Legend XXI – The Legend of La Vorona

More about Legend XXI – The Legend of La Vorona

No one knows when she first emerged from the water. Some say it happened on a night when no moon was visible and the trees silently dipped their branches into the flood. Others swear she was always there—a memory of the lake itself, formed from mist and guilt. They call her La Vorona, the black crow, though she has no wings. Only a veil so dark it swallows even the light. The elders in the village speak softly when her name is mentioned. They tell how she was once a woman of flesh—a blacksmith's bride, beautiful and proud, yet torn between love and fear. Her lover disappeared one morning by the river, and only his hammer was found on the bank. She searched for him for three nights, calling his name into the mist until her voice broke—and on the fourth morning, her veil lay in the water, heavy with tears. Since then, it is said, no spring has come without rain over the valleys of Varra. La Vorona only reveals herself when the wind seems to whisper and the rain falls in even sheets. Then she rises from the water, silently, as if she were part of the mist. Her face is white as chalk, with black marks around her eyes and mouth, as if someone had tried to paint the features of the dead. Her lips move, but those who listen hear not words, but the voices of those lost in the water—children, lovers, mothers. Some swear that she calls out to everyone who bears guilt, even if they don't know why. Once, many years ago, a merchant from the north came to the village. He laughed at the stories, shouting loudly that he would offer her gold if she showed herself. That night it rained so hard that the lake overflowed its banks. At dawn, only his cart was found, empty and overturned, with wet tracks leading from the shore into the water—a series of footprints ending in the middle of the plain. The children of the village were warned never to play by the water in the evening. For when La Vorona calls you, she doesn't whisper your name – she sighs it. Whoever hears it leaves. Without knowing where. And the next morning, all that remains of you is the veil, floating on the surface, as if it were the only thing left of you. There are those who claim that they can be set free if they speak their lover's name. But no one knows him anymore. The writing in the church register has long since faded, and the bell that is said to have once rung for their wedding hangs silent in the tower. They say that if it ever rings again, it will tear the lake apart, and La Vorona will walk the water one last time – not as a shadow, but as a storm. Until then, though, she stands there, in the flat gray of twilight, half woman, half echo, her wet dress heavy with the night. Her gaze is steady, not evil—just ancient, as if she's long known that the lake never forgets what is entrusted to it. And sometimes, when the fog rises and the wind bends the trees, the villagers swear she's watching. Waiting. Not for salvation—but for companionship.