Page 45 of The Hacienda
“I call on the Youth, the resurrected lord of smoke and night, guardian of witches and nahuales. Teacher of those who will listen, brother of those reborn on new moons. Guide us through the night. Give us tongue to speak to those whom the lord of the underworld has misplaced, that we may set them on the right path.”
The smoke around us began to move.
He had warned me that the copal would dance. I was to stay still, to keep my gaze on Andrés and focus my will on him. To not look at the shapes the smoke might take. In my peripheral vision, I caught the sleek movement of a puma’s prowl, the beating wings of a screech owl.
But I kept my focus on Andrés. On the movement of his throat as he spoke, on the gentle beat of his pulse. I focused on breathing in time with him.
This was it. If I followed his instructions perfectly, this would be the end of the sickness of San Isidro. The end of the rot in its walls, the poison in its darkness.
Andrés’s prayer finished. The swirling shadows around the periphery of the circle faded; a silence profound as the cool depths of a well settled over the room.
“Very good,” Andrés whispered. I raised my eyes and met his. My thumb was still against his pulse. He was calm; I was not, but I was in his hands. He knew what he was doing. He had cured many houses of inhabitants who had overstayed their welcomes, and while this house had taken him off guard the other night, he was now prepared.
“Step back,” he said. I lowered my hand from this throat and obeyed. “Whatever happens, do not leave the circle,” he added, his voice a low rasp as he spread his arms wide, his palms facing upward.
I nodded. He had explained this as well: the power of the circle drew from our intent and from the circular movement of Andrés’s prayers around us, unbroken, constant. This circle itself was a doorway. A path. For whatever plagued San Isidro to be spirited away from here, away from Apan, toward whatever awaited it beyond.
A soft cooing noise lilted down from the ceiling, but it was drowned out by Andrés as he closed his eyes and began a new prayer, one that harnessed the gravelly undertones of his voice and roughened it.
The rich timbre of his voice and of the words he recited slipped into my body, twining around my ribs and spine like vines, like roots, firm and strong and alive. Though I could not understand their meaning, I felt their shift, felt how they grew richer, more seductive, their power curling toward Andrés.
Come, it called, teasing and soft.Come closer.
My head spun, giddy with the need to draw near to him, but my feet remained planted on the ground. The call was not meant for me. The blunt force of its power was not focused on me.
It was focused on the house.
For a moment, it listened. Perhaps it, too—perhapsshe—felt the roots taking hold, felt the heady draw of the call.
Come into the circle.
Then the house rebelled.
A low whine built in the back of my head, thickened to a hum, and grew louder still, until a roar ripped through the circle.
No, my bones screamed.No.That’s not what she wants.
It was not until my breath began to give out that I realized I was screaming, that my hands were clamped over my ears, that I could barely breathe for the pain of the sound. My skull was about to shatter.
Before me, Andrés stood serene amid the roar. Eyes closed, hands outstretched, lips moving around the verses of prayer. Copal swirled like hurricane clouds, menacing and thick around the circle as Andrés rose.
He rose into theair.
It was not a trick of the shadows, a trick of the smoke; his eyes still shut, his arms stretched out like a benevolent saint, crucifix gleaming around his neck, he rose into the air and remained there, his shoes two feet off the ground.
With a violent motion, he snatched his hands into fists.
The roar cut off. As if strangled.
Silence washed over the circle like a flash flood, profound, heavy silence broken only by my whimpering. My hands were still over my ears; a trickle of salty warmth dripped from my nose onto my lips.
My hands trembled as I let them fall away from my ears. Andrés’s brow creased with concentration; now, with a sharp jerk, he drew his fists into his chest. As if tugging something. Yanking it toward him.
A furious shriek split the room. I fell to my knees, hands clamped over my ears again.
The air vibrated. It rippled and lashed out, alive with anger.
I tilted my head up to Andrés.Stop, please, I begged silently, but the shrieking grew louder, the air shook violently, until—
