The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (36 page)

She tapped her long red nails on her dresser top. “Lately, I have been thinking of going to New York.”

“We begin rehearsals in two months. I’ll be in touch,” he said, once more kissing her hand.

He left and Samuel stood against the dressing room door while she removed her stage makeup. “How come, dear Wife, this is the first I hear that you’re thinking of traveling some 2,000 miles to sing in New York? You must have been thinking about this for some time.”

“I have, ever since Bradley’s birth.”

“What about your sudden death if you leave Madrid?”

She laughed. “Oh, that. You were right. Such a silly idea my mother put in my head.”

“All this time and you never told me you no longer believe you are stuck in Madrid! Is it too much to hope that I’m included in your future plans? And our son?”

“Of course, you’re an important part of my future. Don’t be silly. You know I can’t live without you, Samuel.”

“No,” he quietly said, “I don’t know that.”

“You’re acting crazy.”

“I don’t know what you feel about me,” he said and stood rigidly, with his back against the door.

“But, Samuel, don’t you know that I can never leave you? If you won’t come with me to New York, then I won’t go.”

“Really?”

She kissed his lips. “Really.”

He relaxed, smiling at her.

“You must come with me,” she pleaded.

“Alright. It would be a nice change to go to New York and get out of Madrid.

“As for the baby, well, he’s too young to travel.” she quickly said, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear her.

His reaction was all that she feared. Samuel exploded. “You would leave our son behind?”

She sighed, tired because she had this discussion in her head a thousand times. “I must. It wouldn’t be forever. Only a few months.”

“You would leave our son, just so you can make a spectacle of yourself in New York?”

“A spectacle?” she said, feeling hurt.

“Pacheco Sandoval’s words for what you were doing on stage tonight.”

“I told you to stay away from that man. He’s evil.”

“He’s not evil. He’s a religious fanatic. His knees are probably skinned.”

“That is what makes him so dangerous.”

“Even that monk, Pacheco, sits watching you with lust in his eyes. Damn it, Salia, I won’t have it.”

“What are you saying to me?”

“I hit Sandoval tonight, defending your honor,” he coldly said.

“Oh. You should never have done that. Not to Pacheco. He believes in revenge. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.”

“He said you’re an embarrassment to Madrid.”

“And what do you say?” she said, clutching her stomach, waiting for his answer that was slow in coming, as silence hung in the air between them.

“I can’t go beating up every man who talks about you.”

“People have always talked about me. You knew this before you married me.”

“An independent nature in a woman goes against the teachings of the Bible, and against the very essence of a woman.”

She laughed, but her laughter did not sound merry. “That sounds like Pacheco talking.”

“Think about it, Salia. I won’t leave my son.”

And Samuel left the room, softly closing the door behind him.

44

I
t was a foggy May morning, and a mist settled over Madrid. The future was as uncertain as the world was grey. Pacheco ate his usual morning meal of atole, a blue corn meal mush made with salt and milk, a breakfast any bachelor husband was capable of making while puttering around the kitchen, talking to his skeleton wife as company. He was in a strange mood ever since reading the headlines,
Barrow and Woman Are Slain by Police in Louisiana Trap
. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Bonnie and Clyde resorted to killing to survive. Bonnie was 23, the same age as Salia.

Pacheco walked behind the morada to a simple cross hammered into the ground. He knelt at his brother’s grave and said a prayer for Alfonso’s soul. He felt oddly charitable and had even placed a bow in Agnes’ hair for this extraordinary occasion. “While I see to the business of the Penitentes, you may now visit your lover. Consider this an early birthday present.” He set her on the grave, even so far as placing her shawl across her bony shoulders so she wouldn’t catch a chill from the spring morning.

He let her go and the skeleton folded in half, face down.

He grabbed her neck and shook her. “Puta,” he yelled, striking her. “Even now, you wish to lay with my brother.”

He dragged her to a nearby tree and tied her to the trunk with a rope. He crossed her legs so her charms were hidden. He leaned against the tree, smoking and surveying his kingdom. Agnes leaned forward, as if trying to break free so she could join Alfonso. Her skeletal hands hung like claws, as though wanting to dig the earth separating her from her lover.

There were other graves behind the morada, some hidden deep in the woods. His brother’s grave was not well hid. Pacheco wanted everyone to see how he avenged himself, and that he was a man to be reckoned with and feared.

And he succeeded, until Patrón Stuwart came to live in Madrid. Pacheco was losing his respect among the villagers. The men were more afraid of the patrón, of losing their jobs, especially now that the patrón had stores of extra coal put away to wait it out, so to speak, if the men were to strike.

The miners had looked to Pacheco to form a union to improve their lot, but he had so far been unsuccessful. The manager, Hughes, hinted to Pacheco that the patrón had a nephew, who had been his only living relative until the birth of the abomination. The nephew lived back East and never even visited when he was the heir. If only the nephew were in charge, just so the mine made some profit, he wouldn’t care what Hughes did, so he claimed. And Pacheco was more than willing to believe Hughes, just as he believed in so many things. Blindly. Doggedly. Faithfully.

But the one thing Pacheco refused to believe in was failure. And now, because of the patrón, he was going to fail the men, most importantly, the salvation of their souls. The Penitentes looked more to Pacheco, than to the church, to lead them down the righteous path. The Catholic Church failed its people the day the church did away with the Holy Office of the Inquisition.

The patrón threatened the Penitentes’ very existence, the passion driving them relentlessly to do what is right. His own passion was interwoven with the Passion of Jesus Christ. And this year, for the very first time, the Penitentes were not to be allowed to re-enact the Passion, no parade, no dragging the cross through the streets.

Instead, there was just to be Easter bonnets and painted eggs, and everyone will forget why Easter is really celebrated.

In days of old, the Inquisition would have arrested the patrón for being a heretic. He would have been tortured to force a confession and put to death.

Pacheco proudly puffed out his chest because it was the Spanish who engineered the Inquisition and who, luck would have it, conquered New Mexico. The conquerors felt bringing God to the primitive peoples of the New World was child’s play but unknowingly, along with the Spanish Inquisition they brought with them a presence, stowed away aboard their ship to escape the Inquisition fires raging throughout Europe.

This presence hid in a basket beneath the hold of the ship among the rats, the decay, and the darkness. The basket was tossed about by the ocean waves, yet the presence did not grow sick from being holed up day after day. On the contrary, the presence grew stronger feeding on the soldiers’ despair of never finding dry land.

After many months, the Spaniards saw what looked like a black snake wiggling in the ocean. As the ship moved closer, they could see the snake was
really land, as far as the eye could see. The North America continent loomed on the horizon.

The soldiers disembarked, weary and homesick, carrying the flag of Spain with them, some falling beneath the weight of the flag pole.

Victorious, they planted their flag in the soil of the New World, claiming it for their king and God, praying this land would be filled with riches.

At the top of the flag pole sat the presence, surveying the New World from on high. The presence, also, searched for riches but of a different sort. The presence had always been a seeker of souls.

This dark presence was still in New Mexico, personified in Salia and other witches infesting the villages and reservations. However, the Spanish Inquisition was no more. In Madrid, there was now only Pacheco and his Penitentes, and if the patrón had it his way, the Penitentes would go the way of the Inquisition and cease to exist. Pacheco would lose his livelihood since as Brother Mayor he was paid a stipend, just as the mayor of a city received compensation. As for being head of the union, he had looked forward to the salary he would have received from the miners’ dues, had they organized.

He finished his smoke and walked around to the morada. He dropped to his knees, rubbing his face against the rough adobe, mud bricks he laid himself. The patrón would not stop at banning the Penitentes’ Easter Passion. His next command will be to dismantle the morada. This country was supposed to allow religious freedom.

Pacheco saw himself as a general with his Penitente soldiers marching behind him. From the time he was a child, Pacheco felt he had a special calling from God, not to the priesthood, but here among the people in the villages of Cerrillos, Golden, and Madrid. What good is a man’s life, if it is sinful? Better to lose that life than continue down a path to hell. He always admired the Spanish Inquisition, and wanted the Holy Church to return to the burning times. But in the meantime, until the Inquisition was resurrected, there was only his Penitentes. No way in hell would he allow his men to be disbanded! He would ask God’s help in his holy battle.

He dragged Agnes into the morada, something he rarely did, but like any husband about to go off to war, he was hesitant to part with his wife. His anger blinded him, and he stumbled across the human skulls, kicking several across the floor. It may have been his brother’s head. The Penitentes always beheaded those tried and convicted of their sins. The two dozen or so grinning
skulls were kept as a reminder to others. In Madrid it was not unusual for both men and women to simply vanish, never to be heard of again. In such circumstances, the family never reported the disappearance of their loved one to the law. They saw it as the will of God.

In reality, it was the will of Pacheco.

He knelt at the altar with his head bowed and muttered a quick prayer.

He felt beneath the altar for the hidden rifle.

He cocked the rifle open, grunting with satisfaction when he saw that it was loaded. Just in case he might need them, with shaking hands he emptied a box of bullets into his pocket, where the bullets would be handy to retrieve.

He left the morada and for the first time in his life, forgot to lock the door.

He sat Agnes next to him on the wagon, and shoved a cigar in her mouth hole so she would look like Bonnie Parker. He posed on the wagon, holding the rifle like Clyde Barrow in the newspaper.

45

S
alia tried to make small talk, but Samuel ignored her as he read the morning paper.
Fine. Be that way
, she thought. He was angry with her because last night she brought up the subject of New York again and still insisted they leave the baby, though he was six months old.

She played with her food, while he finished his breakfast.

He wiped his mouth and scraped his chair back to leave the table.

She beseeched him with her eyes.

He gave her the cold shoulder, and left the room.

She jumped from her seat, knocking the chair over.

The front door to the house was open. He was reaching around to close the door behind him.

“Samuel,” she screamed. “Don’t go!”

It all happened at once, as if in slow motion, like one of those nightmares forever chiseled in one’s mind to be played over and over.

Samuel lifting his head to look at her.

A rifle shot.

Samuel flopping about like a rag doll. Blood shooting from his midsection.

Samuel folding to the ground on the doorstep.

“Stay down,” she cried. “Don’t try to get up.” She knelt over him, without any thought to her own safety.

The look on his face was one of amazement. He stared at her with confusion.

Huffing and puffing, she dragged him into the house, wincing at his cries of pain.

She slammed the door shut with her foot then snapped the lock shut. Quickly, she drew the shades down, so he would be safe from the assassin or assassins.

Except for the baby and his nursemaid, they were alone in the house. It was Sunday. The servants had the day off.

He closed his eyes, moaning, grabbing at his wounded stomach.

There was so much blood.

She tore her blouse and tenderly wiped the blood trickling from his mouth. “I’ll be right back,” she told him in a shaky voice. “Don’t try to get up.”