Milo Santiago stood beneath the shade of a towering palm tree, his dark curly hair catching the faintest breeze that blew through the quiet streets of Jayuya. His lean, athletic build was a testament to his active life. In the mornings before school and most afternoons upon his return, Milo toiled on his parent's modest farm. When he wasn't tending to the land, he offered consultas or readings to the villagers for extra income. This financial support was crucial when the farm's crops struggled to flourish.

The town where Milo and his mother Natalia lived was nestled in the mountains, in the center of Puerto Rico, surrounded by verdant hills and the scent of tropical flowers drifting on the air. The sun cast long shadows on the cobblestone streets, and the atmosphere was heavy with the weight of history. This was a place where generations of families descended from the Tainos had built their lives, their stories woven into the very fabric of the town.

People went about their day to day lives, the hum of conversation filling the air as they greeted each other warmly. It was a close-knit community, where everyone knew their neighbors and news traveled by word of mouth faster than any newspaper. But within this tapestry of ordinary life, there were threads of something more – the voices of the past echoed in the streets and whispered from the shadows.

For Milo, these voices were very real. He had heard them since he was a small child, to him they were an invitation to explore the mysteries that lay hidden just beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered. Milo had a deep connection to the muertos, the dead. It was a bond that had been passed down through his family for generations. In a place like this, where the past and present seemed to merge into one, Milo felt their presence all around him.

As Milo walked along the worn streets, his thoughts turned to his mother Natalia. Their relationship was fraught with tension – rooted in her fear of the power that flowed through their bloodline. Natalia had rejected her gift and the power that flowed through her. She had turned her back on the muertos and had chosen another path. Her choice left Milo as the one who inherited the power she rejected. The family gift passed to him on the day he was born. That day was the last day Natalia saw the muertos, as she held Milo for the first time, she looked over his small head and standing at the foot of her bed were her grandmother, great grandmother, her grandfather, great grandfather, several taino warriors and a magnificent taino chief. Instinctively she knew these souls had been waiting for Milo to be born and their presence was the testament to the power he would soon inherit.

The muertos smiled at her and then her grandmother put her hand over the baby's head as if in blessing and after a moment she smiled and nodded and then all of them faded away. Natalia knew from that day forward Milo's life would belong to the dead. she knew she could not teach him, but her mother could and she lovingly set her son on the path chosen for him by the dead.

Milo never feared the dead and he refused to be defined by his mother's fear. He was determined to master his spiritual gifts, to use them for the betterment of their community and the world beyond.

*****

The flickering candlelight cast shadows on the walls of Milo's small consultation room, The room had a small altar on the wall behind Milo, statues of indian warriors and african slaves stood on it surrounding a set of 7 glasses of water in a circle. Candles burned on the Altar and to the right side of the altar stood a large statue of an African chief. Milo sat at a small table covered by a white cloth with a candle tohis right and a glass of water to the left. On one side of the table was a middle-aged woman named Esmeralda, her hands tightly clasped together, eyes filled with equal parts hope and desperation. She had come to Milo seeking help in finding her husband, who had vanished without a trace.

"Please," Esmeralda whispered, her voice quivering with emotion. "I need to know where my husband is – if he's safe."

Milo nodded solemnly, sensing the depth of her pain. He reached across the table and grasped her hands. He closed his eyes and recited the Lord's prayer, the Hail Mary and the Glory be quietly, breathing deeply and asking for God's protection.

"Negro Juanito, we seek your guidance, open the gate and stand guard." he murmured, knocking on the table three times with his right hand. "We ask for your help, open our eyes and help us to know what is true."

His eyes closed, Milo felt a presence enter the room – a warm and comforting energy that seemed to wrap itself around Esmeralda like a protective embrace. He knew it was Esmerald's protecting spirit, reaching out to offer solace and reassurance.

"Esmeralda, La Madama is here, I know you can feel her around you." Milo waited for Esmeralda to nod affirmatively. Tears welled up in Esmeralda's eyes as she listened to Milo's words. The relief and gratitude washing over her face were evident, but so too was lingering uncertainty.

"I have felt her a lot recently" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes I know, she is here with us now and she is telling me to tell you not to shed any more tears for that man. She has watched over you for the past 7 years while you cooked, cleaned and were a faithful wife, while he came home drunk, beat you, disrespected you and slept around with loose women." Milo said softly.

Esmeralda, nodded her head and tears began to fall from her eyes. Milo grasped her hands again.

"La Madama says that she is why he is gone, she swept him out with her broom like the trash he is. She warns you not to pick him up again, she says trash on the doorstep is only worth sweeping into the street. She says to go home, wash your face and cook a big pot of Sancocho, the first bowl you will give to her, then have your dinner and if anyone knocks on your door for the next 7 days you must offer them a bowl of this soup. She says that the tongues of the villagers have been wagging about your misfortune, she will use this soup to help them realize that they were wrong in choosing your husband's side. You are not to worry any longer, she has covered you with her skirt and you will be ok." Milo looked at Esmerald with a smile.

"La Madama is a powerful being, trust in her, she knows struggle and hardship but she has always managed to turn it around and she will do the same for you."

Esmeralda smiled back at Milo and pressed the 5 dollars for the reading into his hands.

"Thank you Milo, I will do as she advises. God and the muertos bless you."

Esmeralda left with renewed faith in her heart, and Milo knew that she would be ok, no one messed with La Madama, when she put her broom to work, watch out and pray she only used it to sweep the trash out. He tidied up the room and went to the altar and said he parting prayers.

"Negro Jaunito, thank you for standing at the gate, close it for me and know you have my gratitude."

Any time mi caballo. came the response in Milo's head. Milo smiled and looked at the African statue standing on the side of the Altar.

"Buenos Noches mi muertos." Milo bowed to the altar and left the small room and walked out of the barn and down the small path to the house.

The fading light of the setting sun cast an ethereal glow upon Milo's face as he sat on the porch of his family home, reflecting on the day's events. The cool breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient palm tree nearby, carrying with it the distant sounds of laughter and conversation from the small town below. Despite the beauty of the scene before him, Milo's thoughts went back to his session with Esmeralda.

"I'm glad I was able to help Esmeralda and I'm glad that her guardian spirit La Madama decided to help her." Milo mused as he sat on the porch.

"Abuela Mireya always said that the muertos would guide you, Milo," his mother Natalia gently reminded him, appearing at the doorway with a tray of steaming cups of tea. "With each person you help, you honor her legacy and keep our family's traditions alive. I knew the day you were born that you would walk the road I couldn't walk. You were only minutes old when the Muertos came to greet you and say goodbye to me. Your Great grandmother put her hand over your head in blessing and I knew you would be the one to carry on the family's legacy. That was the last day I saw the muertos but I knew that they were near and always looking out for you."

"Wow mama, you never told me that story." Milo said, accepting the tea with gratitude. He wrapped his hands around the warm cup, feeling the heat seep into his bones. But along with the warmth came a deeper connection, a sense of belonging to a lineage that stretched back generations. Within that connection, he could feel the presence of Abuela Mireya, her guidance ever-present even in death.

"Espiritismo and La Mesa Blanc, the white table has been a part of our family for centuries," Natalia continued, her eyes distant as she recalled the stories passed down through the generations. "Our ancestors used their gifts to heal, to protect, and to bring light to those who dwelt in darkness."

"Yet, sometimes I fear that I may not be equal to the task," Milo confided, his voice quivering with vulnerability. "The world is vast and complex, and every day I am faced with new challenges that test my abilities."

"Your heart is pure, Milo," Natalia said, her voice filled with conviction. "You were meant to do this work and you are stronger than I am. Your grandmother said that she had never seen a gift as strong as yours."

"Still, sometimes I wonder if it's enough," Milo admitted, his gaze fixed upon the horizon as he grappled with the enormity of his calling.

Natalia placed a reassuring hand on her son's shoulder, her eyes shining with pride. "Your dedication to helping others is a testament to your character, Milo," she said softly. "You have a strong moral compass and a genuine desire to make a difference in people's lives. That is all anyone can ask."

"Thank you, Mamá," Milo whispered, his spirit buoyed by her words of encouragement. As he gazed out at the town below, a renewed sense of purpose filled his heart. With each person he helped, he was honoring the legacy of Abuela Mireya and all those who had come before him.

*****

Milo lit the candles, their flickering light casting a warm glow upon his face. His dark curls fell softly around his sharp features and his eyes held an intensity that belied his youth.

"Senor Santiago," a timid voice called out, pulling Milo from his thoughts. He looked up to see his client, a middle-aged woman with worry etched into every line of her face. She clung to a handkerchief, twisting it nervously in her hands.

"Please, call me Milo," he said gently, offering her a comforting smile. "How may I be of service?"

"Thank you, Milo," she replied hesitantly. "I've heard about your gift from others in town."

"Indeed, how may I help you?" Milo acknowledged, his voice imbued with determination.

"Thank you. I have been struggling with my faith lately," she confessed, tears welling up in her eyes. "I feel so lost and alone. Can you help me find my way back?"

Milo offered her a reassuring nod, his compassionate nature shining through. "Faith has a way of showing itself when we need it. We need to remember that it isn't just important that we believe in God but that we remember God believes in us."

Milo felt the gentle presence of his principal spirit guide, urging him to trust in his abilities and embrace his destiny. He took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand, providing guidance and comfort to those who sought his assistance.

Trust in yourself, mi caballo, the spirit seemed to whisper in his ear. You have been chosen for this path, and your compassion will guide you through the darkness.

Strengthened by these words, Milo continued the session with renewed fervor.

Milo Santiago stood by in front of his altar, his fingers tracing the edge of the cloth that covered it. The lingering scent of incense filled the air.

As the shadows cast by the candle light danced along the walls, Milo contemplated the weight of his responsibilities as a spiritualist.

"Abuela Mireya," he murmured, invoking the memory of his beloved grandmother and mentor. "Guide me on this path, and help me to uphold the values and traditions that you have entrusted to me." A slight breeze blew through the room and ruffled Milo's hair. He caught the sweet scent of gardenia in the air.

"Abuelita, thank you." Milo said smiling.