The Witch's Dream by Florinda Donner-Grau

Author:Florinda Donner-Grau
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Benito Santos walked slowly, dragging the tip of his machete on the ground. The road before him seemed longer than ever, as though it stretched itself deliberately to delay his arrival home. He wished he had someone to talk to. The monotonous drone of the insects made him feel even more desolate.

He crossed the dry gully to his shack. He remained outside for a moment, deeply breathing in the late-afternoon air, letting the gentle breeze cool his flushed face.

He had to stoop to enter his shack. It had no windows, only an opening in the front and one in the back, which he closed at night with a piece of cardboard propped up with a stick.

The heat was stifling inside. The sound of the hammock’s ropes rubbing against the wood and Altagracia’s uneven breathing irritated him. He knew she was seething with wrath. He turned to look at his son sleeping on the ground. He wore a discolored rag, which barely covered his small chest. He couldn’t remember whether the boy was two or three years old.

Altagracia rose from her hammock, her eyes fixed on the bag in his hand. She planted herself in front of him and demanded in a harsh, shrill voice, “Where is the food, Benito?”

“The market was already packed up by the time I got there,” Benito Santos mumbled, moving over to the cot in one corner of the shack, the paper bag held tightly in his hand. “I’m sure there are still some beans and rice left here.”

“There is nothing here as you well know,” Altagracia said, trying to grab the paper bag. “You sure had time to get drunk.” Her face with its yellowish, sagging skin was flushed. Her sunken, usually lifeless eyes shone with anger and despair.

He clearly felt the accelerated pounding of his heart. He didn’t have to give her an explanation. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

“Shut up, woman,” he yelled. He lifted the bottle and drank the rest of the rum without drawing a breath. “I worked the whole night cutting cane. I’m tired.” He threw the empty bottle through the opening of the shack. “I want some peace and quiet now. I want no woman shouting at me. Take the boy and get the hell out of here.”

Altagracia grabbed him by the arm before he had a chance to lower himself on the cot. “Give me the money; I’ll buy the food myself. The boy needs to eat.” She ripped open his pocket. “No money?” she repeated, in a daze, looking uncomprehendingly at him. “Didn’t you get paid today? You couldn’t have spent six days’ wages on rum.” Shouting obscenities, she pulled his hair and pounded her clenched fists against his aching back and chest.

He felt drunk, not with rum, but with rage and hopelessness. He saw the gleam of fear in her eyes as he raised his machete. Her scream filled the air, then there was silence. He looked at her still form on the ground, at her tangled mass of hair soaked in blood.

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