The Hacienda

by Isabel Cañas

It is said that mortal life is empty without the love of God. That the ache of loneliness’s wounds is assuaged by obedience to Him, for in serving God we encounter perfect love and are made whole. But if God is the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, if He is three in one in the Trinity, then God knows nothing of loneliness.

God knows nothing of loneliness, because God has never tasted companionship as mortals do: clinging to one another in darkness so complete and sharp it scrapes flesh from bone, trusting one another even as the Devil’s breath blooms hot on their napes.

God knows nothing of being alone. Alone is kneeling in dust, gazing at an empty horizon.

Industry will rise and fall, men will scorch the earth and slaughter one another for emperors or republics, but they will always want drink.

Fate had been unkind to me, but sometimes, its pettiness worked in my favor.

I wanted to cup a room in my palm, to tell it to be still, to tell it to hush.

Our relationship was founded on one thing and one thing only: my world was a dark, windowless room, and he was a door.

I sacrificed that dream because survival was more important than being lonely.

To be unpopular with the conservative criollo hacendados, those who clung to their wealth and the monarchy, meant that Rodolfo was sympathetic to the insurgents and independence.

“Go ahead, if you wish,” I said. “To market or to see friends. I need some time. Today would be my father’s birthday,” I added. My father’s birthday was in April, but no one knew that. Not even Rodolfo.

Should is an oddly powerful word. Shame and anger have a way of flying to it like coins to lodestone.

The house, it, she—she was no longer within the walls. Was no longer the cold, the cries of Juana’s name, nor even the winking red eyes. She was the darkness.

“Doctors aren’t witches,” he said. “Can’t fix broken witches.”

“I am at the end of my rope.” Rodolfo’s voice carried easily into the parlor. “So hang yourself with it,” Juana spat.

When a man makes a promise, he makes it on his honor. When a witch makes a promise, they feel it in their bones. Titi believed words are power: they may lay your destiny in stone or shatter a legacy altogether. Words can damn or bless in equal measure, and are never to be used lightly.