by Aiden Thomas
Being gifted your portaje was an important rite of passage for every brujx.
Every one, except for Yadriel.
His quinces had been postponed indefinitely. He’d turned sixteen the past July, and he was tired of waiting.
In order to show his family what he was, who he was, Yadriel needed to go through with his own quinces ceremony—with or without their blessings. His father and the rest of the brujx hadn’t left him with a choice.
Sweat trickled down Yadriel’s spine, sending a shiver through his body. The air felt charged, like the ground hummed with energy below his feet. It was now or never.
Kneeling before Lady Death, he unpacked the supplies he needed for the ritual. He placed four prayer candles on the ground in a diamond to represent the four winds. A clay bowl went in the center to represent the earth. Yadriel had nicked a mini bottle of Cabrito tequila from one of the boxes that had been gathered for the Día de Muertos ofrendas. He fumbled with the bottle before popping the cap off and pouring it into the bowl. The smell stung his nose. Beside it, he placed a small jar of salt.
He dug out a box of matches from the pocket of his jeans. The flame trembled as he lit the candles. The flickering lights sparked the gold threads in Lady Death’s mantle, catching in the folds and crevices.
Air, earth, wind, and fire. North, south, east, and west. All the elements needed to call upon Lady Death.
The last ingredient was blood.
Calling upon Lady Death required an offering of blood. It was the most powerful thing to give, as it held life. Giving your blood to Lady Death was giving her a part of your earthly body and your spirit. It was so powerful that human blood given in sacrifice could not be more than a few drops; otherwise the offering was enough to drain any brujx of their life force, leading to certain death.
There were only two rituals that ever called for brujx to make an offering of their own blood. When they were born, their ears were pierced, releasing a pin-drop amount of blood. This act enabled them to hear the spirits of the dead. Yadriel’s ears were gauged with black plastic plugs. He liked paying homage to the ancient practice of brujx stretching their earlobes with increasingly large discs made of sacred stones, like obsidian or jade. Over the years he’d gotten them to about the size of a dime.
The only other time brujx used their own blood as a sacrifice was during the quinces ceremony. The offering was made from their tongues to let them speak to the diosa, to ask Lady Death for her blessing and protection.
And that cut was made with their portaje.
Maritza pulled a bundle of cloth from her own backpack and held it out for him to take.
“It took me weeks to make,” she said as Yadriel untied the twine. “Burned myself like eight times and nearly cut off my finger, but I think my dad has pretty much given up trying to keep me out of the forge.” Her shrug was casual, but she stood tall, a proud grin pulling the corners of her lips. Yadriel knew this was a big deal for her.
Maritza’s family had been forging weapons for the men for decades, a trade her father had brought over from Haiti. She had a keen interest in learning how to craft blades from him. Since blood wasn’t used with the blades until a boy’s quinces ceremony, it was a way for her to still be a part of the community without compromising her ethics. Her mom didn’t think it was a proper career choice for a girl, but when Maritza set her mind on something, it was impossible to dissuade her.
“Nothing gaudy and ridiculous like Diego’s,” she said with a roll of her eyes, referring to Yadriel’s older brother.
Yadriel pulled back the last of the cloth to reveal a dagger nestled inside. “Wow,” he breathed.
“It’s practical,” Maritza explained, hovering over his shoulder.
“It’s badass,” Yadriel corrected, a wide smile pressing into his cheeks.
Maritza beamed.
The dagger was the length of his forearm with a straight blade and a cross guard that curved like a sideways S. Lady Death had been delicately painted onto the polished wooden grip. Yadriel held the dagger in his hand, solid and reassuring. He traced his thumb along the thin lines of gold paint that radiated from Lady Death, feeling every intricate brushstroke.
This was his dagger. His portaje.
Yadriel had everything he needed. Now all that was left was to finish the ritual.
He was ready for this. He was determined to present himself to Lady Death, whether or not anyone else approved. But still, he hesitated. Clutching his portaje as he stared up at Lady Death, he sucked on his bottom lip. Doubt crept its way under his skin.
“Hey.”
Yadriel jumped as Maritza placed a steady hand on his shoulder. Her brown eyes were intense as she studied his face.
“It’s just—” Yadriel cleared his throat, his eyes sweeping around the room.
Maritza’s eyebrows tipped with concern.
A brujx’s quinces was the most important day in their life. Yadriel’s dad, brother, and abuela should’ve been standing next to him. As he knelt on the hard stone floor, the emptiness pressed around him. In the silence, he could hear the static of the uneasy candle flames. Under the hollowed eyes of Lady Death, Yadriel felt small and alone.
“What if—what if it doesn’t work?” he asked. Even at nearly a whisper, his voice echoed through the empty church. His heart clenched. “What if she rejects me?”
“Escúchame.” Maritza gave his shoulders a tight squeeze. “You’ve got this, okay?”
Yadriel nodded, wetting his dry lips.
“You know who you are, I know who you are, and our Lady does, too.” She said with fierce conviction. “So screw the rest of them!” Maritza grinned at him. “Remember why we’re doing this.”
Yadriel steeled himself and spoke with as much courage as he could muster. “So they’ll see that I’m a brujo.”
“Well, yeah, but other than that.”
“Spite?” Yadriel guessed.
“Spite!” Maritza agreed enthusiastically. “They’re gonna feel real stupid once you show them. And I want you to savor that moment, Yads! Really”—she took in a deep breath through her nose and clasped her hands to her chest—“savor that taste of sweet, sweet vindication!”
A laugh jumped in Yadriel’s throat.
Maritza smiled. “Let’s do this, brujo.”
Yadriel could feel the goofy grin back on his face.
“Just don’t screw it up and make the diosa shoot you down with lightning or something, okay?” she said, backing up a few steps. “I can’t carry the responsibility of the family black sheep on my own.”
Being transgender and gay had earned Yadriel the title of Head Black Sheep among the brujx. Though, in truth, being gay had actually been much easier for them to accept, but only because they saw Yadriel’s liking boys as still being heterosexual.
But Maritza had certainly earned the title in her own right as the only vegan brujx in their community. One year younger than Yadriel, she’d gone through her own quinces when she turned fifteen earlier that year, but she refused to heal because it required the use of animal blood. One of Yadriel’s earliest memories of Maritza was of her crying inconsolably when her mother had used blood from a pig to heal a child’s broken leg. Early on, Maritza decided she wanted no part of healing if it meant harming another living creature.
In the dim light of the church, Yadriel could see her portaje hanging around her neck—a rosary of pink quartz that ended in a silver cross, but the concealed vessel remained empty. Maritza explained that, even though she refused to use her powers, she still respected the diosa and their ancestors.
Yadriel admired her for her convictions, but he was also frustrated by them. All he wanted was to be accepted—he wanted to be given his own portaje, treated like any other brujo, and given the same responsibilities. Maritza, on the other hand, had been offered every right of the brujx, but she chose to reject it.
“Now, prisa!” Maritza said, waving him on impatiently.
Yadriel took a deep
, steadying breath.
He tightened his grip on his Hydro Flask, the metal cool against his sweaty palms, as he exhaled through pursed lips.
With a more steadied resolve, Yadriel unscrewed the cap and poured the chicken blood into the bowl. To her credit, Maritza did her best to hide a look of disgust.
As the deep red liquid mixed with the tequila, a gust of wind blew through the church. The candle flames flickered. The air in the room felt thick, as if it were crowded with bodies even though, except for him and Maritza, it was empty.
Adrenaline coursed through Yadriel’s veins, and excited chills raced up his arms. When he spoke, he did his best to keep his voice steady and deep.
“Santísima Santa Muerte, te pido tu bendición,” Yadriel said, calling upon Lady Death to ask for her blessing.
A rush of air brushed against his face and dragged like fingers through his hair. The flames trembled, and the statue of Lady Death suddenly felt alive. She didn’t move or change, but Yadriel could feel something pressing toward him.
He lit a match and dropped it into the bowl. The liquid caught, bursting into flames. “Prometo proteger a los vivos y guiar a los muertos,” Yadriel said, vowing to uphold the responsibilities of the brujos. His hands trembled and he gripped his portaje tighter.
“Esta es mi sangre, derramada por ti.” Holding the dagger, Yadriel opened his mouth and pressed the tip of the blade to his tongue until it bit into him. He winced and held his portaje out in front of him. A thin line of red glistened on the edge of the blade in the warm light of the candles.
He held the dagger over the burning bowl. As soon as the flames licked the steel, the blood sizzled and the candles blazed like torches, their flames tall and strong. Yadriel squinted as a rush of heat hit his face.
He removed his portaje from the fire and spoke the final words.
“Con un beso, te prometo mi devoción,” he murmured before brushing his tongue over his lips. Balancing the hilt in his palm, he kissed the image of Lady Death.
Golden light sparked at the tip of the blade and raced down the hilt to his hand. His skin glowed as the light shot down his fingers and up his arm. It traveled down his legs and curled around his toes. Yadriel shuddered, the thrilling sensation robbing him of his breath.
As quickly as it had appeared, the thick thrum of magic in the church dissipated. The candle flames extinguished themselves in the same pulse. The air in the room went still. Yadriel pushed up the sleeve of his hoodie and stared at his arm in awe as the golden light faded, leaving his brown skin unadorned.
He stared up at Lady Death. “Holy crap,” Yadriel breathed, pressing his hands to his cheeks.
“Holy crap!” he repeated. “It worked!” He felt his chest, the thunderous beat of his heart pulsing against his palm. He jerked to look at Maritza for confirmation. “Did—did it work?”
The fire in the bowl glinted in her eyes, a huge smile on her face. “There’s one way to find out.”
Laughter bubbled in Yadriel’s throat, relief and adrenaline making him half delirious. “Right.”
If Lady Death had blessed him, granting him the powers of the brujx, that meant he could summon a lost spirit. If he could summon a spirit and release it to the afterlife, then he would finally prove himself to everyone—the brujx, his family, and his dad. They would see him as he was. A boy and a brujo.
Yadriel got to his feet, holding his portaje carefully against his chest. He sucked in his lips, tasting the last traces of blood. His tongue stung, but the cut had been small. It hurt about as much as when he burned it trying to drink café de olla fresh off the stove.
As Maritza gathered the candles, pointedly steering clear of the flaming bowl of blood, Yadriel approached the statue of Lady Death. At a little over five feet, he had to crane his neck back to look up at her in her alcove.
He wished he could speak to her. Could she see him for who he really was? What his own family couldn’t? Yadriel had spent years feeling misunderstood by everyone except for Maritza. When he had told her he was trans three years ago, she hadn’t batted an eye. Ay, finally! she’d said, exasperated but smiling. I figured something was up, I was just waiting for you to spit it out.
During that time, Maritza had been his reliable secret keeper, smoothly going back and forth between pronouns when they were alone, versus when they were around everyone else, until he was ready.
It took him another year, when he was fourteen, to work up the courage to come out to his family. It hadn’t gone nearly as well, and it was still a constant struggle to get them and the other brujx to use the right pronouns and to call him by the right name.
Other than Maritza, his mother, Camila, had been the most supportive. It took time to relearn old habits, but she’d caught on surprisingly fast. Yadriel’s mom had even taken on the task of gently correcting people so he didn’t have to. It was a heavy burden, small instances piling up, but his mom helped him shoulder some of the weight.
When he felt especially raw, from the constant fight to be who he was—either at school or within their own community—his mom would sit him down on the couch. She’d pull him close, and he’d rest his head on her shoulder. She always smelled of cloves and cinnamon, like she’d just made torta bejarana. As she gently ran her fingers through his hair, she’d murmur, Mijo, my Yadriel, slowly coaxing the pain away to a dull ache that never completely vanished.
But she’d been gone for almost a year now.
Yadriel sniffed and dragged his fist across his nose, the back of his throat burning.
This would be the first Día de Muertos since she’d died. Come midnight, November 1, the church bells would ring, welcoming back the spirits of passed brujx to the cemetery. Then, for two days, Yadriel would be able to see her again.
He would show her he was a true brujo. A son she could be proud of. He would perform the tasks that his father and his father’s father had as the children of Lady Death. Yadriel would prove himself to everyone.
“C’mon, brujo,” Maritza called gently, waving him forward. “We need to get out of here before someone finds us.”
Yadriel turned and grinned.
Brujo.
He was about to bend down and pick up the bowl from the ground when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Yadriel froze and looked to Maritza, who had also stopped mid-step.
Something was wrong.
“Did you feel that?” he asked. Even in a whisper, his voice seemed too loud in the empty church.
Maritza nodded. “What is it?”
Yadriel gave a small shake of his head. It was almost like sensing a nearby spirit but different. Stronger than anything Yadriel had felt before. A sense of unexplained dread swarmed in his stomach.
He saw Maritza shiver just as he felt a tingle shoot down his spine.
There was a beat of nothingness.
Then searing pain stabbed into Yadriel’s chest.
He cried out, the force knocking him to his knees.
Maritza fell, a strangled cry lodging in her throat.
The pain was unbearable. Yadriel’s breath came in sharp bursts as he clutched at his chest. His eyes watered, blurring the vision of Lady Death standing above him.
Just when he thought he couldn’t stand it any longer, that, surely, the pain would kill him, it stopped.
Tension released his muscles, and his arms and legs went limp, heavy with exhaustion. Sweat clung to his skin. His body trembled as he gulped air. Yadriel’s hand clutched his chest, right above his heart, where the throbbing pain slowly faded to a dull ache. Maritza knelt on the floor, one hand pressed to the same place. Her skin was ashen and covered in a sheen of sweat.
They stared at each other, trying to catch their breath. They didn’t say anything. They knew what it meant. They could feel it in their bones.
Miguel was gone. One of their own had died.
TWO
“What happened? What the hell happened?” Maritza panted at Yadriel’s side as they raced through the ce
metery. She kept saying it over and over again, like a haunting mantra.
Yadriel had never seen her so shook up before and it made everything so much worse. Usually, he was the one panicking under tense situations while she just shrugged things off with a joke. But this was no laughing matter.
There was no sign of Tito. Yadriel could hear frantic voices across the cemetery. They sprinted past a couple of confused-looking spirits.
“What’s going on?” Felipe called to them, anxiously gripping the neck of his vihuela as they ran by.
“I don’t know!” was all Yadriel could say.
Because the brujx were tied so closely to life and death, to spirits and the living, when one of their own died, they all felt it.
The first time it had happened to Yadriel, he was only five years old. He woke up in the middle of the night, as if from a nightmare, with only the thought of his abuelito in his mind. When he got out of bed and crept to his grandparents’ room, his abuelito lay motionless. His abuelita sat by his side, holding tightly to his hand, whispering prayers into his ear, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.
His father stood on the other side, Diego tucked under his arm. His dad’s expression had been stoic and pensive, a deep sadness in his dark eyes. Yadriel’s mother folded him into her arms, gently rubbing his back as they said their goodbyes.
His abuelito had died in his sleep. It had been gentle and painless. The only thing that had woken Yadriel was a sudden sense of loss, like cold water dropping into his stomach.
But this was different. Whatever had happened to Miguel was not a gentle passing.
There had to be some sort of mistake. It didn’t make sense. Even though he’d felt it, even though he knew exactly what it meant, there was no way Miguel was dead.
Miguel was Yadriel’s cousin and only twenty-eight years old. Yadriel had just seen him earlier that night when he stopped by the house to snag some of Lita’s concha before he started his graveyard shift.
Had there been an accident? Maybe Miguel had left the cemetery and had been hit by a car? There was no way he could’ve been killed while in the cemetery, was there?
