The Bewitching

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Back then, when I was a young woman, there were still witches. That was what Nana Alba used to say when she told Minerva bedtime stories; it was the preamble that led into a realm of shadows and mysteries.

Could someone plateau at twenty-four? Could your brain shrink? She felt tired and listless all the time. Often, she was sad for no reason.

The stories contradicted one another as all good oral narratives must.

Devil or not, Briar’s Commons had served as the inspiration for The Vanishing, so it had some artistic merit. She’d felt giddy the first time she looked out the window and saw it, recognizing it from Tremblay’s novel.

Minerva’s original plan had been to dig into the autobiographical elements in The Vanishing and tie it all together in an essay with the context of New England’s history and folklore.

On the night of the new moon evil witches liked to dance against the treetops; that was what her great-grandmother used to say. They’d slip out of their human skins and grow wings, turn into balls of light, and cavort in the sky. The teyolloquani, the most fearsome of all, drank the blood of their victims and ate their hearts.

That’s what their name means, “heart eater,” Nana Alba had said. Listen, this story, you should hear it and learn how to fight them. About how to know them. Know the signs. A true witch is born, the day of their birth marks their path.

Yes, when I think of it, it must have all started during the Halloween Ball, even before the séance. That was when I spotted that terrible darkness in Virginia’s eyes. The seeds of tragedy had taken root by then.

I think we were all terrified children attempting to shield ourselves from true horror, and that we recognized the indications of a great evil, a terrible darkness, stretching out like a gnarled, clawed hand that scratched the back of our necks.

“Some people have a good ear for instruments, others can run fast. We are born with certain quirks in our souls and in our bodies.”

In the end, I had not believed her, despite my steadfast promises. In the end, I left her to face that terrible, hungry darkness on her own.

“An apotropaic mark, also called a witch mark, is a symbol or pattern scratched on the walls of a building to protect it from evil spirits. The word ‘apotropaic’ comes from the Greek word for ‘averting evil.’

Yet his frenetic energy was different from his anger, and this strain of darkness, of sharp rage that spiked beneath the notes, was not something she enjoyed.

It’s funny being raised by old people. The thing they talk about is the past. How good it was, how much they miss it. I guess that’s why I liked it when Betty would come over and talk to my grandfather.

“Maybe they felt they had to tell them. That it would be dangerous if they were forgotten,” she said, and thought about her great-grandmother in her last few days, rambling about Piedras Quebradas. An old secret, whispered in Minerva’s ear. The ending to a story she’d never fully told before.

“Every fairy tale has a message hidden in it, a moral that you’ll figure out. Maybe not,” Minerva said, tracing a knot in the wooden surface of the table.

“The romance of it. It’s as if you’re conducting a secret, passionate love affair. You know every detail about someone, their every word and thought. When you look at their writing, you swoon over a sentence fragment or a turn of phrase. It’s as if, through the mists of time, someone reaches out and touches your hand.”

Above her heart there was a cut, as if she’d nicked herself with a knife. The skin around the cut was bruised and purplish. Alba leaned forward, her fingers brushing the cut and pressing down on it.

Time is a treacherous mistress. In our youth it flows slow and deep; the days stretch out endlessly. When we are children, a summer lasts for a century. As we age, the flow of time speeds up. Suddenly, a year vanishes with the snap of one’s fingers. How quickly time eludes us, how easily it tricks us.

The witch would be destroyed. She’d kill it, even if she had to vanquish it all alone, all by herself. To do anything else would not only be cowardice, it would also be the most terrible betrayal of the memory of Valentín and of her brother, both of whom had perished at the hands of a monster.

“Each day I feel an evil, like an invisible noose around my neck, tightening an inch,” she said, and held both hands up, placing them around her throat. “Something terrible is chasing after me. It’s magic. I’m under a spell and can’t escape it. I don’t know who cast it. If I knew…I’ve asked my mother, but she can’t see, and I’m afraid…but if I don’t discover the answer soon, it’ll be too late.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll pay for your room and board in the fall, plus living expenses. That way you don’t have to be working two jobs and can focus on your thesis,” Carolyn said breezily.

I’ve done it before, for other young people of limited means. But you must promise to focus on your work. I know how difficult it can be to bring a project to fruition. All the long months and uncertainties piling up around you.

It sounded like Tadeo, it did, but witches always tried to trick you. Her brother was dead, Valentín was dead, and this fiend was not her kin. She shook her head.

He’d been wrapped in black magic and transformed, turned into a horrid beast that the witch could command. Alba had been tricked.

She grabbed the pistol and pointed it straight at the woman’s face. “My uncle is no warlock, you liar.” “You don’t believe me? Set a test for him. Place a flower against his lips while he sleeps, watch it wilt.”

There was the arrogance he’d always possessed, but now she saw something else. Power. Raw, heady. She could almost taste the magic upon her tongue.

Magic wasn’t about powders or birds, like that witch had explained. It was more than the mechanical repetition or a list of ingredients. She’d undone any magic, canceled any wards that might have kept him away, because she’d wanted Arturo close to her.

There were never any satisfactory answers, or there were, perhaps, too many to be able to glimpse the truth. A mystery is the most seductive of poisons; it intoxicates the soul.

She didn’t trust anybody. The world had gone mad and she was attempting to make sense of it, to piece together answers.

The name that Beatrice Tremblay had longed to know and never suspected. It was a familiar name. “Wingrave,” Minerva said, reading the piece of paper.

Carolyn stood outside the doorway. She was wearing one of her expensive turbans and a long, dark blue coat with a huge fox-fur collar that completely hid her neck. The woman parted her crimson lips and gave her a smile. Her teeth seemed blindingly white, and dangerously sharp. It was the grin of a predator, of a creature of abyssal depths.

“She had the ability, she spoke with ghosts. Oh, you can cast a spell with the blood of any old fool, but the blood of someone with the ability, that is precious. It’s like wine. There are simply wonderful vintages and then you have your cheap table wine. Anyway, we needed her blood, needed the power. My father’s business was failing.”