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Ritual in the Mountains

 

Two weeks later we met at a location in the Bronx and drove up into the hills, arriving there at five o’clock in the evening. It was already dusk when I got out of my car. We gathered together in a circle with the godfather, and I could tell by his eyes that he was already half demon-possessed. He wore the same familiar bandana I remembered from the day I first met him in Aunt Maria’s basement. No one spoke. We waited to take our cues from him.

The tata tilted his head back and half-closed his eyes. “Mi padre [my father], this is your son,” he intoned in a singsong voice. “I’m coming into the mountain, I’m coming into your house. I’m asking permission to come into your presence. I love you, I love you, I love you. This is your son . . . receive this ceremony and the offering I bring . . .”

As he chanted, he gripped a bottle of white rum in one hand and a cigar in the other. Turning to head up the mountain, he led the way blowing cigar smoke, spraying rum, and tossing twenty-one


pennies as a gesture of respect to the spirits waiting for us up in the hills—Zarabanda, Siete Rayos, and Madre Agua. We fell in line behind him, echoing his words like a chorus. A few other people lingered in the playground area and parking lot, eyeing us strangely, but we didn’t care—we were bold and fearless, and they stared wide-eyed as the high priest led the way chanting songs to the spirits. A second priest gripped a giant machete in his hand, holding it up as we climbed the mountain. The dark evergreens and leafless oaks stood out like black silhouettes at the top of the mountain, and the bone-chilling cold cut through me. I watched as the high priest approached a specific tree in the woods. He sprayed it with rum from his mouth, then blew cigar smoke and placed the machete on the ground in front of the tree. On each side of the blade he drew a straight line with symbols of skulls and crosses. He turned his back to the tree out of respect for the spirits and lit up the machete with gunpowder. A puff of black smoke appeared. Somebody gasped at the small explosion.

I fought the urge to see who it was, knowing the ritual demanded my full respect and attention.

“You two come forward, and the rest stay behind,” the tata said, his eyes boring into mine. He gestured for me and Aunt Maria to go first. Two by two we came to the tree, rolled up our pants above the knees, removed our shoes and socks, and kneeled on the frozen ground. As a male, I had to remove my shirt, and we both placed our hands up against the tree while the tata sprayed rum and blew cigar smoke on us, chanting a strange language.

We could not move or open our eyes for about fifteen minutes—an eternity of time when the temperature is near zero. It was so cold the palms of my hands stuck to the tree from the frost, and I shook like a leaf. But I wasn’t about to turn back. I was fascinated, not fearful. The tangible power in the wooded clearing was indescribable. After each of the initiates completed their ritual, we headed back down the mountain. As the godfather walked along he sang, and once again we repeated the chants. At the bottom of the mountain, the people still hanging out stared at us as if they had seen a ghost. The irony hit me and I laughed to myself. Not a ghost but something a lot more powerful. We got in our cars and left.



 


Date: 2015-01-11; view: 885


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