Dorotea knows she will never see Carolota and Carmen alive again. They are being bled and turned somewhere out of sight like Rosita was. The Magi and Dead Girls will all feed before night. Endless craters, mine shafts, mountain passes and abandoned boats for them to hide. She takes a little comfort in the road side shrines of Virgin Mary, knowing these hold some spark of the flame of the Mother Goddesses.

She thinks of the traditions revealed to her when the spirits of Ashtoreth, Cernunnos, Demeter became tied to her own. Giving her a charisma and vivacious spirit she never had before. She feels certain of her words and actions. A confidence married to skill and long practice of centuries guides her life now. She mourns baby Pepito, she doesn’t know what became of him. She hopes he found a quiet river he could live away from people, in the shade and with out any more violence of war and desperate refugees seeing him as dinner.

Tears well in her eyes. After all that fighting and walking through godless places of the night. Still they couldn’t survive, at the last moment stolen away by their own baby sister who was also too lost to be helped in time. One day Dorotea will go on adventures in Europe, traveling and living a full life. On the birth of every one of her seven children she is visited by Three Crowned Holy-Women dressed in fabulous riches from an age lost to time. Her Sisters love her from afar as they search for the Djinn who cursed them to an endless night.

At least Esma and her dead daughter can find some kind of quality of life. Even if its living in the shadows, never able to look any one in the eye. Hiding a Corpse-like body that will never heal or look normal under any scrutiny of the light. Esma reads Tarot Cards on Piers and Amusement parks beside the Sea back in Europe.

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Traveling on if any one catches sight of Ozma’s face under her large fashionable hat covered in silk flowers and her fabulous dresses bought with the Witches Treasure. Her Patchwork skin of different pigments and tones is smooth like glass, held together with staples and fine silk thread, smelling like flowers and perfume that fill her hollow ribcage. Her hazel green eyes are still pretty even framed in a corpse’s blue and grey face.

Sometimes on the shores of Mexico people hear tales of Dead Catholic School Girls with glowing eyes. They seem to be harmless, only taking abusive criminals who stumble belligerently into the night. Leaving pieces of bullies and bandits in the Desert for the Coyotes and Buzzards to find. Living in abandoned boats, mine shafts and ghost towns. Sometimes leaving spoils of jewels and treasure for the lucky to find.

A trend has begun in the hills and river valleys of Mexico. Shrines and carvings to the ancient Gods appear disguised with the Catholic iconography. The indigenous culture survives and thrives while the legacy of Dorotea has inspired some to refind the ways of the Goddesses once smashed out of existence from the realms of men. She thinks of her own people, of Northern Mexico and their ancient gods, vows to give them equal time of study and prayers. To seek out lost temples and lay wreaths for voices lost to Conquistadors rampage.

Now obscured in groves of trees and flowers lie hidden alters to honor the old traditions. Pyramids and overgrown cities have offerings and reverence for what came before. Scholars and teachers take up to studying the cultures wiped out by the genocidal Abrahamic cultural vandalization of the world where fertility cults once oversaw a peaceful, wise and more thoughtful worldview of the ancients.

Fin