The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  Felicita Esperanza.

  Marcelina turned and looked at her, as she passed that time. Felicita smiled and blew her a kiss. It was not a nice smile.

  Suddenly, Pacheco spun around, snarling at Salia. “An abomination,” he said.

  Marcelina wondered how abomination applied to Salia, unsure what the word meant, but she suddenly felt afraid for Salia, who was, after all, a girl her own age. Yet, Marcelina felt happy Pacheco was no longer concerned with her sins, but turned his attentions to the other girl.

  Pacheco held his body rigid, his face contorted with hatred. He drilled his eyes into Salia, as if trying to reach the depths of her very soul. His eyes were alligator eyes, dead eyes. His was the face of a murderer, and he had condemned men and women to death for their sins. This was the first time he seemed to contemplate the death of a child.

  Pacheco, who had condemned men and women to death for their sins, Including his own brother, Alfonso. So, it was rumored.

  Pacheco, who showed no favoritism when it came to meting out punishment. He would have condemned even his own son, if he had one.

  What more would he do to a child born of witches?

  Marcelina couldn’t help but admire Salia, who defiantly stared back at Pacheco, her own blue-grey eyes unafraid.

  The Penitentes’ leader had made grown men cry with one blink of an eye, one lift of his lips, and one flick of his finger. And yet, here was Salia, whose head came to below his chest, bravely locking her eyes with his, smiling secretly at him, as if she could see the depths of Pacheco’s soul, read his secrets, and found him lacking. If the eyes are the mirror of the soul, then Pacheco had none.

  His murderous looks at Salia did not seem to bother Felicita, who seemed more amused by the hatred her daughter inspired. She actually chuckled when Pacheco shifted his eyes from Salia and held a hand to his forehead, as if it pained him.

  Felicita lifted her head proudly, her glowering eyes challenging him to show his hatred of her, if he dared, a grown witch. Even Pacheco wouldn’t dare lock eyes with her. She could do more than make him look away and give him the headache. Her power was far greater than his.

  There was no man in the Esperanza household. Rumor had it Salia’s mother poisoned her father, which was odd since the dead man’s mother, La India, lived with Felicita, his alleged murderess. Even stranger was the gossip La India shared a bed with Felicita. Marcelina would not have found their slumber party abnormal had Mama and Papa not whispered the word lesbian in harsh tones. The entire village frowned upon two unrelated women sleeping together. They said Felicita lusted after men, also, and was insatiable, which Marcelina thought meant she was like a sponge.

  Felicita looked like a sponge, with a thirsty look in her eye for all she saw around her. Marcelina could imagine her not being happy living on the poverty-stricken Indian reservation with her husband, Long-Hair. Marcelina was more moved with compassion for Salia than her poisoned father. She felt sorrier for the girl than her own dead tío. Salia, her mother, and grandmother moved from the Santo Domingo Pueblo three years ago to Madrid, but the children of the village would have none of the little witch Salia. Their parents all pointed her out and quoted them the dicho, or proverb, from such a stick, such a splinter. The girl was overly protected anyway. Even now, she was smothered between her mother and grandmother, barely able to breathe.

  Mama said that Felicita was a snob who wished her daughter to think herself above her half-Indian heritage, which was why they moved from the pueblo to Madrid. Salia was what Hispanos call a coyote, meaning half-dog and half-wolf, a half-breed. The girl looked more like a gypsy with copper-red curls tumbling about her shoulders and a face covered with dirt so, it was hard to tell if her complexion was dark like her grandmother’s or fair like her mother’s. Felicita claimed to be a direct descendant of Isabella, the great queen of Spain, though she was born in the village of Chimayo, northwest of Santa Fe.

  She did seem regal, looking her pinched nose down on all her neighbors. While Salia was dressed in rags, her mother shimmered in fine cloth and new leather boots. Her dress was bright red, like the shiny apples growing in the Rio Grande Valley. Marcelina never saw a woman wear red before. All the other women wore browns, grays, and blacks.

  Suddenly, La India lifted her head so fast, it appeared she hadn’t even moved, yet she was looking at Marcelina with her neck now twisted around. Marcelina recognized the expression on La India’s face. It was the same look La Llorona gave Claudio, when she cursed him last night.

  Her poor tío, who now lay dead on the kitchen table.

  Never look those ladies in the eye.

  Marcelina swung her head away from La India. She buried her head in Papa’s waist but not before she saw Salia lift her hand to her in a half-hearted wave.

  Marcelina scraped the toe of her boot against the ground. I am a chicken for not waving back. She wondered why Salia didn’t go to school. Perhaps, Salia was scared to go to school.

  Salia stood closeted between her mother and her grandmother, and did not look afraid—she looked sad, cursed with a mournful face, appearing like a monkey plucked from the jungle. Her face was all eyes, an odd, liquid blue-grey color, like a stormy sea tossed back and forth on the beach, swinging from joy to despair, as if there was something she wanted but could never have.

  Yes, Marcelina wondered about Salia, and she wondered about herself.

  Chicken.

  Quick, Marcelina turned around and flicked her hand down at her wrist, a gesture that could pass as a wave. She then reburied her head in Papa’s waist and giggled, feeling breathless because she had been so very brave.

  “Go into the house now, mi hija,” Papa ordered. “Mama will be angry if you get dirty. You must change into your black dress.”

  So much for bravery. She whimpered because the distance from Papa to Mama or to her ten year-old brother, Diego, was too far. She would be alone for some seconds. She looked over at Felicita and La India and cried even harder.

  Papa reached into his pocket and placed a silver medal into her hand. He bent down and whispered in her ear, “Don’t be afraid of them. San Benito will protect you. He is the strongest saint, who protects from brujería. Remember, Benito means blessed.”

  He placed his hand against her back and pushed. “Now go.”

  Clutching the medal in her hand, she ran towards the house. She could hear chuckling behind her. She jumped over the salea, and spun around.

  So, it was Felicita who laughed at her because she held the shiny medal of San Benito to her chest. She could even see her teeth looking like pearls.

  How can such a wicked sound come from such a red, shiny mouth?

  Like that other time, Felicita blew her a kiss. Only this time, her lips actually left her mouth and flew in the air.

  Her lips found their mark, snapping her head back with the force of the blow. She rubbed her cheek, and there was red lipstick on her hand, but her fingers felt sticky. The lipstick is thick, like the blood from my nose when it bleeds. What does Papa call it? Clots?

  She lifted her hand to her nose, and her fingers smelled like her tío, of death.

  The lipstick was blood.

  Across the way from her, Felicita winked.

  No one had to tell Marcelina. She could not explain it herself, but deep in her gut, twisting her insides, she knew it was her tío’s blood dribbling between her fingers, snaking around her hand, like it had a life of its own. She knew for certain Felicita summoned La Llorona to her house last night to kill her tío.

  Papa promised her the blood of the Passover lamb on the blue door would protect her from La Llorona or any witches.

  Never look those ladies in the eye.

  The witch had been after her last night.

  She stood at the entrance to her house with her arms held stiff at her sides. No matter how loudly she screamed, Felicita’s laughter rang in her ears.

  It was only after Mama made her drink tea laced with whiskey that Diego was able to
help her wobble to her room so she could change for the funeral.

  There was to be no wake, no gathering around Claudio for 24 hours, while everyone remembered the dead man. One who is killed by the hand of a bruja must be buried quickly, lest the witch return to claim the body. If the soul of the victim is to achieve never ending glory, the body must be buried in consecrated ground. This is why Marcelina now stood between Mama and Diego, a solemn expression on her face. She was dressed in black, a pair of shiny new boots, her birthday present, peeking out from the hem of her gown. Her face was pale. The only sign of the whiskey she had guzzled was her occasional hiccup.

  Diego, his hair slicked back, had a somber look on his face. He wore a black jacket with a shoestring tie and a white shirt, a straw sombrero covering his head.

  With the black rose still growing from his mouth, Claudio was carried from the house, with the help of the Penitentes. Papa wrapped his arms around his brother’s body, which wobbled like a jellyfish.

  When he reached the coffin, Papa’s legs gave out beneath him from grief.

  So it was that Pacheco stuffed Claudio’s six foot four inch body into the child-size coffin, pushing his feet into his head so he would fit.

  The crowd gasped, their faces scrunching with empathy for Claudio Rodríguez.

  From the look on his face, Pacheco took pleasure from inflicting imaginary pain on the dead Claudio.

  But….Claudio had been a musician, after all. Marcelina swore she heard the sounds of an accordion playing, when Pacheco folded her tío.

  Bíatriz, Mama, and the other women sobbed in tune to the accordion.

  Padre Sanchez showed up just in time for the finale of the song, hiccupped, and crossed his thumb over Claudio’s forehead before the coffin was nailed shut.

  Papa squeezed Marcelina’s hand so tight, she was afraid he might break her fingers, but she did not complain. She was numb from the memory of her baby sister, who lay buried beneath the earth in a coffin no bigger than a shoe box. This last spring, Marcelina walked with Papa to place a flower on her sister’s grave.

  Her tío would need no flowers placed upon his grave. The black rose in his cheeks would sprout from the earth into a rose bush, bursting from his grave and into the sunlight. Come spring time, she would walk all by herself to her tío’s grave and pluck a rose. She would then give the rose to Papa, and his brother will return to him.

  Papa can rub the rose against his cheek and touch the softness of his brother.

  He can sniff the rose, and fragrant memories of Claudio will come back to him, petal by petal.

  He can place the rose in a vase of water on the living room table, and Claudio will once more join the family, until the rose wilts.

  Yes, she thought, the rose is a good thing. I’m glad Mama could not remove the rose from his cheeks. With this rose, Tío will never die, but will return to us every spring, when the snow melts and the flowers bloom.

  Papa looked at her with a puzzled frown because of the serene smile on her face and happiness glowing from her eyes.

  “It is because you are too young to understand death,” he whispered to her. “Thank goodness for your ignorance.”

  The coffin was lifted onto the back of the wagon and placed beside the skeleton rumored to be Pacheco’s wife. Agnes napped in the back with her legs spread wide, a silly grin plastered on her face. She seemed happy to be dead and no longer forced to perform her marital duties with her husband.

  Pacheco jumped on the seat of the wagon, flecking at the horse’s reins.

  Dry eyed now, but with a look of shock on his face, Papa clung to Marcelina’s hand. Mama squeezed his other hand. Diego held hands with Mama and Tía Bíatriz. The rest of the family marched on foot behind the coffin.

  The villagers followed a respectful distance behind the Rodríguez family, stirring up coal dust on the Turquoise Trail, to Bones Creek Cemetery at the other end of Madrid, a distance less than two miles.

  Behind the funeral procession trailed Felicita, Salia, and La India. There was a light step to Felicita’s boots. She danced as she sang to her daughter:

  “My Darling child, I hold the key.

  Charming daughter, you will see.

  Delicious girl, I shall set you free.”

  Between them they swung the girl, Salia, who laughed, as she was lifted into the air between her mother and grandmother.

  3

  At the northeast end of Madrid, on the outskirts, isolated from the village, was a dome-shaped hill cursed with the name Witch. Horses passing the hill, on the journey between Santa Fe and Madrid, grew restless around the hill and had to be blindfolded, as if the horse was being led from a burning barn. The hill was said to be consecrated centuries ago by Tezcatlipoca, Lord of the Night and Patron of the Witches. Only a witch would dare live at the bottom of the hill, which is where Salia lived with Mother and Grandma. Mother thought herself above the old Spanish style architecture of adobe and wished their home to be modern, like new houses in the big city of Albuquerque, which had a population of over 15,000 souls compared to Madrid’s 3,000. However, their Victorian house appeared to have been formed by a mud slide at the bottom of the hill, like a big glob of black dough.

  At night, the drapes were opened to let the moonlight in.

  The drapes were always drawn during the day. Still, if one went by the house along the Turquoise Trail, it felt as if eyes spied from the house, especially from the third floor window on the northwest corner

  The house was a dust bin of strange odors and bugs. A cockroach crawled across Salia’s bedroom floor. Such a big house. Such a small room. Such a dusty floor. The roach left a trail of shiny clean wood behind it as it dragged its belly.

  “Kill it,” Felicita ordered her daughter.

  “I can’t stand to hear bugs crunch beneath my shoe.”

  “Then use my shoe,” she said, tugging angrily at the laces of her boot. She jerked off her boot, throwing it at Salia, who ducked. “You will kill the roach,” she screeched from a red face.

  She showed her long nails, and Salia gulped at the razor-like tips. She clutched her elbows, clinging to herself, as if she could save herself from Mother’s wrath.

  “It’s the sound of death you can’t stand, you spineless girl. Get used to it, for death is all we have in the end.” Mother dropped to her knees, slamming a hairbrush on the cockroach. The bug splattered against the bristles of the brush. She smiled at Salia. “Let me brush your hair.”

  Salia covered her mouth, to keep from throwing up, as Mother brought the dirty brush down upon her head, rubbing the remains of the cockroach into her scalp.

  I won’t vomit. I mustn’t show more weakness.

  Grandma came to the door with a dress draped over her arm. The dress was made of a coarse, homespun material, brown and shapeless, but it was new.

  “What are we going to do with her?” Mother said. “The girl won’t even kill a cockroach.”

  “Perhaps, my granddaughter needs a more sporting foe than a bug. It is good you are sending her to school to mix with the villagers.”

  Salia closed her eyes, her stomach no longer upset. She visibly shook. “Do I have to go to school, Mother?”

  “Can you imagine,” Mother said to Grandma. “My child afraid?”

  “I don’t want to go! Please don’t make me!”

  “Then, you don’t want the dress your grandmother made you,” she said, snatching the dress and throwing it from the room.

  Salia glared at stoic Grandma. She never stood up for her against Mother. Not only did she love Mother more than she loved her own flesh and blood granddaughter, but there was an inhuman bond between the two.

  “I shall have to drag you to school by the hair,” Mother said, yanking at her hair.

  Salia winced. She wouldn’t dare. The last thing Mother wanted was to be a spectacle. Any family business was kept between the walls of this damned house.

  “Good. You are not a stupid girl, just a stubborn one,” Mother said,
scraping her fingernail across Salia’s neck and leaving a red mark. “You refuse to learn what is good for you, don’t you, my darling?” She rubbed her beneath the chin, as if she was a cat. Instead of purring, Salia stared straight ahead, her arms hanging limp at her sides.

  Mother put her boot back on and lifted her foot, resting it against Salia’s crotch. She laced up the boot, pulling the laces tight. At least, going to school would get her away from servitude. Salia had been enslaved since her earliest memory.

  Mother took an apple from her skirt pocket, handing it to Salia. “Do as I have instructed you. Be ready in five minutes, my Darling.”

  Salia cringed at the endearment. She hated those two words: My darling. When Mother addressed her kindly, her punishment was to be meted out at a time and place of Felicita’s choosing, and Salia’s stress over the coming event made the punishment that much sweeter to Mother, who took pleasure from other’s pain. Mother was a sadist, Grandma a masochist, which made the two women a perfectly matched couple, in a twisted sort of way. As for Salia, she was what? The experiment.

  Mother danced the Charleston out the door, and Grandma followed like her faithful lap dog, her normally quiet moccasins dragging against the floor because she did not like Felicita being so modern, but Grandma held her tongue. Mother’s temper even made Grandma timid. Salia sometimes hated her for loving Mother more, especially since Mother was not a loveable person.

  Salia pushed the women’s relationship to the back of her mind, placing it in a chest and locking it away with a key. She wished she had the courage to throw the key away, but a twisted part of her took pleasure in retrieving the memories in her chest, especially the painful ones.

  When Mother had twirled, Salia noted the lumps sewn into her petticoat hem. The lumps were a collection of little bags stuffed with villagers’ hair—one lump for each villager who ever angered her.

  Salia lifted her own petticoat, smiling at the two lumps sewn into the hem.