The Bruja

Every day when he was on the way home from the cane field, he’d see her. She was out there on the tree-shaded porch, her house of swaying grey sun-brittle wood separated from the path by a long stretch of yellow weeds. Tall stalks of volunteer corn hid the way just before her house, and he’d grow anxious before he made that turn, because he knew she was there, waiting, always sitting in the same place, sometimes knitting, sometimes just sitting wearing a rainbow-colored shawl.
When he walked past she would turn her head and follow him as he walked, her small black eyes never leaving him, her head swiveling like a carnival toy on a string as he walked down the path towards the village. She was a bruja, a witch, people said, and he was terribly afraid of her. Tall, dark things hid in her house, things infinitely taller than the flat tin roof, held down by cinder blocks.
Then one day he walked by on his way home and she wasn’t there. She was absent from the porch. On the way to the cane fields she was always somewhere other than the porch. But in the long shadows of the afternoon, there she was, it had always been that way.
The next morning he thought about it on the way to the cane fields and he was cutting cane with Manuel, who lived in the same village as he, and mentioned this strange thing.
“Yes, I noticed it too,” Manuel said.
“It’s very strange.”
“Yes, Pablo. Someone must go to the house and look in on her, and make sure she is well.”
He shrugged.
“Yes Manuel,” he admitted. “Someone must go and look in on her tomorrow, if she is not there again today.”
“No, Pablo. Someone must go and look in on her today. What if she is sick or hurt, or has fallen ill and cannot leave her bed? It is the Christian thing to do.”
“Yes Manuel, but if what they say about her is true, then she is not deserving of the treatment one would give a good neighbor.”
“True, Pablo, but one must not listen to idle gossip. It poisons your heart and ruins good fellowship.”
“I admit, I do not want to go, and I fear the woman and her works are evil.”
“I also do not want to go. We will flip a coin, Pablo, and let chance decide which one of us gets this opportunity to be a good Samaritan.”
As Manuel pulled a peso out of his pocket, Pablo held out his hands to stop him.
“Manuel, to gamble is unchristian. Who in the gospels gambled? Truly, it was the Roman soldiers who cast lots for the robe of our savior! For a deed to be good, it must be volunteered.”
“My brother in Christ!” Manuel beamed and warmly shook Pablo’s hand. “You are a giant of a man. What you say is true, and I admire you for taking on this burden! When you get back to the village tonight, come to my home and we will pray for the woman, whatever her condition!”
Pablo smiled weakly. His plan had backfired. Manuel was cunning.
“Swear to me you will go!” Manuel demanded.
“I swear I will go,” Pablo groaned.
“On what do you swear?”
“I swear that if to this woman’s house I do not go, may the devil haunt me and give me 6 years of mal suerte.”
“What else?”
“I swear that if to this woman’s house I do not go, may I drown in a river so my body is never found.”
“Very good. And once more?”
“I swear that if to this woman’s house I do not go, may I go blind before the year is done.”
“How about another for good measure?”
“Manuel! I should not swear at all, for does it not say in the gospel, ‘do not swear, but let your yes mean yes, and also your no mean no’?”
“Por dios! Let it never be said that you neglect your studies of God’s word, Pablo. Only remember your yes means yes.”
Manuel left before Pablo that day. He said he had to go look in on his young son, just a few months old, and disappeared down the sun-drenched path, swinging his machete loosely from side to side, rattling the dried maize stalks.
Pablo left soon after, and as large purple rainclouds gathered overhead in the late afternoon, the weather seemed to reflect the dark forbodings in his mind. He walked down the path away from the cane fields, images of veiny-armed demons and serpentine worms curving through his mind. Past the door of the hut was a world of terrors, walls covered with maggots, freezing winds swirling around, and the woman, her ancient face with a thousand canyons sun cracked crevasses where the crone world of death-womb came and dwelled, the nightmare earth, endless pesadilla.
Pablo prayed that when he rounded the corner and came out of the maize and looked on her house, she’d be sitting there, staring at him like she had hundreds of times before. He looked up past the dried stalks of maize and saw the dark moon of the sun nearly obscured behind the clouds. Fat drops of rain hit his hat brim.
He came around the turn. Sure enough, the old woman wasn’t there. The porch was vacant, only wind blowing some pagan trinkets hanging on string under the tin verandah, handmade prayers to nearly forgotten gods whose potency still was cause for horror.
Pablo crossed himself and prayed to his savior. He rushed towards the village, out of sight of the house. He prayed that he’d be forgiven for breaking his word today. Tomorrow, if the woman wasn’t there, he would look in on her.