Out_of_the_Devil_39_s_Cauldron

Chapter 9
Selling My Soul to the Devil
The afternoon I learned about Palo Mayombe in Aunt Maria’s basement—the same day I met New
York City’s highest-ranked godfather in the religion—was a turning point for me. I knew I was going
to a level in the spirit realm that others only dreamed about. In Palo Mayombe, you’re dealing straight
with the devil. You learn to make evil spirits do your bidding. By the time I left Aunt Maria’s house it
was dark outside, and I was excited as I stepped through the gate to head home. I knew I had to get the
money together to do the initiation ceremony—it would cost me $3500 to become a Palero, a priest
for the dark side, but I already considered it money well spent.
A few days later we all met up at my aunt’s house, and the high tata priest told those who
were chosen to become priests of Palo Mayombe the do’s and don’ts of the final ceremony—what
procedures would take place, what time to be there, what to wear—but first would come a ritual
performed in the mountains at night. I glanced around the room. Along with me, sixteen other men
stood ready to make a contract with the devil. The tata told us that once you start the journey toward
becoming a Palero, you can’t turn back. The spirits exact a death sentence on any cowards who don’t
complete the ritual.
A guy across the room caught my eye and quickly looked away. I could see fear stamped on
his face; another one looked vaguely puzzled, not knowing whether to say yes or no, but we all knew
that saying no would not only be a death sentence, it would make us an embarrassment to the religion.
The room throbbed with fear and excitement. We were stepping into something unknown, walking into
this black hole called Palo Mayombe.
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