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[00:00] This week on Myths and Legends, it's a story from early modern Spain, where we'll see how singing can be hazardous to your health, and that if you're having a hard time making big life decisions, you might just need to get attacked by bandits or pirates. The creature this time is the Sheepsquatch of West Virginia, and it is exactly what it sounds like. This is Myths and Legends, episode 433, Doña of the Dead. This is a podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore. Some are incredibly popular tales you might think you know, but with surprising origins. Others are stories that might be new to you, but are definitely worth a listen. Today's story comes to us from Spain, and likely the 1600s. It's a story set in a time obsessed with honor and standing in society. Spain was an empire in decline at this point, and the Western Mediterranean was beset with pirates. We'll jump into the story in Valencia, Spain, with a prestigious family and a young woman with a very old problem. So, your mother and I have been thinking, you're like 16. It's time for you to marry, and we know just the man. Doña's father clasped his hands together with a smile. Doña had been waiting for this conversation. Her whole life, there had only been one, one boy she had been able to stand, one man she loved. She and her parents spoke at the same time. Don Pedro de Valenzuela, anyone but Don Pedro de Valenzuela. Doña's mother and father looked at each other. Oh, okay. This was exactly what they had been afraid of. Yeah, okay, you know what? They touched their shoulders. This was on them. It was a classic situation of a girl falling in love with the boy she knew really well and who reciprocated her love and respect. They let them play together as kids and even though Don Pedro's family was a noble one, he wasn't as, well, rich is the wrong word to say. But an accurate one to think and also to use as a basis for rejecting him to marry their little girl. I'll never love anyone but him, Dona said. You don't know that, honey. You're still young. Yes, you think you love that attractive young man who would do anything for you, but who knows? The rich, well-connected noble guy in his sixties who's looking for his third wife might spark even deeper feelings. The dad grimaced. Doña fumed and left the room before she made it even worse. Okay, good. Good talk. We'll table this, put a pin in this marriage business. But they were glad they could all agree that whatever rich, well-connected noble she wedded, it wouldn't be Don Pedro because he wasn't rich or well-connected. The father called out after her. The mother rolled her eyes when she heard the door slam. That went great. Just fantastic job. Doña didn't leave her room the rest of the day, skipping dinner and waiting until the sunset. Every night, Pedro came to her window after her parents were asleep, and he would sing for her. It started a few months back. One night, her childhood friend just started singing, putting words to what had gone unspoken for so long. Alongside the spring tripping of the birds, on that cool night, he confessed everything he felt. And, as she laid in bed, her heart quickening, she knew she felt the same way. She had come to the window as he waited there, looking up, as if his whole life, his whole being, hinged on how she responded. She stood, the curtain veiling her bedclothes, and she smiled. What happened that night remained unspoken for a few weeks. Pedro seemed nervous. She was, too. What was once easy and thoughtless was now laden with expectations, anxiety, and the inexplicable worry that one of them would say or do the wrong thing, and this fragile new reality would crack like an egg, before it had a chance to hatch into the love they both yearned for. That disappeared when they kissed for the first time. They stole what time they could in the hedges and in the rooms where her governess, her maids, or her family's chamberlain weren't around, but soon everything changed. The notion of inevitability gave way to carelessness. Doña didn't know whether it was a thoughtless mention or an enterprising maid, but soon what was merely whispered between bemused staff was spoken aloud to her parents. They didn't know about the visits, about how the two young people had plans, and that they would be together even if it was forbidden. His voice drifted softly on the night air that night, and she smiled. She knew that, no matter what, they had each other. Doña rose toward the end of the song, and her bare feet found the path over to the window. Even just seeing his face would set everything right. Drawing the curtain back, her heart was at ease when he warmed at the recognition of her eyes, sparkling there in the moonlight. Doña, my love, Pedro called out in a whisper. Then he grew serious. Doña? Up at the window, Doña saw something that Pedro didn't. Two figures, cloaked, with masks drawn up to their eyes, materialized behind him. Pedro! She yelled, but it was too late. One man's hand found Pedro's mouth. A dagger flashed in the moonlight. Droplets scattered on the ground before the torrent as the man plunged the knife again and again into Pedro's stomach. Doña screamed as Pedro dropped, the brigand leaving the knife in the heart. They went through his coat as Doña spun. By the time she made it downstairs and across the garden, the cloaks had long since melded back into the shadows. And Pedro lay alone, his breathing relaxed at the sight of her face. Doña's tears mingled with the blood on the edges of his mouth as it curled into its final smile. The manhunt was underway, Doña's father tried to tell her, to comfort her. To her eyes, though, he could hardly hide his elation that the problem of the previous day had been dispatched in the night by what seemed to be two common thieves. Manhunt was a strong word. It was obligatory that the governor would demand justice for this family of lesser nobility, but Pedro's remaining relation, an elderly uncle, didn't have the power or sway necessary to compel any posse to confront the two armed assailants or the cash on hand to reward them if they did. Pedro's line was over, and his house would be devoured by one of the others, a sad tale underlining the necessity of knowing your place in this world. Doña was inconsolable for one hour. Her parents had found her in the garden and raised the alarm, sending word of the murder to the authorities. Afterward, Doña told her parents she would go to her room, and they agreed that that was best. She did go to her room, but not straight there. She went to the cellar, to her father's old chests, from his soldier days. Well, his officer days. Men of his station weren't in the press of fighters, dodging lances poking through shields or bullets raining from a smoky hilltop. Instead, he sat on a horse and yelled orders to the men who yelled orders to the men on the ground. The sword, as such, was pristine. The only mark on his cloaks and accoutrements were moths and rust. Finding his blunderbuss, she scraped together enough rounds that, should she get in a fight, ammunition wouldn't make the difference. Grabbing a cat from the closet, she made her way back to her room. The servants were at the windows downstairs on the other side of the house. The servants were at the windows, gawking at the beautiful dead boy out on the lawn. So it would have been easy enough to get back without anyone seeing. There was a knock on her door about an hour later. Doña said that she wanted to be alone. Her father understood. He was sorry. He knew she loved that boy and this was terrible. The father said he hadn't hidden his disdain for the young man's lack of position, but no one would ever want something like this. Giving a short and solemn, okay, Doña listened as her father stood there for a few moments longer before walking away. The day passed and the bells eventually called the servants to prepare for dinner. It was thanks to that call that they missed Doña's hair fluttering down and finding the bushes below. Standing in front of her mirror and her father's cloak, cap, trousers and shirt, she didn't even recognize herself. The dark and their shrouds had shrouded the murderers, but if they were careful and the fact that they had watched Dom Pedro, knowing that he came to this house in the night, told her that they were, the murderers would not try the port. A boat was a prison if they were recognized. No, the mountain pass was the only way out. They would wait in the town until dark and then they would leave with Doña close behind. When Doña stole out the back door that night, after her parents had retired early on account of having almost been up 24 hours, she didn't look back at her room or even her home, but to the grass that was still flecked with Dom Pedro's blood. The grass was a dot on a line of infinite numbers. It drank the blood of countless young men who had come before and who would follow after. To the world, Dom Pedro was nothing special. He would be forgotten, but not for Doña. No matter what, she would not forget. To the world, he had been nothing, but to her, everything. The mountain pass beckoned from the road before her. Even though Doña Josefa Ramirez didn't think of her parents as necessarily shrewd, the need to be crafty was like hunger. They were both things her parents had not experienced in a long time. They weren't fools. Beyond the docks, there was one way out of town, and she would need to make it to the city, Mercia, before she could walk openly. The logic that took her south would draw her parents as well. Like a mouse, she stayed away from the thorough affairs of the past, creeping along the plants, traveling at night and freezing when she heard footsteps or shouts. Wide plains beyond the foothills, dotted with the gatherings of plants, signaled a mixture of relief and danger. There was no place to hide, and the scattered farms would notice someone sleeping in a bush or patting through the fields at night. The city of Mercia, sitting on the horizon, Doña heard hooves behind her, and she had to quell her instinct. Cavaliers don't flee. A nod from her father's chamberlain to the young man walking the road between, presumably, adventures or lovers or both, let Doña know that she was safe in this lie. Mercia was grand and lively, and for days she walked the streets, lodging in an inn that was nice but not too nice, and avoiding any places that might draw her father, uncles or any other person who would know her before they saw her face. Besides, men like the ones she was hunting wouldn't be in the house of the mayor or any of the nobles, so Doña sat night after night, playing cards and listening, always listening. Yes, they are gone, I am sure of it, and some hours ago it was not likely that they should remain in the country. No doubt it is as you say, a voice half whispered from the next table over. One night nearly a week after she walked into town, Doña threw down the cards, selling her exit with a pile of coins on a hand full of nothing, and excused herself. Excuse me, Doña took a seat without waiting for the men to invite her, and set down her bet. I think you are speaking of some friends of mine from Seville. I am of Seville and of Valencia. The man eyed Doña and stepped into the trap. And they are not friends, he chuckled, and the table with him. Oh, I have some relations among the noble families of Valencia and well, if you are not friends or anything like them. The men were probably laughing with ease, of how their doleful story loosed your purse strings. Doña smirked. The man straightened in his seat, as his hands stopped mid-deal. They extracted nothing, but there was no deception. I have never seen men more saturated in fear and shame, and these were not men used to shame. These were two gentlemen of blood, blood as blue as any in Spain, he fumed, and resumed throwing out the next card. They were two, steeped in fear, from her hometown, Doña dared to hope. They told you this? She challenged. It was no less than Don Leonardo and Don Gaspar Contreras, the man hissed, adding that his name might not be known, but theirs were, and their faces were known from here to the coast. Heart pounding in her ears, Doña knew that she had names, two rich, young nobles. She needed more. Picking up her cards and then setting them down, she crossed her arms and sat back, legitimately searching her memory. She nodded and asked what nobles were doing begging in Murcia, when they had a palacio on the hill overlooking the bay. The dealer, with the two men on either side, said that this cavalier had fine knowledge of the world. Such words did not usually come from lips, on which hair had not yet grown. Such is the burden of knowledge, it seems. Doña picked up her cards and gestured to the man's head, shining apart from the few wispy scraps of hair that remained. All at the table broke out into laughter, and they got on with their game. Over the next hour, Doña dug for information using a nonchalant mention that she had a cousin married to a Contreras, and whatever affected the honor of that house affected her own. A probably correct assertion, since both of her parents' families were so enmeshed with the local nobility as to nearly lose themselves to it. Certainly enough to lose their daughter, and it seemed the man she loved. Doña Josefa Ramirez nearly responded when she heard her own name, but the recognition was tempered by unease. The passion with which the men said it, speaking of her, of the great beauty of the time, as if she was a goddess who descended for their admiration or pleasure, filled her with loathing. It was in that moment, though, that she knew why Don Pedro had died. The men at the table only confirmed it. In the two young nobles' own words, Don Leonardo and Don Gaspar Contreras, had been traveling from giving gold to sad orphaned children, to giving more money for sadder, more orphaned children, when they saw Don Pedro, noble in name if not in holdings, singing up to Doña, the Great Beauty, someone so beneath her that even the sight of it was insulting. They called out a challenge, he foolishly answered, and he died. But as he did so, he cried out murder, plunging a dagger into his own chest and waking the countryside. Now the men were working their horses to a lather, riding for the coast. Doña dropped her glove and made a point of going to look for it. While the old men bickered over whether a coin was sitting close enough to be added to the pile and understood as a bet or not, she was her love that had killed him. Doña steeled herself. I know my cousin's family, Doña said, surprised by how steady her voice was. Did they honestly believe what that man said? They didn't. Everyone, it seemed, knew about Doña and Pedro. The sight of her living her life raised the hackles of the young nobles, who were insistent that if Doña didn't go to some old man on the coast, she would go to one of them. When they saw her smiling at this nobody, this nothing, as Don Pedro, they couldn't take it. If a duel took place, it wasn't a fair one. And now it looked like when they fled Valencia, they took Doña with them. Because she disappeared that same day. Doña lingered to order enough drinks for the table and lose enough that people were sad to see the person they thought to be a young man leave, with Doña laughing that she will be back tomorrow if she could afford it. Shaking with fury, she wanted to collapse in an alley and weep, to sink into a hole and be alone with the pain she knew couldn't possibly abate. She might have time someday to do that. But for now, she had to buy a horse and ride for the coast. A ship would take them from there to anywhere else in the world in three days' time and they will be gone forever. At first light, Doña rode for Cartagena. She made it by nightfall. Sometimes you have to comb the city and listen to five different card games at once for a scrap of information. Sometimes you sit down by an open window after riding for hours straight, and the plans of the assassins waft up to you like perfume. Or more accurately, the smell of two men who have been sitting in the sun all day, chatting. Doña could hardly believe it was the latter when, exhausted, she sat by the window waiting for the innkeeper to bring her dinner. There were two men outside. Talking about the banquet Don Juan Mancilla was putting on for two men from Valencia, who were on the run for a duel gone wrong or something. Sitting back, Doña could hardly believe her luck. That was a freebie, seriously. Don Juan Mencia's mansion stood overlooking the city, so it was not difficult to find. Entry was impossible, but it didn't matter. Getting into the party was not the objective. She was only interested in what was coming out of it. Before she left her home, Doña went to Pedro's body, wrapped downstairs. Her love didn't even have someone standing watch. Having no time, she sliced a bit of hair from his head, and it remained with her. Now, here in a poplar grove that stretched up to the manor, Doña sat with it, almost in prayer, as if it was a holy relic. In many ways, it was a relic of the life she had lost. When the two men, Don Gaspar Contreras and Leonardo, emerged, laughing on the path down to the docks, she stood in front of them. Don Leonardo, and you, Don Gaspar Contreras, she called out, a hood and cloak on a path in front of them. Do you know who I am? Gaspar Contreras shoulder checked her, but Don Leonardo was more polite. Another time, friend, we are pressed and have to join our ship. He waved her off. Do you know who I am? Doña called out. The men ignored her and kept walking. Don's throaty, mock-male voice gave way to the tones of the young woman, whose beauty had spread across the country. Do you know who I am? What does this little nothing mean? By shouting at us in the street in the middle of the night? Don Leonardo's patience was a façade that crumbled at the first annoyance. This nothing calls for you to answer with your vile lives for the noble one of Dom Pedro Valenzuela. You did not duel him. You slew him in treachery. My sword is the sword of justice. I will give you the chance to defend yourselves. One that you never gave him. Doña drew her sword. We don't know who you are or what you're talking about. Dongaspar Contreras put a hand on Leonardo's sword arm, as the man had already drawn. You were so in love with me. You murdered a man. Yet you can't even recognize my voice. Doña sighed. I am Doña Josefa Ramirez y Marmolejo. Doña? Leonardo said, his voice breaking into a laugh. Studying her face in the moonlight. It was her striding over. He bit his lip and looked her up and down. She looked good even in this, he had to say. Leonardo said he would help her get over that nobody Pedro. And when it came to this duel, he would be gentle in his way. She shouldn't expect her womanhood to be a shield though, not in this. Doña thrust her rapier in his chest. Blood bloomed on both sides of his coat. I don't, Doña said. Leonardo was dead in seconds. Doña let him slide from her sword. Don Gaspar Contreras rushed to catch Leonardo's body, but it thudded on the stones. Your turn. Draw, Doña demanded. You killed my cousin, I will destroy you. Gaspar Contreras' hand trembled as he drew his sword. You already did, Doña said, completely without emotion. Side stepping his wild slash, Doña drove her sword into his abdomen. It wasn't as clean or as quick as the first one. His screams ricocheted across the poplars and the manor walls until the gurgles of blood stopped them. He died in agony. Doña sheathed their sword and looked down at the men. They were both dead in the middle of the path. Shouts came up from the party on the hill, having heard the guests of honor screaming as they died in the street. Staring at the corpses, trying to take it all in, Doña didn't feel like Pedro had been avenged. The boy she loved was still gone, and he would be gone forever. No matter what she did, Doña stood rooted, trying to feel anything as the city closed in on her. A few dozen empty pews separated Doña from the men arguing at the altar. The church was warm, and Doña felt like she could lay down and sleep there, sleep forever. She had avenged Pedro, and the cruel joke was that not only did nothing matter now, but apparently nothing had ever mattered. His love, his death, her vengeance, she was still here, alone. You're lucky to be here, the old man breathed. He's going to let you stay in the sanctuary. The old man had gotten to her first, as she stood over the bodies of the assassins. Fixated on her cloak, her father's cloak, he pulled her away and through a labyrinth of valleys until they arrived at a church. I didn't ask for your help or his, Doña said, staring forward. Then don't wear the crest. We won't let one of our own go to trial. Some things are bigger than you, the man said. She looked down. Some coat of arms her father had worn. Part of some order. They weren't helping her. They didn't care about Pedro or justice. They were just protecting themselves. There's an infirmary upstairs. You can't sleep here, the old man called out at her as she fell asleep there. When the authorities couldn't get Doña, without upsetting one of the region's most powerful orders, the narrative around what happened shifted. As more news filtered south, Don's Leonardo and Gaspar Contreras were less victims, but assassins in their own right. And the stranger who killed them had challenged them to a legal duel, as was his right, and both men died with swords in their hands. Doña emerged from the church a week later, to a street that had moved on, past the dons, past her, past Pedro, concerned about making its own way in the world. She found her horse, still stabled where she left him, and she began the ride home. Having never traveled much beyond her home city, Doña didn't know whether two fights for your life were too many for a trip, not enough, or just the right amount. She was, it seems, getting the hang of it, too. A combination of surprise and underestimating and led to her victory against the Assassins. Now, being surrounded by bandits on a mountain pass on the way home, she had no such luck. They didn't know she was a woman, and it wouldn't introduce a gap in their armor like it had with the others. Four men, three up front and one behind, stepped, it seemed, from a sheer rock wall, while her horse picked his way across the narrowest part of the pass. Money and weapons, horse, too. We'll let you walk down. Hesitate, and we'll still take your things, but you'll take the faster way down. The man looked over the edge. Try anything, and we'll make sure you live long enough to regret it. There are more of us on the path ahead. The man, sword drawn and flanked by two others just like him, said as he stepped from the curve in the path ahead. It wasn't that she had just bested men with triple the training of these bandits in a duel. It wasn't that if she took her hat off, they might recognize her real gender, and things would be infinitely worse. It wasn't that she wanted to preserve her father's weapons and armor and go home. It was that Doña just didn't care. With her hands up, Doña said she was going to draw her sword and set it down. She slid it from her scabbard. No, he'll take it. The bandit motioned to the man inching up the path behind her. Yeah, he will, Doña said, flipping the sword in her hand and stabbing backward with all of her strength. The smothered gasp of the sword piercing his lungs and, hopefully more, puffed behind her, but Doña's victory was short-lived. Stuck in the brigand, the handle of her sword jerked beyond her grasp. Worse, she half-spun in the saddle, just in time to see him topple over the edge of the cliff, taking her sword with him. Get the horses bridle, she heard the lead man spit, as the two in front of him, who just saw their friend die in two terrible ways, hesitated for a moment. Doña knew that there was a reason she kept the blunderbuss loaded and strung across her back. If the two had moved, they might have saved the third, but while they caught the blow in the chest, they were dominoes that toppled themselves and their leader over the edge of the cliff. As quickly as they had appeared, Doña was alone. Hands shaking, she thought about it. She had been lucky, incredibly lucky. She was now without a sword, and these guns took like 20 minutes to reload. Even if the bandits had been lying about their compatriots down the path, someone would have likely heard the shot, and she had just killed four people. Though heartbroken and lost, she wasn't going to go headlong into a bandit camp, and she wouldn't last long in a prison, stripped of her cloaks and clothes. As she rode back toward the previous town, though, she thought about what she was doing. Why? Why was she going home anyway? Pedro wasn't there. In fact, going home would remind her of him at every turn, and an old man in the capital was waiting to marry her, and her parents would let her mourn, sure, but soon, life would return to normal for everyone. Everyone except her. At the next opportunity, she turned from the path that she was on and went north to Barcelona. From there, she would find out if there was really more to life than anguish and death, and the place to begin her search would be on a boat to Rome. Pedro, a voice called out from above deck, Pedro aka Doña, called back that she would be right there. Rope that would have torn her fingers and palms months ago, now held firm to Callus'. Doña tightened the rope around the vessels, full of oil or wine, and finished belaying the line on the other side. She walked the length of the ship to go speak to the captain, or, rather, Pedro did. It was a name she felt like she had a right to. And it helped, and by being Pedro, she could give him the life that he never had. It spurred her to be the best version of herself, because it wasn't her name, it was his. His legacy that he would never get to leave. Doña must have been below deck longer than she thought, because she couldn't help but close her eyes and throw up a hand, for good measure, when she emerged into the Mediterranean sun. The barrel of the pistol sent a chill down her back before she managed to withstand the light. Hey Pedro, her captain chimed. What is going on? Doña managed to blink, but no more. The captain explained that he had a good news, bad news situation here. Bad news? They had been boarded by pirates and would now be sold into slavery. Whoops. A shout in the language Doña didn't understand silenced the captain. But the captain said he was getting to it, please. Opening her eyes fully, Doña saw the half dozen men in her crew standing frozen by swords and guns. Since you're the only one who knows the manifest, they're going to take you with them to barter. We will be sold, the captain said. No, I don't know that Doña started, but her captain cut her off. You are a very intelligent, very modest young person, he said with a knowing nod. Doña stood rooted. Oh, yes, he sighed. They would all be searched and sold, but he told the pirates that the only way to get an exact accounting for everything on the ship was Pedro. Pedro could and would help them, right? Doña allowed herself a nod. Good, the captain sighed. Pedro shouldn't worry about them, nothing they hadn't been through before. Well, except for the guys who very clearly peed their pants just now. They'd live though. How did Pedro think he knew the language? Also, I told them that you were smart, so you're going to want to learn the language too, like really fast, the captain told Doña. While the pirate looped ropes around his wrists. Whatever you're running from, you're about to get a lot farther than you ever thought you would. The Pedro formerly known as Doña squinted, as Tunis came within view. Making the most of the captain's sacrifice, Doña learned the dozens of names for everything on the ship, and helped the pirates make an inventory. She was on deck the day her captain and crew were sold to slavers, the man who saved her life, leaving her with only a wink. Now, she was on her way to the home of some... renegade... Guilty. The renegade stroked his mustache a few hours later, as he inspected the wares. Real quickly, we're supposed to understand renegade and the archaic meaning of the word, as someone who abandons their religion, basically an apostate. Weirdly enough, renegade is the sole charge the story levels at this man, the one who's buying the enslaved Doña and the pirated goods. It does make the priorities seem a little askew. I mean, at the very least, don't make renegade sound so cool if it's somehow the worst thing this guy is doing. He's not named, so we'll call him Ren. And Ren was like Han Solo or Lando. He was a scamp with a heart of gold, except for, you know, the slavery part. Ren saw something in Doña, aka Pedro, a principled, moral, kind person. He housed Pedro with his household, and the first day of work for Doña was learning Arabic in earnest. In months, Doña knew enough to be a steward over Ren's house, and she was happy. It was a strange feeling, truly one she never thought she would feel again after watching Pedro's face contort in the darkness outside her window, and his body tumble to the ground. That memory, of course, didn't fade with time, but it dulled. The bitterness was replaced by the sweetness of having people accept her for her, well, not for her, as a person, and having a job and doing it well, and being able to pull Ren away from buying enslaved people and stolen goods. For the first time since Pedro, Doña even had friends, like the young maid servant who tidied up and cleaned things around the house. Doña would share a joke or an observation, and the pair would talk and laugh all day. It's like how she remembered things from when she was young, with the other girls, before everyone hit a certain age, and conversation became competition, and the idea of love became a land grab for all the girls who absorbed their parents' values and goals without resistance. Then, the hand. Pedro, or Doña, was sitting at the desk, working on Ren's books. When the maid servant grew silent, Doña noticed when she felt the woman's hand find her own, and the maid servant leaned down for... Oh! It was a good dodge, as far as getting out of the way of an unwanted kiss goes. Doña had perfected that in her youth. It was a terrible dodge, though, when it came to not embarrassing the kisser, and wanting to keep any semblance of the relationship intact. I've never personally been in that situation myself, but a rejected kiss feels like a coffin nail for a friendship. As the young maid recovered from the faceplant on the desk, Pedro, or Doña, explained that it wasn't that they didn't like the maidservant, it's just that the maidservant said no, no, she understood. She didn't, but Doña didn't trust her enough to tell her the true reason. So she finished up cleaning the room quicker than anyone in the history of cleaning or rooms and rushed out. Ren was so disappointed that he couldn't even face Pedro, that Pedro would take his kindness and then abuse his position and authority to demand those sorts of things from his staff. It was too much. It made Ren question everything. If a man like that could be a predator, was anyone truly good? That was what Doña heard from the enslaved man who came for her. That's not what happened. Doña looked him in the eyes. He sighed, yeah. He knew. Binding her wrists, he still led her to the dungeon. Starvation was both Doña's punishment and her execution method. At least, that's what she was told. Presumably, the people leaving bits of rations inside the bars for a window, which she had to race the rats to get each night, knew that was her punishment. They knew Pedro better, though. And Doña survived for months. Ren, though, was a mess. Not only was his business in freefall without Doña managing things, but he still couldn't believe that the best person that he had ever known had turned out to be a monster. It was one night, knowing that she somehow remained living in the dungeon despite his punishment like the twisted version of some old saint from a legend, that Ren grabbed a cord. Her presence was torment, but the dead, well, they remained forever in the past, and so would Pedro. Decay stung Ren's nostrils as he descended into the darkness. The flames sputtered as he lit his lantern, revealing Pedro crouched on his knees in the middle of the cell. The accusations are false, Doña said. I wish I could believe you, Ren said honestly. He wanted nothing more. He looked up to find a particularly strong beam, as Pedro spoke. But the young man's voice sounded different. I took the name of Pedro to honor the man that I loved. I won't let him die like this. In a dungeon, falsely accused, the figure rose and turned, reaching back under the shirt and unwrapping something. It went a few times, and Doña turned. Ren had been so absorbed in the thought and anguish at personally executing the only truly good person he had ever known that he only barely caught the first part of what the prisoner had said. Wait, the man you loved? That put a wrinkle in some. He looked at the prisoner and noticed some contours of Pedro's body that seemed different now. Wait, Pedro was Doña. My name is Doña, she said. Wren flew to Doña, wrapped his arms around her and, weeping, both begged for her forgiveness and thanked God. After a couple of reluctant pats, Doña returned his hug. She had bought her freedom with the truth, but feared that, now that Doña had returned, trouble and death would follow. Doña was wrong. For as weirdly thirsty as all the other men in Doña's life were, things between her and Ren were wonderful. Doña was his friend and confidant, and he seemed renewed by the idea that, yes, Doña was everything he hoped. It's like when the comic XKCD posted about Mr. Rogers getting in a fight with his wife on a hot mic in 1981, and the revealing audio being them talking through their disagreement and reaffirming just how special they felt the other person to be. The joke that I'm totally ruining was that you peel away the layers to this man who advocated patience and decency and you find patience and decency. Doña was the only person Ren could talk to about his feelings about religion. Tunis was majority Muslim and ruled by the Ottoman Empire, and religion wasn't really a topic he could broach with any friends. Also, it made the stuff with the maidservant even more of an issue, because an interfaith relationship especially between a Muslim maidservant and a European Christian Pedro would not have been allowed and probably would have drawn unwanted attention to Ren. Unfortunately, we are not told why Ren initially abandoned his faith, not to get too into the weeds here, but if a Christian turned renegade, converted and moved to Muslim lands, they probably wouldn't be under the same legal restrictions as people who were professed Christians living in Muslim lands, who could live, but they were very much second class citizens, where they had to live in certain parts of the city, possibly wear certain clothes, their legal testimony wasn't worth as much, they had fewer protections, and they had to demonstrate pretty frequently that they were not equal to the Muslim population in the city. This protected, but secondary legal status sounds bad until you look at the treatment of Muslims in Europe during the same time and then it sounds amazing. It's even possible that Ren wasn't some adventurer who went to those lands seeking riches but could have been someone who just converted to escape enslavement. Regardless, here, talking through things with Doña and inspired by her example and forgiveness, Ren realized that he wanted to live up to that ideal. Doña was the only person who knew Ren's plans, maybe because she was his only true friend. Also mainly because according to the law, he could technically be executed for apostasy if anyone knew he was going back. So one morning, the household awoke to empty halls and an even emptier vault. Ren and Doña had sailed away in the night. Doña stood on the deck of her ship, her own ship. Already disappearing over the horizon, Ren remained on his own deck, waving a final, exuberant goodbye to the woman who had changed his life. He was on his way to Rome, where he would build a shrine with half of the riches he had made in Tunis, and there he would spend the remainder of his days in prayer and penance. Despite her protests, the other half of his money stayed with Doña. She used it to buy a ship and hire a crew, and now knew that she could go anywhere in the world. But there was only one place she wanted to go. She tucked her hair under her hat, and shouted a command for the crew. Weathered beyond their age, the couple crouched at the grave. Is she there? A man cried out from his horse on the road before dismounting. The parents glanced up at the stranger walking toward them. The look on their face said that if they had any tears left, they would be weeping. The grief that wrung the tears left them wrinkled and worn. I spoke to your servant, the chamberlain at the house, the man said, and then laughed and begged their pardon. He hadn't introduced himself. His name was Pedro. Grief means tapping new wellsprings of pain when you least expect them. That name, the boy, everything that seemed like it mattered back then, if they could only take it back. It's been years since you've seen her, I heard, Pedro asked, handing Don Juan Ramirez the handkerchief. We don't know where she is, Mrs. Ramirez said. On to the headstone that read, Doña Josefa Ramirez. There was only dirt. I know where she is. The man crouched. The parents looked at him in disbelief. I know what happened to her. Their eyes begged to know more while their mouths didn't dare ask. While it was still unknown, there was still hope. They feared the anguish of certainty. She, your daughter, she traveled the world. She faced bandits and pirates. She was enslaved and imprisoned. She avenged her dear Pedro, though it changed nothing about the worst thing that ever happened to her. At the end of it, rich and free, she knew that she could go anywhere and do anything. But she wouldn't die in peace. She didn't want to leave the people she loved in pain. I didn't want to leave you in pain, Pedro said, taking off the hat and letting her hair fall. Doña revealed herself. She broke into tears first, and her parents caught up with her as, shaking themselves from their disbelief, they staggered to her arms. Doña stayed with her parents for a while after that, and the issue of marriage came up exactly once. Doña told them that she would not be getting married, and Don Juan Ramirez accepted that answer without question, mainly because he loved his daughter and wanted what was best for her, also because she now spoke with such a quiet strength and authority that to try to make her do anything was like trying to make the sun set at noon. For Doña, without the need for her parents, she could finally have a true relationship with them. For the parents, they were grateful that Doña was still alive, and the games of marriage and power now seemed so small compared to what they had all experienced. One morning, Doña announced that she had decided what she was going to do. A nearby convent was struggling, crumbling, and she would use her largesse to make it a place of education and healing. She would also join. Her parents said that she would do no such thing if they couldn't visit her. Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez walked every day to the convent, where they saw the version of their daughter that Ren did. Doña was leading the convent by the time Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez made their final journey, this time to rest in the convent cemetery. Travelers came to the convent from all around. The lost, the broken, the people that either didn't fit in the world or, like that young woman who ran away from her life all those years ago, wouldn't yield to the future stretching before them. Doña received each of them and helped them, without judgment and with recognition, because she had been where they were, each and every one of them. Another long one, sorry. I can't seem to write short episodes now, and also this was an earnest one. Sorry for everybody who likes the snarky bits. But there's a lot going on in the story. I really like how it tends toward a tight structure up to the revenge that's in the dead center of the tale. Like Doña, we're working through the clues and the story has purpose and deftly moves from one thing to another. And then she does the thing she sets out to do. She killed the bad guys in the middle of the story. Like Doña's purpose, the story unravels, but it's a good unraveling, it's memetic. It reflects the emotional state of what I imagined Doña to be going through. Even in the guise of Pedro, Doña can't assert the same control over her life because she has no purpose. She is adrift in her own story and the things, getting waylaid by bandits, kidnapped by pirates, and thrown into a dungeon just happened to her. After the sword, she loses her name, her freedom, her nationality, everything except her life. Not to get to 70s psychologist here, but it's only in the dungeon where she has lost every piece of her former self, that she's seen for who she truly is by Ren, not as Pedro, the Avenger, or Doña, the young noblewoman, but someone beyond both, someone deserving of his deepest respect and trust. She's been broken since Don Pedro died, but by losing it all, by that unraveling, she can find who she really is. The story ends back at the beginning, but like the classic hero's journey, she's changed. Her final choice is not to go back to being a noblewoman, a cavalier, an avenger, a steward, or even to go forward toward the next adventure, but to just be everything that had been given to her that made her who she was at the beginning of the story was cast away or destroyed. And yet, in the end, she remained. Next time on the show, we do get back to a lighter, still earnest, but you know, Myths and Legends earnest. When we're back in Norse myth, Odin has a big problem in Valhalla, and only the most famous smart person on earth, or the smartest famous person, depending on who you ask, can help him. If you didn't know, Myths and Legends has a book coming out. Well, three of them, it's a whole trilogy, but the first is available for pre-order now. It's a comprehensive telling of the King Arthur legend written by Carissa. And it takes what you love about the podcast, taking older stories, breathing life into them, and exploring how the characters grow and change. And it expands that into this epic sprawling tale that I know I've said it over and over again, if you like the podcast, you will love this book. And even more so, because Carissa and I will both be doing the audio book. The hardcover version, the audio book, and the e-book are all available for preorder now. And it is truly a massive help to us to preorder. There's a link in the show note to all the places you can buy it. Thank you so much. The creature this time is Sheepsquatch from the US of A., mainly West Virginia, but also East Virginia. The year was 1994. Ace of Base was on the radio, maybe, as a resident of West Virginia spotted something drinking from the river. A white and wooly form with massive horns heard him approach and bolted. Knowing that this was a monumental event, the man took his Polaroid camera out of his generous fanny pack and took off after the creature. It barreled across a nearby road and into a darkened forest on the other side, but it was gone. The monster was resolute, apparently, that no one was going to drag it up to get into the light where it belonged in order to better identify it. On that day, though, the legend of the Sheepsquatch was born. Later on that year, others in town would spot it. Two kids, no doubt roused from playing pogs, pulled their hair back in out of their eyes, securing it with scrunchies because they couldn't be seeing what they were seeing. It looked like a large white bear standing on its hind legs. It was over six feet tall as it wandered into the yard, got spooked by their screams, and took off. One of the girl's older brothers came out, putting on his starter jacket and laughing. They just saw the Sheepsquatch? All righty then. In 1995, a couple was driving along, and while the radio warned them not to go chasing waterfalls, it didn't say anything about Sheepsquatches. They saw a white and furry form sitting in a ditch, and they pulled over to get a better look. But was this a Jumanji? Were they doing a Jumanji like they had maybe just seen in theaters? In the movie Jumanji starring Robin Williams? The creature turned, and they could see that it had four eyes. It attacked the car, and they drove off. In 1999, a couple of campers were out maybe testing their camping equipment for the possibility of Y2K. Sitting around a fire talking about whether the Blair Witch Project was real or not, or if they should, in fact, start a fight club, they heard a snorting and crunching in the forest behind them. They made noises in case it was a bear, and someone pulled out their Nokia 3210 because they just bought more minutes at Kroger's so they could call for help if they needed to, but also use as a weapon because those things were functionally indestructible. They both would and wouldn't need a weapon. The danger was real, but it was too much, and the Sheepsquatch charged from the darkness toward the campers. It chased them to the edge of the forest where it gave up. When they returned to their camp the following morning, it was completely torn up and destroyed. The final sighting, so far, was in 2015 in Fulks Run, Virginia. Six campers were maybe sitting around listening to podcasts, a medium that was coming into its own after 2014's serial. They found one they really liked, released that year. A storytelling podcast about folklore, where the hosts' mesmeric voice and excellent music scoring made the story beats hit even harder. They were curious to see where this lore by Aaron Manke would go. There was another one released that year that touched on weird stories and fantasy settings and cryptids. It was different enough to not invite comparisons, and everyone thought that Hello from the Magic Tavern was an awesome experience. They did not love this other show, called Myths and Legends, released in April of that year. It was very clear the host had no training, no idea what he was doing technically or conceptually, and would often derail his own narrative with long jokes and indulgent pop culture references. It probably wouldn't last. The Sheepsquatch, remember we're talking about him, surprised the campers and chased them through the forest, stopping only at the river. The campers didn't tell anyone because they thought people might laugh at them, and they left that night. Who knows when the Sheepsquatch will strike again? I would like to say we'll be ready, but we almost never are. Maybe the next time we'll see it. It'll be far enough into the future where we'll have actual lightsabers, because I cannot see artist depictions of this thing and think it looks like anything other than a Wampa from The Empire Strikes Back. That's it for this time. Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Weiser. Our theme song is by Broke for Free, and The Creature of the Week music is by Steve Colmes. There are links to even more of the music we used in the show notes. Thank you so much for listening, and for putting up with my ridiculous pop culture references and long digressions, and we'll see you next time.