The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (43 page)

“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.

She removed some broken glass from a window frame and heaved herself up, lifting a leg over the window sill. The two foot drop from the window landed her in what had once been a grand house, but was now not much more than a shell. The interior had been fashioned in a rotunda style. On the east part of the house, the third story still stood. Part of the roof from both upper story floors lay on the blackened tile. The entire staircase of both floors was still standing, apparently climbable.

She stared for some time at the third floor, wondering why Jefe didn’t take the idol of Tezcatlipoca. The Lord of the Night and Patrón of the Witches was still in this house. She felt the same clamminess as when she dreamt Tezcatlipoca the other night, only tenfold.

Mustn’t think of him. Forget him. All burned
, she thought.

She held onto the smoked banister and walked up the stairs to the second floor. She well remembered this house that haunted both her nightmares and dreams.

She stopped at the end of the hall and opened the door of a small bedroom. The walls were blackened and most of the furniture destroyed. Like the rest of the house, Jefe and Two-Face had ransacked the room. The small dresser in the corner was not destroyed by fire, but the wood was smoked. The drawers were hanging open, and the contents strewn about the floor.

She coughed, fanning her face at a cloud of black dust. She rifled through some sewing knick knacks, swallowing the lump in her throat. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of two girls. She could hear Salia, running down the hallway, dragging Marcelina behind her, her laughter tinkling like ice against glass.

She sucked in her breath, marveling that after all these years Salia kept the Bible hidden beneath a sweater. The Bible had the name, Father Sanchez, written on the cover in red ink.

There. It is done. We have sworn our friendship on your holy Bible
, Salia once told her. It was but one of the reasons why Marcelina came to the burnt house—to search for the girl she had loved.

She opened the closet door and felt around for a loose board, yanking the wood from the floor. Keen disappointment flushed her face because there was nothing hidden beneath, which is where Marcelina hoped the piedra
imán would be. Oh, well, she would have to hide another treasure in this closet. She dropped the Bible into the hole and placed the loose board back in place.

She left the bedroom, and made her way through the debris. As she expected, the cast iron stove was still standing in the kitchen. She could see a giggling Salia, standing at the stove with an apron, much too big, wrapped around her waist.

What are you cooking, Salia?

A bat I caught flying from the coal mine just as the sun set last night. I have added frog legs
.

Marcelina dreaded pushing open the door leading to the living room where Salia had been when the house was burning. But she was here on a mission and had no other choice.

The room came rushing at her, and she had to grab at the door to keep from being bowled over. The room was alive with grief, and an overwhelming hopelessness, yet a sense of excitement hung in the air. The room seemed to buzz with anticipation.

Against the wall was a crib, blackened, but whole.

She raised her hand to her mouth.
The poor babe
. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. She rested her hand on her swollen stomach. Her own baby slept peacefully.

She slowly approached the crib, expecting to see a charred little corpse. Instead, a rag doll looked at her with button eyes. The doll had only one arm and was one of Salia’s treasures.

She sat on the sofa, hugging the doll and crying. She once offered to sew an arm on the doll but never did this for Salia. She let her best friend down in so many ways. There was no baby crying in this house, no baby hid. In any case, the smoke would have killed him. Only death was in this house.

She approached a pile of dust and knew, without a doubt, that these were Salia’s ashes, not the color of saw dust, nor the color of dirt, nor the color of coal. These ashes were flesh colored, the dark, golden-pink color of a peach, like Salia’s skin.

She scooped her hand into the pile of peach-colored ashes that felt like silk, like Salia’s skin.

She dusted off her hands then lifted her fingers to her nose, sniffing. The ashes smelled of peaches and mint.

She swept Salia’s ashes into the flour sack and tied the bag. She talked to the sack. “Well, Salia, I did try to save your babe. I spoke up, truly. You must believe me, no matter where you are, even if you are in hell,” she whispered to the sack.

She hefted the sack over her shoulder and picked up her broom. Beneath her arm, she held the rag doll. She headed towards the front door, but her exit was blocked by a black book untouched by fire.
Oh, Dios Mio
, she gasped.
Why did Jefe not steal this powerful book from the house?

She watched with fearful eyes, the
Shroud of Veils
open by itself. The lines danced like black snakes on the flying pages. The
Shroud of Veils
then stayed open on the last page, which was blank.

She trembled at a red, glowing finger that materialized in the very air. The finger was long and curved, the nail coming to a sharp point. There was a ring on the finger with a black rose in the middle of the stone. The finger wrote on the blank page, making a scraping noise, like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard. The finger recorded Salia’s death and how it occurred. Then, the finger vanished, leaving behind the book containing all the power of the Esperanzas, passed down through generations.

She was alone at the house ruins. She licked her lips and reached out a trembling hand to the
Shroud of Veils
.

The book glowed like embers and radiated heat.

“Yipes!” She pulled back her hand and blew on her fingers to cool them.

With a burst of sparks, the
Shroud of Veils
went up in flames.

When the fire burned out, the sound of crackling flames was replaced by a creaking coming from the front porch. It sounded like a rocking chair. Creak, creak went the floor boards on the front porch.

She grabbed the flour sack, and walked swiftly out the back door. She could not escape her past. She was surrounded by ghosts. She hugged the sack of ashes to her chest and ran, screaming, from the house.

When she was some distance from Witch Hill, she stopped running and held her side. Her baby kicked furiously. “I know, son. I know. But the creaking has stopped. There is no need to be afraid any more. The ghosts of the brujas will not harm you.”

She held up the sack of Salia’s ashes. She did not fear Salia.
Ah, but
,
Pacheco should be terrified of Salia. I should deliver her ashes to him and scatter her
about his house
, she thought, smiling wickedly. What a grand revenge this would be for her old friend, the beautiful Salia.

She clutched her San Benito medal.
Forgive me. I must go straight to confession after this. I know what Salia would want me to do with her ashes. She would not want to spend eternity in Pacheco’s house
.

Salia would want to rest where she was happiest.

56

T
he streets of Madrid were crowded today, the coal mine still closed in observance of the owner’s death. Marcelina swung a flour sack and a rag doll. With her other hand she dragged a broom. She moved along the boardwalk, the wood creaking with her weight.

Storm-Chaser walked, bow-legged, towards her.

Creak, creak went the boards as Marcelina waddled by, brushing his leg with her wide skirt.

He grunted, his way of saying hello.

She nodded her chin in acknowledgement and swung the flour sack across her shoulder, almost smacking him in the face.

The shaman walked towards the saloon.

Dios Mio
, she thought,
Pacheco
. She glanced down at black boots with silver spurs. A turquoise band around a left ankle. A red handkerchief tied around the other boot. She tightened her fist around the flour sack. She could feel the ashes in the sack moving restlessly about. “Sh,” she said to the bag. “Do not reveal yourself.”

She quickened her steps and crossed the road. She glanced over to where Pacheco was deep in conversation with Oscar Hughes. Many times she had seen Pacheco’s boot decorations, and she recognized the very expensive, shiny leather boots on his feet today.
He’s wearing Samuel Stuwart’s boots
, she thought with shock. His small feet could not fill the patrón’s boots and he looked clownish with the boots brushing the tops of his knees.

With amazement, she watched Hughes reach into his pocket and give a set of keys to Pacheco. He shook Pacheco’s brown hand with his pale-skinned hand. Hughes then joined Tom Dyer and the lawyer Drew Goodson. The three men headed towards the mine office, while Pacheco walked over to Salia’s car parked on the side of the road. Agnes sat in the passenger seat up front, waiting for her husband and his new boots.

Across the street from Marcelina, Storm-Chaser looked with hooded eyes at the villagers. He spit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He moved to the dirt road and respectfully cleared the boardwalk for the
white people. He dragged his high-topped tennis shoes in the dust, until he stepped back to the boardwalk and swung the doors open of the Mine Shaft Saloon.

He blinked his eyes, adjusting them to the dark, dusty saloon. There were three abandoned gambling tables. The atmosphere was sober and quiet. No shake of the dice or the rattle of high ball. The billiard table was silent. All the men were gathered at the elaborately carved bar of cherry red wood, their glasses raised.

“To a man,” said Red Flannahan, whose Irish hair was a bright orange. He burped. “Wait. I need to wet me throat.” He guzzled his glass of beer. “Another one, Shifty, and get one for yourself, for it’s the boss we’re toastin’, the luckless bastard.”

Shifty served up two more beers and slid one over to Red. The white foam head sloshed over the rim of the mug as Red caught it, and with one swift movement raised the glass to his mouth.

“Now where was I then?” He hefted his suspenders up so his pants were once more above his belly. “Oh, yes. To a man lucky enough to be born rich, but unlucky to have crossed paths with a witch and her powerful love spell.”

“Here. Here,” the other men yelled and slammed their glasses together.

Red held up his hand. “You men all wait now before wetting your whistles. I’m not through with me speech just yet.” He cleared his throat and pounded the bar with his fist. “God bless Samuel Stuwart’s soul for givin’ us a day off with pay!” he roared

The men cheered and lifted their glasses to their lips. No amount of washing could disguise the fact they worked in a coal mine.