The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (38 page)

She followed the footprints to the fireplace in the living room. Juan had not closed the damper, and unknowingly left an opening for Tezcatlipoca. If the fat gringo, Santa Clause, could wiggle down the chimney, so could a mud-oiled Tezcatlipoca shimmer down the chimney like a snake. Unlike the mythical Santa, Tezcatlipoca was no mere legend. Her mud-streaked nightgown was proof he was more than a nightmare, more than memories of a wild youth plaguing her soul.

She lifted the medal of San Benito to her lips and kissed the cold metal. She flattened the saint against her forehead, as if San Benito could purify the images polluting her mind. She stood like that until the mud dried on her nightgown, scratching against her belly. She wrapped a robe around her body and shimmied out of her nightgown. She scrubbed the mud from her gown with homemade lye soap and cold water. She rinsed the gown with her tears, and then pulled on a pair of dry underwear.

She closed the fireplace damper.

She was hungry and munched on a hard tortilla, wishing she had jam and butter, but the Great Depression was not so great. Every time a customer failed to give her a tip at the beauty shop she held her temper and muttered the dicho, “there is no shame in being poor but there is never a convenient
time.” The miners were all suffering with the cut in hours. “Of course, Salia’s rich,” she mumbled bitterly then remembered that she was now a widow. “Yes, but she’s got all his money.” She felt better, quoting another dicho. “Of money and goodness, always half.”

She climbed back in bed and was unable to fall back asleep, thinking of Salia’s big house and beautiful clothes. Salia had more dollars than she could ever spend. She should ask her for a loan, for old time’s sake. In all fairness, her ex-friend should just give her a load of cash. Her guilt was all Salia’s fault, and she should compensate her for her years of suffering. Until dawn she kept a vigil, envying Salia in between clicking her rosary beads and chafing her skin, a sliver of skin for every sin rubbing between her raw fingers. Yet, she dared not confess her greatest sin. She would rather pretend that never happened. She was a different person now. Then, she was an innocent under a cloud of darkness, Salia’s influence. Marcelina was not to blame. It was Salia’s idea. It had all been Salia’s fault. Wicked, wicked Salia. And to think, she had felt sorry for Salia yesterday, when the patrón died. See what associating with Salia got her. A visit from Tezcatlipoca.

Her fervent prayers mingled with her cousin’s moans of ecstasy.

Oh, to be fifteen years old and innocent again before all of that ever happened. To be given another chance. For redemption, she would even give up her happiness with Juan.

She would have to go to high mass tomorrow night.

48

M
arcelina’s eyes were swollen and burning from crying. Conchita strolled into the kitchen looking dreamy eyed and very young. “How did you sleep last night, Conchita?” she said resentfully.

She smiled. “Very well. Thank you.”

“You heard no noises then?”

With her eyes half-closed Conchita looked warily at her. “Why? Were you disturbed?”

She played with the beans on her plate. “I slept well, also,” she murmured.

“I will return after mass tonight so you will not have to be alone. Your nerves are so delicate.”

“I prefer you go with me to mass. I…I prefer not to walk in the dark alone.”

“Very well, I shall pick you up,” she said, stretching her arms and thrusting out her ripening breasts. “Mm. I had such good dreams last night.”

“Be careful of dreams. It is too easy to confuse dreams with wishes,” she said, smashing her beans with her fork, knowing she should take her own advice. Last night, Tezcatlipoca came to her, as if she bid him. She dropped her fork, drained of all energy. She rested her head in her hands.
Is it true what they say, that one dreams what one really desires? I have mostly been good, but in my heart I envied Salia, even knowing what she is. I wasn’t always jealous of her, not when we were children. I pitied her then. My envy festered within me when she grew so beautiful. Salia marrying
the patrón
fueled my jealousy even more
.

I must confess to my brother
. She vigorously shook her head at the thought of spilling her envy of Salia to Padre Rodriguez. Even though he was her brother and the village priest, Diego was not to be trusted.
If word should ever get out, if the other villagers even suspected. Nor must I ever tell him of my dreams. I will just tell him that I have not been a good wife lately. It is because of the child that I am so cranky
.

She didn’t even hear Conchita’s good-byes. For the rest of the day she simply breathed sighs of relief that tomorrow Juan was coming home.

She still had the night to get through, and she tightened her mouth until her lips were a thin line above her chin, making her face look pinched and drawn. She parted the living window draperies. Her hair was the same color as the coarse cotton of the drapes, which were black to keep prying eyes out. She peeked out an eye at a ball of light glowing in the outskirts of the village, at the bottom of Witch Hill, the house Salia still owned. The light was surrounded by balls of smaller lights dancing in the night air.

With a hoarse voice she whispered, “It has begun early.”

She neatly smoothed the two ends of the drapes together, so the material again appeared as one piece. She spent many an evening, her fingers dancing with a needle, sewing pieces together so the drapes would be thick. She made Juan nail the ends of the drapes to the walls.

“Marcelina,” her dead mama always warned, “Soon as the sun drops west of the mountains, cover all the windows of the house. Never be caught unawares.”

How she missed her mama and Tía Bíatriz. All but Diego were dead now. Of course, she had her cousins.

Where is Conchita? I’ll kill her for being late!
She clutched her flustered cheeks. “Of course, I won’t kill her. It was merely an expression.”

She impatiently waited with her purse in one hand and a poncho thrown over her arm. The clock struck the mid-hour. She stamped her boot.
If I don’t leave now, I will surely be late for high mass, another sin upon my conscience
.

Because her belly was fat with child, she was no longer able to button her coat. She worked her head through the hole of her poncho, draping herself with brown wool. She veiled her head with a white shawl and turned down the coal gas lamp, until the room was a dim reflection of itself. Madrid was remotely located. All cities in the country had switched from gas light to electricity, but the rural areas still relied on gas lighting. Madrid was a coal mining town and relied on the black gold to sustain it. The coal was not cheap. It was had by the back breaking labor of the miners, and the occasional cave-in, where lives were lost.

Like my papa’s
, she thought.
Oh, Papa, after all these years how I still miss you. Pray with the saints for me, your loving daughter. Don’t forget me
.

She quietly closed the front door behind her and ran her hand across the wood. The blue color was fading from the sun. She must ask Juan to refresh the paint.

Papa, why are you painting the doors and the frames of our house blue?

Never forget, Mi Hija, that bright blue is the color of our Virgin Mary who protects the Hispanos…

…From the children of Tezcatlipoca, who fly in the night as fireballs and have the power to turn into animals
.

She knelt before a large wooden cross hanging with wires above the door, so the cross appeared to be floating. She blew on her hands to warm them before making the sign of the cross.

With the intense drama of a Shakespearean actor, but the sincerity of the truly wounded, she jerked up her head and flung her arms out, yelling, “San Benito.” Some chose instead to pray to San Antonio or San Cirilio for protection against bewitchment, but San Benito was the most popular.

Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Protect me from the evil ones who fly in the night as fireballs. Protect me from their curses and their malevolence, from their notice, and from their jealousy. And especially, please, protect my unborn babe from the evil eye of the brujas and brujos.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, remembering all the babies she lost, two little more than pools of blood, another appearing like a worm, yet another appearing human but so tiny, it fit in the palm of Juan’s hand, and the last, the hardest of all, the one who lived for twenty days.

She groped for a moment, before standing steadily. “Forgive my being late for mass. I invoke the holy names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to protect me and my child from the dark night.”

She held her hand against the small of her back as she waddled hurriedly towards the church of San Cirilio, keeping her eyes on the paved road, so she wouldn’t have to look at the balls of fire coming from the direction of Salia’s house, not the Big House, but the witches’ house. Felicita and La India may be dead, but Marcelina still feared the house.

She swung a lantern, but the fuse was unlit. A book of matches was in her pocket, but she preferred to remain invisible. She moved silently and as quickly as her swollen body would allow, focusing her eyes upward to the church cross pointing to heaven. The cross was a small blot in the sky since she was still some distance from the church, yet the building was visible because it rose above her. One could not walk in Madrid without either climbing or descending because the town was carved into the Ortiz Mountains.

She was now half-way to the church.

She chose to ignore the balls of fire dancing around the house at the bottom of Witch Hill because she had to. Over the years she struggled with the contradictions of spirituality and supernaturalism. She fervently believed in the religion of her parents because of two reasons. One, she was raised Catholic so it was an inheritance of family. Two, the salvation of her immortal soul was endangered by sin and dependent on the Holy Church sacraments. Even so, she was very often still confounded between conflicting beliefs, Catholicism and witchcraft.

She blew her nose, trying to think of something else. After her nightmare last night, the last person she wanted to think of was Salia.

I must find someone else to come to the house to help after the baby is born
, she thought instead.
Conchita is much too young and foolish to handle the responsibility
.

She began drawing up a list in her head of women who might be suitable to stay with her after the birth, and help look after the house and Juan. With the fingers of one hand, she eliminated the women under the age of 30. With the fingers of the other hand, she counted the women who were over 50.

She stopped counting and cocked her ear at a noise. The ground shook beneath her. Although she was heavy with child, Marcelina knew it was not she who made the earth tremble.

Her heart fluttered.

She began climbing.

The veins in the back of her legs ached.

The leather of her shoes tightened against her toes.

The pebbles on the ground rolled beneath her soles.

Her feet swelled.

When she felt she could possibly go no further, the earth stopped shaking.

The paws of a four-footed creature pranced behind her.

She heard the animal growling, as it shortened the distance between them.

Dios mio. If I shine the light of my lantern at the light-footed coyote, will Salia’s eyes glare back at me?

She heard a voice in her ear whisper, “La Luz”.

Salia’s nickname for her, a name she had not heard in seven years.

Marcelina held a hand against her side and moved even faster, until she was almost running.

Madre de Dios, I pray I don’t fall on this bumpy road and lose the baby
.

Behind her, the animal quickened its pace and began to trot.

49

M
arcelina ran awkwardly, her stomach wobbling and the baby kicking furiously. “I know. I know. Hold on,” she said.

Behind her, the animal was also running. It whined, as if in pain.

Dios mio. The creature’s pushing me towards the balls of fire. It’s going to run me over before we get there
.

She held her breath, expecting any moment to be attacked from behind, half-hoping to be knocked to the ground rather than enter the circle of the balls of fire looming about a mile to the left of her. To the right of her, the church beckoned, but the animal stood between her and sanctuary.

I should try to make a run for it, but I will have to jump across the animal’s path
.

Too late. The creature was as close as her own arm.

She rolled her eyes to the right and dared a look.

Fog vaporized, like smoke. The fog was the creature breathing, exhaling the cold night air.

She could hear the animal, puffing, as it stretched its legs to overtake her.

Any minute now
.

She cushioned her stomach with her hands, bracing herself.

Here it comes
.