Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER III: A Walled City, An Old Parish

INTRAMUROS, 2027

The Federal Republic of Maharlika, a country that rests at the eastern end of the world, is not only the home of diligent and proud Maharlikanos and Maharlikanas, but it is also the location of the largest walled city in the Asian continent—Intramuros. The city covers 619 square kilometers of land. It has eight sides of fifteen-foot thick and sixty-foot high walls with varying length, following the contours of the majestic Intramuros bay and the grandiose Laguna lake, and the boundaries with neighboring cities. On each side are openings of dense forty-foot high metal double doors serving as gates referred corresponding to the directions these are placed, namely: Northern gate, Northeastern gate, Eastern gate, Southeastern gate, Southern gate, Southwestern gate, Western gate and Northwestern gate. Its walls are estimated to stretch thirty to seventy-eight kilometers in length. It’s the only city in the country which remains with solid defensive structures since it was built in the 16th century, more fortified and more developed through the years.

Six hours was all it took for the monastery’s eleven-year-old mini van to deliver a prior, a nun and a novice to Intramuros. The scorching power of the sun is already at its finest as Monsignor Carlos Alvez, Sister Mary Peter and Noumenon arrived at the walled city.

For the first time in thirteen years, Noumenon marvelled not about the span of the time which transpired since she left her birthplace and previous hometown but about the colossal entrance which received their arrival. Her memory had always failed to fill her of the actual sight of the city’s every gate’s overwhelming height and width like the one just a short distance before them with the bold inscription “NORTHERN GATE” above its arch.

She noticed that their lot, along with other vehicles, progressed slowly towards the interior of Intramuros as they came across those exiting. Her confusion about their pace is then cleared when she saw the police checkpoint right at the mouth of the huge gateway.

A police officer called them to a halt. He inserted his eyes inside the service to look at the passengers. He immediately registered a priest behind the wheel in the Monsignor’s persona because of the clerical collar in his black shirt. His female companions also don’t need to tell him about their vocation for their headdresses give away their affiliation to sisterhood. They exchanged coy smiles with the officer’s stern look. His gaze landed on the novice’s face, and the expression on his face eventually softened.

“Good day,” he greeted. “ID’s please.”

With the existing National ID System, all citizens of the country are issued and are required to have a definite but flexible identification card. Its main purpose is for everyone to have a single and unified proof of identity which the government can recognize and trace in its database.

Bleep! Bleep! Bleep! Came the sound of the officer’s digital scanner as he aimed its nozzle at the plastic cards one by one. He took short scrutinizing glances at each of them as their identities appeared on the device’s monitor.

“Security seems pretty tight today, sir. What’s with all the fuss?” The Monsignor asked as the officer handed him back his ID along with his two companions’.

Noumenon in a white polyester shirt and a brown skirt that reached inches below her knees also wanted to ask the same question, if only she wasn’t obstructed by thinking of this as something natural here.

The officer first looked over to the other cars lined behind them before he turned his attention back to them. “You see, a city councilor was killed last night. That’s why we’re trying to deal with any one suspicious hoping to catch the culprit if he tries to leave the city or expect help from outside.”

“Really? Does this mean there’s no suspect yet?”

“Well, we do have a speculation.”

“Who?”

“Cross.”

Noumenon encountered that name once in the news before, but this murderer could not have held her interest if not for the rosaries he wears on his alleged victims. A chill ran down her spine as she realized that there’s a living murderer who’s way worse than her father, and right this moment, she’s going to enter the city where these kinds of men might be residing.

The police waved them off as they went inside the very sophisticated walls of Intramuros and into a domain of uncertainties.

The Walled City is just like any other highly urbanized city all around the world. It is flooding with modernization. It has tall edifices accentuating its exceeding aggregate revenue. It has an ideal grid-like system of cemented roads and streets. Furthermore and what’s most emphasized is the lavish lifestyle of its citizens. Indeed, it is just like any other city because it also has its own share of dismal side and controversies.

Intramuros’ high-class society does not believe in any god. Blinded by their account of silken reality, they profane religion. Who needs an imaginative being who lives in the sky and who grants wishes through prayers anyway, if they can achieve them through little effort?

On the contrary, not every citizen here leads a great life.

The sumptuous portion of the city is only a fraction of its true face. As far as the corners of the walls, lie the marginalized multitude who are considered no more than scum and outcasts of the eugenic metropolis. The apparent caste system categorizes them as liabilities who are contemptible and valueless. They cannot contribute to the progress of the city, and they are not given the chance to have a decent living nor are they given the luxury to prove their worth.

When they paused as the traffic light turned red, Noumenon kept herself occupied by observing the disparate citizens who went on about their businesses. Her eyes are soon glued to a crowd gathered before an overhead huge LED screen on one side of a building as a flash report went on air.“

Good morning, Maharlika.” The female news anchor said. It was Jessica Sohho, a celebrated Maharlikana journalist of this generation. “The culprit behind the City Councilor Melvin Nogralez slay case is still at large as the police are still without clues to any person of interest other than the notorious alleged murderer ‘Cross.’ Despite that, they assure the public that they will do everything in their power to catch him and end his murder spree. Meanwhile, Intramuros Mayor Caiman Diamante imparts his sympathy for the bereaved Nogralez family and gives a message to his constituents.”

The novice watched as the news switched to show the mayor’s face. He looks just a few years older than her, and he seems pretty young for a father of an entire city, and despite her disregard for his looks, he is obviously a politician who beguiles people not only by his words but also by his too-good-to-be-true attractiveness.

Mayor Caiman Diamante could qualify more for a model or a movie actor than a politician for his desirable features. His ash blue hair is an absolute complement for his deep set eyes with long curled eyelashes and blue-gray irises. Clearly, with that, his hawk nose and Caucasian complexion, he is a proof of how the Maharlikano nation is a mixed race.

“I commiserate with the Nogralez family on their loss, but I reassure that we will not leave this unsolved. We will bring justice and make whoever this atrocious cutthroat face the wrath of the law,” the Mayor expressed indignantly.

The green light turned on. She heard the journalist’s voice slowly fade behind them as their vehicle progressed toward their destination.

Laurel is a small barangay of Intramuros close to its northeastern gate. It has a population of about five hundred, but only a percent can afford electricity. The residents are mostly jobless, largely clueless about the local administration, and majorly faithless.

“GOD DOES NOT EXIST. DON’T WASTE YOUR TIME” are the words so preposterously sprayed by vandals in the deteriorating steel gate of Saint Peter the Fisherman Parish, and they are the first thing that greeted Noumenon and her colleagues upon their coming.

Monsignor Alvez glared at the blasphemous letters in front of them, and Sister Mary Peter briskly made the sign of the cross in response while the novice only felt sorry for the persons who authored this desecration.

“Hello!” Monsignor Alvez called, hoping for anyone to welcome them inside the parish’s premises. He decided to knock on the rusty gate when he accidentally realized that it’s unlocked. He and the sisters then decided to get inside, only to find themselves to be the lone visitors of what looks like a desolate house of God.

The parish’s structure which is made primarily of limestone displays unmistakable disintegration. Fractions are splayed all over. The surrounding fence which is built of the same material no longer serves as a protective division from hither residential areas not just because of how worn time has made it so, but also because of the very citizens’ follies. Dried leaves from senescent trees have also conquered its stale exterior proximity which appears like no one has taken care of the place for ages. Beside the church, on its right, proudly stands a hoary-looking bell tower appearing as a disaster waiting to happen, since it seems like it will collapse at any moment. It would be sensible to not go near it at all costs.

There was then a sudden moan of the parish’s wooden double door being opened, and it revealed a sinewy man in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black pants. He looks every bit an Austronesian, and his jawline is probably the most noticeable about his face.

“You must be Monsignor Carlos Alvez,” the man initiated and gave a keen look at the abbot before attending to the nuns, “And Sisters. I’m Pablo, by the way. We have been expecting you.”

Pablo introduced himself as a sacristan of the parish and led them inside the building where they met a smiling Monsignor Miguel Cabrera. Along with him stood two men who also look after the sacristy and who are later introduced as Marlon and Carlito. Marlon is a well-built man in his late thirties and has eyes bigger than Noumenon’s while Carlito’s complexion is utterly pallid and he had a very big smirk which looked like it was forced.

The interior of the church looks equally dilapidated as its front. The entirety of its floor and its walls are marred by pellucid cracks. The fluorescent lamps that replaced the still intact inoperative chandelier flaunt an ineluctable inactivity considering how utilized they are for years.

The two monsignors greeted each other, shook hands and exchanged respective introductions. Noumenon and her senior each then held the priest’s right hand and pressed it against their foreheads as sign of respect—pagmamano.

“Bless you,” the priest addressed them after.

This isn’t the first time that the novice has seen the face of the revered Monsignor—at least, not personally. He was featured in the news she once saw where he was quoted as “One of God’s most excellent and esteemed servants.” He wasn’t a sitting duck in the cathedral where he was previously assigned. He went out to various communities to lecture about the gospels and as a paradigm of virtue, he had non-believers accept Catholicism. It was not sooner that he decided to reform this parish.

Monsignor Alvez initiated next, “As you may have been informed prior to this engagement, we are from the Carmelite Monastery of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Monsignor Cabrera, this is Sister Mary Peter and this is Sister Mary Dymphna.” He motioned over to his younger companions. “These two are sent here to do the field observation.”

“Indeed, we received your letter a week ago.”

“We hope to have them in your care.”

The two monsignors together are quite a sight to see, for the resident Monsignor’s exuberance balanced with their Monsignor’s stolidity. In contrast with the latter’s lean and tall stature, he has a plump build. If not for his patent wrinkles and a left eye with a cataract, one would fail to recognize Monsignor Cabrera as a fifty-three-year-old priest because of his youthful patina.

“Certainly!” The aged monsignor exclaimed as he put his palms together. “We hope that you can record something worthwhile and help us deliver an important message to our superiors regarding the state of this humble parish.”

Annexed to the church are the kitchen and the dining room as well as the bedchamber of the priest just directly behind the altar. A few meters separate the church and its bell tower from the quarters of the sacristans and now Noumenon’s and her senior’s.

She looked at the room accommodated for her. The jalousie window next to the door is missing two slats at the top. There’s a dusty bed pinned to the wall and a worn-out rattan round table sitting undisturbed at a corner. It is slightly bigger and a little bit colder than her quarters back at their monastery, but it has the same tune of quietude.

Noumenon resigned to think that the parish may be in an impasse towards their goal at bringing the people back to Catholicism, but a connotation of his words earlier made her realize otherwise. They are in an indubitable pickle.