We are of Clay

A day before a major contest between teams of warmongers.

He was all by himself and he knew that he stood there alone among his brothers. He was stronger now, stronger now than he was before. Nothing hurt him. Nothing moved him. Nothing stopped him. His finger stayed tight on the trigger. His bullets came in long bursts. The barrage would last for hours with an entire clip expended at every minute.

Muffled whimpers and cries came from the blindfolded initiates. Their nakedness lit by gaslight. Their bruises jarring to the eye. This was tradition. The boys did not deserve to be a part of the brotherhood without the fortitude to endure the pain of rubber bullets. Rodrigo continued to pelt them black and blue, until a hand on his shoulder told him that his duty was done. The brothers present were to take turns every fifteen minutes. He nodded and left the smoke hazed room.

“Go grab a bite to eat,” the Master Initiator advised him before he left.

Outside, their armory was large, dimly lit, and thick with the stench of burning kerosene. This used to be a meeting hall for provincial functions, but their brotherhood had other plans for it after they acquired the building. The walls were now lined with gun racks and closets designed to look like file cabinets. Both lethal and recreational gasrifles filled them. The firing range they were meant for was where the initiation was placed.

Quijano was waiting for him at the one of the tables. He was smoking underneath a hanging gas lamp and silently enjoying it as he sat and read the day's paper. The young man noticed Rodrigo approach from the corner of his eye, so he laid down his paper and asked him a simple question, “Burger?”

“Sure,” Rodrigo nodded, “Cafeteria still open?”

“For us? Always. Neophytes never sleep when we call.”

Their building used to house the Social Welfare offices and the Department of Education. It had its own cafeteria, which the brotherhood didn't touch, and several office spaces which were converted into a receiving room, a dining rooms for guests, and student quarters. The fully pledged paid cheap rent for individual rooms on the second floor. The neophytes slept in bunk beds in rooms good enough for fifteen.

One of them was manning the cafeteria cash register. He had his head on his forearms, taking the chance to nap while there was no one there. The door chime woke him up as soon as Quijano entered with Rodrigo. He rubbed his eyes and greeted them with a ready smile, “Maayong gab-i, manong. Ano tani ang inyo?”

“Duha ka burger,” Quijano ordered for them both.

“Hulat lang ka dali, manong.”

The neophyte hurried to ring the service bell. The cooks inside the kitchen were asleep too, or at least smoking. It was a late night.

The young men sat at a nearby table to wait for their burgers. They didn't have much to talk about. The room was stuffy, and the air was sparse. The architect cared more for parroting Antillean facades rather than proper ventilation. The boys lit some cigarillos and looked at each other.

“Gonzago wants to see us in his office,” Quijano said in between drags.

“About tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Any plans?”

“I left some stuff at home. Need to get them for tomorrow.”

“It's kinda late now though, isn't it?”

“It is. The old man won't notice. He's used to my absence�"I'm sure.”

Quijano nodded.

They ate their burgers silently. It didn't pay to make the chapter master wait. The man had his office at the second floor of this three storey building. They promptly stood from their table when they were done and then left. They didn't bother to pay. Fully pledged brothers maintained a tab in the cafeteria books. It was their privilege, and the neophyte already knew them by name and face.

The second floor didn't just accommodate individual quarters. It also housed some clerical offices for the chapter, some storage space for archiving, and the Gentleman's Club. Only the fully pledged were allowed there, and only the fully pledged were named gentlemen.

The room had three pool tables, access to electricity, a win cabinet, pinball machines, some clockwork curiosities, trophies of dead animals, a bar served by a fellow gentleman, and ashtrays all over. The room had rules. No one ruins the ironwood furniture. No one ruins the carpeting and wall paneling. Everyone fixed after himself. This was where Gonzago had his office built into. He had only one rule for his office, “No one enters without purpose, permission, and knocking.”

Quijano and Rodrigo were at his door now, greeting their fellow gentlemen as they passed the pool tables. It was the polite thing to do.

“Ginpatawag kamo?” one of their brothers asked while taking a chalk break from pool.

“Nahanugod sa buas, bugto,” Quijano answered with a smile. The language of gentlemen was the language of the older and nobler world. They were all encouraged to converse with each other in such.

“Mayohun ninyo buas ha,” their brother bade them good luck and returned to his game.

“Salamat guid, bugto,” Rodrigo thanked him before he knocked at Gonzago's door.

A voice immediately came from the other side of the door. It was clear and concise with its use of syllables, yet coarse in tone. It asked them who they were.

“Ang mga bugto mo, manong, si Yano kag Rodrigo,” Quijano answered softly.

“Sulod lang kamo.”

The man's office matched the clubroom. It held the same carpeting, the same style in furniture, and the same walls. An electric light gave the room its brightness from Gonzago's desk. It was so bright that the chapter master had to wear a visor while he reviewed the chapter's books. As an organization registered with the ayuntamiento, they were required to explain and account for every expense done in the brotherhood's name. Such was the price of legitimacy.

“Maglinkod kamo anay, palihog,” Gonzago motioned for them to take their seats before his desk as his eyes watched them come in through the green translucence of his visor, “Kag palihog takop sang puertahan pagkasulod ninyo.”

A Zippo laid bare next to an ivory ashtray, filled with spent ash, on Gonzago's desk. It was a very clean piece of woodwork. Much of it's lacquered ironwood still shined beneath the glass overlay. Their elder had many things pinned beneath the glass. There was a map of their island, a few sepia toned portraits of past chapter masters, and calendars reaching ten ages back. One piece completed the entirety of his personality inherent on his desk. A nameplate of gray marble was set to face every guest, proclaiming the responsibilities of their leader, “ Andres Enrique Gonzago y Guerrero, Primus Pilus, First Cohort.” Its sides were adorned with brass chess pieces, the knight. The nameplate also conveniently served him as both pen holder and inkwell.

Gonzago waited for them to seat themselves on the cushioned armchairs before he dimmed the light of his lamp and took off his visor. He was older than his siblings, already a man by all accounts. His mustache was full and pointed; his eyes were blackened steel; and his form was both broad and stern. His face, however, was still capable of smiling. He did so as he greeted the young men, “Maayong gab-i sa inyo mga halangdon nga manghod. Nakakaon na kamo?”

“Bag-o lang guid, manong,” Rodrigo answered, “May karne pa man toh nga nabilin sa kalan-an naton.”

“Mayad,” their elder was satisfied with the answer. Now he didn't have to hurry himself at all as he asked, “Nahibal-an ninyo kun ngaa ginpatawag ko kamo diri?”

The boys nodded.

“Nahanungod ini sa inyo nga hilikuton buas. Nahanas na ninyo ang kaugalingon ninyo?”

“Oo, manong. Kaupod na lang ang kulang kag ang luthang.”

“Mayad,” Gonzago opened one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a compilation of paper. He handed them to Quijano and warned them, “Nahibal-an na ninyo kun ano kabug-at ang dumot nga ginbutang ko diri. Palihog lang nga indi niyo paggub-on ang handum ko sa inyo.”

The boys nodded.

“Indi niyo na pagbasaha diri. Madugayan pa kamo na. Padayuna ninyo na lang in sa sagwa. Halin kagina pa toh gahulat ang inyo mga bugto sa pilili-on ninyo nga mga kaupod.”

They left soon after. The man's words were true. Outside, their siblings were waiting expectantly for them. Everyone in the gentleman's club had been there to place himself at the disposal of Quijano's direction. That was how things were always done in their cohort. Quijano planned and Rodrigo executed.

The boys had one pool table cleared and brushed. Everyone huddled around it as Quijano laid down what information they had on the table. It seemed that the youth group had friends with access to the event organizer's plans. They were now blessed with grid maps, possible objectives, and a list of registered participants as of fifteen days ago. It was clear why Gonzago had so much weight placed on tomorrow's contest. Five teams among the roster were from rival brotherhoods. One of them killed Gonzago's young cousin over a bar fight the boy had nothing to do with.

Quijano didn't think much of it when he read the names on the list. It wasn't his job to mete out fairness; but a chill crawled up his spine. He turned to Rodrigo and saw the same worried look in his eye, yet his face was calm. Rodrigo blinked once and then shook his head. No, they would not think of it now. There was no point in thinking about it now.

Quijano nodded and went back to studying the maps. He'll know what to do when the time came. Rodrigo was right. There was no point. There was nothing they could truly do about it. If word from above came and permitted them to do as Gonzago wished, there would be no excuses. Quijano was scared. It had never been this serious before.

A knock on their door interrupted them. The doorman said it was a neophyte come to let them all know that Quijano's father was waiting for him downstairs. The old man wanted to see him. That hushed everyone in the room for a long moment. Everyone was looking at the doorman. That just made him loosed his collar.

“Yano, puli lang toh anay,” Rodrigo advised him.

“Oo. Oo, mapuli lang ko anay.”

“Will you be okay?”

“I'll be fine, I think. Take care of things for me while I'm gone, will you?”

“Sure. Halong ka, bugto.”

“Salamat, bugto.”

His brother's watched him leave. He hadn't been home ever since he joined the brotherhood and lived at their chapter house. They knew nothing more about his family, other than the military reputation of the Soledad. That worried them. Gonzago even slipped out of his office and bothered to ask, “Ginsugat siya ka amay ya?”

“Oo, manong,” they answered.

He nodded and disappeared back into his office. He pulled a little notebook clad in black leather from his pocket and wrote the day's interest therein. It was a cause of great concern for Quijano's old man to visit. The men of the Soledad family were all important siblings of their brotherhood. Quijano's father was chief among them right now. The matter had to be dealt with carefully.

Rafael Soledad waited for his son in his car. It was a Ford Model E, E for Electric. The automobile industry was at its crossroads. There were three locomotive engines vying for the market, advanced steam engines, electric engines, and gasoline engines. Everything having to do with electricity fascinated the Colonel. He adored the idea of using pure lightning to empower mere mortals.. The car was an apt gift from the office of El Presidente.

He saw his son walk down the steps of his chapter house. The young man was a softer image of him, not like his elder brother. He had too much of his mother in him, strong but delicate. He did not want the last memory his dead wife had ever given him to disappear.

Quijano promptly entered through the door held open by his father's aide He resented the señorito treatment, but his old man did not appreciate hesitant action. Inside, the automobile's interiors were comfortably furbished in bone white leather. He relaxed on the back rest and placed his arm over the open window. He placed himself far from his father.

“Maayong gab-i, amay,” it did not do to forget your manners in the presence of a counter-insurgency colonel.

“Forget the pleasantries for tonight, son. I know the traditions of our brotherhood. This is a family affair. They have nothing to do with this,” his father's voice was grating. His words were direct. His tone was relaxed. The old man was trying to enjoy the fresh breeze of the night.

“Very well, father,” Quijano held his eyes away from his old man, “What brings you over tonight, father. I told you I would write, and I do write.”

“It is unfortunate for a father and son to have to resort to written correspondence when they live in the same city.”

“I did say goodbye father. I did leave everything I didn't own behind. And I did take over my own expenses.”

“I'm sure you know that I'm not here about that.”

The aide warmed the engines for three seconds and then placed it into first gear. They them smoothed along the street until they reached the main artery of the business district. The engine was a soft, purring thing. It ran on lightweight batteries yet could last for twelve hours without replenishment.

“Then,” Quijano dared to ask, “What are you here for?”

“Is it wrong for a father to miss his son. Is it wrong for a father to keep his child safe in his own home?”

“That is the point why I left. I may be your son, father, but I am no one's child.”

“A child shall always be a child of his parents. There is no such distinction as you have placed it.”

“Then I find it odd, that my brother should be made to follow your steps while I watch.”

“My path is not for you, and neither was it for your brother. I do not want you to have to prove it again.”

“But I won't. I turned my back on your path the moment I left home, father. I am not here to continue your name. I am not here to prove that I am as good as my elders�"“

“Then what are you here for?” his father was quick to ask him.

“I don't know. That is why I am here, to find out.”

“There are better ways than this,” Rafael was slowly getting more and more annoyed with his son.

“Yes, there could be. You've even set some of those ways open for me. I could easily walk those roads and lead a very comfortable life, but I won't. You know why I won't.”

Silence. They were now at the gates of their home. Rafael maintained sentries at his own residence. It was where many of his files were kept, his office was housed, and where many high ranking army men would visit to discuss their trade. Two of those sentries were opening the iron barred gates of their home, but Quijano would not follow. As soon as the automobile stopped to wait for the entrance to clear, the young man quickly opened his door and slipped out.

“I mean this with all due respect father. I no longer live here,” he asserted before he softly shut the door. Rafael had nothing else to say to him.

Quijano waited for the automobile to disappear behind the heavy gates before he turned to leave. His father's men watched him walk away with worry in their eyes. They did not want anything to happened to their leader's beloved son.