by Paul Perea
Confident she was ready, she sent her spirit out of her body and flew over the village toward the river. She glided over the water, close to the surface, and peered into the cold Rio Grande. Faces of lost souls stared back at her, some with their mouths contorted in agony while others grimaced and did their best to frighten the spying witch. The spirits of the water reached out to her but Mirabella was too fast to catch.
She settled into the forest, moving through the woods like a phantom, a sliver of light against the dark backdrop of the woods. Her shade touched the ground and lovingly caressed the bark of the trees, and for a moment she was distracted by the preternatural bonding. Mirabella looked up at the leaves of the trees, turning this way and that, one moment green, the next silver. Her fascination with the beauty of the woods was interrupted as she felt something sidle up to her.
It was him.
Mirabella felt his strong hand take hold of her slender wrist. Panicked, she wrenched herself free and changed form, and like a sleek night bird, flew upward and away from the bosque until she was safely back in her physical body.
Gasping for air, she sat shaking at the realization. Not only does the man exist, he’s aware I’m looking for him!
CHAPTER 4
Salome watched Grace cross from the front of the house to the back, closing doors to ensure Sam wouldn’t walk in on their discussion. She was about to speak when Grace took a jar of Jimson weed and set it on the table in front of her. Salome shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Seeking to avoid the scolding that was surely coming, she bent down to pet Max who was at her feet and looking as forlorn as she felt.
“You know they call this the ‘Devil’s snare’ for a reason, don’t you?” Grace said and shook her head.
“Dear God, what a stupid name,” Salome muttered under her breath.
Grace sat down across from her sister. “Would you mind telling me why some of it is missing?”
“I don’t know. Did the newlyweds get a little loco last night?” Salome asked sarcastically.
Grace laughed in spite of herself. “No, we certainly did not! But speaking of marriage, don’t you think it’s time you quit with all your nonsense and settle down? After all, you’re going to be twenty-one this year.”
“I don’t think marriage is for me,” Salome commented, tracing imaginary lines on the table with her index finger. “And I don’t care if I end up a spinster.”
Witnessing Salome’s discomfort, Grace changed the subject and returned to the topic at hand. “So, when we got back from Albuquerque, we stopped at the feed store and overheard that Johnny Ramirez and Eddie Johnson were found in the desert—not far from town—higher than kites and babbling nonsense. I also heard your name mentioned, but when people noticed me they hushed up. So what did you do to those poor guys?”
“Nothing they didn’t deserve,” Salome answered defensively.
“Tell me what happened.”
Salome avoided Grace’s glare and looked down. It had always been that way between them. She, behaving badly but taking enjoyment in what she had done, at least at the time of the doing, and then having to face the disappointment on her sister’s face. Grace was a year younger, the baby of the family, and the one person whose opinion mattered most.
“Okay, you don’t want to tell me what they did? Well, if you’re not prepared to fess up, will you at least tell me why you haven’t visited Ruth?” Grace asked.
Max pushed and nuzzled Salome’s leg and she responded, reaching down and petting his head roughly. He leaned hard into her hand for more and Salome obliged. She loved Max more than anyone or anything in the world, and Salome believed Max felt the same way about her. But she could not verify that for a fact. She didn’t possess the power to know what was in the canine’s heart. Still, he was her best friend and went everywhere with her, a constant companion, always there, never arguing.
“For goodness sakes, Salome! Won’t you at least listen to me when I’m asking you a question?”
“What?”
Grace stammered and did her best to remain composed. “I asked if you would please go and visit Ruth!”
“Oh, whatever for?”
“She’s our sister and she needs help! That’s what for! Need I remind you she’s going to have a baby any day now?”
“Well, she certainly didn’t need our help getting into that mess, did she? Why she would ever agree to have that horrible man’s child is beyond me,” Salome chuckled.
“Don’t snicker, it’s unbecoming,” Grace scolded. “You haven’t been to see her for days and days!”
Salome stood and leaned across the table. “Oh so what! You know I love Ruth, but David is another story. I don’t trust him and I don’t like him.”
Grace was about to speak but Salome interrupted. “Alright, stop giving me that look! I’ll go and do what I can—but only when that man is out of the house!”
“Please stop with your nonsense,” Grace demanded.
“So, do you think the baby will be one of us? A witch?” Salome asked, ignoring Grace, as she walked around the room and inspected the contents of the cupboards. “Do you think that the baby will have the power, our gifts, even though Ruth revoked? And who do you think it will look like? God, I hope the baby doesn’t look like him.”
“Honestly, Salome! Perhaps when Gabriel gets here, he can reason with you. I certainly can’t!”
Salome wasn’t accustomed to these condemnations from Grace so she sat down, crossed her arms, and sulked in her chair. She was used to criticisms from Ruth. Salome believed it was Ruth’s job to keep the rest of them in line, Ruth being the eldest. But she felt it was her job to step out of that line from time to time, just to keep Ruth on her toes.
It was the same with Gabriel. Salome believed Gabriel was a bit too high-and-mighty and judgmental, and when he moved to New Orleans, Salome felt relieved to have one less person on her back. But she loved him just the same, as she did all of them.
But Grace—Grace was special. Always kind to her. Forever on her side, no matter what. Whenever she was able to make Grace laugh, or when she saw that look of pride or love in her eyes, that was what made Salome feel special. Not even her mother’s affections mattered as much as Grace’s.
“You’re distracted again. Something really is bothering you, isn’t it? Don’t you want to tell me what happened with those guys at the cantina? Were they picking on you? Did they hurt you?” Grace asked.
“They pitched cigarette butts at me and Max,” Salome answered with eyes downturned.
“They didn’t!”
“Yeah, they were acting like children and saying the usual stuff about me. They said I wasn’t a woman—that I was secretly a man,” Salome said, her voice breaking at the memory.
“You know their words don’t matter,” Grace said, hoping her words would comfort. “They’re just infatuated with you. I mean, look at you. You’re a beautiful girl. You’re just not like other girls and they don’t know how to deal with that.”
Salome shook her head. “You know I don’t care what they say. It’s just . . . it’s just they never let up and I’m getting really tired of it.
“So, I admit it. I snuck in here and took some Datura. I found them at the Puerta Azul. I knew they’d be there. There were no police around so everyone was drinking and acting like fools. They saw me and started in again and everyone was laughing at their stupid jokes. So I walked over and bought them each a whiskey. I bet them I could drink them under the table. And I spiked their drinks.”
“Then you cast a spell, didn’t you?”
Salome felt her face flush and admitted to the accusation. “Yes.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“No.”
“Good. Then the jerks got what they deserved.”
Salome looked up and smiled.
“You know, you’re lucky that mo
m didn’t find out what you did,” Grace said as she knelt down to give Max some kisses and petting.
“Mom’s been too busy lately to notice anything. Speaking of which, did you hear about Emma Gomez? People are saying all kinds of crazy things.”
Grace nodded. “Yes, I heard. Why do you ask?”
“The day after Emma died, I ran into mom and she seemed, well, I don’t know. All she said was that she thought Emma was murdered.”
“Murdered? By whom?” Grace asked.
“Beats me. Maybe she did it.”
“Salome!”
Grace couldn’t help but laugh at Salome’s joke, knowing what her mother thought of Emma, but then she saw Salome’s face fall. “What?”
“I think mom knows who did it.”
Grace couldn’t mask her surprise. “Really? Well, maybe we should just ask her.”
“I tried.”
“What did she say?” Grace asked.
“She told me to mind my own business . . . she was handling it.”
“Typical,” Grace commented, folding her arms and resting against the chair.
“No, not really,” Salome said. “This was different. I think she’s really upset about all of this, and believe it or not, I saw fear in her eyes. Mom’s scared.”
CHAPTER 5
It had been three days since Emma’s death, so visits to the house by family members and the authorities were frequent—at least during the daytime. Mirabella would inspect the home at night even though she was afraid of the dark. It was a silly fear that had been her companion since she was a child but she would never admit to it, at least not to anyone except herself.
Cloaked in darkness and safe from prying eyes, Mirabella uttered a simple spell and entered Emma’s home. Anxious for relief from the gloom, she glanced at the candle she held in her hand and the wick ignited, illuminating the room and throwing long shadows across the walls. All of the deceased woman’s belongings remained in their place, and because foul play was still a consideration, the sheriff had not allowed Emma’s relatives to remove anything until his investigation was complete.
Mirabella was saddened as she looked around at the simple mementos and photographs placed here and there, things that would soon be packed up or discarded. She thought of her own life, her home and family, and although Emma was not a friend, Mirabella took a moment to say a short prayer for the dead woman. She made the sign of the cross and moved cautiously, taking care not to disturb anything, all the while alert to any sound other than her own breathing and pounding heart.
As she crossed the living room, a faint but undeniable presence made itself known, paralyzing her and sending shivers down her back. Something was in the kitchen, beckoning her, daring her to come closer. It pulled at the soft hair on the back of her neck. It took her breath and held it. Her legs were close to giving way as she moved toward the kitchen.
As she entered, an imprint of what had occurred permeated the room, sending tremors through Mirabella’s body. The candle flickered and went out, leaving her in sudden darkness. Fearing what may be lurking in the dark, Mirabella commanded all light in the house to spring to life. Kerosene lamps, candles, even the wood-burning stove erupted, calming her nerves and sending cockroaches scurrying from sight. She no longer cared about being found out. She would think of a lie to tell the sheriff if he came and questioned her, or better yet, she would simply elude him.
The kitchen was now bathed in a harsh glow and the light betrayed no demon or spirit. The house was devoid of life, but the sense of fear lingered as if Emma herself cried out from the grave. Mirabella heard the woman’s final screams. Pitiful cries of agony echoed throughout the room, and Mirabella had to reach for the wall to keep from falling.
This may be too overpowering, she thought, and then wondered if it was poor judgment breaking into Emma’s home. But she was here now—she had trespassed on private property—and understood she must steel herself into doing what she came to do.
She sat down at the kitchen table and looked around. Cookies sat in a neat pile on a dainty plate next to a mismatched saucer and cup that contained cold, black coffee. It was almost empty and was permanently stained with a dark ring. A novelty napkin holder of a cowgirl swinging a lariat and posing on a sign that said “Texas” was stuffed haphazardly with paper napkins. A salt and pepper set, along with bottles of spices and a set of tarot cards sat on a dusty lazy Susan in the middle of the table.
Mirabella looked down in sadness but was startled out of her melancholy. On the kitchen floor, an apparition lay near her feet. It was Emma, bloated, wet and green, with cloudy eyes staring up at her. Mirabella closed hers and wished the sight away, but the image of Emma’s death throes remained—a ghastly testament to what had occurred.
“Emma, please find peace and leave me. I don’t wish to see you like this,” Mirabella whispered, but the manifestation did not comply.
Full of unease, Mirabella did her best to ignore the sight and returned to the task at hand. She rested her hands on the table and took a deep breath, rhythmically inhaling and exhaling as she calmed herself and entered into a trance. Fragmented images flashed through her mind like the pages of a book, flying past in rapid succession, but she was unable to discern anything tangible. Moving deeper into the trance, Mirabella focused and tried to find a thread that would lead her down Emma’s final path. A clue, an image, anything that might reveal what the poor woman had experienced.
Mirabella heard a faint sound. Words, an indistinguishable language, spoken from afar. Mirabella strained to make sense of them, to understand what was being said. It was a man’s voice and his voice was joined by more voices, all uttering the same words. They grew louder, a vulgar chant, so loud it overpowered the sound of a hand reaching up toward the table.
Emma’s phantom gripped the edge of the table as she pulled herself up. Her dirty nails scratched and dug into the wood as she stood and steadied herself. Her milky vacant eyes examined Mirabella’s face. Emma smiled, her mouth dripping with muddy river water, her teeth blackened by the river sludge, as she drew close to Mirabella’s face. Their noses almost touching, Emma took a deep breath, inhaling the scent, and moved to whisper into Mirabella’s ear.
“Ir al bosque.”
Her trance broken, Mirabella opened her eyes and was accosted by Emma’s face. Screaming, Mirabella fell off the chair and scrambled along the floor, never taking her eyes off the corpse that moved around the overturned chair in pursuit.
“Ir al bosque!” Emma shouted over and over, and sank to her knees and crawled after Mirabella.
The sound of horses approaching caught Mirabella’s attention. She struggled to her feet as Emma took hold of her leg, shouting the same words over and over. Mirabella wrenched herself free and clambered for the door, turning to see if Emma continued to follow, but the phantom had vanished. Through the window she could make out the sheriff and deputy approaching. Assuming they had been alerted by the light coming from the empty house, Mirabella ran for the back door and quickly let herself out.
She shrank into the darkness, effortlessly transforming into a gray wolf, and made her way stealthily across the backyard, through the slats of a rickety wooden fence, and away from Emma’s house. Once she was on the dirt road and shielded by darkness, she stopped and turned to see Sheriff Alary and his deputy, using flashlights to inspect the grounds, calling out, “Who’s there?”
Mirabella remained and watched for any sign of violence. She could make out the sheriff moving about the house, turning off the lights one by one as he passed through. At last he emerged, swearing as he climbed onto his horse. Satisfied he was safe, Mirabella turned and raced home with Emma’s words ringing in her ears.
“Ir al bosque.” Go to the woods.
CHAPTER 6
An invitation. Or a dare? Mirabella wasn’t sure which, but she did understand that the thing pursuing her in Emm
a’s house was not Emma. Emma’s spirit was gone, gone into the light. The little boy had said so, and he had never lied to her. And up until that haunted visit to Emma’s home, her attempts to uncover anything of use had yielded nothing. Now something tangible had been delivered, but by whom? Those words, the ugly chant that had kept her from sleep and cut to her core, provided an option she had hoped to avoid.
She must go the bosque. She would confront him in the place where he resides—his woods, his river—and coax him into her world. That was absolutely necessary, as she would not dare venture into his unearthly realm. To attempt such a journey would be extremely dangerous, no matter how cunning the witch.
Mirabella was well versed in the craft of her mother, the power of manipulating matter and spirit in the working of magic, and she’d grown to be a resourceful witch. Her power was formidable, and as a child, her mother had marveled at her many gifts. Where a human being may possess great artistic skills or mathematical prowess, the powers of a witch could be just as varied. A witch might find she possessed the ability to levitate objects, but could not communicate with the dead or shape-shift. Another might possess a combination of gifts, but those abilities could be weak or inconsistent.
Mirabella was an exception—but she did not take anything for granted. She learned that lesson at an early age when witnessing her own mother’s folly—a narcissistic and outrageous confidence that was, in the end, her mother’s undoing. Mirabella not only respected her own abilities, she also feared them. If she pushed herself, she did so tentatively and with trepidation, and tried to instill the same cautiousness within her own children. Magic, she understood, was a gift that could destroy the one who possessed it.
Now, how she would deal with this spirit would require something different, some sort of new magic.
Mirabella had spent days ruminating on a plan. Her powers would be tested to their limits, of that she was sure, and her strategy relied on the assistance of beings that might not be willing to help. Worse, if her assumptions about the man’s abilities were correct, her own life would be at risk. No matter how well prepared, Mirabella understood that she could be heading toward her own end, for the man was surely waiting. He was waiting for her.