The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (40 page)

What has Salia done to make the villagers want to burn her? She’s the patrón’s widow. She now owns the mines, the entire village
.

She dropped her face in her hands and sobbed.
Oh, Salia, what did you do?

51

“W
ell, Marcelina, shall we go see the bruja burn, or do you intend to sit in that church pew all night, carving the wood with your fingernails?”

Like a robot, she let herself be led from the church by Little Maria. Some memories are best forgotten. Her tío Isidro was long ago buried with a black rose in his mouth. As for her stepfather…

And now, Salia was to be burned as a witch. Marcelina had once loved her, as only the young can love.

Memories came to her, unbidden, as the moon moved strangely in the sky. The moon was a murky white. There were no stars.

She gulped, and the frigid air brought her out of her stupor. “What has Salia done that the villagers demand her death?”

“She murdered the patrón,” she said, unknowing that she delivered a shock to Marcelina.

“But Salia was in love with the patrón. He was her husband,” she said, when she was finally able to speak.

“How do you know how Salia felt? That woman is incapable of love.”

She kept quiet. She knew Salia was capable of great love.

“Too bad Juan is gone. Your husband could have caught the bruja, and then we all could have whipped her to death.”

“Are you loco? Why would you say my Juan could have caught Salia, like she was a fish and he the bait?”

“You know.”

“My Juan has never had anything to do with Salia,” she spat.

Little Maria didn’t say anything. She was such a silly flirt to be named after the Holy Virgin, and the biggest busybody in Santa Fe County. She knew all the gossip of Madrid. Her silence meant she knew something. “Tell me, why of all the men in Madrid, could my Juan have caught Salia?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Juans?”

She shook her head, no.

“My mama has said many times that men baptized Juan have the power to ensnare witches,” Little Maria said.

“What do you mean ensnare?”

“You know, catch a witch.”

“How?”

“A man named Juan must draw a circle. Let me think.” Little Maria tapped her head. “I believe the circle should be nine feet along the center from end to end. Then, the Juan must sit in the center of the circle with his shirt inside out.”

“But of course,” murmured Marcelina. “It would never do for the Juan to be dressed outside in.”

“The Juan then yells, ‘In the name of God, I call thee, Bruja! Come forth!”

“Sh. Lower your voice,” she hissed.

“Don’t worry. There’s not a witch around to hear us. They are all afraid of fire. They will not come near the flame.”

“Nor of any man named Juan,” she added, rolling her eyes.

“On the contrary, any witch that is near will be drawn to the Juan.”

“Perhaps his aftershave?”

“You make fun of me.”

“No.” Marcelina was choking, trying to stifle her laughter. “I don’t, Little Maria.”

“Good. Anyway, after the Juan calls the witches to come forth, usually a fox, a black cat, or a coyote will walk into the circle, as if it was in heat and its mate in the circle. Once inside the circle with Juan, the animal turns back into the witch. You know the village of El Llano near Ranchos de Taos?”

“But of course. My mama was from Taos.”

“Well, El Llano used to be a favorite meeting place for brujas and brujos until two Juans lay in wait one day. The Juans grabbed two sticks and as sparks of fire landed, they drew a circle around the sparks. Pretty soon, the sparks went out and there sat three brujas where the fire had been. One was wrinkled and so hideous, one of the Juans vomited on her head. Another was slim and beautiful, and lifted her skirt high to show the men her charms, but to no avail. A Juan can be neither bribed nor tempted.”

Marcelina cringed. Not true, she wanted to shout. Salia tempted her Juan when they were young.

“The third bruja trapped in the circle was the sister of the pretty bruja. She was plump, and purred at the Juans, but they refused to pet her. All the brujas wept and pleaded with the Juans to let them go.”

“And did the Juans release them?”

“Of course, but not before the brujas gave them their names so the Juans could tell everyone who they were.”

“Every tenth man in the county of Santa Fe is named Juan. If this is true, what your mama says about the Juans, how come they haven’t caught every witch in the state?”

“The Juans are afraid if they use their power too often, all the witches will band together, men and women, and beat them with sticks. So, Marcelina, you are lucky to live with a Juan. If an animal ever enters your house uninvited, have Juan turn his shirt inside out and draw a circle around the door. The animal will disappear, and the next day a witch will be found dead.”

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, how can you condemn your son to die like this?