Diego Lopez
Editor’s Note: This story is a work of fiction published in the fun spirit of Halloween. This story is on the opinion page and is a work of fiction, not a factual account of events in Cibola County.
Nobody in the Village of Milan could remember when the mayor first took office.
There was a photograph hanging in Village Hall, dated 1926, showing him standing beside a group of gentlemen in dark suits. A hundred years had passed, yet the mayor looked remarkably unchanged.
Same pale face. Same neatly combed hair. Same polite smile.
Nobody thought much of it. The roads were patched, the bills were paid, and the village meetings rarely ran past midnight.
There were, of course, certain peculiarities.
No mirrors hung anywhere in Village Hall. Every public meeting began after sundown. The mayor carried a black umbrella whenever he ventured outside, even on the brightest summer afternoons.
At community dinners, he politely declined every plate offered to him.
"Thank you," he'd say. "I've already eaten."
The townspeople affectionately called him the Night Mayor.
He was an unusual fellow, certainly, but a good mayor. He remembered families who had long since moved away, spoke fondly of buildings that no longer existed, and occasionally referred to Route 66 as though it were a recent improvement.
Of all his responsibilities, however, none concerned him more than drainage.
Every autumn, he insisted the culverts be inspected, the ditches cleared and the arroyos kept free of debris. He studied drainage maps with an almost religious devotion, some so old they showed wagon trails where paved streets now stood.
"Water remembers," he would tell the maintenance crews.
Nobody quite understood what he meant until historic October storms hit the community.
For three nights, thunder rolled across the mesa between Grants and Milan. Lightning illuminated the sandstone bluffs, and rain fell so heavily that the earth could scarcely swallow another drop.
Water poured from the mesa in great brown sheets, finding every crack, every channel and every ancient path down the mountainside.
The arroyos, which had spent much of the year pretending to be roads, suddenly remembered they were rivers.
The Rio San Jose swelled. Branches and mud rushed downstream, and the sound of moving water filled the village long after the thunder had passed.
On the third night, the Night Mayor appeared beneath his black umbrella.
He stood at the edge of a flooded crossing, watching the water rise against a clogged culvert. Beyond it sat a little house, its porch light glowing against the rain.
"Clear that opening," he instructed.
The maintenance crew approached, but the current was already spilling across the road.
The oldest worker shook his head and retorted, "Mayor, we can't get down there. That water will take a man right off his feet."
The Night Mayor looked toward the house. There he saw a woman standing at the window, holding a little boy against her shoulder.
For a moment, the mayor said nothing. The roar of rushing water getting caught in the culvert was deafening.
The Night Mayor handed the worker his umbrella. "Would you mind holding this?"
Before anyone could object, he stepped into the flood.
The current struck his legs with enough force to send branches tumbling past him. Yet he remained standing, his polished shoes planted beneath the muddy water.
He reached into the tangled debris and pulled.
The branches broke free with a tremendous crack. Water rushed through the culvert, spilling into the cleared channel and away from the house.
The workers cheered. But not the youngest crewman. He had seen the mayor lift a fallen cottonwood limb as though it weighed no more than a broomstick. He had seen the current strike him without moving him an inch.
And when lightning illuminated the mayor's face, he had seen something else.
Two long, unmistakably sharp teeth.
The Night Mayor stepped back onto the road and retrieved his umbrella.
"Excellent," he said, straightening his coat. "Now, about the western ditch."
By dawn, the storm had passed.
The streets were muddy, the arroyos still running, but the little house remained standing. The woman and her son were safe.
The youngest worker found the mayor beneath his umbrella, watching the first sunlight creep across the mesa.
"How did you know that culvert would flood?" he asked.
The mayor looked toward the mesa, where the last of the rainwater traced silver lines down the sandstone.
"I remember when that arroyo ran through the middle of town," he replied.
The worker frowned. "That must've been a long time ago."
"Yes," said the mayor, solemnly.
He watched the water a moment longer.
"People forget where the rio used to run. The rios remember."
Then he adjusted his umbrella and disappeared into the newly built Milan Village Hall before the sun broke through the clouds.
At the next village meeting, the Night Mayor thanked the maintenance crews for their extraordinary work. He reminded the council that drainage channels required regular attention and that even a small obstruction could become a great danger when the rains arrived.
The youngest worker sat quietly in the back.
Behind the mayor, a dark window reflected the meeting room. The tables, the chairs, the audience and the American flag beside the podium appeared plainly in the glass.
But where the mayor stood, there was nothing.
The worker looked toward the photograph from 1926.
Then back at the empty reflection.
He thought about the little house, the woman at the window, and the boy she had held so tightly.
He thought about the mayor standing in that terrible water.
And he thought about the two sharp teeth.
When the Night Mayor asked whether anyone had further business, the worker slowly raised his hand.
"Mayor, I'd like to volunteer to inspect the remaining culverts before the next storm."
The mayor smiled. "Very good," he said.
"Very good indeed."
Outside, thunder rumbled somewhere beyond the mesa.