Noches De Luna Llena/ Nights of the Full Moon

By María de los Ángeles Correa Enríquez

En una noche serena, un rayo de luna entra por la ventana. La niita despierta. Desde el balcn ve la luna llena. Es algo sorprendente. Desde entonces la luna llena la acompaar en el recorrido de la rbita de su vida. Con un instinto que la mueve, con un sexto sentido heredado de siglos atrs, se sentir atrada por la luna. Sin embargo, la atraccin es mutua: la nia y la luna.


Este libro, en su mayor parte biogrfico, fue escrito en noches de luna llena, ya que la autora asegura que desde chiquita no puede dormir en estas noches, y as nace "Noches de Luna Llena."



It is a quiet night. A glint of light enters through the window. The little girl awakes. From the balcony she watches the full moon. It is something amazing for her. The moon will always accompany her as she lives her life. She will be attracted by the moon instinctually, a psychic gift that she inherit centuries ago.

Most of this book is autobiographical. It was written during nights of the full moon. The author says that since she was a little girl, she couldnt sleep during these nights, and this is how Nights of the Full Moon was born.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palibrio
• Release date: Jul 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781463332976

María de los Ángeles Correa Enríquez

María de los Ángeles, más conocida, como Angelita, empieza a escribir cuando una situación fortuita la lleva a dar clases de inglés a niños de escasos recursos. Sabiendo que los niños no cuentan con dinero para comprar libros, inicia (primero en forma artesanal y luego en computadora) un periodiquito llamado The Little Frog (La Ranita), en la que escribe su primer cuento: Chiquis la Ranita. Posteriormente hay mas cuentos, pero la maestra anima a los niños a que ellos también escriban algo en el periodiquito, lo que divierte mucho a sus pequeños alumnos.

Book preview

Noches  

 de  

 Luna Llena

Nights  

 of the  

 Full Moon

María de los Ángeles  

 Correa Enríquez

Copyright © 2012 por María de los Ángeles Correa Enríquez.

Número de Control de la Biblioteca del Congreso

Todos los derechos reservados. Ninguna parte de este libro puede ser reproducida o transmitida de cualquier forma o por cualquier medio, electrónico o mecánico, incluyendo fotocopia, grabación, o por cualquier sistema de almacenamiento y recuperación, sin permiso escrito del propietario del copyright.

Esta es una obra de ficción. Cualquier parecido con la realidad es mera coincidencia. Todos los personajes, nombres, hechos, organizaciones y diálogos en esta novela son o bien producto de la imaginación del autor o han sido utilizados en esta obra de manera ficticia.

Para pedidos de copias adicionales de este libro, por favor contacte con:

Palibrio

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

Bloomington, IN 47403

Llamadas desde los EE.UU. 877.407.5847

Llamadas internacionales +1.812.671.9757

Fax: [phone]

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417759

Contents

Introduction    MOON GIRL (The Night Watchman)

Chapter I    GUERNICA / A Previous Life

Chapter II    CUITLAHUAC

Chapter III    THE STARS

Chapter IV    MIXQUIC

Chapter V    THE MYSTERY OF LIFE

Chapter VI    A PLACE IN THE FUTURE

Chapter VII    THE MYSTERY OF DEATH

Chapter VIII    THE NIGHT SNAILS

Chapter IX    THE VAGABOND MOON

Chapter X    LA POSADA (The Christmas Posada)

Chapter XI    SOLITUDE

Chapter XII    DEAD PEOPLE JUMP TOO

Chapter XIII    MAGNOLIAS

Chapter XIV    PAPALOAQUE MOUNTAIN

Chapter XV    SAN MIGUEL DE ALLENDE

Chapter XVI    POPOCATÉPETL

Chapter XVII    A BROTHERLY FRIEND

Chapter XVIII    BEYOND DEAD

Chapter XIX    THE GATHERING

Chapter XX    THE BOY’S DESTINY

Chapter XXI    THE DESERT

Chapter XXII    THE ORACLE

Chapter XXIII    SPACESHIPS

Conclusion    THE CIRCLE CLOSES

Introducción    LA NIÑA DE LA LUNA (El Sereno)

SKU-000589720_TEXT.pdf

To Sue Zane Forrest,  

 a wonderful friend who helped me translate this book. Thank you Susana for the wonderful time.

Introduction

MOON GIRL  

 (The Night Watchman)

The moon is full: a luminous sphere,

an opulent light filled mirror floating in space.

A window stands ajar, a faint breeze enters,

stirring the white lace curtains.

As if by magic, a glint of light—a tiny arrow appears, growing

as it moves towards the bright tin slats of the crib in which

a little girl lies sleeping. Its radiance awakens her.

Looking first to the glittering slats, she turns her head and,

slowly, with her eyes, follows the silvery ray.

She holds herself quite still, ecstatic in its incandescent glow.

Perhaps she has noticed it before,

nonetheless, it is at this very moment she feels,

for the first time, the full power of its presence.

Pulling herself upright, she clambers from the crib, and drops

to the carpeted floor. Curious but cautious, she dips

one hand in the silvery beam, and then the other.

Soothed by a moon cool brightness, she enters the stream.

On all fours she crawl towards its source

beyond the open window. Moving her arms and legs,

awash in a flash and dapple of light,

she grows giddy and giggles aloud.

Upon reaching the outside balcony, she struggles to her feet

and looks up. Her mouth, a little O of wonder;

her wide eyes mirroring the light-gorged orb above.

What is this beautiful thing? she whispers to herself.

Plump fingers stiffen ’round the balcony’s wrought-iron rail.

The little girl stands transfixed, lost in a luminous

midnight spell cast by this wonderous, wandering sphere.

A shrill, protracted whistling breaks the child’s enchanted reverie. Startled, she looks down to the street where two long shadows

spill and pool on the moon-drenched cobbles below.

Unafraid, emboldened by La Luna’s glow, she pokes her curly

head between the iron bars to see what she can see.

The shadows grow immense. Then, as in an act of sorcery,

transform themselves, taking shape as a man and dog.

It is El Sereno wrapped in his regimental coat, accompanied

by his keen-eyed cohort, Chacho, a dog of indefinite breed.

Man and dog pause as the man loudly proclaims:

Ave María Purísima.

Hail Mary, most pure.

Another voice, distant but clear, responds:

Sin pecado concebida.

Conceived without sin.

Chacho, quivering ears alert, sits down by his master’s side.

Las doce y todo sereno, the watchman shouts.

Twelve o’clock and all is calm.

The voice in the distance echoes the cry:

Las doce y todo sereno.

Twelve o’clock and all is calm.

The little girl watches as El Sereno and Chacho move on—

swallowed by dark shadows, they disappear from her sight.

On looking up, she is startled to see the moon is also gone,

concealed by a white-down quilt of clouds.

The night turns dark and for a moment she is frightened.

Shivering, she feels her way inside, and climbs into the crib.

Thumb in mouth, she snuggles into the warmth of a frayed,

but favored blanket and closes her eyes.

Beyond the bedroom window, windblown clouds shift and part.

Caught in a sudden stream of light, the sleepy child smiles.

She was no longer afraid. The moon makes her feel good, so protected, so loved.

How pretty it is! she thought, and she fell asleep.

Translated by Judith Soucek-Leigh

Chapter I

GUERNICA / A Previous Life

Night has fallen. A full moon began its arching journey across the sky. In the distance, Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl—the two sentinels of Mexico’s valley, standed guard. Silent and majestic, the white caps of both mountains shimmer against the midnight blue of a winter nightscape.

One by one, the lights inside the houses of Mexico City went out. It was a simple time, an age devoid of electrical static and gridlock traffic, of the noise of TV’s and the honking of horns. From all this quiet came a sudden chorus of crickets. Moonbeams danced on and around an opened windowpane, then entered, illuminating the face of a sleeping child.

The little girl’s eyes half opened; she was happy to feel the light of her friend La Luna on her face. And though the rays, as always, beckoned her to follow them, she resisted leaving the crib’s warm refuge. Her mind still and clear as the winter night, was like a blank screen on which, inexplicably, a flood of images began to reveal themselves.

She saw what she knew to be herself at twelve years old. A pretty young thing, with a mop of blonde curls, her white dress buoyed out around her in the balmy breeze as she skipped alone down the sun bleached cobbles of a village street, singing a favorite Vasque song, Guernica.

All of a sudden, the day grew dark; the bright ball of sun was eclipsed by strange, duck-like creatures filling the sky, with ugly gray wings unlike anything she’d ever seen before. They dropped round objects from their gaping bellies.

The girl ran and opens a small door set into a nearby wall. She entered a vast, lush garden. Across an expanse of green was a house with a picture window, behind which she could see a group of people. Among them was an old man, who gestured for her to hurry, hurry. She ran as fast as she can. Halfway to the house, in the center of the garden, she looked up and saw the falling gray metal ball directly overhead grew larger, totally blotting out the sun. The image faded to black. The vision stopped. It was a vision for a little girl, without sound, without violence.

The little girl bolted upright in her crib and whispered Bombs, bombs, aloud to herself. She was confused. She didn’t know what happen and the meaning of that word, but there was a sense of the familiar in that event, an odd kind of knowing.

Unafraid, she was, in fact, quite calm, and climbing from the crib made her way to the bedroom of her parents. Gently, she shook her sleeping mother, Bombs, Mami, bombs, she said. Moonlight flood the room.

Her startled mother awakened, What are you saying, my darling? Is something wrong?

The bombs, the bombs, Mami, the little girl repeated.

Her mother looked at her astonished and shook her head. No, precious, there are no bombs here. Only in Europe.

The child persisted, until her father grumbled in his sleep, What’s going on Why is she up? She isn’t sick, is she?"

Someone has been telling her about stories of bombs, the mother said.

Bombs! He shouted. What could she possibly know about them, she’s only three years old!

Shh, the mother patted the father’s shoulder, consolingly. Go back to sleep, I’ll have a talk with everybody in the morning.

Bombs! How ridiculous… he muttered and rolled over.

The mother took the little girl in her arms, hugging her. Now, my darling, give Mami a kiss, and go back to bed, she said.

The little girl kissed her mother good night and went back to her crib. Wrapped in the warm comfort of La Luna’s rays, she felt happy and protected.

Five years would pass before the little girl would see, for the first time in this lifetime, the strange duck-like objects of her dream. Standing in a crowd she and her parents waved goodbye to their countrymen in the low-flying bombers of the 201st Squadron.

México had joined the Allies in the Great War taking place in Europe.

Chapter II

CUITLAHUAC

The full moon rises, lighting up the house, which has a big garden at the back. It is not the kind of garden in Colonial houses, in which arches surround a central fountain. No. It is different. It has a small fountain and also a pavilion and on the opposite side, a small orchard.

The orchard is lovingly cared for by the wise, experienced hands of Juanito, the gardener, who is certain that some vegetables and flowers must be planted on the first day of the full moon and others, on the last day, so that they can grow large and exquisite. He is certain also, that if this is not done, the flowers will not give off their aromas and the vegetables will not have all of their color. This is the reason Juanito moves harmoniously among his plants, with his graceful little Xochimilcan Indian body, murmuring a song in Náhuatl while seven pairs of impatient eyes look at him with reverence.

There are seven little children sprawled on the grass. Finally one of them says, Stop now Juanito. They’re going to send us to bed.

In a moment child, he says in the singing Indian voice. Don’t be impatient. I’ll be with you in a moment.

He waters the plants and sings, A bit of water here, a bit of water there and with the sparks of Mixi the moon, mixi, mixi, everything will grow.

The children form a ring around Juanito. The gardener, seated on his favorite stone, begins the story. The little children listen to the Indian openmouthed, fascinated, who with a little Spanish, five words of NáhuatlXochimilcan, three of Chichimeca language, and many gestures, speaks to them of princesses with hair and eyes as black as obsidian, with necklaces of jade and turquoise. He tells them of warriors with bronzed skin, as brave and strong as the ocelot tiger and the eagle.

The moon climbs and caresses these faces and bodies with its light, while the words fall, one by one, around them. The Indian sings in his soft, murmuring voice. In the background are sounds of the breeze,