Maria twists in her narrow virgin's bed. Sweat-soaked sheets cling to her like the greedy arms of a lover; her back arches as she is pierced by the holy rapture of God.

It is not yet light out. She has awakened the household with her cries and they hover at the doorway, loath to disturb her, anxious to hear the Word. Maria, the blessed. Maria, the blessed. Maria, the intended bride of Jesus.

She gasps, head thrown back, skin glistening cinnamon against the white of her cotton nightgown. Her dark eyes open. She sees Mama, Papa, Abuelita, Tia Rosa, Tia Juanita. She smiles at their beloved, ravaged faces, skin cracked and weathered as the desert floor, tumors and pustules like swarming anthills.

"He was inside me," she whispers. "His holy spirit. Praise Him. Praise Him."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

They sit silently around the breakfast table, the five old ones, waiting for her to speak. Maria hums as she prepares eggs and tortillas and strong black coffee. It is a little indulgence of hers to make them wait; perhaps a tiny sin. But surely God will forgive her for that. She is special, she knows, and she enjoys being special. And she is determined to enjoy this, her last mortal day on Earth.

The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, born on the hot blue morning that the Americans opened the doors of the maquiladora, the plastics plant, Maria first saw the Holy Virgin when she was just twelve.

The young girl had found dark, clotted blood in her panties on the morning of her birthday. Innocent, terrified, she ran from the bathroom, screaming for her mother. Then the world went away in a flash of blue fire. Her namesake appeared to her in a blaze of color and beauty, whispering her name, entreating her to listen, listen.

Not a week went by before God visited her in her sleep.

Maria was wracked with fever for three days, brown cheeks flushed and burning, eyes shiny as silver. She raved about demons and angels and holy blood as her mother wept and cooled her head with damp cloths, and her father silently prepared for his baby girl to die.

But she didn't. Her fever broke with the suddenness of a cooling rainstorm over the desert. When she awoke, Maria was no longer a little girl. She was a prophet.

God came to her often. Sometimes He spoke through her in riddles and strange, singing poetry. Sometimes He warned her of flash floods or lightning strikes. Sometimes He whispered parables, touching, pointed and true. All this she passed on to the people.

Her beloved, monstrous people.

For the townsfolk of Guadalupe had begun to change on the day Maria was born. Their skin grew thick and oily, then blossomed into tumors like globs of wet pink bubblegum. Their hair and their clothes, even their breath, carried the sharp, poisonous smell of liquid plastic. Their lungs filled with fluid, and they grew old before their time. The babies were born with no eyes, or no legs, or no brains, eyes shining like luminarias when the doctor held a flashlight to the back of their tiny heads.

But not Maria. Her eyes are as bright as the candles in the Church of St. Sebastian. Her skin is the rich, creamy color of fresh caramel, her hair as glossy as the wings of a raven. It is obvious to all that she is a precious, coddled favorite of God. Perhaps there would have been jealousy, were Maria not so sweet, so affectionate and giving. She loves her family, her neighbors, her little friends with their slick raw-meat faces, kissing their lumpy cheeks as if they are beautiful as porcelain dolls.

The village whispers about her, listens to her, adores her. She is touched by the hand of God.

Maria, now eighteen, smiles at the anxious faces of her family. Her laugh is like the chiming of bells. She can stand to tease them no longer.

"He spoke to me in pictures," she says. "He showed me the face of our land. The mountains. The sky. I was like a hot wind sweeping through the desert, borne aloft by His sweet breath."

"Will it flood this year?" asks Abuelita, her voice breathy and quavering. The fat pink mass on her tongue makes her hard to understand.

Maria pats her grandmother's hand. "He did not tell me."

"Will Corazon Ruiz's baby be a boy or a girl?" asks Tia Rosa, clasping her hands.

"I do not know," says Maria, eyes sparkling.

"You -- you are still going to the convent this fall, aren't you?" asks Mama, touching her daughter's ebony hair.

Again, Maria laughs. "Yes, of course, Mama. I will go. It is what I want most in the world."

For the first time in her life, Maria is lying. It feels strange. She touches Mama's hair, looks into the single black eye that has not yet been covered by the spongy tumor on her forehead.

The old ones breathe a collective sigh of relief. It is not that they want to lose Maria, but she is too delicate, too pure, too precious to remain in the sinful outside world. They want to see her safe within the convent walls, where the love of God will nourish her, where she can grow like a rare and perfect flower.

"What else did he show you?" asks Papa.

Maria takes a deep breath. "He showed me -- He showed me the face of William."

Mama gasps. Papa scowls. William? Why?

Maria was never any trouble growing up, of course. She did not date. She had no interest in boys, although they followed her through the streets like mongrel dogs. Then she met William.

She first saw him at the mission last winter. Like her, he was a volunteer, wrapping Christmas presents for the poor children of Guadalupe. His red hair and blue eyes made him stand out; the only white boy Maria had ever seen. She found him strange and beautiful.

He was traveling for a year, he said, before entering seminary. He seemed to fall in love with Maria instantly.

Their relationship is the subject of much speculation and gossip. Maria and William read the Bible together, go for walks in the evenings, cook for the mission. Her family, especially Papa, does not approve.

But she is such a good girl. She is wise beyond her years. William is gentle and kind, and his devotion seems innocent. They respect her judgment. They would not dream of questioning it. William is her friend, that is all. And he seems to love the children, with their carts and crutches and wet little rubber-monster faces, as much as does Maria herself.

"What does it mean?" asks Mama, looking worried.

Maria looks up at the cracked ceiling and seems to look through it, at the vast, pale blue morning sky. "He is leaving tomorrow, Mama. It means I must say goodbye to him tonight. That is all."

Another lie.

The old ones smile and nod their approval.

Private Life Romance, relationships, and the personal side of Table Talk