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femgenficathon2009-10-15 02:51 pm
osmalic.livejournal.com) wrote in femgenficathon2009-10-15 02:51 pm
"The Ghost of Monestario de Santa Clara"; Maria Clara, Juli; PG-13
Title: "The Ghost of Monestario de Santa Clara"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
osmalic
Fandom: Noli me Tangere / El Filibusterismo (by J. Rizal)
Rating: PG-13
Words Count: 4900~ words
Warnings: refers to off-screen rape, atrocities committed by people of the Church
Prompt: 10.) "Whatever fills the human mind with uncommon and honest delight is fitting for a human woman." -- Anna Maria von Schurman (1607-1678), 17th-century Dutch scholar, poet, linguist and artist.
Author's Notes: Beta'ed byblue_cage in record time. Thank you to gehayi for holding this fest. I said I'd have this posted on October 1, but this story had me rethinking about the state of our country, so I postponed it. A long(er!) author's notes will be posted in my personal journal and will be linked at the end. ETA: Added!
Summary: In which Maria Clara enters the convent, where she and the servant Juli try to solve a mystery about a ghost.
The Ghost of Monestario de Santa Clara
Everyone knows there is a ghost walking among the corridors.
The Mother Abbess scoffs at such reports, but she also does not walk the length of the corridor at night alone. She always has one or two of the new nuns accompanying her. She never leaves her room in the middle of the night.
Maria Clara is not aware of the stories at first. She barely remembers anything that happens during the first few weeks of her entering the convent. The only time she leaves her room is when she goes to take her daily morning bath, or when she goes to Mass. She never stays in the Chapel long, for the priest has taken to glaring at her during his sermon as if all the evils in the world he speaks against are plastered on her veil.
Perhaps it is months before she lifts herself from the heavy daze. Her head is lighter now, likely because the habit has replaced the tresses of light-brown hair, cut and burned by the Mother Abbess. It has been too long since she heard words outside of prayers.
Two young servants converse right within earshot as they wipe the wooden floor with their rags.
"Everyone knows," the girl of perhaps thirteen is telling her companion. "No one has seen her, but she can be seen walking the corridor during midnight."
"Does she cross the courtyard?" the other girl, perhaps slightly younger than her, asks in awe. "Does she go to church?"
"Of course not," the older girl tells her. "She is fleeing the church."
"But why?" asks the other girl in clear consternation. "There is nothing to fear in the church!"
Maria Clara thinks how wrong the little girl is, and she realizes it is the first time in a very long time that she smiles.
She doesn't remember ever encountering the ghost before that, but she lies awake one night and realizes that the low mournful sounds floating through the wooden walls are coming from inside the building. It is hardly distinguishable from the rain outside, or of the popping-croaking sounds of the bullfrogs.
She sits up and clutches her blanket, listening intently.
The rain bangs against the wooden slats of her window, creating a draft. Through the beams of the roof and over the wooden wall that Maria Clara shares with the other nuns next door, she can hear the sobs echoing from the corridor. A soft female voice recites the Hail Mary in Latin.
Maria Clara dives under the covers, suddenly terrified. She hurls the rosary at the side of her bed.
The ghost speaks the language of the Church.
The Monestario de Santa Clara does not forbid their charges from speaking, yet there is the unspoken rule that discourages it. The nuns speak in whispers, and they spend their days tending their fields within the yards, cleaning the convent, and preparing the dresses and capes of the santos and santas for the next fiesta. They go to Mass every morning and use up the rest of their free time praying for the redemption of the lost souls outside their gates. They receive gifts of eggs from the outside world.
Maria Clara finds that she has no desire to speak. She remembers Crisostomo once teasing her how they would always scream at each other but still be friends at the end of the day—oh, but she doesn't think about those days spent talking on the azotea under the watchful eyes of Tiya Isabel.
Because they do not speak, the ghost is hardly talked about, but Maria Clara notices how they nuns glance at each other fretfully when they hear that the new priest from San Diego will be coming to say Mass.
Maria Clara frowns because she does not want anything to remind her of the world she has left behind.
Padre Salvi tries to catch her eyes whenever she goes to Mass, but she does not dare meet them. She knows she trembles, and she begins entertaining the thought that maybe she might have had other choices. Choices that do not include her being jailed for her sins.
The ghost is not confined to the corridor. Sometimes, Maria Clara will peek out of her blankets to see light bobbing from the corridor, but there will be no telltale creaking of the wooden floors.
However, there is always weeping. Sometimes it comes from the bathroom, or in the bedroom that is farthest from the antesala, and—in one terrifying night—it is in the room next to hers.
The next morning, Maria Clara tries to catch the eyes of the girl who is in the room next to hers, but the girl stays in the church for a very long time, her habit falling over her face as she bows on the pews, rosary in her hand to recite her penance.
"What happened to her?" she hears the young girl whisper at the corridor.
There is a pause as the other servant shakes the rag out the window. Maria Clara lifts her head and strains her ears so she can hear them conversing through the wooden slats. "She comes and goes. No one really knows what happens to those spirits. Perhaps they return to the mound."
"But why do they weep?" the little girl asks petulantly. She sounds confused and also a little scared. "The nuno sa punso are always angry, and our anito will always—"
"Ay, you child!" the older girl interrupts angrily. "Do not speak of those pagan beliefs in a convento. The Virgin Mary will hear and she'll weep in blood!"
"I'd like to see that," the younger one says wistfully.
Maria Clara nears them, and the younger girl shoots her a glance before looking away quickly. She does not talk again.
Later, after saying the afternoon novena, Maria Clara looks up from her prayers to find one of the older nuns sitting next to her. Her sharp eyes watch her as Maria Clara smoothens her smock.
"Did you hear her?" the old nun asks, her voice cackling. "It's not the corridors that are haunted. The building, ay, the building is haunted."
Maria Clara lowers her eyes. "As am I," she murmurs.
But the old nun only laughs, sharp sounds echoing in church and drawing the eyes of the devotees. "Oh, such poetry!" she wheezes. "Oh, such songs! You aren't the first person who discovers that ghosts have a way of crossing gates to keep on haunting you!"
The words send a chill through Maria Clara's blood. She says her excuses and quickly leaves.
Padre Salvi says Mass again the next morning.
Maria Clara receives the list of names she will pray for in that day, and the Mother Abbess sternly tells her, "And one of them is in his deathbed, so make sure you recite the Hail Mary louder so she will hear."
The day is exhausting as she finds it hard to concentrate on her prayers. She finishes a little after noon, and by then almost everyone has gone to their siesta.
She almost stumbles into the little girl hurrying through the covered walks from the chapel, holding a tiny earthenware pot. Maria Clara gasps, remembering the old sayings about never crossing a child holding an earthenware pot walking in the dead of night, but the sun is shining down on the rooftops, the afternoon breeze hardly stirring the leaves.
The little girl squeaks when she sees her. "I..." There is terror in her eyes and she glances down at the pot guiltily. "I was...I was going to cook...!"
Maria Clara frowns. "Isn't it too early for merienda?"
Here, she knows the little girl might have an opening to speak another lie, but she only trembles and blurts out, "It's for your protection!"
Maria Clara stares down at her in confusion.
"...against the ghost," the girl finishes, looking ashamed but also secretly proud. "My older brother, Kuya Tano, says that Holy Water will repel every evil thing."
"Why do you think the ghost is evil?" Maria Clara wonders.
The little girl shrugs. "Because it refuses to leave," she says matter-of-factly.
Maria Clara leans forward, peers into the earthenware pot. It is barely half-full, but it is indeed the murky water undoubtedly scooped from the font. She kneels down, keeping one eyebrow raised. "And how do you propose to use this?" she asks wryly. "Do you intend to throw it at her face?"
The girl's face reddens and she shrugs. "I don't know," she says helplessly. "I...Maybe I can use it to clean the floor?"
"Heaven forbid!" Maria Clara gasps, but she cannot help the laughter bubbling from her throat. Oh, the idea of it, using Holy Water to clean the floor! How horrified her Tiya Isabel would be! How scandalous!
"It's a very good idea!" the girl protests, although she still blushes.
"But what if the ghost has no feet?" Maria Clara wonders. "What if they never touch the ground?"
The girl's eyes widen. "I never thought of that," she admits.
Her face is so devastated that Maria Clara has to smile. She touches the girl's hand. "I sleep in those celdas. If you want, I can take this and I will sleep with it next to me. I will wait for the ghost, and I can throw it."
"You won't be afraid?" the girl asks. She looks up at Maria Clara in awe.
"I can tell you how it goes tomorrow," Maria Clara points out. "I will just ask the older girl..."
"My name is Juli," the girl puts in eagerly. "Will you? You won't be afraid? And you'll tell me what happens?"
Maria Clara nods. She thinks she should be more afraid of this ghost, yet she also thinks that there should only be one of it, and why should she be afraid? She is blessed now, protected by the Virgin Mother. The more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense for her to help out this poor soul. Perhaps the ghost will cross over to Heaven, and it will reveal to her its secrets in the form of an angel.
Maria Clara manages to transfer the water into a teacup that she places on the table next to her bed. That night, the celda is cold and there is no moon, but she is not afraid.
Yet the midnight gong strikes and there is no creaking sound from the corridor, nor the pitiful sobbing wafting over the walls. The only sound she hears is Sister Elena's muffled murmur in her sleep.
She reports this to Juli, who seeks her out after her morning prayers.
The girl nods as if expects it. "Perhaps she's resting tonight, or whoever she is haunting did not come," she says, swinging her short legs on the bench.
Maria Clara nods. "Or perhaps she does not come in the new moon?" she suggests.
"Perhaps she is afraid of the new priest," Juli says in turn. "He's always around now, isn't he? Considering he is the parish priest of San Diego? Isn't he Padre Salvi?"
Maria Clara shivers and shakes her head. She doesn't want to hear anything from her old hometown. "The father has too many things to do than try to stop ghosts from weeping," she whispers.
"Perhaps he can do magic," Juli ponders. "Perhaps he has magical strength—"
Maria Clara stands abruptly, unable to continue the conversation. Her throat is dry and her eyes sting. "Excuse me," she mutters, patting her lap where there is invisible dust. "I must return to my duties."
"Oh," Juli says, disappointed. "Well, I also have to work—"
But Maria Clara is already gone.
It is strange how things turn out that night. The room is still dark, especially after the night of the new moon. Maria Clara keeps her window open in hopes that the distant street lamplight will give her enough illumination to know where the Holy Water is kept.
Yet she is unnaturally tired and her eyes soon grow weary. She falls asleep and only wakes up at a strange noise.
A pair of eyes glows in the darkness, and she can hear a woman weeping.
She doesn't know how she falls asleep after that, but when she wakes, she is groggy and tired, barely able to keep up with the priest's sermon during morning Mass. It is a good thing the priest is not Padre Salvi, for she can rest without feeling the weight of his presence.
She keeps herself in her room while not in prayers, translating one of the Spanish prayers into Latin, but a faint falling noise has her opening her door.
Juli stands in the corridor, looking embarrassed and hopeful. "Did she come?" she asks quickly.
The little girl is standing there, disheveled and with a wet rag in her hand, a broom in the other. Maria Clara wants to embrace her, and she doesn't know why.
"Come in," Maria Clara invites. "It seems we have underestimated this situation."
Juli sits on her floor despite Maria Clara's insistence that she take the seat by the table, so Maria Clara sits on that instead.
"A kapre?" Juli asks doubtfully. "How can a kapre get inside when there are no balete trees outside your window?"
"Perhaps he leapt," Maria Clara suggests. "Or he looked for other trees."
Juli seems to think about it, but she finally nods. "And did you see him smoking?"
Maria Clara thinks about it for a while, then nods. There was a faint white smoke curling from the darkness, now that she thinks about it. "The kapre's tobacco smells like candles," she muses. "But...I think..."
"Yes?" Juli asks eagerly, pressing forward.
Maria Clara puts her fingers on her head. She can feel a headache coming. "I think the ghost was also in my room."
There is a moment of stunned silence, then Juli exclaims, "There are two of the supernatural here?" She sounds shocked. Maria Clara nods. It seems like the only explanation. Juli presses on, "And did you throw the Holy Water at them?"
Maria Clara blushes and Juli groans. "I was...praying," Maria Clara finishes lamely.
Juli rolls her eyes. "I got the Holy Water for your protection," she says impishly. "You had better use it!"
"You stole it from the Church to satisfy your curiosity," Maria Clara hisses, but she finds herself grinning at the absurdity of it all.
Juli shrugs. "But now you have it with you, then you'd better use it," she says. She stands, indicating her rag and broom awkwardly. "Anyway, you can tell it to me when I return on Monday."
"Where are you going?" Maria Clara asks.
Juli smiles. "Home," she replies. "My brother and I go home during weekends to see our father. My brother works as a sacristan here to pay for some dues, but we work on our rice field during the weekend."
Maria Clara nods. It makes sense, but she still has to bite her tongue. She wants to ask if Juli can sleep here during the weekend, if she can accompany Maria Clara in the room in case the ghost comes back. But that is silly; Maria Clara is older here, and she is the nun. More protected by God and the Virgin Mary.
Juli will only laugh at her for starting to feel afraid.
Although she has only known Juli for a few days, the convento seems lonelier without her chatter. The other servant girl also probably goes home during the weekends, so the rest of the nuns have to take over their tasks. Saturday is busy, as there are many church-goers who ask for petitions and prayers, offering chicken and duck eggs for payment. Maria Clara also has to attend an extra novena, and prays extra hard for the names that the Mother Abbess hands to her.
For three nights, she wakes up hearing someone crying. Her sobs are heartbroken, as if her world is ending, as if she is afraid.
Maria Clara doesn't see the eyes again, but only because she keeps her own eyes shut, trapped in the darkness. She cannot stop herself from hearing the sobs, but her body feels heavy, weighted down.
She endures Mass, does not even pretend to listen to Padre Salvi's sermons.
She cannot wait until Monday.
The first thing Juli asks when she arrives is if Maria Clara used the Holy Water.
"I didn't," Maria Clara replies, surprised. She has forgotten all about it.
The little girl looks surprised, then disappointed. "Oh well," she sighs. "It probably won't work, anyway."
"Why not?" Maria Clara asks. "I thought it was a nice idea."
"Well, if the ghost won't disappear when it's on Holy Ground, then how can it disappear with Holy Water?" Juli asks.
Maria Clara only smiles wanly. "You never know. Anyway, keeping a keen mind will help you in the future, especially when you think about marrying."
"Perhaps I shall be a nun like you," Juli tells her, her eyes downcast and her voice shy. "You're nice to me, unlike the Mother Abbess who only yells at me and Nenay all day. I want to meet more nuns like you."
Maria Clara is strangely touched, but the thought of Juli inside the convento only puts her heart aflutter in fear. She does not understand. "You do not have to be a nun to be kind," she says. "You can marry or you can go to school—"
But Juli only shakes her head. "Not even Kuya Tano can go to school," she explains. "We are much too busy here and back home to even attend one. Although Kuya is being trained to read and write as a sacristan, I..." Yet there is desire clearly shining in her eyes, along with the hopelessness that Maria Clara remembers seeing in other children's eyes.
A lump is in her throat as she remembers sitting in the azotea with Crisostomo, telling her of his dreams to make a school, their plans for her to teach despite her father's protests. It seems like a long time ago, in another life, another woman. She manages to tell Juli, "Whatever fills you with honest delight will guide you to become an honest woman when you grow up."
She brushes stray strands of Juli's dark hair from her eyes, sees how the child brightens at her touch, and tries to remember how her mother used to do the same.
Eyes shining, Juli declares, "And I'll be delighted when we help this ghost pass on! You have no excuse now!"
Maria Clara tries, she really does, but three nights of hardly any sleep, worrying over the ghost by her bedside, takes its toll on her. She wakes up to the bell announcing morning mass, with barely enough time to get ready.
Juli doesn't ask her about the ghost that day, content to stay by her side and talk about her family, composed of her older brother, her father, and her father's father. "My mother died years ago," she explains.
Maria Clara nods and says she understands, because she does.
The ghost doesn't appear again that night, nor does it appear the next. Then it comes again, but not in her room, and it takes away her chance to throw the Holy Water at it.
Still, as she watches the waxing moon outside her window as the woman weeps in someone else's room, Maria Clara cannot help but be glad that she is given a respite.
"Have you ever thought about how ghosts become ghosts?" Juli asks. And, without waiting for an answer, she says quickly, "I have. I think the ghost is the second soul."
"The second soul?" Maria Clara echoes, perplexed. It is the first time she hears of it.
But Juli barrels on: "We have two souls, right? One of our souls always stays in our beds at night whilst we sleep. The other is the one that wanders around, which is why we dream. Tata Selo always tells me to cover the rice pot at night or else my hungry soul will wander towards it and be trapped, and I won't ever get out and my other soul will languish alone in my body."
Maria Clara nods. She remembers her mother and Tiya Isabel cautioning her about it once before. "So you think a ghost is the trapped soul from the pot?" she asks cautiously.
Juli beams and nods. "They somehow get out, only to find their body is dead and now they can't return!"
Privately, Maria Clara is horrified that a girl this young is already talking about death with such calm. Still, the idea is intriguing and she finds herself nodding. "That makes sense," she allows. "However, that doesn't explain why the kapre is also in that building. And do not try telling me that they somehow evolved to live without balete trees! I cannot believe it!"
"Maybe the kapre wants to trap the ghost?" Juli asks. "Maybe he wants the ghost to give him tobacco."
"Maybe he wants to watch," Maria Clara says, suddenly remembering how the pale eyes in the darkness did not blinked. "Maybe it amuses him to see the ghost lose all hope."
Juli is silent for a moment before she murmurs, "Are all kapre like that?"
Maria Clara is no expert on the supernatural, so she answers truthfully, "I hope not." She clutches her rosary tighter, makes the Sign of the Cross. But even under the warmth of the afternoon sun, she cannot help giving a tiny shiver.
The Mother Abbess asks her, "You are spending so much time with that servant girl."
Maria Clara nods and bows her head. "She feels she needs guidance," she says. "And she has a sharp head."
The older woman only tsks. "Nenay has complained that Juli is shirking her duties so she can speak with you," she says. "Perhaps you can convince her to work more and talk less? Children at that age...susparyosep! Such impudence!"
"She is good with her hands," Maria Clara offers, twisting her habit, "and she is very intelligent."
The Mother Abbess gives a snort, waving her hand. "Do not bother with their kind," she orders. "Her father has been elected as the Kabesa of their baranggay and has requested she come home soon. Only her brother is to receive education. She will go home to help her father, and she can only hope for a better life!"
"Better than paying her debts through servitude?" Maria Clara cannot help her impertinence.
Mother Abbess snorts again. "She can do no better than birthing children to help her with the fields," she says airily. "What good does education do for her future?'
Maria Clara clenches her fist, unclenches them. She looks away. It is nothing new, and the world has not changed only because she has chosen to run away, to enter the nunnery. She doesn't expect it will change, not even for Juli.
Juli comes to her by the end of the week, her face red and splotchy. She looks excited. "I only have a week to finish my servitude!" she blurts out. "Then I get to stay at home with my family!"
Maria Clara nods and keeps her hands on her lap, on the paper where names for petitions are written. "I am happy for you," she says truthfully.
Juli sits next to her, her eyes downcast. "I want to stay, but I want to go home, too," she says. "I want to help my family. They want...ah, kasi... they haven't..."
Maria Clara takes pity on her and she interrupts, "You needn't be burdened by this choice, not when it makes you happy," she tells the little girl firmly.
Juli brightens at her words and she grabs Maria Clara's hand, gripping her fingers tightly. "I still have a week," she says brightly. "And during Saturday and Sunday, while I'm not here, maybe you can learn more about the ghost? I wouldn't want to leave without knowing more about it! Will you keep me updated?"
Maria Clara nods, then catches a movement in the corner of her eyes. She looks up. It is Padre Salvi, staring at her from his place by the church pilasters. His beady eyes bore right through her, making her shiver.
"I promise," Maria Clara tells Juli faintly.
There would have been moonlight that night, but September heralds the torrential rains. It leaves the night black.
The floorboard creaks before it settles, and Maria Clara can hear the faint snort and snore of the Mother Abbess, whose room is at the other end of the corridor. Sister Elena does not make a sound in her sleep. Outside, it begins to rain a soft pattering sound, grows louder every second, banging through the wooden walls and on her capiz windows.
She strains her ear but draws the blanket over her head. She is afraid, she realizes, but she wants to be brave.
She wants to know, wants to believe that the ghost can be saved. Perhaps the lonely soul is trapped in the corridors, searching every room of the cloister, looking for salvation, or a way to escape the kapre. Maria Clara wants to help the ghost, but she knows she has to be brave.
She's never been brave, she realizes. She has always drawn her strength from other people: her parents, Crisostomo, Padre Damaso, Tiya Isabel. But she has made her choice, and she is alone now, in this room, and she wants to be brave on her own.
She thinks about Juli, that bold girl, who has so many questions. The little girl who makes Maria Clara want to solve this mystery on her own.
Here come the swishing sounds of gentle feet gliding over the wooden floorboards. They do not creak—they dare not—while the ghost walks over them.
Maria Clara wants to close her eyes, but she clutches the rosary to her breast and does not make a sound. She will not close her eyes like she has done during the past few weeks. Juli is leaving, and it is time for Maria Clara to be brave.
The door opens silently, closes without a creak. Is it the ghost or the kapre? Maria Clara takes a deep breath. The cup of Holy Water is in her trembling hands. She waits, then peeks through the blankets.
There are eyes in the darkness, and they only watch her.
She throws the Holy Water at it with a gasp.
Maria Clara does not faint, and some part of her will remember how Crisostomo once said in amusement that Filipina women do not faint, but she does gape at the kapre that gains a human form.
Padre Salvi sputters, "You puta, do not—"
She gasps, and the teacup falls on the bed with a clink. Tears are falling from Maria Clara's eyes and she cannot stop, feels her breath hitching, squeezing her chest and making her gasp.
Padre Salvi is speaking, saying something in low tones, but Maria Clara only pulls back, stares at the priest, and no no no, it comes crashing into her, how she hitches her breath every night since she arrived, the delighted twinkle in Padre Salvi's eyes during sermon.
And, oh! Maria Clara slowly remembers that the ghost is in her room, weeping her tears, and somehow all of them are victims trapped in this cage, their sobs drowned by the Mother Abbess's snores!
The knowledge blinds her, sends her screaming through the corridors, pulling away from the priest's frantic gasps—"Quiet, you'll wake them up!"—but Maria Clara does not care. She leaps over his stooped form, out the door and through the corridor, doors banging in her wake.
Like a ghost, she is fast. Like the lightning, she is silent. And her delighted mind that partook in the mystery is now thrumming with the need to leave!
She climbs the wooden stairs, fingers gripping the banister as if she can escape the thin man following her.
The winds howl in the open air, and she barely hears Padre Salvi scream at her. Here is heaven, where she can implore for this half of her soul to be taken. Oh, here is the soul that wanders in the night. Take it and leave the mortal shell! It is nothing now!
So now all Filipinas—Juli—may understand how ghosts are forced to remain in this wretched existence forever!
"So a kapre did drive one of the nuns mad?" Basilio asks, eagerly leaning forward as properly as he can.
"They say so," Juli says with a shrug as she scatters seeds for the chicken to feed. "They cut off the balete trees nearby, and smoked the remaining molave. They still say it lives there, though."
"And what about the ghost?" Basilio presses on. He casts a glance at the watchful eye of Kabesang Tales by the corner, before he goes on, "Did you ever see it again? Does she still weep?"
Juli thinks back to those days, seeing how the intelligent nun whose eyes sparked as they talked had dulled by the next day. How she had fallen at the visiting official's feet to beg that she may be released from this prison. How she took to wearing the grayest and dirtiest habit, and how Maria Clara doesn't weep anymore, but she has learned how to scream.
Only, no one knows how to decipher her words anymore—not even Juli, who was too young and had to leave.
She shrugs. "Nothing more can be said of the hapless ghost," she finally ends. And despite Basilio's coaxing, Juli would not say any more.
- end -
Long author's notes, feel free to skip.
Author:
osmalicFandom: Noli me Tangere / El Filibusterismo (by J. Rizal)
Rating: PG-13
Words Count: 4900~ words
Warnings: refers to off-screen rape, atrocities committed by people of the Church
Prompt: 10.) "Whatever fills the human mind with uncommon and honest delight is fitting for a human woman." -- Anna Maria von Schurman (1607-1678), 17th-century Dutch scholar, poet, linguist and artist.
Author's Notes: Beta'ed by
blue_cage in record time. Thank you to gehayi for holding this fest. I said I'd have this posted on October 1, but this story had me rethinking about the state of our country, so I postponed it. Summary: In which Maria Clara enters the convent, where she and the servant Juli try to solve a mystery about a ghost.
Everyone knows there is a ghost walking among the corridors.
The Mother Abbess scoffs at such reports, but she also does not walk the length of the corridor at night alone. She always has one or two of the new nuns accompanying her. She never leaves her room in the middle of the night.
Maria Clara is not aware of the stories at first. She barely remembers anything that happens during the first few weeks of her entering the convent. The only time she leaves her room is when she goes to take her daily morning bath, or when she goes to Mass. She never stays in the Chapel long, for the priest has taken to glaring at her during his sermon as if all the evils in the world he speaks against are plastered on her veil.
Perhaps it is months before she lifts herself from the heavy daze. Her head is lighter now, likely because the habit has replaced the tresses of light-brown hair, cut and burned by the Mother Abbess. It has been too long since she heard words outside of prayers.
Two young servants converse right within earshot as they wipe the wooden floor with their rags.
"Everyone knows," the girl of perhaps thirteen is telling her companion. "No one has seen her, but she can be seen walking the corridor during midnight."
"Does she cross the courtyard?" the other girl, perhaps slightly younger than her, asks in awe. "Does she go to church?"
"Of course not," the older girl tells her. "She is fleeing the church."
"But why?" asks the other girl in clear consternation. "There is nothing to fear in the church!"
Maria Clara thinks how wrong the little girl is, and she realizes it is the first time in a very long time that she smiles.
She doesn't remember ever encountering the ghost before that, but she lies awake one night and realizes that the low mournful sounds floating through the wooden walls are coming from inside the building. It is hardly distinguishable from the rain outside, or of the popping-croaking sounds of the bullfrogs.
She sits up and clutches her blanket, listening intently.
The rain bangs against the wooden slats of her window, creating a draft. Through the beams of the roof and over the wooden wall that Maria Clara shares with the other nuns next door, she can hear the sobs echoing from the corridor. A soft female voice recites the Hail Mary in Latin.
Maria Clara dives under the covers, suddenly terrified. She hurls the rosary at the side of her bed.
The ghost speaks the language of the Church.
The Monestario de Santa Clara does not forbid their charges from speaking, yet there is the unspoken rule that discourages it. The nuns speak in whispers, and they spend their days tending their fields within the yards, cleaning the convent, and preparing the dresses and capes of the santos and santas for the next fiesta. They go to Mass every morning and use up the rest of their free time praying for the redemption of the lost souls outside their gates. They receive gifts of eggs from the outside world.
Maria Clara finds that she has no desire to speak. She remembers Crisostomo once teasing her how they would always scream at each other but still be friends at the end of the day—oh, but she doesn't think about those days spent talking on the azotea under the watchful eyes of Tiya Isabel.
Because they do not speak, the ghost is hardly talked about, but Maria Clara notices how they nuns glance at each other fretfully when they hear that the new priest from San Diego will be coming to say Mass.
Maria Clara frowns because she does not want anything to remind her of the world she has left behind.
Padre Salvi tries to catch her eyes whenever she goes to Mass, but she does not dare meet them. She knows she trembles, and she begins entertaining the thought that maybe she might have had other choices. Choices that do not include her being jailed for her sins.
The ghost is not confined to the corridor. Sometimes, Maria Clara will peek out of her blankets to see light bobbing from the corridor, but there will be no telltale creaking of the wooden floors.
However, there is always weeping. Sometimes it comes from the bathroom, or in the bedroom that is farthest from the antesala, and—in one terrifying night—it is in the room next to hers.
The next morning, Maria Clara tries to catch the eyes of the girl who is in the room next to hers, but the girl stays in the church for a very long time, her habit falling over her face as she bows on the pews, rosary in her hand to recite her penance.
"What happened to her?" she hears the young girl whisper at the corridor.
There is a pause as the other servant shakes the rag out the window. Maria Clara lifts her head and strains her ears so she can hear them conversing through the wooden slats. "She comes and goes. No one really knows what happens to those spirits. Perhaps they return to the mound."
"But why do they weep?" the little girl asks petulantly. She sounds confused and also a little scared. "The nuno sa punso are always angry, and our anito will always—"
"Ay, you child!" the older girl interrupts angrily. "Do not speak of those pagan beliefs in a convento. The Virgin Mary will hear and she'll weep in blood!"
"I'd like to see that," the younger one says wistfully.
Maria Clara nears them, and the younger girl shoots her a glance before looking away quickly. She does not talk again.
Later, after saying the afternoon novena, Maria Clara looks up from her prayers to find one of the older nuns sitting next to her. Her sharp eyes watch her as Maria Clara smoothens her smock.
"Did you hear her?" the old nun asks, her voice cackling. "It's not the corridors that are haunted. The building, ay, the building is haunted."
Maria Clara lowers her eyes. "As am I," she murmurs.
But the old nun only laughs, sharp sounds echoing in church and drawing the eyes of the devotees. "Oh, such poetry!" she wheezes. "Oh, such songs! You aren't the first person who discovers that ghosts have a way of crossing gates to keep on haunting you!"
The words send a chill through Maria Clara's blood. She says her excuses and quickly leaves.
Padre Salvi says Mass again the next morning.
Maria Clara receives the list of names she will pray for in that day, and the Mother Abbess sternly tells her, "And one of them is in his deathbed, so make sure you recite the Hail Mary louder so she will hear."
The day is exhausting as she finds it hard to concentrate on her prayers. She finishes a little after noon, and by then almost everyone has gone to their siesta.
She almost stumbles into the little girl hurrying through the covered walks from the chapel, holding a tiny earthenware pot. Maria Clara gasps, remembering the old sayings about never crossing a child holding an earthenware pot walking in the dead of night, but the sun is shining down on the rooftops, the afternoon breeze hardly stirring the leaves.
The little girl squeaks when she sees her. "I..." There is terror in her eyes and she glances down at the pot guiltily. "I was...I was going to cook...!"
Maria Clara frowns. "Isn't it too early for merienda?"
Here, she knows the little girl might have an opening to speak another lie, but she only trembles and blurts out, "It's for your protection!"
Maria Clara stares down at her in confusion.
"...against the ghost," the girl finishes, looking ashamed but also secretly proud. "My older brother, Kuya Tano, says that Holy Water will repel every evil thing."
"Why do you think the ghost is evil?" Maria Clara wonders.
The little girl shrugs. "Because it refuses to leave," she says matter-of-factly.
Maria Clara leans forward, peers into the earthenware pot. It is barely half-full, but it is indeed the murky water undoubtedly scooped from the font. She kneels down, keeping one eyebrow raised. "And how do you propose to use this?" she asks wryly. "Do you intend to throw it at her face?"
The girl's face reddens and she shrugs. "I don't know," she says helplessly. "I...Maybe I can use it to clean the floor?"
"Heaven forbid!" Maria Clara gasps, but she cannot help the laughter bubbling from her throat. Oh, the idea of it, using Holy Water to clean the floor! How horrified her Tiya Isabel would be! How scandalous!
"It's a very good idea!" the girl protests, although she still blushes.
"But what if the ghost has no feet?" Maria Clara wonders. "What if they never touch the ground?"
The girl's eyes widen. "I never thought of that," she admits.
Her face is so devastated that Maria Clara has to smile. She touches the girl's hand. "I sleep in those celdas. If you want, I can take this and I will sleep with it next to me. I will wait for the ghost, and I can throw it."
"You won't be afraid?" the girl asks. She looks up at Maria Clara in awe.
"I can tell you how it goes tomorrow," Maria Clara points out. "I will just ask the older girl..."
"My name is Juli," the girl puts in eagerly. "Will you? You won't be afraid? And you'll tell me what happens?"
Maria Clara nods. She thinks she should be more afraid of this ghost, yet she also thinks that there should only be one of it, and why should she be afraid? She is blessed now, protected by the Virgin Mother. The more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense for her to help out this poor soul. Perhaps the ghost will cross over to Heaven, and it will reveal to her its secrets in the form of an angel.
Maria Clara manages to transfer the water into a teacup that she places on the table next to her bed. That night, the celda is cold and there is no moon, but she is not afraid.
Yet the midnight gong strikes and there is no creaking sound from the corridor, nor the pitiful sobbing wafting over the walls. The only sound she hears is Sister Elena's muffled murmur in her sleep.
She reports this to Juli, who seeks her out after her morning prayers.
The girl nods as if expects it. "Perhaps she's resting tonight, or whoever she is haunting did not come," she says, swinging her short legs on the bench.
Maria Clara nods. "Or perhaps she does not come in the new moon?" she suggests.
"Perhaps she is afraid of the new priest," Juli says in turn. "He's always around now, isn't he? Considering he is the parish priest of San Diego? Isn't he Padre Salvi?"
Maria Clara shivers and shakes her head. She doesn't want to hear anything from her old hometown. "The father has too many things to do than try to stop ghosts from weeping," she whispers.
"Perhaps he can do magic," Juli ponders. "Perhaps he has magical strength—"
Maria Clara stands abruptly, unable to continue the conversation. Her throat is dry and her eyes sting. "Excuse me," she mutters, patting her lap where there is invisible dust. "I must return to my duties."
"Oh," Juli says, disappointed. "Well, I also have to work—"
But Maria Clara is already gone.
It is strange how things turn out that night. The room is still dark, especially after the night of the new moon. Maria Clara keeps her window open in hopes that the distant street lamplight will give her enough illumination to know where the Holy Water is kept.
Yet she is unnaturally tired and her eyes soon grow weary. She falls asleep and only wakes up at a strange noise.
A pair of eyes glows in the darkness, and she can hear a woman weeping.
She doesn't know how she falls asleep after that, but when she wakes, she is groggy and tired, barely able to keep up with the priest's sermon during morning Mass. It is a good thing the priest is not Padre Salvi, for she can rest without feeling the weight of his presence.
She keeps herself in her room while not in prayers, translating one of the Spanish prayers into Latin, but a faint falling noise has her opening her door.
Juli stands in the corridor, looking embarrassed and hopeful. "Did she come?" she asks quickly.
The little girl is standing there, disheveled and with a wet rag in her hand, a broom in the other. Maria Clara wants to embrace her, and she doesn't know why.
"Come in," Maria Clara invites. "It seems we have underestimated this situation."
Juli sits on her floor despite Maria Clara's insistence that she take the seat by the table, so Maria Clara sits on that instead.
"A kapre?" Juli asks doubtfully. "How can a kapre get inside when there are no balete trees outside your window?"
"Perhaps he leapt," Maria Clara suggests. "Or he looked for other trees."
Juli seems to think about it, but she finally nods. "And did you see him smoking?"
Maria Clara thinks about it for a while, then nods. There was a faint white smoke curling from the darkness, now that she thinks about it. "The kapre's tobacco smells like candles," she muses. "But...I think..."
"Yes?" Juli asks eagerly, pressing forward.
Maria Clara puts her fingers on her head. She can feel a headache coming. "I think the ghost was also in my room."
There is a moment of stunned silence, then Juli exclaims, "There are two of the supernatural here?" She sounds shocked. Maria Clara nods. It seems like the only explanation. Juli presses on, "And did you throw the Holy Water at them?"
Maria Clara blushes and Juli groans. "I was...praying," Maria Clara finishes lamely.
Juli rolls her eyes. "I got the Holy Water for your protection," she says impishly. "You had better use it!"
"You stole it from the Church to satisfy your curiosity," Maria Clara hisses, but she finds herself grinning at the absurdity of it all.
Juli shrugs. "But now you have it with you, then you'd better use it," she says. She stands, indicating her rag and broom awkwardly. "Anyway, you can tell it to me when I return on Monday."
"Where are you going?" Maria Clara asks.
Juli smiles. "Home," she replies. "My brother and I go home during weekends to see our father. My brother works as a sacristan here to pay for some dues, but we work on our rice field during the weekend."
Maria Clara nods. It makes sense, but she still has to bite her tongue. She wants to ask if Juli can sleep here during the weekend, if she can accompany Maria Clara in the room in case the ghost comes back. But that is silly; Maria Clara is older here, and she is the nun. More protected by God and the Virgin Mary.
Juli will only laugh at her for starting to feel afraid.
Although she has only known Juli for a few days, the convento seems lonelier without her chatter. The other servant girl also probably goes home during the weekends, so the rest of the nuns have to take over their tasks. Saturday is busy, as there are many church-goers who ask for petitions and prayers, offering chicken and duck eggs for payment. Maria Clara also has to attend an extra novena, and prays extra hard for the names that the Mother Abbess hands to her.
For three nights, she wakes up hearing someone crying. Her sobs are heartbroken, as if her world is ending, as if she is afraid.
Maria Clara doesn't see the eyes again, but only because she keeps her own eyes shut, trapped in the darkness. She cannot stop herself from hearing the sobs, but her body feels heavy, weighted down.
She endures Mass, does not even pretend to listen to Padre Salvi's sermons.
She cannot wait until Monday.
The first thing Juli asks when she arrives is if Maria Clara used the Holy Water.
"I didn't," Maria Clara replies, surprised. She has forgotten all about it.
The little girl looks surprised, then disappointed. "Oh well," she sighs. "It probably won't work, anyway."
"Why not?" Maria Clara asks. "I thought it was a nice idea."
"Well, if the ghost won't disappear when it's on Holy Ground, then how can it disappear with Holy Water?" Juli asks.
Maria Clara only smiles wanly. "You never know. Anyway, keeping a keen mind will help you in the future, especially when you think about marrying."
"Perhaps I shall be a nun like you," Juli tells her, her eyes downcast and her voice shy. "You're nice to me, unlike the Mother Abbess who only yells at me and Nenay all day. I want to meet more nuns like you."
Maria Clara is strangely touched, but the thought of Juli inside the convento only puts her heart aflutter in fear. She does not understand. "You do not have to be a nun to be kind," she says. "You can marry or you can go to school—"
But Juli only shakes her head. "Not even Kuya Tano can go to school," she explains. "We are much too busy here and back home to even attend one. Although Kuya is being trained to read and write as a sacristan, I..." Yet there is desire clearly shining in her eyes, along with the hopelessness that Maria Clara remembers seeing in other children's eyes.
A lump is in her throat as she remembers sitting in the azotea with Crisostomo, telling her of his dreams to make a school, their plans for her to teach despite her father's protests. It seems like a long time ago, in another life, another woman. She manages to tell Juli, "Whatever fills you with honest delight will guide you to become an honest woman when you grow up."
She brushes stray strands of Juli's dark hair from her eyes, sees how the child brightens at her touch, and tries to remember how her mother used to do the same.
Eyes shining, Juli declares, "And I'll be delighted when we help this ghost pass on! You have no excuse now!"
Maria Clara tries, she really does, but three nights of hardly any sleep, worrying over the ghost by her bedside, takes its toll on her. She wakes up to the bell announcing morning mass, with barely enough time to get ready.
Juli doesn't ask her about the ghost that day, content to stay by her side and talk about her family, composed of her older brother, her father, and her father's father. "My mother died years ago," she explains.
Maria Clara nods and says she understands, because she does.
The ghost doesn't appear again that night, nor does it appear the next. Then it comes again, but not in her room, and it takes away her chance to throw the Holy Water at it.
Still, as she watches the waxing moon outside her window as the woman weeps in someone else's room, Maria Clara cannot help but be glad that she is given a respite.
"Have you ever thought about how ghosts become ghosts?" Juli asks. And, without waiting for an answer, she says quickly, "I have. I think the ghost is the second soul."
"The second soul?" Maria Clara echoes, perplexed. It is the first time she hears of it.
But Juli barrels on: "We have two souls, right? One of our souls always stays in our beds at night whilst we sleep. The other is the one that wanders around, which is why we dream. Tata Selo always tells me to cover the rice pot at night or else my hungry soul will wander towards it and be trapped, and I won't ever get out and my other soul will languish alone in my body."
Maria Clara nods. She remembers her mother and Tiya Isabel cautioning her about it once before. "So you think a ghost is the trapped soul from the pot?" she asks cautiously.
Juli beams and nods. "They somehow get out, only to find their body is dead and now they can't return!"
Privately, Maria Clara is horrified that a girl this young is already talking about death with such calm. Still, the idea is intriguing and she finds herself nodding. "That makes sense," she allows. "However, that doesn't explain why the kapre is also in that building. And do not try telling me that they somehow evolved to live without balete trees! I cannot believe it!"
"Maybe the kapre wants to trap the ghost?" Juli asks. "Maybe he wants the ghost to give him tobacco."
"Maybe he wants to watch," Maria Clara says, suddenly remembering how the pale eyes in the darkness did not blinked. "Maybe it amuses him to see the ghost lose all hope."
Juli is silent for a moment before she murmurs, "Are all kapre like that?"
Maria Clara is no expert on the supernatural, so she answers truthfully, "I hope not." She clutches her rosary tighter, makes the Sign of the Cross. But even under the warmth of the afternoon sun, she cannot help giving a tiny shiver.
The Mother Abbess asks her, "You are spending so much time with that servant girl."
Maria Clara nods and bows her head. "She feels she needs guidance," she says. "And she has a sharp head."
The older woman only tsks. "Nenay has complained that Juli is shirking her duties so she can speak with you," she says. "Perhaps you can convince her to work more and talk less? Children at that age...susparyosep! Such impudence!"
"She is good with her hands," Maria Clara offers, twisting her habit, "and she is very intelligent."
The Mother Abbess gives a snort, waving her hand. "Do not bother with their kind," she orders. "Her father has been elected as the Kabesa of their baranggay and has requested she come home soon. Only her brother is to receive education. She will go home to help her father, and she can only hope for a better life!"
"Better than paying her debts through servitude?" Maria Clara cannot help her impertinence.
Mother Abbess snorts again. "She can do no better than birthing children to help her with the fields," she says airily. "What good does education do for her future?'
Maria Clara clenches her fist, unclenches them. She looks away. It is nothing new, and the world has not changed only because she has chosen to run away, to enter the nunnery. She doesn't expect it will change, not even for Juli.
Juli comes to her by the end of the week, her face red and splotchy. She looks excited. "I only have a week to finish my servitude!" she blurts out. "Then I get to stay at home with my family!"
Maria Clara nods and keeps her hands on her lap, on the paper where names for petitions are written. "I am happy for you," she says truthfully.
Juli sits next to her, her eyes downcast. "I want to stay, but I want to go home, too," she says. "I want to help my family. They want...ah, kasi... they haven't..."
Maria Clara takes pity on her and she interrupts, "You needn't be burdened by this choice, not when it makes you happy," she tells the little girl firmly.
Juli brightens at her words and she grabs Maria Clara's hand, gripping her fingers tightly. "I still have a week," she says brightly. "And during Saturday and Sunday, while I'm not here, maybe you can learn more about the ghost? I wouldn't want to leave without knowing more about it! Will you keep me updated?"
Maria Clara nods, then catches a movement in the corner of her eyes. She looks up. It is Padre Salvi, staring at her from his place by the church pilasters. His beady eyes bore right through her, making her shiver.
"I promise," Maria Clara tells Juli faintly.
There would have been moonlight that night, but September heralds the torrential rains. It leaves the night black.
The floorboard creaks before it settles, and Maria Clara can hear the faint snort and snore of the Mother Abbess, whose room is at the other end of the corridor. Sister Elena does not make a sound in her sleep. Outside, it begins to rain a soft pattering sound, grows louder every second, banging through the wooden walls and on her capiz windows.
She strains her ear but draws the blanket over her head. She is afraid, she realizes, but she wants to be brave.
She wants to know, wants to believe that the ghost can be saved. Perhaps the lonely soul is trapped in the corridors, searching every room of the cloister, looking for salvation, or a way to escape the kapre. Maria Clara wants to help the ghost, but she knows she has to be brave.
She's never been brave, she realizes. She has always drawn her strength from other people: her parents, Crisostomo, Padre Damaso, Tiya Isabel. But she has made her choice, and she is alone now, in this room, and she wants to be brave on her own.
She thinks about Juli, that bold girl, who has so many questions. The little girl who makes Maria Clara want to solve this mystery on her own.
Here come the swishing sounds of gentle feet gliding over the wooden floorboards. They do not creak—they dare not—while the ghost walks over them.
Maria Clara wants to close her eyes, but she clutches the rosary to her breast and does not make a sound. She will not close her eyes like she has done during the past few weeks. Juli is leaving, and it is time for Maria Clara to be brave.
The door opens silently, closes without a creak. Is it the ghost or the kapre? Maria Clara takes a deep breath. The cup of Holy Water is in her trembling hands. She waits, then peeks through the blankets.
There are eyes in the darkness, and they only watch her.
She throws the Holy Water at it with a gasp.
Maria Clara does not faint, and some part of her will remember how Crisostomo once said in amusement that Filipina women do not faint, but she does gape at the kapre that gains a human form.
Padre Salvi sputters, "You puta, do not—"
She gasps, and the teacup falls on the bed with a clink. Tears are falling from Maria Clara's eyes and she cannot stop, feels her breath hitching, squeezing her chest and making her gasp.
Padre Salvi is speaking, saying something in low tones, but Maria Clara only pulls back, stares at the priest, and no no no, it comes crashing into her, how she hitches her breath every night since she arrived, the delighted twinkle in Padre Salvi's eyes during sermon.
And, oh! Maria Clara slowly remembers that the ghost is in her room, weeping her tears, and somehow all of them are victims trapped in this cage, their sobs drowned by the Mother Abbess's snores!
The knowledge blinds her, sends her screaming through the corridors, pulling away from the priest's frantic gasps—"Quiet, you'll wake them up!"—but Maria Clara does not care. She leaps over his stooped form, out the door and through the corridor, doors banging in her wake.
Like a ghost, she is fast. Like the lightning, she is silent. And her delighted mind that partook in the mystery is now thrumming with the need to leave!
She climbs the wooden stairs, fingers gripping the banister as if she can escape the thin man following her.
The winds howl in the open air, and she barely hears Padre Salvi scream at her. Here is heaven, where she can implore for this half of her soul to be taken. Oh, here is the soul that wanders in the night. Take it and leave the mortal shell! It is nothing now!
So now all Filipinas—Juli—may understand how ghosts are forced to remain in this wretched existence forever!
"So a kapre did drive one of the nuns mad?" Basilio asks, eagerly leaning forward as properly as he can.
"They say so," Juli says with a shrug as she scatters seeds for the chicken to feed. "They cut off the balete trees nearby, and smoked the remaining molave. They still say it lives there, though."
"And what about the ghost?" Basilio presses on. He casts a glance at the watchful eye of Kabesang Tales by the corner, before he goes on, "Did you ever see it again? Does she still weep?"
Juli thinks back to those days, seeing how the intelligent nun whose eyes sparked as they talked had dulled by the next day. How she had fallen at the visiting official's feet to beg that she may be released from this prison. How she took to wearing the grayest and dirtiest habit, and how Maria Clara doesn't weep anymore, but she has learned how to scream.
Only, no one knows how to decipher her words anymore—not even Juli, who was too young and had to leave.
She shrugs. "Nothing more can be said of the hapless ghost," she finally ends. And despite Basilio's coaxing, Juli would not say any more.
Long author's notes, feel free to skip.