The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

Marcelina sighed. There used to be laughter in this house. She missed Papa’s infectious smile. She missed Tía Bíatriz, who was not allowed to visit her brother’s widow. She missed her Rodríguez cousins. She especially missed Mama, who was a shadow of her former self.

  She slid her hand over Mama’s head, which felt like raw bacon. “After breakfast I’ll wash and comb your hair.”

  She sat lethargic, with her hands hanging to her knees. She used to be such a neat woman, so concerned about her looks.

  “You must eat more, Mama. You have lost weight.”

  She lifted the spoon to her mouth, as if it was an effort. Her eyes used to be brown. Now they were lifeless holes in her head with grey circles around her engorged pupils. Her memory was fine though. “Don’t forget your papa’s coffee,” she said, coughing into her hand.

  She gritted her teeth. Señor Baca was not her papa, but he exploded if she referred to him as stepfather. “I put the tortillas on the table,” he daily reminded them.

  “Put a raw egg in my coffee, mi hija, for my hangover,” he now ordered.

  She cringed at his endearment of my daughter. Her sour face turned to smiles because the egg would disguise the magic powder in his coffee.

  She brought him his cup, being careful not to spill a drop.

  He sipped. “This is good, Marcelina. See, Lupe. You should make coffee this good,” he said, not noticing that his hair was growing in strands to the middle of his back.

  He drained the coffee cup and scratched at his chest. “My nipples are sore,” he whined in a voice risen three octaves. Breasts popped out of his shirt.

  He rose from the table, and Marcelina choked on her beans because his coarse overalls had turned into petticoats.

  “I must have eaten too much,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “My clothes fit tight.”

  Laughter came back to the Rodríguez house. Marcelina held a hand to her mouth and her shoulders shook, as she watched the strings from his corset bounce against his rear as he walked. Beside her, Diego roared out loud. Mama didn’t laugh. Her head was bowed. In her hands she held a rosary, either praying for his recovery, or thanking God her husband had become a woman.

  A scream came from the bathroom. Señor Baca ran into the kitchen with his hands held to his head. “What has happened? Am I still drunk? Is this a nightmare?” He balanced on the balls of his feet, spreading his legs wide. He lifted his petticoat and bent his head, burying his eyes beneath the ruffles.

  Thud.

  The floor shook with the weight of an elephant. Señor Baca fainted.

  Mama brought him to with smelling salts.

  He sat up, saw he was still wearing the petticoat, and jumped.

  They followed him outside.

  “Pray for me. Pray for me,” he yelled, shoving Marcelina to her knees.

  He was very strong for a woman.

  He flattened his body on the ground with his arms spread-eagle. “Dios Mio! I will do anything. Just change me back into a man, sweet Jesus.”

  Marcelina held her arms to her sides. She hurt so from laughing.

  For six days, he hid in the house from the neighbors and sent Mama to the mine to say he was sick.

  On the seventh day, Mama made discreet inquiries and heard of a man who could help. They would go, cloaked in darkness, to the Santo Domingo Indian reservation to see an arbularia, a healer specializing in removing witch spells and fixing the results of witchcraft.

  “Holding the leather reins will roughen my hands,” her stepfather said, allowing Diego to drive for once.

  “You don’t need a parasol,” Marcelina shouted from the back of the wagon. “The sun is not out.”

  “I like to twirl the ruffled umbrella in my hands. The handle feels so dainty.”

  She dug her fingernails into the side of the wagon, excited to be on the reservation for the very first time.

  The Santo Domingo Pueblo rose like a sand castle in the desert beneath a full moon. The pueblo was a complex of apartment buildings molded from adobe bricks, baked and hardened by the sun. Four rectangular buildings were attached in the form of a hollow square. The buildings were terraced from the court toward the outer wall. Each apartment was attached by the roof and the walls to other apartments, rising upward and sideways towards the mountains to seven levels.

  She believed the pueblo was an ancient architectural miracle. Individual rooms hung haphazardly about the complex, added for extra living space. Ladders leaned against the walls to allow the Indians to climb from apartment to apartment, from floor to floor. The ladders were pulled from story to story.

  The wagon ground to a halt. A fierce looking Indian barred their way.

  Mama cleared her throat. “We are looking for the medicine man, the shaman they call Storm-Chaser.”

  The man pointed to the corner building and the first floor.

  They were too far from the building to have been heard, yet Storm-Chaser walked out of his apartment as though summoned. He looked hideous with one eyeball missing from his socket. He covered the hole with a leather patch, but he was still frightening. He appeared to be made from dried, cracked mud. Other than La Llorona, Marcelina had never seen anyone so old. Iron grey braids, streaked with white, hung to his waist. A bright red bandana was tied around his forehead.

  He laughed when he saw the man-woman with sausage curls blowing in the wind, climb from the wagon.

  The shaman offered him a smoke from his pipe, but Señor Baca declined. “Do you have any tea and cookies?” he asked.

  “Not any that will restore your manhood,” he said, his good eye twinkling. He winked at Marcelina.

  She hung over the side of the wagon, smiling shyly back at him. She liked him. He wasn’t so scary after all. He was funny.

  “Come,” he said, holding a pan and some coals.

  Señor Baca looked at the shaman with misgiving. They all expected him to put on a mask and dance around him. They assumed he would chant some song in his native tongue while he ministered his magic.

  “We must go to the Church of San Cirilio,” Storm-Chaser said.

  “My husband does not wish to be seen by anyone in Madrid. Look at him. He looks neither man nor woman, but a circus freak.”

  Señor Baca glared at her while she appealed to two pueblo women standing at the entrance to the apartment, one old and fat, the other young and thin. “How would you feel if this happened to your man?”

  “My wives don’t know the white man’s tongue,” the shaman said, tying a horse to the back of the wagon. He climbed up on the bench and sat, waiting while Diego and Mama helped Señor Baca. Marcelina pushed at her stepfather’s elephant-like rear as he heaved himself up on the wagon. On the other side of the wagon, Storm-Chaser held onto the wooden seat because the wagon tipped the scales to Señor Baca’s side.

  “Why are we going to the church? You are a shaman,” her stepfather cried, stamping his foot.

  “Many of my people were converted by missionaries. It takes a powerful witch to turn a man into a woman. It must take an even greater power to restore that manhood.” He twisted, looking down at Marcelina. Even in the darkness she felt his penetrating gaze. She dropped her eyes to the wagon bed, digging her fingers into the wood, feeling a splinter under her nail.

  It took over two hours to go the thirty-some miles to the church.

  The shaman gathered some rocks, covering them with sticks and weeds. He then set the pan of coals on top of the rocks and lit a fire below.

  Marcelina rubbed her arms briskly. Until she felt the heat from the fire, she hadn’t realized how cool the summer evening was. She pulled the shawl tighter around Mama’s body, wrapping her arm around her shoulders to share her body heat.

  Diego went inside the church to pray.

  “Your brother will become a priest. Do you think, if I die, Diego will see to it I’m saved?” Mama said with hope shining in her eyes.

  She felt like strangling her. “Don’t speak such foolishness. You are not going to die.”


  “What if he kills me?” she whispered.

  We would be better off if Señor Baca stayed a woman, she thought.

  “His first wife fell down the stairs and died. She was clumsy, like me.”

  We would be better off, if he were dead.

  Dios Mio, forgive me. I am having thoughts of murder on the church grounds.

  Storm-Chaser went inside the church and came back swinging the lamp which hung in front of the Blessed Sacrament. He set the lamp down, and ripped off a piece of Señor Baca’s skirt. Her spilled lamp oil in the pan, the red coals sizzling. He drenched the rag with the hot oil, singing, “I do this in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

  “Now wipe yourself clean,” he told him, throwing the hot rag at him.

  Señor Baca washed below his skirt. He bent his head, grinning. He wrapped his beefy arms around the shaman, thanking him for turning him back into a man. He still looked silly wearing lipstick, rouge, and a skirt.

  Storm-Chaser mounted his horse while they all climbed into the wagon, with the fat man once more at the reins. “Girl, come and untie my horse for me,” he said.

  Marcelina walked to the back of the wagon and worked at the knot on the rope.

  He bent from his horse, whispering, “I smell the stench of Felicita Esperanza in this nonsense. I warn you, Girl, you are playing with fire.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “No…,” she protested.

  “When Felicita took my eye from me, it allowed me to look even deeper into her soul. Be on your guard, Girl, because once she has done something for you, then you must do something for her, and it may not be to your liking. She is a master of seduction and always gets what she wants. Perhaps it is really you she wants, Girl. Maybe she has done your bidding, so that you will do hers.”

  She gulped.

  “Stay inside tomorrow and lock your doors. At noon, Madrid will see a blizzard, like it has never seen before.”

  Storm-Chaser kicked his horse and rode away, fog engulfing him. He seemed to be taken into the air, horse and all, until there was nothing left of the medicine man but smoke.

  A blizzard in July? She snorted. Señor Baca is right. The shaman is so old, he’s loco.

  The next day, at high noon, a blizzard hit Madrid, killing ten people in the mountains.

  She hid behind the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest, banging her head against the wall. Storm-Chaser must be right about his other observation.

  Perhaps it is really you that Felicita wants, Girl.

  She wailed, sounding a lot like La Llorona, and regretting not asking Salia where the powder to change a man into a woman had come from.

  Only a powerful bruja can turn a man into a woman, the wise shaman had said.

  She wished she had begged Storm-Chaser to take her away with him to the reservation, where it had felt safe in his warm presence.

  I warn you, Girl, you are playing with fire.

  9

  After nearly two years of silence, the siren went off at the mines again. Marcelina ran home, praying the entire way, begging God to smother her stepfather in coal.

  She was disappointed to see him seated at the table. Since his stint as a woman last year, he was nicer to Mama, only pulling her hair and slapping her. No more broken bones or black eyes.

  “Why are you home?” she asked, setting her school books down.

  “There was an accident at the mine.”

  “Why aren’t you searching for the trapped men?” If he helped in the rescue, perhaps there would be another cave-in and he would be trapped.

  “There is such confusion, no one will miss me. The owner, Samuel Stuwart, lives in Albuquerque. If he doesn’t care, then neither do I.”

  The house was too quiet. “Where is Mama?”

  “She will be back in time to make my dinner. Sit with me,” he said, patting his lap. “We never get to talk anymore.” Her stepfather pouted, causing his chin to run into his neck like a stump attached to his nose.

  “Where is Diego?” she said, taking a step back.

  “At the church, but I am here, mi hija, to play with you.” He locked the front door.

  “I’m going outside.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Come and play with your dolls.”

  “I don’t play with dolls any more. I’m fourteen.”

  He dragged her to her bedroom and sat on the bed, patting the mattress with a hairy hand. “Sit with me, Marcelina.”

  She grabbed two rag dolls, one a girl in a fiesta dress. The other was a boy, dressed like a Mexican peasant with a straw hat. She handed the boy doll to him.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Juan.”

  “Is that the name of your boyfriend?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “A pretty girl like you?” he teased.

  She giggled, blushing. He was being so nice, his eyes sparkled with kindness.

  He yanked the girl doll from her, pressing the dolls front to front. “Do you ever play with the dolls like this?”

  Her lips froze and she moved towards the exit.

  He jumped from the door, slamming it shut.

  I’m trapped.

  He dragged her onto his lap, whispering into her ear, “I will be the boy doll and you the girl. You are such a pretty doll, mi hija.” He squeezed her breast. “And so big. You are a girl, yet, you are a woman. The best kind.”

  “Let me go,” she whimpered.

  He crushed her waist with his arm.

  She struggled.

  He forced her hand to the front of his pants. With his other hand, he poked her between her legs. He was hurting her. “No,” she cried, kicking her legs in the air.

  “Open your legs for Papa.”

  She jabbed her elbow against his stomach.

  “Quit fighting me. Hold still,” he roared.

  She doubled over.

  He lifted her skirt, tickling her thighs with the hairs on his hand.

  She pushed her body as far forward as she could, and then rushed backward, banging his nose with her head.

  He screamed and let her go.

  She flung open the door and ran from the room.

  “You broke my nose, you little puta,” he yelled, his footsteps shaking the hall floor.

  She made it to the front door and scratched at the knob, but was shaking so bad, she couldn’t get the lock to turn.

  “I’ll kill you, bitch!”

  She yanked the door open. Don’t panic. You can make it. Almost there.

  His hand reached out. She could smell herself on his fingers, the odd musky odor seeping between her legs, the scent she could never wash away.

  He tried to push the door closed, but his hand slipped and she escaped, but not without injury. The door smashed her hip. She ran, bleeding in two places, her bruised hip and monthly curse. She hugged her waist, biting her lip. The cramps were bad today.

  Come evening, she limped into the house. Mama balled her out for being late. Her stepfather grinned at her. Diego noticed her bloody skirt, and then lowered his eyes to his plate. They grew closer after Papa died, but Diego changed towards her when her breasts grew large.

  She pulled a chair out, making a great noise, and sat.

  “Your papa went back to the mine to help and got hurt,” Mama said.

  “He is not my papa.”

  He looked at her with hooded eyes. “You smell good, Marcelina, like fish. I hunger for fish, Lupe.” (All the while he stared at Marcelina.) “Go to the market tomorrow and buy some catfish from the Rio Grande. Here, kitty, kitty.”

  She picked up her plate and threw it on the floor, splattering her beans.

  “Ungrateful Girl! He rescued me, a widow with two children, and now he is a hero. Look at his nose. He got hurt in the mine,” Mama said.

  He simpered at Mama.

  Marcelina stormed from the room. She could stand no more of Mama fawning over him, especially since he beat Mama with his belt. I would rather starve than
eat his food. She marched to her bedroom, punching the walls as she passed. Hurt his nose in the mine, indeed. The bruise on her head was a perfect match for the bruise on his nose. Her scars would never heal. Her fear could not be taped up, like his nose.

  That night, she locked her bedroom door and lay in bed, with her eyes wide open and her stomach growling.

  There were heavy footsteps in the hallway.

  The footsteps stopped at her door.

  She held her breath, listening to the door handle turn, then sighed with relief that the lock held.

  There was a scratching at the door. “Marcelina,” his gravelly voice whispered. “Let me in, and I will buy you many pretty dolls from the market, with real hair and rubber skin. Oh, Marcelina, Marcelina, Come to me.” He laughed deep in his throat, and then his footsteps faded away.

  She cried herself to sleep.

  “I’m afraid to go home,” she told Salia the next day. They were at the ball park, the two girls leaning against a tree, watching the team practice. They were up on the hill, well hid from Salia’s house across the street.

  “I hate all men. I’m glad I never had a father. My half-brother, Jefe…”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “Half-brother. We share the same father. My mother was Long-Hair’s number two wife, but like a snob, she wishes me to forget my half-Indian heritage, which is why we moved from the pueblo. Jefe is much older than me. I rarely see him since he lives on the reservation. He and our grandma hate each other. Long-Hair was jealous of our grandma, for seducing my mother. She left Long-Hair to live with our grandma. Jefe believes my mother killed our father and yet, our grandma stayed with her. He is ambitious and covets all the power for himself. My grandma says to beware of him.”

  “You’re not allowed to visit him then?”

  “I sometimes stay with Jefe, when my mother and grandma are gone for days so I may study him. One is better off knowing one’s enemy. Besides, I am no threat to Jefe.”

  “I wish Señor Baca was dead, before he kills my mama like he did his first wife, or before he rapes me,” she said, blowing her nose into her skirt.

  Salia smiled what Marcelina called her Felicita smile. “His death could be arranged,” she said.