Walk in a midnight Santa Muerte procession with Emilia as she goes undercover in this excerpt from PACIFIC REAPER.
Women passed Silvio’s car in groups of three and four, each woman clutching a statue. Several had flashlights or children’s glow sticks to light the way. Many held small offerings to attract El Acólito’s attention; a cigar, a pack of cigarettes. One woman carried flowers wrapped in black gauze and an unmarked bottle that probably contained homemade mezcal.
“Good luck, Cruz,” Macias said. Sandor gave her a grin.
“You couldn’t have bought a lighter statue?” Emilia asked, resting it on her hip as she opened the car door.
The yellow garbed Santa Muerte statue was as long as Emilia’s arm, with a wooden scythe
and black beads for eyes. The Skeleton Saint held a globe the size of a tennis ball. The robes were the ritual color for healing.
“Get going,” Silvio said.
“Pendejo,” Emilia muttered loud enough for him to hear as she left the safety of the car.
Bayardo’s wife had given them good information. Emilia looked like the rest of the younger crowd in jeans, tee, cross trainers, and zippered hoodie. Older women wore their generation’s uniform of knit skirts and tops or polyester dresses.
Along with the statue, Emilia carried a flashlight, a bottle of whiskey, and a candle with a
Santa Muerte charm pressed into the wax. A blanket was folded over her arm. Handy, Emilia was told, to sit on as El Acólito performed the intercession.
She merged with a group of women as they passed Silvio’s car. More women followed. Emilia’s flashlight picked out paths in the cornfields. There were low conversations, nervous giggles, and the distant hum of engines as other vehicles dropped off
women and girls to start their trek to El Acólito. Emilia noticed a few older men walking with those she supposed were their wives and daughters. They continued for a distance then peeled off.
All of the women carried a statue of Santa Muerte. Some were even larger than Emilia’s. The dark gold of wealth and the yellow of healing were the most popular. The rest were white or red. Emilia did not see
any black statues.
Many of the walkers carried candles, the flames protected by a paper cup. As the procession swelled, Emilia saw more offerings to Santa Muerte; boxes of candy, small homemade pictures of La Santissima, bottles of liquor, small pieces of tooled leather or shell ornaments. Someone carried shell chimes like those she’d bought at the Coyuca Lagoon souvenir shop. The clear tones
carried on the night breeze.
Women greeted Emilia and she smiled and murmured back. One woman held out her lit candle and Emilia touched the wick of hers to it. The new flame sizzled, flared high and strengthened. The woman saw the charm and said, “May La Santissima bless you,” and Emilia said “Blessings to you,” as if she was in church.
It must have been the proper response because the woman smiled and pulled Emilia into her group. Her name was Lora. Her friends’ names were lost in the chatter of the crowd. Emilia stayed with them, grateful to be hidden in plain sight.
Flickering candlelight and steady flashlight beams twinkled together in the dark. The procession flowed around the
cornstalks like a river of bobbing lights.
It was a party. Singing and laughter and high hopes. Everyone’s prayers would be answered. Santa Muerte was watching over them. Protection, healing, love. It would all be theirs tonight.
