Rogelia's House of Magic (8 page)

“
You,
talk back to your mother? Why?” Fern asked.

Marina shrugged but didn’t answer. “Hey, you guys ready to go to sleep?”

“Sure,” said Fern, though she sent Marina a puzzled look.

Marina turned over in bed. She turned off the lamp on her bedside table. “Night.”

When her family had moved to Orange Olive, Marina had found it so easy to walk away from the old neighborhood. The barrio, as her mother would call it. And now she wondered what she had left behind. She had never learned Spanish, and she didn’t know much more about being Mexican than how to make tacos without using premade shells. A desire to learn more about this part of her culture ignited like the flame of the San Miguel candle.

In the silence that followed, she heard the voice of an older woman say,
Welcome home, mi’jita.

Nine

E
arly the next morning, Fern rolled over in her sleeping bag and looked out Marina’s bedroom window. She watched brilliant rainbow-colored sparks dance upon the morning light that shone through the tiny slits between the horizontal blinds. As the colors played, she wondered if she would ever see lights like this in an aura, especially the more she worked with Rogelia.

And then her mind wandered into boy territory. Why did Tristán have that gray aura? What was he doing now? Probably sleeping. It was still early.

A door in the hall creaked open. Immediately, Fern closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She figured it was Marina’s youngest sister, Samantha, who loved to wake up at the crack of dawn and beg Fern to play Candy Land. Footsteps shuffled down the hallway in the opposite direction from Marina’s room.

“Buenos días, señor,”
Rogelia said in a hoarse whisper.

“Buenos días, Rogelia,”
Marina’s stepfather responded. “I’m off to work. Have a good day.” The front door opened and closed.

Fern’s eyes shot open. The coast was clear; she wasn’t about to be attacked by a bouncing, hyper five-year-old. Rogelia was awake and alone in the house. Maybe Fern could talk with Rogelia now and ask her some questions. It was really early, though, and she didn’t have anything to barter. Fern sat up and looked at the alarm clock on Marina’s nightstand. It was 6:45 a.m. What was she thinking? Who in their right mind would get out of bed at this hour?

Apparently, she would, especially when her interest in a cute boy was on the line. Fern quietly unzipped the sleeping bag and whipped back the cover. Carefully, she curled up her legs and slid them out. She tiptoed out of the bedroom and sneaked down the hall. Rogelia’s door was ajar, but she wasn’t inside. Fern padded softly to the kitchen.

Rogelia stood with her back to Fern. The healer pulled a stainless-steel teapot off the stove and poured the steaming water into two blue ceramic mugs. She rolled closed a small, unmarked brown bag that sat on the counter in front of the cups and tucked the bag into her apron pocket. The
curandera
turned and smiled at Fern. She handed Fern a mug. “Let’s go to my room.”

“How did you know I was here?” Fern asked, taking the mug. She looked into the cup and saw a mound of chopped green leaves at the bottom.

“Intuition,” Rogelia said as she walked down the hall. “You’d be amazed what happens when you pay attention to it.”

Rogelia pushed open the door to her bedroom and allowed Fern to walk in first. Fern settled herself onto Rogelia’s bed. She watched the candlelight of the white San Miguel candle. Rogelia had lit a votive under a crudely drawn picture of the flaming Sacred Heart, another under a Huichol weaving of a jaguar, and a third under a statue of the Virgen de Guadalupe.

“Intuition is like a nudge, a gut feeling,” Rogelia said, taking the cup of tea from Fern and scooping out the green herb with a rattan strainer. She handed the tea back to Fern. “I felt that you needed me, so here I am. This is
yerba buena
tea.”

Fern took a sip of tea. “It tastes like peppermint.”

“That’s because
yerba buena is
peppermint,” Rogelia laughed. “What did you want to talk about?” She adjusted her blue shawl over her shoulders.

“I, um—I just wanted to ask you about auras,” Fern stammered.

“Yes,” Rogelia said empathetically. “It is strange when you first begin to see the light.”

“You could say that,” Fern said. “It’s like someone is running a special-effects show inside my head.”

Rogelia chuckled quietly. “I am guessing you would like to learn more about the auras and why you see them and others don’t? When they show up? Are they real? No?”

Fern nodded.

Rogelia swirled her tea and took a long sip before answering. “Every living thing has a spirit at its center. The energy forms circles around the center like rings around a pebble when you throw it into water. The first few circles take form as the bush, or animal, or person. After that, the next circles of energy are the aura.
¿Entiendes
?”

Fern nodded again, showing that she understood.

“When you first begin to see auras, you notice only random flickers. But you must be patient. Every sighting of an aura means something. Your job will be to assess what the aura intends to show you. The message will be unique for everyone. This is why you must learn to trust
your
intuition.”

“How do I do that?”

“Listen to your body. You might experience prickles, heat or coldness, strong instincts, nudges, hunches, and gut feelings,” Rogelia said. “Intuition will grow stronger each time you use it. It’s like a muscle that way. I use intuition in my healing work, both as a
curandera
and a
mamá.
”

“Can you use intuition in relationships?” Fern asked, thinking of Tristán and his captivating eyes.

“That’s an excellent place to use intuition,” Rogelia replied. “For example, I have been asked to make a remedy for Marcela Cabrera, a woman in our neighborhood. Her six-month-old son, Gabriel, has colic, and she hasn’t slept in weeks. Do you have any idea what kind of herb I would use for little Gabriel?”

“No,” Fern said automatically. How would she know that?

“You answered that quickly,” Rogelia said. “Is there nothing you have ever had to eat or drink that has settled an upset stomach or calmed you when you were nervous?”

“Oh,” said Fern, suddenly remembering something. “Once my mother gave me chamomile tea after I ate too much cake at Marina’s eighth birthday party.”

“
Manzanilla,
or chamomile, is an excellent remedy for stomach pains, and it will help the baby sleep,” Rogelia explained. “I have the chamomile herb, it’s this one”—Rogelia pointed to the hanging herb—“but I need some oil to rub on Gabriel’s tummy. I would appreciate it if you would go to a store in downtown Santa Ana, by Fourth Street, and get me some almond oil. That can be our exchange for this little
plácita.
”

“Okay,” Fern agreed.

After lunch that day, Fern, Xochitl, and Marina headed off to downtown Santa Ana. Once they rounded the corner onto Fourth Street, the area became crowded with mothers pushing strollers, businessmen strutting like peacocks, and dowdy but friendly women passing out business cards and flyers from store entrances advertising legal services, cleaning services, and clothing sales. The girls walked past the Plaza Fiesta, where fluttering triangular flags displayed Mexico’s national colors of red, green, and white. Above the banners, three much larger flags—one for California, one for the United States, and one for Mexico—waved atop fifty-foot poles. A carousel of horses with flaking paint spun giggling children in circles.

A short, wiry old man with a bad hip, wearing a cowboy hat, plaid shirt, jeans, and a belt with a humongous buckle, limped past the Panaderia and shouted
“¡Hola!”
to someone driving by in a lowrider. The familiar scent of tamarinda juice wafted from a cart parked on the corner of the sidewalk between pale pink two-story art deco buildings with teal awnings that protected the signs of various clothing, jewelry, and shoe stores on either side of the plaza.

“So how are we going to find this place?” Marina asked, looking around uncomfortably.

“We’re looking for the smell of copal,” Xochitl said. She narrowed her eyes and scanned the storefronts for the location of the
botanica
that burned the signature scent many great healers used. “Finding the best botanica, or healing center, can be as tricky as locating a magical portal to a parallel universe. Graciela was good at this. It’s harder for me.”

Fern giggled at the way Xochitl looked like a bloodhound tracking a raccoon. Still, she was almost envious of how far ahead of her Xochitl was when it came to Rogelia’s magic.

“Look,” Xochitl said, pointing. “See that crazily colorful window display for the Mexicana Botanica across the street? The one with the touristy Aztec wall hangings and
mocahetes
? It’s like they’re trying to appeal to Americans who think they’re something because they’ve traveled, like they’re amateur anthropologists.”

“Like major coffee chains that think because they use a picture of a poor barista in their advertising, they’re suddenly all about cultural diversity and free trade?” Fern piped in more strongly than she had intended.

“Yeah, something like that,” Xochitl said, laughing. “That place is obviously too commercial—not enough soul. We’re looking for the dense feel of magic.” Xochitl paused, and her mouth kind of twisted as if she had tasted something sour. “But even the best magic can’t do everything.”

“You never know,” Fern said hopefully.

“Yeah, you never know.” Xochitl stopped short and whipped around. “There it is.” She pointed to the sign over one storefront and read aloud, “Four Crows.”

Fern swung open the gate of a white picket fence and Marina and Xochitl followed. Fern’s feet crunched over thousands of tiny gray and black pebbles covering the courtyard. Rhythmic Native American music echoed from inside the shop. To the left, water trickled in a concrete fountain with a center column in a large circular basin lined with coins. Around the fountain, chairs, benches, and sofas were set as if for a gathering of friends. To the right, in a smaller area, a forest of hanging flowers and plants flourished in pots of every shape and color. A four-foot dream catcher hung from a post where a Hopi ladder leaned. A shaggy willow tree dropped leafy branches onto the patio like long feathers.

Above the door, a bumper sticker read
IGNORANCE IS THE MOST DANGEROUS THING IN SOCIETY
. Fern pranced into the store, already head over heels in love with the place.

Ceramic bowls and statues of eagles, mountain lions, coyotes, wolves, and horses rested on every shelf. Shield drums and painted buffalo skulls lined the walls. Bone, turquoise, and seed bead jewelry rested next to essential oils in a wood and glass case. Wild turkey, hawk, and imitation eagle feathers hung from threads or were stuffed into jars. Large, clear quartz crystal points, tumbled semiprecious stones, and bundles of white sage, red cedar, flat cedar, and piñon were piled in baskets next to sticks of fifty or so kinds of incense.

“I love how it smells like Rogelia’s room in here,” Fern said as she inhaled deeply. The store had an earthy scent that also reminded Fern of the woods, a place that made her feel really connected to nature.

“Glad to see you’re okay,” a familiar voice said.

Fern turned around to find herself face to face with Tristán. She grinned but said nothing. He smiled, revealing perfectly white straight teeth. They just looked into each other’s eyes. Fern felt like she was in one of those Mexican
novelas
her grandmother watched whenever she came to visit from Colombia.

“Can I help you find something?” Tristán asked Fern, still gazing deep into her eyes.

“I don’t know,” Fern replied distractedly. She stared at the carving of a bear claw hanging from a leather cord that rested just below Tristán’s Adam’s apple. Suddenly, she was very conscious of the fact that she was wearing a ratty Sierra Club T-shirt and sweatpants. Why hadn’t she thought to put on something cute and sexy? Well, she obviously hadn’t thought she’d run into anyone she cared to impress.

Marina giggled. “We’ll just go over here,” she said, and pulled Xochitl away to look at the irregularly shaped dream catchers fashioned from driftwood.

“Do you work here?” Fern asked.

“A few hours here and there,” Tristán said.

Fern’s knees felt wobbly, and it was a little hard to catch her breath.

“Were you looking for something in particular?” Tristán asked.

“Uh, yeah. We need some almond oil,” Fern muttered. Never before had she been so taken with a guy. She felt like her skin was on fire and a volcano was erupting in her chest.

“It’s over here,” Tristán said.

Fern followed Tristán to a row of plastic bottles filled with various base oils. Tristán deftly maneuvered through the store. His black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, tied with a string of rawhide.
He’s even better-looking than I remember, and taller, too.
Suddenly, a sunshine yellow light began to float around Tristán. The soft color moved around his head and slowly drifted over his shoulders and down his arms. It was a happy, bouncy aura.
Ooh, a new color. Very interesting.

Tristán grabbed a bottle off the shelf and turned to face Fern. “Almond oil is good for just about anything. What do you need it for?” Tristán asked.

“Now, why would I tell you that?” Fern asked teasingly. She was stalling for time. Why would he have a gray aura one day and a yellow one another? Could auras change? Why had she seen the aura around only Tristán and no one else? Fern looked over at Xochitl and Marina, who were now testing the different sounds the drums made. She couldn’t see a flicker of light or the faintest shadow around either of them.

“Usually almond oil isn’t used alone. Maybe I can help you find something else, like an essential oil, to match your specific intention,” Tristán said.

“Do you practice
curanderismo
?” Fern was completely awestruck.

“No, but my aunt Alma owns this shop,” Tristán answered. “And I’ve learned some things along the way. She teaches the traditions of our people.”

“Your people?” Fern asked. “That’s kind of a funny way to put it.”

“I’m Tongva—California Indian from Los Angeles,” Tristán replied, raising his refined chin a little higher. “I just moved down to Orange County from Whittier a couple of weeks ago.”

Fern was flabbergasted. “Is there an active Indian community in Orange County?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Tristán said. “We have powwows here at the store a couple of times a year. Auntie Alma teaches basket weaving with pine needles, and Uncle Jimi is a wingman for the Bear Dance.”

“What’s a Bear Dance?” Fern breathed.

“It’s a ceremony that honors the healing energy of the bear. Tongva are bear people,” Tristán said proudly. His yellow aura took on a golden hue, particularly around his necklace.