The Ilokana

Chapter Eight

Vigan Church - Miércoles de Ceniza, 1703

[Several months before Juliano's death & Tomás' escape.]

Padre Francisco had arrived the day before, she heard, and she was excited to play for him. It was on his first missionary trip to her town that he had introduced her to the glorious harp. While her parents were talking to him, she had eyed the large, curved string instrument by the altar.

Before she knew, Leona was hovering around the imported harp, reaching out to touch the strings.

"Leona!" Her mother's voice broke her trance and she whirled around, tucking her arms behind her back and trying to look as innocent as a seven year old Blade's daughter could. "Don't touch that!"

She winced at her mother's sharp voice, but a placating "It's all right, it's all right," came from the robed man. He smiled and approved her. "That is un apra. ¿Quieres intentar?"

"Arpa?" She mimicked the word and eyed the instrument she figured was the harp. Earlier, before mass, one of the ladies had played it and the sound filled the nave. Leona was transfixed in an instant. "Si," she told the old man in her quiet Spanish. "I want to try it."

Her mother objected and her father looked hesitant, but Don Fabiano Brilliantes was encouraging and offered the use of an imported harp of their own. None of his daughters had taken to it and it was just sitting at their house.

Now, after years of practice, she was going to play before the Ash Wednesday mass and despite playing so many times before, she was giddy with anticipation. She looked forward to impressing Padre Francisco with how far she'd come.

"Srta. Aglaban." Padre Martinez, who set up the altar, waved at her from the side. "You may begin!"

Leona straightened out her nice church dress as she adjusted herself behind her harp. She lifted her hands to the strings and began to pluck them. The church's acoustics weren't that good and from the back, she sometimes didn't hear what the priest was saying, but from where she sat beside her instrument, she could hear every note clean and clear, and they reverberated through her with each plucked string.

Her parents and Don Brilliantes and their family were seated nearby and looking on proudly as the last of the devotees piled into the church. The Spaniards were there, too, more than usual. Despite the sweltering heat, they were dressed in their long, heavy-looking dresses and Leona doubted the fine lace fans they were using did anything by swept back more hot air.

She was born and raised there, and still wasn't used to the heat when she wore her church dress her mother insisted she wear.

As the last chords were struck, she prepared herself to accompany Padre Martinez and he led the choir through the first hymn of the day - the one Padre Francisco and the others would walk to the altar to.

Leona lowered her arms as she heard the choir shift behind her. Her eyes did a quick run over the pews closest to her. Her father was talking quietly to Don Brilliantes and her mother looked pleased. Aside from her, no one else seemed all that interested in her playing.

It was hot and humid; she understood their discomfort and distraction. The Spaniards were in their little section looking straight ahead while the women of the group lazily fanned their faces. Leona doubted they'd be impressed.

She began to shift her attention back to the harp when a pair of eyes caught hers. In the second row of pews, beside widowed Sra. Velasquez, was a new face. A young man was dressed in fine, but muted colored clothing. He was tall and looked fit, with messy dark hair and a freshly shaved, and admittedly striking face.