There is nothing more beautiful than the sound of match against paper, the sharp spark of amber and gold, the small crackle of a wick taking flame.
My body shook uncontrollably as I lowered myself to my knees next to the first three candles. He lit ten or eleven in all, his movements sharp with fear as he scattered the thick tallow candles about the room to illuminate every corner. When he was done, he turned his attention to the three copal censers. He placed two on either side of me and the third between us and the door. Then he sat at my right side, breathing heavily, legs pulled to his chest so he could rest his chin on his knees—mirroring how I sat.
His hands trembled.
Slowly, smoke rose from the censers, filling the air with the sharp spice of copal. Andrés sat so close to me our arms brushed.
I was not alone. His presence calmed my racing heart. I was not alone.
Andrés drew a long, shaky breath. “I . . . I did not expect that.”
His attention was fixed on the door. Beads of sweat were drying on his brow.
“I told you.” The words slipped from my mouth before I could stop them.
“And I believed you.” His shoulders tensed as a shudder went down his back. “But it is one thing to believe. It is another to see.”
We sat in silence, staring at the door. Watching the copal curl toward the ceiling. Slowly, my heartbeat returned to its normal pace.
“I will stay here for the rest of the night,” Andrés said softly. “Whenever you are ready, you may leave to sleep. I will be safe.”
“You think I’m leaving this room?” The indignant pitch of my voice made him jump. “You might be safe, but may I remind you which direction I have to walk to go upstairs? Would you want to walk that way alone?”
The shadows made his frown seem deeper than it was. “I could escort you.”
“No,” I said firmly. I don’t want to be alone. “I’m staying here.”
He shifted, tightening his hold around his knees. He kept his gaze fixed on the door. He was uncomfortable about something; that much was clear.
“If this is about spending the night in a room with a woman,” I said, “I might remind you that I am married, and moreover am your host in this horrible place, and therefore I decide what is appropriate or not.”
His head snapped to me in surprise. “Cielo santo, no, do?a,” he said, having the infuriating decency to look scandalized. “I beg your pardon. It is only that . . .” He let the thought trail off as he worried his lower lip, as his eyes skipped again to the door. He was weighing something, deciding whether to speak further. Whether or not to allow me to stay.
He had to let me stay. Surely he understood what it felt like to be alone in this house. Shadows curled around our small halo of light, reaching for him like tendrils of cloying mist; it was as if they deepened in his presence, grew more alive.
He let out his breath with a hoarse curse, then those long legs stretched out, and he rose to his feet. “If you wish to stay, I must ask that you not tell the other priests . . . anything,” he said sharply. “Especially Padre Vicente. Do you understand?”
“Padre Vicente?” I repeated. The demand—for it was clear from his tone it was a demand, albeit couched in polite language—caught me off guard. “I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t believe me.” I could honestly picture myself declaring the sky is blue to his overfed, red-cheeked face, only to see his eyes widen, his jowls tremble as he reached for a pen to write to my husband to control his hysterical wife.
Andrés looked down at me, somber and unamused. Then his attention flitted to the door. Whatever he had heard, it was enough to tip the scales of his silent debate. He patted his trousers pocket as if searching for something then drew out a piece of charcoal.
Rolling the charcoal between forefinger and thumb, he turned away from me and began to count his paces from the first copal censer to the one before the door. “Siete, ocho, nueve . . .” He crouched, made a mark on the floor, and straightened. He counted again. Crouched, marked, rose. His steps were measured, mathematical, as he sketched a circle of precise markings into the floor around where I sat. Then he picked up a censer and retraced his steps, pacing the circumference of the circle, his stride measured and controlled, murmuring under his breath.
It took me several moments to realize he was not speaking castellano at all. The language was silky, sinuous as the copal that curled around him in thick plumes. I had heard it many times since coming to San Isidro, spoken among the tlachiqueros and their families.
Candlelight danced on the high points of Andrés’s face like sunlight on water; incantations wove through the smoke with the lazy grace of a water snake.
He is a witch.
The thought rang in my mind clear as the toll of a church bell.
I shook my head to dismiss it. No. That was impossible. Padre Andrés was a priest.
He finished the incantation, crouched on the ground, and began drawing more geometric shapes. Finally, he set the charcoal down and retrieved a small object from somewhere in the black fabric of his habit.
A sharp pocketknife glinted wickedly in the candlelight as he flicked it open and pricked his thumb with its tip.
I gasped.
A large bead of blood bloomed beneath the knife’s point. Without missing a beat, Andrés lowered his hand to the floor and smeared the blood through one of the geometric shapes. Then he pocketed the knife and drew out a handkerchief to staunch the blood.
He lifted his eyes to mine, his expression defiant. As if he were daring me to speak the words that he knew were on the tip of my tongue.
“You’re a witch,” I breathed.
He nodded. Once, solemnly.
“But you’re a priest.”
“Yes.”
He stood, cocking his head to the side as he evaluated the markings he had made on the floor. Then his eyes flicked back to my face. If he had been waiting for an exclamation of fear or any other sort of reaction from me, he received none. I was struck dumb.
You’ve never met a priest like him before.
“What are you thinking?” he challenged.
“I find it odd that a witch would become a priest,” I said flatly.
This answer surprised a bark of laughter from him, its texture low and throaty. “Is there any vocation more natural for a man who hears devils?”
Hairs lifted on the back of my neck. I should be afraid of him. I should be. People were meant to be afraid of witches.
But a quiet as soft as dawn fell within the circle. The air felt lighter, calmer. The flames of the candles drank it greedily and danced high, reaching for and illuminating the witch’s throat as he turned his head and narrowed his eyes at the door.
“But the Inquisition . . .” I began.