She’s stolen from a dead man, Marcelina thought with horror. He will rise from the grave and come back for his coins. Even her brujería will not save Salia.
Felicita did not seem worried over her daughter’s thievery. She simply watched with an amused face as they nailed the lid shut on the pine coffin.
At the church of San Cirilio, the witches waited outside, standing over the exact spot where her stepfather’s pseudo remains were buried. Felicita smiled at Marcelina, and she stared back defiantly.
She plopped down in the church pew, and Pacheco watched her, no longer looking at her with sympathy but with curiosity.
She acted brave but her intestines danced La Cucaracha, a Mexican Revolution song. She muttered the lyrics, “The cockroach, the cockroach, can’t walk anymore, because it doesn’t have, because it’s lacking, marijuana to smoke.” Even the funny song could not take her mind off the image of her stepfather’s doll buried by the side of the church.
She dropped to her knees, bowing her head, not because she had become so religious. She preferred to look at the dirt floor than at Pacheco’s piercing eyes. At this moment, she felt more fear of him than of Felicita. The witch was a known antagonist, Pacheco and his Penitentes were more mysterious.
Ay, caramba, the knees again! What is it with the Catholic Church and kneeling? Get on with it, Padre Ass. My stepfather doesn’t deserve a high mass, she thought.
Beside her, Diego stared at the statues of saints with rapture.
She pulled at her collar, popping open a button. The walls suffocated her. It was the fault of the Saints hanging on the walls with their arms reaching out to grab her and taking all the oxygen on purpose.
She was only able to breathe freely outside the church, in the open air.
Along the way to the cemetery, violinists played a sad Spanish song of loss. Everyone cried except for the witches, Marcelina, and Diego.
When they lowered the coffin into the ground, Felicita patted Salia on the shoulder and winked at Marcelina. Just like when her tío died, she raised her fingers to her lips and blew Marcelina a kiss.
Her lips somersaulted through the air and smacked her face. She wiped her cheek. Blood again. Only this time she was certain it was her stepfather’s blood dripping from her fingers.
Felicita grabbed Salia by her arms and hugged her. She rocked her daughter back and forth with joy.
She had the nagging feeling that she repaid her debt to Felicita for turning her stepfather into a woman. Storm-Chaser had been wrong. It had never been her that Felicita wanted. With a sinking feeling she had the suspicion that with her stepfather’s murder, she helped Salia graduate to the third degree of brujería, the black arts, which include death.
And what of you, the voice whispered. Why do you feel so disappointed it wasn’t you Felicita wanted after all?
Part Two
Salia
Family ties are thick as mud.
11
A procession of Penitentes climbed the path up the hill to their morada, their holy shack hidden by trees. At the head walked a man, clothed in a loincloth. Ribs stuck out of his chest, his fasting stomach sucking into his spine. A crown, woven from a sticker bush, was shoved into his head, trickles of blood dribbling down his cheeks. He dragged a human-sized crucifix, slung over his shoulder, his muscles straining, but none of the Brotherhood of the Penitente Order, marching behind their mock-Christ, offered to help. Two guards, their arms crossed in front of their chests, kept an eye out for the sheriff. The men never thought to look up at the trees for spies. Marcelina and Salia had a bird’s eye view from the branch of a tree. They passed a bottle of stolen whiskey back and forth, and did as Marcelina’s nana used to say, “To give the bottle a kiss”.
The Penitentes were all barefoot, their feet bloodied by pebbles and stickers, their white baggy pants blowing about their ankles. Black caps covered their heads. Their faces were hid behind scary, hand-painted masks depicted to look like various Catholic saints. Their masks reflected suffering. Horrors. Affliction. Anguish. Grief.
Mouths were painted open in a perpetual black scream. The men wailed a dark, high-pitched tune, accompanied by the eerie slapping of leaves of amole weeds across their bare backs, raw and oozing blood. With each lash of the whip, blood splattered their white pants, bubbling a red trail leading up to the morada. The motto of the Penitente Order was: to find oneness with the Almighty, you must experience the passion of Christ’s suffering.
The Order originated in Spain, three centuries before and imported to New Mexico by Franciscan friars accompanying the conquistadors. Even the conqueror, Don Juan de Oñate, on Good Friday, 1598, stood among the friars dressed up in their Easter outfits—hair shirts with a sash of cactus thorns encircling their waists. The friars chanted, as Oñate lashed his bare back. His soldiers followed their leader and whipped themselves, until the camp ran crimson with their blood.
The red Ortiz Mountains didn’t turn red from the blood of the Penitentes, Good Friday, 1928—it was the descending sun reflecting its shine upon the land.
The Penitentes cried out, as once more their whips lashed down upon their backs.
At the rear of the sufferers a flute player whistled from a homemade reed flute. One man blew into a bottle. Another banged some tin cans together. The last musician rattled chains.
The most eerie Penitente was unmasked. He was the Roman soldier, and the only whip he lashed was his horse’s rump, encouraging it to climb the hill. Pacheco. As always, his lady love road in the bed of the wagon, wearing a black lace doily on her skull. Agnes represented the death awaiting all sinners.
The mock-Christ bore the sins of all, quite a heavy load. He fell on the hill beneath the life-size cross.
One of his brethren helped him to his feet and hefted the cross to his shoulder, dragging it behind him in the dust.
The man, who helped him, beat himself with his whip, crying out.
A bruise purpled the mock-Christ’s chin, proving he was all too human. He lugged the cross up the hill, falling now and then; only to be helped to his feet until finally, a mountain of a man carried the cross for him the rest of the way.
One by one, the men marched towards the back of the morada. One step more and each man, in turn, seemed to fall off the face of the earth.
No miracle had taken place. The Penitentes did not vanish into thin air. Their disappearance was a calculated illusion.
They laid the cross on the ground and the mock-Christ lay on the wood with his arms spread and his ankles crossed. Pacheco hammered his feet and hands to the wooden cross. The mock-Christ screamed in agony, the nail going through bone, poking muscle and scattering tissue. The Penitentes whipped themselves harder to commune with his suffering.
The sun seemed to bleed, turning the sky orange.
The men dropped to their knees, beating themselves unmercifully as the cross was raised in the air.
The mock-Christ lifted his eyes to the heavens, searching the cloudless sky, waiting for deliverance. The nails tore at his flesh, stretching his skin. At last, the mock-Christ fainted.
The cross was lowered to the ground, and Pacheco removed the nails.
They threw the victim in the wagon, a bloody sheet billowing over him.
The cross was left behind, to be used next year. The wagon rolled down the mountain, followed by the staggering Penitentes. They would take the mock-Christ to his home, to await either his burial or his resurrection. He had a fifty-fifty chance of making it. Either way, he won. If he lived, he was cleansed of sin. If he died, his family was greatly honored, due to his human sacrifice. The Penitentes were simple men, willing to die for their beliefs.
When the last man disappeared from view, Marcelina and Salia jumped down from the tree. Both were a bit drunk.
Salia gathered the nails strewn about. “He will surely die. Look. The nails are rusted.”
“Even in pain, his face glowed with light.”
“It was the sun, reflected on his fa
ce.”
“Is there anything you would die for?”
“If I could have one night on the stage, I would gladly die. And you?”
“I would die bringing life into the world and not regret it.”
“And this human sacrifice who hung from the cross with rusty nails hammered by his brethren, would his death bring life into the world?”
“The one he represented brought eternal life into this world. He is the light.”
“Well, we should go exploring before we lose the light altogether. You have always wanted to see what the morada is like inside. Now is our chance. There is no one about. The Penitentes will stay at the man’s house, waiting for his death. It will take some time for the poison from the rusted nails to kill him.”
“But it is forbidden. If the Penitentes should ever find out…”
With a determined look on her face, Salia dragged Marcelina to the morada.
The handmade mud house leaned sideways looking as if it was about to roll down the hill. Two enormous logs tied together with leather straps blocked the door.
“The boards are too heavy to move,” Marcelina said.
Yet, Salia pried the boards loose, as if they were toothpicks. She pushed against the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
“See. The door is locked. Let’s go. I beg you,” she said, hiccupping.
Salia giggled, removing a pin from her hair, her copper-red curls tumbling down one side of her face. The other half of her hair was still pinned. At sixteen years of age, Salia wasn’t much neater than she had been at eleven.
She jimmied her hair-pin in the lock.
Marcelina cringed at the creaking door. “It’s dark in there.”
“There are candles. Don’t be chicken. Come,” Salia said, shoving her through the doorway.
Both girls blinked, adjusting to the room, dimly lit by the fading sun at their backs. The walls were painted a soft green to represent the earth, holding up heaven, which was the low blue ceiling.
Salia lit a candle on a crudely built altar. She held the candle up to the adobe walls, splattered with blood.
Marcelina shrieked, “Salia, what are you doing? The candle must stay lit at the altar. The candle burns for the dead and the missing souls suffering in purgatory. This is a chapel! Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, we’ll burn in hell for all eternity, if we disturb anything.”
She held the candle under her chin, appearing ghoulish. “Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, we’ll burn in hell,” she mimicked. “When has your Jesus, Mary, and Joseph ever helped you?”
“Do not mock God, or you will be doomed.”
“Take my hand if you are afraid.”
Marcelina placed her hand in Salia’s, and they approached the altar, draped with a black cloth. On top were twelve skulls lined up in a row. The black cloth made the skulls look even whiter. The skulls were made of white plaster. “Twelve skulls for Christ’s twelve disciples,” Marcelina said.
Crudely made wooden statues of the saints stood behind the skulls.
Above the altar hung a wooden crucifix with a Hispanic-looking, carved Christ, melting into the wood. Señor Cristo he was called. Marcelina moved her head, and his eyes followed her. It was happening again. “Quit looking at me! I go to confession every month.” She pulled at her collar. She was choking.
Salia stumbled over something and fell on her knee with a bang. She picked up a skull, lying in a pile with eight others. “Human skulls may bruise my bones, but humanity will never break me,” she dryly observed. “I doubt any of these sinners gave their lives freely today, like the man on the cross.”
Marcelina screamed and ran for the door.
“Wait! I hurt my leg when I fell and can’t run.”
She stopped running and looked behind her.
A skull floated in the air in the darkened morada, coming towards her, laughing wickedly. “I am the skull of Señor Baca,” a deep voice said.
She practically flew through the door which slammed behind her. “He’s after me. They’ve sent him to get me. He wants his revenge,” she screamed, running down the hill, her chubby legs wobbling. She didn’t stop, until she reached the bottom. “I shouldn’t have shut the door on her. What if the candles blew out? Salia may be stumbling around in darkness.”
Salia has always stumbled in darkness, the voice said.
The door of the morada opened and Salia sashayed out, a mocking look on her face.
Marcelina was furious. Why does she make me doubt myself? Why is she always goading me?
You know why. Why do you encourage her?
I’m trying to convert her.
The voice laughed.
Marcelina waited for Salia. She held her hand to her side, her chest heaving, and her heart pounding. She felt like throwing up.
Salia ran down the hill, laughing.
“You scared the hell out of me, Salia!”
You mean she scared the hell into you.
Marcelina felt like hitting her. If she had a big rock, she would have crushed her skull with it.
Yes. Do it. Do it, the voice hissed. She’s so pretty and thin. Look at you. Ugly and fat.
“Let’s go to my house. My mother and grandma are out of town,” Salia said.
Marcelina bit her lip, eying Salia’s bare feet. Her toes were small and symmetrical. No bones stuck out. The skin was smooth. The feet were small and feminine, unlike Marcelina’s peasant stubs, sticking out from her ankles. Thick. Like her hands. “I better go home,” she snapped.
Half of Salia’s hair covered her face. She pouted. “Come. Don’t be mad. Give me your shoulder and help me walk. My knee is beginning to swell.”
She’s so damned charming, don’t you just hate her?
Marcelina reluctantly placed her hand around Salia’s waist. She looked back at the morada. The building looked undisturbed. Salia had replaced the two boards across the door. There was no skull floating down the hill, with its mouth open to bite her.
Excitement pounded her chest so could barely breathe. It’s what you’ve wanted, to examine the house up close, ever since you were a young girl and you looked with both fear and longing to the house at the bottom of Witch Hill, beckoning like a mirage in the desert, the voice said.
Only it isn’t a mirage. What about the red eyes from the third floor window?
Felicita’s gone. So is La India, and her snake bracelet. This may be your only chance.
Beside her, Salia hummed. She placed her weight upon her injured knee, walking faster, towards home.
There was no pain. There was no swelling. There wasn’t even a bruise.
12
None in Madrid was brave enough to examine the house up close, but all snorted at the house towering above in the distance, three stories tall. Carved in the front door of Salia’s house were images of goats and snakes, the serpent and horned goat being but two of the many forms of Tezcatlipoca. Salia heaved the door open, and the snakes slithered along the grain of wood, and the goats pranced.
A trick of the eye, Marcelina thought, puffing on a cigarette.
Salia shoved her inside, and she could have sworn she heard a billy goat, when Salia kicked the front door shut.
Salia held her hands over Marcelina’s eyes. Laughing, she guided her into the living room.
Salia plopped down on the sofa and crossed her legs. She had grown considerably. Her build was still delicate, but her limbs long. She would never be eye to eye with her mother, nor could she ever match Felicita’s snotty look. She did not appear the grand dame, merely the tattered lady of the house, entertaining a friend. Her bare feet swung from the sofa, her soles filthy just like the house. Still, smudges of dirt on her face could not disguise her growing beauty of which she was unaware.
Marcelina grabbed a True Story magazine from the table and flipped to the article on the cover entitled, “‘The Confession of a Chorus Girl’. She fanned herself when she read the scenes in the book, imagining she was the chorus girl surrounded by admiring me
n
“The tea will soon be steeped,” Salia said, her eyes sparkling with warmth.
She finished the story and threw the magazine back on the table. The living room was overstuffed with chairs and cushions. A large window faced west to bring in the setting sun. The window was draped with heavy, maroon-colored curtains sewn from a dreary fabric. Spiders had woven webs into the valances. A fat spider hung from a string, chewing on a juicy cockroach trapped in its web.
Other than the several layers of dust, the bugs, and the stuffiness, the room didn’t look much different from the parlor at the Lamb Hotel where Marcelina worked. Neither girl attended school any more. They were both of an age when worry about the future was on their minds. Marcelina worked as a maid. Salia was an unpaid maid to her mother. She was also the housekeeper, which explained the dust and spider webs.
Salia poured two cups of tea, handing one to her. “Cookies,” she said, pointing her chin at a table.
“No. Please. Don’t get up. I’ll get one,” Marcelina said, walking over to the table where there were two bowls beside the cookie plate. She screeched at the two sets of eyes floating in the bowls, glaring menacingly at her.
“The hazel eyes are my mother’s and the chocolate-brown eyes belong to my grandma.”
“I….I don’t think I want a cookie after all,” she said, running back to her chair. She lifted the cup with shaking fingers, spilling a few drops.
Salia calmly sipped her tea.
Two cats pranced into the room, their eye sockets empty holes.
“Get out,” Salia screamed, throwing her teacup at the cats. The porcelain shattered, and mint tea crept down the wall. The howling cats ran from the room. “Oh, well. The wall needed a paint job. Tea party over.” She grabbed Marcelina’s cup from her. “Let’s go upstairs.”
The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation Page 9