The phone rang. Cecilia Diaz was on the line. “Great-grandmother is very upset.”
“I know that and I’m sorry. I intend to write a formal apology for bringing up Victor’s death.”
“No, she’s upset that Teresa scolded you. She would like you to become her apprentice.”
“That’s wonderful.” I gave my chair a gleeful half-whirl. “At her convenience. And yours, too, of course.”
“No she wants to go to the Old House and I refuse. I refuse to go there for the reasons I gave you. The other members of the family refuse because they don’t believe in anything. They pay proper respect to her age and appreciate her wisdom, but they basically believe her religion is a bunch of nonsense.”
“And you don’t?”
“Let’s just say I go by the first commandment. Why would we be commanded not to put other gods before our own if other gods aren’t there?”
I couldn’t think of an answer. In fact, during the baptismal ritual my own church included a call for the members to renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness.
“I don’t want to know what she does,” Cecilia repeated flatly.
“Do you believe Francesca can give me information pertaining to Victor’s death?”
“No. How could she? She’s an old woman who never leaves the place. In fact, the trip to see you at the historical society is the first time she has left this place in fifteen years.”
“Even if she doesn’t, this is a wonderful opportunity to learn about herbs and medicinal plants.”
“Oh, she wants you to know much more than that. Much, much more.”
Chapter Eighteen
My skin was so dry I might as well have been standing in the broiling sun checking for rain clouds every day. Gateway City’s main street was deserted. No one wanted to shop. The grass on our golf course looked like the dried moss used for mulch at the greenhouse.
Everyone was conserving water and the yards showed it. Gardens had given up their last sickly plants two months ago. The pervasive gloominess might leave with the first rain, but in the meantime, it seemed all of Northwest Kansas had been sprinkled with cranky dust.
Driving the last mile into the Diaz Compound felt like entering an oasis in a foreign land. There was a mystical quality to the towering cottonwoods, the lush foliage. When I pulled around the circular drive, Cecilia and Francesca stepped out of the doorway.
I parked and helped Francesca into the passenger seat.
“Driving will preserve your strength, Great-grandmother.”
Francesca smiled. “My strength is fine. Nevertheless, I appreciate the ride.”
Cecilia stopped me before I rounded the car to the driver’s side. “She hasn’t been to the Old House since Victor died, so this might be difficult for her. Years ago, she went to her workroom every day, then it was just several times a week. Out of respect for Great-grandmother, Teresa cleans and airs out the workroom. Many years ago, my father installed a whole-house fan system on the top floor. It draws out the hot air. Her workroom should be livable, but even so, please don’t let her overdo.”
“I’m sure we’ll be just fine.” I hoped my voice was more confident than I felt. A room without air-conditioning didn’t sound very appealing.
We drove off.
“Victor sat with me in the Old House every Sunday afternoon,” Francesca said.
Old House was a quarter-mile from the main one. Too far to walk in the heat.
“As you know, George’s wife called me. I want to apologize. I didn’t realize my questions had upset you.”
“I was not upset. George and Teresa were upset. They did not want you asking questions.”
I listened. Why did this family dislike outsiders?
“I have given this a great deal of thought. You are right. Someone needs to know about all the plants. You are the one who is willing to listen. No one else.”
She directed me to the back of the house, where we would enter. I parked near the door.
A telescoping steel valance shaded the top of each window. In front was an enormous herb garden. Her wrinkled face lifted for a moment. “I have the largest variety you will find anywhere. George tends it for me. He loves this place.”
I could only stare. I had not brought a camera, but I needed to document every variety of plant. The compound was a historical treasure trove. Plants were growing here that were not native to Kansas.
When we stepped inside, the room was cool. My senses were sent reeling from the combined odor of hundreds of hanks, clusters of dried plants, hanging from the ropes strung lengthwise across the ceiling beams. The clean, swept wooden floors belied the dilapidated appearance of the exterior.
“Please raise all of the blinds.” Francesca stood in the middle of the room as I went from window to window. The black shades were a twenty-first century touch, as they were the kind that blocked both light and heat. This south extension to the back of the house was not visible from the central driveway. It was exposed to sunshine on three sides, like a massive sunroom.
I glanced at the pulley systems off to the side of each window. There was a variety of shades and curtains that could be lowered. Along one wall were two ovens, and a range with six burners. There was a large double-door refrigerator. In the middle of the room were two high-backed leather chairs with a floor lamp in between. There were no footstools. Surely only a person with Francesca’s rigid posture would consider sitting in them. By the lighter areas on the leather, I suspected that many years ago, this room had been well used.
Beneath all the windows stood grayed unfinished wooden worktables, holding a variety of glass flasks and sealed glass containers. There were a number of pestles and mortars. Francesca trembled with anticipation after I raised the blinds.
“I will be able to work again.” A windowless wall, broken only by a doorway at one end was lined with leather-bound books—all with Spanish titles. Her face beamed as she looked around. “You will come here every week?”
“Certainly. I arranged for board members to help at the historical society three afternoons a week until we have finished. This is our most important new project.”
“Then let us begin.” She walked over to a ceiling-high wall of bookcases. “All the names on the labels are in Spanish. I will translate them into English. Then I want you to write down all the plants’ names, what they are used for, and the processes for releasing their powers. That will take time.”
“Please sit and give me background information before we start. I have my tape recorder with me. I’ll pull this chair around so I’m facing you and rearrange this table so it’s to one side. I need a place to put my notebook.” We sat in the hard-back chairs and I recited my usual preliminary introductory information giving the time, place, and the name of the contributor. I tested her voice on the recording.
She rose and walked over to the first flask. She picked it up and turned it toward me. “I thought about beginning alphabetically, but it was going to be difficult to find the right Spanish words for some of them. Anyway, none of children know Castilian except Cecilia, and she won’t come near the place. Now I have decided to begin with the most important plants. I will tell you their English common names, their uses for common healing, then their secret names, and their secret uses.”
“Secret names? Secret uses?”
“You’ve heard of ‘Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog’?”
“Of course. That’s from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The three witches were casting a spell.”
“He used the secret names of plants we use all the time. ‘Eye of Newt’ is common mustard seed, and ‘Toe of Frog’ is simply a section of the bulb of the bulbous buttercup. Although some traditions think Shakespeare was referring to Jack-in-the-Pulpit, instead of mustard seed.”
“Mustard seed. What would mustard seed be
used for?”
“Healing or magic?”
I hesitated.
“All the plants have healing properties and magical properties.”
I could not turn in an academic article about the magical properties of plants, but I was intrigued.
“You use a combination of magic and healing all the time,” she said.
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Of course you do. For healing, don’t you use eucalyptus tea to ward off a cold and coffee beans when you have a headache? As to magic, when does your family plant potatoes?”
“Keith plants on Saint Patrick’s Day,” I stammered.
“Good. And by the dark of the moon, I hope.”
“Well, yes. And our neighbor plants on Good Friday.”
“That is not the best time. Plowing on Good Friday causes the ground to bleed, and the zodiac sign has to be just right.” Seeing that I was struck dumb, she offered an explanation. “Christ’s blood runs out into the rows.”
Her laugh was that of a parent indulging a difficult child. She gestured toward the multitude of plants, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. “All of these plants will come to life when I make teas or elixirs. Some of them can’t be found in the United States and were traded for many years ago. I will tell you all their common and secret names.”
“I will try to keep an open mind about the magical properties. As to the healing, I know a little about the mustard seeds you mentioned. They were often made into plasters on the prairie and used to draw down inflammation.”
“I recommend it for regulating the heartbeat, too. Those are healing uses. As to the magical, if you bury mustard seed under your doorstep, it will keep evil spirits from your home.”
She glanced at me to see if I recoiled. I didn’t.
“And Shakespeare’s other reference: the toe of the frog—the bulbous buttercup?”
“I’ve never liked it. The Indians used it for shingles but since it can also create blisters, that didn’t make sense to me.”
“And the magic uses?”
“It can drive someone crazy. Stay away from it. Unless you want to curse an enemy.”
She was serious. I could see it in her eyes. Watching me now for signs that I would pull back, would not consent to this strange journey.
“You don’t have to believe. Just follow the rituals.”
Water-witching came to mind. You didn’t have to believe to witch. Many who believed passionately could not witch, and others who thought it a bunch of nonsense witched quite easily. I smiled, imagining Keith’s reaction when I told him I was learning the magical uses for plants.
There was a black draped object hanging above one of the work tables. She followed my glance. “That’s a mirror.”
“Why is it covered?”
“Because I didn’t want it to trap my Victor’s soul.”
She saw the look on my face. “Many cultures know this. The ancients. The Victorians.”
I threw in a few historical tidbits, so she would know I wasn’t turned off by this peculiar discussion. “It’s an Appalachian custom too. And I know Jews cover mirrors when they sit shiva.”
“The Jews do it for an entirely different reason. It’s to keep the focus on the deceased and not indulge in vanity. But many, many cultures know about the magical quality of mirrors. Do you know anything about Feng Shui?”
“Yes.” But I was surprised she did.
“You know then that it’s very bad to a have a mirror facing your bed.”
Fairy tales, Alice stepping through the looking glass. Even Harry Potter. When I thought about it, there were hundreds of references to mirrors and magic.
“Apart from death, it is very difficult to put a soul into a mirror whether for good or for evil. And even harder to retrieve it. Someone must come after it and offer to take its place.”
She said this matter-of-factly, like she was talking about a recipe for pumpkin pie.
“Have you ever done this?” My question caught her off guard. Her wrinkles deepened.
“Only for good, so far.”
So far. Did she have more sinister plans? I shivered.
When I got home that evening, I ran up to our bedroom and looked at the mirror on the dresser facing our bed. Chagrined at having allowed Francesca’s nonsense to infect me, nevertheless, I asked Keith to help me rearrange the furniture. What could it hurt?
***
And so it began. Three afternoons a week I drove to out to the Diaz Compound and started tracking the astonishing variety of medicinal plants. I recorded their common names in English and translated names from Spanish when Francesca could come up with the right words. I wrote down their secret names, their magical names, their healing uses, and their magical uses.
Cecilia usually drove off in her old blue Honda during these sessions. She was pleased when I whisked Francesca away to the Old House because she could leave the compound and join a prayer group devoted to the Holy Mother.
After the first week, Francesca taught me some rituals such as sprinkling herbs into the flame of a candle to make spells more powerful. I balked when she asked me to sprinkle herbs around my house for protection because that is Keith’s home, too. I knew my Roman Catholic husband would have a fit for the same reason the practices were offensive to Cecilia.
The second week I had to begin memorizing all the plants’ names and secret uses. Francesca was a hard taskmaster.
“Snapdragon is the one of the few that will repel a curse. Have you planted any?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t bother with flowers this year because the wind was so extreme and it was already too hot for annuals.”
“Snapdragons are essential for protection. You need to have a little vase handy and capture its reflection to send a curse back where it came from.”
I grinned. I doubted that anyone would formally curse me through some magic ritual, although no doubt more than one family in Carlton County has given me an old-fashioned cussing out.
Her lips curved and she gave slight shrug. She was not without humor. “Just do. Belief will come later.”
I eyed a row of flasks set off from the others. “And why are these separated?”
“They can bring about great harm if they are used for that purpose. Intentions that require fire and certain words…” She stopped as though she had gone too far.
My historian’s curiosity and tendency toward instant analysis kicked into overdrive. Many, many drugs could not be safely used in combination with others. Or with alcohol. As to the “certain words,” we were bombarded with the merits of positive affirmations. There was nothing mysterious about any of this. With incredible naivety, I believed Francesca and I were talking about the same thing. “I want to know about all your rituals, too. I want to go all the way.”
She gazed at me so intently I felt paralyzed. “Yes,” she said finally. “Yes, I believe you do. You are progressing very speedily. You will go beyond cataloging plants. I have waited a long, long time for someone who can help with my mortar and pestle. I want help with the herbs that will allow me to see. Faces. Especially, faces.”
“See?”
She held herself very still. “Can you see, Lottie Albright? See as in scry?”
“You mean like looking into a crystal ball?”
“Or a mirror, or a basin of water. The natural gift has been withheld from me. But I can do the same thing by mixing certain herbs and performing certain rituals.”
“Well, I’m certainly willing to try.”
She crossed over to one of the work tables and pick up a hand mirror. “Hold this.”
She whispered some words while I peered into the glass. The mirror clouded. The sunlight hitting it at an angle. The sun, and nothing more.
Nothing more than that.
I handed it back and rubbed my eyes. Cu
riously, there was a glint of triumph as she studied my face. It didn’t set well with me.
“Nope. My mind is a blank.” She had been right about her first impression of me when she said I didn’t want to lose control.
During our breaks, we sat on the torturous chairs and talked about her family. I had a hard time following all of the names. Since she didn’t seem to mind the tape recorder, I decided to sort it all later.
“Do you have a written record somewhere of all the names of your ancestors? A family tree, perhaps?”
“Yes, of course. It’s at the other house. I’ll have it for you the next time you visit.”
“I’ve been doing some research. I believe you would be called a curandera, a healer in your culture?”
“Yes, but I was a specialist. A yerbero. There are other specialties such as a consejero, who is a counselor, and a sobadoro, who gives a certain kind of massage.
“Was? You are surrounded by plants that are alien to the plains. Are you not still a specialist?”
“Yes, of course.” Her eyes misted with sadness. “I was trained as a yerbero. I could have stayed a yerbero. I am more now. Much more.”
My pulse accelerated. A shaman? Was I going to have the chance to tap into the vast wisdom of shamanism? Centuries of traditions that brought about spiritual and physical healing. But even then, a warning bell sounded somewhere from deep within.
Cataloging the plants was tedious, exacting work. Clearly this would take all summer. So I decided to postpone exploring the topic of shamanism until next year. At the time I was confident the rituals and the chants would not put me in any kind of danger at all.
I brought my own little bags of Earl Grey for our tea and cookies. Occasionally I would accept other concoctions from Francesca to ward off my increasingly frequent headaches, which I attributed to the high sunlight, the odor emanating from the herbs and staying hunched over the worktable as we worked through lists of plants.
“You must learn how to mix now. I can no longer do it.”
Surprised, because we hadn’t finished all the individual varieties yet, I wondered if she sensed that I was eager to finish this project.
Hidden Heritage Page 15