The Witches of El Paso

Chapter 15

15

I’m barfy,” Pablo says.

“I’m hungry,” Rafa says.

They’re crammed into the little car, Marta, the boys, Nena, driving to the Hueco Tanks. Marta would have preferred to go alone with Nena, but Jane couldn’t babysit and Alejandro said he was doing rounds at the hospital. Marta scooped up the boys, turned off her phone so no one at work could reach her, and now she’s driving fast, pushing the car hard.

“We’ll have a snack as soon as we get there,” Marta says.

“How long will that be?”

“About another half an hour.”

“That’s forever!”

Marta has some sympathy for him. She remembers how vast El Paso seemed when she was young, every drive a journey of months. Marta’s parents’ cars never had air-conditioning, never had windows that opened with a button, and they mostly visited in the summers, which were vile with heat, the smokestacks of the ASARCO copper smelter towering over the highway, the flames of the refining plant flares constantly burning, licking the sky.

The sky is very blue, the earth yellow, the hills studded with dark patches of creosote bushes and mesquite. Along the highway, tumbleweeds grow, but there’s a different quality to the familiar plants, to the blue of the sky, and the circle of the sun, its edges liquid, sky melting into land.

Not wanting Nena to worry, Marta hasn’t told her that since that morning’s vision in Juárez, the hum she’s been hearing has intensified, its vibrations running along her jaw, buzzing in her back teeth. It’s distracting, but so far manageable, except that it’s making her irritable. The road shimmers, a long, thin snake slithering away. Marta really needs to eat something.

“Nena, can you get the oranges out of the bag and peel one for us?” Marta asks. She needs to eat, that’s what Nena had said in Juárez, that food helps with La Vista.

“I want an Oreo,” Rafa says.

“We didn’t bring any.”

“Or chips.”

Marta recognizes Rafa’s tone, stubborn, and what it means, that he’s willing to ruin the day just because he can. Marta’s only hope is to distract him. Otherwise, he’ll have a meltdown, and Marta and Nena won’t be able to step away alone.

“Do you boys know the story of how the Kiowa ended up trapped at the Hueco Tanks?” Marta asks.

“It sounds boring,” Rafa says.

“I don’t have to tell it.”

Nena hands Marta a section of orange. It’s the most delicious thing Marta has ever tasted.

“Don’t listen to him. I want you to tell the story,” Pablo says.

“One day, a band of Kiowa came down from the north to raid El Paso, but before they could reach the town, they were ambushed by the Tigua,” Marta says.

“What’s a Tigua?” Pablo asks.

“Pueblo Indians. Do you remember when we went to the museum on the reservation?”

“There was a casino, too.”

“That’s right,” Marta says, not pleased that this is what Pablo recalls. “At the Hueco Tanks there are drawings that commemorate what happened, and we can see them when we get there. Old pictographs from way back then. Do you know what a pictograph is?”

“Were people killed?” Rafa asks.

“Some.”

“But how many people exactly?”

“So you do want to hear the story? I don’t have to tell it if you think it’s going to be too boring.”

“No, no, no. How many people died?”

“When the Tigua scouts saw the Kiowa raiding band coming, they sent runners back to the pueblo. The women and children and old people in the pueblo got ready for the attack, stocking up on food and water, pulling the ladders to the entrances up on the sides of the buildings. Then the Tigua warriors loaded their rifles and rode out through the desert. They circled around behind the Kiowa, and then they attacked, yelling war cries and shooting. The Kiowa galloped away, racing to the north, and the Tigua chased them through the desert. But before the Tigua could catch them on the open plain, the Kiowa found a cave to hide in at the Hueco Tanks.”

Nena hands Marta another orange section. She passes the rest of the orange to the back seat, and then she starts peeling another. The car is thick with the smell of orange zest.

“Why is the place called the Hueco Tanks?” Pablo asks.

“Hueco means hollow. The stone formations have lots of holes in them so that they look like giant sponges underground. Freshwater springs feed into these holes, so that there’s water when the rest of the desert all around is dry.”

“You mean it’s an oasis,” Pablo says.

“That’s the exact right word. All sorts of animals come through, and over the last thousands of years, lots of people have stopped by, too.”

“Why aren’t you telling the story about the Indians?” Rafa asks. “What weapons did they have?”

“When the Kiowa were running away from the Tigua, they would have known that the Hueco Tanks were a place they could hide, where there would be water to drink and animals to hunt or trap. Theirs was a good plan, except that the Tigua knew where they were going, and they surrounded the cave. The only way into the cave was down a very steep shaft. The Tigua couldn’t go down, and the Kiowa couldn’t come up.”

“OK, but if the Kiowa were down in a cave, they wouldn’t have anything to eat or drink, they could be killed that way, too, of starvation or thirst,” Rafa says.

“You’re right, that was the problem. They didn’t have any food except what they brought with them.”

“So what happened?”

“The Tigua shouted down the shaft, saying they wanted to help the Kiowa, and that they were going to throw down food for them. They told them to come close so that they could catch the bag.”

“What kind of food did they throw down?”

“Not food. Rattlesnakes. Live ones.”

“Did the Kiowa get bit?” Pablo says.

“I don’t know about that, but the Tigua had another idea to make the Kiowa leave the cave. They set fire to bundles of chiles and threw the burning peppers down into the cave to smoke them out. Can you imagine how that chile smoke would hurt your eyes and your skin?”

“Did they die?”

“Under the cover of the smoke, one of the Kiowa was able to sneak out, and he headed north for help.”

“And what happened to the ones in the cave?”

Marta looks in the rearview mirror, seeing that both boys are worried. From what she remembers of the story, terrible injuries and grisly deaths befell most of the Kiowa. “The rest of the Kiowa found another way out, and they got home just fine,” Marta says quickly, still looking at the rearview mirror.

“We’re going to see the place where this happened?”

“Yes. And we’ll see the pictograph, the painting on rock that someone did to keep the story alive,” Marta says. “I brought paper and colored pencils so you can draw your own pictographs.”

“Why did the Kiowa want to attack El Paso?” Pablo asks, sounding worried.

“The Tigua were farmers. Other tribes, like the Apaches and Kiowa, were hunters and warriors. I guess for them, they thought it was easier to steal horses than to hunt.”

“But who were the good guys and who were the bad guys?”

“I think in this case it depends on which tribe you were born into. But I’ve always identified with the fighters,” Marta says.

“I would have thought you’d be on the side of the underdogs,” Nena says. “Papá told me another version of the story. He said that it was the Mexican militia, not the Tigua, who ambushed the Kiowa. One of our relatives could have been there, chicos.”

“Maybe, Nena, but here’s the funny thing. This story was passed down through both the tribes. The Kiowa had their version, and the Tigua had theirs. The Kiowa thought it was the Mexican militia they were fighting, and it wasn’t until they met with the Tigua kind of recently and compared notes that they realized they’d both been telling the same story.”

“Papá’s grandpa could have been there. It didn’t happen all that long ago if you think about it,” Nena says. Marta has always thought of the story as being from the far distant past, untouchable, but Nena’s right. The past lingers, woodsmoke and the whinny of horses, the vibrations of centuries of life humming through Marta’s body and Nena’s. The closer they get to the Hueco Tanks, the louder the hum seems to grow. Marta blinks. She hopes she’s OK to keep on driving. She focuses her attention on the road, gripping the steering wheel.

A roadrunner stands on the white line separating the lanes, just like in the cartoon.

“Look, boys,” Marta says, pointing as the bird takes off at a sprint, long-legging it down the shoulder of the road.

“Where’s the coyote?” Pablo asks.

Good question , Marta thinks.

“The only other time I’ve been to the Hueco Tanks was when Olga kissed Beto,” Nena says.

“Olga kissed who?” Pablo asks.

“Beto. When he was still Luna’s boyfriend,” Nena says.

“Nana Olga did that?” Rafa asks.

“Is that even allowed?” Pablo asks.

“That doesn’t seem like her,” Marta says.

“People do unexpected things when they’re young,” Nena says. “And everyone seems young to somebody my age.”

Marta pulls into the parking lot by the old ranch house, the wheels of the car crunching in the pebbly dirt. The boys leap out of the car and start running up the path that leads to the head of the trail to the pictographs. They can’t really get lost, but Marta frets, thinking about rattlesnakes, the kind of cactuses with barbed spines.

“Wait for me!” she yells, opening the trunk to pull out the backpack she loaded up with snacks and drinks, big camping bottles of water.

The monsoon rains of the summer have made the desert plants go bonkers. The nopales and saguaros, and even the little cactuses that look like giant pincushions seem plump, bristling with healthy needles. The bunchgrass, creosote, yucca, and lechuguilla are lush, too, tinged with green growth, and the air is thick with the herby smell of the plants, so thick that Marta suspects La Vista has enhanced her sense of smell, making it sensitive enough that she can smell the water of the pools.

At the end of the path, the boys are standing very still, close to each other, staring at something.

“What’s up, boys?” Marta asks.

“I want to do that,” Rafa says. He points at a group of teenagers climbing up a rock face. Big black oversized mattress-type cushions are arranged below. Marta speculates that the pads are there so that if someone falls, they have something soft to land on. But as thick as they are, the pads seem inadequate, too easy to miss. Marta pictures snapped ankles, broken backs, trips to the emergency room, the images oily in her mind, like she’s seeing something that’s already happened.

“Can we have our snack now?” Pablo asks.

“That’s a good idea,” Nena says. “The sun isn’t in the right position to see Tlaloc. We can eat while we wait.”

Out of the backpack, Marta pulls out a bag of pretzels, pickles in a jar, M the door inside Marta is opened to La Vista, she knows this now for sure. Nena said that La Vista was power, the raw stuff, relentless nature, and that’s what Marta senses. If what Nena says is true, then the closing song of the aquelarre can’t be sung until the encanto appears. Until that happens, Marta’s going to be in La Vista the way she is now, alert and jangly, almost too alive. No, not that. Extra alive, and Marta doesn’t want to lose that. Marta’s no longer doing this for Nena, but for herself.

Walking back up the trail, Marta notices that Nena’s walking with a new assurance, steady and so fast that Marta has to pick up her pace. When Marta and Nena get back to the picnic area, the backpack is on top of the table, but the boys aren’t there.

Marta scans the area, panicked, then relieved when she spots Pablo standing with a group of climbers crowded around one of the black mats resting on the ground. The boys are looking up at the cliff above them. Marta shades her eyes with her hand. She spots Rafa halfway up the cliff face, dozens of feet above the ground.

Marta takes off at a run toward the knot of boys, stopping when she gets to the black mat. She’d yell at Rafa to come down, but she doesn’t want him to lose his concentration. She paces back and forth, her neck craned, watching Rafa’s steady movements as he crawls up the face of the cliff. What was she thinking leaving the boys alone? As skinny as he is, Rafa looks strong, his movements steady. How high is he going to go? Higher. He puts his right foot up, his right leg stretched very far away from his torso. He starts to shift his left foot up the rock. Once he steadies himself, he reaches up with his left hand. He braces himself. He repeats the movements, inching up. Just as Marta begins to relax, Rafa loses his grip, falling, and landing with a nasty thud on the mat.

Marta runs to him, dropping down to her knees. He’s clutching his belly, the whites of his eyes showing in panic. She wishes Alejandro were here. The bouldering boys have crowded too close, smelling of sweat and body spray and marijuana. One boy, with his long hair in a messy bun, puts out his hand, and Rafa takes it, standing up on the squishy surface of the mat.

“Nice, little dude! Good fall.”

Rafa attempts a smile. If he and Marta were alone, he’d be crying.

“Are you hurt?” Marta asks, adrenaline racing through her veins.

“I’m fine. All OK,” he says, gasping, the wind knocked out of him. He limps off the mat, but at the edge, he jumps to the ground and heads toward Nena, who takes a piece of candy out of her pocket and hands it to him. Marta chases after Rafa, pulling him toward her so that she can take a closer look at him. He’s slowly unwrapping the piece of hard candy Nena gave him, and this worries Marta. It’s when the kids are quiet that something is really wrong.

“We’re going to the hospital so your dad can check you out,” Marta says.

Rafa shakes his head no, but he doesn’t say anything.

Marta feels foolish. All thoughts of helping Nena find Rosa are swept from her mind as she looks at the child right in front of her. She went to Juárez because she had a fear that something bad was going to happen. And then she left the boys so she could go off with Nena to practice magic, to make herself feel powerful, even though she knew what could happen.

On the drive home, the boys sleep, their heads thrown back, mouths open.

Please , she prays, please let Rafa be OK. I promise I won’t put him in danger again.

The song of the aquelarre gave Marta a taste of something strong, but now it’s gone. Has it been scared out of her? She wants to taste it again so badly she almost wishes she’d never sung the song, never felt its power.

Nena says they have to wait, that the encanto will come, but Marta doesn’t want to wait. She hates waiting. Maybe there’s a way to speed things up.