Ballad & Dagger, page 6
Am I ever.
AS WE WALK HOME, MY whole body feels like it’s made out of soggy cardboard. Probably just tired, but every step is a chore. Worse than that, though: the streets are quiet. Terrifyingly so. We stroll down Fulton, past the empty stares of dark storefronts and some torn police tape whipping in the October wind. No one else is out.
Tonight’s street brawl, how real it got, has already brought a new kind of shadow down on us. Plus, Councilwoman Bisconte’s no guns/no cops agreement had done a pretty good job of keeping the police out of Little Madrigal all these years, so their sudden intrusion adds another level of tension.
And on this, of all nights.
Here’s the thing about pirates: you really don’t know that much about them, whoever you are. Sure, you rode an amusement park ride. You read a book. Congrats. But most of the common junk Joe Regular thinks he knows about pirates is based on, like, a couple random dudes in a very specific moment of history, right? There have always been pirates, though, and there always will be. It’s like saying you’re an expert on plumbers because you played Super Mario Brothers.
There isn’t a common pirate culture, but pirates across the world have had to cultivate certain traits by nature of the job. It’s so many extremes, or, in Madrigal terms, opposites coexisting. To survive, they had to live either entirely under the radar or be so known and feared that no one would bother messing with them. They couldn’t trust authorities, but sometimes had to collaborate with those same authorities to get by. When death lurks over the crest of every wave, you either live in constant terror or live life to the fullest. Or, more than likely, some combination of both.
Either way, the pirates of San Madrigal threw together various folktales, superstitions, love songs, survival codes, and recipes that they’d picked up along the way, and they forged themselves a loose kind of culture. And really, how different is that from any other culture? And because we’re just talking about a few hundred people on a rock in the middle of nowhere, that culture seeped into everything. There are Galeranos who cling tight to that pirate identity, the lineage, the lingo—but the core gist of that pirate life reached everyone, Santero, Sefaradi, agnostic, whatever. In San Madrigal, it’s as universal as the three spirits.
And the Grande Fete is the epicenter of that. Supposedly, it goes all the way back to the first tumultuous year on the island—celebration of life mandated by the dead, according to some. It’s credited with saving us from invasion and plague in various eras, for various reasons. It’s core to who we are.
And all that aside, the Grande Fete is when you’re supposed to stay up till sunrise, playing music, eating amazing seafood, creating brand-new juiciness for the little viejitas to chatter about from their windows the next morning.
Instead, it’s just this shuddering quiet.
Tams feels it, too, but, in typical Tams style, she wards off the creepy quiet by refusing to honor it. “Tell me everything,” she demands with a conspiratorial wink, and I obey because that’s what we do. She gasps and snickers at all the right moments, and I see her lighting up when I tell her about what it felt like to heal.
The only thing I hold back on is probably the least important part of the night, and Tams already knows about it anyway: that I don’t fit in, that I feel like I’m always looking through a window at my own neighborhood, my own life, even. I don’t say how much it hurt to suddenly be the center of attention, the name on everyone’s lips, because what words would I even use? The only thing that could express that level of emotion is music.
When I’m done with the saga of the night, we’ve both stopped walking and we take a couple moments of just going “Whoa…” because a man died, and my tía almost did, too, and an island is rising, apparently, and absolutely nothing makes sense.
Then Tams launches into an explanation of her own initiation. Santeros spend a whole year wearing white. Tams describes it like she entered into a sacred pact with a guardian angel orisha, Ochossi—and I gotta admit, I feel a pang of jealousy. It’s like she has her own personal mystical friend looking out for her.
We were ten when Tams initiated. I wasn’t at the ceremony, but I remember her telling me about it then, a little. I didn’t really get it, just that she was wearing white a lot, and I kinda resented the fact that she had a bunch of stuff to do and couldn’t come over to play as often when I was in town. And then it was just a thing that she and Tía Lucia had in common, and that was cool, but Tams and I never talked much about it.
“Ochossi guided me to play the drums,” she says now as we round a corner onto a dark residential street and pass under an old oak tree. “Your aunt told me at my ceremony, at the divination, that I was destined to play drums, but I already knew. It was just confirmation.”
“Wow,” I say. It sounds so nice to have a destiny calmly mapped during a ceremony instead of finding out about it in the middle of a riot. “You’ve never told me about that.” I don’t mean it to sound accusing, but I guess a glint of my jealousy leaks out, because Tams stops walking and turns a devastating glare on me.
“You never asked,” she says. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“What?” This is news, but I guess that’s the point.
She throws up her hands, already over this whole convo. “Mateo, your eyes glaze over whenever I talk about my spirit stuff. I just gave up. Like…years ago, man.”
“I…” I want to argue, but I know she’s right. My face scrunches up. “I…I’m sorry. For real sorry. That’s messed up. It’s really important to you.”
She nods, one eyebrow raised, mouth twisted to one side. “You were too busy trying to be Maestro Gerval’s little clone.”
I take a step back. “That’s not—”
“It’s not true?”
“I mean, it’s…” The words don’t come out because whether or not it’s true is beside the point. Her comment hurt! Which I guess was the point.
Tams shoots me her waiting impatiently for a response look.
“Music is…” My only connection, I want to say, but connection to what? The world, it feels like sometimes. But really, it’s not the whole world, just this one—the one that’s shattering all around us. “I don’t know how to be when I’m here. Like, how to exist. All I can think about is what I’m doing wrong and how obvious that must be to everyone around. And especially after what happened tonight…” I hate how my voice goes up a notch or two when I’m defensive, and I hate even more that Tams totally knows that about me. She’ll realize she’s got me on the ropes.
I try to bring it back to normal. “And Gerval is like…the epitome of that. He gets us, he is us, but he isn’t stuck here. And that’s the thing: I don’t want to be the guy. But seeing how he is showed me a way that I can be, if that makes sense. And I just want him to see what I’ve got, and then take me along with him all over the planet.”
Tams realizes I’ve hit a dead end in my thoughts, and she knows I tried my best. She keeps it moving. “I get that. And I feel it, too, sometimes. Not the same thing, obviously, but you know…this whole game folks are always playing about how we’re all in it together, it gets old, when we all know it’s a lie. Especially when crap like tonight pops off.”
“Exactly.” I get what she’s talking about. The entire weird riddle of our colorism and economics problems—it’s not just an interesting cultural puzzle. It’s people’s lives, feelings, struggles. She’s exceptionally good at fitting in everywhere she goes, sure, but it’s nowhere near as easy as she makes it look. I know about the micro- and macroaggressions, the creepy ways that colorism, legacies of an empire we were never conquered by, still seep into our language and lives.
“And look, what you said a second ago about my initiation? You don’t have to apologize. It’s cool.” She smiles with no malice. “Well, that’s not really true, but now you’re gonna make it up to me.” A wicked glint flashes in her eyes. “Because my house has a bembé coming up two nights from now, and you can come along!”
“Cool!” I say, and manage not to make it sound too much like a question. Bembés are like big parties the Santero community throws for a spirit, usually to mark a new initiation. There’s singing, drumming, dancing, and delicious food both for people and spirits.
I’ve played music at a few but never gone to one just to go. Which I guess is part of the problem. I blocked out my own initiation, and in doing so I put up a wall about something important to my best friend. But the idea of just showing up at a bembé, like, as a participant—it never sat right with me. Those are for people who really believe, people who throw their whole lives into being a Santero and that intimate, complex connection to their guardian spirit. It’s never said—technically, everybody’s welcome—but those are mostly for initiates. Except it turns out I am one and have been all along.
“And anyway,” Tams says, probably reading my mind, “now you’re a woo-woo spirit person, too!” She skips off, snickering. “Now we gotta talk about it! Ha!”
“Tams! Wait up!”
By the time we get to my front door, my body still feels soggy and my thoughts have wandered all the way back to the beginning of the night, that horrible moment when Trucks collapsed beneath Chela’s attack, the fury in her eyes….
“What is it?” Tams asks.
I blink. “I wasn’t glazing over, I swear!”
She laughs. “I would’ve punched you if that’s what I thought was happening. You just look really sad.”
We’re standing on the stoop, gazing out at the street. We’ve spent so many nights right here, talking about the world and music (mostly music). I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this lost and confused, though.
“I saw someone die tonight,” I say. “I think? And in just a few hours, the world got a hundred times bigger and scarier than I knew it to be. And I already knew it was huge and terrifying.”
Tams nods. “Real.”
“Or maybe it’s that the big, terrifying world got very close to home all of a sudden. Either way, I…I feel like I missed out on something important leading up to this. Something in my own life that’s part of me, but I…never knew it. You have all these amazing stories of initiating and learning about your spirits, and I’m just—”
“Yeah,” Tams says, eyeing the door. “If only you had someone in your immediate family you could ask about this stuff.”
“Yeah,” I exhale. We’re heading up the stairs, and I’m running out of breath; every move feels like an epic quest. “And I almost lost her earlier. At least, it sure felt like I almost did.”
“So.” Tía Lucia gazes up from the little divining table when we walk in. She doesn’t look any worse for wear. “I spoke to some folks while I was cleaning up at the club.” She’s showered now and has on a puffy pink bathrobe. She even went ahead and reapplied her makeup, even though she’s clearly in for the night. Typical Tía extra-ness. “You buried the lede.” She holds a lighter up to the cigar in her mouth and lights it.
“I don’t even know…” I start to say, but then bright colors cloud my vision and then there’s just nothing.
“OKAY, OKAY, UP YOU GO,” Tía Lucia is saying as the world comes swinging back into focus.
I’m at the altar, and she and Tams are holding me up. I don’t think I passed out completely, but I have no idea what happened.
“You okay?” Tams asks.
I blink. “I think so?”
“He’s all right,” Tía Lucia says, pulling something off one of the shelves where her santos sit. “Just needs to cleanse.”
My eyes focus on a long, shiny…blade? “Uh!”
“It’s fine,” Tía laughs. “I won’t chop anything off as long as you hold still.”
It’s a machete. It’s definitely a machete. I lean on Tams as my aunt brushes the flat part along my arms and legs and then flicks it at one of her pots. Already, my head feels clearer, but I don’t know if that’s because of the…the cleansing, I guess? Or just because I’m coming around.
“What’re you doing?”
“You healed a lot of people tonight, Mateo. Including me, gracias. Pero that can take its toll, hmm? You pick up people’s crap when you heal them. Their energy, their injuries, their problems.”
“That’s why I felt like mushy cardboard all the way home?” I mutter.
“Sounds about right.” She swipes the blade over me one more time, very carefully, and then helps me to a seat. “You’ll learn to adjust to it, and sometimes you won’t even notice it. Pero it can be jarring at first. I’ll teach you how to clean off yourself next time.”
Next time. I barely survived this one.
“Now, as I was saying: you buried the lede!”
“Uh, before you go on, Iya Lucia,” Tams says, using the traditional Santero title of respect for an elder priestess, “may I salute?”
Of course Tams knows exactly how to defuse my aunt when Lucia’s in one of her extra-gangster moods. The method, which I can never quite get the hang of, is to ignore the dramatics and go about your business. Tams lies down in front of the altar and mutters a quiet prayer. She does this every time she comes over—I’ve gotten used to it. Just one more thing I relegated to the back of my mind. Tía Lucia touches Tams’s back and offers up a small blessing. Tams stands, and they embrace on one side, then the other.
“How are you, Iya Lucia?” Tams asks.
The whole place smells like bodega cigars, so the answer is not well. My aunt doesn’t try to pretend everything’s all right, she just waves and directs her glare back at me.
“What lede?” I demand. Honestly, I’m just happy she’s alive, so a little attitude from her isn’t much of a thing, not after the night it’s been.
Anisette says she’s raising the island? Aunt Miriam asks, floating in. All the spirits are chattering.
“That useless cow,” Tía Lucia mutters. “First of all, don’t believe one single word Anisette says. Not one.” She punctuates it with a severe pursing of her bright red lips. Both eyebrows go straight up. “¿Oíste?”
“Yes, I heard you,” I say, sighing. “But, Tía, she showed pictures of the peaks.”
“¿Y qué?” Tía slams the table. “Photoshop doesn’t exist?”
“Why are you so upset? And why are you actually smoking those things? You never smoke them.”
She smirks, shaking her head. “Let’s let Lucia worry about Lucia’s business, and Mateo worry about Mateo’s business, hmm?”
Lucia, Aunt Miriam says with a slight warning in her faraway voice. There’s something going on with them—something they’re not telling me—and it started with that reading earlier tonight. But I know better than to try getting anything out of my aunts.
“What’s my business?” I actually do want to know what she’s going on about.
Tía Lucia motions for me and Tams to join her at the little table. My aunt suddenly looks very pleased with herself. “Te despertaste, Mateo,” she says, leaning forward with a wry smile once we’ve settled into the folding chairs.
“I woke up? What do you mean?”
“‘Initiated, fully awakened children of the original spirits,’” Tams says, quoting what we’d heard back at the club. “I was wondering what Anisette meant by that.”
If even Tams doesn’t know, that means it’s a concept outside the normal Santería stuff. The Santeros seamlessly wove the three original spirits of San Madrigal into their pantheon; stories about them interacting with the other santos go all the way back through the history of the island. But the pirates took them on, too—plugged them right into that weird, cultish mix of superstitions and saints that they practice. I’ve never totally understood how the Sefaradim work them into their beliefs, but Madrigal, Okanla, and Galanika pop up throughout the Galerano prayer books and Jewish fable books. I guess the three spirits are like me, in a way, at home everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Or maybe they’re just at home everywhere, like Tams.
“An initiate of one of the original spirits,” Tía Lucia says with a sagely drag on her cigar, “cannot fully step into their role, their destiny, until they are awakened. To do this, they must use their powers. Usually”—she winks at me—“just one time will do it.”
“So, I…You’re saying I awoke my powers tonight, by healing you?”
Tía Lucia nods.
Thank you for that, by the way, Aunt Miriam calls from the far corner, where she’s hovering, doing some ghostly stuff, who knows what.…Even if some people want to jump right back into business as usual as if nothing happened, I appreciate what you did.
“Yo también,” Tía Lucia insists. “Pero I also know what it means about what happens next.”
Both Tams and I stare at her, because you can’t just drop something like that and not elaborate.
Tía Lucia shrugs the Galerano shrug in response—a kind of halfway mambo, one shoulder up, then the other—and tilts her head to one side with a wide frown. “If what Anisette says is true—and that is quite an enormous if—then many people are about to come knocking at your door, Mateo.”
I drag a hand down my face. That is just about the worst possible thing you could tell me. More eyes, more chatter, more bochinche, more beef. “What, I’m going to be like the local doctor now? Everyone showing up to get their blisters and earaches cured and then getting mad at me when a cure doesn’t take?”
Tía chuckles, blowing out a mess of smoke. “Heh, no, no, much worse, mi amor. Anisette was right about one thing, and I know that because she was quoting me. Sí, the isla can be raised, although I never imagined it would happen in my lifetime. And sí, to do it fully, it requires una ceremonia involving three initiated, awakened children of the original santos of Madrigal. That’s why you were made, Mateo. Bueno, that and to save your life, but esa es otra historia.”
“Wait,” I say, because that’s something I’d like to hear, but she barrels right through.
“Fifteen years ago, the shells predicted absolute destruction of our world. The only salvación was in initiating one child to each of the three isla spirits.” She shakes her head, a sudden sadness enveloping everything. “We tried. Believe me, we tried. Ay, mi madre…We searched and searched for who those initiates should be—you have to check with divination, you know, and…you were the only one who took. And then, when I initiated you…” She looks away, scowls.
