The posse tied their horses to a lush bosque of Mesquite trees at the base of the mountain and climbed a rocky talus to a small cabin at its top. Spanish guitar music flowed from the open windows. Wet with sweat and caked with dust, the men marched through the open door. No knock, no decorum. They stomped in and stood at attention. The room was fragrant. The sweet smoke of juniper smoldered in the garden. Shelves were crowded with ceramic jars. Herbs hung drying in every corner.
“Maravilla, you are under arrest!” Young Sheriff Steve Dylan Jr. stood far too erect, his chest pushed out, straining. This was his first real assignment.
The musician played on.
“Maravilla! Pardon me, ma'am. We've come to take you in!”
Maravilla raised her head and gravely acknowledged the Sheriff with eyes deep as the starry night - the kind you get lost in. She had a rare beauty. Jet black hair spilled down her back and there was a wild freshness about her. Her soft eyes pleaded, Just one minute more. I must say good-bye to my sweet guitar.
Sheriff Dylan knew her: a famous guitarist, singer, and dancer. Supposedly a real big shot when she went East a dozen years back. Why would anyone leave fame to return to this god-forsaken place? "Hell, she's an Injun", his father judged. "Belongs with her own." The local villagers loved her but feared her all the same - for she had become a famous healer and a bruja, or sorceress, among them.
Dylan loved her music and heard it often as a child. His family's maid was one of Maravilla’s cousins, who often sang Maravilla's songs. Sheriff Dylan did not want to arrest her but was under orders from his boss, Marshal Dean Webster, who considered Maravilla’s music a threat to local peace.
He remembered the Marshal saying, "Stirs them up too much. Too many songs about reservation conditions, and against fences, clearcuts and mines. Too many songs that laugh at authority." Dylan heard she had publicly scorned a priest. "Bring her in and scare her a little - that's all," the Marshal commanded, and then added, "It may be harder than you think, Sheriff Dylan. The woman is 'sposed to be some kind of heathen witch."
Dylan replied. "Sir, do you really believe such things?"
“No.” Webster replied, but after a pause added, “But I've seen some things down here I wouldn't dare put in a report. I'm not necessarily sayin' she's dangerous - but take as many men as you can.”
Dylan realized he was daydreaming. She had begun to sing her famous “Freedom Song.’ Dylan decided to listen. Besides, after that long ride, the men could use some rest.
At the other end of the row was the mayor’s son Giraldo, who never cared much for music. When he was a little boy he saw how street musicians at the festivals gave his poor father headaches. Once his father muttered they were scum to be removed from the streets. “No better than the begging pigeons!” his father liked to say. “Chase them all away!” And Giraldo did. He aimed to become the police chief so he could protect his father.
The music swirled and fell, rose and exalted, then swept into a diabolical rage. The men were transfixed; the music played on. Her dark voice first made them shiver, and then made them burn; made them fall in love and then want to shout.
Evening sun warmed the wood floor. It seemed sometimes that two guitars were playing, not one. Surely her voice rang across the valley. Dylan stood in reverie. Most of the men were content to relax as long as their Sheriff was in no hurry. Five minutes turned to fifteen, and fifteen turned to thirty.
Giraldo could not relax. The music made his skin crawl. He kept his eyes forward and his body tense. Giraldo wanted to get the Sheriff’s attention but did not allow himself to break formation.
It did not matter. Dylan’s eyes were closed.
Giraldo coughed and shifted his weight from side to side. He pursed his lips, shifted his gaze to a corner of the room, and tried to think of the national anthem, but he could not remember it. Instead he saw the flowers at the window and the low sun on the Maravilla’s proud face. Then Giraldo snapped back and focused on his duty. He knew her reputation very well. ‘This woman,’ he thought, ‘is a sorceress, able to make me drift off like that!’ He crossed himself, and remembered mountains to the south, where he built playhouses out of willows. Abruptly, Giraldo snapped out of this trance. ‘Why think back to so long ago, when we still lived with those half-wits in the country? My country demands I stay awake!’ Slowly he sank into a reflective mood, the music pulling at him to weep, until his head jerked upright and he said to himself, ‘Aiee! This is very dangerous.’ He crossed himself again, vigorously.
The guitar mocked him. Her voice made his heart fall and rise again. His head felt hot. His palms were sweaty. Giraldo tried to remember what his priest said to guard against sorcerers. He was certain this is what Maravilla was. His mind never wandered to soft and pathetic things. He thought of the Arizona Governor and the President of the USA; how they needed his help to purify the land. Enraged, Giraldo stepped forward and turned to see how the posse was coping. All of them in a stupor, just standing there, some with tears in their eyes! Even his Sheriff stood with his head lifted and his eyes closed. Trembling with fear, Giraldo pictured the President of the USA. He bowed his head and prayed to God for strength and felt it given.
Sheriff Dylan’s heart pounded in his chest. He was sad they had to arrest this woman. Sad that Maravilla would not stop making songs that provoked the government and put her people and the land before the great American cause. Why did she refuse to write a song to commemorate Arizona Statehood? Why did she tell the new Governor, “I’d rather die than praise your lie”?
It’s getting late, Dylan decided. Just one more minute of this pure delight and then we must return. But he didn’t need to wait.
Two shots rang out. The second bullet passed through the guitar and into Maravilla’s waist. The first went through her throat. Her voice croaked weirdly as she slumped over her guitar. A second croak issued from a raven in the room that had gone unnoticed. It flew out of a window, apparently startled from the blasts.
Dylan went to Maravilla. The others turned to look at Giraldo’s pale face, whose hands trembled as the rifle nozzle smoked. They rushed to seize him, shouting in anger and disbelief.
Gently, Dylan lifted Maravilla’s nearly severed head. He could not look into her eyes. His hands burned where they touched her blood. It was so hot he had to let go. He knew the Marshal would be storming mad. How could he have bungled such an easy task?
Maravilla’s blood seeped into the instrument and dripped out of its new hole.
“Oh, God! What shame!” The Sheriff moaned and strode up to Giraldo, eyes filled with tears, and blood burning on his hands. “Giraldo --- why?”
Giraldo swallowed and finally moved his eyes to the Sheriff’s. “Sir. I had to stop the evil to save you. That sorceress had all of you under a spell.”
Dylan paused. He had seen this kind of man before. “No, my pitiful friend. You, not us. It's you who are under a spell.”