literature

Tales of the Damned: Clara's Story - Chapter 1

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Published: Dec 27, 2011

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Literature Text

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?

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 will always try to wrest you away.”

“I know.”

Father Alex was a mystery. 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, with a thick layer of bangs resting just above her brows. She wore black as well. Black boots. Black leggings and black mini-skirt. 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, creating the illusion that the weapons were invisible when in fact they were in plain sight. So now she could walk around freely without worrying that people might see the sword sticking out of her back.

She made her way to where she’d parked her motorcycle - a sleek, white scooter - weaving through the throng of people that seemed to come and go unceasingly. She stopped short when she got within five meters of it. A young man in jeans and a black sweater was standing beside the bike, surveying the markings with interest.

Clara frowned. She didn’t like strangers. Especially those who stared at her bike with such annoying curiosity. She had to admit, though, that the intricate design of sigils on the bike’s body did present quite an invitation to the inquisitive mind.

Oh, how stupid of me, she thought suddenly. She should have cast the spell on the bike as well.

Well, it was too late now. She would have to deal with another nosy nobody.

She walked up to the young man and cleared her throat.

“Excuse me,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied, noticing her for the first time. “Yours?”
“Yes.”

“Cool design.”
“Thank you.”
“Where did you have it done?”
“I don’t really know. It came to me that way. A gift.”
“I see.”

He hadn’t budged an inch. She looked pointedly at him, one eyebrow raised, as she reached to unfasten the locks on the scooter.

“Oh, sorry. Excuse me,” he said and moved away.

Clara rolled her eyes. Men! She glanced at her watch. It was just a little after five in the afternoon. She could grab an early dinner, and then go out hunting. She suddenly realized she was hungry. She got on the scooter and sped off, the thought of a good meal foremost in her mind.

She had changed.

Riel couldn’t quite get over the shock of seeing her again after all these years. He felt foolish having this sort of reaction. She was just an old schoolboy crush! And she didn’t even remember him.

She had become so drastically different from the girl he used to know. What had happened?

He’d expected her to be out of the country by now, touring the world or something. Doing things that rich kids do. Enjoying the fruits of having been born wealthy.

What was she doing, going around looking like some goth girl? And on that bike, too. Those sigils were not unfamiliar to him. Warding spells. That bike was, quite literally, one huge talisman.

There was only one place where she could have gotten it. His father’s motorbike shop.

Did she know what it actually was?

If she did, then that would mean…

He resisted the sudden urge to go speeding after her. What was he thinking, anyway? They weren’t twelve years old anymore. Ten years have passed. He no longer had any part in her life.

With a small sigh, he got on his own bike and went his way.