The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

“I told you to stay away from that man. He’s evil.”

  “He’s not evil. He’s a religious fanatic. His knees are probably skinned.”

  “That is what makes him so dangerous.”

  “Even that monk, Pacheco, sits watching you with lust in his eyes. Damn it, Salia, I won’t have it.”

  “What are you saying to me?”

  “I hit Sandoval tonight, defending your honor,” he coldly said.

  “Oh. You should never have done that. Not to Pacheco. He believes in revenge. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.”

  “He said you’re an embarrassment to Madrid.”

  “And what do you say?” she said, clutching her stomach, waiting for his answer that was slow in coming, as silence hung in the air between them.

  “I can’t go beating up every man who talks about you.”

  “People have always talked about me. You knew this before you married me.”

  “An independent nature in a woman goes against the teachings of the Bible, and against the very essence of a woman.”

  She laughed, but her laughter did not sound merry. “That sounds like Pacheco talking.”

  “Think about it, Salia. I won’t leave my son.”

  And Samuel left the room, softly closing the door behind him.

  44

  It was a foggy May morning, and a mist settled over Madrid. The future was as uncertain as the world was grey. Pacheco ate his usual morning meal of atole, a blue corn meal mush made with salt and milk, a breakfast any bachelor husband was capable of making while puttering around the kitchen, talking to his skeleton wife as company. He was in a strange mood ever since reading the headlines, Barrow and Woman Are Slain by Police in Louisiana Trap. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Bonnie and Clyde resorted to killing to survive. Bonnie was 23, the same age as Salia.

  Pacheco walked behind the morada to a simple cross hammered into the ground. He knelt at his brother’s grave and said a prayer for Alfonso’s soul. He felt oddly charitable and had even placed a bow in Agnes’ hair for this extraordinary occasion. “While I see to the business of the Penitentes, you may now visit your lover. Consider this an early birthday present.” He set her on the grave, even so far as placing her shawl across her bony shoulders so she wouldn’t catch a chill from the spring morning.

  He let her go and the skeleton folded in half, face down.

  He grabbed her neck and shook her. “Puta,” he yelled, striking her. “Even now, you wish to lay with my brother.”

  He dragged her to a nearby tree and tied her to the trunk with a rope. He crossed her legs so her charms were hidden. He leaned against the tree, smoking and surveying his kingdom. Agnes leaned forward, as if trying to break free so she could join Alfonso. Her skeletal hands hung like claws, as though wanting to dig the earth separating her from her lover.

  There were other graves behind the morada, some hidden deep in the woods. His brother’s grave was not well hid. Pacheco wanted everyone to see how he avenged himself, and that he was a man to be reckoned with and feared.

  And he succeeded, until Patrón Stuwart came to live in Madrid. Pacheco was losing his respect among the villagers. The men were more afraid of the patrón, of losing their jobs, especially now that the patrón had stores of extra coal put away to wait it out, so to speak, if the men were to strike.

  The miners had looked to Pacheco to form a union to improve their lot, but he had so far been unsuccessful. The manager, Hughes, hinted to Pacheco that the patrón had a nephew, who had been his only living relative until the birth of the abomination. The nephew lived back East and never even visited when he was the heir. If only the nephew were in charge, just so the mine made some profit, he wouldn’t care what Hughes did, so he claimed. And Pacheco was more than willing to believe Hughes, just as he believed in so many things. Blindly. Doggedly. Faithfully.

  But the one thing Pacheco refused to believe in was failure. And now, because of the patrón, he was going to fail the men, most importantly, the salvation of their souls. The Penitentes looked more to Pacheco, than to the church, to lead them down the righteous path. The Catholic Church failed its people the day the church did away with the Holy Office of the Inquisition.

  The patrón threatened the Penitentes’ very existence, the passion driving them relentlessly to do what is right. His own passion was interwoven with the Passion of Jesus Christ. And this year, for the very first time, the Penitentes were not to be allowed to re-enact the Passion, no parade, no dragging the cross through the streets.

  Instead, there was just to be Easter bonnets and painted eggs, and everyone will forget why Easter is really celebrated.

  In days of old, the Inquisition would have arrested the patrón for being a heretic. He would have been tortured to force a confession and put to death.

  Pacheco proudly puffed out his chest because it was the Spanish who engineered the Inquisition and who, luck would have it, conquered New Mexico. The conquerors felt bringing God to the primitive peoples of the New World was child’s play but unknowingly, along with the Spanish Inquisition they brought with them a presence, stowed away aboard their ship to escape the Inquisition fires raging throughout Europe.

  This presence hid in a basket beneath the hold of the ship among the rats, the decay, and the darkness. The basket was tossed about by the ocean waves, yet the presence did not grow sick from being holed up day after day. On the contrary, the presence grew stronger feeding on the soldiers’ despair of never finding dry land.

  After many months, the Spaniards saw what looked like a black snake wiggling in the ocean. As the ship moved closer, they could see the snake was really land, as far as the eye could see. The North America continent loomed on the horizon.

  The soldiers disembarked, weary and homesick, carrying the flag of Spain with them, some falling beneath the weight of the flag pole.

  Victorious, they planted their flag in the soil of the New World, claiming it for their king and God, praying this land would be filled with riches.

  At the top of the flag pole sat the presence, surveying the New World from on high. The presence, also, searched for riches but of a different sort. The presence had always been a seeker of souls.

  This dark presence was still in New Mexico, personified in Salia and other witches infesting the villages and reservations. However, the Spanish Inquisition was no more. In Madrid, there was now only Pacheco and his Penitentes, and if the patrón had it his way, the Penitentes would go the way of the Inquisition and cease to exist. Pacheco would lose his livelihood since as Brother Mayor he was paid a stipend, just as the mayor of a city received compensation. As for being head of the union, he had looked forward to the salary he would have received from the miners’ dues, had they organized.

  He finished his smoke and walked around to the morada. He dropped to his knees, rubbing his face against the rough adobe, mud bricks he laid himself. The patrón would not stop at banning the Penitentes’ Easter Passion. His next command will be to dismantle the morada. This country was supposed to allow religious freedom.

  Pacheco saw himself as a general with his Penitente soldiers marching behind him. From the time he was a child, Pacheco felt he had a special calling from God, not to the priesthood, but here among the people in the villages of Cerrillos, Golden, and Madrid. What good is a man’s life, if it is sinful? Better to lose that life than continue down a path to hell. He always admired the Spanish Inquisition, and wanted the Holy Church to return to the burning times. But in the meantime, until the Inquisition was resurrected, there was only his Penitentes. No way in hell would he allow his men to be disbanded! He would ask God’s help in his holy battle.

  He dragged Agnes into the morada, something he rarely did, but like any husband about to go off to war, he was hesitant to part with his wife. His anger blinded him, and he stumbled across the human skulls, kicking several across the floor. It may have been his brother’s head. The Penitentes always beheaded those tried and convicted of their
sins. The two dozen or so grinning skulls were kept as a reminder to others. In Madrid it was not unusual for both men and women to simply vanish, never to be heard of again. In such circumstances, the family never reported the disappearance of their loved one to the law. They saw it as the will of God.

  In reality, it was the will of Pacheco.

  He knelt at the altar with his head bowed and muttered a quick prayer.

  He felt beneath the altar for the hidden rifle.

  He cocked the rifle open, grunting with satisfaction when he saw that it was loaded. Just in case he might need them, with shaking hands he emptied a box of bullets into his pocket, where the bullets would be handy to retrieve.

  He left the morada and for the first time in his life, forgot to lock the door.

  He sat Agnes next to him on the wagon, and shoved a cigar in her mouth hole so she would look like Bonnie Parker. He posed on the wagon, holding the rifle like Clyde Barrow in the newspaper.

  45

  Salia tried to make small talk, but Samuel ignored her as he read the morning paper. Fine. Be that way, she thought. He was angry with her because last night she brought up the subject of New York again and still insisted they leave the baby, though he was six months old.

  She played with her food, while he finished his breakfast.

  He wiped his mouth and scraped his chair back to leave the table.

  She beseeched him with her eyes.

  He gave her the cold shoulder, and left the room.

  She jumped from her seat, knocking the chair over.

  The front door to the house was open. He was reaching around to close the door behind him.

  “Samuel,” she screamed. “Don’t go!”

  It all happened at once, as if in slow motion, like one of those nightmares forever chiseled in one’s mind to be played over and over.

  Samuel lifting his head to look at her.

  A rifle shot.

  Samuel flopping about like a rag doll. Blood shooting from his midsection.

  Samuel folding to the ground on the doorstep.

  “Stay down,” she cried. “Don’t try to get up.” She knelt over him, without any thought to her own safety.

  The look on his face was one of amazement. He stared at her with confusion.

  Huffing and puffing, she dragged him into the house, wincing at his cries of pain.

  She slammed the door shut with her foot then snapped the lock shut. Quickly, she drew the shades down, so he would be safe from the assassin or assassins.

  Except for the baby and his nursemaid, they were alone in the house. It was Sunday. The servants had the day off.

  He closed his eyes, moaning, grabbing at his wounded stomach.

  There was so much blood.

  She tore her blouse and tenderly wiped the blood trickling from his mouth. “I’ll be right back,” she told him in a shaky voice. “Don’t try to get up.”

  She returned with her hands full of hot peppers. She crushed the peppers over his stomach.

  He gave her a look, like he thought she was crazy. “Still…with the… chili seeds…my…foolish…love,” he said and tried to laugh, but it came out more like a gurgling.

  “The peppers have an anesthetic quality and will ease your pain,” she said, ripping off her blouse and skirt. She wrapped the fabric tightly around his back and stomach to stop the bleeding, and then wiped the sweat from his brow with a piece of petticoat. She blinked at her tears. “Better?”

  “…Pain…stopped,” he said, weakly. His face was so white, and his breathing rattled.

  With a terrified face, she examined his stomach. The peppers may have stopped the pain, but the makeshift bandages were fast turning red. “I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

  He nodded.

  She yelled at the top of her lungs for the nursemaid.

  The girl came running down the stairs, explaining that she had been hiding in the nursery with the baby. She swore she didn’t see who shot him.

  “Quit being hysterical! You’re going to have to help me lift him and put him in the car. You take his legs. I’ll lift his shoulders.”

  The two women tried to lift him, but he was too heavy.

  “Watch him,” Salia said and ran upstairs, then back down.

  He stared up at her with glazed eyes. He watched Salia twirl. When she stopped spinning, she had the bulging muscles of a man.

  She tenderly lifted him into her arms, carried him to the car, and laid him in the back seat.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she told him, as she drove recklessly. Her words were jerky, her throat filled with tears. “You’re going to live to see Bradley grow…”

  “Salia…,” he whispered from the back seat.

  “Sh. Save your strength.”

  Silence.

  She felt even more panic, wondering if he lost consciousness or died. She couldn’t see. Damn it. She couldn’t see him in the mirror.

  She drove blindly, tears blocking her eyes like a thunderstorm.

  She slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt before the hospital. She jumped out and pounded on the door. “I need a doctor,” she hollered.

  She kicked at the door. Due to her shape-shifting, her legs were heavily muscled and after a few kicks, the door burst into splinters. By now, she had an audience staring in amazement at the massively muscled Salia carrying Samuel into the small hospital, as if he was a feather. There was blood all over the back seat of the car.

  She tenderly set her unconscious husband down on the operating table. She unwrapped the blood-soaked rags covering his wound.

  He lifted his chest and stilled.

  “Samuel?” She had never before felt such fear.

  She lifted his eyelid, but could only see the white of his eye.

  Mewing, she placed her ear to his chest, feeling faint from his after shave. Samuel couldn’t be dead. He smelled so alive.

  Even her acute sense of hearing, like a coyote, could not pick up his heartbeat.

  She placed her finger under his nose but could feel no breath.

  “Samuel,” she screamed and held his head to her chest, rocking in anguish. “Don’t leave me, Patrón! I don’t want to live without you!”

  She remembered his words of last night doubting her love for him.

  She recalled the heartache she caused him.

  She regretted her stubbornness, her refusal to marry him when he pleaded with her, and the times they parted, and when they fought.

  And it had been her fault. Always her fault.

  She placed her lips on his, trying to breathe life into him, but it was useless. Samuel had left her, as she always knew he would.

  She sobbed wretchedly, “Oh, my Love, I promise, I shall never leave you. Forgive me for keeping you here in Madrid.”

  She had seen his death in the chili seeds five years ago. She didn’t know he would die in her arms. She could never see herself in the seeds, but she had known all along that Samuel would die young in Madrid, with the Ortiz Mountains at his back, those coal-infested mountains he loathed.

  And she hated Madrid.

  And most of all, she hated herself.

  For keeping him here, where he would die.

  And her pain was so great at her loss, that without the help of her shape-shifting stone, she shriveled back to herself, weak and without muscle, with no foundation to hold her. Once again, she was that little girl, rocking in an ocean of sadness, with no ship to steer her home.

  Drowning, as she held onto her man, refusing to let him go.

  Wanting to go with him, wherever it was his spirit had flown to.

  Apart from her.

  Gone from Madrid.

  Away from this wretched town he hated.

  It was Marcelina Martinez who finally tore Salia from Samuel’s arms. Everyone else was too afraid of her. If they only knew, she had no strength left to fight. Not any of them.

  She leaned her head against her old friend, unknowing who c
omforted her. “No. No,” she murmured, with tears gushing down her face. “I can’t leave him. Please.”

  She struggled to be free. To go back to him. Where Samuel lay on the table, so cold. So alone.

  To be with him. Forever. Just the two of them.

  “Be still, Salia. The patrón will be well looked after.”

  “When did he say he was coming home?”

  “Soon. The patrón said that soon he will follow.”

  “Tell him…tell him, I’m waiting for him. Tell Samuel…I’ll always wait.”

  She stumbled down the steps to the glare of the sun. She blinked at the bright light.

  The villagers crowded outside the hospital, whispering among themselves.

  Hissing.

  Spitting.

  Judging.

  Salia stood there, clothed in her torn petticoat and undershirt, bare skinny arms, with her husband’s blood splattered all over her.

  Part Five

  We Must Keep The Home Fires

  Burning

  Throw open the doors of San Cirilio!

  Ring the church bells!

  The Spanish Inquisition has returned to New Mexico!

  46

  May 25, 1934

  Dry spells were many in the cursed land of New Mexico. The earth fried and crops died, just so Tezcatlipoca, Lord of the Night and Patron of the Witches, could walk across the Rio Grande and outdo the Son of God, Who once walked across a lake filled with sparkling water. The people of New Mexico were not impressed, if the black mud of the Rio Grande was the best Tezcatlipoca could do. Nevertheless, Tezcatlipoca was called the Swamp Monster of the Rio Grande, because his clawed footprints were often seen in the mud of the river.

  Marcelina Martinez knew that tonight, Tezcatlipoca rose from the bosque of the Rio Grande and made his way to the Ortiz Mountains, because she dreamt of him.

  It was one of those dreams that seemed so real. She was sleeping with her eyes wide open so her bedroom furniture appeared fuzzy. The only reason she knew she was asleep was the strange almond glow, making her world black and white. At least, she saw nothing but black and white until the scarlet demon, Tezcatlipoca, walked into her room.