The Red Witch
Christine Frost
Copyright 2011 Christine Frost, Her Raven Domain Productions
She always watched from a distance. Up in the trees, from within the shadows, she was always safely concealed. For many years, distant observation satisfied her curiosity. Perched on a swooping branch at the edge of a villa, she considered the objects of her study. Elena sat casually on the branch, her hands pressing into the thick, grooved bark and swung her legs back and forth. And she watched them.
Nearly everyone in the village worked for them, as maids, nannies, and groundskeepers in a vast spread of villas and resorts. The village was poor. There were a few, well-appreciated and generously paid, who served as the middle class. But for the most part, the rich residents from Mexico City and tourists who came to Santa Barbara del Sur had a constant supply of indentured servants to tend to their every need.
The village was crouched by a lake. Humble single-story homes clustered together, with veins of dirt roads separating the families into dusty sections. She avoided home as much as possible.
From the tree, she watched the activity on the elaborate villa. The sun always seemed brighter but kinder on the rich side of town. Maybe it was the vibrant colors of paint on the villas, the sparkling pools and pale flagstone paths that connected the abundant acreage. She knew many of the people who worked there. The villa was owned by a politician from Mexico City. His children were impossibly spoiled, his wife imperious and demanding. They lounged by the pool. The wife barely glanced at the servants as she snapped her fingers in the air to summon them. Elena huffed from her perch, indignant. They don’t even know our names half the time. They point and give us orders as though we’re dogs. They deride us and we just take it because we have to, because what else would we do? What possibilities do we have when we have so few options to begin with?
The youngest children sat near the pool, playing a game. Just as a maid walked toward the Imperious Wife, one of the girls swung her leg out as if to stretch, but couldn’t suppress her laughter as the maid tripped and nearly fell. The drink she was delivering soaked the wife. She leapt out of her chair, raising her hand and shouting a torrent of vicious curses. The children laughed and the maid tried to clean the mess with a towel while the Imperious Wife shrieked about shards of glass. The maid soon retreated into the chaos of humiliation.
Frustrated, Elena climbed down from the tree and walked away from the villa, seeking a more peaceful spot. She would have given anything to be able to rush down and scold those terrible people. But word would get around, and beloved cousins and friends would lose their jobs.
She sulked as she walked, eyes to the ground, ignoring her surroundings. Elena wondered sometimes what would happen as she grew older…was it part of a process? Everyone her age was brimming with youthful idealism, to the point of altruism, but little by little, life’s experiences wore them down. Like and old stone wall, storms and the stresses of time caused the smaller rocks to tumble to the ground, the larger stones unaffected until they began to shift over time, and eventually fall, the wall becoming a formless snaking heap of an intention long neglected.
She was determined to never become jaded. She had to change the world. Her plan was to become a journalist—maybe start out as an investigative reporter for Mexico City’s best newspaper, then travel as a writer for National Geographic. She would expose the world in all its truths. Her stories would wake everyone up—from the people who didn’t vote because they were too disillusioned to the greedy leaders of government and corporations. Through her persuasive writing, circumstances would change.
She finally raised her eyes to see a realtor’s sign outside one of the villas. The home was large, taller than many of the others, with broad windows and aqua blue trim. Surely the price of it was more than her family collectively earned for a generation or more. Cautiously, she approached the driveway. The house was quiet and dark. She looked into the windows. Everything was gleaming—the stove and refrigerator, all of the appliances. She could see into the nearby rooms—wide French doors opened into a long dining room, its table set as though a dinner party was about to begin. Sunlight glinted off the silver candlesticks. A living room lay beyond, she could see part of a stone fireplace and a brown leather couch.
Elena caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eye, and her heart jumped. She closed her eyes to calm herself, sighing—ashamed of her own impulse. I don’t believe in those stupid legends about the witch. I never did. I was just startled by the movement. The flash of red formed into an expensive car that was rolling up the driveway. The sound of it caused the birds to fly from the treetops, scattering into the sky. Elena’s impulse was to flee as well. But she allowed her curiosity to take over—she crouched down and hurried around the corner.
Sneaking into the house was a risk, but she couldn’t resist the temptation. Isn’t this the kind of thing an investigative journalist does? It was a strange thrill as she watched the people getting out of the car. This was the closest she had ever dared to be at a villa when people were present. She knew which ones were empty off-season, and would often peek in the windows to get a glimpse of the lifestyle she coveted. As her nerves jolted in fear of being discovered, she could almost see herself from her usual place in the woods, spying from much further away.
A woman in a blue suit got out of the car, self-consciously adjusting her blazer as she shifted a black portfolio with papers sticking out from one arm to the other. She swept her arm out dramatically as a couple got out of the back of the car. The man was tall, and wearing a suit. His wife was also dressed as if going to a business meeting. They were American. They were telling the realtor about a conference they were attending in Mexico City. They were often there for business and wanted a place of their own. A place to retire to someday, when they were ready to leave the excitement of Los Angeles.
The realtor held the door open, explaining the features of the villa: five bedrooms, two bathrooms, a Jacuzzi, a large swimming pool with an outdoor fireplace nearby, and two fireplaces inside. Elena hadn’t started working yet. She had just celebrated her fifteenth birthday; the traditional la quinceañera party was modest, but her family did everything they could to make sure it was special. Many people in the village contributed food and colorful decorations. Because she was born so close to the Day of the Dead festival, the theme was chosen with that in mind. Painted sugar skulls and flowers covered the tables. Her family refused to allow her to be consigned to a job she had to simply endure. They wanted her to focus on her studies. Only a couple of relatives went to university, and they were determined to provide every opportunity for her. If they had it their way, she’d eventually own one of these villas herself.
As the people walked into the house, Elena listened to their voices as she peered in, holding the door open ever so slightly, fearing it would creak and attract the attention of the people within. But it made no noise, so she remained low, listening. They spent a long time in the kitchen. Elena wanted to be cautious, wait until they went upstairs before she snuck in, but she was getting impatient. The anticipation was making her lose her nerve. Finally, the voices were growing distant, and she crept in.
Now the question was where to hide. Would they come back this way? Naturally, the prospective buyers planned to examine every detail. At least the house was fully furnished. She considered her options. She dashed into the laundry room off the kitchen and found a large walk-in closet full of bins of clothes. She made her way to the back and hid.
The error was soon apparent. How would she know when it was safe to come out? There was no way of guessing—the realtor could bring them out another door, tour the grounds, then leave, and Elena may never hear it. She had no watch, so she couldn’t know how muc
h time was passing. And caught up in the nervousness, each minute seemed like an hour. The steady beating of her heart replaced the second hand of a clock. She lost count. She heard no footsteps, so she considered the coast clear.
Her legs were unsteady from the lack of proper circulation. She winced at the sharp pain and she staggered a bit as she tried to climb over the bins of clothes and stumbled, the bins smacked loudly as they hit the cement floor and the contents spilled out in a colorful wave of silks, cotton, and linen. The sound of surprise erupted on the other side of the laundry room door. Footsteps, voices, and the door swung open and Elena faced the realtor and the buyers, everyone equally shocked.
Instinctively, Elena bent down, scooping the clothes into the bin. She knew she should probably say something
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