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The nap refreshed Jinx and, when she woke up to Cocoy wrapped around her like the banana leaf wrapper on a suman rice cake and Kidlat’s face tucked into the hollow of her throat where her hands held him, she was more than ready to tackle the reality of her being a Diwata. Imagine that in Escorts Notting Hill. A Diwata. Wow. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t quite ready for it. She did, however, need to face it.This was definitely a good time to wake up between two people who were on her side. Especially with this huge thing to wrap her head around. In the five years she’d been without her family, Jinx had found it hard to cope with all the things she’d suddenly had to do alone. It was like she’d never existed in the hearts and minds of her parents, or her brothers and sisters. As if she’d been forgotten.Oh, she made up so many stories for the why of it. They were busy getting settled in their new home. Her two younger brothers and three sisters were all still in school, after all, and she’d just been handed the reins of the family farm, so she was busy, too. That reason lasted all of a year. Then the first Christmas without them and she didn’t even get an email. Not even a card. Hell, not even a tag on her youngest sister’s family photo on Facebook with a cheery “Merry Christmas!” splashed across it. And she only saw this through family friends who were her Facebook friends.On the second year, she excused them with another story, and on and on until five years had come and gone. She kept herself busy with business, with events and parties, with other friends who remembered her, and soldiered on, having faith that her family had all the best reasons in the world for being so distant.Now she couldn’t avoid the truth staring her in the face. She was not part of what used to be her family. She was not one of them. Oh, it had been physically apparent from her infancy: Her features were very different from theirs. Her face was all model bone-structure where theirs was soft and round, like the well-fed people they were. Her body tended to be lean and muscular, rangy and tall where theirs was the lot of those with dominant Indon genetics, to be petite and slightly stocky. Her eyes tilted up sharply at the outside corners where her family’s were round and slightly goggled out. She walked with light, lithe grace, they with certain, firm purpose.I guess I need to stop thinking of them as my family for real now. Jinx fought the sadness welling up in her chest and closed her eyes. Kind of like the Battling Bastards of Bataan, then: No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam. She tried to chuckle, but a sob came out instead. She snuggled back against Cocoy’s body and thrust her fingers through Kidlat’s curlylocks. At least I have them. For now. For now is better than nothing.

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Cocoy was walking through dense triple canopy in a bark skirt, his feet bare on the soft leaves and humus of the path he trod with careful steps. It is here, I just know it. Just past that huge balete tree, perhaps even behind it. He pushed the beads and feathers of a headdress out of his eyes. WTF, a headdress? A woman’s headdress? Seriously? A skirt? What’s with the cross-dressing? Why am I cross-dressed?He paused for a while, leaning on the rattan walking stick in his hand, the one decorated with pure black chicken feathers, multi-colored stone and seed beads and leather strips to protect the hand gripping it.I have to find it. The ritual jar. I have to bring it back for Jinx. But where is it? The path vanished from beneath Cocoy’s feet. The trees became a solid wall. The balete he was looking at, so distinct just moment before, faded into a copse of other balete and rubber trees.He tripped over something solid, something that totally wrecked the toe he’d stubbed against it and he looked down, curses at the ready on his lips. It was a squat, unglazed clay pot, its shape reminiscent of a Catholic censer pot, its wide rim emblazoned with black squiggles of Baybayin and another script that could have been even older than the recognizable writing of his ancients.Escorts Notting Hill knelt and reached out with his free hand to touch the pot. Is this the ritual jar? This squat, ugly thing is a ritual jar? I can’t believe they put the petitions for the gods in this.Yet so many things that carry power look deceptively ordinary, he reminded himself. So many things that one would miss in one’s search for the remarkable are, in fact, magical.So he touched the pot-bellied jar, so similar yet so different from the ordinary cooking palayok of yesteryear. He grasped it from bottom to just under its lip with his hand and felt a surge of divine power throb through the clay and up his fingers, course through vein and nerve and over his skin until his body hummed like a too-tight guitar string plucked by a tone deaf player.Holding the pot securely in hand, he reached for the opening of the bag of red and black tubao fabric and fine abaca weaving slung across his body. Then he looked around for a way out  in Escorts Notting Hill.Ye gods, I could use a Tikbalang just about now, Cocoy thought in dismay as he found that there was no longer any forest around him, nor ground beneath his feet.He was in a void, where nothing but blackness and stars glistened coldly in a swath his eyes could not penetrate. Crapola. The headdress’ feathers and beads fell into his face again and Cocoy blew hard to shoo the offending objects away from his line of sight, his mind working furiously hard on the problem of how the heck to get back to Jinx and Kidlat. Kidlat, you have to find me, dude. You have to. Freaking out now. Quietly, internally melting down now.

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