Rogelia's House of Magic (15 page)

Sixteen

A
t that same moment Fern was saying goodbye to Tristán, Xochitl was staring at the letter from her mother she’d received several days ago. She hadn’t written back yet. Mamá was sure to call if she didn’t scribble down something soon. Xochitl set the letter on her dresser. She had the gnawing feeling that she was purposely avoiding everything that could make her feel better, but she couldn’t help it. She had cried endless tears over not reaching Graciela the other day. The mound of used tissue spread over her dresser was proof of that.

Xochitl pulled the feather-covered journal from under her bed and frowned at it. She leaned against her bed, opened the journal, and leafed through its blank pages. Taped to the back of the book was a sealed envelope. She glared at it uneasily for a moment. She guessed that it was another one of Nana’s tricks to force her into opening up before she was ready. What good had it done Xochitl to share her feelings with Nana before she left for the Peraltas’ last week? Absolutely none. And now she was supposed to write something that would make her feel exposed and vulnerable to Marina and Fern.

Even though they were nice girls and Xochitl was truly beginning to like them, the idea of having them read something she wrote made her feel nauseated.

She flipped the journal pages back to the front of the book. She didn’t know what to write about. All she felt was this vast emptiness. To even explain what she was feeling, she would have to delve into her own emotions, and that felt very scary. Back home in Mexico, Xochitl had always liked writing poetry, but she had only ever let Graciela read it. Without pausing to think too much, Xochitl put pen to paper.

The silent womb, the darkness before creation.

Pregnant space, waiting breath, the air of inspiration.

In the black hole where nothingness abides

The absolute stillness of a deep cave

Shut out the senses you rely upon

Hear no compliments nor criticism

See no glory nor despair

Feel not the cold floor nor stifling heat

Smell not the acrid dampness of the earth

Taste not the flavor of saliva

Be nothing and a window opens

Follow the mystery of emptiness

With the rise and fall of your breath

This cave holds possibility of knowing

Be nothing and you will

Discover yourself in the

Refuge of the Black Cauldron

A refuge was what she needed—a place to go and just heal, maybe sleep, until all the pain went away. Xochitl closed her eyes and imagined the bliss of warm water at the hot springs she and Graciela used to visit in Mexico. She visualized the steam rising and her own body turning into mist. As she relaxed, she allowed her physical form to collapse into the empty space of her solar plexus. She began to feel light-headed. Gradually, her hands, then her arms, began to fade, until she disappeared completely.

Nana knocked on Xochitl’s door, then opened it a little and poked her head through. “Are you ready?” Nana looked around the empty room and snorted in frustration. “Xochitl, I know you are here. I can feel your energy.”

Nana stepped into Xochitl’s bedroom and with unnerving accuracy walked directly to where Xochitl sat on the ground next to her bed, invisible. “Marina and Fern are here.”

Slowly, Xochitl materialized from thin air. There was no hiding from Nana.

“
¿Que tal?
Why would you disappear right now?” Nana asked.

“I don’t want to go today,” Xochitl protested.

“You can’t use your vanishing ability to run away.” Nana took Xochitl’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Marina and Fern are good girls.
Son niñas buenas.
Give them a chance.”

“All right,” Xochitl muttered.

“Meet me in my room,” Rogelia said before leaving.

Xochitl closed the journal. She still had to gather the things to bring to the
limpia
ceremony. From her backpack Xochitl pulled the picture of Graciela, to represent the north. A few oak leaves from the river trail where she had tried but failed to speak with Graciela’s spirit fell out. She picked up a leaf and examined it. There weren’t many oak trees in her hometown, but they were all over California. These trees were new to her and could represent the east, but really and secretively they could symbolize her dedication to try to speak with Graciela. The tissues represented her tears, and that was good enough for the west. What about the south? Xochitl decided on a book, because reading and learning had always given her energy and power.

Xochitl gathered her sacred items and the journal and walked out of her room, across the hall, and into Nana’s bedroom. Marina and Fern were waiting, sitting on the bed. A small card table covered with a white cloth stood prominently in the center of the room. Three small white bowls sat in the middle of the table. The words ‘east,’ ‘south,’ ‘west,’ and ‘north’ were written in red marker on pieces of paper on the corners of the table.

“Xochitl, please give Fern the journal,” Nana said.

Xochitl handed Fern the journal with some trepidation and sat down next to her.

Standing behind the table, Rogelia looked down at her apprentices. “It fills my heart with joy to guide you on this very sacred journey.”

At that moment the door to Rogelia’s room opened as if someone had pushed it from the other side. Xochitl, Fern, and Marina looked over Rogelia’s shoulder, expecting to see someone come in. No one stood on the threshold, yet there was an electric charge in the air. It felt like someone or something was watching them.

Fern pointed to the door. “The door…it just opened.” A shadow played against the wall.

Rogelia glanced over her shoulder. She smiled knowingly at Xochitl, Fern, and Marina. “That is simply the presence of Spirit.”

“But—” Fern began to protest, obviously in need of further explanation.

Rogelia’s eagle eyes bore into Fern. “There is nothing to fear. You want to have Spirit present when you do magic. That way, your actions will be guided toward the highest good of all concerned. Now, one at a time, I would like you to place your sacred items on the table. I have marked each of the directions to make it easier for you. Xochitl, please bring your items first and tell us why you have chosen them.”

Xochitl slowly stood up and placed the oak leaves in the eastern corner of the table. “These leaves represent everything that is new to me here.”
And my promise to reach Graciela no matter the cost,
Xochitl said to herself. “These crumpled tissues,” Xochitl said aloud as she put them in the west, “contain the tears I cried for Graciela and are like water and the west.”

“They also symbolize what you have released to make room for something new,” Nana said gently. She smiled proudly, as if Xochitl had taken some brave steps.

Xochitl shuddered as a surge of sadness threatened to overcome her. She only meant the offering to represent water. She wasn’t thinking of giving up anything; it was exactly the opposite. She wanted to swipe the tissues off the altar, but she knew she couldn’t. Xochitl had done enough work with Nana to know that once magic was set in motion, it could not be reversed. She stared at the western corner of the table. Her fear that the guardians of the west had accepted her offering as a final, irrevocable statement of intention felt stronger than she would have thought possible.

Perhaps she still believed in magic more than she realized.

“Go on,” Nana urged. “It’ll be okay.”

Xochitl’s hand trembled as she looked at the picture of Graciela she had intended to place on the northern corner. “I didn’t mean to say goodbye. I don’t want to say…” Xochitl choked. “I want to talk to her so bad. I can’t let her go. I just can’t.” Tears streamed down Xochitl’s face. Her shoulders shook with emotion.

“That’s why we’re here with you,
mi amor.
” Nana stroked Xochitl’s long dark hair. “We’re here to help each other.”

Fern and Marina both reached out and touched Xochitl on her back. A fresh set of tears fell down Xochitl’s cheeks. With a shaky hand, Xochitl placed the picture in the north without having to explain anything. Why was she being pushed to let go of Graciela? Xochitl couldn’t help wanting to blame Fern and Marina for pressuring her. If it weren’t for them, she wouldn’t be doing this ritual right now. She had to fight to stay in her body and not disappear.

Xochitl held up her copy of
Don Quixote
and placed it in the south. “This represents knowledge and power,” she said flatly and sat down, relieved to be done.

“Fern, please go next,” Rogelia said.

Fern put her Colombian book bag on her lap. She dug out a silken pouch filled with sand, several coffee beans, and a seashell. She stood up and held out the pouch. “This sand is from the Bolsa Chica wetlands, and to me it represents the east because I hope that the near future will bring the total elimination of the construction there,” she said passionately. “The seashell is for the west, and the coffee beans I’m putting on the northern corner because they remind me of my family in Colombia.” Fern extracted the flower from her bag and stared at it for a moment before placing it on the southern corner. “This red flower is for the south because the color reminds me of heat,” she said quickly, then blushed.

“What else does it remind you of?” Rogelia prompted.

Fern didn’t answer at first but rolled her lips inward and pressed them together, as if that would keep her from ratting on herself.

“Fern,” Marina encouraged her.

“Tristán gave me the flower,” Fern admitted. “But I still don’t know if I like him or not.”

“Sure you don’t,” Marina said.

“Well, I’m not sure if I
should,
” Fern said, sitting down on the bed.

“Time will tell,” Rogelia advised. “And last but not least, Marina, please place your items on the altar.”

On the eastern corner Marina placed dog-eared flash cards with Spanish words on one side and English translations on the other. She wrinkled her nose at Fern. “I’m learning Spanish.”

“Good for you,” Fern laughed.

Marina smiled and then placed a gray stone on the western corner. “This is my worry stone. I got it in from the Rio Grande on a vacation to Santa Fe, New Mexico. So it’s from water, and I’m giving up worrying about what other people think. Well, at least I’m going to try.” She put a stack of gift cards on the northern point. “These are all my birthday cards from my Grandpy since I was three, and this blue ribbon”—she placed it on the southern corner—“is a first-place soccer prize. Winning at soccer gives me lots of energy.”

Rogelia surveyed the treasures on the altar table. “I’m very proud of the effort you put into deciding which items to bring to your
limpia
. Now we need to go out to the garden. There will be no talking.” Rogelia dipped her hand into a little bowl from one of her shelves and scooped something out of it.

Rogelia, Xochitl, Fern, and Marina filed through the Garcia house and into the backyard. Like most of the homes in this older part of Santa Ana, the house was small but had a large backyard that extended wide and deep. The Garcias had a huge grass area bordered by kumquat, orange, lemon, grapefruit, peach, and avocado trees.

Corn grew in long rows five feet tall near the back of the yard. Next to the corn, sweet peas clambered over each other against a maple-colored wooden fence. Tomatoes and beans twined themselves over bamboo stakes on the other side of the corn. To the right of the vegetables, beautiful rows of green herbs grew in all shapes and sizes.

Rogelia headed directly for the spiny rosemary plant. “This is called rosemary in English and
romero
in Spanish,” she said. She opened her hand and sprinkled yellowish grain over the rosemary. “This is cornmeal, our offering to the plant. Xochitl, please close your eyes and run your hand over the top of the plant. When your hand feels the heat coming from the plant, break off a sprig.”

Xochitl closed her eyes and allowed her hand to skim the air above the
romero.
She didn’t expect anything to happen. Yet when she moved her hand to the left, her hand felt cold, like she had placed it in snow. But when she moved her hand to the right, it felt warm, like it was near a fire. Lessons with Nana had taught her that magical energy was often warm and tingly.
The difference in temperature could mean anything,
she told herself.
Maybe the sun had a good angle on this side of the plant.

Still, Xochitl reached into the plant where it felt warmest and tried to bend and twist the twig, but it wouldn’t break. A surge of unexpected disappointment came over her.

Why do I even bother?
she thought.

“Now ask permission,” Nana suggested.

“I forgot,” Xochitl said. The first lesson Nana had ever taught her and Graciela was to respect the spirit in every living thing. “May I please have this twig?” She held her hand underneath the plant. Instantly, the twig fell off into her hand without her even touching it.

“Whoa,” Fern whispered. “Did you see that?”

“I don’t believe this,” Xochitl muttered. Baffled, she stared at the
romero
twig in her palm. How was it that magic worked here and now with this little plant but did nothing when it came to bigger matters? A feeling of injustice began to spread through her.

“The branch just dropped into her hand,” Marina said, astonished.

“I meant the eyes!” Fern exclaimed. “I saw eyes in the plant.”

“Did you?” Rogelia inquired. “Can you still see
los ojos
?”

Fern studied the plant. “No. What was it?”

“You saw the plant’s spirit,” Rogelia said.

“The plant has a ghost?” Marina asked.

“No, in this case I mean
las hades. ¿Como se dice en Ingles?
Ah. Fairy. You saw the plant’s fairy,” Rogelia answered.

“Fairies!” Fern shouted. “You mean I just saw a real fairy?”

Who cares about fairies?
Xochitl thought.
I want to see my sister.
It bugged her to think that Fern was so excited by seeing fairies, when she had much more important things going on.