The Angel of Goliad

They walked, taking their time crossing the plaza. Inside, the church was quiet.
“Did you bring the portrait? It may help connect you to the past like a talisman.”
Magda patted her pocket. “Yes, I have it.”
The morning service was long over. A few women armed with rags and buckets cleaned the pews. Magda and Miguel found a spot in an unobtrusive corner and settled down. She glanced at her watch. “It’s ten o’clock. If it works, I will return to the cathedral in four hours. That should give me plenty of time with Francita.” She laughed. “I’ll be back by afternoon.”
“I have something for you.” He removed an unusual amulet from his neck and lowered it over her head. It nestled beside her own necklace, an heirloom that once belonged to her mother.
She lifted it and studied the strange engravings on the gold and obsidian pendant. “It’s beautiful. What is it?”
“It belongs to my abuela. It is Coatlicue, mother of gods and mortals, goddess of the moon and stars. She is the patroness of life and death and guide of rebirth. It will keep you safe and help you return to me.”
She smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
Miguel took her by the chin and dipped his eyes to hers, his expression serious. “I’ll be in the rear; watching and waiting.”
She held his gaze and gained confidence from his belief in her. “Then let’s do this.”
With a kiss and hug, Miguel left her.
Magda faced the statue of the Virgin Mary, focused on her calm, beautiful visage. Recalling breathing techniques from a long-ago yoga class, she concentrated on her breath. After a few minutes, she turned her mind inward, concentrating on Francita. Her face swam into view, dark eyes, black hair, her shy smile. Magda’s lips curled in response. “Francita. I’m coming. Help me find you.”
With eyes closed, she willed herself through time. Again, the thick fog rose around her, obscuring her surroundings. A tugging sensation on her limbs grew as if gentle hands pulled her through a veil. She resisted.
With eyes squeezed shut, Magda’s other senses heightened. Her skin tingled, her breath loud in her ear. She took several deep breaths, then opened her eyes.
The center of the wall of fog swirled like a whirlpool, creating a growing aperture. Its pull was stronger this time, insistent. She relaxed and let it take her, drawing her forward until she passed into the eye of the storm.
The air smelled of incense, beeswax and body odor. The volume of hushed voices grew louder. The church appeared newer, the paint more vibrant, a swirl of color, gold and white. She glanced behind her. The opening in the mist was narrowing, her way back disappearing.
Her eyes widened in surprise as a blurry figure burst from the shrinking hole, knocking her over. From the floor she glimpsed a shape and then it disappeared. Had she imagined it? The cloud filled in and then dissipated. Gone was Miguel, her link to the present.
She scrambled to her feet and swung around, orienting herself. On a nearby pew sat a woman, her head bent in prayer. Was it her? A black mantilla covered her dark hair and obscured her features. Hands clasped with a rosary dangling between her fingers, she whispered her prayers. Magda scooted closer, and with a tentative finger, grazed the fabric of her gown. The material was soft to the touch. She released her breath. She’d done it, she’d traveled back in time.
Keeping her voice low, she spoke. “Francita.” The figure beside her froze. “Francita.”
The woman’s head swiveled, and their gaze connected. Magda stared at the woman in the portrait, an older version of her childhood friend. Francita gasped, covering her mouth with gloved fingers. “¡Dios mío! You frightened me, señora.”
“Francita, it’s me, Magdalena.”