The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  First, she smelled him like a drowned, bloated animal. She gagged, suffocating from the stink of stale water and the stench of the Rio Grande. Truly, like a fish out of water, his steps were leaden and robotic, as though he had grown legs and was not used to moving about in this clumsy fashion. She waxed the wooden floor that morning, so it was not surprising she heard him fall.

  Curse words vomited from his lips. Her ears burned from his cussing, yet, even as his obscenities repulsed her, his voice soothed her. The most filthy, disgusting words imaginable erupted from his mouth, spewed across the room, and then caressed her ears like velvet. His voice was masculine, hoarse, and slick, reminiscent of a bubbly, stopped-up sewer, yet, silky with wetness.

  Her mouth became parched, her thirst overpowering, her desire overbearing.

  She licked her lips and turned her head toward the sound. She could see in the middle of her black and white room a brick red shape leaning on one knee.

  Tezcatlipoca struggled to heave himself up from the floor.

  When he finally rose to his feet, he farted.

  It was the sound of this bodily function that made her panic.

  Wake up, Marcelina. Wake up, she ordered herself, but lay paralyzed on the mattress. The medal of San Benito, her patron saint, was cold upon her chest, but she could not move her fingers to grasp the medal, though they were but an inch apart. Indeed, her hands clutched the blankets like she had been dead for some time, and now lay in a state of rigor mortis. She could not even utter a prayer to protect herself from this demon lumbering towards her bed.

  She wet her underwear. That she could feel. Hot urine running down her legs, chilling her blood until veins stuck out of her neck like the cords she hung the wash upon.

  Her one traitorous thought, I must look ugly to him, because she had a thick neck inherited from some peasant origins. Whenever she became emotional, veins protruded from her neck, making it appear monstrous to her eyes.

  Her ruling sin. Vanity.

  With horror she watched the red shape moving closer, swinging his muscled arms.

  His knee hit the bed rails, and four letter words spilled from his lips.

  She tried to yell out, Blasphemer, but no sound came from her throat. It was as if her vocal cords were severed.

  The mattress sagged. Tezcatlipoca was so near that even in darkness, she could make out weeds from the bosque stuck to the mud slathering his body.

  With a long pointy fingernail he scraped her hair behind her ear. His tongue felt like a knife, stabbing her ear.

  “Mi Hija,” he whispered, tracing his tongue around her ear shell.

  No. No, she silently screamed, tossing and turning. Never that. You are not my papa. I am not a witch.

  “You are mine,” he hissed, “Have always been mine.”

  Never.

  “Yes,” he hissed. “I can give you what you want.”

  Unbidden, she saw a vision of herself, slim and lovely with refined features, long curly lashes, and glowing, unmarked skin. She was no longer pregnant. In her arms, she held a healthy baby, cooing at her. “Junior,” she said, caressing her womb, daring to name the baby. She did not yet think of this baby as hers. She was too afraid she would lose this child, like she lost the other babies who lay buried behind the house in a garden of their own. Five little crosses, all in a row, stuck up from the small mounds of earth.

  Her stubby fingers, numb with sleep, tried to cling to the covers, but it was useless. Tezcatlipoca peeled off the blankets as easily as if she was an onion. He lifted his knee to the mattress. Her teeth chattered, because she knew what was coming.

  No. No. No. No.

  He heaved on top of her, as if she was a mountain, and she almost was because she was heavy with child. The mattress coils groaned.

  He’ll hurt the baby, she thought. Maybe the child will be the tool he will bargain with—a guarantee of a live birth in exchange for me. Tezcatlipoca thought he had me once, when I was Salia’s friend, but I have repented. I tell you, I have repented. Aren’t the scabs on my knees proof? Every day I attend mass. I drop my coins in the basket.

  It did not matter that her cousin Conchita was spending the night because Juan went to Albuquerque to play baseball. Nor did it matter that Conchita lay in bed beside her. Tezcatlipoca still had the nerve to visit her.

  While Marcelina tried to push him off her, Conchita slept restlessly, running her hands over her body, moaning and writhing, her nightgown damp with sweat.

  Finally, Marcelina pushed with all her might and heaved her body up.

  Tezcatlipoca’s thick body, slick with mud, slid across her, rolled from the bed, and landed with a thud on the floor.

  Marcelina raised her arms to her face, expecting his blows.

  Instead, Tezcatlipoca just lay on the floor, laughing at her.

  47

  Marcelina woke, sobbing with fear. With shaky fingers, she lit the coal gas lamp and checked the timepiece. It was an hour past midnight. She crawled from the bed, slipped on some mud, and banged her knee. Tezcatlipoca always left evidence to remind her of his powers. He plays a psychological game to seduce me, trying to wear down my resistance by making me doubt my sanity. If only I was loco, she thought.

  She rose to her feet, cradling her stomach, feeling the kick of tiny feet against her ribs. Thank goodness, the babe was still lodged in her womb, like a guest addicted to room service.

  Limping, she made her way to the kitchen and pumped water into a pail so she could wash more muddy footprints, which were beginning to dry on the wooden floors.

  She followed the footprints to the fireplace in the living room. Juan had not closed the damper, and unknowingly left an opening for Tezcatlipoca. If the fat gringo, Santa Clause, could wiggle down the chimney, so could a mud-oiled Tezcatlipoca shimmer down the chimney like a snake. Unlike the mythical Santa, Tezcatlipoca was no mere legend. Her mud-streaked nightgown was proof he was more than a nightmare, more than memories of a wild youth plaguing her soul.

  She lifted the medal of San Benito to her lips and kissed the cold metal. She flattened the saint against her forehead, as if San Benito could purify the images polluting her mind. She stood like that until the mud dried on her nightgown, scratching against her belly. She wrapped a robe around her body and shimmied out of her nightgown. She scrubbed the mud from her gown with homemade lye soap and cold water. She rinsed the gown with her tears, and then pulled on a pair of dry underwear.

  She closed the fireplace damper.

  She was hungry and munched on a hard tortilla, wishing she had jam and butter, but the Great Depression was not so great. Every time a customer failed to give her a tip at the beauty shop she held her temper and muttered the dicho, “there is no shame in being poor but there is never a convenient time.” The miners were all suffering with the cut in hours. “Of course, Salia’s rich,” she mumbled bitterly then remembered that she was now a widow. “Yes, but she’s got all his money.” She felt better, quoting another dicho. “Of money and goodness, always half.”

  She climbed back in bed and was unable to fall back asleep, thinking of Salia’s big house and beautiful clothes. Salia had more dollars than she could ever spend. She should ask her for a loan, for old time’s sake. In all fairness, her ex-friend should just give her a load of cash. Her guilt was all Salia’s fault, and she should compensate her for her years of suffering. Until dawn she kept a vigil, envying Salia in between clicking her rosary beads and chafing her skin, a sliver of skin for every sin rubbing between her raw fingers. Yet, she dared not confess her greatest sin. She would rather pretend that never happened. She was a different person now. Then, she was an innocent under a cloud of darkness, Salia’s influence. Marcelina was not to blame. It was Salia’s idea. It had all been Salia’s fault. Wicked, wicked Salia. And to think, she had felt sorry for Salia yesterday, when the patrón died. See what associating with Salia got her. A visit from Tezcatlipoca.

  Her fervent prayers mingled with her cousin’s moans of e
cstasy.

  Oh, to be fifteen years old and innocent again before all of that ever happened. To be given another chance. For redemption, she would even give up her happiness with Juan.

  She would have to go to high mass tomorrow night.

  48

  Marcelina’s eyes were swollen and burning from crying. Conchita strolled into the kitchen looking dreamy eyed and very young. “How did you sleep last night, Conchita?” she said resentfully.

  She smiled. “Very well. Thank you.”

  “You heard no noises then?”

  With her eyes half-closed Conchita looked warily at her. “Why? Were you disturbed?”

  She played with the beans on her plate. “I slept well, also,” she murmured.

  “I will return after mass tonight so you will not have to be alone. Your nerves are so delicate.”

  “I prefer you go with me to mass. I…I prefer not to walk in the dark alone.”

  “Very well, I shall pick you up,” she said, stretching her arms and thrusting out her ripening breasts. “Mm. I had such good dreams last night.”

  “Be careful of dreams. It is too easy to confuse dreams with wishes,” she said, smashing her beans with her fork, knowing she should take her own advice. Last night, Tezcatlipoca came to her, as if she bid him. She dropped her fork, drained of all energy. She rested her head in her hands. Is it true what they say, that one dreams what one really desires? I have mostly been good, but in my heart I envied Salia, even knowing what she is. I wasn’t always jealous of her, not when we were children. I pitied her then. My envy festered within me when she grew so beautiful. Salia marrying the patrón fueled my jealousy even more.

  I must confess to my brother. She vigorously shook her head at the thought of spilling her envy of Salia to Padre Rodriguez. Even though he was her brother and the village priest, Diego was not to be trusted. If word should ever get out, if the other villagers even suspected. Nor must I ever tell him of my dreams. I will just tell him that I have not been a good wife lately. It is because of the child that I am so cranky.

  She didn’t even hear Conchita’s good-byes. For the rest of the day she simply breathed sighs of relief that tomorrow Juan was coming home.

  She still had the night to get through, and she tightened her mouth until her lips were a thin line above her chin, making her face look pinched and drawn. She parted the living window draperies. Her hair was the same color as the coarse cotton of the drapes, which were black to keep prying eyes out. She peeked out an eye at a ball of light glowing in the outskirts of the village, at the bottom of Witch Hill, the house Salia still owned. The light was surrounded by balls of smaller lights dancing in the night air.

  With a hoarse voice she whispered, “It has begun early.”

  She neatly smoothed the two ends of the drapes together, so the material again appeared as one piece. She spent many an evening, her fingers dancing with a needle, sewing pieces together so the drapes would be thick. She made Juan nail the ends of the drapes to the walls.

  “Marcelina,” her dead mama always warned, “Soon as the sun drops west of the mountains, cover all the windows of the house. Never be caught unawares.”

  How she missed her mama and Tía Bíatriz. All but Diego were dead now. Of course, she had her cousins.

  Where is Conchita? I’ll kill her for being late! She clutched her flustered cheeks. “Of course, I won’t kill her. It was merely an expression.”

  She impatiently waited with her purse in one hand and a poncho thrown over her arm. The clock struck the mid-hour. She stamped her boot. If I don’t leave now, I will surely be late for high mass, another sin upon my conscience.

  Because her belly was fat with child, she was no longer able to button her coat. She worked her head through the hole of her poncho, draping herself with brown wool. She veiled her head with a white shawl and turned down the coal gas lamp, until the room was a dim reflection of itself. Madrid was remotely located. All cities in the country had switched from gas light to electricity, but the rural areas still relied on gas lighting. Madrid was a coal mining town and relied on the black gold to sustain it. The coal was not cheap. It was had by the back breaking labor of the miners, and the occasional cave-in, where lives were lost.

  Like my papa’s, she thought. Oh, Papa, after all these years how I still miss you. Pray with the saints for me, your loving daughter. Don’t forget me.

  She quietly closed the front door behind her and ran her hand across the wood. The blue color was fading from the sun. She must ask Juan to refresh the paint.

  Papa, why are you painting the doors and the frames of our house blue?

  Never forget, Mi Hija, that bright blue is the color of our Virgin Mary who protects the Hispanos…

  …From the children of Tezcatlipoca, who fly in the night as fireballs and have the power to turn into animals.

  She knelt before a large wooden cross hanging with wires above the door, so the cross appeared to be floating. She blew on her hands to warm them before making the sign of the cross.

  With the intense drama of a Shakespearean actor, but the sincerity of the truly wounded, she jerked up her head and flung her arms out, yelling, “San Benito.” Some chose instead to pray to San Antonio or San Cirilio for protection against bewitchment, but San Benito was the most popular.

  Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Protect me from the evil ones who fly in the night as fireballs. Protect me from their curses and their malevolence, from their notice, and from their jealousy. And especially, please, protect my unborn babe from the evil eye of the brujas and brujos.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, remembering all the babies she lost, two little more than pools of blood, another appearing like a worm, yet another appearing human but so tiny, it fit in the palm of Juan’s hand, and the last, the hardest of all, the one who lived for twenty days.

  She groped for a moment, before standing steadily. “Forgive my being late for mass. I invoke the holy names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to protect me and my child from the dark night.”

  She held her hand against the small of her back as she waddled hurriedly towards the church of San Cirilio, keeping her eyes on the paved road, so she wouldn’t have to look at the balls of fire coming from the direction of Salia’s house, not the Big House, but the witches’ house. Felicita and La India may be dead, but Marcelina still feared the house.

  She swung a lantern, but the fuse was unlit. A book of matches was in her pocket, but she preferred to remain invisible. She moved silently and as quickly as her swollen body would allow, focusing her eyes upward to the church cross pointing to heaven. The cross was a small blot in the sky since she was still some distance from the church, yet the building was visible because it rose above her. One could not walk in Madrid without either climbing or descending because the town was carved into the Ortiz Mountains.

  She was now half-way to the church.

  She chose to ignore the balls of fire dancing around the house at the bottom of Witch Hill because she had to. Over the years she struggled with the contradictions of spirituality and supernaturalism. She fervently believed in the religion of her parents because of two reasons. One, she was raised Catholic so it was an inheritance of family. Two, the salvation of her immortal soul was endangered by sin and dependent on the Holy Church sacraments. Even so, she was very often still confounded between conflicting beliefs, Catholicism and witchcraft.

  She blew her nose, trying to think of something else. After her nightmare last night, the last person she wanted to think of was Salia.

  I must find someone else to come to the house to help after the baby is born, she thought instead. Conchita is much too young and foolish to handle the responsibility.

  She began drawing up a list in her head of women who might be suitable to stay with her after the birth, and help look after the house and Juan. With the fingers of one hand, she eliminated the women under the age of 30. With the fingers of the other hand, she counted the women who were over
50.

  She stopped counting and cocked her ear at a noise. The ground shook beneath her. Although she was heavy with child, Marcelina knew it was not she who made the earth tremble.

  Her heart fluttered.

  She began climbing.

  The veins in the back of her legs ached.

  The leather of her shoes tightened against her toes.

  The pebbles on the ground rolled beneath her soles.

  Her feet swelled.

  When she felt she could possibly go no further, the earth stopped shaking.

  The paws of a four-footed creature pranced behind her.

  She heard the animal growling, as it shortened the distance between them.

  Dios mio. If I shine the light of my lantern at the light-footed coyote, will Salia’s eyes glare back at me?

  She heard a voice in her ear whisper, “La Luz”.

  Salia’s nickname for her, a name she had not heard in seven years.

  Marcelina held a hand against her side and moved even faster, until she was almost running.

  Madre de Dios, I pray I don’t fall on this bumpy road and lose the baby.

  Behind her, the animal quickened its pace and began to trot.

  49

  Marcelina ran awkwardly, her stomach wobbling and the baby kicking furiously. “I know. I know. Hold on,” she said.

  Behind her, the animal was also running. It whined, as if in pain.

  Dios mio. The creature’s pushing me towards the balls of fire. It’s going to run me over before we get there.

  She held her breath, expecting any moment to be attacked from behind, half-hoping to be knocked to the ground rather than enter the circle of the balls of fire looming about a mile to the left of her. To the right of her, the church beckoned, but the animal stood between her and sanctuary.

  I should try to make a run for it, but I will have to jump across the animal’s path.