by Paul Perea
The New Mexico sky was washed in orange hue as Mirabella walked into the meadow on her rambling property. In her hands she carried a large ceramic bowl, and in it, the items she needed for the ritual. Amidst the sagebrush, cactus and desert grass lay a hard-packed area where nothing grew. It stood as testament to the work Mirabella performed, sometimes alone, sometimes with her daughters and her son. In the middle of the flat field, she was completely alone and nobody spied her. Solitude and secrecy was hers.
Mirabella knelt and set the bowl down, taking from it one of her most prized possessions—the rosary beads once belonging to her mother. The large beads that marked the Lord’s Prayer were made of onyx, the smaller beads, which were used to keep count of the prayers to Mary, were solid silver, as was the long slender crucifix. Mirabella kissed the crucifix and began to pray the rosary, and prepared to ask for something unheard of by any witch she knew.
After prayer and meditation, Mirabella took out the remaining items—a box of matches, a vial of holy water, a jar of blessed dirt from the Santuario de Chimayo, and a collection of bird feathers. She remained on her knees as she opened the jar and poured the dirt into the bowl. She placed the feathers carefully on top and began to mutter an incantation as she slowly poured the holy water.
“Angels of power, angels of might. Empower my body, lend me your light. Here is the dirt from which I am made. Here is the water that nourishes my life. Here is the air that fills my lungs. Angels of power, angels of might. Come to me. Protect me. Keep me in your sight.”
Taking a match, she struck it against the side of the bowl and lit the feathers on fire. She remained intent on the flame and held it with her gaze. At her silent command, the flame grew and licked the sides of the bowl with intensity. A smoke, tinged in pink, rose up and reached out, caressing her body and wrapping its vaporous arms around her. Mirabella stood and turned slowly, flicking holy water into the air and forming a circle around her.
“I call upon the Watchers. The Tenth Legion. I have not forgotten you, mighty Grigori! You who served the first men. Stand at my side!”
At her command, droplets of water rose and floated in place while she continued with her incantation.
“Oh, most beautiful and powerful angels, provide me with your protection for this one evening so I may do my good work unharmed! Encircle me with your mighty wings! Come to my aid from the four corners of the world! Protect me in my time of need. Force truth from the one who plots an unholy deed.”
Mirabella opened her eyes and looked to the horizon. The sky was no longer orange but a deep indigo and quickening to darkness. She held her arms out to her side, palms up, her face raised to the heavens. She continued to focus on all aspects of her spell, and watched as the water droplets moved in and encircled her body.
An intense heat warmed her flesh as her body was lifted into the air. Unafraid, Mirabella released control, her body held by the union of water and smoke and invisible beings. She felt their breath on her neck and their arms about her. The recognition of an ancient union was overpowering. It filled her soul as images assaulted her mind—memories that were not her own. Passion and love. Fear, too. Mirabella was close to madness.
But to struggle would mean death.
Mirabella held fast to the one thing that would save her. As her body was turned this way and that, and her mind pushed to the edge by the Grigori, she envisioned her children. She thought of each one and focused. Their eyes. Their hair. All aspects of their personality. The powerful connection of a mother to her children. A sacred association. A bond that kept her tethered to sanity. This kept the barrage of angelic conveyance at bay until she was returned to solid ground, released but not alone. She felt them close.
Confident that the spell had worked, Mirabella collected her things and returned to the house where she quickly grabbed a kerosene lantern and walking stick, then headed out into the night. A journey to the heart of the bosque would take at least an hour, and the sooner she made it there, the better—before she lost her tenuous resolve.
But would the man appear? She wondered.
The gibbous moon was bright, the night sky blanketed with stars. The kerosene lantern provided enough light to guide Mirabella’s steps as she made her way through the trees toward the river. The woods were alive with sounds. Frogs, their throaty voices like a Guiro, led the crickets and night birds in song. The leaves in the trees responded to the music, rustling and resounding like a flash of summer rain. The sounds allayed her fear and distracted her, as did the nighttime beauty of the woods, causing her to stumble and nearly fall. Admonishing herself, Mirabella walked on, taking better care not to lose her footing to a rock or twisted tree root.
At last she emerged from the woods, her feet sinking in the soft sand of the riverbank. Her gait was sluggish and awkward. For a moment she thought of removing her shoes, then thought otherwise. Instead, she set the lantern down and steadied herself, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness as she caught her breath. She looked back at the silhouette of oak and ash and cottonwood trees rising above the desert hackberry, blue palo verde, and gray thorn shrubs. The brooding landscape invited back her fear.
The sound of creatures scurrying in the underbrush and in the trees overhead only added to her discomfort. Here, all alone in the dark, Mirabella fought the impulse to turn and run, but a new sound caught her attention. She strained to hear and it was indeed a comforting sound. Music. It was carried by the wind and echoed throughout the bosque. It was faint, but reassured her that the village was not far. In the distance, people were drinking and dancing and carrying on at the cantina. Mirabella exhaled and smiled to herself.
“Well, if it isn’t Señora Cortez coming out for a visit!”
The baritone voice startled her out of her reverie. She wheeled around and almost lost her balance, her heart drumming in her chest as she searched for the source. Then she saw him. He was resting on the trunk of a fallen tree, its branches disappearing into the water, slender wakes revealing their hidden presence.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but you did come to see me, didn’t you? I don’t get many visitors and I was very excited to receive some company. Come closer, my dear. I don’t bite.”
At this, he chuckled and reached into the pocket of his coat from which he extracted a silver case and matches. He withdrew a cigarette and offered it to her. “Cigaro?”
“No, thank you,” she replied, still in disbelief that she was actually face to face with the man she sought. It happened so quickly, his sudden appearance disarming her. That, and the fact that she had let her guard down.
She was also taken aback by his voice—a soft but deep timbre—which sounded low, manly and sensuous. He was handsome and appeared not much older than she, perhaps even younger. His hair, thick, wavy and bit long, curled above his ears and over the collar of his coat. Like his hair, his mustache and beard were thick, prematurely silver and neatly trimmed. Overall, his countenance was not what she expected; but what had she expected, a monster?
“How do you know my name?” she asked, trying to sound steady, but the distress she felt betrayed her.
“How do I know your name? Why, your reputation precedes you, my dear Bruja, but you are nothing like what I expected. I thought you would be much older. Oh, and ugly—a hag with warts on the nose!” He let out a hearty laugh and then took another long drag from his cigarette. “I’m teasing you, of course, but I must say, you are a beauty. I think I should like to sit and talk with you awhile.”
Only for an evening, she thought.
“Yes, only for the evening. Overnight would be out of the question without a chaperone!” he said and laughed again, taking pleasure in his cleverness.
“Oh, so you read thoughts, do you? How rude. Then you must know why I’m here.”
“I read simple minds and unguarded thoughts. No offense—I do not think you are simpleminded. Thought
s are at times quick, sharp and practically begging to be read. I catch those easily enough. But to answer your question, no, I don’t know why you’re here. I do, however, have some ideas.
“You’ve been trying to spy on me, haven’t you? I have seen your shadow flying over my river and felt your eyes watching me. To tell the truth, I tried to catch you, but you were like a moonbeam—gleaming, then gone in an instant—clever witch that you are.
“You are interesting to me. Still, I must caution you. I don’t like nosy people. They are like cats, and you know what curiosity did to the cat, yes? Ah, the direct approach is always best, and I’m glad you are here. In fact, you should remain awhile. Your son, Gabriel, he’s so far away and doesn’t need you, and your daughters . . . hmm . . . what are their names? Ah yes, Ruth, Grace, and the wild one you so aptly named, Salome. Why, they are all grown up. They can do without their mama for awhile.”
Astonished that he knew so much about her children, Mirabella ignored the impulse to question his knowledge, and instead, closed her mind off to him. She wasn’t sure what he was capable of and didn’t want to test it.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Señor. You seem to know all about me, yet I don’t know anything about you—not even your name.”
She waited for his response as he studied her through narrowed eyes and smoked his cigarette, forming smoke rings as he exhaled. Mirabella couldn’t help but notice how blue his eyes were, even in the low light, and she heard Gloria’s voice in her head, repeating Emma’s words.
His eyes shone like sapphires . . . the bluest eyes I have ever seen!
Still, he didn’t answer. He turned his head and looked out over the river.
“So, you’re not going to tell me your name?” Mirabella asked impatiently.
“You didn’t ask for my name.”
“Yes, I did,” she replied sharply. Was this going to be a tedious game? she wondered.
“You stated that you didn’t know my name. You did not ask me to tell you my name. Be polite company. I detest bores.” He flicked his cigarette and the ashes fell as an ember to the ground, a glowing red arc that quickly died out.
“Please, sir, what is your name?” Mirabella asked indignantly.
His face brightened as he stood, and bowing slightly, answered, “Francisco Salazar, at your service, Señora Cortez.”
“Francisco Salazar,” she repeated. “So, Señor Salazar, you seem to know a few things about me and I have heard some tales about you, as well. People speak about the mysterious man sometimes seen wandering these woods. Some say you are a ghost. Some say you are a demon. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t waste time with my neighbor’s silly conjecture or rumors.
“Well, you say you like the direct approach so I will be direct. I made a promise to a friend to protect her loved one. So tell me, what interest do you have in Daniel Rios?”
“That is direct!” Salazar said and smiled as he sat down on the fallen tree. He motioned with his hand and patted the space next to him. “Come, sit down with me and we will have a nice long chat. I’m sorry, but I have nothing to offer you to eat or to drink—no whiskey—which I know you enjoy.”
“You will excuse me but I prefer to stand. Now I’ll ask you again, what do you want with the boy?” Mirabella repeated and stared hard at Salazar.
“The boy? Ah yes, Daniel. What makes you think I want something of that boy,” he asked, mocking her tone. “Has that nosy old Bruja, Emma, been talking to you? You know, she is a gossip and very rude—always spying on me, always trying to get to me. She’s not a very good sorceress. Nothing like you, that’s for sure.”
“No, Emma hasn’t been talking to anyone,” Mirabella answered, her words coming as fast as her heart was beating. “She’s dead. In fact, she died on the same day she had a vision of you having a conversation with Daniel. A heart attack some say. I think otherwise.”
“Dead? My condolences. Tell me, my dear, what is your theory? I do love a good story.”
“They found her dead on her kitchen floor. The curious thing is that she was sopping wet. People said she’d gone mad—went for a swim in the Rio Grande, fully clothed, and then came home, suffered a heart attack and died. I didn’t believe a word of it! I find it hard to believe that no one saw her leave her home, and no one saw her return. I would think a dripping wet woman walking through the village would create quite a stir, don’t you?
“I’m not sure how you did it, but I believe you killed her. You didn’t like what she had witnessed. I must admit, I never expected a spirit could do something like that. I’ve known ghosts to attack, but to actually—”
Salazar interrupted her and chuckled. “You think I’m a ghost, my dear? Hmm . . . shall I show you how much of a ghost I am?” He winked at her and touched his lap. “Do you want to touch me to see how real I am?”
Mirabella seethed at the invitation. “Listen here, viejo, I don’t put up with games—not from people and certainly not from ghosts!”
She watched as Salazar smiled broadly, seemingly pleased with her outburst, which irritated her all the more.
“Ah, Mirabella, I am not a ghost. Sometimes I wish I were, for time is nothing to the dead. If I were, then maybe it would be easier…” He let the sentence hang, and then continued. “No. I’m not a ghost. I see and talk to ghosts from time to time. They appear like smoke . . . they come and they go . . . poof.”
He extracted another cigarette from the case and lit it, taking a long drag, slowly exhaling the smoke, watching it as if it intrigued him in some way, and continued.
“Yes, Emma called me a devil. Others who have chanced upon me have referred to me as a demon. My nature is such that I believe myself to be greater than any spirit, for I can be solid and not solid. I can move about at will and change my appearance to suit my needs. Oh, I fear I have told you too much, but I’m lonely and you’re an interesting visitor.”
His blue eyes were luminescent as he stared at her, picking up more light and color with the emotion he was expressing. They cut through the darkness like an eerie beacon, his gaze lustful.
“You are almost like me, beautiful Mirabella, but you have the constraints of the natural world. I have seen you become the tree, your almond eyes looking for me through the knots, like a wood nymph spying on an unsuspecting man. I have seen you glide on the wind like a sleek night bird, searching my woods and my river. But that is not you. No, not really. Rather, it’s just a small part of you. You become a shade of what you are when you move about. I am greater than what you are, but together we might make something quite spectacular. I wonder what kind of lover you would be to me—”
Mirabella interrupted before he could finish. “You will never find out, Señor. No matter what you are or think you are! I could never . . . that would be . . . that would be an abomination!”
He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled. “Now you insult me . . . and you disappoint me. But you intrigue me, too. You’re a beautiful woman. Brave, daring, so different from most of your kind. I think I should like to have you stay here with me. I want to get to know you better and I’d like to strike up a deal with you. You see, I would be happy to leave the boy alone. In fact, I would swear to leave him alone if you would do something for me in exchange.”
“I’m not here to make any bargains with you!” Mirabella answered, her anger startling herself.
“Come now, Mirabella. You haven’t given me a chance to tell you what it is I seek. Let’s take a walk through my beautiful woods. Allow me some time to convince you. You want something of me and I’m sure I can comply with your wishes. That is, if you will work a bit of your magic for me.”
Against her better judgment, Mirabella asked the question that had been bothering her since he first appeared. “What exactly is it that you want?”
“Why, what is it that we all want? Freedom. I wish to be free of this place,” Sala
zar replied, staring directly into Mirabella’s eyes.
“I don’t believe that’s all you desire,” Mirabella commented.
Salazar chuckled. “Aside from freedom, yes, there is something else I covet . . . very much so . . . a small, personal thing, really. But tell me, great oracle, what resides in my heart? What are my desires?”
Mirabella studied his face for a moment, then spoke. “Well, it’s obvious to me that you have been imprisoned here. You are able to leave these woods, but not for very long. Some force binds you to this place. Now, I haven’t had the pleasure of knowing any criminals, but I would think that aside from freedom, they would want revenge on those who captured them. They would also want power . . . power that would keep them from being captured again. That is what you desire—power and revenge.”
“Interesting. I admit, you are on the right track, but my story is not that banal. Tell me more,” Salazar requested, a smile spreading across his face.
“That is all I have surmised of your situation,” Mirabella answered. “I am no soothsayer. I know not who imprisoned you here; nor do I know the reason. If you like, you may tell me your story—tell me what crime you committed to deserve so harsh a sentence. Or are you simply a devil that has managed to inch his way into our world in order to inflict harm?”
“A devil?” Salazar laughed. “There is no such thing, just as there is no God.”
“You don’t believe in God?” Mirabella asked. What did he know? she wondered.
“I have seen no evidence of God or the Devil, and I am convinced that both were created by man. They are simply names for things that humans can use as an excuse for their failings—and their savagery.