*****
As she lay in bed, she examined the stolen doll. She saw it in detail like never before. The doll wore a white tunic and a red cloak made of cotton. A cowrie shell was in the center of the cloak, surrounded by tiny white beads sewn as a border. The doll carried a double-edged axe made of a carefully carved cowrie shell, posted on a tiny stick of palm wood.
The doll’s beatific expression reminded her of Frida. Wise, kind, but hiding some secret—a melancholy never spoken. Thunder rumbled in the distance, bearing a message yet to be translated. Elena began to imagine what it must have been like to be Saint Barbara, handed over by her own father and subjected to torture, and beheaded by his sword. Or to be the Red Witch—frightened, tortured, and executed out in the woods just a short walk from Elena’s home.
Where her vivid imagination ended and the nightmare began, it was hard to say, but it felt more like prophecy. She saw slaves dancing with red and white rattles made of gourds, pleading to the thundering sky as lightning snaked in fierce bolts around them. People were crying.
Then in some other land, far away and in another time, a woman was crying in a chamber atop a tall stone tower. She was drowning in sadness as gauntleted hands dragged her down the stone steps and threw her into a horse-drawn cart. Terrified, she was bound on a platform in a public square in a town with small stone buildings. She felt the agony of the whip; she thought she’d die of it. The worst was yet to come. Vinegar was poured on her open wounds. It was like fire without flame. The young woman in Elena’s vision shrieked until her voice gave out.
In the cool of night, relief came as she lay on the stone floor back in her chamber. She prayed to the savior not understood by her father. A light from within was soft and cooling on her skin. The festering injuries stopped hurting and were healed by morning and she praised the Christian God. When her father stormed into the room, she breathed with calm grace. But her faith was new and though not shaken, she feared her father’s approach. He examined the dried blood on the flagstones, cursed her miraculous healing and demanded she renounce the new religion and revert back to the capricious gods she knew didn’t have a care for humanity. She refused. Like a recurring nightmare, the gauntleted hands dragged her down the stairs again.
It was a long ride, but more due to fear than distance. By the time they got to the foothills, she was shivering uncontrollably. The mountain road was rough; they encountered no passersby. He took her to a lookout point where a shrine to the fire god stood. Its arch was blackened, the platform menacingly drenched in old blood. Her wrists were manacled to each side of the arch, her tunic ripped from her so hard that bruises spread across her torso. Her father built a fire, stacking the logs high to increase the heat, and kept the irons in until they glowed. He then charged at her, bearing the irons to sear her flesh. Blinding pain, but not blind enough. The iron was pulled away from her waist, tearing flesh, her own burning stench gagging her. The last thing she saw was her father’s furious eyes as he raised a plain broadsword, his arm sweeping up before falling in a rapacious arc, the fire glinting off the blade…
Elena woke up in the dark, feverish under the covers. Overheated and startled, she stared wildly about her, trying to gain her bearings. She was surprised to wake up in her own bed, the nightmare was so realistic. Lightning flashed, casting shadows along the walls. They seemed to move on their own, stalking and scurrying out of the way. A broadsword swung down, a figure winced and collapsed. Thunder clashed again. Elena was too old to scream like a frightened child, but the urge to do so remained stuck in her throat. Unbidden, a question came to mind: Habría que morir por sus convicciones? Would you die for your convictions?