The old rusty machete suddenly felt very very good in her hands as she looked over the burnt wreckage of the small primitive village. She had been crying for hours while looking through the broken and smoldering shambles and in the surrounding jungle for her husband and the nuns she served with. Bodies were everywhere but not theirs.

But now something different had come over her. Exhaustion had finally overtaken her in the darkness and she had fallen asleep for a brief moment. She was shaken out of her stupor by vivid dreams of the man talking to her in the old dusty Catholic jungle mission where she served. They stirred a force which had been long dormant. It was a feeling she had not felt in years.

She had already lost one husband. She was not going to lose another! Not her beloved Juan. Not like this! And not her friends, her sisters - the nuns she served with and had personally trained.

The eyes of the petite jungle worn woman narrowed and transformed to a dull cloudy sticky lifeless gray as she scraped the nicks and dings out of the old blade with a chunk of sandstone. The scars on her face and body from all the whippings, beatings, ropes, and parasites she had endured seemed more prominent as she stared off into the thick jungle canopy.

She whispered to herself in her jungle Portugese: "They came to burn the witches? Well here comes the witch!"