“Good. Tell my daughter what she has missed. Fuel her imagination for what she can never have.”
Salia clapped her hands, her enthusiasm undiminished by Mother’s cruelty. “Oh, you saw a play?”
“A musical is more than a play, Child,” Grandma said.
“Oh, I would love to be an opera singer.”
“And would you pretend to be able to sing?” Grandma said, her eyes twinkling.
“A world traveler, perhaps, to all the great opera houses?” Mother said, snorting.
“I would pretend to be a normal girl.”
“You are too stupid to be normal. You are much too tall and yet, I swear you have grown taller while we were gone. Your added height will only add to your clumsiness. You are like a newborn colt, all criss-crossed legs. Another inch and I’ll have to look up to you,” she said, pushing her head down until Salia whimpered.
“I brought you a present,” Grandma said.
She blinked at the flyer for the Gilbert and Sullivan musical, seeing her own name printed on the page, alongside the actors. It was Grandma’s magic causing her name to appear on the paper. Salia Esperanza, it read, appearing in a supporting role. “You have it wrong, Grandma. I would play the lead role and play it very well, indeed. At the end of the musical I would glow on the stage before the lights and curtsy to all my admirers,” she said, making a clumsy curtsy.
Mother scoffed, hiding something behind her back.
Shaking with fright, Salia rolled the flyer into her skirt pocket. “I have cleaned the house, just like you asked. See. I broke my fingernails. I worked so very hard while you were gone.”
Mother brought her arm around from behind her back, and Salia flung her arms out, protecting her face. “Happy birthday, my Darling. Here.”
She heard a meow and raised her head. Mother held a fluffy, yellow and orange kitten with yellowish eyes. “Well, here. Take it, and shut your mouth. You act as if you have never seen a cat before.”
She took the kitten, which snuggled against her, and followed them into the house.
“The kitten is but six weeks old. Protect it to make sure it remains without blemish, until it is grown. See that it does not fight with other cats or dogs and that it does not scratch itself. The cat must remain pure and unmarked. When the time comes for it to mate, you must make sure it remains untouched and chaste. The cat must remain virgin.”
“I will keep my kitten from Gato and Macho,” she promised, wrapping the kitten around her shoulders.
At the mention of their names, two eyeless cats sprang on the rug and licked their paws. What allowed the cats to move about the house, as if they had eyes, were their whiskers, used to gauge if they were able to fit through an opening. Mother and Grandma could see in the dark because they dug out their eyes with a spoon, replacing them with the eyes of their cats.
Salia picked up two bowls from the hearth. She carefully carried the bowls, containing Grandma’s chocolate brown eyes, over to her. Grandma winked at her with orange cat eyes and green swirls in her eye sockets.
The other bowl contained Mother’s hazel eyes, glaring at her maliciously.
She handed the bowl to Mother, and a chill crept up her spine when she stared back at her with Macho’s yellowish cat eyes shining like glass. Whereas Grandma’s eyes had the lazy look of a winking cat, Mother’s eyes had the look of a pouncing cat.
Mother spooned Macho’s eyes out of her sockets and looked at Salia from her empty sockets. Well, she didn’t exactly look, but cocked her head in her direction, hissing.
“I’m sorry,” she said for no reason.
She snarled.
Salia stepped backward, breathing anxiously. She preferred Mother’s eyes in a bowl.
Perhaps, when her cat grew and she could borrow its eyes, she would be able to accompany them on their nightly journeys around Madrid. She was not by nature nosy, but yearned for adventure, and surely they had adventures, besides snooping on people. The witches were the reason the curtains of Madrid homes were closed as soon as it grew dark. The villagers never allowed moonlight to creep into their homes. If the witches peeped into their homes, they might discover some weakness because at night, behind closed doors, people let down their guard.
Macho jumped on Mother’s lap, lifting his head so she could push his eyes back in. She kissed the cat, whispering to him in Spanish. Macho purred, rubbing his face against her cheek.
Salia hugged her kitten protectively when Macho put up its fur, hissing. “Don’t worry,” she whispered to the kitten. “None shall ever harm you. Macho hates me, too.”
Mother laughed, licking her lips. “My Macho would love to eat your kitten. Wouldn’t that be a feast for sore eyes?”
Salia hugged her kitten tighter.
Mother sighed, rubbing her eyes. “It gets harder every time. My eyes are drying with age. We must mix up an ointment,” she said to Grandma, who grunted, throwing both cats outside.
Salia knelt on the floor, turning the kitten on its back. She lifted its hind legs and peered into the unknown. “Is it a boy or a girl kitty?”
“What does it matter?”
“I must know, so I can give it a proper name.”
“It is female, since you are too weak to handle a male cat.”
The kitten bounced, lapping up milk on a plate.
“I shall name my kitty, Lovey. Thank you, Mother, for the birthday gift.”
In answer, she kicked the plate of milk. Salia jerked back her hand, the toe of her boot barely missing her fingers. The china somersaulted across the room, crashing against the wall and splattering milk. “Feed that thing outside from now on, and clean up this room. You know I hate a dirty house, you filthy thing. When you are done, come into the work room for your lesson.”
“But you just got home,” she said, shaking inside.
Mother marched out of the kitchen, her red flapper dress swirling around her calves.
Salia picked up the pieces of broken plate, moving her kitten out of the way so it would not eat any glass. She took a rag and fell on her hands and knees, cleaning spots of milk dripping onto the brick floor. She wiped the wall, scrubbing vigorously. Mother was obsessive when it came to a clean house. Her temper, always simmering just below the surface of her thin skin, could be set off by the tiniest speck of dust in the house. Mother had even slapped Grandma once after she cooked their dinner, because she left a spot on the white kitchen cabinets. She never once thanked Grandma for slaving away in the kitchen cooking breakfast, lunch and supper.
“Hurry, Child, your mother does not like to be kept waiting,” Grandma said.
Patience was another virtue Mother was lacking, yet she took her time cleaning up.
“Your hand is trembling, Child. Remember, just let go and trust the spell.”
“Don’t you want to know how Jefe is? He brought Two-Face to visit me while you were gone,” she said, referring to her niece.
She looked down at her with veiled eyes. “Did my son ask for me?”
“No. He didn’t.”
“He knows he is dead to me. I have no son. There is only you and your mother.”
“Salia,” she yelled from the back room.
She walked into the work room and Mother slapped her. “You are late for your lesson. Do you realize how lucky you are to be taught by two sisters of the Black Rose? I started late in life. It was not until I married and was converted at the reservation, whereas you…you have been given everything. You will be a great bruja, Salia, even if I have to beat you.”
She held her hand to her cheek, her eyes stinging from holding back her tears. She never let Mother see her cry. That would be a weakness.
Mother stood with her arms crossed. “Now, do as I instructed you. This time, see if you can get it right, Girl.”
Salia closed her eyes and chanted.
The spell started to work, and her body lifted up in the air.
The work room was three stories tall. The floor was getting further away
. She could no longer control her body. She flopped about like a rag doll, waving her arms and legs like a bird suspended in the air, unable to fly.
She panicked, throwing out bits of the formula, and mispronouncing something important because she crashed into the ceiling. “Saint Jude!” As soon as the words left her mouth, she fell to the floor, landing on top of Mother who, in turn, fell to her knees.
Mother jabbed her ribs with her elbow. “Clumsy, stupid girl! Who taught you that name, Saint Jude?” she screeched, slapping her with the back of her hand and cutting Salia’s lip with her black ring.
“No one. I don’t know why I said what I did. I don’t know where I have heard those words.”
She kicked her and pulled her hair. “Liar. I only take you as a student because you are an Esperanza. Yet, I swear sometimes my blood does not flow in your veins. You persist in this stupidity, this veiling of not remembering anything.”
She held her ribs with one hand and hid her face with the other. The reason you teach only me is because you are too jealous of your power to pass your secrets to anyone but your own daughter. Pass your secrets to Two-Face. She is eager to learn. I only wish to be left in peace.
“You know what the townsfolk call me? I am known as El Esperanza, out of respect or fear, it matters not which. What is important is that I am respected. And who will respect you, Girl?”
She knew better to remain silent.
Mother grabbed a handful of her hair, dragging her upstairs to her bedroom. She threw Salia’s things about, searching under the bed and in the drawers until she found what she was looking for. She held the wooden statue of Saint Jude over her head and brought it down hard on Salia’s head.
A lump grew on Salia’s head. This time, she could not hold back her tears.
“So much for your Saint Jude protecting you. He has made you sick with the headache. It is because of this ridiculous idol that you have not been able to harness the spell’s magic.”
“Are you admitting the Saint has such power?” she said, sniffling.
“It does over you, idiot Girl.” She set the statue upright on the floor, snapping her fingers and a flame burst from her hand, onto the statue. “See, your Saint is like a tree without roots, powerless to save itself from my power.”
Salia stared at the floor, her eyes burning with anger. The statue had been a gift from her friend, Marcelina. Her mother had no right. No right.
She dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “We will try again tomorrow with your flying lesson.”
The statue burned, the wood crackling. Mother was right. There was no power in the Saint. She merely touched it with her hand, and Saint Jude went up in flames. “I shall try harder. I swear I’ll get the spell right,” she said, winded because she was having difficulty breathing. She favored her right side. “I shall get it right. Even if it kills me.”
“Good. Though I doubt we shall have to kill you,” she said.
15
Salia and Marcelina were picking wild herbs in the mountains.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Marcelina said, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
“A little flower called ardor, used in a love potion. There are love potions for cheating lovers, which will win back a man’s devotion and make him lose interest in another. Ah, but ardor is used in the most powerful of love potions. Ardor is the flower that causes love to take seed and grow in the first place. The flower is red and blooms at the base of a cactus. This is like love, no? Love is prickly and cuts you when you try to pluck it. Many have bled to death from love.”
“You have a very hard view of love.”
“Love is a weakness that makes you vulnerable. Love is an open wound. I will never love any man. I swear it.”
“I believe in love,” Marcelina said with a dreamy look in her eyes.
“You, my dear romantic, are a lost cause,” she said scornfully.
“I am soon to be married,” she said, excitedly.
“You are only sixteen! Why would you want to be owned by a man? So he can hit you like your stepfather beat your mama? So he can treat you like a breeding cow, filling your belly with babies, until you are worn out and old before your time?”
She thinks you’re not good enough for Juan, the voice whispered to Marcelina.
“Juan Martinez is my chosen husband,” she said with a stubborn lift to her chin. “Both our families have agreed. Juan is not from Madrid but from Cerrillos.”
“Cerrillos?” Salia scoffed. “Why then has this secret lover never visited you? Cerrillos is just ten miles north of here.”
She thinks no man will ever love you.
“Juan and his family are to visit tomorrow. He has gotten a job with the mine because he is good at baseball, which the owner, Patrón Stuwart, has a passion for. If Juan proves to be an asset for the Madrid Miners baseball team, he will not have to break his back in the coal mine but will have lighter duties. He will be in no danger if the mine collapses.”
Salia scowled. “I have heard of this Samuel Stuwart, this trouble-maker mine owner, who is making Juan move to Madrid. I hear Madrid is not good enough for Señor Stuwart.”
“He does not live here because he has tuberculosis. I saw him once, when he came to Madrid. Diego pointed him out to me.”
“Since he is too sick to come to the mountains of Madrid very often to see to his mine, then what does he want with a baseball team here?”
“The teams play all over the state but mostly Albuquerque, which is where he lives in a grand casa. My mother has planned a picnic in the woods for Juan’s visit. Come, Salia. Don’t be so angry with me.”
She threw her basket on the ground, scattering her herbs.
Marcelina knelt, picking up the spilled herbs, placing them back in her basket.
“Leave it,” Salia hissed, scuffing her shoe against the ground, kicking dust in her face.
“You know we have to marry. We are young women, and there is nothing else for us but marriage. There is no other life,” she said, tiredly.
“For you maybe, but I shall never belong to any boy. My heart is my own, and no man will ever own it,” she said, haughtily tossing her head.
“The more you show your disdain of them, the more boys seem to like you.”
“Liar.”
“They follow you, no matter how much you discourage them.”
“Fibber.”
“The men are like dogs, following a bitch in heat, the way they chase after you.”
“Deceiver.”
“One day, a boy will corner you and trap you like the wild thing you are.”
“You sound like my mother, cursing me,” Salia said.
“There’s not a boy our age or young man in Madrid who wouldn’t like to…”
“Finish what you were going to say, Marcelina Rodríguez. What is it those pigs would like to do to me because I’m a wild thing, as you put it?”
“I know you are not like that, Salia, though everyone else in Madrid…”
“The villagers have always gossiped about me.”
“You can’t help what you are,” she said, patting her shoulder.
She stiffened. “What am I?”
“There’s something about you. Perhaps, the coyote in you gives off an animalistic sexuality men find attractive, not just the boys our age. I’ve seen how most men look at you. They find you irresistible.”
“Like your stepfather found you irresistible? Does that make you a puta?”
“I never mentioned the word, puta. You misunderstand.”
“I’m not experienced like that,” Salia said in a hurt voice because no boy had even held her hand, much less kissed her. “I want none of them. Do you hear me? None of them,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Well, I must marry. My family expects it. Just because I marry does not mean I shall love you any less. We shall always be friends.”
“Defy your family then.”
“I want to marry Juan, more than a
nything. I went to Golden once, when I was ten, and he was thirteen. Juan kissed me behind the bushes, and I have loved him ever since.”
Salia stared at her, tight lipped.
“What do you want of me?”
“What do you want of me? Perhaps, I shall make up a love potion for you, so this Juan of yours,” she said with a sneer, “Will fall passionately in love with you.”
“I may not have your power over men, but I’m sure I can manage to make my intended fall in love with me. It was, after all, he who kissed me and thought me rather pretty.”
“But that was before you became so fat,” Salia said. She plopped on the ground, yanking the grass from its roots.
Marcelina dropped the basket and marched away. I warned you. She thinks no man can ever love you, the voice hissed.
There is a ritual among single women on Midsummer’s Eve: if she walks backwards and picks a rose the color of the heart, she will discover twelve months later who her husband will be. Exactly one year ago, Marcelina picked such a red rose and with loving care, sewed it up in a bag. She then put it aside in darkness. She now opened the bag and reached in.
“It can’t be!” she screamed. The rose had turned black in color, was whole and fresh with dew upon the leaves. She ripped the rose to pieces.
The stem repaired itself, the petals reattaching and forming a fresh black rose.
She chopped up the rose with a knife, but again, the rose restored itself.
She tore off a petal, but the petal fluttered in the air and reattached to the rose.
With trembling fingers, she stuffed the black rose back in the sack and sewed the opening shut. She buried it in the back yard.
She recalled Salia saying that there were three ways of becoming a witch: (1) inheriting the propensity for magic (2) dark powers coming unbidden to those Tezcatlipoca recruits (3) seeking out a witch to apprentice with.
Salia had said, “I inherited the black rose, but the black rose cultivates others, discriminately choosing where to plant its seed. Still, there are those who purposefully pluck the black rose for wealth, power or vengeance and if they’re lucky, the rose thrives and does not wilt.”
The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation Page 11