One year and seven months before the Brilliance.

Zahara stood in the mess hall before a long table where she'd settled in every morning since she was deployed to her platoon on Bickra. She listened to the practiced clomping of boots on the plank floors as she waited for the rest of the cadets to get into their positions.

The long table, a pallet made of bamboo material, extended through the entirety of the pavilion. Banana leaves covered it, and on top was their breakfast—cooked rice, fried nouse meat, smoked herring, dried sardines, chopped tomatoes, onions, red eggs, and mixed vegetables.

Zahara's mouth watered at the scent of salty fish. Her stomach growled in protest as she waited in a steady stance. She was hungry and wanted to eat, but she held herself. She was used to getting hungry, almost as if it was a part of herself. But standing there with all that food and keeping herself at bay brought a different agony—torture.

The scent teased her as she averted her eyes from the food, looking straight ahead.

She avoided the eyes of the boy, Garet, who stood in front of her across the table. She glanced at the large patch of birthmark on his cheek, but her gaze didn't go higher than that. She pretended to look through him as if he wasn't there.

When all the cadets stood on position—lined, facing their breakfast—and the stomping silenced, the drill sergeant in his usual green shirt and trousers stood at the end of the long table.

He waved his hand at each side, saying, "Ready on the left. Ready on the right. Commence boodle fight!"

All at once, the cadets reached out for the food and began to eat as fast as they could as the drill sergeant started to count. "One! Two!—" They could only eat within ten counts. They did this every day to practice discipline.

"Three! Four!—"

During the last few months on the island, Zahara had gotten accustomed to following orders. Eat when told to eat. Sleep when told to sleep. Bathe when told to bathe. Everything she did always awaited command as if she was made to follow orders. All cadets were.

"Five! Six!—"

Zahara had taken in three grabs of warm rice and two whole dried sardines in her mouth. She stayed away from the nouse meat because that was difficult to chew. Knowing that she needed to get as much food with limited time, she had learned which ones were easiest to consume and which would make her last longer in the day. And she needed her endurance, especially today.

"Seven! Eight!..."

Before the sun rose, Zahara and her platoon had gone for a morning run, a full round on the island that took at least an hour to complete. It was an everyday routine since the start of their training.

Zahara had thought she would see Arana in one of those runs during the first few weeks on Bickra, but she hadn't seen her since their deployment months ago. Zahara had been worried then, but now she only missed Arana.

The soldiers and the drill sergeants had ordered the cadets around like slaves from first light to the first shadow. They had run down the young ones on daily exercises in the fields and the training grounds. But at the end of each day, when all routines were completed, the mask of authority peeled away. The shouting stopped, and the soldiers and the drill sergeants spoke to the cadets like ordinary people.

Zahara learned that the training methods were meant only to turn the cadets into soldiers, strong and disciplined. She understood now that soldiers were true to their platoons. They cared for each other and watched one another's backs. They would never leave one of their own behind.

Zahara expected the second platoon had treated Arana the same way, and she hoped that Arana had found a family on the other side of the island while they were apart.

But today was different. It was the day when they could see each other again. Tenyente Kumar had announced that the cadets of platoon one were to spar with the cadets of platoon two. So Zahara ate her meal excitedly and only wished Arana felt the same.

"Nine! Ten!..."

Everyone around the table stopped and straightened, dropping their hands to their sides. They swallowed what food they shoved in their mouths and stared ahead just like the way they'd started.

"Alright! Stop eating! Let's go! Get out of the hall!" the drill sergeant shouted.

"Yes, Sarhento!" The cadets said in unison as they stepped back from the table. They moved in hard angles, and they moved as one. They marched, forming two files, and headed to the entryway.

When they came out of the pavilion, the low morning sun touched Zahara's skin. She felt the warmth on the bareness of her head. She soaked it in as she stood in line with the others, waiting for their drill sergeant to get to the front and instruct them on what they needed to do next.

Everyone moved as practiced. They knew what to do. They'd done the same routine every single day. They knew what would happen next, what they would do next, but they still waited for orders.

Tenyente Kumar joined them, positioning himself beside the drill sergeant at the front of the two lines. All the cadets stood at the ready, heads shaved and clothed in green.

"Attention!" Tenyente Kumar shouted. "Salute!"

The cadets raised their right hands to their temples in unison and then dropped them to their sides in a swift motion.

"Forward march!" The drill sergeant and Tenyente Kumar led the pace as they marched, following a cadence. "Left! Left! Left, right, left!"

Before Bickra became an army base, it had been a deserted island with palace ruins. The pathways were lined with fallen structures—what remained of the old kingdom—merged with the forest's trees. Now and then, they passed crumbling walls made from coral rocks. A few wooden statues survived the years, and Zahara recognized some of them—the old kings and queens of the old kingdom—from books, paintings, and folklore.

She had heard stories of how they reigned, tales of how Daracka had been great during their time. She knew how the modern kings, the Kaharazas and Kahanis of the new age, had sanctified the old kingdom and turned it into a religion that replaced the forgotten gods. These statues, however, broken and fallen, lived as legends.

They marched by one wooden figure of a woman in a dress, almost naked, baring her belly and back. Only a wrap covered her breasts, and the shortness of her skirt gave length to her legs. Vines climbed over its cracked surface. The woman was one of the old queens, a great Maharlika, and a hero of an ancient war. Zahara was fond of this one, and she gave a silent prayer to the woman every time they passed. But this time, she only gave thanks for this day.

"Left! Left! Left, right, left!" Zahara chanted with the platoon as they approached a clearing near the shore. The warm spring sun had risen high when they reached the training grounds.

"Parade rest!" The drill sergeant commanded, and they all stopped, legs together, knees slightly bent. "At ease," he said, remaining in position.

Tenyente Kumar walked up to the center of the training grounds where the older soldiers gathered. They had come to watch the sparring matches.

Kapitan Garvan standing among them. He gazed at their ranks. His lips pressed in a straight line, but his blue eyes gleamed with pride. The white tattoos on his cheeks curved, making the hint of delight on his face unmistakable.

Zahara understood what the captain felt. She, too, was proud of what they've become and accomplished in such a short time. Five months ago, they were a chaotic group that couldn't follow simple orders. But now they all stood with order and discipline.

Despite their age, they could no longer be called children. They had changed from helpless teens to capable trainees. And like everyone else, Zahara had gained meat and scars from all the rigorous practices they went through every day. She was now all muscle and rock-bone.

Tenyente Kumar came up to stand beside Kapitan Garvan as they all waited.

After a few minutes, a faint cadence came from a distance. Zahara's heart skipped when she heard the voices. She turned to the chanting, craning her neck to see the incoming platoon marching down the same path they had taken.

"Left! Left! Left, right, left!" platoon two said in unison.

Zahara saw the drill sergeant and Tenyente Zikaro first. Two lines of cadets and green livery followed behind them. She held her breath until she found Arana among them.

A grin formed over Zahara's lips as she observed Arana, who had completely changed in appearance. Different but familiar. Arana had grown out her hair a little, making her look like a boy from afar. But as the marching troop neared, Arana's face came clear, and it was still of a young girl's. She also looked healthier and maybe even happier.

Platoon two marched to a halt beside Zahara's ranks, and Arana finally glanced at their lines. Immediately, their gazes met. Arana grinned, but only briefly before she turned her head forward, her smile fading into a steady mask.

Zahara also turned her focus to the front but couldn't stop smiling. She pressed her lips together to stop a grin, but she might have only looked silly.

"Fall out!" The sergeants of both platoons ordered, and the cadets began to relax and move about.

Zahara released her grin, and a joyous laugh came out with it. She turned to Arana, who was already striding toward her. Zahara would have run, but she kept herself composed. Arana seemed to have gained the same discipline, walking without revealing any excitement.

"Zahara," Arana said. She looked mature, but her voice sounded like a child's. She stepped up so they faced each other, only a few steps separating them. "I would hug you, but I'm not sure that's allowed."

Zahara snorted. "I'd risk the punishment," she said and reached out to her friend, embracing her. She had missed Arana too much that she didn't care if she would get in trouble.

Their arms enveloped each other, staying that way long before stepping apart. No one had tried to stop them, and when Zahara glanced across the field, she saw Kapitan Garvan watching them with a smile.

Arana laughed. "The short hair suits you."

Zahara's attention came back to Arana. "You don't look so bad yourself." She inclined her head. She didn't mind her hair shaved off, but she knew Arana would hate hers—she would no longer be able to hide her face, and both of her Dakawa eyes were now exposed.

Arana raised her hand, covering half of her face. She grinned, her blue eye squinting. "I like this look better." Her smile never left when she dropped her hand to her side. "How's your training?" she asked, quick to change their conversation.

"Hard. I cried every day for the first week. Our Sarhento kept shouting at me." Zahara glanced around for the drill sergeant, but she couldn't find him among the soldiers.

"I did the same thing," Arana laughed. "But it got better, and it'll be better when we become real soldiers in a month. Then we'd be free to roam the island, and I could visit you in your camp."

"Yes, or I could visit you." Zahara loved the idea and agreed with Arana that it had improved.

The first thing that Kapitan Garvan commanded platoon one was to treat one another like family. Zahara hadn't expected such treatment in the army. Before coming to Bickra, she thought soldiers were hateful and always angry. But in time, she learned that the shouting was only meant to establish authority.

Zahara and Arana exchanged quick stories before the drill sergeant called everyone back to attention.

Before the sparring matches began, Arana squeezed Zahara's hand and said, "Survive this, Zahara. Be stronger. Become a soldier, and I'll see you again soon." Arana marched back to her platoon, and Zahara had no choice but to let her go.

✧

INSPIRATION

The Boodle Fight came from a military tradition where soldiers eat food on banana leaves especially when they are up in the mountains where they are away from plates and utensils. 

The video in this chapter is a short documentary about the Boodle Fight. Unfortunately, there's no available English version of the video.

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