The Bewitching

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

The people in Paraje de Abedules claimed that the Quirogas were cursed, that a foul monster must have taken Arturo as it had taken Tadeo, and made the sign of the cross when they approached their farm. Her family was becoming infamous, but the reticence of the village people meant they asked few questions about her uncle’s disappearance, and they did not disturb Alba’s peace.

She’d woken to a portent that morning, knowing she’d birth a child. It would be a girl. The townsfolk might declare she was Valentín’s bastard, or a demon’s daughter. Who could tell, with the Quirogas? They were cursed, after all. And her mother might have questions, her eyes still damp with grief, but she’d welcome the baby. Her fingers rested against Valentín’s locket. She’d flung Arturo’s necklace with the single pearl into the river, along with the axe. It would rest there, in the muck, in the dark. Let the water have this present and do what it will with it.

One day, when her daughter was older, Alba would tell her stories about witches and curses, for her own protection. The world, after all, was rife with dangers and traps. To explore it was to venture down a path paved with knives. Yet, as the river demonstrated, there were also chances for beauty and quiet. She brushed her hand up the tree’s trunk, feeling the texture of the bark. “Bless me, Tadeo,” she said, for under the shadow of the tree her brother had perished. Two deaths there, side by side, but the spot where his body had fallen was dotted with yellow wildflowers and the land there had not withered. “Bless me, Valentín,” she said, kissing the locket, for if the dead ever paid any heed to the living, she hoped he would be kind.

With some luck, it wouldn’t be only Betty who would be rescued from the jaws of oblivion; Ginny’s art might also gain recognition. It was, at any rate, the beginning of something.

“You’re not inviting me in for a cup of coffee?” She dragged a hand against the wall of the house, feeling the web of wards wrapped around it, and shook her head. Never. You didn’t invite a witch into your home. And maybe he wasn’t a sorcerer, maybe he was a bored rich kid who had a little time to kill, but she didn’t wish to find out. “I’ve sworn off coffee,” she said. “That’s a pity,” he said, his voice smooth and his smile wide. “See you around sometime.” He walked back to his car and drove off. Minerva remained by the door, staring in the direction in which he’d gone. Would he be trouble, one day? Would she walk into her house and find all her wards defaced? He’d been in her kitchen one time before, and might that render her safeguards useless? She couldn’t tell.

Curses and spells persisted, even in the era of fiber optics and telephones. Atavistic, yes, but not extinct. Maybe Noah wasn’t a warlock, but there might be others. Caution, thus, was the answer. Though, at the same time, one couldn’t live in fear. There was a thesis to finish and a second pumpkin to carve. There were the paths carpeted with leaves that crunched under her boots, the chill of the October evening, and the setting sun painting steeples and roofs golden.

The witches of my great-grandmother’s youth were very different from the witches of our modern pop culture. They were malicious entities who blighted the crops or called forth storms; they sucked the blood of their victims and turned into giant balls of fire. There was even a town inhabited by witches in the mountains where she lived. Such folklore was typical of many central Mexican towns and seemed to mix both European and pre-Hispanic elements. For example, in pre-Hispanic lore witches were “born,” and the day of their birth determined their fate. However, some of the methods for catching or repelling witches included saying the Lord’s Prayer or hanging crosses around a room.

“syncretic,”

New England naturally seems to breed horror writers and left an impression on me.