Ballad & Dagger, page 7
“What?” I ask. “What happened?”
“Ah, Mateo. That was the day la isla went down. We barely made it out of the ceremony alive.”
Suddenly, I’m standing and I don’t remember getting up. My whole body is ice-cold. “Did I…did my ceremony…do that? Did the ceremony destroy the island?”
It sounds bonkers, I know, but if San Madrigal can be raised from the depths of the sea with a ceremony, why couldn’t a ceremony be what sank it? Nothing is impossible, not anymore.
Tía Lucia waves away the notion. “Tranquilo. No. Absolutely not. Calm down. Sit.”
Tams puts her hand on my shoulder as I lower back into the chair. I’m not totally convinced, but I know Tía wouldn’t lie to me, not about this.
“Point is,” she goes on, “Anisette seems to believe—or wants us to believe she believes—that somehow someone initiated two other people, one to Okanla the Destroyer and one to Madrigal the Creator, without me knowing. Seems dubious, sí. Pero if she’s right, and she gathers up esa gente along with you, pues…” Tía’s smile turns grim, her teeth clenched, jaw tight. “Our lore speaks about catástrofes, you know, even about la isla sinking. And it says whoever raises la isla controls the spirits of la isla, becomes a kind of mystical master of all that magia. It’s…We don’t totally know what it means, but it’s a lot of power.” She scrunches up her face like she just smelled old milk. “More power than that tonta should have, I know that much. There’ll be luxury hotels all up and down the three peaks before you can say But we were supposed to stay hidden…. Trust me on that.”
“Yikes,” Tams says.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this. I can barely wrap my head around it, but Tía seems to think it has something to do with my destiny, the way she’s talking. “So I stay away from Anisette? I can do that.”
“It’s not that simple, querido. Todo el mundo will be trying to figure out how to do this, now that it’s possible, now that the rising has begun. They will be looking for the otra initiated children, and they will be doing whatever they can to bring you over to their side.”
“What are these sides?” I demand as panic swirls and rises within me.
Tía throws up a hand. “That remains to be seen.”
“I’m not on any sides. I don’t want to be on any sides.”
“Bueno. They will try to endear you to them, and if all else fails, to convince you by force to do what they want.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, but I don’t even know what I’m rejecting. The whole thing. “What do they want?”
“Power,” Tía Lucia says with a smirk. “Same as everyone else.”
I know that face she’s making, where the gravity of her tumbling sentences leads. “There’s something else,” I say.
“I know you don’t want to be on any sides, and I understand, especially because the players haven’t even revealed themselves yet. But you don’t get to sit this one out, Mateo.”
Damn, she knows me well. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Find the other two initiated children, the priests of Okanla and Madrigal. Without them, nothing else can be done. Maybe Anisette is bluffing—it’s not beyond her, believe me. Pero we must be certain. The risks are too great. If la isla is to rise, it must be us who do it.”
I gape at her, a million questions swirling through me. Only one comes out, but it’s the only one that really matters. “How?”
“Wish I could tell you, I really do,” Tía says with genuine regret. “All I can say is, get close to everyone but trust no one.” She directs a sharp glare into my eyes. “No one. ¿Entiendes, Mateo Matisse Medina?”
“Not the full government name,” Tams whispers in quiet horror.
All I can do is nod.
“Start,” Tía Lucia says, lighting another cigar, “with Chela.”
“Chela Hidalgo?” Tams and I both sputter at once.
She wiggles her eyebrows. “That girl’s up to something.”
“Besides murdering people?”
“Find out, Mateo. Find out what she knows, what she’s about. The Sefaradim don’t allow initiations, and I can’t imagine the head rabbi of Madrigal letting his only daughter be part of some secret ceremony. So I doubt she’s who we’re looking for. But she definitely knows something. If nothing else, it’s a way to talk to her cousin, Tolo, and Tolo knows everything. And he’ll know even more when he becomes pirate king. There are supposed to be all kinds of secrets passed from one leader of the pirates to the next, and Anisette was close to his mamá, Mimi, before she went down with la isla.”
“Messy,” Tams says.
Tía Lucia laughs. “The past never goes away, jóvenes. What happened then matters now. Chela knows some things we don’t.”
“And?” I say.
Her smile vanishes. “Find out what she knows. Pero escu—” She catches herself midway through her favorite word.
For a second, I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking about that moment earlier tonight when I pulled away from her.
Right before I almost lost her for good.
“I’m sor—” I start.
But she interrupts me: “No, no, por favor. It’s okay. You were right, out there. I don’t get to choose your destiny. I have no right.”
Now I’m really listening.
“But sometimes we are called to things, to roles, and they’re not always easy.”
I make a noncommittal grunt, because I guess I know what she means, but I’m not sure what to do with it.
“When I say, escucha, Mateo, I don’t just mean to listen to me.”
“You don’t?”
“I mean to listen to the world. Listen more deeply. To stop and listen. For real listen, not just hope you hear.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Listening is active, it’s something you do. You have to decide to do it. But you get so caught up in your head, Mateo. You just end up getting in your own way. I mean listen deeper. Go deeper. Because at first, all you will hear is your own fear.”
Okay, she has a point there. Basically, that’s why I try to stop listening when it comes to most things non-music-related, because I’m tired of hearing all the worst-possible scenarios. “Go on,” I say, scrunching up my face.
“Fear is a lie.” She says it with so much certainty, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“How do you know all my nightmares won’t come true?”
“That’s not what I said. I don’t mean there aren’t bad things in the world, that bad things won’t happen.”
“So?”
She smiles. “I mean it’s a lie by omission. When you’re afraid, that’s all you know, all you hear. There is always more to the story. The good and bad always live in the same space. But fear takes up all the oxygen. This is why you must listen, you must go deeper.”
I’m not sure I get it, but I’m not sure I ever will. “Okay.”
“Pero ahora, eschúchame.”
“You just said—”
“Don’t trust Chela Hidalgo, m’ijo.”
I throw up my hands. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to be afraid!”
“Oh, you should definitely be afraid,” Tía Lucia chuckles. “Just don’t be only afraid! Don’t be so afraid you can’t hear anything else!”
“This is ridiculous!”
“And don’t trust anyone.”
“Except me,” Tams puts in.
“Look, Tía,” I say, “why don’t you look into all th—”
Tía Lucia’s having none of it. “You know very well I can’t go snooping around for answers. I’m the head Santera of Madrigal. I’m part of the Cabildo. No one’s gonna tell me nothing. And anyway, you may find being an awakened son of Galanika comes with certain benefits. You’re a local celebrity now! Live it up.”
“Ugh,” I say.
“And use it.” Tía Lucia nods, barely skips a beat. “Y acuérdate: the good lives inside the bad, which lives inside the good.”
I am fully over these mystic riddles. “I don’t see how that’s supposed to help.”
She stands, nodding at me and then Tams. “Go to bed, Mateo. You have school in the morning, and it’s already past one a.m.”
“But…”
“And I have baking to do! We can talk more tomorrow.”
“Baking?” Tams gawks. “Now?”
“Late at night is the best time to bake,” Tía Lucia says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Buenas noches, kids.”
I let Tams take my bed. Every muscle in me groans for rest, but instead of lying on the couch, I sit, for the first time in as long as I can remember, in front of the altar. Too many thoughts are brambled in my head, too many questions. They all seem to congeal and pulse around the memory of Chela sliding her knife into Trucks, his body collapsing, and the way my breath left me in that moment. How can I talk to her? Why does it have to be me? What am I supposed to do with this ongoing memory of a murder cycling through my brain?
That’s fear. That’s what Tía was talking about. It takes over the world.
Escucha.
What else is there?
Truth is, a tiny trill of excitement has been buzzing beneath all the other thoughts and worries. I felt it spark up when Tía Lucia gave me the mission—just a whisper compared to all the yelling doubts, but still…it’s there. It’s been there. It’s real.
Go deeper.
I would never seek out Chela Hidalgo’s friendship on my own. It’s not that I don’t want to be friends—she seemed pretty cool before she turned out to be so stabby. It’s more this: Why would I knowingly put myself in a situation where I could mess up some really obvious detail about growing up in Little Madrigal? Tams doesn’t care about that stuff, and she knows who I am beyond all that, so it’s easy with her. But Chela, Tolo, all the others at school—I’m fine just being the aloof kid.
Except, if I go deeper, I’m not fine with it.
This is why going deeper sucks.
But also, that thrill is still there. Because Tía’s mission means I have a reason to toss myself headfirst into the most terrifying social situation imaginable—my own people. And maybe that’s something I’ve always wanted to do, anyway, almost as much as I’ve been afraid to. Maybe Tía’s mission is just the excuse I’ve needed to do what I should’ve done a long time ago.
Or maybe I’m kidding myself. Trying to get information is the last way anyone should try to make friends. Disaster hides down every route.
When I go even deeper than that, there’s just an emptiness that I don’t know what to do with. It’s where I imagine all those brilliant, spirit-connected people in my life find solace, find the companionship of their guardian angels.
Maybe here at Tía’s altar, this sacred space, there will be a spark, a secret voice, a melody…something that will make some sense of all this. But no—it’s just soup tureens and fancy fabrics. Galanika’s scarred face stares stonily back at me from his picture.
There are no answers here, just a silence as grave and unforgiving as the empty streets outside.
II.
Return to me, my love,
Through stars and burning cities,
Knives flashing,
Calamity the only song you remember.
Your eyes on my skin, enemies cascade around you, then crumble.
Destruction your name,
Tongue made of fire.
A thousand swords, your wings.
When you arrive, we rise,
And the world begins anew.
Return to me, my love.
—Prayer to the Outlaw Saints, Juanita Casca Balcón
II.
Vuelve a mí, mi amor,
Por estrellas y ciudades ardientes,
Kamas brillando,
Desastre la única canción que recuerdas.
Tus ojos en mi piel, enemigos caen por todos lados, y se desmoronan.
Destrucción tu nombre,
Lengua de fuego.
Mil espadas, tus alas.
Cuando llegues, subiremos,
Y el mundo se empieza de nuevo.
Vuelve a mí, mi amor.
—Oración a los santos bandoleros, Juanita Casca Balcón
“I THINK YOU HAVE A crush on Chela Hidalgo.”
I blink awake to see Tams standing over the couch looking smug. It’s, like, dawn or something, and I hate everyone. Okay, I don’t hate Tams, but everyone else. No one should be awake at this hour, but especially not after…whatever last night was. The only good thing is that the sweet, tangy smell of freshly baked pasteles has taken over the house—evidence of Tía Lucia’s late-night kitchen party. They’re probably cooling on the table under a paper towel. Which means one will be in my tummy soon.
I sit up, rub my eyes, scoff. “You mean Chela Murderface McDeathMurder Hidalgo? Not my type.”
Tams raises her eyebrows to affirm that she knows more about me than I do. Then she walks into the kitchen, shaking her head. “I’m putting the coffee on. We gotta head out soon, sleepyhead.”
“Why are you so chipper?” I demand as the kitchen door closes behind her.
Tía Lucia once said that the public school system was biased for not giving us the day off after the Grande Fete. At the time, I probably rolled my eyes because okay, sure. But today, I’d give my right leg for another couple hours of sleep. Thing is, most years we stay up even later and actually get to party, but the excitement of the wild night—and all that music!—carries over into the next day and gets you through class. Then you go home and knock out for, like, twenty hours and—ka-zam!—all good.
This, though? I feel like I got hit by a truck, and every time I remember another shard of the night, the truck pulls a U-ey and hits me again.
Tía Lucia lying there in the street…THUD!!
The whole community at one another’s throats…WHUMP!!
The three peaks of San Madrigal rising from the sea, Chela’s ceremonial blade entering Trucks…It’s all just too much.
“Coffee’s ready,” Tams calls, which means I’ve been sitting here and staring into my own memories like a goober for ten minutes. She opens the kitchen door to entice me in and then pointedly breaks off a piece of flaky baked deliciousness.
“Pastelesss,” I mumble-hiss.
Not until you’re dressed and ready to go, Aunt Miriam chides from the doorway of her bedroom.
Tams quickly shoves the rest of the pastel in her mouth, and I scowl at her.
You have specific instructions! Aunt Miriam continues. And don’t be too loud—your tía needs her sleep.
Please. Tía Lucia has been known to sleep through anything, so that’s weird, but whatever. Aunt Miriam is consistently over-the-top. And anyway, pasteles.
I stand, stretch, shake off the sleep. “At least I’m not in love with twins,” I grumble at Tams as I shuffle past on the way to the bathroom.
“You had all this time to generate a comeback, and that’s the best you could do?” She grabs another pastel (there are, like, twenty—Tía Lucia went to town, apparently) and tears off a chunk, holding it just in front of me.
I snatch it before she can whisk it away. “Is it false?”
She shrugs. “I’m a drummer. We like who we like, and we love chaos above all else. And anyway, both Maybelline and Maza are gorgeous. Empirical fact. Not my fault, nor my problem.”
Okay, she’s right about that. The Alameda twins are both supernaturally, stunningly, supermodel-level beautiful. But still—Tams has flirted with each of them in different classes. “It will be if both of them fall in love with you,” I say, walking into the bathroom.
“Still better than falling for Murder Girl!” Tams calls as I close the door.
Galerano adults love to brag about how the three main cultures of our island never broke into open warfare against one another.
And that’s true. However…
Like all things that people crow about, especially when it comes to their own backgrounds, this claim conceals an awkward reality about San Madrigal: the centuries-old path from when it all began to today is soaked in blood. Sure, the Sefaradim and pirates and Santeros never took to the battlefield as singular armies, but that’s only because they were too busy dealing with internal strife, joining forces with outsiders to crush their rivals, planning or recovering from gruesome assassinations, or marrying off their children for tactical alliances—all that horrible stuff. Our history contains plenty of shoot-outs, coups, and one notable bar fight in 1899 that escalated into a citywide brawl and only ended when most of the island was in literal, not metaphorical, flames.
On the other hand, our Sunday-school classes are excellent about covering the horrors of every stage of colonialism and conquest. From the early conquistadors right up through the international conglomerates like the Dutch East India Company, and, later, the United Fruit Company (or La Frutera, as it was known) that sowed destruction throughout the Caribbean and Latin America, and straight to today’s many rebranded versions of empire. In the classes I did get to attend, and in the handouts they sent me to study while I was away, they talked about it all, often in gruesome detail.
Point is, it’s been a mess. And, as I’m sure you can tell, the mess continues to this day. And in our current mess, as with all messes, the echoes of messes past get louder and louder with each new level of messiness.
In summary: mess.
So, I’m honestly grateful to have something more trivial to fuss with Tams over on the way to school. Talking about crushes takes my mind off how bad everything is probably about to get.
“You are almost never wrong,” I acknowledge as we cross the street and dodge a passing flock of pigeons. “I’ll give you that.”
“Facts, facts—please proceed.”
