FicWad

I wrapped up a small lump of ground meat and herbs into the last paper-thin sheet of dough and dropped it into the pot simmering over a low fire. It would take some time for the molo soup to be done, enough time for me to go check on the stage. I took off my apron, put on a pair of wooden clogs and set off for the plaza. Chaos met me when I got there. Men and boys were dragging wooden benches in front of the stage, while others were busily erecting a booth for the mayor and his family. Several women were pinning flower wreathes to the stage, while Father Jorge sat on a stool fanning himself as he barked instructions to the two sacristans who were lugging the statue of Jesus toward its pedestal. The statue of the Virgin Mary, resplendent in its blue and white robes, was already standing on the stage. I hung back, seeing how unnecessary my presence was, then with a shrug decided to head back home.

"You there! Girl!"

I turned. Father Jorge was striding up to me, red-faced and scowling. "What is the meaning of this? I told you before that I will not tolerate the presence of your pagan baubles in these holy rites. This sacrilege will not go unpunished!"

I focused on the object dangling from his fist, recognizing it immediately. It was a long chain with a large brass disk shaped like the sun. Etched at center of the sun was an undeniably pagan-looking serpent. It was the pendant my brother and his fellow warriors wore when they performed the Dance of Fire. Puzzled, I glanced over at the other side of the plaza and spotted my brother and his friends snickering as they watched the two of us. My heart sank. Year after year my brother and his friends played the same prank on Father Jorge, decorating his holy icons with artifacts of the old religion just to watch the priest puff up like an outraged rooster. It was childish and annoying, especially since Father Jorge was too besotted with my sister and too intimidated by my brother to confront them about it. "I'm sorry, Father. It won't happen again," I muttered as I took the offending item, wondering how long until my brother proved me a liar again.

"I should hope so," the priest blustered. "And you, girl, I expect to see tomorrow morning at the confessional. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Father." I should wear my kimona/, I thought resentfully. /At least then I'd have something worth confessing.

Father Jorge opened his mouth to continue his rant but a commotion on the stage caught his attention. "What is she doing there? Get her down from there. Get her down!"

He hurried away, and I looked over to see what had rescued me from Father Jorge's badgering. Up on the stage, Crazy Consuelo had managed to slip past the sacristans and was now twirling around and around singing at the top of her lungs. The women squealed and scrabbled back, trying to avoid any contact with the grimy rags of her dress and her even grimier arms, while Father Jorge nearly popped a vein shouting for someone to get her down before she smeared filth on Jesus' and Mary's pristine robes. Crazy Consuelo, however, was oblivious to the consternation she'd caused as she continued to dance, her matted hair swinging like a maddened bush, her eyes bright against the layers of soot on her thin face. She was, I had to admit, a sight to behold.

My brother and his pals trotted over, laughing uproariously. "By the Lady, look at her go!" Habagat crowed, one arm flung over Pilô's shoulders. "Did you see the look on that priest's face? Whoo!" He and his friends howled with laughter.

Fury swept through me. "Whose is this?" I asked in a low voice, holding up the pendant.

"That's mine," Pilô gasped, shrugging off my brother's arm to take it from me. "I can't believe this nut managed to hang it around Jesus right under the priest's nose."

"Skill, my friend," Habagat drawled. "Real warriors have something called skill."

"When are you going to stop picking on Father Jorge, /Kuya/?" To my surprise, my softly spoken question managed to shut them all up. "Don't you ever get tired of behaving like a bunch of children instead of the honorable warriors you're supposed to be?"

Several jaws dropped, while my brother's face turned an ugly red. Inwardly, I was as stunned by my boldness as they were. I was going to pay dearly for this outburst, if the dangerous glint in my brother's eye was any indication, but at the moment I was too angry to care. "Whoa, Habagat," one of his friends muttered. "I think your baby sister's just told you off."

A vein pulsed in my brother's cheek. "Go home, Amihan."

"Not until you apologize to Father Jorge." Sweet Lady, where was I finding the nerve to answer back to my brother?

Habagat raised a fist, but a screech from the direction of the stage made us all turn. The sacristans had managed to grab hold of Crazy Consuelo's arms and were trying to drag her away, but she dug in her heels and fought back, twisting and thrashing and making us wince at her keening cries. /All she wanted to do was dance/, I thought, and my anger blazed even higher. Before I knew it, I was pushing past my brother and marching over to the stage, ignoring Father Jorge's shocked spluttering.

"Let her go," I told the sacristans, who obeyed out of sheer bewilderment. I offered my hand, palm up, to Consuelo. "It's all right. I won't hurt you," I coaxed. "Please take my hand. Come with me and I'll give you something to eat. Please, Consuelo."

I could hear the whispers around us, but I ignored that too, focusing all my attention on Consuelo. She shifted from foot to foot, tangling her fingers in her bushy mane, while her eyes searched my face warily at first then with growing curiosity. I smiled as reassuringly as I could, feeling tears of frustration sting my eyes as I waited for her to reject me in front of the town. The relief I felt when she finally grasped my hand in hers nearly made me laugh. "That's right, I'm a friend. I won't let them hurt you," I soothed her as we came down the stage and I led her away.

She suddenly grinned, her teeth blindingly white against her face, and started to sing in a lusty voice, swinging our joined hands together. The townsfolk laughed at the sight of us. My brother, however, watched me with hooded eyes, making it clear that our discussion wasn't over yet. "Wash the stink off, Amihan," he couldn't resist tossing at me, just to show the world that the great warrior still had the last word over his mousy little sister.

I turned my back on them, my hand tightening around Consuelo's thin, greasy fingers. I wondered if by rescuing her I hadn't just made an even bigger fool of myself, but an answering pressure on my hand derailed that thought. Consuelo was smiling back at me.