The Difficult Loves of Maria Makiling

by Wayne Santos

  What she had thought of as herself, Maria Malihan, was just a small, carefully curated amusement park, with safe, lovingly crafted attractions that promised thrills with total safety. This Maria Malihan amusement park was full of simple, hopelessly naïve memories, and gentle experiences.

  Now, however, as she walked her way out of the hospital, she was crossing the threshold of her mind to find out that Maria Malihan was just a small part of an unexplored city. Another country, which she was now standing on the edge of, looking over a vast, unfamiliar landscape.

  Welcome to the city of Maria Makiling. Population: One. One spirit. One divinity.

  One goddess, even. Capital ‘G’ optional.

  There was too much for her mind to process, at least for a mortal mind, which she was beginning to suspect had never really existed anyway. But that limited ability to process was something she wasn’t ready to give up on just yet. There were uncountable memories, sensations, experiences lurking beyond the shiny, protective safety of Malihan Park, and they would overwhelm her, which was something she did not want to happen. Whatever else she was, as Makiling, a thing with access to forces far beyond anything she’d ever suspected, she was still Maria first.

  And that mattered. It mattered like some raw core of steel underneath all the softness and light and love that she had grown up with. Maybe because of it.

  She left the hospital. She still wasn’t far from the Annex, she was standing at the exit of Toronto General, and she was… oh, fuck. She was still wearing the hospital gown. The sun was setting, with warm oranges and reds in the sky, and people would be enjoying after-dinner activities, and she was standing around wearing an open-backed gown after exorcizing a dwarf out of her boyfriend. She had not thought through the exact logistics of what she was doing next, but a general concept was there.

  First, she needed to dip her toe into the pool.

  The psychic surgery she’d just performed, while far more legit than the thousands of quack healings that took place back in the Philippines with blood packs and sleight-of-hand, had been crude, largely instinctual, and fueled almost entirely by frightened, angry denial. It had been one big no, and that’s about all it was good for.

  What she needed, as she peered out into her larger, more wild and metaphysical memories, required a bit more focus and far more control.

  Although it had worked. And she allowed herself a few moments of relief and vindication for that. But while Tate was alive, he was not safe. Unpleasant memories burbled on the rim of her fear; this had been a delaying tactic, nothing more. She had to take measures to maintain his safety, which led to this.

  “Whoa, whoa, are you okay?”

  Maria stopped and looked. Some guy that looked like he was still in college was giving her the serious, concerned eye. “It’s fine,” she said. “There’s something I gotta do.”

  “Maybe you should be doing it in the hospital bed? You look like you weren’t cleared. Are you okay?” He looked around, maybe trying to flag down security, and Maria really didn’t have time for this shit.

  She blew some hair of out her eye and tried tying down the back of her gown more securely. It failed. “Who needs ceremony when the clock is ticking?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” the guy said. “You need help.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to get,” Maria said. “Not from you, sorry. No offense.”

  Now for the freaky shit.

  She stuck out her hand. Strictly speaking, she didn’t actually need to do that; her instincts told her that the power and methodology required was largely internal. But she’d read enough comic books and seen enough science fiction, fantasy, and horror films to realize that superheroic gestures were 100% Bad Ass, and she felt like she’d earned at least a little bit of that.

  Her hand emitted green light. Okay, that was definitely kind of badass. There was even a hum in the air, gentle, reassuring, like the kind of electricity that wanted to hug you, not shock you.

  “‘In brightest day, in blackest night…’ ah, shit, I forget the rest,” she said.

  “‘No evil shall escape my sight,’” the guy said, awestruck.

  She picked up the thread. “‘Let those who worship evil’s might…’”

  “‘Beware, my power…’” the guy said, together with her, and was that a tear streaking down the side of his face? Oh, shit, it was, and he was wiping it away with a single finger.

  She grinned. She couldn’t help it. “Maria’s might,” she finished. Then it wasn’t just a green light, her hand itself had turned green, taking on a leafy, wooden texture, starting at the center of her palm and spreading outwards.

  She pushed her hand forward, and she felt something against it, even though there was nothing in her way. Nothing but reality. But she pushed at that reality nevertheless, parting it, like the thinnest, softest of veils.

  And then Maria stepped forward.

  When she had woken up today, she hadn’t thought that by the time the sun started to set, she would know what existence would feel like brushing against her skin. And now she did, and she had no words for it. There would never be words for this. Not human ones. There were words that she had, that she could speak to others about, but those weren’t human words, in a human language that could be understood by human intellect.

  She pushed that back. Tate. Love. These were human things, and she held onto them now, as she moved forward.

  When she stopped, she was no longer standing in front of the Toronto General Hospital on a late, summer day.

  Maria was in another state of being entirely. And she’d come here to find the thing that could get done the things she needed doing.

  The sky here was a bright night. Stars with constellations she barely remembered shone with such intensity that it may as well have been morning. Overlaying the stars was a dancing aurora, ribbons of light waving in some unseen celestial wind.

  Before her was a vast plain, the grass vibrant, firm and crunchy under her bare feet. It was a field of imagination, a plain stretching out across the wide-open mind of someone, somewhere nearby. And she had been here before.

  She remembered her dream. She had been flying then. And he had been there, leading a herd.

  She looked down at herself. Still in a hospital gown. Just a little inappropriate for what was about to go down.

  “Rules have changed?” she asked out loud. She was, after all, no longer in reality as she had understood it for the last few decades. This was a place of the mind and heart and soul. Those things ruled here, not the physics of fabric.

  She concentrated on herself, remembered her favorite pair of sweat pants and a nice, loose, comfy, loaf-around shirt with a picture of Alistair, The One True King from the role-playing game Dragon Age on it. The comfier, more practical clothes replaced the drafty hospital gown, and all was right with the world. There had been a niggling part of her mind that had whispered she should manifest as her true self, but as far as she was concerned, sweat pants and her Forever Honey Alistair was as true as it got.

  She took in a deep breath and smelled the air. Had it ever smelled this fresh? Distant memories told her yes, it had, and fresher still, but that was in another time and life. But it was there, in the air, distant, coming from a specific direction. The smell of life, in all its sweaty, poopy glory.

  She didn’t want to fly this time. This wasn’t dream time; she was really here in this place, body and soul. So she walked. Then she ran. And the running felt good, letting her take in huge, greedy gulps of air, breathless but not tired. She pumped her limbs and sped across the ground. It wasn’t long before she heard the thundering of hooves, and knew she was getting close.

  She wondered if her coming was felt ahead of time, just as she had apprehended the herd in the distance, with its huge, impossible-to-ignore numbers and the wake so many animals left.

  She got her answer when, as they finally entered into her field of vision, she could already see the cloud of dirt they raised trai
ling away as they swerved, hard right, away from her.

  She poured on more speed, practically launching herself from the ground. The herd was slowly pulling away.

  “Fine, be that way,” she grumbled to herself and went for a full-blown launch. She threw herself at the air and soared over the horses. They were in all colors, neighing, thundering across the ground, muscles rippling, and Maria had to fight the urge to just find a nice hill, sit herself down and watch them run all day.

  Instead, she continued traveling over them, listening to their panic and headed straight for the head of the herd.

  She heard him before she even saw him.

  A voice yelled out, “Fuck you!”

  She headed straight in that direction, increasing speed. Dangerous speed; maybe even lethal speed. She was no longer gently soaring, she was a missile, she was in full-on Kenny Loggins mode, right into the Danger Zone. Locked on her target and ready to dish out some serious ’80s damage.

  Just as she was about to plow right into him, she encountered empty space, then his hand, coming from seemingly out of nowhere, gripping behind her head, and taking her lethal speed, turning it against her, by turning her, and sending her sprawling into the dirt.

  She hit hard, rolling and sliding like a mud angel that hadn’t yet realized you were supposed to be lying on the ground. Instead, she tumbled and pirouetted into unlikely and embarrassing positions, before spiraling to a halt, a human boomerang landing in an ice rink.

  She lay there for a few seconds, trying to process what had happened, and curious as to whether the hoofed, maned, extremely muscular mac truck that had just hit her would try to run her down now that she was on the ground and vulnerable. He didn’t.

  She stood up and turned to face her target.

  On the ground, able to appreciate his full height and stature, he was even more ridiculously buff than she’d suspected. And in palomino, an unexpected bonus.

  He had the head of a horse, but the biceps, pectorals, and abs of an unapologetic steroid abuser with a lifetime membership at Gold’s Gym. From the waist down, however, it went back to two-legged horse, complete with hooves, a tail, and horse size genitalia.

  “Wow. I, uh, feel like I should be going blind,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” the horseman said.

  Maria patted at her clothes, trying to get the dirt out. “You knew this was coming.”

  “Of course I did, you evil, selfish bitch.”

  “Well, you didn’t take very long to get hurtful.”

  “You want me to leave you alone? Leave me the fuck alone.”

  She pushed down on the ground, digging her heels in. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. You’re just trying to take the easy way out. Like you do Every. Single. Fucking. Time. What did I ever do to you? Nothing! But it’s always the same damn thing. I’m minding my own business, I’m not doing anything remotely malevolent, even by your shaky moral standards. What does it get me? You come gunning for my ass. For something that isn’t even my God damn problem. Well fuck that, and fuck you. And the horse you didn’t even bother riding in on.” He turned and bolted.

  But she wasn’t going to leave it at that. They both knew it. She had met Tate. She had known it was love. And in finding these things out, she had sought the Tikbalang, the horse-demon, were-horse, whatever you wanted to call it, because he was the one that had the power to save Tate’s life.

  But to do that, she would need to master him, just as she had done all the previous times. He knew what was coming next, and that’s why he ran. But it would be just as futile as before.

  “Keep me out of your fucking relationship problems!” he screamed over the sound of the herd.

  “I need your power,” she said, not bothering to raise her voice.

  “Man, if I had a nickel for every time I heard a chick say that…”

  She followed him, sticking to the ground, increasing her speed, running past and through the horses as they neighed and whinnied in panic, parting like a wave to let her through. She held out her hand, and it appeared there, just as she needed it to, the vines, like rope, fashioned into a lasso.

  He was straight ahead of her, with his signature absurd gait; arms pumping like a world-class Olympian, hooves pounding away at the ground like a Kentucky Derby winner.

  She unfurled the vine lasso and prepared to throw.

  He increased his speed, pulling away from her. “How long have we been doing this shit now?”

  “Four hundred years, give or take.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of this? ’Cause I am so over this.”

  “I’m getting tired of failing all the time, that’s for damn sure.” And she threw her lasso, channeling as much Wonder Woman as she could into it. She even willed some of her magical essence into the vine, and it glowed green.

  The lasso missed his head as he swerved, but caught his arm. She yanked, closing it around his wrist, and she dug in. Her shoulders stretched in their sockets, threatening to separate from her arms entirely as the lasso held, and the Tikbalang was off its feet, as she killed his speed and his freedom.

  The Tikbalang hit the ground with an impressive cloud of dust, a solid impact, and a pained, angry neigh.

  So far, she was off to a decent start.

  She closed the distance between the two of them, then cried out in surprise as the Tikbalang got to his knees, then pulled on the lasso and jerked Maria towards him.

  “Oh, shit,” she hissed, as he raised his leg and brought the hoof back.

  She had never seen a horse do a roundhouse kick before. Now that she had, she could personally vouch for the power of the move and thought that cowboys should be more thankful their own horses didn’t pull that on them.

  Her breath left her in a ragged gasp as the Tikbalang’s kick solidly planted itself right in her stomach. Now she was flying again, going into a roll, and she heard his hooves as he pressed the advantage. He was already on the attack, tossing aside the lasso she’d used.

  She was still fighting for breath when a hoof came down again, this time right on her thigh, and she still didn’t even have the breath to scream. The pain didn’t care, and that did plenty of screaming in her leg. Something actually cracked down there. Full justification for panic and alarm.

  The next blow aimed for her head.

  It came down, the hoof looming in her vision like a black moon, straight for her face.

  Her hand came up. She wasn’t even aware of it—suddenly it was just there, palm open, fingers spread and relaxed. The hoof rammed into that hand, and it stayed there as Maria flexed her muscles. Holy fuck did she ever have muscles right now. She pushed and sent the Tikbalang off his feet and onto his back again.

  Then she was on her feet, looking down at him, and further down as she grew. She was getting taller again. She even felt her leg mending.

  “I was wondering why you hadn’t just done that from the start,” the Tikbalang said. “Stringing the boss fight along, shifting to your second form.”

  Maria’s brain took it as an open-handed slap. “Hey, I am not a boss in a boss fight. That’s the bad guy. You’re the boss that I’m fighting.”

  “I’m sure the Spanish and the British told themselves the exact same thing before they opened up on the locals,” the Tikbalang said. “I’m not going down without a fight. You should know that by now.”

  “Well, I still feel pretty new here, so…” Now that she was taller than the Tikbalang, she felt a little better about this fight. Her skin was green now, a deep, jungle green, and even the texture had changed, more leafy and wooden than fleshy. She reached down towards him, noted that she’d lost some speed as she’d increased in size and height. But that probably wasn’t as much of an issue, because she shouldn’t be trying to fight him in those terms.

  She was here to break him. To master him. To do that she needed to tame him the old-fashioned way, and playing an unfair game of physics might get her part o
f the way there.

  She spied the lasso and grabbed it up again. It was like yarn in her enlarged grip. Easier to handle. The Tikbalang could now run agile circles around her, but her strength and accuracy had gotten a major stat-boost from this transformation, and it was easy to get some momentum on the lasso and unfurl it, neatly circling the Tikbalang’s neck and tightening.

  He gagged as she jerked the lasso. There was no way that wasn’t both frightening and painful. Like the opening moves to a lynching.

  “Sorry,” she said, almost too quietly to hear.

  If the Tikbalang did hear her say it—which she was pretty sure he did, they were in a dream state, after all—he didn’t bother to acknowledge it. He was too busy struggling to breathe as she pulled on the lasso around his neck. This was feeling less and less noble and necessary by the second. She could actually see the whites of his eyes as he panicked and struggled against her efforts, like a horse trapped in a stable as a fire breaks out.

  She pulled him in, her height and the distance between them shrinking. She lost her towering mass, and some of the strength that came with it, but she needed to for this next part. She timed it so that she gave a final yank at full strength, then shrank back down to normal height, just a hint of green to her skin. No need to give it all up.

  She threw herself into the air, aimed at the Tikbalang’s back. At least on a supernatural half-man, half-horse, there was a lot more to grab than trying to break a horse bareback.

  She hit him, and they both made a noise with the impact, the Tikbalang dangerously tilting forward, his arms pin-wheeling as he lost balance. She got an arm around his sizable neck and tightened her grip as he struggled. His arms came up, reaching behind him to try and tear Maria off, but she was the proverbial white-on-rice now and wasn’t going to let go. She looked down at the mane she was currently squishing and saw the flash of gold that indicated one of the golden hairs she’d need to rip out if she was going to master the beast.