It was not the tattered black shawl that made her stand out. Not even the floppy lace cap slung over her hair and deep set eyes alerted me to any oddity.  I watched her from the shelter of my neighbor’s porch, and even though I knew it was not polite to spy, I let the thought drift from my mind. The old woman had come swaying through the rain a few minutes earlier, and I had watched her without interest as she had taken shelter beneath the eaves of a market stall. As I flicked a spider away from me, a flock of wasps braved the rain and flew down from a grove of cork trees. Her reaction held my attention.

    Most of my people welcome the wasps, for in Guatemala they are the number one predator to the venomous black widow spider. On the contrary, when the old woman saw them, I noted the horror on her face even from where I sat. At this same moment I recognized her as the sole widow of the village. I had thought she must have died, for no word had come from her cottage at the far edge of the village.

    Now, as I watched her increasing desperation from my vantage point, I felt a sudden surge of pity. Perhaps she had forgotten that a bushel of rosemary would send them off. As a child of the village, I always carried such bouquet with me. Good deed in mind, I strode forward like a knight on his quest. I came as close as I dared, a few feet outside the market stall, caution suddenly filling my chest cavity. I started, “Señora—” The woman jumped up and spun around the instant sound left my trembling lips. One hand emerged from the coat and gestured me to continue, ignoring the wasps buzzing nearby.

    “Señora, tengo romero para ayudarle.” Ma’am, I have rosemary to help you. I felt stupid saying it, as if I should have just pulled it out and waved the wasps away. The widow woman smiled and nodded, stepping out towards me through the curtain of rain. She bent down and reached forward to brush a spot of mud off my ankle. Her nail scraped against my skin, and I stumbled back, still feeling the impact of her hand. I twitched my foot, and then kicked it angrily, gasping at the agony that ran through it. I was still screaming as the scene around me changed and my shout became a whimper.

    The porch was still and damp, and as I rose trembling to a sitting position, the pressure on my ankle left off. I looked down, and my mouth opened in another scream, but no sound echoed through my dry throat. The black widow spider that had bitten my ankle scrambled away at the movement, but her work was done. I leaned to stare at the joint, and recognized the signs that the venom had entered my blood stream. I dragged myself away from the spider, rough wood catching on my shirt as I made for the stairs. My wide brown eyes immediately alighted on a market stall and the black-clothed woman standing within. My voice, weak but still audible, called out desperately into the air, “Señora, Señora.”