The Three Drums of Santería

The Call of the Drums

Mateo Gómez had been born into rhythm.

His father, Miguel, was a master percussionist, a man whose hands could speak in beats and whose drumming was said to bring the dead to dance. From the moment Mateo could sit upright, he had been surrounded by drums—conga, bongo, Batá. He learned to hear their voices before he could even speak his own.

But despite his talent, something always felt… missing. There was a rhythm inside him that he could never quite reach, a sound that eluded him no matter how fast or skillfully he played.

That was until the night the wind whispered his name.

It was a humid evening in Havana. The city was alive, as always—the sound of music drifting through the streets, laughter spilling from open doorways. Mateo sat on his grandmother’s porch, his fingers tapping idly against his knee, his mind restless.

Beside him, Doña Estela, his abuela, watched him with her sharp, knowing eyes.

“You hear it, don’t you?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Mateo looked up. “Hear what?”

“The rhythm in the wind.”

He frowned. “I don’t—”

She cut him off with a small, wry smile. “You will.”

The next morning, Mateo wandered through the marketplace, weaving through stalls piled high with mangoes and guavas, sidestepping a group of old men playing dominoes. He had no destination, just an odd feeling that something was waiting for him.

Then he heard it.

A whisper. No, a beat. Soft at first, barely there, but insistent. It wasn't coming from the musicians in the square or the radio playing from a fruit vendor’s cart. It was deeper, older—like something calling from the bones of the earth itself.

He followed it.

The alleyways grew narrower, the city’s noise dimming as if he had stepped into another world entirely. And then he found it—an old shop, its wooden sign so faded it was impossible to read. The doorway was ajar, a faint trail of incense curling into the air.

Inside, the air smelled of time itself—aged wood, wax, and something else… something ancient.

And there, resting atop a weathered altar, sat three Batá drums.

Mateo approached them as if in a dream. The largest of the three seemed to hum beneath his gaze, the carvings along its sides shimmering under the dim light. His fingers hovered over the surface, his pulse matching the invisible rhythm in the air.

Then, without thinking, he touched it.

The world shuddered.

For a moment, everything around him seemed to slow, the air thickening, the candles flickering wildly though there was no breeze. And in that instant, Mateo knew—he had found what he had been searching for.

Or rather, it had found him.

The Keeper of Secrets

“Step away from the drums.”

The voice was firm, steady. Mateo turned to see an old man watching him from the shadows. His skin was dark, his face lined with time, but his eyes… his eyes were sharp, piercing, as if they could see right through him.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

The man cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You should not be here.”

Mateo swallowed hard. “What are these drums?”

A heavy silence stretched between them before the man finally sighed. “They are the *Ayán*—the three sacred Batá. It is said that each one holds a spirit, a voice from beyond this world.”

Mateo couldn’t tear his eyes away from them. “Then why… why do they feel like they belong to me?”

The old man’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a frown. “Because the drums choose their drummer.”

Mateo’s breath caught.

“The question is,” the man continued, stepping closer, “do you have the strength to play them?”

That night, Mateo returned.

The old man—who introduced himself as Don Sebastián—was waiting for him. The shop was dark except for a circle of candles surrounding the drums.

Sebastián gestured for him to sit.

“Play.”

Mateo hesitated. Something about the air felt… different. Thicker. Charged. But his hands moved before his mind could catch up. He struck the first drum.

The sound that erupted was not merely a note—it was a presence.

Shadows shifted. The air rippled. The ground beneath him felt suddenly unsteady, as if the entire city had exhaled.

Then came the whisper.

“You have awakened us.”

The Spirits Speak

Mateo was no longer in the shop.

The world had changed.

He stood in an open field, the sky above swirling with colors he did not recognize. And before him, emerging from the darkness, were figures—tall, flickering forms with eyes that burned like embers.

“You have heard our call,” one of them spoke, its voice layered, as if a hundred people were speaking at once.

Mateo’s heart pounded. “Who… who are you?”

“We are the voices of the drums. And you, child of rhythm, have been chosen.”

Mateo felt something deep in his bones shift. “Chosen for what?”

Another figure stepped forward. “To restore the balance.”

Something in the air turned cold.

“The world is out of tune,” the spirit continued. “The rhythm of the universe is broken. You must play. You must bring harmony.”

Mateo’s throat was dry. “And if I refuse?”

The sky darkened. The wind howled.

“Then the world will fall into silence.”

The Test of the Orishas

When Mateo awoke, he was back in the shop, drenched in sweat. Sebastián stood over him.

“You saw them,” the old man said, not asking but stating.

Mateo nodded weakly. “What… what do I do now?”

Sebastián handed him a cloth to wipe his face. “Now, muchacho, you prove yourself.”

For three days, Mateo played. The drums tested him, pushed him. Each night, the spirits returned. They whispered their knowledge, guided his hands, demanded more.

And then, on the final night, he was taken to the shores of Havana.

Before him stood the Orishas themselves, watching.

“Play,” they commanded.

And so he did.

The world trembled.

The spirits danced.

The balance was restored.

Epilogue: The Rhythm Lives On

From that day forward, Mateo was not just a drummer. He was the Guardian of the Rhythms, the bridge between the seen and the unseen.

And as long as he played, the world would never fall into silence.