The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (39 page)

She felt static electricity around her ankles from the animal’s fur rubbing against her, and oddly, caressing her.

The creature jumped in front of her and was now running to her left. The outline of the animal appeared ghostly. The creature was headed towards the balls of fire.

She released her breath in a rush and almost fainted from the feeling of light-headedness. The creature had only been playing with her.

She sobbed with both despair and happiness.
I thought they wanted the baby
. She rubbed the silver medal hanging on her chest. “Thank you, San Benito.”

Her happiness was short lived as she looked around for the lantern. Juan will be angry. The lantern probably rolled down the hill.

“It’s okay, son,” she said, patting her stomach. “We’ll brave the wrath of your papa. Better that than…”

At Witch Hill the lights appeared even brighter than before. More joined the circle. As the evening grew later, it was to be expected. The Sisterhood of the Black Rose was gathering with La Llorona at their head.

She swung open the double church gates leading into the courtyard. She tiptoed so as not to disturb the monks buried in front of the church. Rows of wooden crosses poked up from the hard earth.

With both hands, she tugged at the church door that was twice her height.

The door creaked loudly, causing her to cringe. Diego refused to oil the door so no one could sneak into mass. Then out of guilt, the late ones drop more coins into the basket and make a great noise so all the neighbors will know atonement has been made for laziness.

Even though she was late for mass, she felt safe for the first time since her nightmare. She was in the church of San Cirilio, the adobe walls armed with saints.

She curtsied and dipped her hand in a bowl of holy water. Her brother was negligent. The well was dry.

Nonetheless, she sketched an invisible cross over her stomach and across her forehead. She then opened a wide wooden door, elaborately carved with depictions of saints. In the center of the door was a carving of San Cirilio. This inner door also creaked, and she almost let a cuss word pass her lips

All her efforts to sneak into mass were needless.
Where is everybody
, she thought with dismay.

There were no groans coming from the wooden, unpadded pews that skinned knees as easily as if legs were celery stalks. Candlelight caused the shadows of the colorfully painted saints, hanging from the adobe walls, to appear like demons.

She crossed herself.
How can I even think the saints look like demons? Now I have even more to tell Diego at my next confession and beg his forgiveness
.

But, what has happened?
Until tonight, Diego never failed to stand at high mass with his back to the people and his arms raised high.

Hoot. Hoot.

She screeched because an orange owl perched on the wooden beard of the life-sized Jesus Christ nailed to a cross behind the altar.

The presence of an owl always meant death.

Drops of blood dripped from the side of Christ, the side which was pierced with a spear by a Roman soldier. Drops of blood splattered against the floor, while a single tear splashed against her cheek. She closed her eyes, imagining she could feel His pain.

She opened her eyes and wiped the tear from her cheek, and nearly fainted dead away, because standing before the altar was a bride, dressed in black, with a spidery wedding veil draped across a back so thin, shoulder blades poked out. The woman was a tiny wisp of a thing. Her shoulders shook with sobs.

Ah
, Marcelina thought, s
he, too, must feel His pain
.

There was something eerily familiar about her. Odd, that the bride’s hair was white.

The bride turned to her and smiled maliciously. She was old and hideous, but what made Marcelina gag was the black rose in her hair.
La Llorona!

The witch opened her arms and sang like a siren, “Marcelina, Marcelina, come to me.”

Marcelina backed slowly towards the door.

50

L
a Llorona floated towards Marcelina.

Outside the church, the wind howled, echoing through the cracks of the walls, mingling with La Llorona’s screams. Veins of blood seeped through the cracks and crept down the walls.

On a painting of the second Station of the Cross, Jesus carried a cross over his shoulder, his sandals now walking in blood.

Marcelina clutched the rosary in her skirt pocket. “I…won’t…let you… take my baby,” she said in a choppy voice.

In the distance, she heard the coyote howling.

La Llorona continued to move forward, rocking her arms as if she held an infant.

She rolled the first rosary bead between her fingertips. “Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, I beseech thee…do not turn your ear away from my prayers.”

In answer came a thundering noise, like chopping wood.

Marcelina dropped her rosary and cuffed her hands to her ears.

The cross behind the altar swayed like a tree on a blustery day, the wood straining, as if the cross was about to fall.

La Llorona kept walking towards her, swaying her hips and rocking her arms.

The sound of chopping wood stopped. At the cross behind the altar, the head of Jesus twisted and landed on one shoulder, slowly separating from the wooden neck, yet she could hear the sound of tearing skin.

The head dropped to the floor and bounced, rolling beneath the altar.

On the table of the altar was a silver tray, which normally held the hosts and wine. The tray spun, and then lifted into the air, floating towards her. On the tray was now the head of Jesus. A crown of thorns was dug into His head, blood trickling down His cheek. A single teardrop formed at the corner of His closed eye.

The Head of the Church is heartbroken. He has no body. For the love of God, where are all the people? Why has everyone deserted Him
, she thought.

The tray went crashing to the floor and Marcelina screamed. There. Between her legs. Liquid. Her placenta. Her water broke.

She placed a hand on her flat stomach and looked down at the barren floor.
Where is my son?

La Llorona cooed to a baby wrapped in the tail of her veil. The child kicked its strong legs and thrashed its arms about.

She reached out her hands to La Llorona.

She snarled at her.

“Give me my baby,” she pleaded.

La Llorona beckoned her with a skeletal finger to come forward.

She cautiously approached the witch so she wouldn’t frighten her into vanishing. She’d never find her baby then. La Llorona would take the child to the Rio Grande. The baby would sink beneath the mud, and she would never find the grave.

La Llorona smiled, pulled back her veil, and exposed the naked child.

It was a boy!

Who no longer kicked his legs, the tiny arms hanging limp, and ashen-grey in color.

No. Oh, no. Not again!
Marcelina sobbed, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

La Llorona opened a bag slung across her arm. There were five babies, the children Marcelina had lost.

She’s unburied them
.

The bag was bulging. Marcelina knew what was at the bottom, and she placed a hand to her empty female organs.
She’s taken all my eggs. My future children. She has them all
.

She reached out her arms, beseeching La Llorona.

Something tapped against her back, and she jumped in the air and screamed.

“Marcelina, Marcelina,” a voice sang out.

The witch snuck behind her and was about to take off with all her eggs.

“No,” she screamed and spun.

And faced her neighbor Little Maria, who had sometimes been her alibi, when she played with Salia. Little Maria was no longer little, having grown even fatter from four children. She was married to Jose Chavez, the little boy she used to beat up on, the husband she still beat to a pulp sometimes.

“You look upset,” Little Maria said. She was the biggest gossip in Madrid and in her eyes was a cunning look as she examined Marcelina. She grinned, and her brown apple cheeks hid the stems of her eyes. Her skin was discolored, giving her the look of a rotted apple. Whenever Little Maria opened her mouth, gossip worms usually wiggled from her lips.

Marcelina gave her a look of dismay. She swung her head to the altar, but La Llorona had vanished. She dropped to her hands and knees, running her hands over the floor.

Nothing. No pools of blood.

Little Maria tried to bend over to see what she was looking at, but her stomach got in the way. “What are you doing?”

She looked around the church. Except for the fact that the building was deserted, all was as it should be.

Gone was the blood on the crucifix. The figure of Jesus was no longer beheaded. He looked down at Marcelina with pity.

The silver platter was on the altar.

The owl had flown its stoop.

The walls of the church were no longer blood-splattered.

The only thing still appearing supernatural was the candlelight bouncing off the ceiling, causing the shadows of the saints hanging on the walls to move like ghosts.

“When’s your baby due?” Little Maria said.

She looked down and there was her child, still nestled within her womb. She flung her arms around her stomach and swayed on her knees.
It’s Tezcatlipoca. He’s still playing with my mind, making me loco, even in church
.

“What’s wrong?” Little Maria was nose to nose with her now and staring at her with more than curiosity. She was so close, Marcelina could smell her sweat.

She fluttered her eyes and holding onto Little Maria’s arm for support, rose to her feet. She tried to make her voice sound natural. “My, you gave me a scare.” She took a deep breath. “Where is everybody? Where is Padre Rodriguez?”

Little Maria giggled and her moustache wiggled. “Everyone is at the barbecue. Mass has been canceled so everyone can party.”

“Barbecue?”

She clapped her hands, but made very little noise because of her fat. “The village of Madrid is roasting a bruja tonight.”

“Salia Esperanza…” The name came from between her lips, like a remembered heartache. “…At the bottom of Witch Hill…,” she wheezed. So, that’s why she had seen the coyote. Salia had been reaching out to her.

She swayed and Little Maria helped her to a pew so she could sit.

“Hold your head between your knees, so you don’t faint. I suppose in your condition, everything is a shock. The witch won’t come out so they’re going to have to burn Salia’s house.”

“The Big House,” she said in surprise.

“No. Salia moved out when the patrón was murdered.”

“She couldn’t stand it there without him,” she said softly. “Too many memories.”

Little Maria scoffed. “Most likely she wanted to be with the memories of her mother and grandmother. It’s the house at the bottom of Witch Hill that will burn. The villagers have the bruja trapped inside.”

She grabbed Little Maria’s collar, uncaring that her voice sounded frantic, echoing around the walls of the empty church. “Are you sure about them burning Salia? I saw balls of fire. Perhaps it’s the beginning of a sabbat, a witches’ assembly.”

“You always have had quite the imagination, Marcelina. You probably saw the torches of the villagers. Anyway, tonight is Thursday, which means the sabbat is tomorrow.”

“If this was a Tuesday or Friday night, neither you nor I would venture out, even for mass.”

“That’s true because on Tuesdays and Fridays a witch’s power is the strongest so, they must kill Salia tonight. Tomorrow would be impossible and too dangerous for the villagers.”

They must kill Salia tonight
. She paled at this thought.

“Come. Let us go see the fun.” Little Maria held her chubby hands out to her.

Marcelina swallowed. “I can’t imagine what could possibly be fun about a witch burning.”

Little Maria put her hands on her hips, scowling. “We don’t want to be the only ones in Madrid who miss the spectacle of seeing Salia Esperanza burn.”

“Her name is now Stuwart,” she reminded her. “Salia Esperanza Stuwart. Her name should count for something. She is the patrón’s widow. Her son is his heir, which means she probably owns the whole village.”

“Yes, Salia did lord it over us all, didn’t she? With her fancy clothes, servants, and big house. The famous opera singer. What good do the patrón’s money and her fame do her now? I, personally, would have preferred to stone her, which would be more fun.”

She closed her eyes, tasting the bitter tinge of bile. In her mind, she could see a skinny girl with black and blue legs. Oh, yes, Salia had been stoned before. By Pacheco.

The sins of the mother are visited upon the daughter. Marcelina could have used this excuse for her many times in the past, but Salia had grown up since then.