Free Haunted Honeymoon by Marta Acosta Page A

a feast in his honor. They invited him to a ceremony, injested magical potions, had visions, shapeshifted, et cetera. However, the word “undead” caught my attention.
    “ Don Pedro, what exactly do you mean by undead ?”
    “The tribe,” he said, and then whistled. “That is how they say their name, the whistle of a bird, because they are as birds, neither of earth nor heaven. Their name means the Caretakers. They showed me how they raise up the dead with their astonishing juju.”
    “If it isn’t astonishing, it isn’t juju,” I commented.
    “I sat with one of these living-dead creatures, and we smoked a bowl of an herb that only grows there in the volcanic soil. He told me of returning to life from the misty swamp of eternity.” Don Pedro stared at me and said solemnly, “This being was an oracle, and he asked me to give you this gift.”
    “That’s really not necessary …” I began, worried that he’d pull a mummified foot or, worse, a dried man-handle from his satchel.
    Instead, Don Pedro brought out a large clear plastic bag with a folded cloth inside. “The oracle said that you would know how to use it to help those who wish to come back and to guide them to the island.”
    “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” I took the bag and saw that the material was handwoven of fine yarn. It was white with an intricate border of suns, moons, mountains, and waves. “It’s beautiful.” I would have to show this to my friends in the Stitching & Bitching group. “The colors are so pretty.”
    “It is imbued with magical powders that will preserve and revive the dead and was woven by a blind bruja whose third-eye guides her. The color is taken from the spring flowers that grow in the soil by a spring of freshwater.”
    “Organic dyes, then. I thought so.”
    “By the spring, I saw a monkey, a mono araña , with a face as white as a ghost, and a bat flew overhead. The monkey said to me, ‘The little bat above must spread her wings or she will fall into the chasm. Her strength and her …’” Don Pedro paused and wrinkled his brow. “‘Her strength and her fun are gifts to be used.’”
    My strength and fun? As usual, Don Pedro made no sense. I held up the powdery cloth and said, “I’m not going to have any problems getting this through customs, am I?”
    “Laws of mortal man do not govern the dead.”
    “That goes without saying. Now, about the writing fee …” I lobbied for twice the amount he had initially offered. Fifteen minutes later I agreed to a sum that would pay for my loft repairs and keep me gainfully underemployed for another year.
    Don Pedro agreed to transfer a third of the funds into my bank account, pay another third upon delivery of the manuscript, and pay the balance when it was accepted by the publisher.
    I felt somewhat regretful as I signed the release that gave Don Pedro all rights to the sequel. But he was the reason for the first book’s success: people wanted to read about his life and they adored his loony interviews and seminars.
    “One more thing,” Don Pedro said.
    “What?”
    “It would please me to have the story written by hand,” he said, and brought out five standard composition books. He unfolded a sheet of paper from one. “Here is a sample of my writing and you have such a discerning eye, I know you can copy it.”
    No electronic evidence, I thought. “You’re in luck, Don Pedro. I happen to be an accomplished forger.”
    “Oh, no, this is not forgery,” he said, shocked. “It is transcribing from my spiritual transmission.”
    “You say potato, I say fauxtato. Whatever.”
    As Don Pedro left, he said, “You will know how to use the magic of the cloth.”
    “I don’t believe in magic.”
    “You are magic.” He put his fine-boned hand on my wrist. “You are Milagro de Los Santos, the Miracle of the Saints. You must trust in yourself, in the role that destiny has written for you. Even though others would put you in a cage, the one who watches you