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
The 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.
Storm-Chaser walked over to the bar and ordered a glass of whiskey. He leaned his elbows on the corner furthest from the men. He smoothed out a slice of onion-thin rice paper and untied his tobacco pouch. He sprinkled the last of his tobacco onto the paper and rolled a cigarette, twisting the ends together. He licked the edge of the paper, sealing it with his spit. He used his old age as an excuse for laziness. There was a time when he would only smoke his ceremonial pipe. Now, he was addicted to the white man’s smoke because it was easy to buy tobacco paper, and he could roll a cigarette anywhere, anytime. He could even roll a cigarette while sitting on his horse. He grudgingly admired the white man’s ingenuity. Like his ancestors before him, the white man would probably be the death of him. The best recipe the white man had come up with was whiskey.
He lit a match and enflamed the cigarette. He closed the book of matches, rolling it around his fingers. The book was silver, embossed with the color turquoise in the shape of an eagle to look like Indians made it, but his people were not clever enough to put fire in a box this small. Without a doubt, you had to take off your feathers to the white man. Besides inventing many ways to kill a man, this fire-maker book was ingenious.
He always let the match burn out by itself and stared, mesmerized, by a fire so little he could hold it between his fingers. When the fire burned out, then he blew on his singed fingertips.
The first smoke was always the best. Like a man parched for water, he dragged on the cigarette, taking the smoke deep into his lungs. Smoke recycling through his chest, up his throat, and out his whiskey-soaked lips, made him feel on fire.
He sipped on his whiskey so it would last, and Shifty wouldn’t kick him in the ass and throw him from the saloon for taking up space. So long as his money lasted, he was welcome in the white man’s world, and the men paid no attention to the old Indian sipping whiskey.
He cocked his head, his good eye half-closed. His mouth was a crescent moon stretched to his chin. The Hispanos and Gringos always spoke through him. The invisible people, that’s what the Indian peoples were, closeted away on reservations, those neither seen nor heard. But Storm-Chaser, though old and half-blind, could still hear a storm the day before it struck, as it traveled across the land some five hundred miles away. He appeared to be sleeping, with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Know why she killed him?” Whitie Smithson, the Sheriff, said.
The men leaned closer to him.
“Samuel found out she was a slut. She give it to every one of us in this room. Shoot, when I escorted her home after her witch trial, she lifted her skirt for me. We had us a good old time, me and Salia.”
Storm-Chaser scoffed at the men, none of them willing to admit he did not know from personal experience whether Salia was as easy as Whitie claimed. Over the years, she verbally and physically abused every man in the saloon.
Bill Wilson, the brother-in-law of the dead Mrs. Gelford said, “The sheriff’s hit the coal with the point of the axe. I seen the boss the day before she shot him. He was talking to Father Rodriguez. Just supposing the boss was asking the priest for some holy water. Salia wouldn’t have liked having holy water splashed on her.”
“I’ve seen, with me very own eyes, Salia dip her hand into holy water,” Red snorted. “That girl wasn’t afraid of anything, even God Himself. Many times she mocked Him in His own house.”
“Ya nitwit, Wilson,” Whitie said, “Samuel was askin’ the priest for holy water to bathe his balls in, to cure his love for a witch. That’s how we used to do it in Texas, when those Mexican brujas swum across the border to bewitch us with their big, muddy eyes. “
Pacheco had come into the saloon and he rocked on his heels, snapping his suspenders. “The patrón was leaving Salia because he found out her son wasn’t his own flesh and blood.”
“You mean that heir he set so much store in…?”
Red chuckled. “Now, ain’t it better the boss found out the truth? No Christian man should mix his blood with a witch.”
“It’s a blessing that baby burned. Boy probably would have growed up to be a witch,” Wilson said.
“Poor boss was innocent as a newborn babe when it come to witches in these parts, him comin’ from back east and all,” said Red. “How was he supposed to know that if a witch offers you food or drink, lay it aside for three days. If the food turns out to have worms, you know it’s bewitched. That’s how we do it back home in Ireland.”
“No wonder you Irish had the great famine,” a few men said, laughing.
Red ignored their taunting.
“Hell, the witch probably did it to him to death.” Whitie made an obscene gesture and they all laughed.
“Think it’s possible the boss really fathered the boy? I mean she was his wife and all.”
Drew Goodson walked into the saloon. “Say what you’re really thinking, Shifty, what’s been on the mind of every one of us since last night. Was the baby who died in that fire really Sam’s son and heir to all of Madrid?”
Shifty looked around the faces in the saloon. “Don’t even whisper that accusation. Even with the boss dead, I’m betting his arm still reaches across the state.”
“I’ve another theory about Salia’s baby,” Whitie said.
The men looked at the sheriff and swallowed.
“Maybe that fat tub of lard, Little Maria, was right about a kidnappin’. Remember that boy belonging to that rich De Vargas family, just out of his mother’s womb, disappeared six months ago in Santa Fe?”
“That’s ridiculous. Everyone remembers
Salia waddling around town with her big belly, about to deliver,” said Shifty.
“Perhaps, her witch baby died so she stole the De Vargas boy,” Red said in a dry voice.
“Or, maybe she pretended to be pregnant to get Samuel to marry her. Oldest trap in the book,” Whitie said.
The men nodded their heads. Many of them had shot gun weddings.
“You mean, we may have burned an innocent baby?” Red lifted his glass of whiskey and chugged the fiery liquid. He burped.
“It doesn’t matter because Sam’s got himself some nephew who’ll inherit,” Drew said.
“What about the new owner? Is he against unionizing?” Red said.
“We’re betting on the fact he’ll be content to receive a monthly check and leave the operations to us.”
“Here. Here,” Red said, raising his glass.
The men clinked their glasses together.
One of the men cleared his throat and had joined the tale late. He was covered in dust, like he just rode into town. He was a stranger in these parts. None of the men were cautious about who they spread their gossip to. If they shared what they knew with a stranger, perhaps he would share what he knew. “I hear,” said the man, “That Salia Esperanza was looking for the company doctor the day Samuel Stuwart died.”
“Now, why in the world would a witch require the need of a doctor for a stomach ache?” asked Whitie.
“Something to do with a gunshot wound in the belly,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Yeah, well quit spreading lies, Mister! Witnesses saw Salia with Samuel’s blood all over her. She gave him a stomach ache, alright—a knife in the gut,” Drew snapped.
The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation Page 31
