The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  Storm-Chaser reached for it and the Shroud of Veils went up in flames.

  The baby sat in the crib, looking very calm. He stuck his thumb in his mouth. The boy was about six months old and stared at him with the strangest expression in his big, blue-grey eyes. A mop of thick, jet black hair brushed his forehead.

  “Forget the front door,” a man yelled from outside. “The witch may still be alive. She’ll kill you, if you enter her house. Burn the back.”

  Footsteps walked around the wrap-around porch.

  Like a spark, exploding into a blazing fire, Salia came back to life.

  She opened the front door and rushed out into the crowd, screaming. She was engulfed in flames.

  “Forget the back door,” someone yelled. “There she is!”

  The crowd scattered, screaming with fear. The men who had been headed for the back of the house ran, with the burning witch chasing them.

  It was now safe for Storm-Chaser to escape from the back with the child cradled in his arms.

  He very carefully climbed aboard his horse.

  The horse reared its head, its nostrils flaring. The horse stamped its hoofs, anxious to flee. The horse’s eyes had a fearful look from the smell of smoke, but the horse did not bolt until Storm-Chaser and the baby were safely on its back.

  Storm-Chaser looked behind him.

  Salia had turned into a ball of fire, her singed, coppery-red hair fluttering about the flames.

  Sparks of fire jumped this way and that.

  Suddenly, one spark lifted slowly into the air, then flashed across the sky like a shooting star, headed east.

  54

  No one saw them as Storm-Chaser and the baby headed towards the Santo Domingo Reservation. The horse did not have to be guided. Many a night the horse led the drunken old man back to the pueblo.

  When he realized he wasn’t being followed, his adrenaline slowed, and Storm-Chaser felt thirsty again. He cursed the villagers for burning Salia and disrupting his plans.

  No sound came from the child nestled in his arms.

  Storm-Chaser rode slowly to his three-room apartment on ground level at the pueblo, which was an adobe construction of medieval-like apartment buildings with no electricity, plumbing, or coal lamps. Kerosene was used instead.

  There was an open fire still going outside his apartment, a beacon lit by his wives for him whenever he went to Madrid. He dismounted. “Spider-Woman,” he called in a hoarse voice. “Little-Dove.”

  He pulled a gun tucked in the front of his pants and fired the barrel in the air.

  Where are those worthless women, he thought. They must be visiting my daughter.

  He lay the boy down by the fire and entered the apartment. He came back with a cradleboard and put the baby in it. The cradleboard had a soft skin pouch on a wooden frame with laces running down the center and a hood to keep the cold out. The cradle was warm and could be carried on one’s back.

  The baby gurgled at him. Only his head showed.

  Storm-Chaser sat cross legged, next to the baby. His old bones were cold. He smacked his lips. He could use a bottle to warm himself but for now, the fire would have to do.

  “Your mother went up in flames tonight, little one,” he said, speaking in his native tongue.

  The child stared at him, solemnly, like he understood the gravity of his words.

  A menacing, eagle shadow hovered above the boy, as though the child was its prey. Storm-Chaser looked up, expecting an eagle to swoop down on the baby and with talon claws, carry the child off. The full moon was a white globe lighting the darkness, but there was only one cloud visible in the sky, and it was far away. This cloud could not have made a shadow over the baby. Yet, there was a giant eagle’s shadow above the baby, black and threatening.

  He removed the baby from the cradle and stripped him of all his clothing. His blue-grey eyes just stared back at him, unblinking and unmindful of the cool spring air. A black, buckskin bag hung around the baby’s neck. Odd, instead of the customary lizard or turtle, the bag was sewn in the shape of an eagle, decorated with turquoise beads, silver bells, and strings of red beads hanging from the wings, with emerald eyes above the brown beak. Storm-Chaser knew Salia made this bag to hold the umbilical cord. This was the Indian fashion, and Salia had been half-Indian.

  “With this bag, your mother has ensured you a long life. It is good that you do not cry, little one, not even when I fired my gun.” Discouragement of crying was a throwback to a time when enemies, both white and red, lurked in the shadows, seeking the people out to destroy them. If a baby was not wet, nor hungry, nor thirsty, and yet he cried, he would be hung outside in the cradleboard and allowed to cry himself out, until he became weary and learned his lesson.

  “You are brave, boy. You have lost your mother and father, but I will give you a new life. My loins have only given me El Curandero, a son who acts like a woman and a worthless daughter, Weeping-Woman, married to Jefe, my enemy. He is your uncle, but you are now my son. He is my enemy, so he is your enemy. But, you must always wear this eagle-bag around your neck. The cord binds you to your mother.”

  He held the naked baby up to the full moon. “I have a son,” he yelled.

  He turned the child to the spirit of the East Wind and sang, “I have a son.”

  The eagle-shaped shadow seemed to follow the child. “I have a son,” he repeated. He hesitated before declaring, “Dark-Shadow is his name.”

  He addressed the spirits of the West, North, and South Winds in the same manner. “I have a son. Dark-Shadow is his name.”

  He smiled at the baby. “You may call me Grandfather, Dark-Shadow, because I am old and in truth, can no longer father a child. I have two wives and my seed is weak. Of course, their eggs are dried up. If we had a child between us, the babe would be wrinkled like a prune.” He laughed and placed the baby back in the cradle board.

  He picked up a ceremonial pipe, which was a foot long and decorated with glass beads. Striped wool bands covered half the pipe. Silk ribbons of various colors adorned the pipe, intermixed with horsehair. The people believed this pipe was given them, many moons ago, by the Thunder Spirit. The pipe passed into Storm-Chaser’s hands from the old shaman, his master, on his death bed. Thus, did the power of lightning, thunder, and all the fierceness of the skies pass into Storm-Chaser, along with the old shaman’s personal power.

  “I smoke this pipe in your honor, Dark-Shadow.” He puffed on the pipe and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, the moon had transformed into a marble globe of silver and white colors, oscillating, giving the illusion the moon was dancing.

  He hummed in rhythm to the dancing moon. In this dancing fashion, the moon crossed slowly towards the tallest mountain.

  As the moon moved towards the mountain top, a cloud emerged from the back of the mountain and climbed, until the cloud reached the summit. The cloud swirled the mountain top, creating the shape of a tipi.

  The moon slowly entered the tipi cloud and peeked out. It looked as if the moon entered the tipi cloud to take council and share its wisdom with the Indian people. Indeed, as the cloud slowly evaporated into the night, it appeared as if smoke was coming from inside the tipi.

  With each exhalation of smoke by the moon in the tipi cloud, Storm-Chaser puffed on his pipe his own aromatic mixture of herbs and tobacco called kinnikinnick. His ceremonial pipe was a channel to the spirit world, and the smoke he exhaled was a prayer, its ringlets rising into the air to be interpreted by the spirits. He heard of such a spirit moon before. The tipi-moon smoking its own kinnikinnick was a good omen. Legend states that such a moon appeared only once before, when the great chief, Pose Ueve, was born in New Mexico at the old pueblo of Pose Uingge. Pose Ueve dabbled in witchcraft. He changed his name to Montezuma and founded the pueblos of New Mexico, providing homes for the Indian peoples. Montezuma then turned into an eagle and flew south, creating the great Mexico City and all the civilization that flourished there.

  Legend, also,
has it that the great Montezuma promised to one day return to New Mexico.

  The Indians always marveled that Montezuma was born without a father like Jesus. This made the Catholic missionaries’ jobs easier in their conversion of the Pueblo Indians to Christianity because the Indians could see Jesus had powers, just as Montezuma had powers.

  Jesus had been born under a bright star. Montezuma had been born under the watchful light of the tipi-moon.

  Jesus formed a great peoples, the Christians. Montezuma formed the great Indian peoples of the pueblos.

  Jesus spread his arms, and flew into the heavens, and has not yet returned to the Christians, as promised. Montezuma flew away on a giant eagle and had not yet returned to the Pueblo Indians, as promised.

  Yet, in all the centuries that have come and gone, only once before was the tipi-moon seen in New Mexico, the night the great Montezuma, who dabbled in witchcraft and turned into an eagle, was born.

  Until tonight, May 26, 1934, the night the tipi-moon finally returned to New Mexico.

  Storm-Chaser looked down at the fatherless child, sleeping in the cradle board. “Look, Dark-Shadow.” He pointed to the mountain top and the tipi-moon. He lifted the cradle board upright so the baby could see. “The moon has welcomed you back to come and live among the Indian people of the pueblos.”

  The baby blinked his eyes at the fire and yawned. In the fire light his eyes looked more grey than blue. His eyes looked the color of death, the color of the ashes scattered about the house at the bottom of Witch Hill.

  Above the baby, the shadow of the eagle still hovered, with its wings spread wide.

  As the shadow of the eagle circled the boy, the fire flickered.

  Part Seven

  Ashes To Ashes

  One can even travel by the spark of a flame and race across the sky, like a shooting star. Witch lights the villagers call them. Small points of lights were often seen, like stars dancing upon the earth, looking like unseen children running around with matches.

  55

  Marcelina spent last night crying over Salia’s death which, surprising her, hit her hard. Who else was there in Madrid to mourn Salia, but her? She now regretted the gulf which separated them. It took her death for Marcelina to realize how much she missed her friend. She could not even remember now what it was that parted them.

  The coyote that whispered in my ear, La Luz, was Salia, reaching out to me in her darkest moment. She looked up at Witch Hill, expecting to see the coyote, but just like Salia, the coyote was gone.

  I’m coming, Salia.

  And so, she turned her footsteps towards the burnt house because Salia would have gone back, even if she was last seen in flames, screaming, waving her arms to frighten the mob. She knew, without a doubt, that Salia wanted to die at home and not like a dog in the fields. Even the strong winds of last night could not have stopped her from returning to Witch Hill. Indeed, she would have been desperate to seek the shelter of her house before burning to ashes, and the four winds tearing her to pieces, scattering her about the four corners of the world. The four winds had each jealously coveted Salia because hers had been a wild, restless spirit, blowing this way and that.

  Nor would Marcelina allow her friend to be left as simply the dust of the ruins of a wicked house. Not Salia. Not the girl she had loved.

  She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and blew her nose into her handkerchief.

  She opened the rickety gate to Salia’s yard.

  She heard the wheels of a wagon coming down the road. She hid behind a large tree.

  A wagon wobbled up the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Sitting on the bench, driving the wagon, was a man Marcelina remembered from her girlhood. She had only seen him once, but never forgot the jagged knife scar running diagonally from his temple to his chin, splitting his lip in two—Salia’s half-brother, Jefe.

  She is not even dead 24 hours, and already, the vultures have arrived to claim the spoils, Marcelina thought.

  Beside Jefe sat a boy of about ten years, who was so thin, the wind blew him like a reed.

  In the back of the wagon, huddled in opposite corners, were two women. One was crying and holding a baby to her chest. She was the daughter of the old shaman, Storm-Chaser. Her name was Weeping-Woman, and she was Jefe’s wife. Her face was gaunt, her reddened eyes two hollows above her prominent cheekbones. The stretched skin across her facial bones was unlined but her hair, falling across her shoulder in a messy braid, was streaked with grey. It was apparent she had no appetite for life.

  The other woman in the wagon was the traitor, Two-Face. She hadn’t changed much, except she was older and a grown woman. At least, Marcelina knew she was a woman. Anyone else, who did not know, would wonder. Two-Face was still a man-woman, with her split sides fighting for control. She puffed on a cigar and wore buckskin pants like a man. She had grown to be as tall as a man.

  Jefe and the boy jumped from the wagon.

  “Be careful, Flaco,” Weeping-Woman yelled to the boy.

  “I shall do what I want, Mother,” he spat and threw her a dirty finger.

  Jefe walked to the back of the wagon and slapped his wife.

  Weeping-Woman hid her face in a blanket and hugged the baby. “Please, don’t do these vile acts you’re planning,” she sobbed.

  “I have no choice, Woman! You saw the tipi-moon last night. What I have always feared has come to pass. The great witch has returned to the people,” he said with scorn.

  “No,” she moaned.

  “Do not warn your father, or I shall kill you.”

  “I wish I was dead,” she said, and Jefe slapped her again, snapping her head back against the wagon. The baby cried, and she patted his back to comfort him.

  Jefe walked over to the other side of the wagon and lifted his arms to his daughter. Two-Face slid down his body. He grabbed at her backside. She laughed, licking his cheek. He slapped her playfully on the rump. He was in a highly emotional state. “Come, Daughter, I have waited a long time. You remember what it looks like?”

  “I saw my grandmother use it once.”

  “Don’t mention that woman to me! She should have given it to me, instead of Salia, who was only a granddaughter. La India was a traitor to the family. She held her lover above her own grandson, and killed her own son, so she could have her lover all to herself.”

  Marcelina gasped, covering her mouth. All those years Salia believed Felicita killed her father, while all the time it was her grandmother who was the murderess.

  Jefe and Two-Face ran up the steps to the house and slammed the door behind them.

  They’re looking for the piedra imán. This is why Two-Face turned against Salia and sided with her enemies. They wanted her dead so they could get the magic lodestone. Jefe wants the shape-shifting stone because he is obsessed with power. She waited with baited breath behind the tree while they searched the house. Thankfully, the boy, Flaco, had run to the back of the house and found something to play with.

  Finally, the front door opened and Jefe stormed from the house.

  Two-Face stroked his cheek but he slapped her hand away.

  They’re going to search the yard, she thought.

  But she was wrong. Jefe jumped on top of the wagon and hollered, “Flaco, let’s go.”

  He came running and jumped on the wagon next to Jefe. “Are we going back to the pueblo, Father?”

  “Yes,” he snapped.

  Two-Face walked slowly towards the wagon.

  “Hurry up! I don’t want to stay on this cursed hill a moment more.”

  “But, aren’t we going to search the yard?” she asked.

  Marcelina’s heart stopped beating and she wheezed at the idea of Jefe catching her. He was a witch she feared more than Felicita or La India.

  “Stupid woman!” he screeched at Two-Face. “Do you think Salia would be that dumb, to hide it in the yard where I could come in the dead of night and find it? I’ve told you how rare and precious a piedra imán i
s, how it has to be bathed, fed, and kept warm.”

  “Then…what happened to it?”

  “If I knew that, idiot, then I could find it, couldn’t I?”

  “Maybe, the piedra imán has a mind of its own, choosing who it wants to belong to,” she said, smiling cunningly.

  He whirled his whip at Two-Face, lashing her across the face unmercifully.

  She lifted her rump so he could whip her there.

  Marcelina watched with astonishment Two-Face grunting with passion as her father hurt her, snaking the whip between her legs.

  Finally, when his energy was spent, he stopped the whipping. He leaned back against the bench, breathing heavily.

  She lay face down on the wagon, moaning in ecstasy.

  Flaco threw rocks at the house, paying no attention to his father or sister so, Marcelina could only assume their incestuous relationship was common to the boy.

  As for Weeping-Woman, she stared straight ahead, stone faced.

  Marcelina sighed with relief when they left Witch Hill. She had been petrified Jefe would sense with his powers that she was spying on them. But then, she remembered something Salia once told her, “When Jefe gets emotional, his powers are weakened which is how my grandmother was able to beat him. It was my grandmother who cut him, leaving the scar on his face. Jefe is powerful, but emotion is his weakness.”

  As love was your weakness, Salia, she thought. She walked up the steps of what was left of Salia’s house. She carried a broom and a flour sack.

  The wooden door may have been an easy target, but was spared the torch, because no one was daring enough to attempt to burn the images carved into the wood. Last night, the ruby eyes of the snakes and goats reflected the firelight of the torches. The ruby eyes had glowed red, keeping the villagers at bay.

  The images were not even smoked. The ruby eyes of the goats and the snakes winked at her. It is the reflection of the sun. Nothing more, she thought.

  Even so, she walked around to the side where a windmill turned furiously in the wind, pumping water from the well into the kitchen pipes of the now abandoned house. Felicita had built her house in the Victorian style of wood, instead of the traditional style of fireproof adobe. The house was wood because Felicita never feared the flame. She had been too careful to be caught in such a reckless manner, whereas Salia was always careless. The trait mother and daughter held in common was that they both wanted more, and it was the downfall of both.