Short Story
                                       When Blood Wants Blood
                                                                      By David Estringel

      There is nothing like the smell of Santeria. It is a distinct smell that jolts me into my body the second I
find myself enveloped in it: one that suggests cleanliness—in every respect—but with a little magic mixed
in. Not easily reproduced, you won’t find it anywhere but homes or other places, such as my botanica—a
Santeria supply store—where regular orisha worship happens.

      It is the intoxicating blend of lavender-scented Fabuloso All-Purpose Cleaner, stale cigar smoke (used
for various offerings to our dead and these African gods), burning candle wax, and subtle, earthy hints of
animal sacrifice from the past, offered for the sake of continued prosperity, spiritual protection, and other
vital blessings from the divine.

      You won’t find it anywhere else. No, it is not common fare, much like the smell of ozone immediately
after a lightning strike: it is a right time, right place kind of thing. But why wax nostalgic (besides the fact
that my own home hasn’t smelled like that for a long time)? It will be Dia de Los Muertos tomorrow and
there is much work to do.

      My boveda or spiritual ancestor shrine has gone neglected for months now, squatting in my cramped
dining room, cold and lifeless like the spirits it was erected to propriate. A thick layer of dust has
powdered the picture frames of my dearly departed, making their rectangular glasses dulled and cloudy. I
look at the faces of my maternal and paternal grandparents and find that details that were once fine have
phased into each other as if viewed through a thin curtain of gauze: I can’t clearly see them and they—
likely—can hardly see me. That is how it feels, anyway.

      The white tablecloth on top of the table is dingy, looking yellowed and stained from months of
occasional sprinklings of agua de florida cologne and errant flakes of cigar ash. The water glasses (nine
of them to be exact—one large brandy snifter and four pairs of others in decreasing sizes) seem almost
opaque, now, with their contents having long evaporated, leaving behind striated bands of hard mineral
and chlorine, plus the occasional dead fly, whose selfless sacrifice was likely not met with much
appreciation by my dead Aunt Minne or Popo Estringel, my mother’s father.

      Various religious statues call for immediate attention with frozen countenances that glare, annoyed
that my Swiffer hasn’t seen the light of day for some weeks, now. Then there is the funky, asymmetrical
glass jar on the back right-corner that I use to collect their change. The dead love money (especially mine).
This fact has always suggested to me that hunger—in all shapes and forms—lingers, even after the final
curtain closes. Makes sense, if you think about it. We gorge ourselves on life, cleave to it when we feel it
slip away, and then after we die we…

      The statues—mostly Catholic saints—each have their own specific meaning and purpose on my
boveda. St. Lazarus provides protection from illness. St. Teresa keeps death at bay. St. Michael and The
Sacred Heart of Jesus, which are significantly larger than the other figures, are prominent, flanking either
side of the spiritual table, drawing in—and out— energies of protection and—at the same time—mercy:
the two things I find myself increasingly in need of these days. At the back of the table, there is a
repurposed hutch from an old secretary desk with eight cubbies of varying sizes, where nine silver,
metallic ceramic skulls reside that represent my dead, who have passed on (the number nine is the
number of the dead in Santeria).

      They usually shine, quite brightly, in the warm, yellow glow of the dining room’s hanging light fixture, but
they look tarnished, as of late, save the eye sockets, which seem to plead for attention, glistening, as if wet
with tears. A large resin crucifix rests in the half-full, murky water glass (the largest one) that rests in the
center of the alter. It sounds sacrilegious, but it isn’t, as placing it so calls upon heavenly power to help
control the spirits that are attracted (or attached) to the shrine, allowing positive ones to do what they need
to do for my well-being while keeping the negative ones tightly on a leash.

      Some smaller, but equally as important, fetishes also haunt the altar space, representing spirit guides
of mine: African warriors and wise women, a golden bust of an Egyptian sarcophagus, a Native American
boy playing a drum, and four steel Hands of Fatima that recently made their way into the mix, after a rather
nasty spirit settled into my house last year for a month or so. “She” created all kinds of chaos and havoc,
tormenting me with nightmares—not to mention a ton of bad luck—and my dogs with physical attacks,
ultimately resulting in one of them, Argyle, becoming inexplicably and permanently crippled (but that is
another story).

      Various accents, which I have collected over the years, also add to the ache (power) of the boveda: a
multi-colored beaded offering bowl, strands of similarly patterned Czech glass beads, a brass censer atop
a wooden base for incenses, a pentacle and athame (from my Wicca days), a deck of Rider-Waite tarot
cards in a green velvet pouch with a silver dollar kept inside, and a giant rosary—more appropriate to
hang on a wall, actually—made of large wooden beads, dyed red and rose-scented.

      Looking at all of it in its diminished grandeur, I am reminded of how much I have asked my egun
(ancestors) for over the years and can’t help but feel a little ashamed of my non-committal, reactive (not
proactive) attitude in terms of their veneration, as well as their regular care and feeding.

      This year’s Dia will be different. It has to be. It’s going to take more than a refreshed boveda and fresh
flowers to fix what is going wrong in my life right now; a bowl of fruit and some seven-day candles just won’t
cut it. Business at the botanica is slow, money is tight—beyond tight—and all my plans seem to fall apart
before they can even get started. The nightmares have come back—a couple of times, anyway—and the
dogs grow more and more anxious every day, ready to jump out of their skins at the slightest startle.

      My madrina, an old Cuban woman well into her 70’s that brought me into the religion and orisha
priesthood, told me last night that we all have a spiritual army at our disposal that desperately wants to
help us in times of need, meaning our ancestors. She said with enough faith one could command legions
of them to do one’s bidding, using as little as a few puffs of cigar smoke and a glass of water. While a
powerful statement, that isn’t how things roll for me. Her prescription for what ails me was far from that
simple. “This year, your muertos need to eat and eat well! They need strength to help you and you need a
lot of it. When they are happy, you will be happy. When they are not, you won’t,” she advised, searching my
eyes for an anticipated twinge of panic and they didn’t fail her.

      I knew—right then and there—what she meant, making my stomach feel as if it had dropped straight
down into my Jockey underwear. That feeling may have very well dissuaded me from going through with
tonight’s festivities if things were so dire at present. Eyebale is a messy business, regardless of how
smooth one is with their knife (blood sacrifice always is, which is why I have always had such a distaste for
it. Thank God I only do birds).   Regardless of that fact, my egun eat tonight at midnight. I give thanks to my
egun tonight at midnight. I—hopefully—change things around tonight at midnight.  What else can you do
when blood wants blood?
To read other short stories,
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About David Estringel

David Estringel is a poet and
writer, whose work has been
published at Terror House
Magazine, Expat Press, Salt,
Former People Journal, Writ
in Dirt, The Ugly Writers,
Briars Lit, Setu, Route 7
Review, and Cecphalopress.
David can be found on
Twitter (@The_Booky_Man)
and his website