Miguel’s Soul | Episode 2
Nero led me through a dark alleyway that was littered with garbage, abandoned sleeping bags, and the persistent smell of sour urine. Just being there filled me with despair and the desire to…not desire anything. It was as though the stained, cement walls were draining any ambition I had and using it to feed the encompassing mold that was so thick, I felt like I was walking on wet carpet.
A wall of plastic sheets hung at the end that could have only been the entrance to a morgue or butcher shop. The plastic was foggy and stained with a thick, grease-like substance. It barely obscured the rusted, metal door hinges hanging from the brick wall.
Nero pulled back the plastic and gestured forward.
“After you,” she said.
You’ve got to be kidding me. You know those horror movies where someone does something really stupid to get themselves killed? Where they are faced with two options: get the hell out and go about your life or investigate — and die a horrible death. Go home and crawl into my warm bed, or let a delusional cultist lead me into a slaughter house?
I muttered a “thanks” as I stepped through the curtain.
I was instantly overwhelmed with the smell of the melted wax from hundreds of burning candles. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the glow of orange light that emanated from the floor, but once they did, I was in awe.
The walls were completely covered in beautiful, vibrant colours which intertwined — creating intricate patterns comprised of shapes, flowers, and skulls. Each skull had its own unique combination of lines and shapes that resembled the makeup worn during the Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrations. The design encompassed every wall from the floor to the twenty-foot high ceilings, where more candles hung by string as makeshift chandeliers.
As beautiful as they were, the colours and skulls were nothing more than a background to the real stars of the piece: a series of women. Each one was immensely gorgeous and painted in a similar Dia des los Muertos fashion: black or dark brown hair decorated with brightly coloured flowers; dark, sorrowful eyes lined with variants of circular or lined patterns; cherry red lips; and black shadows that gave them the appearance of skeletons. It was no trouble to tell that these women were the artist’s interpretations of Santa Muerte.
“Increible” The word came out of my mouth without me even realizing it. The artwork was encapsulating and I couldn’t pull my attention away from it.
“I know,” Nero said. “Your sister is one hell of an artist.”
“Maria did this?”
Nero nodded.
“Mama was right,” I said. “She’s gifted.”
“Gifted is an understatement. Your sister paints for Santa Muerte. She was chosen.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said with a chuckle.
“Well, maybe you can ask her yourself.”
Nero took my hand and led me to the back of the room towards a wall that was a little different from the rest. Bright splashes of gold, yellow, and orange emanated from a point in the centre and extended to the surrounding wall like a sunset. Candles and wilted flowers we placed on the floor surrounding a tall skeleton holding a long, rusted scythe. The scythe was most definitely real but the skeleton was made of cement. At the foot of the statue sat an old, faded globe that looked like it had been stolen from a school or library. It was the typical portrayal of Santa Muerte except for one difference: she often wore long, flowing robes or gowns. This one wore nothing.
“She’s naked,” I said.
Nero scoffed and pushed past me to the shrine, Loud scraping noises echoed off the walls as she dragged out an old, leather trunk from behind the statue. She didn’t open it, instead she asked me “what do you need? Money? Most people want money. Can’t make any promises on her delivering that, though.”
I eyed the shrine up and down one more time before clearing my throat. I felt stupid saying it but it was why I came.
“My mother has cancer,” I said. “I…we…” Nero raised her hand and cut me off.
“Say no more.”
She lifted the latch on the chest aneck the hinges squeaked as the lid opened. Inside, was a mix of vibrantly coloured fabrics. Nero rummaged around, lifting one long bundle after the other, holding the darker ones close to the candle light, until she settled on one near the bottom. She presented it to me.
“Purple,” she said. “It represents health and healing.”
I took it from her and unbundled it. It was a robe, or gown, made of silk. It felt expensive.
“Am I supposed to wear this?” I asked.
Nero smiled. “No.” She nodded towards the shrine. “She is.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Santa Muerte is the Saint many different things, each coloured robe represents a blessing. Think of it as giving her a heads up before summoning her.”
That explained why she was naked.
I approached the shrine slowly and wrapped the robe around the bony shoulders of the skeleton. I was suddenly very aware of how close I was to her and what I was trying to do. What was about to happen? Would she suddenly spring to life and grant me three wishes?
The robe fit her perfectly, as if it was made just for her. When I let it go, it settled into place without a wrinkle. Already she appeared more alive, more human. The light from the candles decorated her with well-placed highlights and shadows, emphasizing every curve of the robe while diluting every crack in her bones. She truly did look like a saint. It felt as though I were staring through a window directly into heaven.
But as majestic as she looked, nothing else changed. She was still just a statue.
“Is that it?” I asked. “Some cool lighting and a piece of silk?”
“Have faith, Miguel,” Nero said. “Pray to her.”
“Fine,” I said. “But don’t waste my time. I’m not here to play dress up with your doll.”
“If your heart is true, she will come.”
I didn’t know any prayers but I’d heard enough from my sister that I was sure I could muster something up. I cleared my throat.
“Um…Sovereign Lady!” I was very aware of Nero’s eyes locked on me. She smiled excitedly and I wasn’t sure if it was because of what I was doing, or how awkward I sounded. “Holy Trinity in our Eternal Father has…um..” I searched my memories for the right words but I could feel myself growing more and more frustrated. “Has blinded the life of all…people?”
“This is stupid!” I said, gesturing towards the chunk of stone and pile of flowers. “You summon her! I don’t pray to her, she has no idea who I am and I don’t give two shits about who she is. Just get her here and I’ll talk to her.”
Nero placed her hand on my shoulder. “I doesn’t work like that,” she said. Her voice was calm and I think that annoyed me most of all. I brushed her hand off of me with a little more force than I probably needed to use.
“Then how does it work?”
“Look. You said you’re not a praying man. Fine. Then don’t pray. The ritual only requires that your heart is true and your intentions are selfless. If you’re pretending to be someone else, then you aren’t being true. Just talk to her.”
I just wanted to leave. I was only making myself look stupid and I could feel the fire of embarrassment in my cheeks. Hadn’t I had enough? Wasn’t this enough proof that the whole thing was a bust?
No. It wasn’t. As frustrated as I was, I knew that if I didn’t do this, if I didn’t know without a shadow of a doubt that I had done everything I could, then I’d never be at peace with my mother’s death. I’d always wonder “what if…”
I gently pushed Nero aside and stepped forward until I was eye to eye with Santa Muerte. I dropped to my knee, lowered my head and took a deep breath to calm myself.
“Santa Muerte,” I said. “I don’t come to you as a follower. Or a worshipper. Or even a Catholic. I come to you as a kid who is about to lose the only person who believes in him. My mother is dying.”
Tears welled up in my eyes but my hand shot up and wiped them away before they could fall. I didn’t like feeling vulnerable and there was no way I was going to let Nero see me cry. I cleared my throat with a cough.
“I offer myself to you,” I continued. “Whatever you need, I will…”
I stopped mid sentence when a white, skeletal hand appeared in front of me, offering assistance. I raised my head and and confronted the down-turned face of Santa Muerte.
The moment I saw her, my stomach knotted with the kind of fear that paralyzes you. My mouth hung open and my eyes scanned her, convinced what I was seeing wasn’t real. Not a statue anymore, the real Santa Muerte.
She still wore the purple robe and looked exactly as the shrine had depicted her. The cement had crumbled away and revealed bleach-white bone. Though her eye sockets were empty, they were kind. Welcoming. I gulped and took her hand.
I nearly pulled back when we made contact. Her hand of bone felt softer and warmer than my own hand of flesh. Her long, thin fingers closed and I could hear the clicking and grinding of the bones as she did. Her grip was gentle but firm.
I didn’t move for what felt like hours, just kneeling with my hand in hers, staring into the black caves that were her eyes.
“You’ve suffered enough, Miguel,” she said. “Stand up.”
Her mouth didn’t move but she spoke. She had no lips but she smiled. Moments before I didn’t believe in her, now I was in love. Absolutely, I was hers.
My legs wobbled as I stood. If it wasn’t for her support, I would have fallen. Once I was upright, she let me go.
My hand followed hers as she pulled away. Don’t let go. Not yet. A little longer.
She folded her hands in front of her and looked at me with the adoration of a mother watching her child play.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
I had forgotten anyone else was even in the room. Nero appeared next to me, her eyes never leaving the figure before us.
“There aren’t words to describe her,” I said.
Soft, enchanting music surrounded me and drifted into my ears, relaxing my muscles and calming my pulse. She was laughing.
“El peor oso,” she said. “You’re going to make me blush.”
