The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  And you say I have an imagination, Estúpida. Witches won’t come near the flame? Some witches fly as fireballs. These surely have no fear of fire, thought Marcelina.

  She grabbed Little Maria’s hand and dragged her across the Turquoise Trail. Wind often became trapped between the mountains, blowing stronger as it fought to free itself from granite rock which seemed to want to arm wrestle. The mountains seemed to sway, just like the two women battling the wind, as they headed towards the balls of light and the mob gathered at the bottom of Witch Hill. Men, women, and even children held torches.

  How Marcelina wished her Juan was here. She wished Little Maria’s ridiculous story of the Juans was true.

  As they neared closer to the hill, she clutched her San Benito medal.

  She jumped at rifles fired at a coyote at the top of Witch Hill. The shape of the animal was outlined against the full moon. She was certain this was the same coyote that earlier crossed her path.

  She comforted her unborn child with a pat of her hand. Her babe was jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean.

  So was the crowd. With their torches held above their heads, the villagers appeared like ghouls. The white, gringo faces looked like monsters, or mobsters which she supposed one would call a mob with such angry and ugly, contorted faces. Even the white women, who claimed to be such ladies, were at the burning. Leading them was the pillar of Madrid society, Mildred Hughes and her daughter, Eustace, who must have come down from Albuquerque to burn her rival.

  As for the Hispanos, the men hid behind hand-painted masks of the Catholic saints. Each man was clothed in a replica of a robe belonging to whatever saint he mimicked. Thus, there were many hooded monks in the crowd, each wearing a mask of a face contorted in pain. The Penitentes professed to be good men. Papa and Tío Isidro had been Penitentes, as all the Hispano men of the village were, including Juan. Yet, there was a danger to their fanaticism whenever they dressed up as saints. Men who are masked more easily commit atrocities, such as the Klu Klux Klan that recently burned down the Lake Sawyer Sawmill in Issaquah, Washington because the owners were, ironically, Catholic.

  There was one unmasked monk among the Penitentes. Pacheco was always a wolf in sheep’s clothing or a wolf in black monk’s clothing as he was dressed tonight. Like always, he stood apart from the others. He smirked, relishing his revenge. He always hated the Esperanza family, especially Felicita, whom he claimed ruined his uncle. Pacheco blamed Felicita when the fall rains did not wet his uncle’s crops, though the neighbors’ fields were drenched. His uncle’s piñon trees were bare, while trees elsewhere bore nuts. Though he did not hold a torch to Salia’s house, the Penitentes did nothing without Pacheco’s orders.

  Odd, he stood with Oscar Hughes deep in conversation. What would Pacheco have to talk about with the mine manager? Ah, Juan mentioned a labor union and that Señor Stuwart stood in Pacheco’s way.

  Hughes shook Pacheco’s hand, and a chill went up her spine. She heard that the doctor was absent the day the patrón died because Hughes drove him early in the morning to Albuquerque to see his daughter about a recurring headache. Albuquerque had many fine doctors, but Hughes claimed his daughter, who grew up in Madrid, would see no one but him.

  She folded her hands and prayed for Salia. She believed her old friend came home to Witch Hill to mourn her husband’s death.

  The mob lifted their fists in the air. In the other hand they waved their torches.”Burn, Salia! Burn!”

  “Witch, Burn!”

  “Burn, Bruja!”

  The women screamed the most enthusiastically for Salia’s death, all jealous of her youth, her beauty, and her riches. Little Maria was one of the most vocal, chanting with all of her 220 pounds.

  Only Marcelina stood in silence, with rounded shoulders. She had sometimes wished ill would befall Salia, but the burning of any living creature sickened her. She remembered the child Salia, sitting alone at her school desk while Marcelina shunned her for Little Maria. You are like the wind, blowing hot and cold. One day you are my friend and accept my fruit. The next day, you twist a knife in my heart, she had told her.

  A knife twisted in Marcelina’s own heart as she watched the torch-bearing mob. Still, she remained quiet. They were vicious, likely to turn on their own mothers.

  “Salia Stuwart is not a witch,” a man spoke, with a French accent—the theatre manger, Pierre. The sissified man had never appeared to have much backbone. Marcelina admired his bravery, feeling a warmth seep over her for the little man, dressed impeccably, wearing a top hat and leaning against a cane.

  Swiftly, Pacheco grabbed the cane and struck him. “She murdered the patrón, your boss. Do not speak up for his murderer!”

  “She hasn’t had a trial,” he said, holding a shaky hand to his cut chin.

  “We don’t need a trial,” Whitie Smithson, the Sheriff, said. “Witnesses saw Salia with his blood on her hands. Her own niece, the woman they call Two-Face, said Salia confessed to her that she stuck a knife in Samuel because he threatened to leave her and her baby. It’s a closed case. Salia is guilty.”

  Marcelina could have told them how Jefe hated Salia, how he would like to see his half-sister dead so he could claim the piedra imán, and Two-Face lied because her father ordered her to. Again, she held her tongue because her speaking out would only raise questions. Marcelina had more than herself to think of—there was her unborn babe.

  Salia had a baby, she thought. “Have you all gone loco? There’s an innocent babe in there,” she screamed, finding courage to protect an innocent child.

  “Salia’s son is not baptized,” Tom Dyer pointed out.

  “He’s a child of Tezcatlipoca,” Shifty, the Bartender, added.

  “You all know that the boy is Samuel Stuwart’s son,” she hollered.

  “The witch has slept with Tezcatlipoca,” screamed Mildred Hughes.

  She looked around the crowd for her brother, Diego. He must be here. He wasn’t at the church.

  “Roast Tezcatlipoca’s child,” the mob yelled.

  She flinched.

  “Go to Tezcatlipoca, Witch, where you belong,” Drew Goodson, the prosecutor, shouted.

  “You and your babe,” Mrs. Wilson screamed. She was the sister of the dead Mrs. Gelford, who once accused Salia of witchcraft.

  “Burn, Salia! Burn!” the crowd cheered.

  “Burn, Witch! Burn!”

  “You’re right,” Marcelina shouted. “The babe isn’t the patrón’s but neither is the boy a witch. The child is innocent. Let me enter the house and save him.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Pacheco shrieked. “Salia inherited her dark powers from Felicita. The Esperanza witches must end with her son’s death. There is much cause to celebrate in Madrid tonight.”

  He glared at Marcelina. I must stare him down, she thought, or he will suspect me of being a witch. I should have kept my mouth shut and not drawn attention to myself.

  Finally, Pacheco tired of the game and looked away. She released her breath.

  He sneered at the apple-red, Ford 3-Window Coupe parked on the side of Salia’s house. He walked over to the automobile, examining Salia’s car with a look of lust. He kicked one of the tires with his boot.

  I won’t be surprised if Pacheco doesn’t end up owning the contraption, she thought. Perhaps, Señor Hughes gave him Salia’s automobile. I’m sure Pacheco would prefer the comfort of a car to his old wagon. Agnes sat on the bench, all dressed up in her Sunday best for the burning.

  Pacheco set his torch against the front door of Salia’s house.

  Marcelina recognized the cold voice of the village priest, Father Rodriguez, her brother, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Exodus chapter 22, verse 18,” Diego roared. He threw holy water on the house, the drops sizzling against the walls.

  The crowd held hands and sang, “Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war…”

  Marcelina removed her rosary from her pocket and prayed. For the innocent baby. Oh, Salia, h
ow can you condemn your son to die like this?

  Salia’s small face looked out from the window, like she didn’t care what happened to her now that the patrón was dead.

  Part Six

  I Promise I Shall Return

  One child dies.

  Another is reborn.

  So, it has been since the tipi-moon.

  Rejoice, oh native Son.

  The shadow of the eagle has returned.

  52

  May 26, 1934

  A thirsty traveler rode along the Turquoise Trail. The shaman, Storm-Chaser, huddled beneath a woolen blanket covering his shoulders. He squinted his good eye at the houses of Madrid, looming like sand dunes of flesh-colored adobe under the glow of a full moon. The old man spit. He did not care for the Hispanos or Gringos and considered all of them white people. They called him Chief with a sneering manner and treated him like the town drunk. He did sometimes beg the citizens for spare change so he could buy another bottle to take back with him to the reservation, but they had no compassion for a thirsty man. Many a time Shifty, the bartender at the Mine Shaft Saloon, would shake him. “You’ve had enough, Chief. Go back to the reservation and your family.”

  The truth was he didn’t come into Madrid that often. When he did, it was to get drunk and buy tobacco. Being a medicine man, right now he could use a little medicine himself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was mighty thirsty. He was in need of something strong to wipe the trail dust from his lips.

  He rocked on a soft-pad, Apache saddle stuffed with buffalo hair and grass. The saddle was adorned with rainbow-colored beads, clacking in rhythm to the hoofs of his pinto horse. The leather was soft from years of his rump rubbing against the saddle.

  On his saddle was painted the figure of a black bear, his supernatural helper. The bear stood in a circle of hailstones and lightning, the mark of the Thunder Spirit.

  His face was hardened by 73 years of living, chafing against his skin, until he looked like petrified wood. He had been blind in one eye for 23 years. Half his blood was of the Mescalero Apache tribe which branched out east of the Rio Grande, and the other half flowing through his veins, was Santo Domingo Pueblo Indian.

  He pulled at the reins and rested his hands on the pummel of his saddle. Instead of moccasins, his feet were encased in worn, high top tennis shoes known as the Converse All Stars, a shoe made for basketball. He had never seen a basketball game, but his wife, Spider-Woman, ordered the shoes from a mail-order catalogue. The world he was born into in the year 1861 often clashed with the modern world of 1934, where the horns of jalopies startled his horse.

  He swung his tennis shoes and clucked his tongue. Now what are those stupid villagers up to, he thought, shaking his head at the mob gathered at the bottom of Witch Hill, rising dark and threatening, to the east of Madrid. Even he avoided Witch Hill, where among the yuccas and the mesquite bushes was a den of rattle snakes.

  The moon teetered at the top of Witch Hill, like it was about to roll down and smash the villagers gathered there. A howling coyote sat at the top, outlined by the full moon.

  “I’m gonna kill that damn coyote,” a voice shouted from the mob.

  A rifle fired, and there were more shots from other armed men.

  The coyote merely sat at the top of the hill. Undisturbed. Unmoving. Unafraid. Unimpressed.

  Storm-Chaser touched the patch over his eye, his old wound aching. A witch took his eye from him. He preferred to stay clear of witches. One never knew if a witch might suddenly take a disliking to you, even when you didn’t interfere in his or her malice. Nor was it ever a good idea to befriend a witch because witches were easily turned, out of jealousy or whatever crazy reason took their fancy.

  To take a witch as your lover was insanity. He grunted at this thought, remembering Felicita Esperanza.

  Even so, Storm-Chaser turned his horse in the direction of Witch Hill and all the commotion going on, wanting to see what these fat-headed people were up to. That is, if he could ever get his horse to move. The animal never liked Witch Hill. Storm-Chaser usually left Madrid, lying slumped over his horse with his breath blowing in the horse’s nostrils, making his horse a bit woozy. Even though the horse was tipsy, it never went by Witch Hill but took Storm-Chaser home the long way, even though the horse was anxious to get home.

  Storm-Chaser now pulled at the reins made of rope with a lark’s-head knot tied in the middle. The knot pulled at the horse’s bottom jaw, but his horse refused to budge.

  He tugged harder on the reins.

  The horse reared.

  He smacked the horse on its nose, and the horse rolled its eyes at him, and then lumbered towards Witch Hill.

  As he rode nearer, he could smell smoke and see the flames engulfing the house.

  “Burn, Witch! Burn!” came the chanting.

  “Can you smell the odor of roasted flesh?” a masked man said.

  “You mean roasted witch,” laughed a man in the crowd. Storm-Chaser recognized his voice. It was Red Flannahan, one of the miners.

  Only one person in the mob seemed upset, Marcelina Martinez, the hairdresser, who always smelled of perfumes and soaps. She was the only person in town who ever smiled at Storm-Chaser. “Have you all gone loco? There’s an innocent babe in there,” she yelled.

  One young boy picked up a rock and threw it at the window.

  “No, Johnny,” his mother scolded him.

  “No one breaks the windows, else the witch might turn into an owl and flee,” Pacheco Sandoval ordered.

  The crowd dropped their rocks, stones hitting the ground like hail.

  The priest didn’t care how Salia was killed. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Exodus chapter 22, verse 18.” The cold voice of the village priest, Padre Rodriguez, roared in a booming voice, “Out, Witch. You must die!” He threw holy water on the house which sizzled against the heated walls.

  The crowd gasped. From inside the house, a snake pounded against the window.

  Storm-Chaser used the distraction to sneak to the back of the house. He dismounted and stood, bowlegged, beside his horse. In the moonlight he resembled a child, his head barely reaching the middle of his horse’s rump. He was dressed in his town clothes of baggy, rolled up khaki pants and a wrinkled white shirt, which was his way of trying to fit in. He wore a beaded belt, however, of blue, red, yellow, white and black. Rows of beaded necklaces hung around his neck and a beaded bracelet hugged his wrist. A silver turquoise ring on his baby finger glowed in the moonlight. The color turquoise brought luck and guarded against evil, which was why his people used the color abundantly in their squash necklaces, and the arm and leg bracelets they wore. The colorful beads on his belt were dominated by the color turquoise splashed about the black leather.

  Storm-Chaser reached for his saddle and removed his war club, which consisted of a stone head and wooden handle. The stone and handle were sewn together with sinew and covered with buckskin. The club could crack a head in two. He wasn’t about to lose his other eye. He would fight the witch, if need be, to the death.

  He raised his arms in victory. “It is a good night to die!”

  53

  Storm-Chaser approached the back door, expecting some resistance. With his war club he could break the lock. Before his fingers even touched the door knob, the door swung open, as if he was expected. No one had opened the door to bid him entrance. Unafraid, he entered the house, shielding his nose with a hanky.

  The witch, Salia, writhed on the floor like a burning snake. Her dress and hair were on fire but she did not cry.

  He removed the blanket from around his shoulders and hurried towards her.

  She shook her head, pointing at the crib in the far corner where the house was not on fire. A window was open next to the baby and the wind keeping the crib free of smoke.

  Odd, Storm-Chaser recalled the wind had been blowing in the opposite direction and fiercely. The wind then should be causing the fire to consume the crib, instead of protecting
the child like it was.

  There was a crash at the front window. “Look,” someone exclaimed from outside. “A snake is slithering through the hole made with the rock by little Johnny.”

  “Shoot that snake before it gets completely out of the hole in the window and escapes,” someone yelled from outside.

  BAM!

  There was the sound of a gunshot from outside the house. Inside the house, Salia jerked, as though she was struck by a bullet.

  “The snake is dead,” the crowd yelled.

  Storm-Chaser sucked in his breath. Even in death and half-burned, Salia was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “We got to make sure the baby’s dead,” a voice said from outside.

  He spun to the front door and breathed a sigh of relief that it was locked.

  There was a humming noise coming from Salia, and he turned back to her. A spirit rose from her burning body. Storm-Chaser could see right through her ghost to the front door, which was being battered. She beseeched him, her thoughts filling his head, as if in a dream. I could not save myself, but you can rescue my child. The child must be protected. Help me! I know you, old Man. You knew my mother.

  He touched his missing eye. How could he ever forget Felicita? She was an old wound. She had taken his eye and stolen his heart. Like the Gringos say, love is blind.

  Save my child, the spirit pleaded. Save him!

  Her pleas grew more frenzied, like a whirlwind twirling inside his head, as the front door began to give under the mob’s pressure.

  “I will save the baby, though he is the grandson of Felicita, my arch enemy, my old love,” he told the ghost.

  Beside her charring corpse was a black book entitled, Shroud of Veils. The title shimmered in red, glowing letters which seemed on fire, even though the flames had not touched the book in which Felicita’s and La India’s magic was buried. The Veils were like billowing clouds of supernatural power.