Sitting on the bow of her sailboat, she closed her eyes and remembered the days when, crouched and silent, she would wait for her to pass by and catch it. Upon returning home, she would face a storm of scolding and blows for her absence. Since her father´ s death, she preferred to wander and lose herself in the mountains.

When she came back, one or two days later, Rufina, her father’s bitter widow, barely paid her any attention, but oh, how she scolded her, as if she cared. She missed her father’s arms so much, especially when he would lift her up, look into her green eyes, and say: “they’re your grandmother Carmiñas’s eyes, the one i left behind in the village across the sea”, then he would grow pensive. She loved hearing taht, though later she was  certain that her distant grandmother wouldn’t have liked having a mixed-race granddaughter. “Mi Mulata,” her father used to call her, and Mulata is what everyone called her.

She never asked about her mother because it brought tears to his eyes. Only her grandmother Refugio, the black mama Cuca, could she ask, because she was the one who told her everything she wanted to know. Her father never minded when the old woman climbed up into the mountains, where they lived, to look for her. “ Del Gallego”, they called him, because her father was from Galicia. Nor did he forbid her from taking the girl to gather plants and flowers. In his own gruff and harsh way, he appreciated the black woman who seemed to know everything, and everything… She taught her.

She didn’t know how, but some nights she felt a warm breeze enter through her bedroom window. She would run out to the yard, and in the darkness, always behind the izotes plants, she would spot mama Cuca’s eyes and teeth. After circling around the Villa of Córdoba, after two days of travel, she would silently arrive for her. She came from far away, perhaps from Amatlán, as it was believed she lived on the Hacienda de Guadalupe, where her girl -ama, would let her go without many questions, only knowing she was going for “medicine.”

She arrived in the evening at the villa, entering through the San Miguel neighborhood, where only the Indigenous lived. Following the Camino Real northward, she would begin climbing the Matlaquíahuitl mountain range until she reached the house to find Mulata. When she was still very young, her grandmother, seeing how sharp and intuitive she was, began teaching her about herbs—the good ones and the bad ones. As she grew older, she learned about animals: how many rings the good snake had, how many the bad one, whether its venom killed or healed, when to use the bile of a fish or the gall of a rabbit, when animals cried out for water, and when they warned of danger. She helped her listen to mockingbirds, doves, tóngonos or blackbirds, to smell the rain, to hear and feel the earth. She taught her to read the clouds, the moon, and the stars, and to tell time.She would sometimes speak words or phrases in other languages. “From my black ancestors, from where they call it Africa,” she told her once.

At 15, almost a woman, transformed into a beautiful and sensual maiden, Cuca spoke to her about humanity—how to heal when the illness was of the body and how to heal when it was of the soul. She also taught her how to bring life into the world and how to delay death. Above all, she warned her about envy and base, dark passions. She showed her the power of her mind but also spoke to her about the Almighty Lord, noble feelings, and love for others.Then came the time when the old and weary mama Cuca stopped climbing up the mountain. Days passed, and Mulata missed her deeply. One cold, very cold, and damp winter night, she felt the same warm breeze and ran outside. Through the thick fog, she could only make out a light, like a candle, moving farther away as it ascended. She didn’t have to guess—she knew with certainty it was a farewell. She said goodbye and kept her forever in her heart.

The next night, she gathered what little she had, packed a satchel and a small bundle, and, well-wrapped against the cold, made her way down to the outskirts of the Villa de Córdoba. Searching along the banks of the Río de las Piedras, also called San Antonio, she quickly found the small house that mamá Cuca had described to her in detail and left prepared. And so, overnight, the Mulata appeared in the Villa de Córdoba, and the legend began. Extremely discreet, she confided in no one about her origins or the source of her knowledge—or powers, as people soon began calling her gifts. Diligently, she healed her neighbors, helped with their troubles, and became known and respected throughout the Villa.

Her proud and elegant bearing as she crossed the main square on her way to the temple drew everyone’s attention. Up close, her green eyes, curly hair, and dark, golden skin—her entire beauty—captivated many of the young noblemen of the Villa. Yet, she always turned them down with such grace and an air of discretion that, though heartbroken, they never spoke of it. It was well known that she undertook long journeys to distant haciendas to care for sick slaves, and more than once she was seen heading north to a palenque, not too nearby, to treat runaway slaves. They were astonished to hear her speak to them in their own African languages. Many times, in the dead of night, she was taken to luxurious mansions to assist with a birth, treat an illness, or offer advice guided by her remarkable intuition. She never charged anyone for her services, but everything she received—whether in gold or goods—she used to help the most needy.

The years passed, yet she maintained her youthful demeanor, her smooth complexion, and her legendary beauty, thanks to her sober lifestyle, her potions, and her concoctions. But the rumors began: “It seems she has a pact with the devil,” people whispered.

The tipping point came when a well-known and influential member of the town council, appointed by the viceroy, fell in love with her. Obsessed, he tried to abuse his power. As with all the others, he was rejected. Blinded by rage, he accused her of being a sorceress. This accusation unleashed long-held envy and resentment, setting off a full-blown witch hunt.

 The case reached the ears of the feared and fearsome Inquisition. Without a proper trial, she was accused of witchcraft, arrested, and sentenced to die by burning with green wood. She was immediately taken to the port of Veracruz and confined to a damp, gloomy dungeon in the fortress of San Juan de Ulúa, where she awaited her execution.

From the moment she arrived at the prison, she won over her jailer, recommending remedies for his chronic ailments and his wife’s aches and pains. Her courteous demeanor, undoubtedly combined with her striking beauty, earned the hardened guard’s complete trust. One drowsy, sweltering afternoon, she asked him for a piece of charcoal or chalk to draw and stave off boredom. The kind man searched until he found one and gave it to her the next day. She immediately began drawing on the thick, porous stone wall, which had a small circular window facing the sea. Meanwhile, lulled by the stifling heat of the cell, her guard dozed off. When he woke, he was astonished to see a magnificent sailboat drawn on the wall in extraordinary detail—the sails full and the bow aimed toward the sea. Then Mulata asked him, “What is my ship missing?” The man replied, “Only to sail!” “Then it shall sail!” she said, and with a leap, she climbed aboard the vessel. To his utter disbelief, the ship broke through the thick wall and floated out to sea. The dumbfounded jailer watched, unable to believe his eyes, as the ship sailed farther and farther away.

The poor man grew weary of repeating to his superiors and anyone willing to listen to what had happened right before his eyes. No one believed him, and they dismissed him as mad. Yet, he preferred to be thought crazy, for he always knew the truth of what he had witnessed.