The Red Witch
Page 3
nodding, uneasy at the talk of fire and burning. No one talked about her parents, for fear of the trauma it caused her. She tried to think of the story of Saint Barbara to distance herself from the pain. Her family rarely went to church, but she saw the red-cloaked image of the saint all over town. “And how is her story like the Red Witch, other than the color of the cloak she wore?” she asked, her voice audible, but losing confidence.
Aunt Frida tried to meet her eye, but failed. “The Red Witch was from a Spanish family that came to the New World. She learned the Santeria religion from slaves and abandoned Catholicism. Changing from one religion to another—following her heart, just like Saint Barbara. Her father, a wealthy privateer and new landowner here, demanded that she renounce Santeria. She refused, so he had her tortured and killed—out there in the woods, where you go walking.”
Elena flinched inwardly. There was something else about Aunt Frida’s tone that made her nervous. There was some detail left unsaid, but she couldn’t guess why. She began to fidget with a bare piece of palm wood used as the doll itself. It was smooth and dry—it felt soothing. Something tugged at the corners of her subconscious.
She fell into quiet retreat. Uncle Carlos regarded her with a shrewd eye. “Kabiesile.” She barely heard him say it.
“I’m sorry, what?” Her voice quavered ever so slightly.
“Kabiesile. A little prayer to Chango. Slaves used Christian icons to represent the deities in Santeria,” said Carlos, with a stern glance. She should know this.
“You know Santeria?” she asked.
His chin tilted down as he fixed her in his gaze. “How long have you considered your family so uncool? Maybe you should spend less time staring at rich people in their luxury vacation homes and learn more about your own family. The Red Witch didn’t only follow Santeria, she had a child with a lover who was a slave, and that’s why her family disowned her. You are descended from the slaves and the Spanish. Slaves from Africa, and slaves who were indigenous to this land—the Aztecs. More slave than Spanish, you know. Some of your own ancestors were accused of witchcraft. Healers and midwives and wise women who were killed. Tortured and burned alive. You’re an intelligent young lady with a bright future, Elena. I’ve seen it. No matter what you aspire to in life—when you’re a famous travel writer, don’t forget where you came from.”
Elena stared at the floor, poking at one of the faded, loose floorboards with her scuffed sneaker. The finish had long worn off the floor, revealing a complicated landscape of natural wood grain and endless lines of cracks and crevices.
“Come here,” he said.
Reluctantly, she looked at her uncle. She tried to smile, but was too self-conscious in her embarrassment. He gestured to her. “Venir aquí, niña.” She stood before him, the heat from the fireplace unbearable as the fire within threatened to consume her. Uncle Carlos reached around his neck and loosened a chain. He reached out to her, presenting the pendant in the palm of his hand. “A double-edged axe, like Frida’s doll carries. The symbol of Chango. It represents lightning. I want you to wear this from now on, and think about your family. And it will protect you.”
“Thank you, uncle. I will.” She took it in her hand, and then looked at the featureless figure made of palm wood. “So the doll is like a trinity. The Red Witch, Saint Barbara, and Chango.”
Aunt Frida smiled. “That’s right. It’s late now. You should think about going to bed.”