LabyrinthLost

For Adriana and Ginelle Medina, my favorite brujitas.

Part I

The Bruja

1

Follow our voices, sister.

Tell us the secret of your death.

- Resurrection Canto, Book of Cantos

The second time I saw my dead aunt Rosaria, she was dancing.

Earlier that day, my mom had warned me, pressing a long, red

fingernail on the tip of my nose, “Alejandra, don’t go downstairs when

the Circle arrives.”

But I was seven and asked too many questions. Every Sunday, cars

piled up in our driveway, down the street, and around the corner of

our old, narrow house in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. Mom’s Circle usually

brought cellophane-wrapped dishes and jars of dirt and tubs of

brackish water that made the Hudson River look clean. This time, they

carried something more.

When my sisters started snoring, I threw off my covers and crept

down the stairs. The floorboards were uneven and creaky, but I was

good at not being seen. Fuzzy, yellow streetlight shone through our

attic window and followed me down every flight until I reached the

basement.

A soft hum made its way through the thin walls. I remember

thinking I should listen to my mom’s warning and go back upstairs. But

our house had been restless all week, and Lula, Rose, and I were

shoved into the attic, out of the way while the grown-ups prepared the

funeral. I wanted out. I wanted to see.

The night was moonless and cold one week after the Witch’s New

Year, when Aunt Rosaria died of a sickness that made her skin yellow

like hundred-year-old paper and her nails turn black as coal. We tried

to make her beautiful again. My sisters and I spent all day weaving

good luck charms from peonies, corn husks, and string-one loop over,

under, two loops over, under. Not even the morticians, the Magos de

Muerte, could fix her once-lovely face.

Aunt Rosaria was dead. I was there when we mourned her. I was

there when we buried her. Then, I watched my father and two others

shoulder a dirty cloth bundle into the house, and I knew I couldn’t

stay in bed, no matter what my mother said.

So I opened the basement door.

Red light bathed the steep stairs. I leaned my head toward the

light, toward the beating sound of drums and sharp plucks of fat,

nylon guitar strings.

A soft mew followed by whiskers against my arm made my heart jump

to the back of my rib cage. I bit my tongue to stop the scream. It was

just my cat, Miluna. She stared at me with her white, glowing eyes and

hissed a warning, as if telling me to turn back. But Aunt Rosaria was

my godmother, my family, my friend. And I wanted to see her again.

“Sh!” I brushed the cat’s head back.

Miluna nudged my leg, then ran away as the singing started.

I took my first step down, into the warm, red light. Raspy voices

called out to our gods, the Deos, asking for blessings beyond the veil

of our worlds. Their melody pulled me step by step until I was

crouched at the bottom of the landing.

They were dancing.

Brujas and brujos were dressed in mourning white, their faces

painted in the aspects of the dead, white clay and black coal to trace

the bones. They danced in two circles-the outer ring going clockwise,

the inner counterclockwise-hands clasped tight, voices vibrating to

the pulsing drums.

And in the middle was Aunt Rosaria.

Her body jerked upward. Her black hair pooled in the air like she

was suspended in water. There was still dirt on her skin. The white

skirt we buried her in billowed around her slender legs. Black smoke

slithered out of her open mouth. It weaved in and out of the

circle-one loop over, under, two loops over, under. It tugged Aunt

Rosaria higher and higher, matching the rhythm of the canto.

Then, the black smoke perked up and changed its target. It could

smell me. I tried to backpedal, but the tiles were slick, and I slid

toward the circle. My head smacked the tiles. Pain splintered my

skull, and a broken scream lodged in my throat.

The music stopped. Heavy, tired breaths filled the silence of the

pulsing red dark. The enchantment was broken. Aunt Rosaria’s

reanimated corpse turned to me. Her body purged black smoke, lowering

her back to the ground. Her ankles cracked where the bone was brittle,

but still she took a step. Her dead eyes gaped at me. Her wrinkled

mouth growled my name: Alejandra .

She took another step. Her ankle turned and broke at the joint,

sending her flying forward. She landed on top of me. The rot of her

skin filled my nose, and grave dirt fell into my eyes.

Tongues clucked against crooked teeth. The voices of the circle

hissed, “What’s the girl doing out of bed?”

There was the scent of extinguished candles and melting wax. Decay

and perfume oil smothered me until they pulled the body away.

My mother jerked me up by the ear, pulling me up two flights of

stairs until I was back in my bed, the scream stuck in my throat like

a stone.

“ Never ,” she said. “You hear me, Alejandra? Never break a

Circle.”

I lay still. So still that after a while, she brushed my hair,

thinking I had fallen asleep.

I wasn’t. How could I ever sleep again? Blood and rot and smoke

and whispers filled my head.

“One day you’ll learn,” she whispered.

Then she went back down the street-lit stairs, down into the warm

red light and to Aunt Rosaria’s body. My mother clapped her hands,

drums beat, strings plucked, and she said, “Again.”

2

La Ola, Divina Madre of the Seas,

carry this prayer to your shores.

- Rezo de La Ola, Book of Cantos

When I wake from the memory, I can still smell the dead. My heart

races, and a deep chill makes me shiver from head to toe. I remind

myself that day happened nearly nine years ago, that I’m safe in my

room, and it’s seven in the morning, and today is just another day.

That’s when I notice Rose, my little sister, standing over me.

“You were dreaming about Aunt Ro again,” she says in that way of

hers. It’s almost impossible to lie to Rose. Not just because of her

gifts, but also because she speaks with a quiet steel and those big,

unwavering, brown eyes. She’s never the first one to look away.

“Weren’t you?”

“Freak.” I put my hand on the side of her face and push her away.

“Stay out of my head.”

“It’s not my fault,” she says, then mutters, “ stank breath .”

I reach behind me to shut the window I cracked open when it was

too hot in the middle of the night. It’s freezing for October, but a

good excuse to bring out my favorite sweater.

Rose walks over to my altar, tucked away in the farthest corner of

my attic bedroom, and pokes around my stuff. I rub the crud from my

eyes and flick it at her.

“Don’t you have your own room now?” I ask.

My mom went into a redecorating fit over the summer when she

suddenly realized our house hadn’t changed in six years. That it was

too big and too empty and too something . Plus, three teenage girls

fighting over one room was giving her gray hair.

“I could hear your dreams,” Rose says. “It gives me a headache.”

Rose, the youngest of us three, came into her powers much too

early. Right now it’s small stuff like dream walking and spirit

impressions, but psychic abilities are a rare gift for any bruja to

have. We’ve never had the Sight in our family. Not that Mom’s ever

heard of, at least.

“I can’t control my dreams,” I say.

“I know. But I woke up with a weird feeling this time.” She