Chapter One: Soldier of Light (partial)

March 31, 2008

    Clara stood alone in one corner of the Basilica del Santo Niño, her eyes fixed on the burnished golden altar several feet away. She was silently praying; an act that would have been totally alien to her only three months ago, when she had nearly ended her miserable, graceless existence.

       Mouthing the last of her prayers, Clara turned her eyes on the few people – more women than men – shambling along the lengthy aisle, on their knees. Each little step was slow and labored, but these people didn’t mind. Their eyes were intent on the altar, their lips constantly moving, murmuring woeful laments and earnest advocations. It was like a tradition, a ritual done with strange precision, from making the sign of the cross at the entrance to finally reaching the foot of the altar, knees bearing the brunt of more than a hundred little steps.

        It was nothing to them, these devotees of the Holy Child Jesus. She could never fathom the depth of their devotion; never understand what it was that truly drove them to such lengths of piety. Was this faith? Must she have this kind of faith as well?

       She was a Catholic. She had been baptized when still a baby, as all children of Catholic parents are. It was one of those things that one just accepted without question. She had never felt obliged to be pious or religious. She never really gave it any thought. She was like many young Christians her age – drifting, hovering between what was taught and what they thought – and in the end choosing not to commit to either one.

        Until that moment.

 

       That one moment when the Light chose to shine on her, after everything in her life had gone perfectly wrong.

        Soldier of Light. That’s what she was now.

        How strange it felt.

       She had chosen the Light, had sworn to be its soldier. But she hadn’t pledged her heart and soul to God. Yet.

      “Well, it’s a start.” Those were Father Alex’s words. “A good start, I think. I mean, at least you made a choice, and you chose the Light.”

        Well, she had, hadn’t she? Now she was going to have to work on the faith.

       “It only sounds easy, when you put it like that. But a journey of faith is worse that a rollercoaster ride. The Dark side will always try to wrest you away.”

        “I know.”

        “I’ll pray you don’t end up like Anakin Skywalker, then.”

       She found Father Alex a mystery sometimes. For one, he was too good-looking. Their first meeting had been rather uncomfortable, as she’d succumbed to several instances of gaping at him, mesmerized.

        When her mother had spoken of him, Clara had always imagined him to be somewhere in his sixties, old and wise – the ideal mentor. The decision to go to him for advice had come naturally to her. She’d been shocked when, instead of an elderly adviser, she’d found a talkative young man still in his thirties. Sometimes she couldn’t believe he had been her mother’s mentor and confidante.

       She glanced at her watch. It was nearly five in the afternoon. She could go grab an early dinner, rest awhile, and then go hunting.

        Walking out of the Basilica, she was painfully aware of the curious looks people threw her way. She knew she looked like a vampire straight out of a gothic novel. Or a ghost from a bad Pinoy horror movie.

        The Spanish ancestry on her father’s side of the family had given her the characteristics of a typical mestiza: lush brown hair and very fair, nearly translucent skin. But her getup today was far from that of the usual elitista.

       She’d had her hair dyed the blackest black, and cut to shoulder-length in one of those assymetrical styles that were so hot back in the ‘80s, with a thick layer of bangs resting just above her brows. She wore black as well. Black boots. Black pants. A black tank top under a black hoodie. And her usual dark make-up.

         She sighed. The make-up was a habit formed in her early days of rebellion, but she had grown to love it nonetheless.

        She was glad they couldn’t see the pinuti strapped to her back, or the twin kris daggers tucked into her belt.

         “You can’t carry those things around in public!” Father Alex had exclaimed when he first saw them.

         Fortunately, she had found a solution from her grandfather’s book of oraciones: a ritual prayer used to create illusions. She was delighted to discover that she still remembered her Latin. Her Lolo Paeng had been quite an excellent teacher. Still, she didn’t think it was a good idea to share her discoveries with Father Alex.

        She had cast the spell before leaving the house that morning, tweaking it a little so that instead of showing something, it hid it instead. So now she could walk around freely without worrying that people might see the sword sticking out of her back.