The Fiction of Asterisk

[reg]

[asterisk]

THE BADNESS OF THINGS


The gecko clucked nine times. Aling Mameng counted the clucks. She did not know what the number meant. It must have to mean something. She was pacing from one end of the sala to the other, breaking the activity only to look out of the front window. She wondered what kept her 12-year-old son, Tinoy, long. Sepa the komadrona lived a mile across rice fields, then across some thickets and then a creek. Still, Aling Mameng could not keep still.
Aling Mameng turned away from the window and parted the door curtain. Cecilia lay on the bed, her eyes tightly shut. You can see the taut creases around her eyes where the beads of sweat found their way to trickle in. She gave a laboring moan and clutched her big belly that seemed to throb and, in any moment, burst open. Aling Mameng felt a dart of pang went up to her own belly.
The scent of mixed anticipation and anxiety was overwhelmed by a muggy aroma of earth, heavy and hot and rising. Aling Mameng went back to the window. The sky was devoid of stars and as dense as the earth below it. Any moment the sky and earth could close in with a loud clap. Everything was ominous, every sound, every scent. And at the center of it all was Mang Rufing sitting in the backyard, fixing the birdcage. His determined movements, weaving slices of bamboo in and out of each other, represented his noise.

Mang Rufing was on the very same spot many months ago, the day Cecilia came back. It was an afternoon of an intense summer. The sunlight seemed to fall like thick syrup from the iron eaves. Tinoy came running breaking the custom of things, shouting that his sister is back.
Mang Rufing saw her walking slowly on the narrow dusty road. The sky behind her a constant blue and she was framed at both sides by the powdery ochre of parched earth and the reluctant golden-ness of rice stalks. Her long, emaciated shadow swept across them like a second hand of a clock. Just a figure arriving. He did not try to see her face. He suppressed an impulse to stand up. He would not welcome the homing of her daughter, the wayward child.
He would not listen now, as she did not listen then. Cecilia was his first child, a girl at that, a precious little doll that inspires protectiveness from any father. He promised to work harder, be more responsible, make a good life. He made little, little dreams. He was amused with this offspring. He brought her nice little things; she was a precious doll.
One day when she was four, Cecilia burned with fever more fervent than sunlight in a time of drought. Father and mother skittered around her afflicted body like uneasy mice, worry boring like maggots on their faces. The albularyo had done his rituals and crushed leaves remedies. Still, Cecilia burned like mad, hair wet with sweat, eyes closed and rimmed with a shade of purple. When night came, her body shook uncontrollably sending the parents into another frantic rounds of skittering. Mang Rufing held her so tightly perhaps wanting to squeeze the illness out of her, to exorcise her and transfer the illness to him. Cecilia stopped shaking. Her breath was inaudible and seemed so fragile like a thin thread rising from her mouth to the sky. They were afraid to move her as not to break that thread. The next morning, Mang Rufing took his child, carried her preciously out of the door, through the fields, along the dusty and gravely road to the old church. At the gate he began to kneel and walk kneeling towards the altar. Halfway, he left a trail of blood, which immediately dried and turned black. His bones struck stones. At the altar, he prayed and made vows and prayed and made vows, the votive candles flickering giving an illusion of life to the faces of saints, the hallowed air streaked by occasional, gleeful birds. Cecilia's eyes flickered into life and Mang Rufing's joy seemed to spring like sunlight and birds.
You're special. Heaven granted you another life. Twice you were given to us, Mang Rufing would always say to Cecilia. This event all the more made Cecilia precious, a rare stone encrusted in gold. Thus, all the more the protectiveness grew and the keeping fervid.
But as days passed and Cecilia's hair grew long, his fondness was mixed with fear, a fear that grew with every step Cecilia learned, every step that brought her a little distance away from the house, from him. He was afraid that she might be hurt, or something. She was innocent and knew little about the daunting complexities of life.
There are many bad things out there, he had said. Many bad things. Cecilia was a precious little doll that inspires protectiveness from any father, and prurience from any men. And he tried to keep her away from even the slightest suggestion of danger. But all things seemed to suggest danger. And it came so fast, but Mang Rufing knew this might happen.
Cecilia disappeared with dawn the day the first rain came. She ran away. Like any other rebellious girls in town wont to do, she ran away with a man. Mang Rufing knew it was Lito, the son of a town clerk and Cecilia's classmate. They were frequent playmates, but when they reached high school, Mang Rufing said to his daughter that she could not go with Lito anymore. This confused her, but Mang Rufing always said that it would be proper for her.
From then on, Mang Rufing had been fending him off and scolding his daughter, as if this activity he would wage forever. He did not know that it would end one day and he could not do anything about it, except having this amorphous anger in his chest and an enormous hurt that could not be pinned down. Disobedience can be the gravest sin in the world. Flowers bloomed and died and bloomed and died again. The mango tree was on its second fruiting when Cecilia came back.
Mang Rufing managed to keep a stalwart attention to what he was doing. He was segregating the birds in equal numbers in the chambers of the cage. He had caught a bounty of sparrows today. He would dye their dull feathers with bright colors tonight. And they would be ready to be sold on Sunday, when the parishioners come for mass, dragging their children with them. Bored children that would pester their parents for his colored sparrows.
He checked one bird for signs of damage, spreading its wings and examining its beak. He stopped slightly, bird in hand, when Cecilia's voice crept from behind him, a quivering and careful butterfly perching on his shoulder. He did not move, did not turn around. The anger was still there in an amorphous mass he could not define. He needed not to define, not now, not ever. It could not be explained away. There was pride. There was betrayal. There was hurt. There was everything else the years of fearing and loving begot.
His body went rigid. Cecilia's voice was soft, so soft it was like a whisper that could be easily dissolved by the heat falling like the thickest of syrup that day. Aling Mameng led her daughter inside.
It took time before Mang Rufing's rigid body thawed. He felt something in his hand, something soft and motionless, a bird smothered to death. Silence became the new custom of things in the house.

Aling Mameng sighed remembering the uneasy silence the past months. She knew a thing like this would happen, it was bound to happen. She was not surprised at all. She saw how her husband became stricter and stricter with their daughter. Sometimes she felt it herself, a tightening collar and a shortening leash. Sometimes she felt pity for her daughter. But she understood the intentions of her husband. And as a parent, she convinced herself that this could be a good and right thing. She did not know if she was going to feel guilty about what happened. Cecilia would always run to her whether her father berated and imposed rules on her. Aling Mameng would always assuage her daughter, but always said to follow her father, that he was right. There came a time Cecilia did not ran to her anymore. Secrets were being kept. She knew how secrets could destroy things.
Aling Mameng would always cover for h

[§ínned™]

You want me to deconstruct this, asterisk? :). Damn straight! your style here is way different from the usual. I love it, though, really.

§inned™

[asterisk]

Deconstruct ka diyan! :D You really read this huh? Wait for the shorter ones and the ones for children.

[reg]

[asterisk]

DAIRY RIDE

We mercilessly whipped the leaves off the croton plants growing among the fences, Lindo and I, on the way to school, which was in the center of the town, several miles from where we lived. Every afternoon we walked; our route consisted of a peb-bly, dusty road and shortcuts through the fields. We had always walked together since we started schooling and hadn't minded the distance. We bantered along the way, ripped off an aratiles tree of all its red, ripe fruits if passing by one, and grated with our feet to leave clouds of dust behind putting the road on fire like some trailblazer. Our cloud would be drowned by a bigger one when a dairy van or truck passed by. They came from a dairy product factory just off-town. Sometimes, we would take race but gave up the soonest time. We washed and cooled our feet in paddy water. Lindo showed me how to snare mudfish and rice-field fishes with his hands and I taught him to like History. He liked the way I explained things, how I made them seem very interesting, even magical. I liked Lindo like I liked the inviting vastness of the fields in harvest season, like the scent and comfort of haystacks, like the taste of dried rice stalks, like the shades from the sparse and intermittent growth of coppice in the sunny, wide plain. He was the rambunctious wind and the mellow afternoon warmth, spontaneous and thoughtful. He always defended me form bullies, and I also defended him. That became a way with us, friends. We also walked the way home oft catching the sunset dissolv-ing behind the billowy silhouette of trees with the last after-noon light caught among the tail-like blossoms of tall grass at the roadside. We talked about catching as many fireflies as we could that the jar in which they were kept would glow as bright as gas lamps. We talked about Miss Dimaculangan's hair which daily variations never failed to mystify the students and even outdid their imagination. We talked about eating the plumpest and reddest tomato, or the biggest fish, all while sucking lollipops we bought at the store near the school with the remains of our day's allowance. Sometimes when one of us ran out of money, which was usually Lindo, we shared a lollipop, taking turns after counting about a minute or so. A good strip of cacao trees and hibiscus bushes lay between our house. When we learned that chocolates come from the fruits of the cacao trees, we squashed all the fruits open, tasted them, got disappointed, and later learned that they need to be pro-cessed in factories to become chocolate. The hibiscus flowers we pounded and mixed into water to make a viscous liquid that to us looked like cooking oil but, we didn't know what to do we it.

Lindo's house was made of bamboo strips and nipa palms, and ours was of stone and wood and bigger than Lindo's. I usually went to Lindo's house because I liked the cool feel of the flat strips of the bamboo floor against my feet with the breeze passing between my toes. Sometimes his parents would invite me for lunch, a modest one at most times: boiled saluyot, rice, beef stew, or adobo of kangkong, or tinola. His father was kind to me because I was the son of the man who owned the land he worked in. Lindo didn't like his father much, particularly his being irascible and the way he punished him with beatings and slaps. He would be scolded or hit for things as vague or general as indolence, too much goofing around, or not getting things done, and, several times, in my presence. And I would get too embarrassed for him, too embarrassed to be there, and I wouldn't know what to do that I couldn't move but look down. After which an uncomfortable silence would ensue between us until one of us would break it and it would be the same again. But, of course, there was somehow a degree of guilt in me because I had never undergone such treatment and didn't know how to act in such situations after an undeclared pact between us that we would undergo experiences in life together. I could feel Lindo suffered some degree of embarrassment. Somehow, a family thing can get in a way of friendship. But we chose to ignore it. Lindo said it was okay because I never ran off, that I had seen a part of his family making me more familiar to him and his family.

When the season signaled, I tried to wake as early as possible to go with Lindo and his father beating the sunrise to plant the rice seedlings into the freshly watered lands. We traversed the expanse of paddies that looked like a humongous sheet of mirror shattered by growths of grassy levees. The glassy pieces shimmered wanting to be feathered with green. One by one hatted shadows of men crossed the field like pawns in a chessboard, and took their lot. The rhythm of planting went with the ripples of water and the dying hum of the cicadas.

The water was as gelid as the wind, and I quivered my way through it. I tried my hand at planting but I couldn't make a really straight row and get the young plant to firmly put. Finally given up, I ran after small frogs instead, or stood at a corner of the paddy waiting for the sun make its appearance in its swirl of rarefied cloud. I stood motionless and savored the warmth of the first rays of the day. When I got home, I saw my father standing by the gate looking at me with both disapproval and amusement, but more with
amusement. Traces of mud had caked around the hem of my pants, even as I washed in the artesian well.

Nights Lindo usually came to our house so we could make our homework together, but most of the times, we got sidetracked drifting over my collection of books bought from Manila. Lindo's favorites were the Encyclopedia of the Animal Kingdom and the Hardy Boys series. The first time he went through the encyclope-dia, he got inebriated with the astounding variety of animals and in a short time he learned the names of nearly all the animals in the books. We got kicks playing the game of naming the animal by pictures, or by the information about it. With the Hardy Boys, Lindo learned to value information even the ones trivial and its keeping for you would never know when it would be useful.

We also went through my father's collection of National Geographic and got inebriated from the wide world of explora-tion, culture and research. Lindo thought it was kind of heroic and exciting researchers and writers do. We would feel kind of inspirited being part of the astonishing tapestry of life, of the world. In a way, I taught Lindo to dream all what to dream,
Looking at the sempiternity of places for us to explore, a sempi-ternity of colors to see, and a sempiternity of things to experi-ence.

And Lindo showed me how to hitch a ride on the dairy van one dry afternoon on the road to school. We were in the middle year of high school, big enough to hitch a ride on the van that passed the road and get off at the town proper to school.

The van passed and we impulsively ran after it. Lindo caught up with it and hitched himself against the rear as the dairy van drove down the road with its tail of dust cloud.

And I noticed for the first time, as the afternoon sun flashed
intermittently on him as they moved, how he had grown. His well-formed body moved in a stifled grace, muscles developing with his movement, showing against his thin shirt, gloriously on his sturdy arms and strong shoulders. He was golden, a red-blood-ed man, nimble-footed with a meltingly boyish smile, sun in his eyes, wind wild in his hair, still with his shy, disarming in-nocence.

Lindo waved his arms and spurred me to go faster. He held out his hand, and I caught it and was heaved up. I held close to him, my hands firmly clutched to his. We laughed, our warm breaths on each other's faces, hollered a little, kid a lit-tle.

Getting off was more difficult. We jumped off a chance the dairy van slowed down a bit. I got roughed, rolled upon the

[reg]

[asterisk]

INGGO AND THE STAR
A children's story

Inggo was a bright little boy who wanted someday to explore different places and see different things. He liked to read stories about people, and he often borrowed books from his school's library.

But then his parents both died from a terrible sickness and he was turned over to the care of his aunt and her husband. Unfortunately, they were bad people who cared for nothing except money. They wanted nothing to do with books and learning. So they made Inggo stop going to school.

And when the cruel couple needed money, they sold Inggo to a man named Mr. Tracul.

Mr. Tracul brought Inggo to a big, ugly, gray building surrounded by high walls. Inside it were many children like him, except that they all looked very unkempt, gaunt and unhappy. They worked the whole day putting sardines into tin cans.

Canning sardines was a hard thing to do, especially for little children. The sharp edges of the cans would cut their little fingers. And they had to work nonstop. When they rested even for a little while, Mr. Tracul would shout at them, slapping a big wooden stick at the table so hard it made the children shiver with fear. Inggo was immediately put to work.

When they finished late at night, the children were given a little bowl of porridge and a piece of old sardines to eat. After eating, they went to their quarters to sleep: a small gray room with nothing except rolls of mats at one corner. The only window was a small square one. It had steel bars and was too high for them to reach and peer out. The children took out their mats, laid them on the bare floor and went to sleep. The lights were put out and the door was padlocked by Mr. Tracul.

Inggo had no mat to lay on. He sat on the cold floor, on a patch of soft light streaming from the small window. He gazed up to see a small barred square of starry sky and began to cry.

"Stop crying," someone whispered. "Here, you can share my mat if you want." But Inggo sat still, trying to see to whom the voice belonged. A boy's face with tussled hair and puffy eyes peered out into the stream of light.

The boy introduced himself as Danny. He had been in the factory for two years now. One by one, faces came peering out. Danny introduced them one by one: girls and boys from different places. Some, like Inggo, were sold to the canning factory by their own parents. Some, by other people. Some ran away from their homes and ended up there. Some were recruited from the provinces. They were promised a pleasant job and nice things. But they soon found out that these were only lies.

Inggo counted 20 children cramped in the dingy room. He noticed that their voices sounded desolate and lifeless. When the light from the high window touched their faces, Inggo saw how sad and empty their eyes were.

They had been working for long hours every day, with no time to play. They did not have the chance to hear any stories. In the brief rest that was sleep, their dreams and hopes were fading.

Inggo grew sadder for them than for himself. He looked up at the only opening where the stars shone brightly. He never noticed the stars shining brightly before, and he spoke of stories he remembered, tales of faraway places beyond the dark room.

"Please go on," a voice said. Inggo noticed that they were huddled in the darkness, listening to him. Inggo told stories of warriors and fairies, of sea voyages and beautiful creatures, until he grew sleepy and slept in the patch of light coming from the small window.

Early next day, work began again. They put sardines into the tin cans that came endlessly. The routine was broken when Mr. Tracul beat a child with his stick for spilling the sardines. The children shivered with fear but tried to go on with their work.

Inggo tried to stop the man from beating the child but he was violently pushed aside and given a beating, too.

That night, the child, Isay, was sobbing, nursing her bruises and welts. Inggo comforted her, telling her to be brave and hope that someday they would be free--even though he was afraid himself. He told her stories of people who escaped the jaws of a lion or a big alligator because of their cleverness and courage. Soon, Isay stopped crying, and listened intently to Inggo. The other children huddled around them.

Every night, even though they were very tired, the children looked forward to Inggo's stories. During this time, their eyes would gleam as they dreamt of faraway places and beautiful creatures. It was hope.

One night, they heard a faint sound. It was a Christmas carol sung by children who were going from house to house, one voice said. They themselves were so cooped up in the building that they no longer knew the time and the season.

With Danny's help, Inggo climbed to the high window and peered out. Far away from the tall fences were houses glimmering with bright lights like stars in heaven. Inggo knew that these were Christmas lanterns.

He climbed down and told his friends that it was Christmas. They murmured among themselves and became sad, looking longingly out the high window. The stars were shining brightly. Inggo told them that if they wished hard enough, the wish would come true.

That night, they all slept dreaming and wishing. In the middle of the night came a whistling sound, then a loud thud. Inggo woke up and saw that one of the window bars was crooked. And on the floor was a star!

The star was big like a lantern; you could hold it against your chest. It tried to glow, but only managed to give off a dim light. It seemed that one of its arms was broken. The other children woke up and surrounded the fallen star with amazement.

They were surprised when the star spoke. "I'm the star called Parsus."

"What kind of star are you?" Inggo asked. "Are you here to fulfill our wishes?"

"I really don't know," the star Parsus said. "I'm still young and I still don't know what I want to become. There are other stars-some are wishing stars, some are guiding stars, sharing stars, stars that give hope to others."

"How come you have fallen from the sky?" asked Isay.

"I was drawn to your wishes," Parsus said. The star groaned.

"You're hurt," Inggo said.

"Yes, but I will heal in time and go back to the heavens," said Parsus.

"You can stay here, but we don't have much," Danny said.

They wrapped their only blanket around Parsus and lay him among themselves. During the daytime, they left Parsus hidden in the corner among the rolls of mats. At night, they would huddle around the star as he told them stories of other stars who guided navigators at sea to their destinations. He told them of a special star who guided a persecuted couple in their escape. The woman gave birth to a child who would save the world. The same star also guided the three wise men when they visited the baby.

Mr. Tracul began to notice that the children were lively in their work. He became suspicious.

One night, the children were huddled around Parsus. He was now healing, almost filling the entire room with a resplendent light. Outside, Mr. Tracul was walking toward the children's sleeping quarters, the beating stick in his hand. He noticed light seeping out underneath the door.

Blag! The door suddenly flew open. Mr. Tracul stood threateningly by the wall. The startled children ran to the corner.

"Well, well, well. What is this?" Mr. Tracul sneered. His eyes were wicked slits. "Is this gold? My, my, my. Is it a star?" His voice sounded low, but evil and greedy. "Anyway, this may mean money. And it is mine." He was about to grab the star, but Inggo tried to stop him.

"Nobody owns the star. Not you. You are a bad person!" Inggo said.

"Are you trying to stop me?" Mr. Tracul sounded menacing. He suddenly swat Inggo with his beating stick. Then he took the star and padlocked the door. "Go back to sleep!" Mr. Tracul shouted.

"We must save Parsus!" Inggo said.

"But how?" spoke Isay. "Mr. Tracul will beat us all."

"We can do it," said Danny. "We are 20 and there is but one

[asterisk]

The Fisherman and the Diwata of the Lake
a children's story


One late night when the moon is full like the finest of china, a fisherman put his small boat into the lake hoping to catch fish. The boat slices through the murky waters. The moon reflections shatter and then come together again. The fisherman casts his net into the water and then pulls it out again. The net snags an old shoe, rusty tin cans, rotten water hyacinths and just very few small fishes. The fisherman casts his net again, and again catches just a few fish and a bunch of odds and ends people discarded. The fisherman heaves a sigh.

The lake is not what it used to be. Before the lake was teeming with fishes. It was green like an emerald laid among tree-encrusted towns and mountains. As people began to settle around the lake, the water became dark and filthy, for these people take what they can from the lake and do not care about it. They threw things in it. Factories began to sprout around the lake. The water became malodorous. The lake is slowly being poisoned, people said and did nothing about it. Now, there are only few fishes left.

The fisherman is trying to catch fish for a long time.

In this night of the full moon, the diwatas that live at the bottom of the lake come up to the surface to look at the moon. These diwatas, which are small and delicate, only come up once every hundred years to watch the beautiful moon, play, grow and clean the water of the lake, renewing it so that something will flourish.

After a while, the fisherman feels that his net caught something. He pulls it out and it was heavy. The fisherman catches one of the diwatas. The moon shines upon the diwata and it makes her skin glow. The fisherman was very surprised to see what he has caught.
He thinks of bringing it home for his friends to see. The diwata pleads and points to the moon and then to the water. Her voice is so soft like the ripple of the water. But the fisherman does not hear it; he is too absorbed in thinking.

He thinks of selling the creature to a very rich person who wants to keep her or want to show her for money. Many will want her. He will sell her to the highest bidder. He will become rich and will not fish any more.

The diwata pleads and says that water is not yet cleansed. But the fisherman do not mind if the water is not cleansed and there are no fishes to catch. He will become rich and will not fish anymore. The boat slices through the murky water, shattering the moon reflections.

When the fisherman is nearing the shore, it is already dawn and the sun is already rising. A few early rays touch them and they seem to hurt the diwata. Seeing that the sun hurts the mermaid, he covers her with water hyacinth, which floats on the water, and a thick blanket. The diwata's hand happens to touch the fisherman's chest where his heart beats. His heart shudders. The touch of the diwata is very cold. And she seems to cringe from his human warmth.

When he is home, the sun was already high in the sky. The fisherman carries the bundle, which contains the diwata, into his house. When he unrolls the blanket the diwata is gone, save for a trail of water and some wilted water hyacinths.

What is also left is his chest, which remains icy cold for the rest of his life and nothing could ever warm it. The lake remains dirty and the fishes are becoming fewer and fewer.

___________________
The story is adapted from a story of an asrai, a small, delicate water fairy of Celtic folklore.

[Mister Dean]

That's a great story! I loved it.

[tRiStAn]

whew! that was a great read!

[asterisk]

BULMAR, THE VORACIOUS TREE EATER
a children's story


There once was a Giant named Bulmar. He lived with his father and mother in a big, big cave between two green, green mountains where the sun rises. Every morning, the sunshine crept into the cave and reached to where Bulmar slept. Bulmar would wake up and go to the nearby town of Kalawiki to play with the children. When Bulmar came into the town, the children would go out of their homes and play with him. They would play hide-and-seek. Because Bulmar was so big, he could easily be seen. On the other hand, the children could hide among the trees and rocks and grass. So, Bulmar was always it. But Bulmar loved playing hide-and-seek.

They also chased butterflies and dragonflies fluttering among the grass and flow-ers. This too Bulmar and the children loved to do.

Bulmar also loved birds. He let them perch on his head and pick out the lice among his thick, thick hair. This made Bulmar sleepy. When Bulmar lay down, the children loved to climb up his stomach and slide down. The children really loved Bulmar as a friend.

The Giants were gentle and friendly then. They did not eat people. They even helped them. They only ate fruits and plants and trees. Bulmar loved to eat. He especially loved to eat trees. He could swallow a tree or two in an instance.

Now, his mother told him: "You should eat your food one at a time. You must chew them. It is bad to swallow all of them down."

His father told him: "Don't eat more than enough. It is bad to eat too much."

But Bulmar was a voracious eater and he didn't heed his parents. Day after day, he was eating more and more trees. First, he ate one, two, three, four trees. Then, he ate a forest of nice, green trees. He would kneel and swallow all of them into his stomach.

He ate all the trees in the plain until there were none. He almost ate everything-rocks, plants, flowers. He went to the mountain and ate all the trees there until the green mountain turned brown. Then, he went to the next moun-tain.

His parents told him: "Bulmar, don't eat too much."

But Bulmar didn't listen and went on eating many, many trees.

One day the rain came and it rained very hard. Water came sliding down the mountain. There were no trees to stop and absorb all the water. So, all the water came rushing into the town of Kalawiki. The rainwater flooded the town. It swept many houses away. The people's pigs and chickens and goats were carried away. The rice fields were also flooded. The plants were carried away by the water.

The townspeople went to Bulmar's home.

They told him: "Stop eating too much."

But Bulmar didn't listen and went on eating many, many trees.

The children couldn't go out to play with Bulmar, because the whole place is full of water. Even if the sun was shining, there were no shades from the trees to shelter them from the sun. There were no trees in which they could hide in if they were to play hide-and-seek. There were no butterflies and dragonflies either.

The children told Bulmar: "Stop eating too much."

But Bulmar didn't listen and went on eating many, many trees.

One day Bulmar saw people carrying things and leaving the town. Bulmar asked a little boy that came passed by him: "What are you doing?"

"We are leaving the town," the little boy answered.

"Why?" Bulmar asked again.

The little boy said, "Because when the rain come, the town become flooded and many of our houses are destroyed. We can't go out to play because the sun is too hot. We don't have enough to eat because you ate all the trees."

This saddened Bulmar. Even the birds were leaving because ate all the trees which were their home.

One night, there was a terrible pain in Bulmar's stomach. His stomach hurt terribly that he cried. His parents said, "Didn't we tell you to chew your food and not to eat too much?"

In the morning, the pain didn't go away. And when Bulmar opened his mouth, butterflies and dragonflies came out of it. Bulmar cried because the pain didn't go away.

His father opened Bulmar's stomach. Butterflies and dragon-flies flew out of it. And there was a whole forest growing inside Bulmar's stomach. His father took the forest from his stomach and gave it to Bulmar. His mother sewed his stomach close. And the pain went away. This made Bulmar happy. He looked at the forest in his hands and immediately knew what to do with it.

Bulmar said, "Now, I will not eat too much. I will plant these trees so that there will be no more flood, so that the people will come back, so that the birds will come back."

This made Bulmar's parents happy.

Bulmar went outside and saw how dry and brown and empty the mountains and plains were. He planted the trees in the mountains and on the plains. Now, he just ate one tree a day. And the forest grew more and more abundant. Trees were now slowly growing on the plain and mountains. Then, the people came back. The birds came back. Bulmar could now play hide-and-seek in the trees with the children. There were now butterflies and dragonflies to chase. The birds came perching on Bulmar again. And there were no more floods and the people have enough to eat. All were happy in the town of Kalawiki, when Bulmar learned not to be voracious and to eat all of the trees.

[^^DooRs]

Love the stories!! specially the children's stories!!...so when the book coming out?? :)

[asterisk]

Thank you very for reading. It is people like you that keeps a writer going. Again thanks. I am glad you like it. If you have questions, corrections, clarifications, criticism, objections, comments, etc feel free to post them.

Doors, abangan na lang ninyo! :)

[acridmouth]

Wow, asterisk....you're awesome :)

[asterisk]

THE SUNFLOWER-GIRL
a children's story

The young lady Sumita's beauty could compare to the delicate pansies and zinnias that grew in the wide garden where she lived. She had a complexion as fair as talcum powder and a hair the color of mahogany.

Sumita lived in a quaint little house nestled in a nice growth of trees, and her room was decorated with wallpaper of pink carnation designs and curtains the color of corals. Her parents doted on her, and she had a handsome young lad named Ernest who always brought her roses and loved her so. But Sumita was a frivolous girl who was always cross at little things that didn't go her way. She was fond of decorating herself with ribbons and laces and nice little pins and bangles. So preoccupied was she with trinkets and jewelry that she often forgot everything else, even ignoring kind Ernest.

Once, she had gotten a fancy over accessories with sunflower designs. The bright, yellow color and the frill of its petals fascinated her. She then got for herself a number of hairpins with little sunflowers made of cloth and velvet. These she wore on her hair everyday.

When she tired of wearing sunflowers made of cloth and velvet, she thought of wearing real sunflowers on her hair. So she picked the sunflowers in her mother's garden and tied them into her soft brown locks. But she got disappointed sunflower and arranged it into her hair.

One day, she found out that the garden had run out of radiant sunflowers. So, she walked out of the garden and into a little forest near her home in search of sunflowers that might have grown without her knowing.

In a dim corner of the forest, she saw a glint of light the color of fire. Then she happened upon a sunflower big and bright in an overcast of thick foliage. This was no ordinary sunflower for it grew a brilliant thing in a dark forest. It was a kind of a fairy flower, the hue of burnished gold. She quickly picked the bright flower dispersing the gossamer and luminous mist that enveloped it. She dashed out of the forest and into her home. She excitedly faced her vanity mirror and fixed hair with the mysterious sunflower. After that, the flower gave her hair a prettier countenance.

To her surprise and gladness, the flower did not grow wilted nor did it die. Sumita later found out that she couldn't take the sunflower off her hair. She decided to let it be.

But everyday she grew paler and paler. The sunflower grew brighter and fresher. The flower was actually flourishing on her hair, growing new leaves, and the roots had clung to her soft skin. Without her knowing, the roots of the mysterious sunflower had planted itself into her skin and were draining her blood.

Then, Sumita found herself one morning in a grassy plain rooted to the earth, herself a sunflower. She saw her mother tending the garden nearby. She called to her, but her mother couldn't hear her. The wind made her sway with the grass. She grew tired of calling. Day after day, she remained on the same spot.

Now, she could see the sunrise with all its glory and the sunset with its mellow colors. She could see the prancing flight of little butterflies and delicate damselflies tossed among wind and grass. She could see the quiet labor of ants and the gentle blooming of pansies and zinnias.

Now, Sumita wanted to embrace her mother and father, to be in her room and to see and talk to handsome Ernest, and say to them how she also loved them. Though she was sad of her fate, Sumita found her things around her beautiful and fascinating.

One day, she saw Ernest and was filled with longing. She wanted to call him, but knew that he wouldn't hear her. Ernest walked among the grass and sprinkle of sunlight hand in hand with a girl with pretty scarlet ribbon in her hair the color of the darkest of nights. Sumita saw him walked towards her and bent down to her. She uttered his name, but he seemed oblivious of her voice. Only the sound of wind filled the grassy plain.

"What a nice sunflower," Ernest said and he picked the bright flower and gave it to the girl, the life of the flower draining out from the severed stem.

[adlaw]

wow, wow, wow.

ang galing!

"You were the one who left, Lindo." The same sentence, the same feeling, but a different name. ;)

waiting for the book. btw, may i have a list of any published books you have?

[asterisk]

:)

[This message has been edited by asterisk (edited 06-13-2000).]

[b1@ck]

http://www.pinoyexchange.com/lol.gif http://www.pinoyexchange.com/lol.gif http://www.pinoyexchange.com/lol.gif
http://www.pinoyexchange.com/lol.gif http://www.pinoyexchange.com/lol.gif http://www.pinoyexchange.com/lol.gif

[asterisk]

Oooooooooopppppssss! Sorry to blow your cover! It is not easy figuring it out, at least for anyone else. But I have a nose for other writers and a good memory for anything literary, especially infos about writers.

I have a sneaking suspicion at first. You wrote about the inner workings of the local literary circles, which can only be accessed by writers.

[This message has been edited by asterisk (edited 06-13-2000).]

[adlaw]

i don't know why but this made me smile and warmed my heart. :)

vijdaq, even if you get another anonymous nick, please retain the original one.

[asterisk]

vijdaq, o ayan, damage contolled :)

[vijdaq]

thx, asterisk! :lol

just wait for me to get impulsive...maybe i'll comment on your stuff...

[asterisk]

just noticed now that my story was incomplete. here is the full text.



INGGO AND THE STAR


Inggo was a bright little boy who wanted someday to explore different places and see different things. He liked to read stories about people, and he often borrowed books from his school's library.

But then his parents both died from a terrible sickness and he was turned over to the care of his aunt and her husband. Unfortunately, they were bad people who cared for nothing except money. They wanted nothing to do with books and learning. So they made Inggo stop going to school.

And when the cruel couple needed money, they sold Inggo to a man named Mr. Tracul.

Mr. Tracul brought Inggo to a big, ugly, gray building surrounded by high walls. Inside it were many children like him, except that they all looked very unkempt, gaunt and unhappy. They worked the whole day putting sardines into tin cans.

Canning sardines was a hard thing to do, especially for little children. The sharp edges of the cans would cut their little fingers. And they had to work nonstop. When they rested even for a little while, Mr. Tracul would shout at them, slapping a big wooden stick at the table so hard it made the children shiver with fear. Inggo was immediately put to work.

When they finished late at night, the children were given a little bowl of porridge and a piece of old sardines to eat. After eating, they went to their quarters to sleep: a small gray room with nothing except rolls of mats at one corner. The only window was a small square one. It had steel bars and was too high for them to reach and peer out. The children took out their mats, laid them on the bare floor and went to sleep. The lights were put out and the door was padlocked by Mr. Tracul.

Inggo had no mat to lay on. He sat on the cold floor, on a patch of soft light streaming from the small window. He gazed up to see a small barred square of starry sky and began to cry.

"Stop crying," someone whispered. "Here, you can share my mat if you want." But Inggo sat still, trying to see to whom the voice belonged. A boy's face with tussled hair and puffy eyes peered out into the stream of light.

The boy introduced himself as Danny. He had been in the factory for two years now. One by one, faces came peering out. Danny introduced them one by one: girls and boys from different places. Some, like Inggo, were sold to the canning factory by their own parents. Some, by other people. Some ran away from their homes and ended up there. Some were recruited from the provinces. They were promised a pleasant job and nice things. But they soon found out that these were only lies.

Inggo counted 20 children cramped in the dingy room. He noticed that their voices sounded desolate and lifeless. When the light from the high window touched their faces, Inggo saw how sad and empty their eyes were.

They had been working for long hours every day, with no time to play. They did not have the chance to hear any stories. In the brief rest that was sleep, their dreams and hopes were fading.

Inggo grew sadder for them than for himself. He looked up at the only opening where the stars shone brightly. He never noticed the stars shining brightly before, and he spoke of stories he remembered, tales of faraway places beyond the dark room.

"Please go on," a voice said. Inggo noticed that they were huddled in the darkness, listening to him. Inggo told stories of warriors and fairies, of sea voyages and beautiful creatures, until he grew sleepy and slept in the patch of light coming from the small window.

Early next day, work began again. They put sardines into the tin cans that came endlessly. The routine was broken when Mr. Tracul beat a child with his stick for spilling the sardines. The children shivered with fear but tried to go on with their work.

Inggo tried to stop the man from beating the child but he was violently pushed aside and given a beating, too.

That night, the child, Isay, was sobbing, nursing her bruises and welts. Inggo comforted her, telling her to be brave and hope that someday they would be free—even though he was afraid himself. He told her stories of people who escaped the jaws of a lion or a big alligator because of their cleverness and courage. Soon, Isay stopped crying, and listened intently to Inggo. The other children huddled around them.

Every night, even though they were very tired, the children looked forward to Inggo's stories. During this time, their eyes would gleam as they dreamt of faraway places and beautiful creatures. It was hope.

One night, they heard a faint sound. It was a Christmas carol sung by children who were going from house to house, one voice said. They themselves were so cooped up in the building that they no longer knew the time and the season.

With Danny's help, Inggo climbed to the high window and peered out. Far away from the tall fences were houses glimmering with bright lights like stars in heaven. Inggo knew that these were Christmas lanterns.

He climbed down and told his friends that it was Christmas. They murmured among themselves and became sad, looking longingly out the high window. The stars were shining brightly. Inggo told them that if they wished hard enough, the wish would come true.

That night, they all slept dreaming and wishing. In the middle of the night came a whistling sound, then a loud thud. Inggo woke up and saw that one of the window bars was crooked. And on the floor was a star!

The star was big like a lantern; you could hold it against your chest. It tried to glow, but only managed to give off a dim light. It seemed that one of its arms was broken. The other children woke up and surrounded the fallen star with amazement.

They were surprised when the star spoke. "I'm the star called Parsus."

"What kind of star are you?" Inggo asked. "Are you here to fulfill our wishes?"

"I really don't know," the star Parsus said. "I'm still young and I still don't know what I want to become. There are other stars—some are wishing stars, some are guiding stars, sharing stars, stars that give hope to others."

"How come you have fallen from the sky?" asked Isay.

"I was drawn to your wishes," Parsus said. The star groaned.

"You're hurt," Inggo said.

"Yes, but I will heal in time and go back to the heavens," said Parsus.

"You can stay here, but we don't have much," Danny said.

They wrapped their only blanket around Parsus and lay him among themselves. During the daytime, they left Parsus hidden in the corner among the rolls of mats. At night, they would huddle around the star as he told them stories of other stars who guided navigators at sea to their destinations. He told them of a special star who guided a persecuted couple in their escape. The woman gave birth to a child who would save the world. The same star also guided the three wise men when they visited the baby.

Mr. Tracul began to notice that the children were lively in their work. He became suspicious.

One night, the children were huddled around Parsus. He was now healing, almost filling the entire room with a resplendent light. Outside, Mr. Tracul was walking toward the children's sleeping quarters, the beating stick in his hand. He noticed light seeping out underneath the door.

Blag! The door suddenly flew open. Mr. Tracul stood threateningly by the wall. The startled children ran to the corner.

"Well, well, well. What is this?" Mr. Tracul sneered. His
eyes were wicked slits. "Is this gold? My, my, my. Is it a star?" His voice sounded low, but evil and greedy. "Anyway, this may mean money. And it is mine." He was about to grab the star, but Inggo tried to stop him.

"Nobody owns the star. Not you. You are a bad person!" Inggo said.

"Are you trying to stop me?" Mr. Tracul sounded menacing. He suddenly swat Inggo with his beating stick. Then he took the star and padlocked the door. "Go back to sleep!" Mr. Tracul shouted.

"We must save Parsus!" Inggo said.

"But how?" spoke Isay. "Mr. Tracul will beat us all."

"We can do it," said Danny. "We are 20 and there is but one of him. Remember the stories? We must have courage and hope. What if Parsus is the star who will guide the ones who will rescue us?"

"The most important thing is that we cannot let Parsus suffer. He belongs to everybody—to the navigators at sea, to lost travelers, to the hopeless," Inggo said.

"Yes, we must save Parsus!" everyone said, their eyes gleaming.

The next day, the children went to work as usual. Mr. Tracul constantly slapped his beating stick against his palm.

Suddenly, Isay screamed, and everyone else did the same. They threw the sardines into the air. Mr. Tracul tried to smack the children, but they crouched under the tables.

While this was happening, Danny and Inggo slipped out the door and went to the house beside the building where Mr. Tracul lived. They saw Parsus inside a very small steel cage. He was less bright now.

Outside, they heard Mr. Tracul's whistle calling for more men to control the children. Danny and Inggo quickly took the keys lying on the table and went back to the building.

That night, the children were sent to their quarters without eating. They all went inside except for the smallest one, Buboy, who took the key and unlocked the door later in the night. The children, led by Inggo, trooped out to Mr. Tracul's house.

Inggo and Danny climbed through the window and unlocked the small cage, but they had a hard time pulling Parsus out. When Inggo was able to break Parsus free, the force sent them crashing to the wall and floor.

"What is this?" Mr. Tracul, now awakened, thundered. Inggo and Danny took Parsus and scrambled out the window. And with the other children, they ran for their lives, leaving behind Mr. Tracul, who was fiercely blowing his whistle. Soon, more men and dogs appeared. The children ran until they reached the high walls.

"Get a rope," Parsus said. Following the star's instructions, they wound it around Parsus, leaving a trail of rope for the others to hold on to. "Hold on tight!" Parsus said. The star shone brighter and brighter and then rose higher and higher, with a string of children trailing behind.

They flew out of the dreary place into the sky, past the big moon. From up there, the children saw the wonderful world as they passed cities and towns, farms and lakes.

One by one, the children were dropped off. Those who ran away were reunited with their joyous parents. Those whose parents were cruel or dead were taken by families who were happy to accept them. When all the children had been dropped off, Inggo was still flying with Parsus, marveling at the world below.

"We have flown around the world, but you still haven't told me where you want to go," Parsus said.

"I don't really know," answered Inggo.

"Look into your heart," Parsus said.
Inggo closed his eyes and remembered the cherished stories, the dreams of seeing different places and wonderful things. Also, he missed his parents very dearly.

And then, Parsus and Inggo flew higher and higher to the vast heavens until Inggo glowed and seemed to burn.

From the earth, the children saw Inggo become a star.

[Cerberus]

Reminds me of child labor in Montalban. Sad.

[asterisk]

Not my stories but my translations. from the landmark book Mga Agos sa Disyerto

ANTO

By Rogelio L. Ordonez
Translated from the Filipino



I got to know Anto in an itinerant time.

That was the time when my soul is burning with fever, suffering from delirium and groping for the stars while I am being continuously persecuted by a poverty from which I cannot escape. To me the buildings of the city were flaming giant skeletons and the neon lights were glaring eyes, the sidewalks were graves, the alleys coffins, every lamp post a turgid candle. And in every corner and street I was met by a procession of plastic robots. That was the time I was revolted by the truculence of city life and know not who is enemy and who is friend. And every night, in my solitude in a dingy and small room I rented, a mezzanine kneeling at the edge of a stinking canal, I saw on the patches of the wall a tranquil and verdant scene I had longed for in a long time, where coconut tress wave their leaves at me, the tall grass murmured to my ears and the waves sing to me.

Carrying my typewriter and a suitcase, I had an idea of going, one early and damp morning, to a remote place in Batangas where the howl of mufflers and the vituperation of money and the so-called new civilization cannot reach it. I stayed with relatives in an ordinary nipa hut by the sea surrounded by coconut trees. And I felt, in that sincere environment, in the company of ordinary and unassuming people, even poverty is fragrant.

There I got to know Anto one dusk I was drinking tuba with my cousin Mando in a banca left on the shore. I was still fresh from the sea when I noticed a well-built young man, his skin burnt by the sun, came to shore near us. He effortlessly pulled his banca, bringing it out of the water, and inside the net he would carry over his shoulder, the fishes he just caught wriggled and were numerous, I thought, enough, to overflow in a pail.

"Ala'y, you have a good catch today, Anto," my cousin Mando greeted.

"Ala'y just enough," Anto replied softly, putting down the net full of fish by our side. He reached for some fish and put them inside the banca we were resting in. "For your pulutan." The fish were still jumping.

"Drink with us for a while, friend," I invited and filled a glass I held and was about to give it to him.

Anto stared at me and I noticed those big eyes, questioning, studying, seemed fitting with his flat nose and wide lips which remained unmoved.

"That's my cousin, Anto," Mando said. "This is Manong Roger...spending vacation here."

It was just then that Anto stop staring at me.

"I do not drink, Manong," he said, almost whispering.

"Cigarettes," I offered again.

" Ala'y I also do not smoke, Manong."

"Ala'y, he has no vice except to fish and to plant," Mando retorted.

It made me laugh. Anto did not even smile. He grabbed the net, slung it over his shoulder, glanced at us and went on to walk. I could not resist to follow him with my eyes until the nearby growth of coconut trees hid him.

"Anto just live there at the other side of the coconut grove," Mando said, as if he guessed what I was thinking. "Ala'y, he lives alone now, Manong."

I downed some tuba and set my sight playfully at the vastness of the sea now tranquil and like a chest/bosom which is not breathing. I was startled when a fish Anto left wriggled at my feet.

"It will be a good idea, Manong," Mando said, "if I get those home, grill them so that we can eat them."

I did not speak. I could not understand why, earlier, in that instance when Anto stared at me, I somewhat perceived a vague mystery behind those eyes and on the unmoving wide lips which seemed to want to say and shout something.

I did not notice Mando left. The sun's rays had become red welts in the sky when he returned. The grilled fish was wrapped in banana leaves, still warm and fragrant, and it was just then that I realized that fish in the province is really fresh, and the people as well. Unlike in the city where everything is putrid even thoughts and dreams.

The fish was somewhat sweet, and I thought that I should thanked Anto.

"Did you say he's living alone?" I suddenly asked Mando as if I was out of myself.

"Who's he, Manong?" It made Mando pause from drinking his tuba.

"Anto"

"Oh, yes, Manong."

"His parents?"

Mando took another swig of his tuba. "Ay, Manong, what happened to his parents is tragic. Ay, *********, really horrible, Manong."

"How tragic?" I lighted a cigarette.

"Do you see that coconut grove?" Mando pointed to the place next to where Anto went into. "Before, that was theirs. Ala'y, their house was beautiful then...there," and Mando again pointed at the coconut grove, which was now cloaked in a thin darkness.

"Where's the house now?"

Mando spat.

"Ala'y, it was demolished by the new owner. You know, Manong," Mando continued, "I grew up knowing that that coconut grove was owned by Anto's father. What but one day-Anto was probably ten years old-someone from town came here. He rode in a car and forced Anto's family out. He said the land was his. Ala'y, Ka Basilio got angry-that was Anto's father. He fetched his gulok. Ay, *********, Manong...if he had not run immediately and gotten to his car, that one from town, Ka Basilio had most likely hacked him."

"After that?" I finished the tuba from my glass.

"Ay, what else?" Mando continued. "Ala'y, they went to court. Ka Basilio lost because it was said that he had no title deed. After several days, the one from town went here again, with policemen. He gave Anto's family a deadline to get out of there. Ay, Manong, Ka Benita cried-that's Anto's mother-and because of despair, she had a heart attack...She died there and then. Ala'y after Ka Benita was buried," Mando again took a swig of tuba, "the men of the one from town appeared one day, again accompanied by policemen, and he was going to demolish the house of Anto's family. Ala'y, in anger, Ka Basilio pulled out his gulok. Ay, Manong, he chased them with it. Before he was gunned down by the police, he killed two. One of them, Manong-I hope you've seen it," continued Mando, feeling frustrated that I hadn't seen it. "Ay, Manong this was slashed," pointing to his stomach. "It was repeated hacked...Ala'y, the intestines came out and that other one, he almost lost his head. The police could not pull Anto off from embracing the corpse of Ka Basilio. And his sister, Juliana, lost consciousness. Ay, Manong, ala'y, Juliana was a beautiful young woman. I got a crush on her," Mando sighed.

My drinking became uninterrupted. It seemed that the tuba had lost its taste.

"How about Juliana?"

"Ay, *********...what happened to her was also terrible, Manong," as if Mando was on the verge of tears. "what but she worked in town, in the house of the rich man, that beautiful house near the municipal hall. Ala'y, one day, she was found hanging in a room...said she skilled herself. Ay, *********, Manong, I don't know...said she was raped by her master's son. Anto had better fate; he was adopted by Ka Masyong...the one he goes home to now. Ay, Manong, I am really dumbfounded with what happened to that family.

"Ala'y, *********, was that brought about by God, Manong?"

I stared into nothingness for a long while. The fish that Anto left for us was not somewhat sweet anymore. I could not eat it anymore.

That night, Anto's big eyes were fixed at the center of my sight, and, although my head ached, I got my typewriter out and with the help of the flickering and sad glow of the gas lamp, I was able to write two lines:

"You are the eyes of my conscience...
"You are the lips of my intentions."


From then on, I always waited for the coming of Anto's banca to shore, and every time he found me and Mando drinking in the banca that had been left there. It seemingly became a habit for him to give us some fish and it became a habit to thank him. Sometimes, I humored him, saying that I will stay with him to take full advantage of his kindness to me. Once, I teased him saying he may become an old bachelor if fishing and farming are the only things he attend to and, according to Mando, he even would not court a girl in the place. For all those teasing I did, Anto did laugh even once, not even a smile.

One afternoon when Mando went to town to deliver vegetables and coconuts, I drank, even though alone, at the shore. Anto returned early because the waters were choppy, as if signaling a storm. He looked around when he noticed I was alone, but he did not hesitate to come to me to hand me a few fish.

"No, don't Anto...thanks." I did not accept the offer. "No one will grill those today. Mando is in town."

Anto did not speak. He returned the fish to the net. The fish wriggled upon getting into the net, as if they were very relieved that I would not eat them. Anto left without saying a word, and I thought maybe he took it badly my not accepting his offer.

The sky was darkening, and the dark clouds began to coagulate. My mind was slowly getting numb by the tuba when I was startled by a soft and cold voice behind me, a voice that seemed to fuse with the wind but that could not be drowned by the sound of the waves.

"Manong...for your pulutan." Anto was at my side.

"That's very kind of you," I said. "You even grilled them yourself."

Anto just stared at me and sat at the edge of the banca, glanced at the sea and looked at the sky.

"Ala'y, it will rain, Manong. It will be a strong rain, Manong," he said as if he is not himself.

I pinched a piece of fish meat. It was hot to my fingers and lips.

"I didn't know you grill very well, Anto."

He looked at me as if seeing through my eyes if what I said was sincere, and I noticed in those big eyes a little bit of joy. It was like he had just received a compliment for the first time, an appreciation of what he did.

"Ala'y, but I felt sorry Manong. I had a few catch," Anton said shyly but gladly.

"Aba...this is my good fortune," I retorted. "You know, Anto, in Manila, what I always eat is galunggong and dried fish or rotten milkfish once in a while. Our pulutan is just whistling...if we have some money, some stinking dried squid, which is as tough as the sole of a shoe."

Anto seemed to be incredulous about what he heard, moreover, from someone like me, who came from a reportedly rich city. I was about to pull out a cigarette from its case, but there was none left, and he noticed it.

"Ala'y, I'll buy, Manong," and he stood up.

"Don't bother, Anto. When Mando returns from town, he will surely bring home some cigarettes."

"Ay, he will be late, Manong, if the rain will catch him. Ala'y you'll have nothing to smoke," he said seemingly worried.

"I can endure not smoking for a few days," I explained. I knew the store was far, about half a kilometer from Mando's house, and another thing, I had no money in my pocket.

Anto did not insist anymore. He returned to looking at the sea, which turned turbulent, thundering at each crashing waves. The dark clouds were now very thick threatening to pour any moment. Actually, it was already drizzling, but I was not yet halfway through the one gallon of tuba Mando left me before going to town, but there was only one grilled fish left on the banana leaf wrapper.

"Ala'y, it will be better, Manong, if you drink in my house. You'll get wet here," Anto suggested.

"I want to bathe in the rain. It's good to drink, Anto, in the rain. And you...you don't want to even have a taste. It's a pleasure to drink, Anto, and more so when you are asking yourself who you are, what you are, and what you are here for." I was being carried away by my thoughts, influence most probably of the tuba.

Anton stared at me for a long time, as if fathoming what I meant. Suddenly, the rain came, dense an in heavy drops like arrows hurtling from heaven. I thought Anto would leave me, but he did not move from his place, looking at me as I poured tuba into the glass.

"Drink some so you don't get cold," I said to him.

"Ala'y, I really don't drink, Manong."

I was almost a slave to the effect of the tuba that I did not get cold despite the continuous and heavy rain. I just noticed-in the rain, in the sound of the waves, in front of Anto who was drenched, with his hands tucked in his armpits-I was telling him many things: the cruelty and ruthlessness of city life, the exploitation I suffered from different employers, the event that prompted me to turn my back from my studies which I struggled fro five years in a university and to concentrate on writing fiction, articles, commentaries and poems. I must had told him all, even my removal as member of the editorial board of a national magazine because I had learnt to fight for the right of fellow workers until I often starved.

"You know, Anto," I remember saying to him then. "Hunger will not spare you, neither will poverty in the city, if you do not know how to go with the flow and to get along with the way of thinking and the society works there."

I do not know how long Anto and I were in the rain, but I remember, after my stories, Anto's eyes were red and blinking.

The following day, I was down with cold and fever. Anto learned about it. He immediately went to Mando's with a bottle of goat milk for me. And there on, Anto was not only someone I know-he became my friend.

"Ala'y, I am wondering about you, Manong," Mando said once. "Ala'y, he's very close to you. Seldom does Anto make friends here. What happened that a wild rooster has tamed by you."

"Even I also wonder," I retorted.

But I was most perplexed about-inspite the days he mingled with Mando and me, more so when I was inebriated and talking nonsense and telling funny things-Anto did not laugh, not even a snicker nor smile. He was always looking at us, watching our drinking bouts, attentively listening to our conversations. And when he noticed we needed something, cigarettes or more drink for example, he immediately make a move as if it was his duty to attend to whatever need. If we did not ask him, he would not speak, except when he had something to offer me. And not once did he mention about the bitter and terrible even that fell on his family and I was extremely careful not to bring it out.


I was here almost a month now at Mando's, in that peaceful place that is a paradise of coconut trees, kissed by the waves. And I felt like I was newly born, infused with new strength, with little new dreams, with new courage to face any challenge in life. The image of the city I left behind had become cloudy, merely remnants swept away by the waves. And, one day, in a banca left on the shore, with a gallon of tuba, in front of Mando and Anto, I said, "Perhaps this coming Sunday, I will say goodbye to you."

Anto's face darkened.

"Ala'y, but you are being forced to leave, Manong," Mando said. "Or maybe you're getting lonely here and you're missing the life in the city?"

"Not really. The truth is I don't want to live in Manila anymore. I will go home to my father's province, to the farm."

Anto was not watching us drink anymore. Most of the time, his sight was fixed at the vastness of the sea, and he seemed to lose eagerness in grilling the pulutan. After a while, Anto asked to leave, he said he is going to the store. It was long before he returned. We almost finished the tuba. He got a pack of cigarettes, which he handed to me.

As soon as he gave me the cigarettes, he turned his back and walked away towards the coconut grove where he passes through going home.

I did not see him for two days and I thought he did not go out to fish because the weather was rather bad with wind blowing and the waves restless in the sea. But come Saturday, a day before I leave for the province where I grew up, for Cavite, Anto appeared early in the house of my cousin Mando.

Anto carried in his left hand a gallon of tuba and on his shoulders a freshly slaughtered goat that had not been skinned yet. From the gate, he was already calling out, and his voice was cold, as if hiding an unfathomable mystery.

"Manong Roger! Manong Roger!"

"Aba, what's that for? I didn't know we are holding a feast," I greeted.

"Ala'y before you leave tomorrow, you must have a taste of one of my goats." His big eyes were sparkling. "Manong Mando and I will make kaldereta out of this. I make good kaldereta, Manong."

Mando asked someone to buy another gallon of tuba. We will have a very good drink, he said, and one more thing, we need to make most out of the time because I am leaving tomorrow. Anto was busy preparing the goat while Mando prepared the ingredients.

In front of two gallons of tuba, and steaming and fragrant kaldereta, I was at a lost on how to thank a person who almost had served me for reasons I could not think of. I was not really sure if in the days Anto became close to me he saw in my eyes a deep understanding of the tragedy that befallen his family.

"Someday, Anto, I can repay you for all your kindness," I said to him.

He did not speak, just glanced at me while chewing piece of meat, but I noticed him, as if in deep thought, intermittently looking at the shore and often his eyes lingered at that coconut grove far away, that was once theirs.

I had drunk too much and the tuba was now affecting my brain. And I got an idea of strolling along the seashore, combing by sight the tranquil surrounding which had endeared itself to me but which I would be leaving tomorrow. I noticed Anto had followed me and when we were considerably far from Mando, he came close to me.

"Manong, I have something to ask of you," his voice sounded like begging.

I stopped short.

"With me, you don't need to ask for it," I smiled.

"Ala'y really, Manong?" Anto's big eyes got even bigger.

I nodded.

"Can I go with you tomorrow?"

"That's all? Of course, yes!"

"You don't understand me, Manong."

I stared at him. He looked down.

"What I mean, Manong," Anto sounded like choking, "is, ala'y, I will live with you."

I was agape.


The following day, the rays of the sun had not yet pierced through he coconut grove Anto was waiting by the stairs of Mando's house, carrying a bayong of old clothes. His body seemed about to burst out of his white polo shirt. His faded denim pants were too short forhim, and he wore rubber shoes without socks. Nevertheless, Anto's long hair was very kempt, determinedly combed, parted at a side, and smeared with pomade.

Before we proceeded to the town center, i prodded him to stop by to where he stayed with before, at Ka Masyong's, so that, I had said, I may at least pay respect to the old man.

"Ala'y utoy," Ka Masyong said to me, "I leave this boy to you. Ala'y I don't know what had gotten into him that I can't stop him from leaving. Ala'y I had never even gotten mad at him. If he can't get along with you, ala'y, I ask of you if you please to just bring him back here."

Tears were forming around Ka Masyong's eyes when we left him.

I noticed Anto stare for a long time at the thick coconut grove that was once theirs, next to Ka Masyong's grove. It seemed that grimness flickered momentarily in those big eyes, which seemed to be eternally questioning, pensive.


Since then Anto was not only a person I know, not just a friend, but now a brother. The truth was I had no brothers or sisters and, I thought, he could help father in his gardening, in tilling the piece of land that we inherited from my grandfather.

The moment Anto woke up, an hour before the chickens crowed at dawn, he cleaned the yard, a habit he developed, sweeping away the fallen dried leaves of the mango tree; getting rid of the garbage. Then he would water Father's vegetables, and before having breakfast, he would feed the three pigs, and also the chickens. Almost all the time, I was only in the house lounging, in front of the typewriter, while Anto was with Father in the field. Sometimes, I went to Manila, submitting stories or articles to publications and not only a few times did I persuade Anto to at least see the city.

"Ala'y, I'm okay here, Manong. No one would help Father," he always reasoned in that full but cold voice of his.

In my opinion, it was like Anto was getting along well and also happy staying with us. Father treated him well like a son. But with all that, I had not still seen him laugh or at least smile. As if that wide lips was totally abandoned even by the slightest show of smirk.

"That boy Anto is industrious," Father once told me. "But doesn't he know how to laugh?"

"You also notice," I said.

"Is he really that way?" Father seemed incredulous.

After we had harvested and Father had sold several sacks of rice, and also the pigs that Anto raised by himself, he bought some clothes for Anto, and two hundred chicks so that, he said, Anto would have some form of diversion. Because Anto did not make friends, not even go downtown on Sunday to watch movies, and most of all, he did not drink. At night he would listen to the radio for a short time, some singing and music and then go to sleep.

Anto really took care of the chicks; he almost would not let ants crawl into their coop, which he himself made from bamboo he himself cut down. But one morning, I had just wakened when I hear Anto's voice, not soft but loud, not cool but angry.

"Ala'y, *********!" It was only then I heard him cuss. "Ala'y, I'll kill those rats."

There were about five chicks dead in the coop, gnawed by rats. That night, Anto did not sleep. I saw him went into the coop of the chicks carrying a flashlight and a club and sat in a dark corner while tightly holding a rather big piece of wood.

When I woke up the next morning, Anto greeted me grinning almost from ear to ear, like he wanted to laugh, while holding two big rats by the tail, their bodies mangled from whacking.

"Ala'y, Manong, I killed the sons of *******!" Anto said. "See this?" and he slightly dangled the dead rats.

My jaws dropped. I was stumped.

One afternoon, Anto had just returned from the field, I asked him to buy Ginebra at the store nearby. I couldn't continue my writing then, like my brain was water that refuses to flow, like there was a slab of steel weighing down my chest. Just a few moments after, Anto returned running, holding a bottle of Ginebra, grinning again and his big eyes were lively.

"Did you hear, Manong?" he immediately asked me.

"What?"

"Ala'y, Manong." His entire gums seemed to show in the wideness of his grin. "What else? Ala'y Ka Berta just died...that gossipmonger in our place. She died in her sleep and it was said that her lips were askew. Ay, Manong, she is still biting her tongue."

I could not continue my writing all the more. I just drank. And when we all sat down to have supper with Father, Anto had a large appetite and the way he put food in his mouth was in large mouthfuls and rapid.

It was long before I fell asleep that night. The image of Anto's grin keep playing in my mind.

That event repeated one day when I just returned from Manila, after submitting a story in magazine they said to be famous. Because I was fortunate to have been able to collect payment for an article that had been published, I thought of buying a pair of rubber shoes and a pair of socks for Anto so that, I thought, he may have something proper to wear if he wants to stroll downtown, because his shoes were riddled with holes and seemed to be too small for his big feet.

Anto immediately welcomed me back, he was grinning, his eyes almost seemed to laugh.

"My pasalubong for you, Anto." But he did not even noticed what I handed him.

"Ay, Manong Roger!" Anto seemed to want to burst into laughter. "Ay, Manong Roger...I'm sure that you still don't know. Ala'y, Ka Ignacio's house has just burned down...grazed to the ground. Nothing was spared not even their clothes. Ala'y until now, Ka Ignacio is crying...like he's going crazy!"

The one Anto was referring to was one of the rich proprietors, who owned twenty hectares of fields in our place, and according to his farmers, who was deceitful in the division of harvest, bringing home even the tulyapis. And when collecting debt, he would get the harvest of his farmer leaving nothing just so that he is paid.

Anto did not even open the shoe box, did not even ask what it was.


Misfortune must have been born with us, entwined with our lives. And poverty was really difficult to escape from, like a shadow that hovers then suddenly attacks, undiscriminating of time or situation, and disrespectful of feelings and thoughts.

Suddenly one dusk, Anto brought Father home from the field, writhing from stomach ache, his whole body almost turning cold. Because the town was too far and there was no doctor in our barrio, I asked Anto to fetch the albularyo Ka Mento. We roasted some rice, made it into something like coffee, and made Father to drink it. Ka Mento also asked to get a few banaba leaves, which he singed with fire and made a poultice for Father's stomach. But Ka Mento's reputation as an albularyo would be tarnished.

Very early the next morning, I took out from a small chest in a corner of the room a small amount of money Father had saved. I hired a karitela, and Anto and I helped Father to get on it. We brought him to town, to a reputedly good doctor. But the doctor just suggested that we bring Father to the hospital, for he said that his ulcer was at its worst condition and he needed operation.

The ambulance of the municipal hall brought Father to the provincial hospital. We were forced to pawn a piece of land, which Father inherited from his father, to Ka Mamerto, another big property owner in our town. I was obliged to sign, with Father's permission, a document which said that if we cannot redeem the land after harvest time Ka Mamerto will have the right to confiscate it, to seize it.

Father became well enough to be discharged from the hospital, but still he needed rest for a few months more. So, Anto took all his responsibility in the field. I saw in Anto's face a strong commitment to do all that he can to take good care of the crop, get rid of pests and weeds. The sun had already set whenever he got home now.

The fresh crop was fragrant, the rice grains robust, the vegetables healthy, and Anto's chickens fat. Hope was within reach, dangling and only waiting for the right time to be picked.

"If we get lucky," I said to Father one night in front of the dining table, "we will be able to pay Ka Mamerto. We are greatly indebted to Anto."

Anto was very happy that night he did not immediately went to sleep. He listened to singing and music in our little radio for a long time.

But, only a month before harvest, misfortune, as if willed by opportunity or granted by God, came like a monstrous crocodile that attacked, snapped and chewed even the littlest fiber of our hopes. A strong typhoon came, flooded the land and totally destroyed Father's crops, and some pestilence came upon Anto's fat chickens that one by one they suffered and died.

"Don't worry." Father remained strong. "I will ask Ka Mamerto to gives us until the next harvest to pay. He will understand."

Since then, Anto had lost his appetite, he hardly ate at all. In the morning, he no longer bothered to sweep the yard and he was often unresponsive. In the field, if he was with Father to clean up what the typhoon had wrought, he usually sat down on the levee, staring in space. He also no longer listened to the radio at night, he would immediately lie down and bury his face in the pillow.

Father failed in his request with Ka Mamerto.

"Ala'y, what will happen to us, Manong? Where will we move?" Anto's voice was no longer cool that night, about three days after Ka Mamerto confiscated the land, which Anto seemed to have loved so much. Father was by the window, his head resting on one hand, and as if looking for something outside in the vast darkness.

"Bahala na," I said absently. "buy me a Ginebra instead."

"Ala'y, let me also drink, Manong...just two gulps," Anto was emphatic and there was fierceness in his big eyes.

I had two bottles of Ginebra that night and I did not remember if Anto drank or not.

The following day, news spread that Ka Mamerto was killed, his throat slit, his stomach ripped open and, it was said, his intestines bulged out.

Since then Anto disappeared.

Now, I have a wife and two children.

And until now I am searching for him.

[asterisk]

Emmanuel


By Edgardo M. Reyes
Translated from the Filipino





My bet was he was twenty-six years old. Fair. Tall. With prominent nose. Languid eyes. Thick eyebrows. Fingers like a woman’s. Dressed in gray corduroy pants and sky-blue skipper. I had just spent a vacation in Naga through a friend’s invitation, and when I was returning to Manila by train; we sat together in a first-class car.

A long trip is tiringly monotonous. With nothing else to do, I got into talking with him. He did not speak much, but he was a good listener. He had a sad voice, and his few replies to my questions seemed to be tinged with mystery.

I got to ask him where he came from.

“I came from many places,” he answered.

“Traveling?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know.”

In the infrequent times that he speaks, I was sure he possessed extensive knowledge. Any topic of discussion I brought up, he had a grasp on it: art, science, history, religion, politics.

In a short time, we reached Manila. Before we parted ways we shook hands and got know a little about each other.

“Visit me at home sometimes.”

He gave me his address; I marked it in my mind, and when we separated, wrote it at the back of a box of matches.

I do not know what drew me to Emmanuel to want that we see each other again. I visited him after five days. Perhaps, the word amazed is too much, but I really was amazed to see the house he lived in.

It is hard to describe that house. What I can only say is that before I can build one such house I need to win first prize in an ordinary sweepstake draw. There was a red Thunderbird in the carport.

Before a servant let me in, she let Emmanuel know of my arrival. Emmanuel was in the living room, stretched on a long divan. He was wearing a pair of white shorts and he was shirtless. His legs were hirsute. His face was ruddy: perhaps because of liquor. He had been drinking. Emmanuel smiled but did not rise. He motioned to a sofa. I sat carefully.

“How are you, brod?” he greeted.

“Here” was my sheepish response.

“We will drink, brod.” The whole house was fully furnished with modern amenities. There was a hi-fi. There was a television. There was a telephone. Electric fan. There was a piano.

“If I know you are like this,” I said while pouring myself whiskey in a glass just handed to me by a servant, “maybe, I will have several thoughts before coming here.”

“Ow.” He knew what I meant. “That’s nothing.”

I asked who else lived there.

“Only me, and some house help.”

As we talked, I learned he was an orphan. His parents died in an accident while traveling the world. He said that the plane his parents were in crashed in Rome. His only sibling, an older brother, was already married.

“I finished Medicine, but I am not practicing it,” he said. “That was not I really wanted, but Mommy asked me to. Mommy was a doctor. But come to think of it, I did not really know then what course I really wanted. You?”

“I took Commerce but I stopped.”

“Why?”

“Fell short of resources,” I admitted jokingly.

“So, you just work?”

“Counting stars. If the mood is right, I write…telling silly stories.”

The sky was darkening when I said goodbye. Emmanuel showed me to the gate.

“Come again,” he said.

I nodded even if I was not sure if I would ever return to that house.


But I returned after two weeks. And like the first time I was there, I found Emmanuel drinking again. He suddenly had a drinking buddy. In our boasting bout he asked me if I like women.

“We’re men, brod,” I said.

“What kind of woman then do you like?”

“Beautiful, kind, affectionate. You?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get a girl, you want?”

Something moved inside my chest.

“If you ask if I want, I really want. But I am not ready for it now.”

“Money?” He could sense something keenly.

I nodded.

“Ow, that’s not a problem.”

He called someone in the telephone.

“We’ll fetch them by eleven,” Emmanuel said as he put down the receiver.

I had my dinner there. By seven in the evening, we were already in the Thunderbird. We passed by a flower shop and bought two corsages. I knew what the flowers were for and I thought I would be with not just any girl. My hunch was not wrong. The two women we fetched, from houses like palaces, were both beautiful like mannequins. Myrla was the name of my partner. We sat together at the rear seat of the Thunderbird. Because of Myrla’s beauty, and of the fragrance I smelled from her, I wanted to fall into reverie.

We went to a nightclub-we drank, boasted, danced, drank, danced. Our conversations were a mixture of English and Tagalog. We got out of the nightclub late into the night. We caught some fresh air on the seashore. It was dark, but it was discernible that Emmanuel was kissing his partner. His girlfriend, I presumed. Myrla, with whom I did not even let our hands brushed against each other, was looking at my face whenever I turned to glance at her.

“I got wilted with your friend, Manny,” Myrla said and laughed.

It was already dawn when we dropped the two women off.

“You, where will I drop you off?” Emmanuel asked.

“I’ll just take a cab from here.”

But Emmanuel was insistent, so I let him dropped me off at my apartment. Along the way, he told me the reason why Myrla laughed at me.

“They’re modern. You can hold them. You can kiss them…for the fun of it, as they say. If you don’t do that, it’s like they are insulted.”


I never thought, even in my wildest imagination, that my acquaintance with Emmanuel would lead to us being best of friends. My visits to his house became frequent. If night caught us still talking, accompanied by drinking, he would invite me to sleep over. I also often had lunch or dinner there. But while we were getting closer, the more he became mysterious to me.

There were times when it seemed that he was not himself. I would happen to look at him staring at nothingness, as if in the jaws of deep thought. And when he noticed me noticing him, he would suddenly smile.

One day, while reading in his library, I heard Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu played on the piano. I went out. Emmanuel was on the piano. After playing, I applauded.

“I didn’t know you play,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulder.


We went out frequently: bowling, swimming in beach resorts together with different women that you can kiss for the fun of it.

“Just don’t fall with anyone of them, brod,” Emmanuel advised me.

“Why?”

“They’re rich, brod. They are hard to please even if, let’s say, you are also rich.”

I thought what Emmanuel said was deep. I looked at him. He smiled, but as if imbued with mystery.

One night, I noticed Emmanuel looking dazed.

“Are you happy, brod?” he asked, and I got stumped.

“Sometimes,” I replied, “but most of time not.”

“In the moments that you’re not happy, do you know the reason why?”

“Of course. Failure, for example.”

“Does money have something to do with it?”

“Largely.”

The languidness of his eyes became more pronounced.

“Do you envy my station in life?” he asked.

“Who doesn’t?”

“I woke up amidst plenty. My parents were kind and loving. Whatever I asked they had given me. Daddy, before he died, was president of a shipping company. When they died in the accident, I sold all the possessions I inherited, and it reached about more than a million. The world is mine, I had said to myself. I would get all the happiness money can give me. And that time, what I knew of happiness consists of having a girl on your lap, having a beautiful house, car, servants. You can buy what you want to buy. You can go to places you want to go. You can taste whatever you want to taste. I squandered money here and there. This angered my brother. ‘Why don’t you invest your money in a business?’ he asked. But I didn’t want to go into business. I saw the hardship daddy went through putting up a business. And even Daddy himself said that there’s no peace in holding a high position. As a result, I thought that his principle in life was wrong. The pursuit of money, I had said to myself, did not bring happiness. It’s the spending.”

“Right.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not happy with your kind of life?”

“That’s the sad thing…knowing that you have everything to make you happy, but still you are not happy. You…if you are not happy, you know why. But me, I don’t know, even though I feel like I am looking for something I don’t even know what it is. What lacks in me? I have traveled the world. I’ve been in all parts of the Philippines. I gambled. Wine. Women. I bought everything I fancied. I read a lot of books. I studied piano maybe, as they say, what I was looking for was in the arts. Whenever I go, nothing.”



I heard a continuous blowing of a horn-a familiar sound-and when I looked out of the window of my apartment I saw Emmanuel’s Thunderbird.

Emmanuel made me dress up. We went to a cocktail lounge in Malate, and drank.

“Next month, maybe, I’ll go away,” he announced. “I want to travel.”

“You’ve traveled already, haven’t you?”

“But this is different. Perhaps this time, I won’t return.”

I was shaken. But I did not let him notice it.

“What will become of the things you will leave behind?”

“Give them to my brother.”

If I were a woman, perhaps I would have cried over our parting. The sun was setting and things swirled around us. We shook hands, tightly. Emmanuel was smiling, but there was nothing beautiful in the way he smiled. And perhaps, so was mine.

“Good luck,” I said, giving him a pat at the shoulder.

When he boarded the plane, I thought perhaps I was seeing him for the last time.

[asterisk]

To The Earth of One's One Town

By Rogelio R. Sikat
Translated from the Filipino





His mother died when he was only five years old. The year had not been replaced by another when his father followed. he was adopted by the brother of his father; no one else would adopt him.

"He was just asking for two cents from his Tata Indo he needed to cry for it the whole afternoon." With this statement Father frequently described the stinginess and cruelty of Layo's stepfather. "Then, that Layo would come here, to your mother and cry. Then, he would scurry away so fast after your mother had given him three cents."

There had been a big change in the life of that boy Father was talking about. From a bullied childhood, he was now a known defender in the city. Talk to any lawyer or to anyone studying law and most likely he knows who Atty. Pedro Enriquez is. That lawyer will say that he is good. He's a topnotcher, that lawyer will tell you. The law student will say that he is good but strict in class. (Layo is also teaching law in a university and he flunked a student from San Roque once) Layo has three offices: one in Escolta, one in Echague (in the top floor of a big hotel there), and one in Intramuros, in the biggest building standing there now.

Before he became bedridden he came home to our town San Roque. It was vacation time and I was also in San Roque. He was with his wife and two children. They went by car--and a car seldom passes by San Roque. The car stopped in front of our small house.

"We came from San Fernando (his wife's hometown), and Ising and the children asked to come here. They want to see San Roque." Layo doesn't want to come home to our town; it is perhaps true that the bitterest memories a person keeps come from his own town. Layo still does not forget his grievances against San Roque--even now that his cruel Tata Indo is dead and even now that his life is comfortable.

They did not stay long in that visit. After the family finished the refreshments, they said goodbye. They got into the car and they did not return since.

But even then, he and Father frequently saw each other in Manila. Father is a retired teacher. A kumpare asked his help in a case concerning inheritance. His kumpare and his siblings were running after a vast piece of land in San Jose amounting to more than half a million pesos. Father recommended Layo, and they came to him with this case.
Every time Father and his kumpare went to Manila they passed by the dorm where I stayed. I went with them to Layo.
I learned many things accompanying them to Layo's office. Layo's house in Quezon City is big. His land in Isabela is vast. He was the one who persecuted this and that politician; he is the author of this and that law book. He was the lawyer of that big corporation.

Layo is really famous and successful.

But he still doesn't forget his grievances for San Roque.

"I can't even visit the graves of Father and Mother," Layo once said to us. Father's kumpare had gone ahead to where he stayed in Caloocan and Layo had brought us to his house. There, when we were the only ones left, he dropped off his lawyer behavior, habits and words. He also took off his barong Tagalog, and he was in his undershirt when they were having conversation.

It was about the graves of his Father and Mother that he could not forget. San Roque's cemetery was still then; it is better now with its fences and big niches. Perhaps, the graves of Layo's parents — his Father and Mother would also be pitiful if they have lived through Layo's climb to success became included in a piece of land bought by Gallego, the riches man in our town. There now stands a big coop for chickens in that part of the cemetery for Gallego has a big poultry farm. It is said that with just chicken droppings Gallego was able to buy a cargo truck; those droppings were shoveled by workers on top of former graves and were sold to milkfish fisheries.

Layo's assistant lawyer was the one arranging the case that Father helped in when Layo became bedridden. Father still passed by the dorm. That was my request to him; Father was old and I was afraid in crossing streets he might be run over by cars. It was now seldom that he was accompanied by his kumpare; he might have thought he was on Father's way, that was why he just went with the lawyer in hearings.

Father and I visited Layo, who Father already considered a nephew not because we wanted to be known as rich relatives (a man's relatives get many when he becomes rich), but because Layo himself considered Father and us a blood relatives.

"You are the only ones who I can consider as relatives in San Roque," he once said to Father and me. "You're the only ones, Uncle Julio, Ben."

Layo lost a lot of weight since he got sick. Now he was very pallid. We frequently saw him with his beard thick. He was a small man and he became much smaller in my sight when he got sick. Only his head got bigger. (That Layo is really smart, my Father frequently said, with that big head!).

He stayed in a private room in the hospital. His wife did not leave him. Sometimes, one of his children. Fe, the youngest, was there. Layo's wife did not speak much; she was formerly a dressmaker in San Fernando. Now that Layo was bedridden, only relatives in Ising's side came to visit him.

"No one from San Roque came here?" Father once asked.
"I don't expect them, Uncle Julio."

We just learned recently about the nature of his sickness. Father talked to the docdtor who attended to him. he said tha a large part of his intestines had been taken out.

"I hope we also took off the the cancerous part," the doctor had said.

That was when Layo had his second operation.

He did not need a third operation. When we talked to the doctor again, he said that the cancer had spread through out his intestines and three months were the longest time Layo's life could last.

Father said that Layo was only 37 years old. When we went back to the room, I intently looked at him. He was too young to die. He was famous; he still had not yet reached the peak of fame. Who knows, I said to Father when were on our way home, if he is going to be judge someday?

In the three moths the doctor gave as his term we frequently paid him a visit. Layo wanted us to visit him frequently. if we did nto visit him for a week, he would fee bad about it. He asked if we were getting tired of visiting him.

"I am getting boared here, Uncle Julio," he said to Father.

I was surprised that Layo knew the nature of his sickness.

"I have cancer, Uncle Julio, and I did not even know it," he said jocularly to Father.
"That's life for you." He laughed a little. "To think that I, a very strong man, have cancer."

He spoke as if it was the most ordinary thing he can say. I looked at Ising who was also in the room, listenign to our conversation. What did Ising feel? Ising was sitting on the sofa. When she had opened the door to let us in, it had seemed that she was about to cry. Now after hearing what Layo said she was silently wiping her tears.

"I thought at first it was only ulcer, " Layo continued. "It is not. This is the vilest. Why did it choose me, Uncle Julio?"

"Maybe you always forget to ear," Father said for lack of something to say.

Layo looked at the ceiling. "Yes, I seldom are, Uncle Julio," he said. "I starved most of the time. Working during the say, studying at night. I had even worked for a newspaper," he said turning to me for he knew I was interested in working in a newspaper. I studied journalism. "I was city editor," he said and mentioned a small, decent but defunct newspaper, "when I resigned. The life of a writer is hard...hard."

Father and I had nothing to say so we let him speak. He had a hard time speaking, but we saw he wanted to speak. It was like it was helping him; it was like it lessened the pain he endured.

Layo laughed softly.

"Earlier, Ising and I were talking, Uncle Julio — oy, Ising, I am telling them what I just said to you about where I will be buried. Here in Manila, I had said, I want to be buried here in Manila."

"Let's not talk that," said Father. "You talk —"

"But, Uncle Julio, I am not expecting to get any better, " Layo said smiling. "Don't bur me in San Roque, Uncle Julio. Don't. Here in Manila."

Father stood. "Ben and I are leaving if you don't stop."

The still smiling Layo raised his pale and bony hand.

"Oh, Uncle Julio," Layo said, slightly shaking his head. "Okay," he asid and then turned to me, "let's talk about other things. Uncle Julio is afraid. Have you ben published, Ben."

I did not answer him. Many things came to my mind while looking at him. I saw in him a desire to be strong inf ace fo a pending death. You failed, Layo, you failed. You are also afraid; you're only feigning courage. Why don't you admit that you're afraid? And about this burial in San Roque, if you don't want to be buried there, why do you keep bringing in up?

"Ben is so thoughtful," Layo pointed his pale finger at me. "He perhaps does write."

He then looked at Father. "Visit me more often, Uncle Julio. Why don't you stay at our house? Only Ising and the kids are there. You may be having difficulty going home to the province."

Father only promised to visit often.

Layo was very weak when we paid him a visit again. His voice was hoarse and he could barely move his hands.

Now, his tenacity was gone. Now, he was crying.

"How piteous Ising is," he said. "How piteous my children are, Leave them to you, Uncle Julio, Ben. Lok after them."

It was to Father's care that he left matters about his burial. here in Manila, he had said again. I'll be buried alone, Uncle Julio, but I want to be buried here.

"Pray," Father advised, "forget now your grievances. It will be bad to bring them to your grave."

"It's difficult to forget, Uncle Julio. Do you remember those days when I was just a child? When I could not find Father's and Mother's graves? I had nowhere to go home to, Uncle Julio. I'll be also alone."

Father bowed his silvered head; even he wanted to cry by what Layo said.

"No one among us did not come home, Layo," Father said. "no one did not come home to his own town. There are some who died in America after living there fo a long time, but their last wishes were to be buried here."

"What you said is beautiful, Uncle Julio."

"No one did not come home to his own town, Layo said. Even you will eventually come home."

All comes home to their own towns, I also wanted to say to Layo. You may be here, but your soul starts to journey homeward. Your childhood may have been bitter there, your experiences may have been bitter there; but don't say you will not return.

Now, he was not looking at me, not a Father, not even at Ising. He was looking at the ceiling. His jaws were propped up and his eyes were like the eyes of a blind man. I know his soul is on a journey; somehow I know where it is going.

I wanted to think that it would be our town. I wanted to think that Layo's soul is on its journey towards our town; I wanted to think that now his pains are falling like dead leaves; I wanted to think that in his soul's journey, in his return journey, he finds peace...

Layo's death was in the newspapers.

The newspapers said that his remains would be buried in San Roque.
Layo's coffin was carried by a black car.

From Manila, it passed through towns.

It stopped at municipal halls. The driver went out and made known their passing.

It was afternoon when it arrived at San Roque.

In San Roque, many waited to attend Layo's funeral.

Waiting for him was the earth of his own hometown.

[tRiStAn]

Roel, nanalo ba translations mo? :)

[vijdaq]

Nice, quaint stories...never read them before. Good thing you translated them, asterisk! I wouldn't have got to read them otherwise...

Nobody writes like that anymore...those stories have a 1950s sensibility to them, or perhaps early 60s...reading them is like listening to golden oldies on the radio on a Sunday afternoon...

I read them as stories in English and they read pretty well...I just wish you could clean up the grammar a bit, you know, make the tenses agree, for one...well, I guess you get a bit careless here and there...well, they're nicely done translations for all that!

A technical question: shouldn't you have put them in a new thread?

[asterisk]

Taks, I didn't get the grant. Krip Yuson did. Oh, well, I was up against Krip. No wonder. But I did get a commendation from Rio Alma himself. That I should continue and finish the whole thing. I think the NCCA wants to publish it. That's very swell and all. But the money from the grant would be a very welcome thing.

Vijdaq, I admit being careless, especially with "Anto," which was really on its first draft. But with the others, well, the tense shift is, err, intentional. The two stories have an I narrator, so the verbs are in the present tense when the narrator is in the current state of mind of referring to a current situation and the other verbs in the past tense when he relates something that happened in the past. Like in Emmanuel, the sentence "A long trip is tiringly monotonous." is a general statement of fact, referring to all trips and not particularly the trip in the story. And then this is folowed by "With nothing else to do, I got into talking with him."

Anyway, this can get confusing for sometimes, so I bungled a little bit. And the Tagalog in the stories can get very convoluted. Anyway, after the whole thing, I am gonna run through them again. Thanks.

[asterisk]

Mga Agos Sa Disyerto, by the way, was published in 1964. It marked the turning point for fiction in Filipino. From a romantic mode, fiction in Filipino got a dose of socio-realism. The book was compilation of stories by "rebel" writers who included Efren Abueg, Rogelio Sikat, Rogelio Ordonez, Dominador Mirasol and Edgardo Reyes. Most of the stories in the book are prize-winning, Palancas mostly. The first edition was privately printed. The writers pool their resources to print the book. One money-making strategy was to write a novel to be serialized in Liwayway. So they compromised their literary ideals to make money. They took turns in writing the serial. After the book was printed, a shabby affair of uneven pages, they sold them themselves. They did not sell a single copy until a businessman took the responsibility of marketing the book, saying "Ang manunulat hindi nagbebenta ng libro." (The writer should not sell books). Anyway, this getting long.

Vijdaq, can't you read stories in Tagalog?

[SUX2BU]

asterisk, just send your works for translation in Spanish and even Portuguese. I'm looking for a good publishing house here. I hope we can work on something this year. My travelogues are kinda messy right now. I'm still editing and editing and editing. I hope the UST gives us a slot, pronto! :)

[mac_bolan00]

i think you should put in more girls with less clothes on.

[SUX2BU]

Cara de picha.

[mac_bolan00]

tu hermana.

[SUX2BU]

:lol:

Ikaw talaga kahit saan pumunta si God mo eh sinusundan mo. Mali pa context ng Spanish mo sa sinabi ko. Tsk.Tsk. Tsk.

This is supposed to be a sacred thread for authors and writers, and you are just a boring, bland and cheap bank employee. Well, being your God, a Thomasian, and your being my polyhistor from UP, I do understand. I do really understand. :)

[asterisk]

BAGYO AT BALANG



Matibay na tao si Amang. Matatag. Nanunuot na ang abuhing putik sa aking nga kuo at namamanhid na rin sa lamig ang aking mga kamay sa katutusok ng murang palay sa lupa, patuloy pa rin si Amang sa pagtatanim at hindi man lamang nabawasan ng tiyaga. May kahusayan at liksi pa rin ang kanyang mga kilos. Ngawit na ako sa kayuyukod , mainam pa rin siya sa kanyang gawain. Manakanaka lamang siynag humihinto upang lumanghap ng malamig na hangin. Kung mayroon mang bahid ng pagod ang kanyang mukha ay nahahawi agad ito ng kaunting ngiti.

Nang matapos na kami’y inilagay niya ang makapal niyang palad sa aking balikat at aming pinagmasdan ang malawak na bukirin na nalalatagan ng luntiang alpombra ng palay, ng pira-pirasong kisap ng araw mula sa burak. Nagsisimula nang magbunyi ang mga palaka at kuliglig. Lumalagitik ang hangin. Sa maapoy na tabing ng dapithapon, nakatindig siya nang may pagmamalaki, isang bantayog na ‘di matitinag. “Anak, mahalin mo ang lupang ito,” bigkas niya. Isiniwalat ng hangin ang kanyang tinig. Hindi ako umimik. Hindi ko pa batid ang alab ng kanyang salita. Lalo pang tumingkad ang kulay ng dapithapon. Nakakabuwag na hamon ang darating na pangyayari.

Lumadlad na ang dilim. Nagkalampagan ang mga yero. Dumagundong ang pusod ng kalangitan. Narito ako, nakaupo’t nakikinig sa haluyhoy ng unos at lagitik ng mga sanga. Mabuti’t halos yari sa bato ang bahay. Kung hindi ay kanina pa ito iginupo ng hangin. Umaandap-andap ang bumbilya hanggang sa tuluyang mawalan ng ilaw. Sinindihan ni Inang ang ilawang tinghoy. Kumalampag ang pinto. Humampas sa aming mukha ang malamig na habagat. Sinenyasan ako ni Amang. Nilusob namin ang mabangis na karimlan. Pumapagaspas ang aming damit at buhok. Ang manakanakang patak ng ulan ay mga balaraw na subyang, sumasaksak sa aking saloobin.

Umakyat kami ni Amang sa bubungan at nagsimula siyang kumpunihin ito upang huwag matangay ng hangin ang mga yero. Bitbit ko ang ilawang kolman, isang alitaptap sa gitna ng rumaragasang laot ng gabi. Ang bawat kagungkong ng pukpok ay isang pagpupumilit na basagin ang higanteng panaghoy ng bagyo habang pilit ko naming tinutupok ang leilo ng pangamba. Nang matapos na kami ay tumago si Amang sa akin at bumaba na kami.

Tinungo namin ang aming bangan. Kaunti na lamang at matitinag na ito. Naririnig ko na ang lagitik ng kalansay nitong kawayan. Kumuha si Amang ng dalawang malalaking “puno.” Tinukuran niya ang tabi ng bangan, ubos-kayang nilalabanan ang paglusob ng unos. Sa tingin ko ay kaya niyang lipulin ang buhawi sa pamamagitan ng kanyang bisig. Sa tingin ko ay isa siyang bantayog, isang bundok—at ako ay isang alabok.

Hanggang sa dunggot ng gabi ay hindi ako makatulog. Nakinig ako sa yugyog ng hangin at nag-isip kung ano ang nangyayari sa labas. Pumanaw na ang bagyo sa pag-usbong ng dapit-umaga.

Maaliwalas na ang luntiang kalawakan ng bukid. Nakatayo kami sa may gilid ng palayan. Sinisipa-sipa ko ang nakatiwangwang na mga talulot at pilas-pilas na dahon ng saging habang pinagmamasdan ni Amang ang mga pananim na walang-awang sinuyod ng unos sa isang gawi. Nakita kong kinagat niya ang kanyang barak na labi. Mula sa pagkakakuyom ng kanyang matigas na kamao ay inilahad niya ang pagod na mga daliri at dinaklot ang isang murang palay na lulutang-lutang sa putikan. Itinayo niya ito. Hindi niya pinabayaang manaig sa kanya ang siphayo, ni bumakas man ito sa kanyang mukha. At nagsimula kaming muli. Hindi pabubuyo si Amang sa panglaw at pagtangis ng kapaligiran. Lumusong kami sa mala-yelong tubig. Nanunuot ang lamig sa aking buto. Sa unahan ko, tila hindi nabawasan ng lakas ni Amang. Patuloy pa rin siya sa maigi niyang paggawa. Matatag na tao si Amang. Samantala’y nagsaboy na ng silahis ang langit.


Nagkaluskusan ang hinog na mga butil sa tilamsik ng liwanag. Nagluluto si Inang ng ginataan habang nakakalat ang aking mga krayola at abala sa pagguhit. Iginuhit ko ang mga bundok at burol, ang ilog at bukid. Iginuhit ko si Amang at ang bagyong matagal na ring nakalipas nguni’t sariwa pa sa aking isipan. Pumasok ang nakakaginhawang hangin sa bukas na bintana kung saan nakadungaw si Amang. Hindi siya mapakalihabang nakatanaw sa ginintuang palayan.

“Siguro naman hindi gagawi rito ‘yon,” sabi ni Inang.

“Maari sing dito dumaan ang salot,” tumingin ulit si Amang sa kumakaway na bukid.

Dinapuan kasi ang bayan ng Catablan ng salot na nga baling at malaki-laki rin naman ang nasirang mga tanim.

Kumaluskos ang mga puno sa ihip ng hanging nandambong ng samyo sa kumukulong ginataan ni Inang. Nakaukit ang anino ni Amang sa may bintana, sa kalangitang walang ulap at matingkad sa liwanag ng hapon.

Di-kawasa’y kumaripas na palabas si Amang. Hinablot niya ang nakasampay na kumot. Hinabol naming siya ni Inang na may dala pang sundang hanggang sa kalawakan ng bukirin. Sinuong namin ang laot ng dahon at butil. Sa ‘di kalayuan, nakita namin ang isang balangay ng maiitim na tuldok, maliliit nguni’t namumutiktik. Nakamasid doon si Amang, nakasakbat ang kumot sa balikat, nag-aabang. Maya-maya’y umusad nang papalapit ang pulutong, humuhugong. Mahilam-hilam ang aking paningin dahil sa sikat ng papahimlay na araw. Ang nakikita ko lamang ay maiilap na mga anino sa wisik-wisik na liwanag. Samantala’y naroon si Amang. Iwinawagwag niya nang ubos-lakas ang kumot sa hanging tigib ng balang sa pagtatangkang bugawin ang ganid na mga kulisap. Sinikap kong itaboy ng mga kamay ang ilan. Ginamit ni Inang ang dala niyang sundang. Patuloy pa ring nagdapuan ang mga balang sa tanim na palay. Pilit naming binugaw ang mga ito. Walang kapagurang hinampas ni Amang ang mga naglipanang kulisap sa paligid niya. Hindi ko alam kung gaano na katagal naming ginawa ito. Patuloy pa rin si Amang sa kabubugaw. Matatag na tao si Amang.

Hapung-hapo akong napaupo sa pilapil. Basang-basa ng pawis ang aking katawan. Naninikit na ang alikabok sa aking balat. Tinanggal ko ang mga balang na nagsidapo sa akin. Naririnig ko pa rin ang pagaspas ng walang-hanggang pag-asa ni Amang. Hanggang sa maging mahinay ito. Namumula na ang kalangitan. Magdadapithapon na. Tumayo ako. Nakita ko si Amang sa gitna ng palayan. Tahimik siyang nakayukod doon. Isiniwalat ng hangin ang kanyang marahang paghinga at paghagulhol. Sa pagkakataong ito, kami’y mga anino lamang sa pagitan ng bukid at ng mamula-mulang langit. Naramdaman ko hindi ang kahinaan ni Amang kundi ang alab at tatag ng kanyang mga salita: “Anak, mahalin mo ang lupang ito.”


Ang akdang ito ay nanalo ng unang gantimpala sa 1991 Gantimpalang Ani

[sadirmata]

ang ganda ng BAGYO AT BALANG! sino ba ang sumulat niyan, asterisk?

[asterisk]

Ako po.

[sadirmata]

galing nyo rin pala talaga sa filipino! sumasali po ba kayo sa filipino division sa palanca?

i wish na makabasa rin ng inyong mga tula sa filipino!

[asterisk]

di pa eh. Kapag siguro may matindi akong naisulat.

Mga tula sa Filipino. Kaunti lang tula ko sa Filipino. pero hanapin ko at i-post ko dito.

Nagsusulat ka rin ba, sadirmata?

[sadirmata]

nagsusulat din. minsan-minsan lang.

aabangan ko ang iyong mga tulang filipino.

[TripleThreat]

nice

[asterisk]

PANTASMAGORYA



Naawa siya sa sapatos niya. Bigay ito ng Papa niya galing Saudi. Galing daw ito sa Switzerland at mahal ang pagkakabili dahil yari sa mahusay na materyal. Maganda nga. Sopistikado ang dating. Pero ngayo’y mukhang sagana na sa galos at binudburan na ng alikabok. Lintik kasi itong tabing daan. Puro lubak at may mga mumunting burol gawa ng hukay ng MWSS na hindi inigihan ang pagtambak muli ng lupa. Puro bato at mga durog na tipak ng semento. Nais niyang bagtasin na lang ang mismong kalsadang aspalto ngunit baka siya mahagip ng mga sasakyang manakanakang dumadaloy ditto. Lintik kasi iyong hirap sa pagsakay sa Guadalupe. Agawan. Sobra talaga ang dami ng tao. Lumaki naman ang ulo ng mga drayber ng mga dyipni. Sasabihin nila na kesyo hindi raw sila magsasakay. Ay, ewan! Aabuting ka talaga ng siyam-siyam. May pila noon pero nawala rin. Paano naman, hindi umaandar masyado ang pila. Kaya heto siya, lalakarin na lang niya hanggang sa kanila. ‘Di hamak na mas maaga siyang makakauwi kaysa makikipagsapalaran siya sa Guadalupe.

Pero ang kalsada ay hindi nakalapat sa patag na lugar. May konting pagkaburol. Ito ang nagpapahirap sa paglalakad. Mabigat. Mamimintig talaga ang mga binti mo, at pagpapawisan ka ng malagkit. Bubulwak din ang alikabok kapag may dumaang trak. Kaya sa pagdating mo sa bahay, punasan mo ang mukha mo dahil puwede ka nang magtanim ng kamote sa katawan. Mahika-hika na nga siya sa kakalakad. Dapat hinay lang sa paglalakad upang hindi agad maubusan ng lakas. Pero sa pagkakataong ito napangunahan siya ng agam-agam dala ng pananaig ng karimlan ng lugar na ito. Madaling dadaloy sa pag-iisip ang mga bitak-bitak ng pangamba.

Marami na ring namamatay sa lugar na ito. Kadalasa’y nahahagip ng sasakyan. Ang nakapagtataka—at nakakatawa rin—ay ‘di gaanong marami ang sasakyang dumadaloy rito.

Walang liwanag ang karamihan ng mga poste kaya lublob sa karimlan ang daan na manakanakang nahahawi lamang ng liwanag ng buwan, iilang posteng may ilaw at mga nagdaraang mga dyipni o kotse. Malago ang mga talahib at puno ng saging sa gilid ng kanyang dinaraanan. Sa kabila naman ng kalsada ay dumadaloy ang maitim at mabahong Ilog Pasig. Napadaan siya sa isang dambuhalang puno na puspos ng kulubot ang balat, na parang malaking kapreng nagbabantay sa tabing daan. May bumugang liwanag sa likuran niya at bumakat ang mahabang anino sa daan na mabilis na gumapang sa harapan at humampas sa sa mga damo habang humagibis ang sasakyan. May sumunod na sasakyan ay umusbong muli ang anino niyang dumausdos sa paligid niya na parang elisi. Ang galing pagmasdan. Bumulwak ang alikabok at naglipana muli ang dilim na tadtad ng mga butas gawa ng liwanag ng buwan na nagsilusutan sa lago ng mag dahon ng malalaking puno. Napadaan siya sa isang paaralan—mapanglaw at madilim. Narinig niya ang mga tuyong dahon habang kinakaladkad ng hangin sa semento sa bakuran ng paaralan. Ang mga salamin ng mga bintana ay may nakakatakot na kinang na parang mga matang pinagmamasdan siya. Pinupugaran kaya ito ng mga multo? Sumingit sa isipan niya ang mga nabasa niya sa social science section sa kanilang aklatan: “Many people recounting ghostly visits describe a drop in the surrounding temperature just before the ghost appears or a thickening of the atmosphere—as if, according to one observer, ‘the room seemed to get very full of people.’ Others tell of hearing voices, or footsteps where no one is present, seeing strange lights, or smelling distinctive odors, such as tobacco.” (Mysteries of the Unknown: Phantom Encounters ng mga editor ng Time-Life Books, 1987)…“In a classic phantom encounter reported in the mid-1800s, a girl in Clapham, England, reached out to touch her older sister when she unexpectedly appeared. The girl’s hand met emptiness. She believed that she had seen an apparition, for on the same evening her distraught older sister had committed suicide hundred of miles away.” (ibidem)…“The ghost of four-year-old Johnny Minney allegedly visited a guest staying at an English farmhouse in 1965. The woman was occupying the same room where the boy had become terminally ill in 1921.” (ibidem).

Pero hindi siya naniniwala na ang multo ay kaluluwa ng yumao. Napag-aralan niya ito sa mga aklat ng mga Saksi ni Jehova. Totoo ‘yon at nasaliksik na niya. Naniniwala siya na may multo pero ito ay gawa ng mga masasamang espiritu, mga demonyo. Demonyo. Nagulantang siya nang may kumaluskos sa damuhan. Nakita niya ang buwan. Naisip niya ang mga mangkukulam: "The black witch appeared to be human but she could readily change shape, especially at night when she would turn into a carnivorous creature…and sally out to kill babies in their cots, attack adults sexually and murderously, and bring them terrifying dreams.” (A History of Magic ni Richard Cavendish, 1977)…“They made magic powders and ointments by boiling worms, dead men’s flesh and other ingredients in a human skull.” (ibidem)…“Hallowe’en will come, will come,/Witchcraft will be set going,/Fairies will be at full speed,/Running in every pass./Avoid the road, children, children.” (kasabihan sa South Uist at Eriskey).

Ninais niya na sana’y kasama niya si Dennis, ang kanyang kaibigan na madalas kasama niyang pauwi. Eh di, hindi masyadong papasok sa isip niya ang kung anu-ano. Naiba na kasi ang skedyul niya sa pagpasok. Si Dennis ay isa ring estudyanteng manunulat at intelektuwal na katulad niya. Pareho silang mahilig sa pagbabasa at sa mga aklat. Ang kaalaman ay nagdudulot ng kasiyahan at kapangyarihang tumanaw sa mga kalawakan ng buhay at ang namumutiktik na kulay nito. Ito ay parang kinang ng brilyante na nakahuhumaling sa isipang masigla at namumukadkad sa masidhing ganda ng mundo.

Kung magkasama sila, tatalakayin nila ang kagalingan ng mga pelikulang tulad ng Gone with the Wind, The Color Purple, Out of Africa at ipa pa, ang paraan ni Kurosawa sa Dreams. At papabuntung-hininga sila sa kalagayan ng pelikula ditto at magdedebate kung sino talaga ang dahilan ng pagkayurak ng sining na ito: kung ang prodyuser o ang mga manonood. Hihimaymayin nila ang sistema ng pagtuturo dito, ang makitid na pananaw ng mga mag-aaral at mga guro tungkol sa edukasyon. Kasusuyaan nila ito. Nag-aaral lang sila upang makapasa at makapagtarabaho. Sa totoo, nag-aaral tayo upang maging maiging tao, upang lawakan ang ating pananaw sa buhay, upang maging tagapag-alaga ng minana nating kayamang cultural at mga iba pang kaalaman. Pag-uusapan nila ang tungkol sa mga aklat at mga manunulat at ang kanilang pangarap na mapabilang ang kanilang obra sa immortal na mga pamagat sa aklatan at katalog ng magasin.

May kakaibang kagandahan ang mga salita at lilikha sila ng mga kombinasyon upang isilang ang mga pamagat na may katangiang pampanitik—may kariktan ang tunog at kalunduan. May sariling kagandahan ang mismong titulo lang. Magpapaligsahan sila ng pagandahan ng pamagat: “Hapis ng Dantaon,” “Dulo ng Dapithapon,” “Sa Pakpak ng Pagkamulat,” “Tampisaw sa Takipsilim,” “Tilamsik ng Liwanag,” ‘Hampas sa Hangin,” at kung anu-ano pa.

Sa mga ito makakahabi sila ng mga kuwento o tulang kakatawan sa mga ngalan na uukit ng kanilang pook sa templo ng sining, kasama sa magarang koleksiyon ng iba pang pamagat: Grapes of Wrath; The Day of the Locusts; Pride and Prejudice; The Cherry Orchard; Oro, Plata, Mata; Cien Anos de Soledad; The House of Bernarda Alba; The Distance to Andromeda; Empire of the Sun; The Silence of the Lambs….

Pumasok sa kanyang malay ang mga bitak-bitak na imahen at tagpo ng huli niyang nabanggit na titulo, isang mainam na pelikulang dinirihe ni Jonathan Demme: ang pagdalaw ni Clarice Starling kay Lecter sa bahay ng mga baliw; ang ulong inasnan; ang babaeng natagpuan sa may sapa, patay at binalatan ang likod; ang mga tumitiling tupa; ang pagkatay ni Lecter sa bantay na pulis sa saliw ng musikang klasikal; ang pagtatahi ng mamamatay-taong si Buffalo Bill sa mga balat ng kanyang mga biktima, at iba pa.

May kakatwang pakiramdam na ngayon ang karimlan. Sa dilim nangyayari ang lahat—“Although homicide tend to increase during the hot summer months, there is no significant association by seasons or months of the year. But homicide is significantly associated with days of the week and hours of the day. The weekend in general and Saturday night in particular are related to homicide as are the hours between 8:00 PM and 2:00 AM.” (Studies in Homicide ni Marvin E. Wolfgang, 1967).

Pinagpawisan na siya ng malagkit ngunit malamig at pawisan ang kanyang mga palad at hita. Naglabasan na ang mga ugat sa kanyang mga kamay. Binilisan niya ang mga hakbang; gusto niyang tumakas sa lilim ng mga dambuhalang puno, sa maiitim na salimuot ng kanilang mga sanga. Hindi niya alam kung ano ang nasa kadiliman at iyon ang nakakangani. Pakiramdam niya nasa loob siya ng mapanglaw na Labyrinth ni Haring Minos kung saan doon nakapiit ang mangangain-taong Minotaur, o sa salimuot ng utak ng isang ganid-sa-dugong baliw. Nakaririmarim ang dilim sa utak ng tao—“Countess Elisabeth Bathory of Hungary seems to have murdered as many as six hundred—yes, six hundred—girls in order to bathe in their blood to keep herself young and beautiful. Many of her victims were cruelly tortured. She was found to be insane and placed in protective custody, walled into a room in her castle, for life.” (Murder and Assassination nina Albert Ellis, Ph. D at John M. Gullo, MA, 1971); “Gilles de Rais, often known as the original Bluebeard, was Marshal of France who murdered some eight hundred boys…He cut the throats of many of his child victims, violated them, drank their blood, and then would fall into a coma-like slumber. He not only tortured his victims but had the heads of these children stuck on upright rods. A professional beautician, a member of the entourage, would then be called in and the child’s hair would be exquisitely curled, its lips and cheeks rouged, and so on. When enough heads were accumulated and thus prepare, Gilles would hold a kind of beauty contest, with everyone voting on which head was the most beautiful—after which the ‘winner’ might again be put to necrophilous use.” (ibidem); “Bela Kiss…during the early decade of the twentieth century…seems to have killed at least twenty-three ladies and one gentleman.” (ibidem)

Sa kanyang paglakad, nagsipitlagan ang mga bato sa daanan. Natatakot na siya sa mga mumunting tunog na hindi pamilyar…“Kenneth I. Dudley and his wife left Syracuse, New York in July 1958 with six children. When they were arrested in Virginia, Friday, 1961, only one child—a little girl, less than three years of age—was left, while the others had died of neglect, physical torment and malnutrition (although their parents had eaten regularly). They were disposed without ceremony in various states along the roads they traveled.” (Murder and Assassination); “Albert Fish killed and ate between eight and fifteen children and drank their blood.” (ibidem); “On March 20, 1894, he (Vacher the Ripper) launched his career of murder by strangling a twenty-one-year-old girl, cutting her throat, trampling one her abdomen, tearing pieces of flesh from breasts, and finally, violated the corpse.” (ibidem)

Kumaluskos ang mga damo sa konting hangin at pagkatapos narinig lang niya ang kanyang mabilis na yabag. Kaalinsabay nito ang kanyang puso na puputok na na sa pangamba—“The chant rose a tone in agony. ‘Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!’ Now out of the terror rose another desire, thick, urgent, blind. ‘Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!’” (Lord of the Flies ni William Golding, 1954)—na may sariling rumaragasang ritmo, na may sariling bilis, may sariling pintig at buhay! Multo at mamamatay-tao, multo at mamamatay-tao, multo at mamamatay-tao! Pilit niyang iwaksi lahat sa kanynag isipan, pero hindi. Totoo ang lahat. Hindi mangyayari sa kanya iyon, pero anong malay mo, pero totoo. Marami na raw namamatay sa lugar na ito. Pero hindi. Ilang beses na rin nilang naglakad dito ni Dennis. Pero hindi niya ngayon kasama si Dennis. Ano’ng oras na kaya? Malungkot ang kalsada.

May dadaang sasakyan. Lumantad ang kanyang mahabang anino sa nilalakaran sa pagtama ng ilaw sa kanya at sa daan. At umalpa ito. Dumilim. May sumunod na trak. Lumagitik ang puno. Tumama ang konti liwanag. Lumaki ang mga mata niya. Maraming anino ang lumantad sa daan! Nakakatakot! Bigla siyang lumingon. Papalapit na ang dalawang ilaw ng trak. Pero walang tao sa likuran niya! Wala! Isa lang siya. Tumingkad ang mga anino sa daan. Hindi iisa! Sumigaw siya, tumakbo. Rumagasa ang trak. Bumulwak ang alikabok. Hindi niya alam. Dahil sa pagsalpok ng liwanag sa kanya nabahiran niya ito ng mga matingkad na tilamsik ng dugo.


#

[i]Nalathala sa Diyaryo Filipino, 1992[\i]

[asterisk]

Mariang Bruha





Hindi ko alam kung paano lumitaw sa buhay namin si Mariang Bruha, o kung saan siya galing. Basta pista noon, at kapag pista parang nagdadatingan ang mga nanlilimos. Tatlong buwan pa lang kami sa Rosario nang magpista. Lumipat kami mula sa kalapit na barangay ng Agnaya sa Bulacan. Wala talaga kaming pirmeng tirahan at ilang beses na kaming palipat-lipat. Nakita ng ama ko itong bahay sa Rosario na may dalawang palapag at malapit sa paaralang pinapasukan ko. Importante ito sa ina ko. Kapag malayo, baka maligaw lang daw ako. Medyo kakaiba ang bahay namin sa lugar. Lahat kasi ng bahay rito nakaharap sa kalsada. Pero biglang may dalawang bahay na patagilid ang posisyon. May isang bahay na bungalow na katabi ng kalsada, at katabi niyon ang magiging bahay namin. Parehong nakaharap sa ibang bahay. May malawak na eskinita sa harap ng dalawang bahay. At sa tabi ng bahay namin ay isang bakanteng lote.

Ang kapitbahay namin ay isang drayber at may-ari ng dyip, si Mang Tebong, na gaya ng lahat ng mga drayber ng dyip, umitim sa kakabilad sa araw at kakasagap ng usok sa daan. Laging nakalitaw ang pusod dahil sa laki ng tiyan at sikip ng kanyang kupasing tisyert. May kaitiman din ang asawa niyang si Aling Bening na laging naka-rollers sa umaga at tuwi-tuwina’y nagpapakulot sa parlor. Mahilig siyang maglagay ng lipistik na matingkad at nangingintab sa pula kahit nasa bahay lang siya. At kung lalabas ma’y upang makipagkapitbahay, maglalagay ulit siya ng panibagong sapin ng lipistik. Medyo malakas ang kanyang boses kahit na sa normal na usapan. Nasanay yata sa kasisigaw sa limang anak niya na pawang lalaki. Sa limang anak niya, si Junard ang naging kaibigan ko. Marahil dahil magkasing-gulang kami. Pero hindi ko talaga masabi kung bakit kami ang naging magkaibigan.

Noong araw na lumipat kami. May tatlong batang lalaking naglalaro ng holen sa tapat ng bahay. May dala akong malaking kahon at hindi ko makita ang nilalakaran. Nasipa ko ‘yung mga holen nila. Tumayo ang isa sa mga naglalaro ng holen at pinanlisikan ako ng mata. Hindi ko pinansin at pumasok na lang ako ng bahay.

Pumunta agad sa bahay si Aling Bening na may dalang pinakbet at nakipagkaibigan sa ina ko.

“Ah, ayan ba anak mo?” sabi niya. “Kasing-puti mo, medyo patpatin.”

Napatingin ako. Inaayos ko ang mga kahon ng aking mga aklat at laruan.

“Naku, pihikan kasi sa pagkain,” sabi ng ina ko.

“Pakainin mo ng pinakbet ko. Magaling akong magluto niyan.”

“Salamat ng marami. Pasensiya na at hindi pa ako nakapagluluto para may maibigay naman ako sa ‘yo.”

“Hay, ‘wag na. Kaya nga ako may dalang ulam, eh. Alam kong busy ka sa paglilipat para makapagluto nang maayos. Teka, ilan taon na ba anak mo?”

“Pito.”

“Oy, kasing gulang ng pangatlo ko. Mestisuhin, ano.”

“Hindi kasi naglalalabas ng bahay. Walang ginawa kundi manood ng TV, magbasa at magkulay ng libro. Naku, mahilig magkulay ‘yan. Nagpapabili lagi ng coloring books. ‘Pag naubos na. Pati mga textbooks niya at notebooks may mga kulay.”

“Ay, kaybata-bata. Kailangan niyang mag-exercise at maarawan.”

“Iyon na nga ang gusto ko, eh. May pagka-sinto yata anak ko.”

“Ay, gan’un ba?”

Nainis ako nang marinig ko pinag-uusapan nila. Para bang may-sakit ‘yung tinutukoy nila. Lagi na lang binabanggit iyan ng ina ko kung may kausap siya at kung ako ang pinag-uusapan. Hindi naman talaga ako sinto or kaya’y lampa. Masarap naman kasi ang magkulay. Maganda kasi ang mga palabas na cartoons. Kung lalabas naman ako para maglaro, maya-maya tatawagin ako’t papagalitan. Bakit na naman pinabayaan kong matuyuan ng pawis ang likod ko samantalang hinihika ako? Huwag pumunta doon at diyan. Madumi na naman ang sando ko at puro na lang perwisyo ang dala ko. Matitigil ang laro at alam ko sa loob-loob ng mga kalaro ko pinagtatawanan ako. Kaya lampa nga labas ko. At tsaka, hindi naman madali ang makipagkaibigan lalo kung bago ka. Palipat-lipat pa kami. Pero, higit sa lahat hindi naman talaga ako lampa.

Binilisan kong tinipunin ang mga coloring books at krayola at agad na isinilid sa pinakailalim ng kabinet. Inilabas ko ang isang bola. Kahit isang taon na sa akin ay mukhang bago pa dahil hindi masyadong ginagamit. Nagsimulang idribol ko ‘yon. Medyo umaalingawngaw ang bawat hampas sa buong bahay na nakakalahati pa lang ang laman. Napatingin ang ina ko.

“Huwag kang maglaro ng bola sa loob ng bahay! Nakikita mo nang may kausap ang ina mo. Ngayon ka pa nag-ganyan.”

Itinigil ko ang pagdridribol ng bola.

“Ang mga anak ko nga pala. Junard, halika,” tinawag ni Aling Bening ang isa sa mga naglalaro ng holen. “Si Bongbong?” Biglang napatingin siya sa may kalsada at sumigaw, “Hoy, naku! ‘Wag ka dyan sa tabi ng kalsada! ‘Lika nga dito.” Lumitaw ang medyo matabang bata sa tabi ng ina kasama si Junard.

“‘Eto ang pangatlo ko, si Junard.”

Si Junard ang batang pinanlisikan ako ng mata nang masipa ko ang mga holen. Kasing itim siya ng ina niya. Makapal ang labi at makikita ang mga maliliit na butil ng pawis na nabuo sa itaas nito. Mahaba ang buhok na umaabot na sa tenga.

“Ayan, may bago ka nang kakalaruin. Si…Si…”

“Richard” sabi ng ina ko. Hindi ako umalis sa kinalagyan ko at hawak ko pa rin ang bola.

“Ayan, si Richard. ‘Eto ang Bongbong ko, sumunod kay Junard.”
Blankong nakatingin si Bongbong. Parang lagi siyang sinisipon. Laging may uhog na tumutulo sa kanyang ilong na pinapahid niya ng kanyang kamay. Kakalat ito sa dalawang pisngi at matutuyo. Puwede mong tuklapin ang natuyong uhog sa kanyang mukha. Ginagalis ang kanyang mga binti. Walang imik ang dalawa. Pati rin ako hindi umiimik.

“‘Yung dalawang kuya nila wala pa. ‘Yung panganay ko magtatapos na ng high school. ‘Yung sumunod sa kanya ay sa susunod na taon na lang papasok. Ayun pinagtrabaho ko muna sa Menchie’s, ‘yung grocery sa may bayan. Parehong lalaki.”

“Puro lalaki pala mga anak mo,” sabi ng ina ko.

“Ay, oo. Teka, si Bunso.” Umalis si Aling Bening.

Nagpatuloy sa kanilang kinaaabalahan sina Junard at Bongbong. Maya-maya dumating na si Aling Bening na may karga-kargang bata. Mga dalawang taong gulang siya at may malaki at blangkong mata kagaya ng kay Bongbong. Ang kanyang kaunting buhok ay pinilit na tinipon at itinali ng goma sa kanyang bumbunan. Mahigpit ang pagkakatali kaya hindi niya maipikit nang husto ang kanyang mga mata.

“‘Eto si Ping-ping. Josephine ang buo niyang pangalan.”

“Ay, pagka-cute na bata,” sabi ng ina ko. Napatingin ako nang husto. Hindi naman cute, isip ko. “Teka…may babae ka pala.”
Napangiti si Aling Bening. “Lalaki din ‘yan.”

“Oy, siya nga?” Napangiti lang ang ina ko. Napalapit ako. Mamula-mula ang mga pisngi ni Ping-ping. Hindi ko alam kung bahid ‘yun ng lipistik sa kakahalik ng ina o nilagyan talaga ito. Pati labi niya parang may konting lipistik.

“O, baby, mag-hello ka sa bagong kapitbahay.” Nakatitig lang bata. Ako rin nakatitig lang sa bata.

Mahilig dumalaw si Aling Bening sa bahay at dala-dala lagi si Ping-ping na laging iba-iba ang ipit sa buhok. May mga korteng bulaklak, bituin at mga Sanrio. Sa kanya na lang binabaling ang kagustuhan ni Aling Bening na magkaroon ng anak na babae para maayusan niya. Kapag nasa bahay siya, lalabas ako para hindi maisip na talagang lampa ako at takot lumabas ng bahay. Pero kadalasa’y napapapunta lang ako sa may tindahan at mapapabili ng tira-tira. Madalas nakikita kong sasalubungin ni Bongbong ang kanyang kuya na galing eskuwelahan o kaya yung kuya niyang nagtratrabaho sa Menchie’s. Minsan, itinuro ako ni Bongbong. Bagong kapitbahay. Tapos papasok ng bahay. Si Junard nakikipaglaro ng teks sa ibang bata. Marunong din akong mag-teks. Pero babalik lang ako ng bahay nang maubos ‘yung tira-tira.

Isang araw nanood ako ng Popeye sa telebisyon. Naglalaro ng lastiko sina Junard sa may tapat ng bahay.

“Ay, Popeye o! Kuya, Popeye!” sigaw ni Bongbong na nanonood pala sa may bintana. Napatingin ako at nagpatuloy sa papanood. Nanaog ang ina ko at sinabing, “O, Richard, patuluyin mo sila nang makapanood din.”

Binuksan ko ang pinto at agad-agad na pumasok si Bongbong na ngiting-ngiti. “Popeye!” sabi niya at naupo sa lapag. “‘Lika kuya! ‘Lika! Popeye.” Nakatingin lang si Junard sa labas. Maya-maya napapasok na rin si Junard.

“Ayan na si Brutus!” sabi ni Bongbong. “Kuya, ano nga pangalan ng asawa ni Popeye?”

“Si Olive Oyl,” sabi ko.

“Hindi naman, ah,” sagot ni Junard.

“Olive Oyl no! Tignan mo sasabihin mamaya ni Popeye pangalan niya.”

Maya-maya lang nagkukuwentuhan na kami tungkol kay Popeye at ang pagkain niya ng spinach. Maya-maya nakaupo na rin ako sa lapag. Napadaan ang ina ko. Matagal-tagal na rin akong nanonood ng telebisyon. Alam kong ipapapatay niya ‘yung telebisyon. Pero umakyat lang siya sa taas at hinayaan kaming manood. Patuloy ang bidahan namin tungkol kay Popeye. Oo, nakatikim na ko ng spinach…Notebook ko Popeye ang pabalat…May water gun akong Popeye, binili ng tatay ko. Maya-maya nag-lalaro na kami ng teks sa labas hanggang tawagin na kami para maghapunan.

Kinabukasan ng umaga, tinatawag na ako ni Junard para maglaro ng teks. Hindi pa ako nagmumumog ay lumabas agad ako ng bahay. Nakaupo sa bangko si Aling Bening sa labas ng bahay nila at inaayusan na naman ng buhok si Ping-ping. Nakaupo sa tabi nila si Bongbong na mukhang bagong gising at kumakain ng taho. Pero lagi namang mukhang bagong gising si Bongbong. Malakas ang tugtog mula sa bahay nila: “There was something in the air last night. The stars were bright, Fernando…!”

Tumawag ang ina ko para mag-almusal. Pumasok ako ng bahay, sumubo ng konting sinangag at isang hotdog at biglang lumabas muli. Niyaya ko agad si Junard na magpunta kahit saan bago pa masigawan ako ng ina ko sa kauna-unahan kong pag-alis nang walang paalam. Pero parang hindi na ako takot na mapagalitan pag-uwi kasi alam kong isa akong matipunong batang lalaki na gaya ni Junard at hindi lalampa-lampa.

Buong araw kaming magkasama ni Junard. Tinanong ko sa kanya kung anong gagawin namin. Sinabi niya aakyat kami ng punong mangga ni Mang Gusting at mamitas ng bunga. Akyat ako kaagad, kasunod ni Junard at kumain ng mangga hanggang makita kami ni Mang Gusting at sinigawan. Napababa kami kaagad at tinalon na lang namin ang huling sanga. Puro galos ako at masakit ang paa pero sabi ko wala ‘yon. Pinagalitan ako pag-uwi nang makitang puro dagta ang suot ko. Sinabi ko kung saan kami nagpunta, parang may pagmamalaki kahit galit na galit ang ina ko.

Parang naging bestfriend ko si Junard. Lagi na kaming naglalaro ng teks, lastiko at holen. Tapos, kapag may sipa si Junard, bibili rin ako ng sipa. Tapos, kapag may turumpo siya, magpapabili rin ako ng turumpo. Lagi naming pinagtataguan si Bongbong na mahilig sumunod sa amin. Kapag hindi na kami mahanap, iiyak ito, uuwi at magsusumbong sa nanay niya. Tapos, maririnig namin ang boses ni Aling Bening na tumatawag kay Junard pero magtatawanan lang kami. Lagi kaming naglalaro sa bakanteng lote sa tabi na bahay. Malawak ‘yung lugar. May maliliit na burol ng buhangin na gagamitin nang may patayo ng bahay or kung ano man ang pinatayo pero hindi nagamit lahat. Masigabo ang mga tubo ng damo at ligaw na kamote. May konting kalat nga lang ng mga basag na bote at mga kalawanging lata, pero amin ang lugar na ito. Hinirang namin na teritoryo namin ito. Makakapaglaro lang ang ibang bata ng may pahintulot namin. Walang makapaghuhuli ng tutubi, o makapitas ng talbos ng kamote na hindi nagpapaalam.

Ang teritoryong ito ay magmula sa bahay namin hanggang sa may puno ng malunggay. Kasi lampas na doon ay maputik na yung lupa na nagkukulay itim at berde. May mga halamang gabing tumutubo sa gilid. Kumunoy daw, sabi ni Junard. Lampas niyon ay mga bansot na puno ng mangga na hindi nagbubunga. Huwag kaming pupunta sa banda doon kasi may mga engkanto daw sabi ni Junard. Kinatakutan namin ang lugar. Talagang madilim sa parting yaon kapag gabi at madalas may mga lumalabas na mga lumulutang na mga tuldok ng liwanag. Alitaptap, sabi ni Aling Bening. Minsan nakikita naming bumubula ang kumunoy. May lalabas daw na halimaw, sabi ni Junard. Sabi ko sa sarili ko kailanman hindi ako aapak sa lugar na iyon.
Pero umapak din ako. Minsan, tinawag ako ni Junard. Labas ko daw ang bola ko at maglalaro kami ng football. Siyempre, ka-teammate ko si Junard. Lakasan ko raw ng sipa, lagi nyang sabi. Naglaro kami at sumipa ng bola na hindi iniinda ang mga talahib o kaya’y init ng araw. Naglaro hanggang nangingintab na kami sa pawis, hanggang wala na ‘yung init ng araw, hanggang mamuo at kumulubot ang mga ulap at nagkulay kahel at duhat.

“Sipa! Richard! Ayan!” biglang sigaw ni Junard. At sinipa ko ang bola ng ubod lakas, kumaskas ang tsinelas ko sa lupa at bumulwak ang alikabok. Lumipad ang bola sa ere, gumulong sa damuhan hanggang mapunta sa kumunoy. Natigil ang laro. Nag-ayawan na ang ibang kalaro namin.

“O ano? Kunin mo na ang bola,” sabi ni Junard.

Tinignan ko ‘yung bola, isang malaking kahel na nabahiran ng itim at berdeng putik na nakatiwangwang sa gitna ng kumunoy.

“Dali, kunin mo na. Bola mo ‘yan. Walang ibang kukuha niyan.”

Huminga ako nang malalim. “Si…sige…pero dyan ka lang.”

“Bakit naman? Takot ka?”

“Hindi…basta.”

Nasa gilid na ako ng kumunoy. Inihakbang ko ang isang paa. Biglang lumubog hanggang bukung-bukong. Malamig ang putik. Naramdaman kong tumulo ang pawis ko mula noo hanggang baba. Humakbang ako ng isa pa At lumubog muli ang paa hanggang binti ko. Parang may bumulwak na mabahong amoy. Narinig ko ang boses ni Aling Bening tinatawag ang kanyang mga anak. Tumingin ako sa likod at wala na si Junard. Kumakalat na ang dilim sa mga talahib at nagsimula nang humuni ang kuliglig palakas nang palakas. Parang nararamdaman kong lumulubog na ako. Kaya dumukwang ako hanggang makakaya ko. Napapikit ako at ilang sandali naramdaman ko na ang bola sa aking kamay. Hinablot ko ito kaagad at nagmadaling umalis sa kumunoy. Nang makita ano ng ina ko na umuwing putikan ang mga paa, sinigawan na niya ako. Hindi ako umimik. Hindi umimik sa hapag-kainan hanggang sa paghiga sa kama.

Kinabukasan, tinitawag na naman ako ni Junard. Hindi agad ako lumabas. Tinawag ako nang tinawag hanggang magpakita na ako. May bago siyang teks na Leon Guerrero. Maya-maya naglalaro na kami ng teks, tapos ng lastiko at ng holen. Nanghuli kami ng tutubing karayom sa lote at bu**** sa may kanal.
Tapos, dumating si Mariang Bruha. Pista iyon para kay Sta. Elena. Nag-iinuman ang ama ko, si Mang tebong at mga iba pang kapitbahay sa labas ng bahay. Nagtulungang magluto ang ina ko at si Aling Bening. Tumutugtog ang stereo nila Junard nang malakas buong araw: “Huwah ha ha ha. Staying alive, staying alive. Huwah haa haa haa. Staying alive…aaaa-li-ve-ahhhhh….Yeah, oh, yeah!!” Tapos: “Chiquitita, tell me the truth. You are chained by your own sorrow. Eeeeeee-in your eyes, there is no hope for tomorrow….” Kanta kami nang kanta ng “Chiquitita” habang nilalaro namin ang apoy at mga baga na ginamit sa pag-babarbecue kanina. Nag-barbecue naman kami ng mga tutubing kalabaw at salagubang na nakatusok sa tingting at inilagay ang mga ito sa mga pinggan-pingganang dahon. “…Cry-aaaaaaay ones yoorrrrr! Like you did before! Singa you tong Chiquitita. Cry-aaaaaay ones yoorrr…!”

Napansin kong may matandang babaeng may dala-dalang tampipi na kausap ang ina ko sa may pintuan. Tapos, nakita kong kumakain na siya ng kaldereta at kanin sa isang bangko habang kalapit ay nag-iinuman sina Mang Tebong at pinapaypayan ni Aling Bening ang umiiyak na si Ping-ping, tadtad ng bungang-araw at puting-puti sa pulbo. Isa na siyang umiiyak na espasol. Hindi ko na pinansin muli ‘yung matanda. Isa sa mga pulubi. Kaninang umaga may dalawang matandang babaeng may makulay na palda at may tali sa ulo ang biglang kinalampag ang dala-dala nilang kaldero at nagpasayaw-sayaw sa may pintuan namin. Tapos, pinakain sila. Mga Igorot, sabi ni Aling Bening, na bumababa mula sa bundok.

Naubos na ang mga tutubi at salagubang. Nagsunog na lang kami ng mga basong styrofoam. At inihian namin ‘yung baga para mamatay. Mula umaga hanggang gabi, walang patid ang stereo nila Junard at ang mga tapes nitong galing Saudi: “If you change your mind, (Takeachancetakeachancetakeachance…) I’m first in line (Takeachancetakeachancetakeachance…). Honey, can’t you see? (Takeachancetakeachancetakeachance…) Take a chance on me. (Takeachancetakeachancetakeachance…) And I’ll do my very best (Takeachancetakeachancetakeachance…)…”
Nag-iinuman pa rin ang mga tatay namin nang matulog na kami. Nang magising kinabukasan, nagwawalis ng bakuran ang ina ko. Napansin ko ang matandang babae namumulot ng mga karton sa bakanteng lote. Siya rin ‘yung pulubi kahapon. Kulot ang buhok niyang magkahalong itim at puti. Hukot kung maglakad at naka-duster na kupasin. Nakalapag ang tampipi niya sa may damuhan. Buong araw, mawawala siya at biglang darating. May dala-dalang mga sako, mga kahoy, mga tali at marami pang karton na kahon. At doon niya iniimbak sa teritoryo namin.

“Sino ‘yon? Anong ginagawa niya?” tanong ko sa ina ko.

“‘Yung pulubi kahapon. Maria daw ang pangalan. Wala na siyang tirahan. Kawawa naman. Nagpaalam sa ‘kin kahapon kung puwede daw mamalagi muna daw siya sa bakanteng lote. Okay naman. Kawawa naman. Ayan gumagawa ng maliit na bahay niya.”

“Ay teka, hindi yata puwede ‘yon.” Bago man makasagot ang ina ko ay tumakbo na ‘ko papunta kina Junard. Kinatok ko ‘yung bintana nila at tinawag ang pangalan niya. Lumabas siya. Sinabi kong may matandang babaeng gumagawa ng bahay sa teritoryo namin. Pinuntahan namin siya. Nakita naming abala siya sa pagbubungkal sa lupa para itayo ang mga kahoy na magsisilbing poste. Nakamasid lang kami sa malayo. Binubuo niya ang bahay niya malapit sa kumunoy.

“Tignan mo. Gumagawa siya ng bahay malapit sa kumunoy. Hindi ba siya natatakot?” sabi ko.

“Eh, paano kasi, isa siyang bruha!”

“Bruha?”

“Oo, ‘yung mangkukulam.”

“Ah, parang ‘yung kalaban ni Popeye na matandang babae na may malaking kadero at laging nagluluto. Nagluluto yata ng tao. Tapos lumilipad sa walis?”

“Oo, ‘yun nga.”

“Bruha siya talaga. Kasi tignan mo hindi natatakot sa mga engkanto d’un. Kasi halimaw din siya.”

Tinignan namin ang kanyang kulubot at maitim na balat at ang kayang kupasing duster na parang basahan at ang kayang kulot na buhok na parang may sariling buhay.

“Paano ‘yan?” tanong ko.

“Dapat mapaalis natin.”

“Oo, nga…pero bruha siya. Baka mag-madyik siya o kaya kulamin tayo.”

“Oo nga.”

Nakatayo lang kami doon at pinanlisikan namin ng mata, pero hindi siya huminto sa kanyang ginagawa para makita ang galit namin.

“Sigawan mo. Sabihin mo alis ka diyan!”

“Ayoko, baka kalmutin tayo o kaya dukutin ‘yung mata natin. ‘Di ba matutulis ang mga kuko ng bruha?”

“Sige na.”

Maya-maya. “Huy, Alis ka diyan. Lupa namin ‘to” sabi ko pero mukhang mahina ang pagkakasabi ko na hindi man lamang napalingon ‘yung matanda.

“Lakasan mo.”

“Ikaw na lang.”

“Ikaw na.”

Biglang nakita naming papunta sa direksiyon namin ‘yung matandang babae. Napatakbo naman kami bigla, pero tumigil din. Tinignan namin siya habang dinaanan niya kami.

“Amin po ‘yan,” sabi ko.

Napalingon siya. Napaatras kami.

“O ano Maria, tapos na ba bahay mo?” lumitaw si Aling Bening. “Hoy, mga bata, huwag niyong istorbohin ang matanda.”
Humingi ng isang basong tubig si Maria kay Aling Bening at pagkatapos bumalik sa kanyang ginagawa.

“Nakita mo ‘yon? Ang pangit niya no?” sabi ko.

“Oo, nga…Teks tayo kina Roger.”

“Sige.”

Sa dumaang araw, habang nabubuo ni Maria ang kanyang bahay, nabubuo ang takot at galit namin sa kanya. Nakikita namin ang bahay niyang tagni-tagning sako ng bigas at mga karton na magkahugis sa aming teritoryo, katabi ng kumunoy at malapit sa mga bansot at kulubuting puno ng mangga. Dudura si Junard kapag dumaan si Maria at dudura din ako. Ilang araw pa, may lakas ng loob na kami para sigawan siya ng “Mariang Bruha! Mariang Bruha!” kung dadaan siya. Patuloy pa rin ang hukot na paglakad ni Mariang Bruha.

Tuwing gabi, nakikita namin ang liwanag ng lampara sa loob ng bahay ni Mariang Bruha, paandap-andap, mamula-mula parang nagbabaga. Nakikita namin ang mala-kalansay na anino na gumagalaw sa loob niyon. Pinagkukuwentuhan namin kung anu-anong nakakatakot na bagay ang ginagawa niya sa loob ng bahay niya. Tinutusok ng karayom ang mga manika. Nilalagyan ito ng mga ipis at bulate. Nagluluto ng mga palakang bato at gagambang pari. Kumakain ng mga parte ng bangkay. At kung anu-ano pang maitim na madyik.

Sa araw, naghahanda kaming sigawan siya ng “Mariang Bruha! Mariang Bruha!” tuwing dadaan siya hanggang mapagalitan kami ng aming mga magulang. Pero parang walang epekto sa kanya, ni hindi man lamang lumingon. Patuloy siyang lalakad, ang kanyang hukot at matandang lakad. Lalo pa namin siyang kinainisan. “Mariang Bruha! Mariang Bruha!”

Isang gabi nakatingin kami sa nagbabagang bahay ni Mariang Bruha.

“Halika, batuhin natin.”

“Sige.”

Pumili kami ng mga malalaking bato at ubod lakas naming pinagpupukol ang mga iyon. Pinagbabato namin ang bahay ni Mariang Bruha hanggang marinig namin na parang nagmumura na si Mariang Bruha. At bigla kaming kumaripas ng takbo.
Kinabukasan pagkagising ko pinagalitan agad ako ng ina ko dahil sa pagbabato ko sa bahay ni Mariang Bruha.

“Bruha talaga siya!” sabi ko kay Junard nang magkita kami. “Paano niya nalaman na tayo ‘yung nagbato ng bahay niya kagabi. Talagang may itim na madyik ‘yung matandang ‘yon.”
Habang nanonood ako ng telebisyon isang gabi inabala ako ng ina ko.

“Halika, anak, dalhin mo nga itong munggo at galunggong kay Maria. Nagugutom na yata ‘yung matanda.”
Napatigil ako.

“Ayoko ko po,” sabi ko.

“Sige na. Diyan lang naman ‘yan. Ihatid mo na ang ulam.”
Hindi ako umimik.

“Bakit ka ba takot sa kanya? Hindi ka naman aanuhin ng matanda.”

“Hindi ako takot.”

“Iyon pala. O siya, dalhin mo na ‘yan.”

Patlang.

“Ano ba? Dadalhin mo ba ‘yan o tsitsinelasin kita diyan.” Galit na siya.

Wala akong magawa kundi ihatid ang mga ulam kay Mariang Bruha. Marahan kong binagtas ko ang madamong daan patungo sa bahay ni Mariang Bruha. Nagbabaga ito. Nakita kong may mala-kalansay na anino na gumagalaw sa loob. Napatigil ako. Muli humakbang ako papalapit. Nakakapaso na ang init ng isang mangkok ng monggo. Inisip ko kung may masamang gagawin si Mariang Bruha, isasaboy ko sa kanyang mukha ang mainit na munggo at isasampal ko sa kanya ang mga galunggong at tatakbo.

Biglang napatigil ako dahil nasa bukana na pala ako ng pinto ng bahay ni Mariang Bruha. Aatras pa sana ako pero biglang nagsalita si Mariang Bruha.

“O iho, halika’t pumasok ka.”

Dahan-dahan akong pumasok. Nakaupo si Mariang Bruha sa may bangko katabi ang isang maliit na mesita kung saan nakapatong ang isang lampara. Lupa ang sahig niya pero parang malinis at patag. Malinis ang buong maliit na bahay. Maayos ang pagkatagpi-tagpi ng sako at karton.

Tumayo si Mariang Bruha at kinuha ang mga ulam na dala ko. Hindi ko matinag ang sarili ko.

“Sabihin mo sa nanay, maraming salamat, ha?”

Hindi rin ako makaimik. Ngayon wala na akong munggo at galunggong na isasaboy at isasampal sa kanya sa sandaling may kakaiba siyang gawin. Biglang napansin ko ang mga krayola sa may mesita, malapit sa lampara. Nasilayan ko rin ang mga makukulay na guhit sa mga pinalas na pahina ng notbuk at pambalot ng pandesal na nakapaskil sa isang gilid ng kanyang dingding.

“Krayola ko ‘yan,” mahinang sambit ko.

“Ah, eto? Hiningi ko sa nanay mo. Ibinigay naman niya. Akala hindi niyo na kailangan.”

“Kayo ho ba nag-drowing nga mga iyan?” Itinuro ko ang mga nakapaskil na mga guhit.

“Ay oo, iho, ngaustuhan mo ba?”

“Opo,” sabi ko nang may katotohanan. Ngayon lang ako nakakita na ganong kagandang drawing ng mga palaka, tutubing karayom, papalubog na araw, mga bahay, mga batang naglalaro, mga paruparo at butiki. Nagtitingkarang ang mga kulay at parang sa anumang sandali ay lulundag mula sa papel. Matagal kong pinagmasdan ang mga drawing.

“Maupo ka muna, iho,” biglang sabi ni Mariang Bruha. Mabait pala siya at hindi tulad ng iniisip namin ni Junard. Naglabas siya ng mga papel, mga pinilas na pahina mula sa isang tinapong notebook at mga bag ng pandesal.

“Eto pa ‘yung ibang ginagawa ko.” Mga iba’t ibang anyo ng bulaklak.

Maya-maya kumuha ng isang krayola at nagtanong, “Anong gusto mong i-drawing ko sa ‘yo?”

“Ahhh…ibon…Oo, ibon…’yung agila ha.”

At gumuhit siya ng malaking ibon at pinagmasdan ko habang unti-unting nabubuhay ang isang patay na papel sa katingkaran ng kulay na parang madyik. Maya-maya, kumuha rin ako ng krayola at pareho na kaming gumuguhit at nagkukulay. Ilang sandali narirnig ko na ang ina ko na tinatawag na ako. Napatayo ako.

“Sige, alis na pala ako.”

“Sige iho, sabihin mo sa nanay mo maraming salamat. ‘Yung krayola nga pala.”

“Ah, ano…inyo na lang po. Meron pa naman ako. Sige na po.”

Lumabas ako sa nagbabagang bahay ni Marinag Bruha. Tinahak ko ang madilim at madamong daanan na kumikislap-kislap dahil sa mga alitaptap. Sa sandaling iyon, parang bumaligtad ang langit at dinadaan ko iyon.

Isang araw ginising ako sa mga tawag ni Junard na parang excited.

“Richard! Richaaaaard! Labas ka na diyan! Dali.”

Dumungaw ako sa bintana, pupungas-pungas. “Bakit?” tanong ko.

“Tignan mo! Wala na si Mariang Bruha! Wala na siya! Yehey!”
Napasilip ako sa gawi kung saan naroroon ang bahay ni Mariang Bruha. Sira-sira na nga ang bahay ni Mariang Bruha. Ang ibang bahagi ay natuklapan na ng sakong dingding. Tatalun-talon si Bongbong habang pilit na tinatanggal ang isang bahagi ng karton na dingding.

“Saan na si Maria?” tinanong ko sa ina ko.

“May mga taong dumating kanina. Hind ko alam kung pamilya ni
Maria o mga taga-Welfare. Basta isinama na siya.”

Tawag nang tawag si Junard. “Richard! Richaaaaaard! ‘Lika na!”

Nang lumabas ako, sinusunog na pala nila ‘yung bahay. Sandali lamang ang sunog dahil kaunti lamang ang masusunog. May muta pa ako sa mga mata at hindi pa ako nakapagsuklay nang lapitan namin ang natira sa bahay ni Mariang Bruha. Nakaitindig pa rin ang mga kahoy na poste na halos naging uling na dahil sa sunog. Umuusok pa rin ang paligid. Medyo makulimlim ang araw na iyon at may kaunting ambon.

“Dali, matumbahin nating itong mga poste.”

“Yehey! Yehey!” Lulundag-lundag na nakangisi si Bongbong.

“O sige! Tara!” sabi ko.

Nagsimula na namin sirain ang kung ano ang naititira sa bahay ni Mariang Bruha at patumbahin ang mga nakatindig pang mga poste. Pero hindi namin ito matinag. Sinipa-sipa na ni Junard ang isang poste pero hindi pa rin matumba. Niyuyugyog ko ang isang pero hindi ayaw rin. Medyo matagal din namin ginagawa ito. Masakit na mga palad at umitim na dahil sa uling. Basa na ako sa pawis. Nagsaliw ang pawis at mga mumunting patak ng ambon sa aking mukha. Pinunasan ko ang pawis sa aking mukha pero nabahiran ito ng uling. Muli, ubod-lakas kong itinulak ang poste pero matibay siya. Sa sandaling iyon, naisip ko ang lakas at hirap na pinuhunan ng hukot na matandang babaeng si Mariang Bruha sa pagpatayong mga ito, binubungkal ang lupa habang minamata siya ng mga batang naghahari-harian sa loteng ito.

“Hiyaaaa!” sigaw ni Junard sa pagsipa at napatumba niya ang isang poste. Kinalampag ang dibdib sa pagapakita ng lakas na parang Tarzan.

Nakawak pa rin ako sa poste at wala nang lakas upang patumbahin pa ito.

“Ayoko na,” sabi ko.

“Sige pa!” sigaw ni Junard.

Akmang aalis na ako pero hinawakan niya ako sa braso at pinigilan. Biglang inalis ko ang kanyang pagkahawak.

“Tignan mo! Hahaha!” tawa ni Bongbong tinuturo ang aking mukha.

At naisip ko na mukha akong bagong gising, magulo ang buhok at ngayo’y may mga bahid ng uling sa mukha.

“Kamukha mo na si Mariang Bruha! Hahahaha!” sabi ni Bongbong.

Tumawa rin si Junard.

Tumalikod ako para umalis pero hinila ulit ako ni Junard.

“Ayoko ko na sabi,” sambit ko.

“Iyan lang. Lampa ka nga yata talaga, eh.”

Biglang inalis ko ang kamay niya sa braso ko at itinulak ko siya. Hindi ko alam kung gaano kalakas ang pagkatulak ko pero napabalikwas siya at bumagsak sa kumunoy. Halos nabalutan ng putik ang kanyang katawan. Umahon agad siya. Parang nagingilid na ang luha sa kanyang mga mata.

“**** ka talaga,” sabi niya, unti-unting nalulukot ang kanyang mukha. “****. Susumbong kita sa nanay ko. Bakit sino ka ba? Dayo ka lang naman dito ah? ****! Lumipat na rin nga kayo.”
Tumalikod na lang ako, hinawi ang usok at ambon at humakbang papauwi.

Hindi ko alam kung paano lumitaw sa buhay namin si Mariang Bruha, o kung saan siya galing. Basta pista noon, at kapag pista parang nagdadatingan ang mga nanlilimos. Tatlong buwan pa lang kami sa Rosario nang magpista. Lumipat kami mula sa kalapit na barangay ng Agnaya sa Bulacan. Wala talaga kaming pirmeng tirahan at ilang beses na kaming palipat-lipat. Nakita ng ama ako itong bahay sa Rosario at nakilala si Junard at si Mariang Bruha. Ilang buwan pagkatapos umalis si Mariang Bruha, nagka-trabaho ang ama ko sa Quezon City at nakakita ng bahay na mauupahan sa may Project 8, medyo malapit na rin sa unibersidad kung saan ako nag kolehiyo at kumuha ng Fine Arts.
Nang mag-uwian na ang mga taong dumalo sa unang painting exhibit ko, bigla kong naalala si Mariang Bruha. Pinagmasdan ko ang maliit na gallery. Madilim at medyo umaambon sa labas. Pero nagbabaga sa liwanag ang gallery kung saan nakasabit sa mga dingding nito ang aking mga paintings, nagtitingkaran ang mga kulay na parang gusting makawala sa kambas. Hanggang ngayon madyik pa rin ang tingan ko sa mga painting. Naisip ko kung saan napunta si Mariang bruha.

Bigla akong nakaramdam na parang may nakatingin mula sa labas. Puro salamin ang haparan ng gallery kaya nakikita ko ang labas nang malinaw: ang kalsada, ang mga poste ng ilaw, ang tindahan ng diyaryo sa kabilang kanto, ang ibang gusali. May nakita akong papalayong anyo ng isang matandang babae, naka-duster na kupasin, hukot kung maglakad at kulot ang buhok na parang may sariling buhay. Lumabas ako ng gallery pero wala na ‘yung matandang babae. Sinarado na namin ang gallery. Nihawi ko ang ambon at binagtas ko ang basang kalsada na lalong umitim at nangingintab sa ilalim ng langit na kulay uling.