I can tell you a whole bunch of stories about your great abuela. Let’s just say that shewas married to Pedro Juan in less than a year. She was a woman of power and knew howto get what she wanted. All those little putas in town who wanted your great abuelosquealed from jealousy when they saw them together. They just couldn’t understand howa man like Pedro Juan would settle for a negrita like your great abuela. People talk somuch today about what they can do. Most of them are full of shit! Remember this Nelly;the proof is always in the results. I lived and came across a lot of people who were socalled healers, but none of them could come close to you great abuela.
People with real magic can feel their way through anything. They just have a sixthsense that so keen and developed, that they don’t need to lie, pretend, and seek power.They already have it. I couldn’t understand that when I was younger. I wanted your greatabuela to smash skulls, to show people all the things that she could do. But she never did.She was always humble. It wasn’t until later, after being married to that asshole Nico,that I realized that the potentially corruptible healer craved power, the potentially goodhealer had no need for it. Good, has its own intrinsic power; evil needs some outsideforce to support it.
Your great abuela would always tell me that being a healer wasn’t for everybody.No. It was a lot of hard work because you had to work even harder to dig out the shadowsthat were buried inside of you. She seemed so strong, like her bones were laced withsteel. She was regal, with a taut spine and long neck. People admired her, but they werescared of her too. She had no mercy on people who tried to exploit others.
Nelly, I have to tell you that I ain’t proud of the person I turned out to be.Sometimes, life just gets in the way. It’s like they say, it’s not what you’re called to do,but what you answer to. I feel like I got to tell you what happened. You got to know thefull story because I can’t let any more information get lost.
I can never forget the day when I saw Nico for the very first time. I was young,around twelve, and he was a good ten years older than me. I used to work with your greatabuela. I went with her to people’s houses, helping her out in any way that I could.Mostly, I wrote everything down that she said and did.
“No matter what, Maria, don’t ever show anybody this book,” she would always say.
I just shook my head. I was way too stupid to realize the importance of what she wasgiving me.
There was one day, when the weather was unseasonably cool. Your great abuelavisualized that a nasty storm was on its way. However, we had to make a run to a womanwho was said to be dying from some mysterious disease. Now, people in those days werevery poor and when we got to the house, I wanted to turn right back around and go home.It was nothing more than a shack that rested on four skinny stilts. Several pieces of woodwere sloppily nailed together to hold up an oversized tin roof with rusted shutters.Chickens clucked loudly as they strolled aimlessly around the yard, while famishedhounds eyed them from a distance. I was scared as shit.
“Maria, we have the power to do God’s work,” your great abuela said, squeezing myhand.
We walked into the house. The inside of the house was worse than the outside. Thecabin was sparsely furnished and the paint was cracked and chipping off the walls. A fewwild hens rested causally in the corner of the room and long strips of sticky flypaper hungfrom the ceiling. A young man, with black skin and blood-shot eyes came toward us.
“We are here to see the mistress,” your abuela said, shifting her libretto from herright arm to the left.
She didn’t seem bothered by the nasty living conditions.
“Benti agi.” The young man said again motioning for us to move further into theroom.
I took one step further and then it hit me. My stomach began to churn. A cold darkstorm was moving in and huge bolts of thunder rattled the rickety old shack. My kneesbecame weak. There was another huge bolt of thunder. It was earth shattering and itbrought me down to my knees. I tried to shake off my dizziness, but instead I foundmyself slipping deeper into a black abyss. Then there was a flash of light.
I was planted in a sugarcane field. It was part of an old reserve that was intended forslaves to raise crops. Instead, it served as a meeting ground for them to perform ritualsand plan revolts. Whoosh. I heard the familiar sound of splintered sugarcane. I pulledback a few overgrown leaves and stole a peek at a young man who was tall and thin. Istared at him and found myself admiring his mahogany skin, his kinky hair and his fulldark lips. He was shirtless, and I watched his muscles flex as they moved in perfect syncwith his body. Whoosh, the machete came crashing down again, only this time, it hadmanaged to cut a long sugarcane stick in half. My heart began to flutter. Why, I did notknow. My ears were burning and when I went wipe my brow, I found that my face wasdrenched with sweet. Something told me that I was in danger. Mosquitoes buzzed aroundme. The air got cooler as the first sheet of darkness moved in. I sat quietly on my handsand knees and I began to feel my body sinking into the dark soil. I moved aroundrestlessly.
“Hey Cabron,” I heard a voice say from a distance.
The young boy looked up and went walking in the direction of the voice. In a matterof
