The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  Another cockroach crawled across the floor. This roach was pregnant.

  Salia jumped from her chair and stomped on the pregnant cockroach, bringing her boot down, over and over, until the expectant mother and all her eggs were smashed goo on the heel of her boot.

  There, she thought, now, the whole family’s dead.

  4

  Salia marched towards the one-room school house. The elder children attended school in the afternoon, the younger in the morning. It was going on one.

  She pulled at her hair, trying to clean the bug from her scalp. She should have asked Grandma to brush it out, but she had been too angry to speak to her. Her new dress had vanished, and she was clothed in the old rags she always wore. Well, at least her petticoat had two lumps. She wasn’t as stupid as Mother claimed. Salia knew more magic than she pretended to. She kicked against the lumps, feeling better, hoping Mother and Grandma had the headache with each kick of her boot.

  She climbed the steps to the schoolhouse, lingering shyly in the doorway. One handful of copper-red hair stuck up from her scalp.

  “Salia Esperanza?” the teacher said. “I am Miss Woodhouse.”

  Salia thought, I know who you are, Teacher. You are the seventh lump on Mother’s petticoat. It is Mother’s fault no man will ever marry you, but as Grandma says, she has done you a favor.

  Miss Woodhouse wore spectacles, a cape, and a bonnet, even when inside. She coughed uncomfortably, wiping her hands on her dress. “The first day of school started seven weeks ago, Salia,” she said with exasperation. She straightened, folding her hands on the desk. “The letter mailed out instructed all parents to bring their children on September first.”

  “My mother is not all parents. She never goes by others’ timetables.”

  “You will be more than a month behind the others,” Miss Woodhouse pointed out. “Can you read?”

  Salia nodded her head, yes.

  Miss Woodhouse piled three books into Salia’s arms, slamming each book on top of the previous. “The three Rs. Reading. ’Riting. ’Rithmetic. Find somewhere to sit in the back and tomorrow, don’t be tardy.”

  Salia’s shoulders were rounded, her toes pointed in. Her ragged hair was tangled about her monkey face. She had a look of disdain on her dirty face, as she scanned the faces of the other pupils, who were scrubbed shiny clean.

  The other kids dropped their eyes to the floor, their faces flushed beet red.

  She stared straight ahead, like a robot, balancing the heavy books in her skinny arms. She shuffled down the aisle, looking for a seat.

  The kids held their fingers to their noses, as she passed.

  Miss Woodhouse smiled to the side of her mouth, not disciplining the children on their bad manners.

  The wooden desks were long, the type shared by two children, sitting side by side. There were four empty seats left.

  One row after another, as Salia passed an available seat, the boy or girl sitting in the adjoining seat slid into the empty one, so she wouldn’t sit there. Salia bit her tongue and the cuss words threatening her composure. She wished she didn’t care so much, and the rejection of the others didn’t hurt.

  Finally, Salia snaked her way around all the aisles, until there was but one empty seat at the front.

  It’s the girl from the funeral, she thought, the one with the dead uncle. What was the family’s name again? Rodríguez, I think Mother said.

  She hugged her books in her arms, unsure whether or not to place them on the other girl’s desk or sit on the floor.

  Behind her, the other kids snickered, egging on the girl to reject her, just as the others did.

  Marcelina paid no heed to the snickering. She didn’t even hear them because Salia’s eyes arrested her. Such isolation reflected back at her. Salia’s blue-grey eyes looked like two ships lost at sea, being tossed about by an adjoining storm, neither ship able to come to the aid of the other.

  Along with her loneliness mingled fury. Salia’s anger was a palpitating, living thing. The storm raging in her eyes was like the earth rumbling below the ground, which was something everyone in Madrid feared because the men worked in the coal mines, where two-by-fours of lumber held a roof of earth above their heads, and where there was but one way out.

  But one way out.

  One day, Marcelina thought, Salia’s fury will cave in. There will be such a storm then, Madrid will surely rumble.

  “You can sit here, Salia,” she spoke very low so wasn’t sure if she heard her.

  A sigh of relief escaped Salia’s lips.

  “I’m Marcelina,” she said, smiling shyly at her.

  Salia set her books down, and Marcelina slid over to make room.

  Salia silently took her seat.

  The other kids looked disappointed.

  Out of the corner of one eye, Marcelina examined Salia. Her head hung down, her wild hair hiding the expression on her face. Salia rolled a pencil between her hands. The pencil clicked against a ring on her finger. The clicking was in tune to her boots hitting the front of the desk. Her left toe stuck out of a hole in the leather. Her nails were dirty and ragged. So was her face. It wasn’t true what the other kids said though. Salia didn’t stink. In fact, she smelled rather good, like peaches. She just needed someone to wash her face.

  Unlike her mother and grandmother, Salia did not seem dangerous, just lacking in social graces. Click. Click. Click, went the sound of her pencil passing across her ring. Kick. Kick. Kick, went the sound of her boots.

  Until a spitball, hit her in the back of her head.

  Salia dropped her pencil, her lips moving silently.

  Marcelina bent her head under the desk to pick up the pencil.

  Salia swung her head around, locking eyes with the boy who threw the spitball at her. She stared at Jose Pena, opening her eyes wide until dark-blue veins stuck out of her eyelids.

  With a pale face and hollowed cheeks, he stared back at her like a zombie, struck by the force of her gaze, literally drowning in her whirlpool of emotions. Regret. Sadness. Fear. Shock. Hatred. Salia especially threw out hatred at him, making his brain numb and an overwhelming lightheadedness consume him.

  His head slowly circled his neck.

  His eyelids drooped to his cheeks.

  All oxygen left his body, his lungs deflating into his spine.

  Only Salia could see his flesh separate from his bones. His organs disintegrate.

  His heart over there. His liver here. His lungs in one corner. His kidneys the other corner. His bladder under the desk.

  Especially his bladder. Jose was pissing in his pants, giving his feet a shower as urine seeped beneath his socks.

  He was dying. His spirit was breaking free from his body, tearing his guts open, from the inside out.

  Finally, his spirit did break free and whooshed from his belly button.

  His soul floated from the ceiling, looking down upon his empty shell.

  “Here, I picked up your pencil,” Marcelina said.

  Salia moved her eyes away from Jose, breaking her spell.

  He gasped for air, clutching his collar, having re-entered his body. The re-entry was like carbonated soda sealed inside a bottle to trap the air bubbles. Green saliva bubbled from his lips. Mucus ran from his nose. Goose-bumps erupted on his arms. He rubbed his chest, blinking his eyes to hold back his tears. Everyone in the room heard his fart when he shit his pants.

  “There must be a cold going around. Boys are weak, susceptible to all sorts of things,” Salia commented. She laughed, clenching her desk, belying her humorous mood. She peeked at Marcelina from the corner of her eye, wondering if she had seen her black onyx ring glowing. Two ivory letters were engraved on the ring. The first letter was a B, the second letter an R. Black Rose.

  Salia sat there, breathing heavily, her eyes closed, her hands clenched into fists. Control, Salia, she thought. It’s all about control. Remember what Mother has taught you—there is a time and a place for everything.

  Afte
r some boring lessons, Miss Woodhouse told the students they could play outside for 15 minutes. Salia followed Marcelina to the school ground, like a puppy biting at her sock.

  You can’t shake me, Salia thought, running after her to the back of the schoolhouse, where there was no one else around. “I’ve never had a friend before,” she said, pathetically.

  “I’m not your friend. Just go away before you ruin my life.”

  “Don’t worry. No other kids can see us,” Salia shyly said. She yanked at an apple hidden in her pocket and held it out to her. The apple was shiny, because Salia had taken the time to rub the fruit against the filthy hem of her dress. The apple was meant for Miss Woodhouse, but Salia had changed her mind.

  “What did you do to Jose?” Marcelina asked, suspiciously.

  “Is that the boy’s name? I did nothing. He threw a spitball at me and must have felt guilty for being so mean. See. I’m nice,” she said, offering Marcelina the first bite.

  The apple looked juicy and sweet. “It’s a long time until lunch and you have a healthy appetite. You’re skinny like me,” Salia said, but Marcelina was taller, big-boned and not fragile-looking like Salia.

  Even so, Marcelina simply circled her mouth with her tongue, but did not take the apple.

  Salia put the apple to her own lips and bit off a crunchy chunk, then once again offered the apple to her.

  “I’m starving,” Marcelina grunted, reaching out and taking the apple in her limp hand. She rubbed her fingers against the sweet fruit, swallowing the saliva in her mouth. “What did you say?”

  Salia had talked with a full mouth. Tiny clods of apple flew from between her teeth as she chewed. She gulped, swallowing the fruit. “I told you. See. The apple’s not poisoned.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed her words.

  Marcelina lifted the apple to her mouth and bit into it, acting as if the fruit tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

  Salia smiled, lop-sided. “The apple is from my mother’s orchard,” she announced, plopping down beside her.

  Marcelina gagged, yet the apple slid down her throat.

  She took Marcelina’s hand, grasping it in her own, tightly, preventing her from escaping. She squeezed tighter, ignoring her pale face and whimper. “The fruit is especially sweet, is it not? You have never tasted such an apple before.”

  Marcelina took another bite, her face enraptured. “You’re right. Your mother’s apple is the best I’ve ever tasted. The fruit even sparkles in my hand.”

  Salia smiled triumphantly at Marcelina salivating for the apple, hungering for the core, especially the core.

  “With each bite of this apple, it tastes better and better. There is such passion in this piece of fruit, I feel tingly all over. Oh, but I am stingy. The apple is nearly gone. Here, Salia, have another bite.”

  “No,” she said, guiding the apple to Marcelina’s lips. “Eat. Eat of the fruit of my mother’s orchard.”

  Marcelina’s lips reddened, looking as if her heart beat in her mouth, pumping blood around her lips. Indeed, her lips trembled.

  “I brought the apple, especially for you. You must eat all of it.”

  Salia smiled sweetly when Marcelina swallowed the core, stem and all.

  Control. It was all about control. Salia had bid her time. All morning long the apple burned a hole in her pocket, but Salia controlled her urge to offer the apple to Marcelina in the classroom.

  See. Her first day at school and already she was learning.

  5

  Marcelina felt like she was going to die. The skin around her belly button cramped with such pressure, she feared the button would pop and spill her insides over her chair. Butterflies already flew around her intestines, like vultures after the spoils. “I don’t want to die,” she moaned, thrashing about.

  She shoved her plate of food, and it went crashing to the floor.

  Mama and Papa were puzzled, and she was too hysterical to explain she ate an apple from Felicita’s orchard. She kept repeating in her jibberish something about…Stupid idiot.

  They put her to bed, even though the sun was shining. A cup of yerba buena tea, brewed from a mint herb growing wild around the Ortiz Mountains, calmed her down. She closed her tear-dried eyes, drifting off to sleep, relaxed by the spearmint taste in her mouth, and she dreamt of sitting in a giant, hot kettle.

  Salia materialized in the pot. She wore a dirty dish rag swathed around her body, the rag sticking to her ribs. She resembled a drowned cat. She was stone-faced, staring up at the full moon. She sang a twisted lullaby, accompanying an eerie tune. In the distance a coyote howled, singing in harmony with her. With each note, the fire cackled and sparks flew.

  Felicita dumped two pails of water into the kettle, the water sizzling beneath their feet. She smiled. “I am known throughout New Mexico for my kindness towards children. You will be cooked until you are so tender, I can cut you with a fork instead of a sharp knife. What do you have to say to that, huh? One thank you will do.”

  Salia said, “Thank.”

  Marcelina said, “You.”

  “Good. It is never too late to learn good manners. Where are those onions, you lazy slut,” she yelled at La India.

  Marcelina thrashed about in the water, crying. Felicita grabbed her hand and twisted it. She shoved on her finger a black onyx ring with the letters, BR.

  Black Rose, she thought and woke up, sweating, screaming for her parents.

  The next day at school, Marcelina sat with Little Maria.

  Just once, Salia lifted her head and looked at her with a hurt look on her face.

  From then on, Salia sat in the back of the room, in a seat reserved just for her, where she sat all alone, surrounded by three empty seats. Except for the annoying kicking of her desk, she appeared catatonic. No one knew if she learned to read, or write, or do arithmetic. No one cared about Salia who ate alone, played at recess alone, and walked home from school alone.

  As for Marcelina, she grew fat until her shape resembled a whale.

  Six months later on Easter Saturday, Salia hid in the hills west of Madrid. She spied on the men hiding the eggs for the children. Every year, the Employees Club handed out about 1800 eggs to the women. Earlier in the morning they had cooked and colored the eggs.

  The men drove away and Salia climbed down from the tree. She dragged an enormous basket with her, collecting all the eggs.

  On Easter Sunday, Salia sat on her tree, her legs swinging from a branch, half a dozen colored eggs in her lap which she peeled and stuffed her mouth with.

  Here they come, she thought, snickering at the company trucks filled with 750 excited kids and their Easter baskets.

  The kids stampeded the hills, searching for eggs, yelling at each other, “Did you get one yet?”

  Not one child found an egg. The younger ones were crying, and the older ones angry at not finding even one of the dozen, gold-painted wooden eggs which would be rewarded with a dollar.

  A fist fight broke out between the miners, the ones who had hid the eggs and the other men who did not.

  While the miners were fighting, the mothers comforting the little children and the older kids still hunting, Salia snuck over to one of the trucks and stole the bags of candy which were later to be distributed to the children, just in case none found any eggs.

  That was the best Easter Salia ever had, and the only Easter egg hunt she ever participated in. The bags of candy lasted her for more than two years.

  6

  From the age of six to twelve, every afternoon on her way home from school Marcelina passed the morada, the secret meeting place of the Penitentes. The morada was a holy shack built on hallowed ground, hidden behind a cluster of trees in the Ortiz Mountains.

  On this particular afternoon Pacheco’s wagon was parked at the top of the hill. Agnes sat in the wagon, her skeleton bones sparkling in the bright sun, like ivory. Marcelina had not forgotten her kindness and felt an overwhelming urge to see the skeleton up close and mark a resemb
lance between the boney face and Agnes.

  She slowly climbed the steep hill to the morada, yet another button popping from her waistband.

  She got to the top, and a noise from the wagon made her heart jump. Agnes was moving!

  She’s alive. Dios Mio, Agnes lives.

  The noise again. This time behind her, making her heart stop.

  Pacheco. If he catches me…

  She ran behind a tree and hid, peeking out at Salia, spying through the cracked door of the morada. Salia had not returned to school this new year.

  Two boards normally criss-crossed the door, barring entrance to women, children and unbelievers. Today, the two boards were pried from the door, which was slightly ajar. Salia was on her haunches with her eye at the crack.

  She is so brave, thought Marcelina. Screams were sometimes heard coming from the morada. The smell of death, at times, rolled down the mountains, the stench of sacrificial animals or putrid sinners. She bet Salia was the first girl to ever see the inside of the morada. Marcelina wished she had the courage to join her and see what was making her laugh. She did think it funny, Salia spying on Pacheco and her spying on Salia. It was like a game Pacheco didn’t know he was playing.

  Or did he?

  Salia jumped up and took off running, with her skinny legs flying beneath her.

  Pacheco stormed out of the morada, after her.

  Salia never learned to tie her boots properly, even though Marcelina offered to teach her that day in the playground, the one day they were desk mates last year. Her right boot now stepped on the string of the left boot, tripping her. She lay face down in the dirt.

  Pacheco hurried towards her, stooping now and then to pick up some rocks.

  Salia rolled over. She simply lay there, looking up at Pacheco, with her eyes unblinking, trying desperately to lock her eyes with his, but Pacheco avoided her gaze.

  “I should drag you to the morada, and set you on fire,” he said, crossing himself.

  Her blue-grey eyes looked like a hurricane about to be unleashed.