The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (22 page)

“Now, what exactly is she supposed to have done?” he asked.

“This woman is accused of practicing the dark arts,” Drew Goodson, the prosecutor, spit out.

“I know that. But what exactly has she done to warrant such a preposterous accusation?”

Drew’s Adams apple bobbed at the word, preposterous. He wiped the sweat from his hands onto his shiny black suit. He lifted his hands to hair slicked back with oil. He patted the sides of his hair then, placing a hand on each side of his open jacket, struck a serious pose. “Judge,” he boomed with great passion, “Over the centuries in New Mexico, witches were condemned to serve Christians. They were whipped, sentenced to years of hard labor in ankle-chains, or executed…”

A voice interrupted, coming from the balcony, where the native Hispanos were gathered. “In 1626, the Spanish Inquisition was established here in New Mexico, and witches were burned, just as witches were burned in the Salem Witch Trials back East, Patrón.”

Samuel lifted his head to the balcony and locked eyes with Pacheco Sandoval.

Pacheco simply nodded his head in acknowledgment. He was in his element, cockily surrounded by all his followers. He spoke, with inflated importance. “For 200 years, before New Mexico became an American territory, the city dwellers and farmers filed charges of brujería before both the Spanish and Mexican governments. The complaints of the villagers were taken seriously then. The people could depend on the justice of their government and patróns.”

The villagers gathered in the courtroom murmured their agreement with Pacheco.

“I don’t need a history lesson, Sandoval,” Samuel snapped, “and you’re…”

“Pacheco’s right,” Goodson said. “Troops were even dispatched to burn out nests of witches and destroy tokens of witchcraft. Records exist today in Santa Fe, which prove for centuries in New Mexico witches were lawfully hung.”

“That may be, but this is neither Spain nor Mexico. In the United States of America, citizens are not burned nor hung for witchcraft anymore.”

There was a curse in the court room, and Samuel looked up to where the cussing came from. The crowd at the top was all seated, except for one man. Looking down on Samuel and clenching the banister, was Pacheco.

“The arrogant American government can believe what it wants about superstition and brujería,” he said, “But the people who live in the villages of New Mexico know what we witness with our very own eyes. A witch is like
a plague infesting a village. The community must ban together to protect its citizens.”

Samuel looked straight at Pacheco and continued his speech. “Furthermore, America is not barbaric nor is the Spanish Inquisition still ruling New Mexico.” With a challenging smile, he lifted an eyebrow at Pacheco.

In answer, Pacheco narrowed his eyes at him, muttering beneath his breath.

“I will not tolerate speaking out of line in my court room, do you understand? Any man who does so will be found in contempt.”

His face flushed red. He started to move towards the stairs, but the Penitentes held him back.

Samuel looked back at the prosecutor. “Who is this young woman’s accuser?”

A grey-haired, broad hipped, froggy-looking woman stepped forward. Her eyes were swollen and red. “I am,” she said, sniffling.

Samuel sighed. The last thing he needed was to deal with a hysterical woman. Hysterics never led to reason. “And you are?”

“Mrs. John Gelford.”

“What has she done to you, Mrs. Gelford?”

“Salia Esperanza murdered my husband, John Gelford. You are short one miner because of her. John was a good worker.”

Samuel looked back at her with a blank face. He knew most of the men in Madrid worked for him, but he knew very few of their names, other than Shifty, Dyer, Hughes, a couple of others who managed his businesses, and the ones who played on his baseball team. As for the others exiting the mine with coal-black faces at the end of the day, well, they all looked alike.

She sobbed uncontrollably into a lace handkerchief.

He didn’t know what to do. To say he knew her husband, and he felt sorry John Gelford died would be lying, and Samuel had never been a good liar, nor had he ever been good at comfort, other than seeing to his own.

He pounded the desk with a gavel. “I won’t have any display of feminine vapors in my court room,” he warned in a stern voice. “Pull yourself together, Mrs. Gelford, so we can get on with this trial. I’d like to catch the 3:00 back to Albuquerque.”

At the word, Albuquerque, Salia stirred, lifting her head slightly. Between strands of hair she examined this gringo, this Samuel Stuwart who left
Drew Goodson tongue-tied, the albino, Whitie Smithson, green in the face and most importantly, had put Pacheco in his place.

The patrón had dark-brown hair and dark-blue eyes. Long sideburns covered the sides of his well-manicured face. As expected for a rich man, his nails were clean and his navy blue suit expensive. He had a patrician nose and strong jaw. He was rugged looking, with broad shoulders and an arrogant look to his light-skinned face. His voice was masculine and deep.

She shrugged her shoulders, dismissing him. As far as men went, she supposed he wasn’t bad looking.

Samuel spun his head to Salia. “Is this true? What this woman says?”

Silence.

“I’m talking to you, young woman.”

“Don’t look her directly in the eye, Judge,” Drew yelled. “Be careful!”

“You’re making a fool of yourself, Goodson,” Samuel said, frowning.

“Never look a witch in the eye,” he mumbled.

He snorted, turning his head to Salia.

She rose to her feet, rocking slightly on her injured leg. She arched her back and breathed heavily, letting out an audible sigh. She slowly lifted her head. She tossed back her hair and fully exposed her face, staring back at Samuel with glittering, blue-grey eyes, framed by thick black lashes.

He sucked in his breath, clutching the desk with white fingers. Her beauty was the thing poets write about. Before he had taken ill with tuberculosis, he had been a world traveler and met many beautiful women, but none of them could compare to this young woman.

“Address me as Miss Esperanza, then I shall answer you,” she said with a slight, Aristocratic Spanish accent which seemed to sing in his ear.

“Very well, Miss Esperanza, what of Mr. Gelford?” he said, gritting his teeth.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if Mr. Gelford was a good worker or a bad worker. I do not work in your mine, Patrón. Unlike the rest of Madrid, I am not dependent on you. You do not own me.” And the look on her face told him that he never could own her.

He fought the urge to fly across the desk, and slap her. This girl. This woman was no more than a bratty child. He snarled at her, “Did you kill Mr. Gelford?”

“I did not. His wife killed him.” She turned and smiled sweetly at Mrs. Gelford.

Mrs. Gelford threw up her hands, screaming.

Samuel threw up his own hands. “You,” he pointed at Mrs. Gelford. “Shut up. And you, Miss Esperanza, get that damned grin off of your face. Do not mock my court room.”

She raised one eyebrow.

His heart skipped a beat. He felt a reluctant admiration for her courage. Unlike Mrs. Gelford, shivering with fright, Salia acted unafraid of him. He was a man who inspired fear because of the power he exuded, not just because of his money, but due to his commanding presence.

He had to literally drag his eyes away from her and clear his head. He coughed. “Now, Mrs. Gelford, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I loved Mr. Gelford. Salia Esperanza is wicked. Wicked, I tell you. She deserves to be punished for the evil she’s done to my John.”

“This loving wife,” Salia spat, “Owes me money. This farce of a trial is so she does not have to pay me.”

“What does she owe you money for?” Samuel said, frowning.

“I read her chili seeds and told her she would be a wealthy widow.”

“You lied! I am still poor, only worse off now that John is dead. What shall I do? What shall I do?” She cried into her handkerchief. “Oh, God, what shall I do?”

“You’ll pay me the money you owe me, cheater! Or you’ll need more than God to help you.”

She threw her handkerchief in the air and screeched like a banshee.

Samuel pounded his gavel. “Order. Order in the court room. I won’t have you using that kind of language, Miss Esperanza. Try to act like a lady. Try.”

There was total silence in the courtroom, except for Salia whistling faintly.

Samuel scratched his head and looked down at the desk to keep from laughing out loud.
Chili seeds? She was merely a fortune teller who got caught at her own game.
“How did your husband die?” he asked, covering his mouth with his fist to hide his grin. He felt no compassion for her or her husband, but it would never do to laugh in her face.

“Mr. Gelford died of lack of affection,” Salia said.

“I was talking to Mrs. Gelford. You will speak only when spoken to, Miss Esperanza. The law is no laughing matter.” His eyes belied his harsh tone of voice, his eyes sparkling at the girl’s spunk and wit.

“Okay, most honorable, Patrón,” she sang back mockingly.

He narrowed his eyes, and she lowered her eyes demurely to the floor.
Trying to act like a lady would be a stretch for her,
he thought, wondering when she lost her virginity, and how many had been with her since. Maybe telling fortunes was just a sideline, and she earned her living in the oldest manner, with her charm, her wiles, her beauty, and that peach between her legs. Men would pay a lot to see her naked beauty, her skirt hiked high above her hips, her other peachy leg wrapped around his waist. A man would pay a fortune to take a bite out of her peach.

He was confused by conflicting emotions and felt like hurling the gavel at Salia. He dragged his eyes away from her bouncing copper-red hair. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Gelford, how did your husband die? Tell the truth.”

“Oh, Judge, my John had a terrible fever. He tossed and turned in his bed at night, dampening the sheet with his sweat. He soiled himself with the runs. He was wheezing so, that he couldn’t breathe. He complained his chest felt like he was buried alive, and there was no oxygen. I called to him, ‘John, John,’ but he couldn’t hear me none, like he had gone pure deaf. ‘My joints is hurting. My joints is hurting all over,’ he cried. He coughed up lots of blood. In the morning, he was dead,” she said, her shoulders shaking with tears.

Samuel shuttered, rubbing his forehead. “Mrs. Gelford,” he said in exasperation, “One quarter of Albuquerque’s population has the symptoms you describe. Tuberculosis is a deadly disease which usually kills its victim, if he does not seek treatment. You cannot irresponsibly go around accusing someone of causing your husband’s death, like it was some hocus pocus, unexplained phenomenon.”

“She was my husband’s lover,” she screeched, pointing a finger at Salia.

At last, Samuel had got to the heart of this witch hunt—a lover’s triangle. The thought crossed his mind that Mr. Gelford must have died a happy man.

Salia merely blinked her eyes at him.

He thought that her face, looking so innocent and young, must have been etched in some alley.

On second thought, Mr. Gelford must have lived a life of hell, if this wild thing had been his lover. He frowned, thinking there must have been quite an age difference between the two of them. The image of this young girl, lying naked in the arms of the faceless Mr. Gelford, infuriated him. He pictured her with her fiery hair spread out on the pillow, her naked body twisting wildly beneath…

“I am no man’s lover,” she said, spitting on the floor.

Samuel looked at her and swallowed, licking his lips.
Was the girl telling the truth? Was she still a virgin?
With a shaky hand, he raised a glass of water to his lips and drank. He wiped his forehead, feeling like he was burning up.

“They say, Miss Esperanza that you can transform into a coyote” he said.

She laughed, tossing her head. “Everyone in Madrid knows that I am a coyote. My father was Santo Domingo Pueblo Indian and my mother pure Spanish. Coy-o-te,” and she pronounced the word in Spanish, “Means half-breed. The good people of Madrid have called me a coyote,” and she said this with a slur, “Since I was a little girl.”

“Are there any other accusations against Miss Esperanza?” he asked.

“Yes,” a voice boomed from above.

He looked up at Pacheco.

“Julio Dominguez refused to serve Salia coffee at the restaurant.”

“That sounds to me like an insult to Miss Esperanza.”

“Julio is now lame.”

“Must surely be a coincidence.”

“She called a pack of coyotes to the jail yesterday, ordering them to kill Jimmy Flanagan.”

Samuel sighed heavily.
Coyotes taking orders from a girl.
He pounded the desk with the gavel. “The charges against Salia Esperanza are dropped. Whitie, unbound her wrists. She’s free to go.”

Pacheco pounded the banister with his fists, and Samuel glared up at him. “Do you have anything more to say, Sandoval?”