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.

In the end, it was not the ink-slick shadows and echoing, dissonant laughter of San Isidro that broke me. It was not fear that carved my chest open. It was losing her.

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.

The only thing less desirable than the daughter of a traitor was a madwoman.

It was as if the house knew what I had done. That I had gone and tattled on it to its parents, that men with heavy books and heavier senses of self-importance were coming to shake its ill humors loose. And it retaliated.

“You’re a witch,” I breathed. He nodded. Once, solemnly. “But you’re a priest.” “Yes.”

“What are you thinking?” he challenged. “I find it odd that a witch would become a priest,” I said flatly. This answer surprised a bark of laughter from him, its texture low and throaty. “Is there any vocation more natural for a man who hears devils?”

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

“An angel,” he murmured. “Are you an angel?”

That year, a fever had swept through many of the haciendas, seizing children in swift waves. I watched my grandmother tend to the child before her, a censer on the floor beside the cot and an egg in her right hand.

“You,” she said. Her voice was archly matter-of-fact, as unfriendly as it was flat. “You’ve got the Devil’s darkness, don’t you?” “I—I don’t know what you mean,” I stammered, shocked. I crossed myself for good measure. “God forbid.” Her fair eyebrows bobbed once toward her hairline, sardonic. “Don’t lie. I knew it the moment I saw you.”

“Girls feared working in the house, near the patrón, because some of those who did became pregnant. Against their will. When the señora found out, she was furious. She said that she didn’t want him leaving a trail of bastards across the countryside.” Paloma set the heavy lid on the pot with a resounding clang. “She got her wish. She made sure of it.”

A maid fell from there once, he said. I could not speak for shock. Not only had Paloma accused my husband of raping servants, but he and his first wife of murdering them.

days. It was as I feared: the sun had deepened my face. In the capital, I had kept my complexion as fair as I could through hats and avoiding sunlight. I was never as pale as Tía Fernanda’s daughters, nor as Mamá, for even the palest parts of me had a sallow cast. Now, the high points of my face had deepened to light brown, bronzed by sunlight in a way that made my hair look even blacker.

“Perhaps you are a witch, Doña Beatriz.”

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.

“Whatever happened to her, the fact of the matter is that she cannot move on,” Andrés said. There was a sobriety in his voice that brought reality over my shoulders, heavy as a leaden cloak. “Do people often struggle to . . . move on?” I asked. “No.” He lowered his hands, folding them in his lap. His eyes grew distant, lost in thought. “My grandmother had her theories about people who left behind unfinished business, who could not, for whatever reason, let go of their mortal lives. But there are also souls who are confused. Lost. Who need some guidance to find their way. Then there are the spirits who remain tied to this world by their anger.” “Anger?” I repeated. Andrés nodded. “It holds a great deal of energy.” “Why is she so angry?” I wondered aloud.

“Doña Beatriz, we know someone killed her.” “But I didn’t do it,” I cried, gesturing at myself emphatically. “So why torment me?” A vision from the night before flashed before my eyes: the apparition of María Catalina in my dining room, her hellfire eyes fixed on the other end of the table, staring with naked adoration at my husband. Her husband. If I were her, if my husband had remarried and my home been invaded by his new wife . . . wouldn’t I, too, be angry? My thoughts were interrupted by Andrés. “Because she was like that in life,” he spat. “She struck Paloma. Ana Luisa hated her. They all did, because she was cruel and liked seeing people suffer. She—” “Paloma thinks she killed Mariana,” I said softly. “Is that true?”

“This is my fault. It is all my fault. I made her angry. I should never have . . .” He swore a third time. I stared at him, mouth falling open in silent surprise as the pieces fell together in my mind. “She banished you,” I breathed. Banishing Andrés from the land where his family had lived for generations meant separating him from the people he loved and served. I thought of Paloma shyly thanking me for bringing him back—María Catalina had separated him from his family. That was the one thing that could truly spark an anger so powerful it overcame his steadiness.