TRES - PROLOGUE

A miniscule dust devil swirled into existence. Only to dissolve into gray dust as it was trampled beneath the feet of the procession.

There were roughly more than a dozen of them. Devout religious set on following a ritual that was mostly based on stories and tales considered as little more than myths. They were dressed in a dizzying array of silk robes with clashing colored sashes flung haphazardly across their chests and secured with safety pins. Their heads bowed in humbled prayer. Infinitesimal specks of the gray mud clung to the hem of the gay robes giving it an almost monochromatic appearance, darker and brighter at the top where the dust failed to reach.

Their mantra rose and fell; a monotonous hymn of a myriad voices speaking a repetitive chant of an age old prayer. The sound carried in the wind. Broken only by the creaking grunt of the carriages that strained with the burden of life-sized wooden idols that represented their saints and images of the life of their deity. It ended in a glass encased coffin where the wooden god was lying in velvet, his crown of thorns permanently fixed on his forehead. Three of the four candles set at the four corners were lit with swaying licks of flame; the other one, burnt out and spent much earlier than its sisters.

Flanking the coffin were women. They were of various ages, from crone-like elders to young women barely out of puberty. They were much like the others, except for the robes that covered them from head to foot. It was black. The criers, they were called; representation of the grief of the women when their mortal god died to save them centuries past. Called as such because of the distinct wail that they gave forth throughout the parade.

The procession moved forward, if slowly. All towards a small dilapidated church that has seen much better days. Peeling paints and walls frescoed by grime and mildew housing bent pews almost completely devoured by termites. It, the church, stood against the setting sun that it was in stark black contrast. From within, the faint light from old electric bulbs beckoned to the religious, a much welcome sight from the darkening night.

They represented just one among the myriad collection of religions being followed in the land. For now, they were the most numerous, but then only a few were strict on tradition. And the procession was one among hundreds.

As the parade entered the church, the criers stopped before the entrance. The crones turned left and followed a graveled path towards the back of the building, the younger ones hesitating only a moment before following their elders. They were silent. Not even their steps gave off a sound. And with the last faint rays of sun, one by one they entered a removed room behind the church. The rest of the congregation’s voice rose in a desolate song of lament.

The last to enter was a girl of about fourteen. It was her first turn to be crier. Nevertheless, the pitch black room did not daunt her. She knew what to expect of the ritual. She heard of what was to happen from a mother who had been a crier before she died and from a grandmother who led them inside the room. There was nothing to be afraid of. She stepped forward and was swallowed by darkness.

There was a boy inside the room. Only the boy and nobody else, he was dressed in gossamer strips of rags and nothing else, he looked ethereal. Solid yet, there was a quality about him, a sort of glow that made him seem not of this world. Somehow, where there should have been darkness, there was anradiance that was faintly pulsing; as if it was the air itself that was lit.
And where there should have been black clad women, there was the boy. A boy of about seventeen, a handsome boy that was standing and looking at her with tears trapped within his sad sad eyes.

“Who are you?”

“Vincent” he whispered. His voice unearthly. Like a whisper that caressed her face.

“What happened to lola?” inquiring about her grandmother.

A pause.

“She is here, yet, she is not”

A single tear rolled from Vincent’s eyes. His sadness was a companion that was there but was unseen, just like the rest of the criers.

“I want my lola.”

The boy looked at her. As if deciding whether to talk or not.

“Be careful little girl. There are things that you don’t understand. Tell mama that soon I won’t…we won’t… be able to stop the fire from flowing from where we are stopping it. Please, please…remember.” He looked behind him as if someone was calling him from afar. And quickly turned back to face her. Somehow, she knew that he was in a hurry. “You have to remember…you have to…”

There was a piercing scream. And the boy, and everything else, was gone.