The Red Witch

laughter came from the kitchen window. “You left her outside with the Red Witch?”

  Elena stared helplessly down at her clothes. She was aflame with humiliation. Her spine slumped as she got up, she fought back the tears, but it was a futile effort. She picked up Chango’s pendant, the pressure of the axe blades pierced into the soft flesh of her fingertips. The sight of it being covered in mud made her cry. Elena scurried into the woods. The shadows cooled the heat of her shame. She couldn’t go home, so she retreated into the darkness.

  As she delved deeper into the woods, the branches seemed to reach out to her. They didn’t grasp menacingly—they lured, stretching out into curling lines to draw her deeper in—the woods no longer appeared familiar. The trees seemed larger, more expansive. It was quieter. Lights from the villa disappeared, as did the music.

  But it should be nearby, she thought. I should at least hear the music. She heard night birds, insects…whispers. Indecipherable, yet familiar. She continued on. She caught her breath, her heart beating painfully, and the black void enveloped her. How can it be so unfamiliar? Where am I going?

  Elena came to a rocky ledge and looked down. A crevice opened up before her, a gaping, miserable maw drew her in. It had secrets to tell. Secrets only for her. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she stepped forward, she couldn’t help but investigate.

  The scent of ancient embers lingered. She had no flashlight, but somehow, she could see into the chasm, which was lit by an unearthly source, like a flame unseen. An old platform, though burned, refused to disintegrate. It had a story to tell. Above the platform was a wooden structure—wide enough to splay a human’s arms to full length. Above the posts, a double-edged battle-axe hung, centered over the platform. As Elena wondered what this was, the battle-axe began to swing back and forth…back and forth…ever so slowly, building up to a steady pace. A pendulum that beckoned. It had a story to tell.

  As Elena leaned in to get a better look, she lost her footing and fell into the chasm. After a flash of pain, her world went black. But her consciousness fell into another place and time.

  The cloak was coarse. Once a bright vermillion, it was now faded and threadbare. She hunched down, hoping to disappear within it. It was cold and dank in the cavern. She was surprised to see how lived-in it seemed. Once a person climbed down the steep, rocky slope, the cavern opened up into a broad space, tall enough for the average man to move comfortably about.

  She wasn’t sure how long she had been imprisoned there, but it was at least three days. Maybe five. Isolated in the darkness, the moisture from the puddles soaking into her clothes, water pooling from the rain that fell since the night of her capture.

  She had been pleading with Chango during a thunderstorm, a time when he was powerful—when her father caught her and insisted she recant. After a terrible argument, she was brought before the priest and accused of witchcraft. Her father said the recent floods were the result of her consorting with them—those who brought her to this pagan religion.

  She knew what it meant to refuse. Executions were common. But she couldn’t bear to give up her newfound beliefs. After listening to the stories of the other gods, it was Chango who spoke to her heart. Her own Catholicism seemed empty, fraught with stringent commands and threats of destruction. She grew tired of being told she was nothing, simply damned. The others—those who served the conquerors, seemed to have richer lives. They loved more, they displayed their affection—they told beautiful and heart-wrenching stories. Her upbringing was a void by comparison. If she had nothing else, she had the courage of her convictions. If she couldn’t have the treasure she had discovered in loving Chango, she was willing to die. She was only fearful of the pain.

  As her very marrow chilled, she began to feel sleepy. The endless dripping water, the occasional falling rock broke into her slipping consciousness. She didn’t hear the Inquisitor lead the priest and his men into the cavern. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her head back, staring her down as though she were a disobedient dog. “Have you chosen to repent?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly.

  She began to hum her favorite devotional song, murmuring the words to soothe her heart and ease the pain. Kabiesile. Your Majesty, Chango. To ask him any questions does not exist.

  Prayers in Latin thundered around her while her father, standing in the group behind the Inquisitor, condemned her to death. As her head tipped back, her eyes rolled up toward the fading light of the gloaming above. As the evening deepened, the men lit torches. The fire’s light hurt her eyes. She took small consolation that the fire was the element of her beloved Chango. She begged for a sign, but all gods had forsaken her as the Inquisitor pressed the torch to her again and again, burning her flesh in wide patches. The cloak melted into her wounds. It was a slow, agonizing death. Once it was done, the men left her there, bound and burned. “It is unconsecrated ground. Let her soul rot here,” the priest said as he led them out of the cavern.

  Later that night, the people who loved her, had taken her in when her own family abandoned her, tracked her down and mourned her. They laid her to rest, and mounted a double-edged battle-axe on the beams above the platform to honor her love of Chango. But the lives of slaves were tumultuous—those who loved her were sold, traded, worn down to death before their time. The woman was forgotten, but the Red Witch was born. Unusual disturbances in the woods gave rise to stories. People began to talk of a red-cloaked spirit, an ethereal nomad, forever lost to all, visible day and night. Every child or animal that wandered off and was lost was blamed on the witch. The stories accumulated over the centuries. Some fantastical, some gruesome, but she was always evil.

  Those who were responsible did not escape the wrath. A vicious storm ruined much of the village days later. The night before the storm struck, the pious knelt and fearfully prayed at the sight of a lunar eclipse. Black shadows obscured the blood-red moon, like a furious eye turning its attention to them.

  No one could ever recall such a fierce storm. Lightning webbed across the sky, and the winds were suffocatingly humid. The thunder was deafening. The former home of the Red Witch was obliterated. As the lightning struck the house, all the horses fled into the darkness and were never seen again. The house burned so hot that few remains were found. The Inquisitor and his men were on their way out of town. A cowardly man at heart, he was frantic when he found himself deep in the wilderness when the storm struck. The horses bolted. His men were spooked by the shadows. They all reported quick-moving flashes of red in the distance. One of the men insisted the girl who bore the child of a slave still lived. They left her too soon. She must have survived and summoned the devil to aid in her vengeance. The Inquisitor called him gullible, but yet…the force of the storm felt supernatural to him, though he’d never admit it. The next day, as the villagers surveyed the storm’s damage, they found the Inquisitor’s body, bound at the wrists by vines between two trees, burned almost beyond recognition. The bones of his followers were scattered at his feet, blackened and still smoldering.

  Elena felt as though she was back in her own body again, but was still elsewhere. She was aware of the dream-like quality of the vision, but she couldn’t escape it. It wasn’t done with her yet.

  She stood on the platform, before a broken figure bound to the crossbeams. The red cloak was blackened. The witch’s head dipped down, the hood covering her features. A voice whispered Elena’s name, and her heart pinched in fear. But…she’s dead…maybe not? What if she’s barely alive? What do I do? Reluctantly, she stepped forward, peering up into the dark hood.

  “Kabiesile,” came the sing-song whisper. “Hail, Your Majesty, Chango. To ask him any questions does not exist.”

  All the words left her as the figure straightened, quick as a striking snake. As the head snapped upward, and the hood fell away, it revealed the familiar face of Aunt Frida. Her skin was covered in grimy soot, her eyes were windows of anguish. “She is me. You are me. She is us, Elena. Our ancestor. The blood of the Red Wit
ch burns in our veins,” Frida said, her voice cracking as she gasped.

  “I’m related to…”

  Elena’s thought was cut short as Frida’s face was replaced in an instant by a younger woman. She had large, brown eyes and a full mouth. Her hair was matted and knotted with singed tangles. “Save my memory,” she begged. “You’re the last of my true family. Help each other. Call on him.” The light in her eyes dimmed and her head lolled downward.

  Elena cried. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you!” She reached up to untie her wrists, and held her as she brought the body down to lie on the platform. “I don’t know what to do…”

  The subsequent crack of thunder that echoed in the cavern was ear-piercing. The rumbling that followed sounded even more ominous underground. A flash of lightning made the cavern a luminous blue. As she knelt above the body of the Red Witch, Elena looked up to see the doubled-edged axe descend, swinging ever more furiously. Chango’s lightning—it destroys and rebuilds.

  As the platform was engulfed in flames, Elena heard a sigh. It is done. Inherit my power and make it yours. The fire rose and swirled around her. It was no longer frightening. The