The First Circle: The Witches of Arroyo Chronicles, #1

By Paul Perea

When an unusual death occurs in the village of Arroyo, Mirabella Cortez promises to protect a boy in danger and to find the murderer before he strikes again. But for clever a witch as Mirabella is, the heinous killer remains one step ahead, and she soon finds that it's her granddaughter, Gabriella, who is the true target.

 

To ensure the girl can defend herself, Mirabella does everything in her power to prepare Gabriella for a fated battle—a predestination that pits a young woman with untested abilities against a deadly foe, giving rise to one of the most enduring legends of the American Southwest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Perea
• Release date: Jun 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201382247

Paul Perea

Paul Perea was born in Corrales, New Mexico, and raised in Albuquerque. Regional folk stories, in particular, the tale of La Llorona is the inspiration for his novel. Corrales and the woods that border the Rio Grande River played key roles in developing the atmosphere for the village of Arroyo. Paul currently resides in Northfield, Minnesota. THE FIRST CIRCLE is his debut novel.

Book preview

PART ONE

MIRABELLA

CHAPTER 1

Arroyo, New Mexico, 1925

Emma told her to run , and that’s exactly what she did. Gloria Rios ran from the house as if her life depended on it; but her age betrayed her, delivering her half-way down the long dirt road before she had to stop to catch her breath. Through eyes that burned of salty sweat and makeup, she looked back at the little adobe house. For a moment she thought of returning, but then thought otherwise, as crows, too numerous to count, blanketed the property. Their argumentative chorus was joined by the shrill buzzing of cicadas. Then another sound joined the cacophony. It was Emma. She was screaming.

Gloria turned and ran despite the pain in her legs. The wind did its best to stop her, pummeling her body and needling her face with sand; but the screams and caws and buzzing were stronger than the punishing wind. She pushed forward, head down and eyes stinging, until she reached the main road. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Gloria tried to cry out for help, but the words would not come. It was then that she realized the wind had calmed and a silence had pervaded the landscape. The crows and cicadas were quiet. No more caws, no shrill buzzing, no sound from the little adobe house.

Gloria looked at the road that wound towards the heart of Arroyo. Seeking help in town would bring ridicule—of that she was sure—and going back to Emma’s was out of the question. The outskirts of Arroyo beckoned. The old church and cemetery lay in that direction, along with a trusted friend. 

Mari, she whispered under her breath.

The decision reached, Gloria made the sign of the cross and lumbered on, ignoring the pain in her body until she was standing outside a familiar wall and wrought iron gate. She pushed open the gate and hobbled across the courtyard, her right arm extended, a divining rod leading her towards the front door of the sprawling adobe rancho. Forsaking her manners, she tried the door but found it locked. Gloria pounded frantically as fear trailed a bead of sweat down the small of her back. Sensing something close behind, she peered over her shoulder and saw a large raven watching her from the wall, its coal black eyes studying her.

Mari! Gloria screamed and pounded. From within she heard movement and then the sweet sound of a latch release.

Oh, thank God! Gloria cried as she spilled through the open doorway. Quick! Shoo that bird away and close the door!

What in the world? Mirabella asked as she leaned through the doorway and looked around. There’s nothing there. Now would you mind telling me why you were trying to break down my door?

Gloria inched up on tiptoes to peer over Mirabella’s shoulder. It was just there! A raven.  A bad omen! Oh, Mari, I need your help! I was just visiting Emma Gomez and she told me some horrible things. My grandson is in danger! I may be in danger! Oh, the things she saw in her visions! I’m burning up—I may be sick!

Mirabella watched as Gloria collapsed into a chair with a handkerchief and patted the sweat that clung to her forehead, neck, and face. As Gloria struggled with her words, Mirabella went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. 

I swear to the gods, vieja. I don’t know why you insist on visiting that silly fortune- teller. How many times have I told you that no one can predict the future? I would think that by now you would know better, but you never learn, do you? All that woman ever does is upset you and then she sells you some useless tonic or potion. Here, pull yourself together. Mirabella scolded as she handed the glass. 

I know...I know what you’re saying, Gloria stammered. But this time it was different. She had a vision—a vision of the man that haunts the bosque. Emma said she saw him in the woods talking to my grandson. She said the man was going to do some horrible things to him. Dios Mio, he’s just a boy!

As Gloria rambled, Mirabella fetched a washcloth and tended to Gloria’s face, wiping away the trails of black and pink and red that had settled into fleshy crevices.

All right. Now that you have my attention, tell me what else she said, Mirabella asked as she continued to clean Gloria’s face.

Oh, it’s too horrible, Gloria cried, taking a small sip of water and then handing it back. Don’t you have anything stronger?

Mirabella sighed and went to the cupboard to retrieve the whiskey. It didn’t take any coaxing on Mirabella’s part to cause Gloria to babble. 

"Emma was in a trance and whispered things to me as if she were afraid of being found out—like someone was listening. I could barely understand any of it. She said something like, ‘the river moves strangely here and is filled with voices and demons.’ She told me that she and I were in danger because the man had discovered her spying. She said he turned and looked at her with eyes that shone like sapphires. ‘The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen!’ Emma had whispered to me.

She tried to warn me, but about what, I didn’t get the chance to find out. She came out of her trance and started shouting crazy things. She told me to run. Then she fell to the floor in a fit. I was so scared I just grabbed my purse and ran out. Oh, poor Emma! I can still hear her screams!

She actually had a fit? Don’t tell me she’s added theatrics to her repertoire. Well, she certainly keeps her act interesting, I’ll give her that. So, what do you want me to do about all of this? Mirabella asked and shook her head. 

Stop teasing me and say you’ll help me. You can make something of this. You’re a witch, for heaven’s sake!

Mirabella winced at the word.

Don’t you look at me like that, Mirabella Cortez! I may be a foolish old woman but I’m no gossip. I keep your secrets—you know full well I do! You have to promise! Go see Emma. She’ll tell you everything. Do it for me, your dearest friend. I’m begging you!

Mirabella looked into Gloria’s eyes and took measure—they said more than her words. This was not the usual anxiety Gloria exhibited after a visit with the fortune-teller. Gloria’s account had alarmed her, much as it pained her to admit it. Yet she did her best to remain calm, even though her intuition told her this might be much more serious than either of them realized. So, to quell her own worries and to calm her hysterical friend, she grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took two fresh glasses from the cupboard, motioning for Gloria to join her at the kitchen table.

Here, come sit with me and sip a little more of this. Don’t worry, it’s from a reputable source.

Ramos? I thought he was in jail!

Mirabella took a sip and nodded. Yes . . . he was . . . but he’s out now and back in business, thanks to me.

As if things weren’t bad enough! We can’t even have a drink without the police hauling everyone to the jail! Gloria complained and raised her glass in the air. Here’s to Antonio Ramos, and to you, of course.

Mirabella raised hers, smiled, and took another sip. She eyed Gloria over the rim of the glass and did her best to mask her thoughts. It had been a long time since she’d heard anything about the man that haunts the woods near the Rio Grande River. Some regarded him as an old ghost story, created to keep people away from the river, especially at night when drunken revelers were prone to lapses in judgment. Some believed the tall tales of a ghost, a demon, or an evil spirit—there were so many variations—and the people of Arroyo were as superstitious as they were religious.

Mirabella recalled a time, not long after she and her brother, Joseph, had settled in Arroyo. She had been out for a solitary walk through the bosque and had sensed something oppressive and dark hidden in the woods. Since that day, she had remained wary of the bosque even though she had never witnessed anything unusual.

Mirabella caught herself as she watched Gloria’s face fall. Don’t worry . . . my mind was just wandering. I’ll see what I can do.

You’ll protect my grandson? Gloria asked, her eyes searching.

Yes.

And you’ll go talk to Emma?

"And I’ll go talk to Emma so you can stop your moaning," Mirabella said assuredly and reached out to pat Gloria’s hand. It was cold and trembled—not from age, but from fear. A diversion was needed.

Now, tell me about your grandson, how old is he—four or five years now? Mirabella asked, squeezing the old woman’s hand. And how is your daughter-in-law and your son? Please tell me what they’ve been up to. I haven’t seen them at church lately. You know, Ruth is due any day now, so I’ll soon be a grandmother, too!

I can’t believe it! You’re too young to be a grandma! But, ah, your Ruth is going to be such a good mother! Not like that good-for-nothing daughter-in-law of mine. I swear I never understood what Emilio saw in that girl! Did you know Helena has convinced my son to move to California? To the vineyard, no less! Can you believe it? Oh, what will my son do so far away from his home?

Gloria finished what was left in her glass and went on.

And you hear the talk around town about Helena, don’t you? Gloria asked in hushed tones as she helped herself to more whiskey. You know I don’t like to gossip, and I myself don’t put up with it, but Luisa Montoya told me—

The diversion worked and soon Gloria began to chatter on about all the goings-on in her life, the problems in her family, and even took the time to offer advice on how to be a good grandmother. Mirabella listened and nodded until the softening light signaled that the afternoon was taking its leave, and with it, Gloria’s worries.

Would you like to stay for dinner? Mirabella asked politely.

No, no. I’d better get going. If I stay any longer, I’ll drink too much, Gloria slurred and groaned as she hoisted herself up from the chair.

Well then, at least let me walk you home, Mirabella offered.

No need for that . . . I’m not an invalid . . . yet, Gloria joked.

Mirabella chuckled as she saw her wobbly guest to the door. And after the usual long goodbye, she closed and latched the door, leaned against it, and wondered how in the world she would keep the promises she’d just made. One thing was certain. She must pay a visit to Emma, no matter how unsavory the thought.

Gloria walked slowly past the old church and cemetery until she was back on the main road. Her fear had been quieted by the whiskey and she soaked in the beautiful evening. Spring in Arroyo was her favorite time of year. The pods in the cottonwood trees had burst, sending feathery balls of cotton into the sky. It was magical the way they moved, carried up to the sky and swirling every which way, just like the snow globes she collected. Gloria felt as if the village were enchanted.

Far from Gloria’s meandering path, all the windows were open at the little adobe house that sat at the end of the long dirt road. The lingering sunlight filtered through them, casting long images along the floor. Cotton glided on air through the open space and rode the sunbeams. The kitchen was bathed in light—the light that reflected in the lifeless eyes of Emma Gomez—the cotton sticking to her wet, bloated body.

CHAPTER 2

Emma’s death shocked everyone, but no one more than Mirabella. The day after Gloria had come to her for help, news of Emma’s unusual passing had reached her ears from various sources, and the tale grew stranger with each re-telling. Some talked about the crazy old woman who went swimming in the Rio Grande, fully clothed, only to come home and die of a heart attack. Others said that Emma had been attacked, choked to death, her body left to rot on the kitchen floor. Mirabella knew better than to believe the rumors, and the thought of what may have actually happened caused her to shudder. Worse, in order to fulfill her promise to protect Daniel, she would need to find out what had occurred that left one woman dead and another scared for her grandson’s safety.

Mirabella’s concern for Gloria’s well-being was first and foremost on her mind. She knew that Emma’s death would send Gloria into a downward spiral, and it pained her to think of how often she teased Gloria as the woman who cried wolf. But a visit to Gloria was unfortunately out of the question. Experience had proven that Gloria’s son and daughter-in-law would be caring for the hysterical woman. Helena would not welcome her presence.

After a morning of chores, feelings of helplessness and worry were getting the best of her so she left her home and started towards the village in hope of any news that would help to alleviate her anxiety. As she came upon the church, she saw that the priest and some parishioners were hard at work pulling weeds and planting flowers. She hesitated and thought of retracing her steps, but it was too late. The priest spotted her and waved her over.

You’ve come to help clean up the grounds, Señora Cortez? he asked without looking up at her.

No, Father, I was on my way into town. Did you hear about Emma Gomez? Mirabella asked.

At the mention of Emma’s name, the priest turned, looked up at Mirabella, and scowled. Yes, I heard.

That was all the dour man had to say on the matter.

Mirabella cleared her throat and went on. Have there been any updates from the sheriff? Any news as to what happened?

How the hell do these weeds grow so fast? the priest swore, reaching up for assistance, his legs trembling. Mirabella, what do you want to know? Don’t you have better things to do than looking for gossip?

It’s not gossip I’m looking for, I just—

You’re just determined to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong, as usual, the priest interrupted. "It’s been far too many years since Philip passed. You’ve mourned long enough. Go find yourself a new husband . . . someone to keep you busy. You’re a good woman, Mirabella. You help with the church. You help your neighbors. Stop with all this chasing stories and behaving like a feminista. It’s unbecoming and not natural for a woman."

Mirabella felt her face flush with anger at the old priest’s words. Look, I’m too set in my ways. Right now what I really need are some answers, not another husband!

If you’re determined to find answers, find a way to get rid of these damned weeds!

She was about to argue when the priest interrupted her again.

"Oh look, here comes Father Jimenez. Bend his ear . . . he’s good at wasting time, the priest offered, coughed, and walked away. As he rounded the corner of the church, he called out, And remember to keep quiet when I’m having mass! I can hear you whispering."

Oh, that man . . . always has to have the last word! I swear, Matthew, I don’t know how you put up with him, Mirabella stammered and gestured.

Don’t let him get to you. You know he acts like that with everybody, Matthew laughed. So, to what do we owe the honor of this visit?

I’m not visiting. I heard about Emma Gomez, so I thought I’d head into town to see if anybody knows what happened.

Ah yes, Emma. Tragic. A heart attack, I hear, Matthew looked around and saw that several parishioners had stopped their tasks and were staring and straining to hear what was being said. Come, I’ll walk with you for a bit.

Do you think you should be seen walking with me—alone? Mirabella asked sarcastically. You know what people think about me—well, about you and me, to be exact.

I thought those rumors had subsided, Matthew said and smiled.

Rumors like that never die, at least not in this town. It’s too titillating—the widow and the handsome priest. Scandalous! Mirabella laughed.

Matthew laughed, too, then noticed a few people looking at them disapprovingly. Let’s get out of here before I completely lose all composure.

Mirabella took the arm that was extended to her and let him lead the way. They walked in silence until they were well out of earshot.

I do love you, you know that, Mirabella whispered and looked at him with fondness in her eyes. I don’t know how I could have gotten through losing Philip without your friendship.

The smile left his face. Are you okay?

Honestly? No, I’m not. I missed him a lot more than usual today. Oh, I know it’s been years since he passed and most days I’m fine . . . really, I am. But every now and then it surfaces and I’m there again, that awful day, reliving the pain. In my mind, I can still see that first shovel of dirt . . . the one that hit the top of his casket . . . it crushed my heart. I suppose Emma’s death has something to do with my melancholy.

I didn’t know you two were friends, Matthew commented.

"We aren’t . . . I mean, we weren’t. But she’s dead and that’s a sad thing, isn’t it? Mirabella commented, stopping to reflect for a moment before going on. You know, I was cleaning my patio this morning and arranging the pots. When I overturned one, I found a dead mouse. The poor little thing couldn’t have been dead too long. He was gray and white with little pink paws. He had crawled in through the drainage hole, probably seeking shelter or food, and then couldn’t get out. I just stood there and looked at him and thought how horrible it must have been to die like that, trapped and so alone.

It made me sad, and I thought of Emma, and wondered what it was like, you know, her last moments. I suppose it’s silly of me, comparing the death of a human being to that of a mouse.

That’s not silly, Matthew said and squeezed her hand. You’re a good person, Mirabella.

"I’m glad you think so," Mirabella commented sarcastically.

A lot of people think so.

A lot of people think otherwise.

Matthew chuckled. Don’t worry about those ones. Who cares what a bunch of old biddies have to say?

I suppose I do, Mirabella admitted with a slight grin, but I guess to them I’ll always be the outsider.  

Lost in conversation, they soon found themselves at the edge of the village proper and Mirabella excused herself, but first issued an invitation.

Come for supper Sunday afternoon—after church services.

Thank you. I’ll look forward to it, Matthew replied and paused, clearing his throat and summoning the courage to ask a question without sounding too interested. Will Joseph be there?

Mirabella smiled knowingly. I’ll make sure that he is.

Matthew returned the smile and watched her walk away. He turned to leave then stopped and called out. Hey, what did you do with the mouse?

Without turning around, Mirabella shouted back, I gave him a proper burial, of course!

A fast pace found Mirabella in the heart of the village. She went directly to the grocer where the little market was teeming with people, but no one was buying anything. Those that weren’t in the cantina had been drawn to the store and were conversing loudly, each with their own theories about Emma Gomez, hoping to be overheard.

One woman spoke with great authority, commenting on reports of cicadas rising much too early and surely signaling doom.

A man swore he saw a hundred crows and ravens flying in the direction of Emma’s house.

Another stated that as he had walked home the previous night, he had seen Emma’s ghost standing at the crossroads, her body green and bloated as she stood pointing towards the river.

Tact, respect, and discretion had been discarded. Mirabella thought of scolding them as she looked into the faces of frightened children hiding behind their father’s legs or gripping their mother’s hands, but she had no interest in entering into any argument. So, she wove her way around people, gathered the items she needed, paid the grocer, and departed quickly. The rumor mill was turning wildly and the circumstances surrounding Emma’s death had sparked people’s imaginations.

Once outside, she paused for a moment to gather her thoughts, then walked directly toward the sheriff’s office. Two young men stood leaning against the building, smoking and watching her intently as she approached. She recognized them and knew they might give her a hard time. They didn’t disappoint.

Hey, Mirabella. Where ya think you’re goin’?

To see Sheriff Alary, not that it’s any of your business.

Now, is that any way to talk to a friend? We was just wondering, the other young man snickered.

Mirabella, impatient with them, was quick with her admonishment. Don’t you boys have chores to do? Why don’t you go home to your mothers before you get into trouble! Now, if you don’t mind, please get out of my way.

You’re wastin’ your time. He ain’t here.

How do you know? Mirabella asked.

He and the deputy headed out on their horses. Must be goin’ to check out the dead body.

Mirabella was about to lecture the young men on respect when she heard the clip-clop of horse hooves behind her, causing the men to chuckle.

Speaking of trouble, looks like your son is here. Hey Sal, how ya’ doin’? One man teased as he waved at the young woman on the horse.

Looks like your mustache is comin’ in real good, the other said, causing both to double over in laughter.

Salome wiped the grime from her lip and studied her hand as she dismounted. Thanks, fellas. Someday if you ever become men, you might be able to grow one, too.  

The younger man blushed and balled his fists—making a start toward Salome.

Alright, that’s enough out of all of you, said Mirabella, moving between the young men and her daughter. She narrowed her gaze and watched as they assessed her posture, knowing they wouldn’t dare test her. As expected, they turned and shuffled away, muttering nonsense under their breath.

Don’t you think you’re a bit old to be picking fights with those idiots? Mirabella scolded. I brought you up better than that. It’s high time you start acting like a young woman instead of a tom-boy.

Salome ignored the reprimand and deposited a quick kiss on Mirabella’s cheek. What’s going on, mom?

What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’? By the way, young lady, where have you been?

I was up at Blue Water fishing with some friends. Look, I didn’t mean to run off without telling you, but it was kind of last minute and, as usual, you were nowhere to be found, so— Salome let her words trail off as she stroked the muzzle of her horse.

Here, Mirabella said and held out the satchel of groceries to Salome. Take these home. I need to borrow your horse.

Alright, but what’s the hurry? Salome asked as she handed the reins to her mother and struggled to gain purchase with the bag.

Mirabella ignored the question as she pulled herself onto the saddle. "Oh, and on your way home, stop and tell Grace to come by the house later. I need to talk to you and your sister."

She and Sam are in Albuquerque visiting his folks, Salome explained. Mom, is something wrong?

I need to ride out to Emma’s—immediately—I’ll explain later.

Emma’s? What on earth for? Salome chuckled. Did she brew a bad love potion or something?

She’s dead, Mirabella whispered, and I suspect she may have been murdered.

CHAPTER 3

The sun was high against the New Mexico sky. Mirabella shielded her eyes as she surveyed the landscape, noting the neglected fields that bordered the road leading to the home of Emma Gomez. Neat rows of chili, squash, and melon once grew here. Now only weeds littered the cracked ground. As the horse plodded slowly, Mirabella turned her head. Behind her, she spied the dormant volcanos and flat-topped mesas that ridged the back of the western horizon. Looking to the east, far beyond the little adobe house, sat the stone-faced Sandia Mountains, towering over the Rio Grande Valley.

From her vantage point, she could make out two figures. One stood with his back to her, hands on hips, staring toward the house. The other was on his knees, retching and vomiting. She stopped the horse, giving the man time to finish and collect himself. Mirabella knew the weak-stomached deputy. Juan Gallegos was his name, and he was ill-suited for the job. Everybody knew it and teased him, but Mirabella wouldn’t make him suffer another embarrassment. She could wait.

Finally, the man stood and removed his shirt, letting it fall in a heap on the ground. He stood there in his undershirt, wiping his mouth and dry heaving, accepting the cigarette that was offered. Seeing that it was safe to proceed, she nudged the horse and they moved toward the house, the horse’s footfalls announcing her arrival.

Go away. We have nothing to report yet! The sheriff yelled without turning around.

Not even to me? Mirabella asked as she dismounted and walked toward him. Before she could react, Mirabella found herself lifted off the ground, caught in the large man’s bear-hug.

Put me down, gringo!

Hola, Señora Cortez, the deputy greeted, watching the spectacle and rapidly puffing on the cigarette to mask the taste of vomit.

Juan, why don’t you take your horse and ride out to the end of the road to meet the coroner. The ambulance might miss the turn, the sheriff instructed, still holding onto a squirming Mirabella.

I said put me down! You’re crushing me!

Ah hell, you can take it, Mari, the sheriff laughed and then released her as he fished his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Want one?

No thanks, Tiny.

You know you’re the only one that still calls me that, he commented, the words forced through pinched lips