Melchour

Preparations for the anniversary were unfolding with a rhythm all their own. Every corner of the church was alive—men hauling speakers, women arranging centerpieces, children darting between chairs with laughter trailing behind them. I noticed a group of men struggling with the sound equipment and instinctively moved to help, lifting the cables into place and making sure no wires tangled in the rush.

"Everyone! We have thirty minutes before ten o'clock. Everything should be settled by now," Geneva's voice rang sharp and clear through the mic, her usual command carrying urgency wrapped in grace.

People scattered in response like dancers in sync with an invisible drumbeat. I dusted my hands, nodded to the brothers, and turned toward the pews. That's when I saw them—the worship team stepping in from the entrance, dressed in the full regalia of our culture. The vibrant reds, blacks, and weaves caught the morning light like living history.

But everything in me paused when I saw her.

Johanna.

Her long, dark hair fell loose against a crisp white blouse, the delicate shimmer of her skirt—a Cordilleran wrap—flowed around her like she'd stepped out of a storybook. Ethnic beads laced through her strands, catching the sunlight and giving her a quiet, radiant nobility. I blinked once, then again, stunned by the sudden rush in my chest.

She smiled as she caught my eye, walking toward me like time wasn't rushing anymore.

"Good morning, Manung!" Her voice was as warm as the sun beginning to climb through the church windows.

"Good morning, Johanna..." I managed, still trying to gather my thoughts.

"How's everything going so far?"

"It's all going great so far, Anna. By the way, you look..." My voice softened as I gave her another once-over. "...stunning."

She looked down briefly, that smile deepening on her lips. "Thank you, Manung. It's been so long since I last wore my ethnic attire. Honestly, that's one of the things I've been most excited about today."

"Well, it suits you," I said. "Come on, let's grab a seat—things are about to start."

As she passed in front of me, the air carried her gentle fragrance—faintly floral, calming. Something about her presence always stilled the restlessness in me.

"Good morning, Anna!"

Jason's voice snapped me out of the moment.

Johanna turned quickly and waved back. "Good morning, Jason!"

He lingered with that look—too long, too intent. My brow instinctively furrowed. I cleared my throat and stepped forward, leading the way to the pews. I knew I was being ridiculous, but the subtle knot tightening in my chest wasn't something I could just brush off.

⸻

The drums of celebration grew louder as the emcees called the community to dance. Laughter swelled, and the pews were pushed back to make way for the movement. It was tradition. At the end of every church celebration, we honored our roots through dance—unified steps across generations.

The gongs rang out, reverberating through the church floor like a pulse of the mountains themselves. I watched the women line up, Johanna among them, her eyes alive with joy. The movements came naturally to her, arms raised gracefully, feet light as she matched the rhythm.

I stood there, watching, heart strangely full.

Then the beat shifted. Faster, more layered. The Sakiki.

Courtship dance.

A young man stepped into the circle and danced toward the woman at the center, energy radiating from both as they exchanged places with open arms and wide smiles. The crowd roared with cheers and laughter.

"They look cute, don't they, Pastor?" Pastor Trina appeared beside me, eyes twinkling as she nodded toward the pair.

"Indeed they do," I murmured.

"You know," she added, lowering her voice, "those two danced last year at the anniversary. Back then they weren't even a couple. Now—they're married."

"Really?" I glanced toward her, surprised.

"Yes! And in our culture, they say those who dance the Sakiki passionately usually end up together." She chuckled. "Of course, it still depends on the Lord's will, right?"

"Indeed, Trina," I replied, unsure how to feel about what she'd just said.

Then came the nudge—her hand curling around my arm like a hook.

"So, shouldn't you go ahead and have a dance of your own, Pastor?"

"Wait—what?" I stumbled, eyes wide. "No, I... I couldn't possibly—"

"Oh, come on, Melchour," she whispered, her smile suddenly mischievous. "You loved Clara dearly, we all know that. But don't you think it's time to move forward?" Her grip tightened, a teasing spark in her eyes. "Opportunities like this don't always come back around."

"Trina, please—"

Too late.

She shoved me forward, grinning like a child with a secret. A laugh escaped her lips as I stumbled into the circle.

Cheers erupted. I froze. The gongs didn't stop. They only welcomed me louder.

My eyes scanned the crowd, heartbeat in my ears, and there—there she was.

Johanna.

I inhaled deeply, raised my arms, and stepped forward.

If I was to dance this dance...
Let it be with her.

Johanna
I watched from the line of women as Melchour's eyes swept across the crowd, searching—hesitating.

The beat of the gongs throbbed in the soles of my feet, each strike echoing like a countdown in my chest. But the moment those eyes locked on mine, something cold and electric crawled up my spine.

No... He couldn't possibly—
Oh dear Lord.

I turned instinctively to my side, hoping I'd misread the signs, only to catch Geneva's amused smile, her arms crossed, eyes fixed on Melchour like she already knew what he was about to do.

I turned back to him.

He moved with a kind of quiet boldness—his steps light, shoulders steady. The closer he came to the center, the more the crowd cheered, their delight crashing like waves over my growing anxiety. There was something in the way he moved that made it difficult to look away... even more difficult to imagine standing beside him.

I could never match that.

My fingers trembled slightly against the wrap of my skirt. Surely, Geneva would be the obvious choice—she knew the steps, she looked the part. She had that poised confidence that drew people in.

But then... he raised his hand.

And pointed—at me.

The air caught in my throat.

Wait, me? I blinked, frozen, my mouth parting as I hesitated, almost foolishly pointing to myself like a schoolgirl unsure of her answer.

He nodded.

Oh no.

The crowd roared with approval. I glanced one last time to either side, praying someone else would step in, but no one did. Slowly—mechanically, even—I stepped out of line, my feet moving before my thoughts could catch up.

He reached for me.

I placed my hands in his, trying to still the slight tremor in my fingers. His touch was warm, firm—comforting in a way I hadn't expected. The rhythm shifted, and we began to move. I tried to focus on the steps, but questions kept tugging at the corners of my heart with every beat.

Why me?
Why not Geneva?
Was this just a dance?
Or something else?

The gongs pounded on. But underneath the sound, beneath the swirl of footsteps and cheers and laughter, I felt it—an unfamiliar tension between nerves and something I couldn't name.

I didn't know what this dance would mean to others.
But I knew what it was starting to mean to me.

Sakiki- A courtship dance that originated from the Tribe of Mountain Province. Termed in the modern days as Cordilleran 'Boogie'. The dance consists of a man and a woman imitating flying birds. It is a fast pace dance, accompanied by gongs. This is one of the most enjoyable and amusing dances in the Cordillera. It is usually performed on different special occasions especially weddings.

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