated her tenderly at first, but she soon realized that this tenderness was not genuine affection. He wanted to be sure he wouldn't break her too soon, not until he was sure she was tough enough to see his violent side. These sorts of thoughts kept her from focusing whenever she went to pray. Their priest, a Franciscan friar named Father Garcia, administered mass passionately. But she barely heard his words. And that was before she saw the boy in the chapel, her eye caught on a shadow behind the altar, not much taller than her eldest son.
Its skin was wrong, where there was once smooth flesh, a horrible pattern of crusted bumps made the boy look more like a statue than a person. Maria had seen a condition like this before, but its sufferers weren't able to stand up. The infected boy raised a finger to his lips. A moment later, he was gone, almost as if he had never been there when the service was concluded and the rest of the congregation had dispersed, Maria approached the friar.
He smiled pleasantly at her approach. What can I do for you, Maria? I have a question for you, Father, I I'm not sure how to ask this. If the wrong person heard me, they could say such things. Do not worry. Your words are between you and me alone. I will tell no one. I've done my best to be good to my husband, but our marriage is cold. What do I do? Is there any saving our family?
My child, I'm glad you came to me. This is not an unusual problem. You should focus on the parts of your marriage that bring you joy. Can you do that? I don't know. What about your children? My children? If you have no love for your husband, serve him for your children's sake.
How can I serve a man who has no love for me left? How does that make me any better than a slave?
Do not think of it as servitude, but as a calling. You have a duty to your husband. Just as we have a duty to our Heavenly Father. You must find happiness in fulfilling that duty.
The only happiness I can imagine is a life without him.
Maria, think of the advantage your marriage gives you. Your children will not be seen as refugees of Tenochtitlan. They will be Christian citizens of Nueva Spagna. They will have a better life.
Maria thanked Father Garcia for his advice. She appreciated his open heart, but knew deep within that he could not understand her situation. He did not know what it was like to see his way of life dwindle before his eyes and to sleep next to a man who participated in the slaughter of her people. When night finally fell, Maria could not close her eyes. The house seemed strangely lifeless without Voskuhl, but it was a kind of emptiness she liked. She didn't need to hide her sorrow from this sort of emptiness, a figure stirred in the doorway.
At first she thought it was one of her sons and waited for him to arrive in her bed telling her about some bad dream. But it lingered at the doorway for only a moment before vanishing back into the outdoors. Maria felt the strangest sensation, rising in her chest without any outward sign. She knew that it wanted her to follow. Maria rose to her feet and stepped out into the night, the dark was so thick around her she couldn't see anything in front of her, and yet she was sure of where this presence was leading her.
It wanted to show her something. She heard the river only a split second before her feet touched the icy water. She recoiled and looked around, straining to see anything in the darkness. Something drifted toward her on the water. It was a figure in white shining with a strange faint glow of its own. A voice reached her ears, moaning softly in the breeze. A chill ran up Maria's spine, though she had never heard that voice before, she knew it well.
The specter that glided down the river was no vision. It was a visitation from Siwa Cordel. The goddess understood her pain, for she, too, was in mourning not for a single wasted life, but for thousands upon thousands of wasted lives. Maria wanted to run forward and embrace the spirit, but she stayed still, tears running down her cheeks.
Maria awakened by the river, the moon shewn high above, revealing her to be completely alone by the glistening silver waters or not quite alone, shadows moved along the horizon. But these weren't ghosts. They held spears and bows in their hands and wore deeply serious expressions. Maria stiffened when she realized that these were the Aztec rebels her husband had been searching for. They had somehow escaped his army and were camped at the mouth of the river. Coming up, Voskuhl returns home and Maria makes a bold attempt for her freedom.
Now back to the story. Lajo Donna has been haunting Mexican folklore since the late 19th century, but experts believe her origin comes from far earlier in history, before Mexico was conquered by Spain. It was the home of the Aztec people who we featured in many episodes of this very podcast, the Aztec goddess Siwa Codal shares many traits that would become central to the legend of Jordanna an omen of war. The so-called snake woman has been described as wandering the countryside, weeping and wailing to similar Aztec goddesses.
Kotla Que and Child Shuhui Play have been connected to larger Dorna as well. Child Jaweed Lay was the goddess of Waters who would often send floods to drown unsuspecting subjects. Kotla Q was the mother of the God of war. Witsell approached Lee like Siwa Codal, she wanders the world koening in grief in some myths. She even foretold the conquest of Mexico by the Spanish and the crumbling of the great Aztec empire to this foreign onslaught. So maybe Jordanna doesn't only cry for a pair of drowned children.
Perhaps she cries for her countless native children slain during the conquest, those whose voices will remain forever silenced by the writers of history.
The crossroads was stained red with blood.
A gang of armored men made their way through the carnage. Blades held at the ready. At their head was Captain Voskuhl, their sadiya. Voskuhl was in a foul mood. He had left his village of Sangrail, El Salvador, to hunt down Aztec rebels. But all he found was a smattering of Spanish and Portuguese bandits, traitors, worse traitors who didn't even put up a good fight. A dozen highwaymen had ambushed them, but even with the element of surprise, they had fallen within moments before voxels men before him, a wounded bandit crawled away in the dirt, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
The fool had tried to attack him with a stolen Archey boose only for the musket to backfire in his face. Voskuhl followed leisurely.
Why would you betray your country like this, compadre? Are you so in need of gold that you join the savages? Answer me honestly, for I am the last face you'll see on this Earth. With effort, the man turned over and looked up at Voskuhl, his face was mangled, hopelessly burned and cut so that only one eye was still intact. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came from his throat was a choked gurgle.
Well, I suppose your last words will remain between you and the Almighty.
Voskuhl raised his sword to finish. The man off the bandit raised his hand and Voskuhl paused. Dangling between the man's bloody fingers was a dagger. For a moment, Voskuhl almost laughed. It looked like a pitiful gesture of surrender. And then the bandit stabbed the blade downward, burying it in Bosco's foot. Voskuhl kicked out with his other foot rolling the man on to his stomach. Then he brought down his sword, slashing into the bandits. Back over and over, the man cried out in pain, writhing in the dirt, abandoning his foe.
Voskuhl reached down and pulled the knife from his foot with a wince. The mangled bandit moaned somehow still alive in spite of his wounds. But Vasko didn't strike again. Instead, he wiped his sword on his trouser leg. And she did. Breathing heavily, he called out a command to the surrounding soldiers.
Leave this one. Let him die.
Slowly, Voskuhl turned and began to limp back to the horses. He flung the bandits knife aside in disgust. There was no glory in this victory. He should be home. A detour to Mexico City had delayed their journey and his children would be missing him. He swung himself into his saddle and winced as his injured foot banged into its stirrup. He could feel the blood filling his boot, but he would not stop for such a minor inconvenience. He had a better life to pursue.
Seungri El Salvador remained unchanged in the weeks since he'd left. He grimaced at the familiar squalor he needed to get his family to a real city. The life of a conquistador was an increasingly unrewarding existence.
If there were no native tribes to conquer, he would face a life of poverty. Though he dearly wanted to see his children again, he did not go straight to his home. He went to the chapel, the modest Adobe building. The entire mission was structured around. Father Garcia whirled around, unable to hide his shock at the captain's sudden appearance.
The Soria. What a pleasant surprise. Don't bother with the pleasantries, Monk. Just let me sit in something that is not a saddle. I never would have thought I'd miss one of your Peus father, are you here to pray? I am here to rest. I must let myself calm down before I pray. I don't want to say anything I might regret later.
I presume your forayed did not go as planned. There is no band of Aztec rebels.
The rumors were either exaggerated or entirely false. I care not which two weeks of searching and all I got was a wounded foot and not a sword for my trouble.
Your wife will be pleased to hear you return home safely.
She'll be less pleased when she hears what comes next. But that's why I came to you first, Father.
I'm not sure I understand.
I've seen how you look at my wife, my beautiful native wife. Come tomorrow morning, she may be yours.
You should go home and clean your wound. Stop talking foolishness. It is no foolishness. Father, listen to me carefully. Tomorrow I will take the children and go to Coyoacan. There is a lady there of Spanish birth who I will marry and raise my children in a proper way.
But Maria is your wife.
Oh, you poor fool. Do you know she still prays to the Aztec gods father? I hear her mother their names in her sleep. How can our marriage be legitimate if her conversion was not genuine? Garcia fell silent.
His hands trembled. Vasco grinned mercilessly. He enjoyed seeing this self-righteous man so distressed. But that was not his goal.
I need you to convince her to stay behind while I leave. You cannot expect me to do this, Ganti.
You've made a tidy career out of getting savages to forsake the things they hold dear. She's no different.
Boscoe stood and patted Garcia on the shoulder with a grunt. He limped back toward the doorway.
He had a family to see. Maria was still haunted by her dream.
From two weeks passed, the visions had been horrible.
A boy ravaged by smallpox and a spectral woman in white. But they had not inspired fear in her. The woman was the goddess Siwa Codal, a patron of motherhood. Maria knew that if the gods of her childhood survived, maybe there was hope for her. Maybe she wouldn't vanish aimlessly into what her husband called Nueva Espana. As for what she would do about her husband, she hadn't decided.
Father Garcia told her that he was her one chance for a good life in this new world. But putting all your hopes in one man seemed like a foolish notion to her, especially when that one man made his living in blood. Voskuhl burst through the door with no warning.
His armor was no longer shiny and his tunic was stained in several places with mud and gore. He leaned heavily on his left foot and his right boot appeared to be torn. More help me with my boot. Are you injured, it will heal.
I just need your help cleaning and binding it before I go to a proper surgeon.
Maria helped her husband wriggle out of his soaked boot. It already smelled of rot. The injury itself looked horrible. The soft flesh between Bosco's toes had been split asunder, leaving his big toe dangling off the side of his foot.
How did this happen? I encountered that band of Aztec rebels had to be 30 men, strong at least against our small band. Five of them set upon me and I busted them all. This wound was a small price to pay for the safety of Nueva Hispania.
The story made Maria pause, it seemed impossible that her husband had encountered the same group of Aztec warriors she had seen the other night that banned, as far as she knew, were still camped in wait at the mouth of the river. If her husband had fought a different band, that meant that the resistance was stronger than even Spanish rumors might claim a spark of hope blossomed in her chest, though she was careful not to let it show on her face.
Are you planning to go to a city for your doctor?
Of course. Can't find a decent surgeon here. It's a long ride. Perhaps I can apply some of my own medicine to your injury.
You were never a medicine woman.
True, but all women in Tenochtitlan were taught certain skills. In the case of household injuries.
You don't have the skill to repair this kind of wound.
No, no, not repair has been just preserve it so that it will survive the journey to the nearest city.
Maria bit her tongue, of course not a word of what she said was true. She had no real medical knowledge, but she counted on her husband's prejudices to blind him to this fact. In Bosco's split foot, she had seen an opportunity. He was a cruel man, a warrior and a killer. Those things were clear to her. A wound like this could mean death. If handled in properly, she would not be blamed if he died a warrior's death.
What do you say, mi amor?
Very well. But only if you explain to me step by step what you are doing. Of course, my love. A wife keeps no secrets from her husband Maria dressed Vasilios injury and applied a number of crushed herbs to the bloody gash before tying it up. She made up names for them in her native language and told him what they were supposed to do. In truth, they were all plants her parents had told her to stay away from. He would never return from his trip to the city, and she could take their children wherever she wanted.
For once in her life, Maria's future was looking brighter than her past. Up next, Maria and Bosco's plans for the future collide. Now back to the story.
Of all the figures that combined to create the weeping Banshee LA Honor, possibly the most interesting was a real woman who lived in the 16th century, a Nahuel woman known as La Malinche. Lamar Lynch was one of a number of women given to Adnan Cortez as slaves early in his conquest of Mexico. She would be his primary interpreter during their conquest and also his lover referred to as Dona Marina by the Spanish. Her diplomatic skill commanded a great deal of respect from Spaniards and indigenous Mexicans alike.
Her son, Martin Cortez, was one of the first mestizos or people of mixed Mexican and European ancestry. And sometime in the late 1920s, she completely vanished from history. Her fate remains a mystery.
Lost to time, Maria watched as her husband played with their children.
He was stumbling about with his bandaged foot, reenacting his triumphant fight against the savages who nearly cut his foot off. She had to force herself to stay silent and not point out the many flaws in his obviously exaggerated story. The children would forget in time his poorly dressed foot wound would fester, and before he could even reach a doctor in Mexico City, he'd be dead of infection. Maria was not a murderer like him, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that she had not caused his injury.
His God might not understand her actions, but perhaps her gods would. The gods she saw in her dreams understood her far better than the God on the cross.
She was hanging the children's clothes out to dry when a familiar figure approached her father, Garcia, she blinked in surprise. This was the farthest she'd ever seen him come from the chapel.
Maria, I've been looking for you. Can we talk for superstar Father Beto? What do you want with me? I have heard a disturbing rumor and I wanted your assurance that it is not true.
What rumor is this? I've heard you still pray to pagan gods, the gods of your ancestors. Is this true, Father? I have no shrines to them. I make no sacrifices. Just ask my husband. I have. He says you mother their names in your sleep. This is absurd. Words uttered in sleep are not prayers, but they do show a certain hesitance of spirit.
Come with me. Why? I need to begin your reeducation. Your soul is in jeopardy, Maria. But together we will lead you to salvation. Maria cast a glance back to her husband and children, Voskuhl had been joined by two broad men, members of his Gang of Conquistadores. He pointed toward her and her heart fell. This was no idle accusation. They were trying to take her away from her children, Ernan Francisco.
The men were upon her before she could say another syllable. They quickly dragged her to the chapel. Get your hands off me. What are you doing? It pains me to say this, Maria, but your children deserve a mother who lives by Christian values are used to trust you, Garcia.
I thought you were an innocent fool with an open heart. But I see you clearly now. You're just as evil as my husband. I'm sorry no one will hurt you in here. And tomorrow we'll begin your reeducation.
The Men through Maria into the chapel and shut the doors. She crouched in the corner and wept. Voskuhl would take her children to Mexico City, and soon they would not even know her name. As daylight dwindled and the candles inside burned low, Maria finally decided to pray, but not to the God who loomed above her on the cross.
Surakarta, I. I have never spoken to you before. Please hear me now. I have no sacrifice to give you, but if you free me from this mission, I will be in your debt. Sangre de Salvador can be your sacrifice. I will give this entire village to you if you let me see my children.
They are nothing but murderers and cowards here take vengeance for your dead children. The sound of the church bell ringing shattered Maria's prayer, cries of panic rose from outside the chapel, and then they transformed into screams.
Maria could not see what was happening, but she smiled all the same. Vengeance had come for this mission. The chapel doors flung open, knocking Maria onto her. Back in the doorway stood Father Garcia. His eyes were wide face pale with shock.
Padre, the priest stumbled forward, wavering strangely on his feet, not paying any attention to Maria. He made his way straight for the alter ego.
Maria gasped to see arrows protruding from his side. His robe was soaked through with blood. One of the shafts had pierced straight through his palm.
A spirit through Santo Garcia reached the altar and grasped desperately at the cross behind it, but his fingers could not reach. A moment later, he fell, knocking over the nearby candle's fire and man reached the floor at the same time. But only one of them rose again.
The pews cord quickly consumed by the growing inferno, Maria gave little thought to the fate of Father Garcia. She turned and ran. The attack that Boscoe had been warned of had finally come, Sangrail Salvador was in chaos. Men and women ran every which way, stumbling over bodies, soldiers in partial armor charged like wounded beasts through the fray, seeking an attacker that knew the land better than they. Spears and arrows lashed from the shadows. And in the distance, a figure in White watched Maria made her way straight for her home, keeping to the edges of the violence.
The burning chapel was all the light she needed to see by. She found Voskuhl fighting by their home blade against speare. Blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead, but he seemed far from beaten. His blade whistled as it bit into his opponent's chest. But Maria wouldn't focus her efforts on that man. She was there for her children. Adnan and Francisco cowered inside their home, tears streaking their cheeks. Maria swept them up into her arms.
Come with me, Miss, because they won't hurt us.
She took them out the back of their house and away from the battle. Her feet stung and her breath burned in her chest. But she did not stop until she reached the river, the one place she felt safe.
I need both of you to be quiet. Since when have they ever been quiet? Maria whirled around.
Bosco appeared through the weeds behind them, sword dangling from his limp arm. He raised the crimson blade at her. You make this happen.
You called your savage kin to attack us. I cannot take credit for the destruction.
You so willingly courted Francisco and not come to your father. They will not silence. Let the children make their own choice.
Maria felt something pulling at her hands. She looked down. Francisco had taken two steps toward his father and was trying to wriggle his hand free of hers. Adnan was doing the same when she met their eyes.
She saw only fear. What had their father told them about her people? How had he sold such distrust? In innocent minds, Maria felt tears swimming in her eyes. Vasco had won. They would grow up to be citizens of Nueva Espana with no pride or respect for the people who came before they would become little versions of their murderous father. There was nothing she could do to hurt him. Nothing except. Lucien for Seahorse. Maria took her children and forced them beneath the surface, they thrashed against her, but she held fast.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she kept her gaze fixed on Bosco. She had been baptized for her husband. That's all. This was another baptism. Vasco cried out in rage and horror. He stumbled towards her, but was not fast enough. His mangled foot slowed him too much by the time he reached her. Both of their children were still. He raised his blade and slashed across her throat. Maria sank into the dark waters without protest.
She let the energy drain from her limbs and turned her eyes downward. She wanted to catch at least one last glance of her children before she expired. But the children's bodies were gone. She absently wondered if they had been washed downstream or if Siwa Codal had taken them, and then the waters closed over her head and she was numb when she rose again.
She was clad in white and the world. Around her was Grey Sangrail. El Salvador was no more burned to the ground, but she had no difficulty finding her husband. Boscoe had made his way to Mexico City, but his foot had become infected and had to be amputated before he reached it. Every step of the way, she cried for her lost children. The day Vasco died was the one day she did not weep. Larger donors presence is everywhere in Mexican culture, she appears in folk songs, stage plays, artwork, television and cinema.
This influence has extended to the United States of America, where immigrant communities brought larger or not to a new level of prominence. In 2019 alone, there were two prominent motion pictures centered around the figure of LA Jordanna. Stories of LA Urana are separated into two varieties Encuentro and Historia. The Encuentro tales are first person accounts of the Bansi and EOD details, explained her origin. The social dynamics and the EU vary sometimes. Ladona is an indigenous woman whose children are taken by their Spanish father, who wishes to marry someone of his own race.
And other times the difference is economic. Maria is Spanish but have lower social status than her romantic rival. Like many folk, figures like Girona can be repurposed for whatever social needs the teller of the story wants to convey. It could be a run of the mill ghost story or a historical melodrama about the cruelty of imperialism and racism. There is no one like Dorona. She is a Mexican housewife, LA Malenka and Siwa Kural herself, and she will never be silent.
Even if she never finds her children for the rest of time, she will stalk the land some nights when close to the border you can almost hear her sobbing, whispering.
Thanks again for tuning into mythology. We'll be back Tuesday with a new episode, you can find more episodes of mythology and all other cast originals for free on Spotify, not only to Spotify, already have all of your favorite music, but now Spotify is making it easy for you to enjoy all of your favorite cast originals like Mythology for free from your phone desktop or smart speaker to stream mythology on Spotify.
Just open the app and type mythology in the search bar. If you enjoy mythology, you'll love my other podcast. Tales, Tales, Presents, Fairy Tales, the way they were originally told orally and unadulterated traditional fairy tales aren't exactly suitable for children. And every Wednesday we dive into another dark classic tale. We'll be back on Tuesday with another epic story.
Mythology was created by Max Cuddler and is a part cast. Studio's original executive producers include Max and Ron Cuddler Sound Design by Michael Langsner with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Isabel Away. This episode of Mythology was written by Robert Teams Draw with Writing Assistants by Greg Castro.
The amazing cast of Voice Actors includes Tiana Camacho, Joe Hernandez and Dan Velasquez. I'm Vanessa Richardson. Thanks for listening, if you enjoyed this episode and want to hear more. Remember to follow mythology free on Spotify over ever you get your podcast new episodes, Air Weekly every Tuesday.