by Aiden Thomas
With another happy trill, she hobbled over to Yadriel, the bell on her blue collar tinkling as she went. She rubbed up against his leg, leaving tufts of gray fur on his black jeans.
Yadriel managed a small grin, running his fingers down her crooked back before scratching under her chin, just where she liked it. He was rewarded with loud purrs.
Purrcaso had joined the family when Yadriel was thirteen years old. It was around then his mother had tried teaching him how to heal. Brujas usually learned their trade long before their portaje ceremony, the women in the family walking them through the steps.
Yadriel’s mom had been trying to dip his toes into the healing waters, but, even at thirteen, he knew it wouldn’t work. Yadriel knew he wasn’t a bruja. He’d already come out to Maritza, but he still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell his mom. The closer it got to his quinces, the more panicked he became.
Everyone figured he was just a late bloomer, or maybe he was just nervous about coming of age. That’s why, when he and his mom found a small gray cat on the side of the road walking back from school one day, she decided to use it as a teaching moment.
They could sense the cat was injured, even without seeing the way she limped. Maybe she’d been hit by a car, or lost a fight with a dog or one of the terrifying raccoons that ran the streets at night. Yadriel felt a small pang in the corner of his mind, could feel the pain radiating from her leg. When he was younger, Yadriel hated the brujx ability to sense others’ pain. He’d always been terribly empathetic, and being able to sense so much suffering in the world affected him.
Yadriel’s mom had set him down on the curb and gathered the cat into her billowy skirt. She unwrapped her portaje from her wrist—a jade rosary ending in a vessel that, at first glance, looked like Our Lady of Guadalupe, but if you looked closely, you’d see the figure was actually a skeleton. His mom unscrewed the top, let the chicken blood drip onto her finger, and then brushed it across the statuette of Lady Death. She spoke the words, and golden light illuminated the rosary.
It was such a small injury to fix, and on such a tiny creature, Yadriel should have been able to heal it easily with his mom’s help. With her warm smile and gentle encouragement, he held the rosary to the cat’s leg. His hand quaked, scared that something would go wrong, or worse, that it would work, showing that he was supposed to be a bruja. His mom placed her hand over his and gave it a small squeeze.
Yadriel spoke the final words, but it backfired.
He could still picture the drops of scarlet on his mother’s white skirt. The terrible yowl. The sudden, sharp pain of the poor cat piercing into his head. The stunned look on his mother’s face. It couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of seconds before she’d taken the cat and quickly healed it herself.
In a blink, the terrible sound had stopped. The pain vanished. The small cat’s eyes closed, a ball of fur in his mom’s lap.
Yadriel had been inconsolable, convinced for a long moment that he had killed the poor creature. His mom pulled him to her side and spoke gently into his ear.
Shh, it’s all right. She’s okay; she’s just sleeping, you see?
But all Yadriel could see was his failure; all he could feel was the crushing weight of knowing he couldn’t do it. But, more than that, he knew this wasn’t him. He wasn’t a bruja.
His mom brushed her cool fingers along the side of his face, pushing his hair from his eyes. It’s okay, she’d said, like she knew it, too.
His mother hadn’t been able to patch the cat back together completely. The backfire had done damage not even she could repair, but the cat wasn’t in pain. They took her home, and Yadriel diligently went to work making sure she was well fed and taken care of. Even now, she slept in his room every night, and Yadriel always snuck her bits of chorizo and chicken after dinner.
Yadriel’s mom had affectionately named the cat Purrcaso, after the famous artist’s crooked paintings.
Purrcaso was more than a cat, much closer to a companion. When Yadriel missed his mom, it was like Purrcaso knew. When he got that dropping feeling of guilt in his stomach, Purrcaso would curl up in his lap, loudly purring. She was ball of warmth and comfort in which his mother’s magic still lived.
Purrcaso curled up against the toe of his shoe. Yadriel rubbed the soft fur behind her ears until her amber eyes slid shut.
His mom never pressured him to try healing again. In a community built on such staunch tradition, the news that Yadriel couldn’t heal, to them, meant he didn’t have magic. His quinces was postponed indefinitely.
The brujx thought he was just a product of the dilution of magic slowly working its way through their lineage. But Yadriel and his mom knew the truth.
She bought him his first binder online and helped him tell his dad and brother. It was hard explaining himself and his identity not only to his family but to their entire community. They still didn’t understand, clearly, but at least with his mom around, they were working through it together.
His mom championed for Yadriel to be given a brujo’s quinces, to be welcomed into the community as he was—a boy. She’d taken on the task of trying to explain to his dad that he was a brujo. He was a boy.
He can’t just choose to be a brujo, he’d heard Enrique say from the kitchen one night as he and Camila spoke quietly over sweet coffee.
It’s not a choice, his mother had said, her voice calm but firm. It’s who he is.
She told Yadriel the others just needed time to understand. But Yadriel’s mom, his advocate, had been taken away from him less than a year ago. Without her, there was no one to stick up for him. Now, he was treated as a magicless brujx. Someone who could see spirits and sense suffering, but who would never be a full member of their community.
“What a mess…”
The voice made Yadriel jump. He looked up and found Catriz standing at the door, a cigarillo between his fingers. He looked tired, his expression one of grim understanding.
Yadriel’s posture relaxed. “Tío,” he sighed. His eyes slid back to the door, wondering if maybe his dad would follow his uncle out here.
“Don’t worry,” Tío Catriz said, taking a drag from his cigarillo as he descended the steps. “Your father and the other brujos already left.” He pulled up a plastic lawn chair and sat next to Yadriel. “It’s just you and me.” Catriz placed his hand on the crown of Yadriel’s head and grinned. “Como siempre.”
Yadriel sighed a laugh. A small part of him had hoped his dad would be the one to follow him and apologize. But his uncle was right, it was always the two of them on the outskirts of the brujx. At least they had each other, and Catriz understood Yadriel’s yearning, unlike Maritza, who was entirely uninterested in being a part of the brujx and had no qualms about being an outcast. She seemed to enjoy being contrary.
Yadriel stuffed his hands into the pocket of his black hoodie. “I can’t believe Miguel…” He trailed off, not wanting to speak the words.
Catriz gave a slow shake of his head and took a long drag from his cigarillo. “So young, so sudden,” he said, smoke billowing from his nostrils. “I wish I could help, but…” He shrugged his angular shoulders. “They don’t find me of much use.”
Yadriel let out a short laugh. Yeah, he knew that feeling all too well. “What the hell happened to him?” he asked, repeating the same words Maritza had said earlier.
Catriz sighed deeply. Yadriel followed his uncle’s gaze to the door, beyond which he could still hear muffled voices. “By the sound of it, your dad has already rallied the troops to find out.”
Yadriel nodded stiffly, the earlier exchange with his dad burrowing its way back under his skin. “All the brujos,” he grumbled under his breath, toying with Purrcaso’s tail.
“Well, not all of them,” Catriz pointed out casually.
Yadriel winced at his own insensitivity.
Catriz had long since been left out of the brujos and their tasks. It had been thousands of years since Lady Death had gifted the brujx their powers.
At the beginning, the brujx powers rivaled that of the diosa. Women could regrow an entire arm or pull someone back from the brink of death with little more concentration than you’d need to do long division. The most powerful of the men could even bring the dead back to life when their spirits were beyond the brujas’ reach.
But now, with the dilution of power over the generations, such extravagant use of their powers was impossible. Their magic was not a bottomless well. Drawing on your power to heal the living or guide the dead pulled from that well, and it took time for it to fill up again.
Brujx were getting weaker, and there were those who were born with such shallow wells of power they could barely tap them for simple tasks without risking death.
Like Catriz.
Yadriel felt that his uncle was the only one, other than his mom, who really understood him. The brujos treated Yadriel and Catriz the same. Neither had been given their quinces, nor been presented at the aquelarre during Día de Muertos.
Held on the second night of Día de Muertos, the last night the spirits of past brujx spent each year in the land of the living before returning to the afterlife, the aquelarre was a huge party held in the church. Every young brujx who’d turned fifteen and had their quinces pledged to serve Lady Death and help maintain the balance of life and death, as had all their ancestors who came before them. Then they were officially presented to the community.
Yadriel and Tío Catriz both knew what it was like to see others perform their magic, to sit on the sidelines, powerless to do anything themselves.
But now, Yadriel knew he could do the magic.
His tío Catriz had no such luxury. As the eldest son, Catriz should’ve been the leader of the brujx after Yadriel’s abuelito died. But since he wasn’t able to perform magic, the title had been passed to his younger brother—Yadriel’s dad, Enrique. It was an understanding that had been established long ago, when both boys were small children, but Yadriel would never forget the look on his tío’s face when Enrique was presented with the sacred headdress that recognized him as the next leader of the East LA brujx.
Hurt and longing.
Yadriel knew the feeling all too well.
“Sorry, Tío, I just meant—” he rushed to apologize.
His tío’s chuckle was warm and his smile forgiving. “It’s all right, it’s all right.” He clapped his hand on Yadriel’s shoulder.
“We are alike, you and me,” he told Yadriel, scratching his stubble as he nodded with a jutted chin. “They are stuck in their ways, in their traditions, following the ancient rules. Without powers, they see no use for me.”
When he said it, Catriz didn’t sound bitter, just matter-of-fact. “And you, mi sobrino—”
Warmth bloomed in Yadriel’s chest, and a smile dared to pull at his lips.
Catriz hummed a sigh, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “They won’t even give you a chance.”
Yadriel’s smile fell. His heart sank.
The door to the kitchen opened, and Yadriel’s abuelita came stomping into the garage.
Yadriel and his tío sighed in unison. Living in a multigenerational Latinx household meant privacy was always fleeting.
“There you are!” Lita Rosamaria announced with a huff, snapping the hem of her apron with a flourish. Her gray hair was tied back in a knot like she always did when she was cooking. Which was, well, always.
Yadriel inwardly groaned. He really didn’t feel like getting lectured by his abuelita right now. He scooped up Purrcaso, holding her in the crook of his arm as he got to his feet. Catriz remained sitting, taking another drag from his cigarillo.
Lita propped one hand on her wide hip and shook a long finger at Yadriel. “You don’t run off like that!” she chided. Lita was a squat woman, even shorter than him but with a presence that made the cockiest brujo shrink back when she scolded. She always smelled like Royal Violets, which lingered on Yadriel’s clothes long after she released him from a back-popping hug. She had a strong, trilling Cuban accent and an even stronger personality.
“Yes, Lita,” Yadriel grumbled.
“It’s dangerous! What with poor Miguel…” She trailed off, crossing herself and muttering a quick prayer to the dios.
Maybe he was being selfish. He wasn’t trying to make the situation about him. Didn’t he deserve to fight for himself? But maybe now wasn’t the time.
Yadriel frowned. Tío Catriz caught his gaze and rolled his eyes—a grand gesture when Lita wasn’t looking.
“Make yourselves useful!” Lita said, crossing to the shelves as she dug through the boxes.
“¿Dónde está?” she grumbled to herself, talking so fast in her thick Cuban accent that the s’s at the end of her words got left behind.
The garage held a plethora of artifacts and items. Glass display cases and sturdy wooden boxes held ancient weapons and carvings. Sacred regalia and featherwork were kept in the house in fancy containers away from light until they were taken out for special occasions, like Día de Muertos.
Yadriel often got tasked with climbing into the rafters to take down boxes for whatever very specific item Lita was looking for.
She pushed aside a box of chachayotes in her search. The hard shells, sewn onto leather that were worn around the ankles during ceremonial dances, rattled. Purrcaso’s ears perked where she sat in the crook of Yadriel’s arm. She leaped down to help investigate.
“What are you looking for, Mamá?” Catriz asked, though he didn’t move from his seat.
“¡La garra del jaguar!” she snapped, as if it were obvious. Lita turned, consternation pinching her wrinkled face.
Yadriel knew about the claw of the jaguar, mostly because Lita would never let him forget it. It was an ancient set of four ritual daggers and an amulet in the shape of a jaguar’s head. The ceremonial blades had been used back when the dark art of human sacrifice was still in practice. When pierced into the hearts of four humans, the daggers used their spirits to feed the amulet, giving the brujx who wore it immense—but dark—power. Lita liked to pull the daggers out on special occasions—including Día de Muertos—to scare younger brujx and lecture them about the treachery of abusing their powers.
“Have you seen them?” Lita asked.
Catriz quirked an eyebrow, his expression placid.
“Aye, yi, yi,” Lita said, flapping her hands at him dismissively.
When Lita looked to Yadriel, he simply shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t particularly feel like being helpful.
She sighed heavily, clicking her tongue. “Your father is under a lot of stress right now, nena,” Lita said solemnly.
Yadriel cringed at the offensive word. Navigating pronouns was a minefield when language was based on gender.
“Ay, poor Claudia and Benny,” Lita lamented as she fanned herself with a hand, not even noticing his reaction.
Anger simmered under Yadriel’s skin again.
She fixed him with a stern look. “This is a job for the men, and we need to leave them to it. Ven!” Lita waved him toward the door. “I have pozole in the kitchen, come warm up—”
His deadname slipped from her mouth.
Yadriel flinched and took a step back. “¡Soy Yadriel, Lita!” he snapped, so suddenly that both Purrcaso and Lita jumped.
Catriz stared at him. Surprise quickly turned to pride.
Lita blinked at him for a moment, a hand pressed to her throat.
Yadriel could feel his face grow hot. The knee-jerk reaction to apologize was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back.
She sighed and nodded. “Sí, Yadriel,” Lita agreed.
She stepped closer and gently cupped his cheeks in her soft hands. She planted a kiss on his forehead, and hope lifted in his chest. “Pero siempre serás mijita,” she told him with a chuckle and a smile.
But you’ll always be my little girl.
The hope came crashing down.
Lita turned and went back into the house, leaving Yadriel on the steps.
He scrubbed his hands
over his face and clenched his jaw to keep his chin from wobbling. He should’ve been out with the rest of the brujos, searching for Miguel. He wanted to use his portaje, to show them that he wasn’t powerless. He could help them find Miguel. If he could just show them—
“I’m so sorry, Yadriel.” His tío’s hand grasped his shoulder.
Yadriel dropped his hands to his sides and looked up into Tío Catriz’s face. His uncle’s expression was pained. Even though they were outsiders for different reasons, Catriz was the only one who could understand what Yadriel was going through. He was the only one, aside from Maritza, who put the work in to understand him. The rest of the brujx seemed to ignore him. They were so worried about calling him by the wrong name or gender, they would avoid him altogether.
But not his tío.
“I wish your mom were still here,” Catriz confessed.
The crushing ache of missing his mom filled every space in Yadriel’s body. Sometimes it was dull, just enough to prickle if his mind wandered too far. Other times it burned.
Without her, Yadriel was floundering.
“What do I do?” he asked, hating how desperate and defeated he sounded.
“I don’t know,” Catriz said.
“¡Catriz!” Yadriel heard his abuelita call from inside. “I need más frijoles!”
Catriz exhaled through his nose. “I’m just useful for reaching things on the top shelf, apparently,” he said dryly. Catriz opened the door, and the smell of chicken and chilies wafted from the kitchen.
Before he went inside, Catriz paused, giving Yadriel another tired smile. “If only there was something we could do to show them how wrong they are.”
Yadriel stared at the closed door after Catriz went inside.
His hands tightened into fists.
He went back into the house and cut through the kitchen without looking at anyone and went straight up the stairs.
“Yads!” Maritza called after him, but he didn’t stop.
The small lamp on his bedside table was the only source of light in his room. Yadriel tossed his backpack onto the unmade, full-size bed shoved in the corner by the window. On his hands and knees, Yadriel dug his arm under the bed, searching for his plastic flashlight.