Dusk

CHAPTER 10

And so the rains came, and the typhoons and the floods as well, and after the rains, the drought — a cycle blessed with God’s bounty and damned by His negligence.

They persevered. In the evenings, the cogonal distances crackled with huge bursts of fire which quickly died, for that was the way the wild grass burned. That was the way — so the Spaniards said — the Indios also behaved, with rash and easily spent enthusiasms. The cogonals they cleared yielded to their will. These lands had never been plowed before — the roots of the wild cogon had bored deep and wide into the soil and many a time a plowshare would snap as it lost in the constant wrestling with the stubborn mesh. All of them also worked parcels in Don Jacinto’s land, and here they did not have too many difficulties; the land had been planted before and had merely lain fallow; the soil yielded smoothly to the plow.

The rats did not multiply as fast as they were warned would happen. For one, the rats were herded into bamboo traps — lured there with grain and beaten to death. They were as big as cats, and were skinned carefully, dried in the sun or broiled in open fires, their fat sizzling on the coals. Like chicken, they all said.

They rose earlier than the sun and, having vanquished the wild grass, pushed the forest farther. What they could not cut they burned, leaving some trees as markers of their property.

Snakes lurked in the mounds which dotted the plain. Some of these mounds were spared as markers, too, and the others were leveled after the appropriate prayers so that there would be more land to till.

At night, if there was a moon, they plowed or harrowed, and dug the ditches that would bring water to the fields. In the flooded paddies, frogs were plentiful and they filled the night with their croaking. It was easy to catch them — they seemed mesmerized by the light of the lanterns and they were brought back in strings for the women to skin.

Even in a year of bad weather, the harvest was abundant in the lands of Don Jacinto; half was theirs, which was good. The harvest was niggardly in the newer land, but all of it was theirs, which was even better.

With Istak, time hardly mattered anymore, only work. The blisters in his palms had long since hardened into calluses. He had ceased wearing slippers after he left the sacristy; his soles had thickened and could no longer be easily punctured by thorns. His muscles became hard as stone and he sometimes marveled at his strength, how he could now lift the wooden mortar all by himself and how long he could endure the sun or the continuous rain that sent the other farmers home shivering, their skin wrinkled by the cold. He liked the cold more than the heat; the water dripped through his palm-leaf hat and palm-leaf cloak, his lips lost their color, but he worked on, sometimes thinking of what awaited him at home, steaming ginger broth flavored with cane sugar. And Dalin — the sweet peace with which she always welcomed him.

As in the planting and harvesting, they helped one another build their permanent homes near the creek. The houses were bigger than their first huts, with posts of sagat, some of which they dragged down from the foothills of Balungaw. They fenced their yards with split bamboo and planted fruit trees in them. Farmers in Carmay whom they befriended helped in the harvest. They gathered the ripening gelatinous grain and roasted it over slow-burning strips of old bamboo that had rotted and dried.

Istak and Dalin were married the month they arrived in Rosales, and a year after, An-no and Orang. There would have been no wedding feast, for Istak had nothing, but Don Jacinto, who was their godfather, gave them a goat to butcher.

An-no was better prepared. Not only had he built a new house by then, he had also raised two pigs for the wedding feast.

Orang’s father declaimed, his rich, loud voice drowning the babble of children and women, and they paused to listen to his exultation:

I have raised this tender plant, lavished it with care

Now, the plant is as beautiful as the morning,

Now, it is in bloom, and someday will bear fruit

This is the rich reward of parenthood—

To see the young plants grow, then give them away

When the time comes, just as I give you away,

Fair Leonora, to a man worthy of you

Strong provider and brave protector. May you, Mariano,

Remember we love her more than you ever will

And someday, soon, may we see the fruits of your love

May they grow into beautiful plants … our grandchildren.

The women wept.

More land waited for those who were willing to go to the east toward Balungaw mountain, but that land belonged to the Asperris, who had come to Rosales way back when most of it was wilderness still. The family lived in Manila, although at the eastern end of the town they maintained a massive stone house that was more of a bodega than a residence. Spanish friars and officers visited the house sometimes, but no one was known to stay there permanently. When the Manila landlord came, bright lights bloomed from within, raucous laughter rang out, and at the landing stood a line of black carriages drawn by handsome Abra ponies. When Istak passed it, he was reminded of Capitán Berong, his tremendous wealth and his three daughters, and yes, Carmencita — she must have children by now, maybe a dozen handsome bastards, and again the ancient feelings were recalled.

How fortunate that they came upon the free land Don Jacinto had shown to them. Istak had studied it before they started clearing — the limits to what was flat, a slow rise of ground with three huge mounds overgrown with grass. He must be generous to his brothers, his cousins, his uncles. When they parceled out the land the lots with mounds went to him.

“This portion I could make into a bangcag,” he explained. “Plant vegetables, fruit trees. Bit-tik and An-no are tired of working on such land; with level fields they could grow rice.”

Dalin helped in the clearing. By the second year, the bamboo which Istak had planted as boundary to his bangcag had taken root and soon there would be shoots to harvest for food. He had planted three species — kiling for fences; siitan, which was thorny, for size and strength; and bayog, which when cut into strips while still tender would make good twine, but once mature it made good house posts, so thick and sturdy bugs could not destroy it.

Silvestre, otherwise known as Bit-tik, was taller and handsomer than his two brothers. His brow was wide, his shoulders broad, and he walked straight. He seemed strong enough to lift a water buffalo, but with all his attributes he was not really interested in farming. He worked his plot of rice land poorly, letting weeds grow and the water escape from gaps in the dikes he did not repair, so that his harvest was often the poorest in all Cabugawan. He was fond of traveling and had gone beyond the nearby villages and well into the other towns — Alcala, Villasis, Balungaw — not so much in search of adventure or opportunities as simply because the spell of new places, new people, attracted him. It was logical for his relatives to assume that he would be paired off with Sabel, Orang’s younger sister, and Istak and his uncle Blas had talked all too often of this possibility in the near future. But Bit-tik seldom paid attention to the young woman, who had now blossomed as handsomely as Orang.

There was enough to eat in Cabugawan and Bit-tik had no family, so they let him wander where he pleased and be their eyes to the strange new dimension beyond Rosales. After three or four days he would return with a few things, dried fish or dried meat, a basket, and most important for Istak, news about their neighboring towns and villages, if the Guardia was on the prowl, and if there were better places where they could flee.

Dalin and Orang often cooked his ration, usually gelatinous rice boiled in coconut milk — it would keep for three days — dried meat already roasted, and a cake of cane sugar.

On this trip, Bit-tik started in the deep, deep dawn. By late afternoon he was in Tayug, a town as decrepit as Rosales but much closer to the Caraballo mountains, which were a high green wall to the east. It was his first visit to the place. It was Sunday, a market day, but this late in the day, all the people from the nearby villages had gone, and the merchants had already loaded their bolts of cloth, mosquito netting, salted fish, soap, and other goods into their carts.

A few shops near the plaza were open, selling sugar cane, vinegar, basi, salted fish, cigarettes, and galletas. He met the two young men in one of the shops. They were looking for matches but it was one of those times when the supply had run out. As it often was in the villages, the farmers had to have a log in their stoves smoldering the whole day if there were no matches. The two men were poorly garbed, their carzoncillos brown with dirt, their hair in need of trimming. Both carried spears, which were their walking sticks. Obviously, they came from the mountain. Though neither could have been more than twenty, their faces looked old, disfigured by smallpox craters that seemed to merge into one another. Even their lips were pocked.

Having heard them, Bit-tik gladly offered the extra box of matches he always carried. They had little money; they had come to Tayug to sell dried meat and mountain fish preserved in fermented rice, and the big jars which they carried slung by a rattan net on their shoulders were filled with salt which they would bring back to their village.

“You don’t have to pay me for this,” Bit-tik said as they walked out of the store. Bit-tik was planning to sleep that evening in one of the sheds by the church.

“Where do you come from?” he asked. “I have no place for the night, and I have to heat roasted meat for supper.”

The two men looked at each other. Their Ilokano was accented — they could be from the big valley, Bit-tik surmised. He had heard that accent before from the people in the valley who had gone down to buy salt in Pangasinan.

“Come with us and share our humble home,” the taller of the two said with downcast eyes. He seemed shy facing people; with that kind of face, Bit-tik understood.

The afternoon was now cool, the plaza where the merchants had finished packing their goods was empty but for the scraps of trash they had left. “It is a long walk, but perhaps you will want to visit with us …”

And why not? Bit-tik had never been apprehensive about going with strangers; there was in his manner a disarming friendliness. Besides, what did he have to lose? Pieces of dried meat, suman, and the shabby clothes on his back? He was not a profitable prey for any bandido.

“I will go with you,” Bit-tik said quickly.

He was not rested yet after the long hike from Rosales and he was going on another long walk. They headed toward the Caraballo range — the mountains loomed so near but they were still a distance away. “There, there.” One of the newfound friends pointed his spear to a foothill; behind it the mountains burned with the gold of the setting sun. “Beyond that is where we live. Are you really sure you would like to come? We want you to come — and know this, not many have visited us, even the people in Tayug. You must have noticed how they regarded us as Bagos. We are not …”

“Forgive those who are ignorant,” Bit-tik said.

It was already dark when they started climbing, first through cogonals along frequented paths that were distinct in the afterglow.

He marveled at their strength. They had carried those jars strapped to their backs for a long time. Even empty, they could weigh a man down and drive welts on the shoulders where the rattan web was strapped. In a while, the stars swarmed out of the sky; there was no moon and the mountain became alive with the call of night birds, the celebration of insects. He had done much walking on level ground and he realized that though he was as strong as a water buffalo, he would tire after every brief but steep ascent while his two companions, even with their heavy loads of salt, seemed to glide easily up the incline. The trail vanished altogether and the forest dropped on them like a giant pall, forbidding and black. The stars that once glimmered above had disappeared. Sometimes there would be a spot of greenish glow — ghostly yet ethereal, the sudden shrieks of birds disturbed in their roosts. They shook him and sent a quiver to his heart. His new friends seemed to sense his apprehension, for they started a familiar song which he knew, although the words as he remembered them were all earthy and impolite: Pamulinawen … pamulinawen …

The forest was drenched with the odor of moss, dead leaves, and rot, and he wondered if there would be pythons hiding, too, waiting to strike. The two did not seem worried — they knew the uncharted way as if by instinct and as they told him afterward, the warm, delicious smell of home guided them.

Toward midnight, he asked them if he could rest once again, for his legs were already numb. And God, he was thirsty. One of them left, then returned with what seemed like a short length of bamboo cut on one end. He raised it to his lips and the water was sweet, almost like the water of a young coconut. They let him sleep briefly, then he was awakened, refreshed, and ready to challenge the mountain again.

They knew their way through the densest gloom. It was as if at every turn an emerald swamp opened up to swallow them and they had become the foliage itself, alive in the moss-covered trunks, in the roots entwined with one another, in the giant ferns that brooded around them.

The east started to glimmer, and the tiny patches of sky turned into bronze, the lofty trees took shape, their leaves started to glisten as morning poured upon the range. It was then, too, that they broke through the last curtain of trees. Before them spread a wide valley, a stream running through, and in the middle, a village, the smoke of cooking fires curling above the grass roofs. Coming as he did from the bowels of night, he could feel mist gathering in his eyes; before him, the glorious beauty of creation, all that he would have wanted to live with if Cabugawan did not have a claim on him.

They raced down the mountain, through fields of young rice plants watered by springs and well-groomed plots being prepared for planting. At the edge of the fields were pits covered with leaves. Bit-tik was warned about them — they were traps for wild pigs and deer which ravaged the ripening grain.

They passed houses, heard the laughter of children but there was no one at the windows. Sometimes a figure would dart way ahead into a house, a woman in a skirt, her hair shining in the sun, or a boy, half naked, but no one came out to greet them. They took him to the biggest house at the far end of the village, apart from the other dwellings.

“This is where Apo Diego lives,” he was told. “We will leave you here so you can eat and rest.”

He went up the bamboo stair into a wide room floored with solid planks that were roughly hewn. The grass roof was so thick, Bit-tik was sure it could last a hundred years. On the low eating table, as if it had just been placed there, was a plate of steaming rice, pieces of dried meat, slices of tomato, and yes, real coffee — its aroma seducing him. Surely the food was for him. He sat down and started to eat. He didn’t stop till he was full, yet no one came out to meet him. “They must be asleep still,” he told himself, and reclining on the floor, he gazed out of the open doorway at the fields slumbering in the morning sun, heard again the happy voices of children, although he couldn’t see them. A sweet, dreamlike peace came over him like a deluge and he was soon asleep.

It was late in the afternoon when he woke. Close by, squatting on the wooden floor, was an old man whose hair was white and long; it flowed past his nape and down his back. The old man’s face was lined with deep furrows. His clothes were coarse, almost like sackcloth, but they were neat and seemed newly washed.

“You must be rested now,” he said, smiling. His voice was almost like a woman’s, soft and warm, not gravelly or raspy.

The old man rose and turned to the open doorway. Beyond, the valley basked in the last light of day.

“Thank you very much, Apo,” Bit-tik said, “for the good breakfast, the sleep that I needed.”

The old man told him how they, too, descended from the Ilokos a long time ago; no one in the original caravan was left — just him. At first, the Bagos made war on them, and many on both sides were killed. In time, the settlers made peace and learned to live with the Bagos, but by then it was difficult for complete mutual trust to develop. There was much suffering — although there was enough for everyone, the Igorots worried that their lands were being snatched, and the settlers, who believed they had finally fled Spanish tyranny, had simply found another vicious enemy.

They had wanted to go into the deepest jungle, where the Spaniards could not reach them, nor could the big men in the towns who made them work without pay. They could go no farther. Life was difficult. They worked hard enlarging their clearings, and the forest became a benefactor, a provider of meat, and most important, a sanctuary, finally.

“Why did you leave the Ilokos, Apo?” It was a question he should not have asked. Perhaps the old man had killed a priest or a Spanish officer as his father had.

“I am Diego Silang,” the old man replied quietly, firmly.

From the deepest recesses of his mind, Bit-tik dredged up the name. As a boy, he had heard it spoken with awe, this brazen Ilokano who dared oppose the Spaniards and set up a fragile Indio government with Ilokano laws and an Ilokano army to replace the bulwarks of stone the friars had built. But Diego Silang was betrayed and killed, and his followers were disbanded, persecuted, and slaughtered.

To Bit-tik’s incredulous look, the old man had an answer: “You’re thinking, I am an old fool. How can I be Diego Silang, when he died long ago? But his spirit lives and it came to me, became me. How old do you think I really am? They are all gone who joined me in the beginning. I am alone now and the young people — they are our grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I worshipped Diego Silang’s memory, just as I worshipped all the men who fought for our freedom. What Diego Silang believed I also believe with all my soul. I believe that this land, this water, this air we breathe — they are God’s gift to all men and cannot belong to just a few merely because they are white or wear the cloth. So we honor all those who have died for this belief. Here, we prepare for the day when we will be ready and strong to strike again. We are not alone. Beyond this mountain are people like us and still more people like us in the valleys beyond. They may not recognize their poor, oppressed brothers elsewhere. Someday they will. Then we will leave this valley and with our prayers, we will defeat the ones who despoiled our land and robbed us.”

Dusk again, thirst and hunger again. In the dimness that was quietly descending upon the valley, they now came out — the children and women, and in the yard of Apo Diego’s house, they built a bonfire and gathered around it to share its warmth, for a chill breeze had come with the night.

“You have seen how fecund the land is,” Apo Diego said softly. “Let me convince you to remain here, to live with us and share our sorrows, our joys.”

From the rear of the house, a group of women emerged. They set the low eating table again with roasted meat, a bowl of steaming rice, and roasted green peppers. There was also a plate of greens. It tasted like saluyot but was not slippery. The women who served him turned their faces away. While he gazed at the bonfire as the children and people gathered around it, he realized why they hid themselves when he arrived, just as the women now, even in the faint light, could not face him. All their faces were horribly scarred by smallpox, the scourge leaving craters so deep and large.

“You will not be lonely here,” the old man was saying. “We have so few men left. Then came this terrible plague. We have more women now than men …”

In the golden glow of the bonfire, he could see them clearly. Those girls, how they must have looked before the dreaded disease had swept over their valley.

“The women are industrious,” the old man said. “They know how to weave, to care for plants, and to raise children.… I can see in your face that you are a seeker, that you will travel distances to find happiness. Stay with us. Every day brings something new. You need not search further for your fate, or for God.”

For a long while, Bit-tik did not speak.

In his mind’s eye, the Agno again — so wide and harsh — how they crossed this last barrier to Cabugawan, his brothers, the land they had cleared together, the kindly neighbors. He belonged to Cabugawan now. Bit-tik talked about his village, his brother who spoke Spanish and Latin, who cured the sick with his herbs and prayers. Did anyone in the valley speak Spanish or Latin at all?

The old man nodded. “Diego Silang does,” he said simply. Then he asked Bit-tik if he could read and write, and Bit-tik proudly said he could.

“That is very good.” The old man was enthusiastic. “We will need wisdom to defeat our enemies. Even now, they are plotting against us, seeking to dislodge us from this land which we carved from the forest. Two more hands here can do so much.”

Bit-tik could only think of Cabugawan, and yes — Sabel, who he knew would always be there when he needed her. That was ordained by the stars.

“I am thinking of a woman I left in Cabugawan,” Bit-tik said, feeling uncomfortable that he could not give the old man a better reason.

The old man brought in a jar covered with dried banana leaves and told him to drink his fill of basi. The basi tasted so good, unlike any he had had in the past. It was slightly bitter but it must be a special brew. He reminisced and felt completely at ease telling the old man about his father’s searing hatred for the friars and why they had to flee Po-on.

His eyes began to sink, the bonfire in the yard seemed to grow smaller and dimmer, the voices of people became muted. He was feeling drowsy, so he lay down on the floor, yet struggled to keep his eyes open. Through the blur of oncoming sleep, he saw six women surround him just as the light from the oil lamp on the low eating table flickered and died. He did not object when they started to undress him. He remembered embracing each one, though he was already half asleep. Six of them, and to each he gave his seed. Then all was blissful ignorance, the deep, deep quietude of dreamless sleep.

He woke up; his head had become a heavy rock, his eyes blinded by dazzling light. He closed his eyes quickly and in the red orb before him, he remembered what had transpired. He opened his eyes again. He was in the shade of a giant narra tree and when he rose in what seemed to be unfamiliar surroundings, he saw the spire of the church of Tayug in the near distance. To his right, the green of the Caraballo range. It was late afternoon and the sun shone fully on his face. Beside him was their parting gift, an earthen pot filled with mountain fish in fermented rice.

His legs were wobbly, but he regained his balance after the first few steps. The heaviness in his head disappeared. He walked toward the town, wondering if it was all a dream. And for the first time, he realized that he wanted to go back to Apo Diego, to the valley and its beautiful peace. He gazed at the mountains where they had started on the long hike and quickly realized that he would not be able to retrace the way through the labyrinthine maze. With a sense of elation he remembered the women who had caressed him. Did it happen at all? It was his first time ever, and there were six he had embraced, not just one. It could not be real! It was one of those grand illusions that only basi could inflict upon the mind. He untied the cotton string of his long carzoncillo and looked at his limp penis. He smiled to himself — it was no dream at all.

All the way to Cabugawan, through a humid, cloudless night, he thought of things to say to Sabel, for he would really pay court to her, build a house for her, and not live with his brother. He was man enough now to settle down. And all he had to do was ask his uncle Blas.

It was about Sabel that Orang spoke first that morning when he arrived to share their breakfast. Sabel was gone — she had eloped the day previous with a farmer from Carmay. The wedding would be next week.

“It was not a dream, Manong,” Bit-tik told Istak. He showed the small jar of fish in fermented rice which they left beside him. It was the best Dalin ever had.

“Could a spirit enter another human being and give it a purpose?” Bit-tik was anxious to know.

“Yes, it is possible,” Istak said after a while, “for a man to welcome into his mind and heart any spirit, a belief, a faith that was expressed in thought and deed by another man. If the receptacle is clean, I think wonders can be achieved. Is this what you are looking for?”

Bit-tik shook his head, “I don’t know, Manong.”

“You must not wander too often now,” Istak advised.

He valued Istak’s advice, so he made plans to build himself a house, and in the next few weeks, he roamed the forest beyond the farm looking for sagat trees for posts. He found them, cut them, and waited for them to dry. It was not difficult to gather cogon for the roof, buri palm leaves for the walls, and bamboo for the floors. And when anyone built a house, the neighbors always helped, and their only pay was the day’s meal.

Bit-tik did not build his house. The small first hut that he built looked like a beggar’s hut beside the new and bigger homes. A gust of wind could blow it down. An-no added a large room to his house, then told his brother to move in with them.

Bit-tik continued his wandering and journeyed to Tayug again in the hope that he would meet once more the young men who had taken him to their distant valley. He asked the people in the marketplace if they had ever come down again. No one knew — in fact, the people of Tayug knew little of what was beyond the mountains except that it was forbidding and hostile, and the only people who lived there were the Bagos and those who had become savages.

He returned to Cabugawan more subdued than ever. If Dalin and Istak asked him the usual question about when he would finally bring a woman home, he had the same answer, “Maybe when the crow turns white.”

As Orang surmised, he truly loved Sabel and could not find someone to replace her.

There were occasions when thoughts of the past crowded Istak’s mind. During Holy Week in the year Bit-tik told him about the valley high up in the Caraballo range, he remembered the journal he had left in Cabugaw and what his uncle Blas had said about how he would compose a poem about their journey. Hearing the pasyon sung by Orang, listening to her relate the suffering of Christ at the hands of His own brethren, and His betrayal, he relived the past, its sorrow and fear. Listening to Orang, tears burned in his eyes.

Yet, there was comfort in the convent, the certitude not only of God’s presence and the beneficence that Padre Jose had selflessly given. The church was once a redoubt against the violence of Muslim raids, so why could it not be a haven from injustice itself?

It finally came during their fourth year in the new land. First, it was just some rumor brought by Blas, who went to town on Sundays — the market day — to look at farm implements, gossip, and get a little drunk in the tienda there. They were idling in the village yard — the evening was young and a full moon adorned the sky. The children were playing, and their shouts and laughter decorated the vast stillness of the night.

They were talking softly; the planting season would soon be upon them. Though there were still wilds to clear, life already had a distinct, well-ordered pattern that could be rent only by nature’s vagaries.

“In the market this morning,” Blas said, pausing to spit out the wad of tobacco he had been chewing since after supper, “I heard this salted-fish merchant from Dagupan say there is a plague in the south — and it is spreading to the north. Some towns in Cavite already have it. People die in just two days — they vomit and defecate continuously until there is no more body to them.”

Istak tensed; it was the dreaded cholera, for which there was no cure, just as it had been with the pox which infected all Cabugaw when he was still a boy just starting out as an acolyte. His family had survived it; would they survive cholera? Always, like some thorn embedded in the flesh that hurt when memory stirred, he would remember the weeping of people, the bodies with ripe, red sores, the pus oozing out of them. At first it was just three or four deaths in a day, then it was ten or twenty, then fifty — and all had to be buried hastily. “The cholera is worse,” Padre Jose had said, tears streaming down his craggy face. “Perhaps we have not been Christian enough.” And again and again, he heard the old priest intone sadly, dully: “It is the hand of God.”

The very night Blas told them about the plague, Istak had a dream.

He was harvesting the grain, but every time he stooped with the scythe, the stalks in his hands turned to ash and the whole field became an expanse of black.

He was now running away from it, and someone was chasing him, the footfalls behind him growing louder and louder although he was already faster than the deer. Then, on his head a huge hand rested. He stopped and turned to look at what he knew was a giant behind him, but there was no one there and no matter how quickly he turned around, he could not see who was behind him, although he could hear the gusty breathing and feel the great hand clamped on his head.

He ran again, his limbs racing the wind, but still the hand rested on his head, and behind him, the laughing, mocking voice: You cannot run away from destiny.

His legs began to feel like logs. You are not destiny, Istak shouted.

Then who am I?

The devil!

And if I am the devil, what am I trying to do?

You know that I have wavered in my faith, you want me on your side.

Istak slowed into a wearied walk. More derisive laughter behind him, and again he turned abruptly to confront his tormentor, but whoever he was, he was quicker and was behind Istak again.

I am not the devil, the booming voice said. And I will prove to you I am not. Tomorrow, when you waken, there will be a guava branch in your yard. Boil its leaves — the broth can heal the sick. Its fruits though sour can fill the stomach. Plant it in your bangcag. You have three mounds there. You will know which mound to select — dig a hole before it. There will be a treasure there and the guardian of this treasure will test your courage. I do not know if you will pass. If you do, plant the twig close by. It will prove to you that I am neither the devil nor his disciple. I am God’s messenger and you will use all His gifts when the time comes.

Liar! Istak screamed, and again he twisted around. The hand was no longer on his head but there was no one behind him either. The voice!

He remembered it then; it was old Padre Jose’s.

Morning came to Cabugawan with the splendor of May; mayas chirping on the grass roof, and beyond the open window, the bamboo bending to a breeze, the chicken cackling in the yard. It all came back with the urgency of birth or death or whatever could shake the world, for there on the ground was the guava twig that he had seen in his dream, only it seemed bigger, its leaves fuller and greener.

He rushed down and picked it up with trembling hands, raised it to the sun, bent it. Yes, it was real, and to Bit-tik, who was then starting out, he asked if there was anyone who had come that morning to the village to visit, any of the children …

The children? But they were all still asleep; they had not breakfasted yet.

This cannot be, this cannot be; this is reality and what I saw was a dream.

He hurried back to the house and to Dalin, who stirred from their mat, he said, “I must do some digging in the bangcag.” He wanted to explain to her what had happened, but anxiety prodded him. He wanted to know the verity of what lurked in the depths of his mind, what sorcery it was that placed the twig in his yard, for surely it would now reveal itself in the hole he would dig.

The farm was but a short distance from the village. The saplings he had planted here — catuday, marunggay, sineguelas, pomelo — they were bigger now. The mound to which instinct guided him relentlessly was the farthest of the three; twice as tall as he, and crowned with tough ledda grass.

He had brought a spade and a crowbar to loosen the tough earth. He was so intent with his digging he was unconscious to all the world until a sharp hissing shocked him to attention. He breathed deeply, stood erect, and looked for the source of the sound. Then he saw it, close to the base of the mound, but almost as tall as he, this cobra, its shining body almost as big as his leg, its hood now spread — so big, remembering it afterward convinced him it was as wide as a winnowing basket, its eyes glaring at him, its fangs bared.

The guardian of the treasure! And briefly he felt that instant of emptiness within him when he faced the gun of the Spanish officer. It was not quite the same feeling, though, and knowing that he was defenseless, that the doom which stared at him with beady eyes could strike before he could move, he remembered the dream, the courage that he must show. He stood motionless. The liturgy! Padre Jose repeating solemnly, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison—his heart thumping wildly now, his arms nerveless now. Christe eleison again, this time the words taking shape, a hoarse whisper. Christe eleison—this time loud enough for him to hear himself. Then, it happened. The hood which had expanded to the breadth of a winnowing basket started to contract, the head started to sway sideways, the fangs withdrew and the huge snake sank to the earth then slithered into the hole from whence it had come.

Istak breathed deeply, drawing in huge drafts of the good, sweet air; he started to sweat, and his legs felt watery. He wanted to run but could not move, his whole body was numb. The air that had rushed to his lungs reminded him that he was alive, with no venom clotting his arteries, stopping his heart.

The guardian had tested him and he had passed.

In a while, his strength and command of his senses returned. But doubts tugged at him, told him he should leave immediately, forget the dream, the treasure, and even his farm itself. What if there was gold beneath his feet? Or some talisman which was reserved for him alone? Think of your wife, your relatives, and how their lives could be made better. Think.

He grabbed the crowbar and started to dig, scooping up the hard crust of earth which he had loosened. Already, he had dug up to his knees and still there was nothing solid to stop him. The earth began to get soft, then wet, and it was soon muddy. Still, he persisted; he was down to his waist when the mud erupted into a bubbling spring. He had cracked the casement open and water gushed upward so that the hole started to fill.

Water! Life! Istak turned skyward to a sun which now burned in the cloudless sky, and thanked God for this gift. The farm would not be infertile, then. About ten feet from the spring, he dug another hole and stuck the guava twig into it. Then, with the spade, he filled the hole with mud from the spring. The twig would not grow, he told himself; but after what had happened, he knew that here in Cabugawan, in this new Po-on, anything was possible.

CHAPTER 11

The first time — there is always the first time when recognition and discovery come. The knowledge brings the inner vision with which even the blind can see, and reality is no longer something to touch but to covet. Here it was, then, the first time that Istak realized that he could heal, and with it, the exaltation that he had become not a destroyer but what he had always hoped to be, a giver of life.

In November, on the day of the dead, the three brothers journeyed to the Agno. The river was no longer swollen, for the rains had dwindled and the sun came out steady and strong. The few plots planted to the three-month rice had already been harvested, and along the way, they came across Ilokanos who had come down from the north to help in the main harvest. They would stay on to glean the fields.

Every November Istak went to the river, and again he carried a length of siitan which he would cut and make into a small raft when he reached the riverbank. Dalin had prepared the usual offering — a coconut bowl of soft sticky rice cooked in coconut milk. A shelled hard-boiled egg was embedded in the middle, and beside the coconut bowl Istak would place a hand-rolled cigar and a betel nut; then he would put a lighted candle atop the raft and its offering, pray the Rosary, and let the raft float down with the current. Somewhere, amid the reeds or deep in the murk and loam of the great river, Mayang’s spirit would know she was remembered.

They had done all this and now it was high noon — time for the lunch of rice with strips of dried deer meat which Dalin had wrapped in banana leaves, time to dive again for those sticks of pine washed down from the mountain. Thrice a year they went to this river for kindling wood to case the kitchen chores through the soggy days of the rainy season. When the winds were gusty and the oil lamps would flicker, then dim, the lighted pine splinter gave a steady, sooty flame.

The river was clearer. It eddied slowly — a green and living thing. There was hardly any spot now where the water was higher than a man’s head and they could explore the bottom with their feet. It was easy to recognize the driftwood they were after. With a bolo Bit-tik skimmed off the veneer. Pine wood was always scented and yellowish.

By midafternoon they had gathered enough kindling pine and the bull cart was half full with driftwood as well. The sun blazed down, and beyond Carmay they rested in the shade of an acacia tree.

An-no was in the cart, holding the reins of the carabao. He turned to Istak suddenly and shook his head. “There is something wrong with me,” he said. “I feel dizzy, and my head seems to be splitting apart.”

Istak felt his brother’s temple — indeed, it was hot, although they were in the shade. And his pulse was beating very fast. “It must have been the coldness of the river,” Istak said. “Or it must have been something you ate this morning.” What could his brother have eaten in Cabugawan that he himself had not?

He made An-no lie down on the floor of the cart and over his face he laid a banana leaf to shield him from the afternoon sun. Then An-no rose quickly and retched.

That night, back in Cabugawan, An-no could not sleep. Orang and the two small children gathered around him, watching him vomit and defecate in the batalan. Toward early dawn, when his vomit was nothing more than water, chills shook him. They called Istak, who told them to cover him with blankets until the chills subsided. In the morning, An-no was as pale as a cadaver, and seeing him thus, Istak told them all to leave the house so that he could minister to his brother alone.

All that he had learned in Cabugaw came to mind — the medicinal plants, the human body, even astronomy — all the minutiae that Padre Jose had taught him. But of what use were these if it was the spirit of the river that had been displeased?

Then he remembered the guava which he had planted near the spring, the spring which he had dug by the mound and which was now funneled by a series of bamboo tubes to irrigate his farm and to water the tuber pond.

He rushed down and ran to the bangcag with an earthen jar which he filled with water. And from the guava tree which had grown he gathered a handful of young leaves, and with these he went back, told An-no’s wife to boil the leaves, and have him drink as much of the brew as his stomach could hold.

A weak, almost lifeless man — his head held up by his wife — An-no took short drafts of the brew, then lay down. Squatting on the bamboo floor beside him, Istak closed his eyes in prayer. And in that small damp room smelling of tobacco and sweat and imminent death, he was catapulted to another time and place, to a vast white void where he was surrounded by luminous unearthly shapes as if he were within a cloud, and he was stretching his arms, beseeching, asking the unknown around him for his brother’s life.

When he opened his eyes again, they were all in the room — Bit-tik, the children, Orang, even Dalin — all staring at him as if he were some apparition. And beside him, An-no — the color returned to his skin, his eyes open, too, as if he had just wakened. He asked softly if there was food in the kitchen.

The following day they brought a four-year-old boy to Istak — the son of his own cousin. His belly was swollen. Istak knew at once it was not air, worms, or food, but a boil that must be lanced.

He looked within himself, at the new life he had obtained for An-no; it was not just the guava leaves and his brew that had helped. It was his prayer, his faith in the Almighty ever present in the very air he breathed, watching and helping him! Of this he was now sure when he raised his hand — it was as if the hand were no longer his, no longer subject to his will. His right hand calmly pressing the swollen side of the boy had become an instrument, a knife. Where his forefinger had pointed, there spurted thick, greenish pus. It spilled on the bamboo floor and down to the earth below. He pressed the belly until no more pus oozed from it. He had merely wished the child’s belly to open, to drain it of its poison, and that was what had happened. Where the wound should have been, there was just this slight indention, the skin untouched and whole. They had all seen it — the children, the women, the men — their eyes wide in supreme awe. Eustaquio, their cousin, their uncle, their neighbor, was blessed with faith. He would be the true light that would lead them.

Within him, Istak cried in humility and wonder: I am no different from you! We come from the same Po-on and here we are cast together by fate. So it is only I who know so much, but you have knowledge, too, which I do not have — the knowledge that each of us retains, as experience has given it to us, that which is ours and ours alone.

The affliction that had almost taken the life of An-no was not confined to Cabugawan. Soon enough, there spread stories of how people were dying in the south, not by the dozens but by the hundreds. Manila, where there were many médicos titulados, was not spared by the plague; the whole city was engulfed for days by smoke from fires that were stoked constantly so that the plague would be fumigated away.

As the hot season dried up the rivers into stagnant pools, as the heat festered and Apo Init bore down upon the land like an avenging ball of fire, the plague took more victims in Rosales and in the villages that ringed it.

“Do not go to town,” Istak told his relatives, at the same time wondering when it would strike the village in full force. “We are self-sufficient here, we will keep our village free.”

He could not stop, however, those who sought his help, the sick in the neighboring villages who had heard of his healing powers.

It was shortly before the Angelus on a particularly hot and humid day that Istak himself finally became afflicted. It came as a hot flush of fever which engulfed him totally, enervating him, fogging his senses. Then he was defecating and vomiting as well.

By nightfall, he knew that cholera had gotten into his system. He told Dalin to leave the house, to stay away from him until death claimed him, and that when it happened, they should not touch him or anything he had used, for surely the contagion in his body would strike her, too.

“This cannot be, my husband,” Dalin wailed.

“Do as I tell you, Old Woman,” he said weakly.

Dalin did not leave him. She brought him instead plenty of water to drink, water from the spring and brewed from the guava leaves. And she washed him with the same water when he could no longer move.

Tearfully, she walked into the night assisted by An-no and Bit-tik and made the brew in an open fire in the yard, not just for Istak, but for everyone.

While there was still a little sense to his mind and he could still pray, softly Istak intoned: Ave Maria purísima, sin pecado concebida. Santo Dios, Santo Fuerte, líbranos, Señor de la peste y de todo mal … por vuestras Hayas, por vuestra líbranos de la peste, O divino Jesús …

Days afterward, Dalin told him how his body had grown cold, how he sought the life-giving brew from the spring almost by instinct when he could no longer speak. Sometimes, in the night, he would mumble prayers, then lapse again into silence, while beside him, Dalin braved the pestilence and watched.

On the third day, Dalin said, they thought he had become mad, for he suddenly started talking to someone whom they could not sec, someone in the room.

He was damning the invisible visitor, telling him that he was paying too heavy a price for all that he was doing, that he wanted to be no more than what he had always been, a farmer like all of them, to live in peace, undisturbed by hallucinations and disordered dreams. He had gone back to sleep, froth in his mouth. And they were all afraid until he began to snore.

Late in the night, he woke up, his body taut as a bowstring. The oil lamp was burning low on the wooden table at his feet. He turned fitfully and saw Dalin sitting upright by the window.

A shouting in the yard had wakened him; he wanted to rise, but it seemed as if his whole being were tied to the floor.

It was not he who did it; it was my father, but he is dead. What do you want of us? Haven’t you sought us long enough? Did you not leave me for dead? I have a new life, I am no longer the man you left in Po-on with a hole in his chest, he wanted to shout. But no word escaped his mouth.

His ears picked up the minutest sound, the snap of house lizards on the beams, the shuffling of horses’ hooves in the yard, even their slow breathing, and most of all, he now recognized that voice, rasping and almost effeminate, could almost see the man speaking; how could he ever forget the last words that he had heard from him? Or that blaze of red that had exploded in his face before he was lost to the world?

“Do you think you can run away from Spanish justice? To the highest mountain? The deepest jungle? There is no running away!”

Yes, Capitán Gualberto had caught up with them.

He lifted his arms, but they did not respond; a shout erupted from his lips, but he heard no sound; more shouts in the yard, and as he struggled with words that would not be freed, a sudden weakness came over him — his body had withered; he could feel it shrink smaller and smaller until all memory and all feeling were stilled.

Morning. On the brink of this lightless day, the beating of his heart was a faint echo in his ears. He realized that he was breathing and could hear his lungs sucking in air. He wanted to lift his arms again, but they were numb. It all came back, the voice of Capitán Gualberto in the yard, the scuffling there, and yes, Dalin had whispered to him: “They are taking An-no! They will not bring him back!”

Fools! He is my brother, yes, but he is an ignorant farmer who can hardly write his name. What did he ever do to you? It is I who did everything, who sent my father on an errand of death. It is I who should pay …

There was no more scuffling in the yard. He would remember it all clearly later, but now his mind was clouded and all that he could perceive was this narrow room, this sad-eyed woman bending over him.

He lifted his eyes to the grass roof, where a house lizard clung motionless to a bamboo rafter, and then at Dalin again. Tears gathered in her eyes. “Thank God,” she murmured.

His strength was returning slowly; he raised his hands — they were not his and he recoiled at the sight, the bones kept together by brown, withered skin. And his palms, when he turned them, were white and bloodless.

What happened to me? he wanted to ask, but all he could hear was a meaningless rasp, not his own.

“You are alive,” Dalin murmured in his car.

He lifted the coarse Ilokano blanket and saw the big bones that were his knees. His thighs, his legs — they were withered, too. Shocked, frightened, how did all this happen? It was only last night that he had gone to sleep.

Dalin had hurried to the kitchen and returned with a bowl which she set on the floor. Then, propping his head against the buri wall, she fed him a spoonful. The soft-boiled rice was spiced with strips of onion but the aroma escaped him and so did its taste. It scalded his mouth and tongue. The gritty gruel sank quickly and brought a warm glow all over his middle. It brought, too, a new kind of throbbing to his head, and he was conscious now of the nearness, the soft nudging of Dalin’s breast against his shoulder. His hand had become sweaty and, trembling, he sought the cool, smooth touch of the bamboo floor and the breeze that came up through the house from beneath it.

“Eat now,” Dalin said, dipping the spoon again into the bowl. “It has been a month — a month that you were very ill, that you knew nothing.”

“A month? It cannot be — just seven days, just seven days …” He sighed, then with eyes closed so that he would not see the house suddenly turning over, he sank back onto the floor.

“My husband,” Dalin said huskily. “You have to live — not for me, but for the child I am carrying …”

This was the moment of revelation, and he would have wanted to see her in her full splendor, drink her very essence, wallow in her tenderness, but he did not dare open his eyes for fear that he would be suspended in midair, that she would not be within the frame of his vision but would be mist, as even now, with his eyes closed, he was sinking into a vast hollow, the world was whirling, and he could not stop it.

CHAPTER 12

Think, remember how it was, the very beginning when the fever suffused you. Is there ever a beginning with no end? We have always been here and shall pass as all others have, leaving nothing behind.

The dizziness ebbed, he dozed off into a limbo, and when he woke, it was already light — not dark as he remembered; the sun splashed on the buri wall. He tried to rise but could not. His head had become a leaden ball. He lay still, all sense of direction dulled, and the small house itself seemed to be falling into an abyss.

It was Dalin again who stopped the fall; she came in and by her very presence steadied him. She placed a bamboo chair before the window, then returned to him, went down on her knees — so close that he could smell the sun on her skin, the honey in her breath.

“You can sit there,” she said.

He tried to rise but to his amazement there was no strength in either his arms or legs. “I am not strong,” he said. She bent still closer to him and held him in the crook of his legs and shoulders so that he snuggled to her, and as a mother would take a baby from the crib, she lifted him and gently propped him on the chair.

He saw what the new world was — the sun a white flood upon the plain, so green and shiny he could feel the earth throb. In the sky, clouds billowed in masses of kapok white. This was creation itself and Istak began to cry.

It came back — the dim voices in the night, his brother An-no shouting in the yard, the scuffle there, the curses, and Dalin, her face taut with despair.

“What happened to An-no?”

His words were clear but she merely looked at him and did not speak.

“Tell me,” he insisted, turning away from the window and the new life framed there.

“They took him away,” she said sadly. “He claimed as his what your father did. They wanted to get you but he said it was he. You were very ill. We understood.”

“That his life was not worth as much as mine?”

She looked at him and did not reply.

“They showed us his body — they wanted us to know. Then they gave it to us. He had a good funeral.”

For a long time he did not speak; head bowed, he closed his eyes and brought to mind how it was, the journey that brought them to this land and to the beginning which was Po-on. Again, those days when An-no, Bit-tik, and he were small, roaming the green fields in May, searching for the first growths of saluyot that their mother cooked with grasshoppers which they had caught to eat as well, three brothers swimming in the river, gathering the fruits of camantres and lomboy that grew wild there. What did these years engender? He had been away from them for ten years and yet, though there were enmities among them, the bond had endured — reaffirmed by a supreme act of love. Why did An-no do it when he could just have remained silent and they would have taken him instead? Why did he do it and in doing so gamble as well? Istak was ill and dying — how could An-no have known that he would survive the fever? He turned all these questions over, remembering only what was good to remember of a past that he wanted to forget. Did he not even have a new name? He started to cry again, the tears scalding his eyes, trickling down his cheeks, and he shuddered, his thin frame shaking with the immensity of his grief.

Dalin embraced him.

One evening, when Istak was already well and could stand and walk around the house but not venture into the yard as yet, Bit-tik and Orang came with a big bowl of wild-pig meat stewed in vinegar. Bit-tik had trapped the animal that had been destroying the peanut patch at one end of his farm.

Istak could eat his fill and would soon be strong enough to work in the bangcag, and teach and heal again. They ate in the kitchen, savoring the meat, Orang hardly speaking. Sadness still lingered in her face, but neither grief nor motherhood had destroyed her handsome features.

“I want to ask you a question, Manong,” Bit-tik said when they were finished. Dusk was descending quickly, and in a while, Dalin would light the earthen oil lamp that dangled from a rafter, then join them squatting around the low table.

“When was it that you could not ask me anything?” Istak asked.

He could see Orang nudge Bit-tik on the side, and Bit-tik looked at her briefly, then spoke again: “It has been three months now that Manong An-no has gone. I live in his house.”

“It is also your house,” Orang said softly.

Bit-tik glanced at her, then went on. “The year of mourning is not over. Is it a sin, Manong? In my heart, I know it is not.”

Istak knew at once what his brother would say next; he did not let him. “Orang needs someone to look after the farm An-no left behind. And her two very young children — they hardly knew their father. You will now be father to them. And you can truly love them, for your blood is also in them. And now, you have two farms to work, not just one. But when will you stop wandering, and be tied to a house? Orang keeps a good house, and she knows how to cook very well — look at this adobo. Where can you get something as good as this except in a rich man’s house?”

Dalin sat beside Orang; she was older by at least five years and since that time when Capitán Gualberto had ravaged her, there had existed between the two a bond stronger than that which welds two sisters together.

“I am very happy it will be this way, Orang,” Dalin said.

The rains came and in early July a typhoon blew across the land and bowled over many farmers’ homes. But not the houses of Istak and An-no. With the typhoon came the nine-day rain which flooded the fields and swelled the rivers to overflowing, and with the land washed fresh, the pestilence disappeared. As Dalin’s belly grew, Istak regained strength. He had not brought any books from Cabugaw and had yearned so much for something to read, particularly in those times when, weak and emaciated, he could not leave the house. He tried recalling the important though tiny bits of knowledge taught him, and formulated a chronology wherein he could recall events, people, fragments of the past that must be resuscitated so that the present could yield some meaning or, at least, be explained.

With his improved health, he started to heal others again and news of his healing touch reached the nearby villages. They came seeking cures for stomach pains, late menstrual periods, fevers, and they left thinking he wrought miracles with his Latin oraciónes, which were really just the prayers that he had recited in church.

He attended to everyone, and in some instances knew he could do nothing as in that deep pit of his vision no light prevailed, just the blackest of black. It was at such moments that he prayed silently, asking God to have mercy on this human being, that the end be painless and quick.

Istak did not accept payment; he was not a medíco titulado—and what he did offer was but water brewed from guava leaves.

They usually came early in the morning, sometimes even before sunrise, for it was at this time of day that Istak felt he was best prepared. Those whom he cured recounted how it was when he “touched” them, the unseen force emanating from his hand which ended the pain, the warmth that flowed from his touch inundating the body and, finally, the feeling of being lifted from the mundane self for an instant into a state of well-being, if not of grace. When someone told him this, Istak would not believe it was his doing. It was the Divine who inhabited these parts, not he who was mortal, who sinned. Why had he not had this “touch” before, why now was he endowed with it, and in this particular corner of the world? Could it be that here, perhaps more than in Cabugaw or anywhere else, was where the kindly spirits dwelled?

What they did not know was that every time he “touched” the sick, he was drained of strength, and by midmorning, although there were still people waiting, he could no longer attend to them. He had become so weak, at times he had difficulty stumbling up to his own house.

He did not want anyone in the village to remain illiterate like his parents, so he gathered the children and taught them the cartilla and a little arithmetic. They did not have books and almost no paper and pencils, so they used banana leaves and charcoal from their stoves, and wrote on smooth bamboo boards or on the ground. He taught them a little Spanish, too, enough to understand some conversation, told them never to speak the language when Spaniards were within hearing, that whatever they knew of the language they should keep to themselves.

The produce from the farm sufficed and there was the additional grain, pork, chickens, and eggs his teaching earned for him. At first, it was just the children in Cabugawan who came to learn, but soon children and even adults from the nearby villages also came. A shed was built at the end of the lane close to his house, its earthen floor hardened with carabao dung. The roof was cogon and the walls were palm leaves. One side was completely open. At one end was a small table, and above it, close to the rafters, dangled a wooden crucifix. Aside from being a schoolhouse, it was also here where he ministered to the sick.

He also built a small shed in his bangcag near the mound where the huge snake had appeared. This mound was never touched, as were most of the mounds that dotted the fields. It was now surrounded with orange trees.

Down the shallow incline to the ground were the neat vegetable rows of ampalaya, eggplant, winged beans, watered constantly by the spring. This hut was his and his alone. He would lie on the bamboo floor and shut off everything — even the whisper of the wind on the grass roof. It was here where he replenished his strength, for after every healing he felt like a hollow length of bamboo — inert and useless, his innards spilled out, his veins and arteries drained. He stayed in the shed sometimes well into the night, when the whole village was already asleep, and would return to Dalin’s side shortly after the cock had crowed. Lying there, he could feel his spirit leave his body slowly, like an essence floating away from a bottle, or smoke which rises from the kitchen stove to disappear in the air, and from there, he could see everything clearly, himself weightless on the floor. He could feel himself soaring over the fields, over Cabugawan. Then that blinding light that seemed to wash over everything, a brilliant wave cascading down on him, and still more light so intense he dared not open his eyes. I have seen another world without the hard crust of earth. I have gone beyond passion and craving; I have seen the spirit, an invocation beyond understanding …

When he was in his shed in the bangcag, Dalin, who understood, did not have to dissuade people from bothering him. It was not necessary, not after what happened to those who had trespassed.

At one time in the early part of the dry season when the watermelon and pomelo were ripening, two interlopers tipsy with basi thought they could simply snatch a few fruits. They were taught a fearsome lesson they would not forget, a lesson which soon got whispered about in the villages. One had seen the fat pomelos dangling from the trees, and without asking permission, simply walked through the uneven fence of thicket and bamboo and started to reach for the fruits. His story was frightening.

The watermelon thief had come upon this length of big bamboo stretched between the leafy rows. Only it turned out not to be bamboo, but a giant snake suddenly come alive, hissing and staring at him with beady eyes. As for the orange thief, he was about to reach for the fruit when he saw a fat vine coiled around the tree trunk. Only it was not a vine, but the long body of a snake with its fangs bared. Both could have been killed and they thanked the spirits that the snake did not strike them. They understood only later: it had merely warned them.

There were eight houses in Cabugawan in the beginning; soon there were more as other settlers from the Ilokos joined them. There was land for everyone who dared challenge the forest and the wild cogonals that bordered the swamps to the south. The lane between the new houses widened, planted on both sides with marunggay trees, and another gully to the creek where the carabaos bathed was carved out.

Dalin was a good wife and mother but memory was her implacable enemy and at night when they were in their small sleeping room, she would remain awake, badgered by thoughts of what was, wondering if Istak truly loved her in spite of all that had happened.

She was very glad when the baby came — a boy — for she knew that with him they would be brought closer. He was baptized Antonio, in honor of her father, and this truly made her happy, and happier yet when, in a couple of years, the second baby came — also a boy — and was named Pedro, in honor of her grandfather. She had hoped for a girl, so they would have her to depend on in their old age — but no girl — in fact, no more babies came after the birth of the second child. Her life was ordered, comfortable, and she had no complaints. Istak provided well, he was esteemed and everyone regarded him as the repository of wisdom, although he was not the eldest. His uncle Blas was certainly much older, and was better with words.

In times like this, when the world was still and their thoughts were distinct and whole, it seemed as if they were completely one, their bodies merging, their spirits entwined as well, and the days ahead seemed clear and without shadows. Still, when she spoke her thoughts, it was as if this ancient sorrow never could be assuaged, not by her two boys, not by this man who had sworn to serve her to the very end.

“Old Man, when will you no longer want to have me lie beside you?”

“Old Man, will there ever be a time when I will forget what happened years ago, and remember only that I live for our children and tomorrow?”

“Old Man, who will take you away from me?”

He would hug her closer, feel the beating of her heart against his chest, smell the sun and earth on her skin and wonder why, after all these years, the old wound had not healed. He was a healer, but this was one wound he could not close no matter how much he reassured her, no matter how much he showed her by deeds that he loved her.

“I know it,” she said, holding him tight. “Someday you will leave us.”

Neither one was allowed to forget that they were running away and that even in Cabugawan they were not spared the omens of events to come. The news which reached them was of troubled times, of men being killed by the Spaniards in the north and the south. They did not hear the gunfire, so Istak consoled himself with the hope that perhaps they would no longer be hunted. What he had read convinced him that the tides rise and ebb. Though they could erode the shore, the sea itself remained constant, just as the land will be and they who work it, inseparable and perhaps indestructible.

“Whatever ill wind blows, we should not run anymore,” he told Bit-tik, Orang, and his cousins. “We will work as before. If there are men who believe so much in themselves that they can drive away the Spaniards, let them think that way; let them shout themselves hoarse. Our duty is to our families.”

As talk about the wildfire spreading in the south, particularly in Manila, heightened, they looked at the house of the Spanish landlord in Rosales for signs. The house stood there, quiet and impregnable, and the Spaniard’s many tenants continued to leave his mountain share in the bodega behind the house. Could it be that he had the unblemished loyalty of his tenants and was not worried about any Indio recalcitrance? Or could it be that he, like Padre Jose, was unsparing in his criticism of the Indios yet loved them as only a father could?

The harvest that year was very good and the sacks which Istak and the new tenants brought to Don Jacinto were fat and heavy. Their benefactor received them, however, not with great joy but with a face overcast by gloom. Once, as they were about to leave, Don Jacinto took Istak aside to the shade of the balete tree in his yard and presented him with a bottle of new basi. Then, the serious talk. Don Jacinto, gobernadorcillo, the authority of office imprinted all over him, was now merely another Indio in a moment of mourning. “Rizal is dead, Eustaquio. You may never have heard of him, but he is known to many of us who believe in justice. The Spaniards executed him last week at the Luneta …”

Above, the January sky was swept clean and a breeze that careened by brought to them the scent of harvest. A time for rejoicing, and because he loved Don Jacinto, he must now show that one man’s passing had touched him, too, although he did not really know who Rizal was.

“Tell me, Apo, about him.”

“He was a good man, Eustaquio. I think it is about time that I showed you some of the things he wrote — I have them, you know. His novels, copies of La Solidaridad …” Don Jacinto spoke softly. “I am telling you this because I know you are an educated man. But more than this, I know that I can trust you.”

“I hope I deserve that trust, Apo,” Eustaquio said humbly.

“Promise me — do not show them to anyone, and don’t tell anyone they came from me. And when you are through, give them back to me.”

“As you will it, Apo,” Istak said. They took a drink from the bottle. The basi was sweet — it had not fermented long enough and was fit for women only.

“Come,” Don Jacinto said, motioning to Istak to follow him to his house.

Istak had, of course, been in the house a few times but had never been in the bedroom of his benefactor. The house was not as old as the house of the Spanish landlord, but it was of immense proportions, and the bedroom with its giant four-poster bed was bigger than Istak’s whole house. It was not just a bedroom — it was a library as well, and Istak immediately felt comfortable in it. The books lined one wall, but the novels of Rizal were not there. From a wooden trunk under the bed Don Jacinto took two books and a thick envelope with folded newspapers within. He carefully bundled them, then placed them in a sack.

“Be careful,” Don Jacinto said. “And when you are through, let us discuss them all. Maybe it is time we went to Manila together.”

Manila — Royal City, was another world, unreachable, although once upon a time he had dreamed of walking its splendid streets and watching those big boats set sail for distant and exotic ports. Most of all, he would have loved visiting the university, listening to all those venerable men who had amassed wisdom from different lands and who, possessed with goodwill, would impart their knowledge to him.

Now the dream beckoned again. All the way back to Cabugawan, Istak thought of Don Jacinto, why he would talk of bringing a farmer like him to the city.

The trip to Manila, however, was never made. In a few weeks the country was in turmoil. It was then, too, that Istak fully realized what Don Jacinto was.

There was little confusion in Rosales. Life continued on its even course. Even the Spanish landlord, who had all the while stayed in Manila, was not harmed. It had seemed that he was one of the few of his countrymen who had sided with the Indios.

How strange it all was that even when Don Jacinto had revealed himself, Istak still felt nothing but affection for old Padre Jose, who must be dead by now. If not, they must have spared him physical pain. Did not everyone know how good he was? Istak had read Rizal’s novels by then. Though he was profoundly touched by them, he could not damn Padre Jose. There was in the language he learned from the old priest a nobility that affirmed man’s worth. Spain was the personification of granite pride, for how else could the Spaniards, coming as they did from an arid peninsula, build such an empire and still spread the faith? Surely, it was more than gold, exploitation, or superior arms which had moved them. Why did they lose their bearings? Why did they weaken?

CHAPTER 13

In another year, a new ruler — and a new enemy — had come. The Americans had defeated the Spaniards and were now battling the republic’s poorly equipped army. General Aguinaldo had none of the giant horses and the big guns that enabled the Americans to move with speed and overwhelm the puny units that faced them. They were also a ruthless enemy who defiled women and bayoneted children. In a few months, they had taken most of Luzon and were soon advancing to the north. Rosales was not on the main road. In Cabugawan, Istak and his kinfolk waited, wondering if they should flee to the forest.

Well ahead of the Americans, together with the monsoon in July, there came to Rosales in secret a man whom they all held in awe. Only a few saw him, but everyone knew he was in the safest, most comfortable place in Rosales — the house of Don Jacinto. Apolinario Mabini, the famous thinker and ideologue of the revolution, was a cripple. He arrived in the night in a hammock carried by bearers who left as quickly as they had come. As a leader of the new republic, he was a hunted man and surely the Americans would soon track him there.

Istak was faintly curious. The revolution had never really mattered much to him. He had gone over the copies of La Solidaridad and returned them; when his benefactor had asked him what he had found in them that impressed him, he had said quickly that there was great truth in what the ilustrados wrote about being rooted in the land. This truth was self-evident to those who worked the land themselves.

Don Jacinto did not reply; perhaps he understood that there was no measure for love of country except in sacrifice, and why ask the poor for more sacrifices? It was the comfortable, the rich like himself — although Istak did not put it this way — who should express it with their wealth. The poor had only their lives to give.

On this day, Istak had gone to the delta, to Sipnget, to attend to a sick boy whose father had come to him begging with an offering of two live chickens. Istak always helped even if there was no gift. More than a decade had passed since they had crossed the Agno for the first time and always, upon reaching the river, he prayed for the soul of his mother.

It was late in the afternoon when he returned to Cabugawan. The rains had paused and the sky was clear. As he entered the arbor of bamboo which shaded the village lane, he saw Kimat, Don Jacinto’s horse, tethered to the gatepost.

The rich man was waiting in the yard, talking with Dalin. Soon it would be dark; the leaves of the acacia had closed and cicadas announced themselves in the trees. From the distance that was Rosales, the Angelus was tolling, and after Istak had greeted Don Jacinto, they stood still in silent prayer.

The rich man did not come often to Cabugawan, not even during the harvesttime; he had entrusted his share to the honesty of men like Istak, and the settlers had not failed him. He was burdened with having to run the town at a time when chaos and lawlessness prevailed. He had done this well, relying not on force but on the respect that the people had given him. He was, after all, the only one from Rosales who had gone to Manila to study.

“I have been waiting for some time now, Eustaquio,” he said, smiling. In the dimming light, his face was drawn and pale, even stern. “Your Dalin and your two boys have been very good company. I even had a taste of suman and a cup of your new basi. I say it is ready, although Dalin says it is not.”

“You are a better judge of that than I, Apo,” Istak said.

“I came here to take you to town,” he said. “Now — if you have nothing else to do. I have a guest … you know that, don’t you?”

Istak nodded. “It cannot be hidden, Apo. Not in the way he arrived. Most of all, because he is with you.”

Dalin wanted them to eat supper first. She had broiled a big mudfish and the pot of rice on the stove was already bubbling. Don Jacinto demurred; they must hurry and they could very well eat in his house.

On both sides of the darkening trail, the fields spread out, deep green in the fading light. Soon they would turn yellow and golden with harvest. Istak walked beside Don Jacinto, who was astride his horse, mosquitoes and moths around them, the frogs tuning up in the shallow paddies.

“What do you know of my visitor, Eustaquio?”

“Nothing much, Apo. That he is your old friend.”

“Nothing can really be hidden in this town,” Don Jacinto said. “Still, you must remember that there are spies, people brown like you, and we must make his presence as secret as possible. The Americans are no different from the Spaniards. Do you think it matters that we are destroyed as long as they get what they want?”

Istak did not speak. He had always been circumspect before those who wore shoes and jackets. He had long believed that only by listening would he be able to acquire more knowledge.

Don Jacinto noted his silence. “I did not get you so that we could discuss the politics of acquiescence,” he said. Then he explained what had happened — both the Cripple’s^* manservant and secretary were ill and had left. And now, the Cripple himself was not well. He was always perspiring. Something was wrong with his urine — it was darker than usual and pains were shooting up his sides. The mention of pain in his sides alerted and alarmed Istak, but he could not be sure until he had seen the sick man.

It was already night when they reached Don Jacinto’s house. Like most of the people of Rosales, Don Jacinto’s father came from the north. He had done the cartilla in Rosales and then went on to Manila, and upon returning, he acquired more land. His father was an enterprising trader and knew how to please the friars as well. More than that, he had his son learn not just the intricacies of the law but how to deal with officials. No one in Rosales had suspected that the man who was very friendly with the friars and the capitán of the Guardia in Urdaneta, who often played chess and drank sherry with him, was actually a member of the northern revolutionary junta. They did not know that when studying in Manila, he had met other young ilustrados who were to lead the uprising against Spain.

Now, he was cabeza, and though there was not a single soldier in town, Rosales was peaceful. The town fiesta in June, which should not have been held anymore if only to protest against the friars who instituted it, was held just the same with the comedia and all the delightful entertainment that he arranged.

The oil lamps in the big house were all lighted and frames of yellow glimmered from the shell windows. The dogs in the yard howled, and out of the open gate, a man on a horse galloped into the night.

Don Jacinto reined in his mount. “I hope he did not bring bad news from Tarlak,” he said softly, more to himself than to Istak, as he cantered into the yard.

Up at the great house, in the sallow glow of the lamps, the red floor shone, the porcelain pedestals stood serene in corners, the carved wooden chairs with crocheted covers were all in place as if the house were not intended to be lived in. Istak followed Don Jacinto across the polished hall to the azotea beyond, and to an open door which led to a large room. It was better lighted than the hall itself — a new Aladdin lamp dangled from the ceiling, ablaze with light, and at both ends of the massive table, two other lamps were perched. Don Jacinto’s visitor was seated at the table, a sheaf of newspapers before him. The Great Man wore a white cotton shirt that hung loosely about him as if it were too big. Though young, he looked wasted and had a sickly pallor. He was poring over papers, shaking his head and cursing under his breath. Istak could make out the “sin vergüenzas” as they erupted in an almost steady stream.

“I hope it is not bad news, Apolinario,” Don Jacinto said in Spanish.

The Cripple did not even look up from what he was reading. “It is always bad news now, Jacinto,” he said, also in Spanish. “We are facing a superior enemy, as you very well know, with far more resources than the Spaniards. And still we haven’t learned. Our generals quarreling. No discipline! And these Americans, they also have the means to tell the world how righteous they are …”

He finally turned to them, flailing a sheet of paper. “Here is the latest outrage by their correspondent, this wretched Thomas Collins — calling our soldiers cowards who refuse to fight in the daytime — that when we fight at all, we are always running.”

“But wasn’t that what you wanted, and General Luna, too?”

“Of course, of course!” the Cripple exclaimed and drew back, sitting straight. Beside him was a reclining chair and with great effort he eased himself into it. Don Jacinto strode forward to help him, but the Cripple waved him away, saying, “I told you, I told you …”

The Cripple drew a shawl over his wasted legs. “A guerrilla war — that is what we must now wage. But General Aguinaldo — forgive me for saying this — he is selfish and stupid. He is envious of generals like Luna who tried to put some discipline into the army. Luna is dead, killed by the same people he sought to discipline. We lost a good leader, one who could build a fighting force from the rabble … and yet, much as I loathe Aguinaldo and disagree with him, he is now the symbol of resistance against the enemy. My personal feelings—” He paused and looked upward to the ceiling adorned by an unlighted chandelier. The soft, warm voice continued: “How can I reply to their charges, show that we are ready to rule ourselves? And when are a people ever ready? Should another race determine that for them? Our constitution — it embodies our national sentiments and can stand as a document of freedom with any other free constitution in the world.” He dropped the sheet of paper on the floor.

“These Americans, this Thomas Collins, they do not understand. Or perhaps they don’t want to understand because what they really want is to subdue us. Still, I have to reply to such lies so that the world will know we are not cowards or immature children. Do you know that in one of his dispatches he said all Filipinos are thieves? Their soldiers camped in Manila told him this — that unless their supplies were well guarded, they would all be stolen by Filipinos. If so, then let it be! It is not thievery to steal from them — it is an act of war, and may Filipinos bleed them to death …”

“How long did the courier travel from Tarlak this time?” Don Jacinto asked.

“Less than a day’s ride,” the Cripple said. “So I really am not too late with the news—” The Cripple stopped and looked at Istak, who remained standing by the door, hearing everything.

“You can trust him, Apolinario,” Don Jacinto said quietly. “This is Eustaquio. He understood everything we said.”

Istak bowed and fumbled for words: “Good evening, Apo.” The familiar Spanish words flowed out finally.

Don Jacinto continued: “There is no doctor anywhere near but Eustaquio is very good. He has taken care of many people. If we have to have a doctor, we have to go to Tarlak.”

The Cripple shook his head. “The Americans will soon be there,” he said wanly.

Don Jacinto nodded. “Give him a chance to help you.”

“I do not have a choice,” the Cripple said, suddenly laughing, the pallid face instantly transformed. He was homely and dusky, with a narrow forehead, but the severity of his countenance was banished. He was just another man still in his youth, brimming with humor.

Don Jacinto left to arrange for their supper.

“I hope that my humble self can be of service to you, Apo,” Istak said in very polite Spanish and in the same obeisant tone with which he had always addressed Padre Jose.

The Cripple looked at him, then shook his head. “Do not speak to me in such a manner, Eustaquio. I am not old or venerable. Besides, I am really at your mercy.” He pointed to one of the rattan chairs close by. “And don’t stand there. Sit down.”

Istak took the proffered chair. Beside him was a porcelain washstand with a polished mirror, and close to the Cripple’s bed was another table piled with books, an inkstand, and sheets of paper. The man had been writing and Istak could see the careful script. Istak could still write as well as that, perhaps even better. He had taken pride in his penmanship but had not held a pen in a long time and had done whatever writing he had to do with a pencil.

“Tell me, Eustaquio,” the Cripple asked. “How is it that you speak Spanish so well?”

“I was an acolyte in the church of Cabugaw, señor. In the Ilokos.”

“Jacinto says you are a healer. How long have you been one?”

“About ten years now, Apo,” Istak said. “I learned a little from an old priest about medicinal plants. And, of course, with prayer and God’s help there is always hope.”

Silence. Then the Cripple spoke again: “I have been suffering for some time now. I have pains here,” he said, pressing his sides. “You cannot see it now because the pan has been emptied, but when I urinate it is very milky. And I perspire so much, as you can see.” He wiped his brow, which was moist even in the cool September evening.

His meal came in — the new rice still steaming and fragrant, salted eggs, a small dish with salted fish and sliced tomatoes, and dried meat which was fried.

Istak shook his head. The Cripple wanted to share the food with him but Istak demurred; he would take his meal with the servants in the kitchen after Don Jacinto and his family had eaten. He stood up; he had confirmed what he suspected. “I will go now, Apo,” he said. “I will come back shortly with your medicine.”

In the dining room, Don Jacinto had already sat down with his family to eat and a servant hovered by the table waving a paper wand to keep the flies away. “I will return in a short while, Apo,” Istak said.

He hurried down the deserted street, disturbing the stray dogs lying there. At the edge of the town, he looked at the saplings, then crossed the creek to the other side until he came to a young banaba tree. He could make out the blossoms; they would be a pretty violet in the sunlight. He reached out to a low branch and plucked a lot of them together with the young leaves. With the bundle under his arm, he returned to Don Jacinto’s house and told the cook to boil some of the flowers and the leaves immediately.

His dinner was ready; Don Jacinto was indeed a good man — the food that his servants ate was the same as his honored guest’s.

He let the concoction cool a little, then took it to the Cripple. He was now propped up by pillows before the table and was writing in his journal, the Aladdin lamp bluish and brilliant above him.

“You must drink this, señor,” Istak told him, placing the pitcher and a glass on the table. “It is slightly bitter, but I hope it will do you good. And don’t drink anything else but this. I ask you not to cat salty food. In fact, it would be best if you had no salt at all.”

“And what is this?” the Cripple asked, raising the glass and examining it in the light.

Istak showed him the flowers and the leaves. The Cripple knew them. “There are many of these here,” Istak said. “And if there aren’t any, I can make another equally good remedy for you.”

As the Cripple took the cup and raised it to his lips, Istak recited, “Dominus Jesus Christus apud te sit, ut te defendat et te curet …”

The Cripple paused, and laid the cup on the table, his eyes wide open in surprise. “Do you know what you just said?”

Istak smiled. “Yes, Apo. The ritual prayer.”

“Translate what you said, word for word.”

Istak made the translation into Spanish. “May the Lord Jesus Christ be with you, that He may defend you and cure you …”

“You surprise me!” the Cripple exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his homely face. Then he took the cup and emptied it with a grimace.

“Now you condemn me to hell as well. Perhaps it is better that I starve. Food without salt! What else did that old priest teach you?”

“What is perhaps taught in a seminary, señor,” Istak said.

The Cripple seemed pensive for a while, as if he were savoring what he drank, as if he could not quite believe what he had heard. “The world is full of surprises,” he finally said. “Here I am, a stranger to this place, to the language, and yet I feel so safe because I know I am among people I can trust.” He glanced around the room, then at the herbolario. “Jacinto and I were classmates in Manila, Eustaquio. I have entrusted my life to him — just as I have done to you.”

“Thank you, Apo,” Istak said. There was nothing for him to do.

“Will you return tomorrow? Early? And have breakfast with me? If your medicine is good, I will wake up healthy!”

Istak fidgeted. He would be imposing on Don Jacinto, at whose table he had never eaten before, and now, with this awesome company. The Cripple seemed to divine his thoughts. “Eustaquio, I come from a poor family in Batangas. We must stop thinking of ourselves as inferior before those who we think have more knowledge than we do, or who are taller or fairer of skin. How many mestizos or Kastilas can speak Latin as well as you? You are very rich, Eustaquio, and your wealth is yours and yours alone. No one can take it from you. I will tell Jacinto that you will come shortly after sunrise.”

Dalin had cooked the new rice and its scent filled the house. She had also fried some dried pork, and the low eating table was already set. She waited for him to tell her how his visit was; she never asked what he did. In the warm glow of the oil lamp that dangled from the rafter, her eyes came alive with curiosity. Even after the birth of the two boys, she still retained her pleasant features, the mouth that was quick to laughter, the eyes that sparkled. Her coarse blouse seemed fine only because she wore it. But her hands were not soft like the hands of Carmencita, and her legs were dark, the soles of her feet as thick as any peasant woman’s. He must banish her unspoken anxiety.

The boys were busy with their food; Antonio, who was older, however, would turn to his father often, as if he shared his mother’s inquisitiveness.

“There is a new lamp in the big house,” Istak said. “It has a large wick and is fed by a different kind of oil. It is very bright, ten times brighter than candles and our own lamp.”

This was not what Dalin wanted to know.

“He is a kindly man,” Istak finally said. With his hand he shaped a ball of rice and then dipped it in a dish with fish sauce and sliced lemon. “He is ill — and I will see him again tomorrow. And yon know, Old Woman, he wants me to have breakfast with him. This farmer Istak, having breakfast with such a noble person. I cannot believe it.”

Dalin smiled, pleased at the honor given her husband.

Istak seldom had Po-on on his mind now; still, there were instances out there in the soggy fields when he remembered. Memories no longer wrenched from him the ancient sorrow. His granary was always full, the bangcag and the guardian that watched over it had been kind, too; the bamboo thrived, the orange trees bore sweet fruit, vegetables grew even during the dry season — all he shared with relatives and neighbors who were too lazy to plant. He was a good provider; he was a better teacher.

Night came swiftly to Cabugawan. After supper, Dalin cleared the low eating table, then leaned it against the palm-leaf wall. She placed the leftovers into a coconut shell which Pedro, the younger boy, took below the house for his dog, Lightning. Dalin drew up the bamboo ladder.

The two boys slept in the kitchen while Dalin and Istak slept in the small sipi which adjoined the living room. Below the house were the plows and the harrow, a couple of hoes, and the loom Dalin used for weaving.

The small window would stay open till they were ready to sleep. Dalin had closed the other windows and slung a pole across them so that they could not be opened from the outside. The two carabaos and a calf were in their corral by the granary; there had been some cattle rustling in Carmay and Sipnget, but none so far in Cabugawan. Any stranger wandering in the neighborhood would be announced by the barking of dogs. One rainy night, a howling roused Dalin from sleep. She gripped the arm of her husband, who was then wide awake, too. He crept to a crack in the buri wall and peered outside to see shadows moving toward the corral. He opened the small window slowly. He kept a basket of stones ready for such a time. He started pitching with all his strength at the forms in the dark. Thuds, a scream of pain, men rushing, and soon the shouts of neighbors who had also been wakened. Not one of the carabaos in the village was taken. How would it be if the rustlers had guns? So much uncertainty and violence threatened them now, and those who plundered the countryside often did so in the name of the revolution.

Again, the thought came swiftly — if only he and his family could flee to some deeper forest where they could clear and work the land without being badgered by other men. This was what so many had done — the fugitives from Spanish forced labor and the lash, the mal vivir, who had challenged the wilderness or sought community with the mountain peoples — the Aetas, the Balogas, the Bagos — and became one with them. He could do this with confidence born out of the sweat, the agony of having tried. He knew how to pit his intelligence against animals, even against some of nature’s whims. In fact, nature was no enemy but a friend. There was tight kinship here, all his neighbors shared with him this beginning. Would they all be driven away again and be estranged from one another? Everywhere there was no peace such as he might have found had he become a priest. And again, old Padre Jose came to mind.

Time had dulled Istak’s earlier enthusiasms, and even his preoccupation with faith and liturgy now seemed a precious memory. How was it ever possible for him to believe in the seeming omnipotence of prayer? Of Padre Jose’s missionary courage? Did he delude himself in believing completely what he had learned in the sacristy? It was what he learned from there, after all, which had made him what he was. Would it have been better if he had had the open mind to accept all there was to accept, even the unexplainable such as those things which he witnessed? There were those aspects of living that need not be questioned anymore, the futility of it all, the dying, this night that covered the land, those distant stars that Galileo was troubled about.

In the kitchen, one of the boys was already snoring. Beside Istak, the softness of Dalin. Lifting the rough blanket which covered her, his hand slid up from her smooth, flat belly to her breasts. They were firm still in spite of two breastfed babies. She turned onto her side, breathing on his face, and laid an arm around his chest. Outside, in the corral the calf was mooing and a night breeze stirred in the bamboo grove beyond the house. The air smelled of harvest, of the good earth.

“I wonder what he wants,” Istak said softly.

“It is an honor,” Dalin said, “when someone like him needs you. It could be dangerous, too.”

“He told me that.” He quickly remembered.

“And we are small people, Old Man,” she reminded him.

Istak did not speak. Long ago he had learned how to live with his smallness. This woman beside him made him strong, his fate more bearable.

In the morning, at her urging, he had a breakfast of coffee, fried rice, and roasted dried venison. Dalin told him he would be uncomfortable before the Cripple; he would be so self-conscious of his manners that he would not be able to take two mouthfuls.

Don Jacinto met him in the wide sala. The sun was already up, yet the house seemed dark but for the shine of the hardwood floor and the mirrors on the walls.

“Apolinario is really impressed, Eustaquio,” the cabeza said, beaming. “And I did not know you could speak Latin.” He slapped Istak affectionately on the shoulder.

He was ushered into the room of the guest. The Cripple was not there; he had been transported to the nearby azotea, which was now flooded with the morning sun, brilliant on the potted palmettos, on the red tile floor.

The Cripple was still pale. Beads of perspiration clung to his brow. The cook came with their breakfast in trays and Don Jacinto left them. The Cripple’s food — upon Istak’s order — was now almost without salt, and he grimaced as he ate the broiled fish and fried rice.

“As you can see, Eustaquio,” he said, “I am a very good patient.” He took the glass of light brown liquid and drank all of it.

“I feel better,” he continued. “And my urine, it was clearer this morning. I drank four glasses last night.”

The Cripple turned and picked up two lead pencils and a beautiful new notebook beside the food tray. “I hear you don’t accept payment — so take these. You are a teacher. You need them.”

As Dalin had said, Istak had difficulty eating even with the Cripple’s continued urging. He had never used table napkins before or the silver that the Cripple was using, although he had seen them in the sacristy.

“It is your kidneys, I suspect, Apo,” Istak said. “They are probably not working well and what you are drinking merely helps clean them. I am not sure it can do everything if the damage is serious. I am not a doctor, Apo.”

“In the absence of one, you are heaven-sent,” the Cripple said. “And since you are my doctor now, I will tell you frankly what I fear.” The Cripple beckoned to him to come close so that he could listen better. Now his voice became softer, as if revealing a horrendous secret. “You must keep this to yourself. Will you promise that, Eustaquio?”

“Yes, Apo.” He had emptied his cup and felt invigorated; the coffee was real.

“When I was young”—the Cripple’s face was now dark with gloom—“I had this terrible fever. I was so weak, I could hardly move. It lasted but a few days and when it left, I thought I was finally well, except for my legs. They felt numb. I tried to rise but couldn’t. After I had eaten, I thought I would be stronger. When I finally had sufficient strength, my legs could not support me. I was so surprised and sad — I cried when I fully realized that I had become a cripple. But not here!” He laid a hand on his breast. “And here”—he gestured to his head. “I had medical care, of course, but I think I went to the doctor too late and so I am like this. Which is just as well. You see, the Spaniards found it too much of a bother to imprison a cripple. They thought that I would not be able to do them any harm. They let me live, but my friends — well, they were all shot at the Luneta.”

Istak listened intently. He had heard so many of these stories in the past, he bore witness to what was done to him and his father. Then they took his brother, too, as if his brother’s life were forfeit and his more important, reserved for some design that was not for him to know, just as the Cripple was saved from the firing squad.

“I am happy that you are here with us, Apo,” Istak said.

“But you pity me because I cannot walk,” the Cripple said, his face brightening. “Let me tell you a secret — while these two legs are useless, the third leg is still sturdy but unused!” Istak looked at the thin wasted legs. Yes, it would be a miracle if the Cripple could walk again. Istak grinned; the Cripple was not made of stone; he knew how to laugh. But then, the Cripple suddenly raised his hand and brought it down hard on the table, rattling the silver and the plates. “Oh, that I were not like this, imprisoned in this damaged body. If only I could use my legs!”

The sudden irruption vanished quickly. “It would be a miracle, Eustaquio, if I walked again?”

Istak did not answer. He tried to recall what was in the medical encyclopedia that Padre Jose had in the library and which he often read.

“I am not optimistic anymore. But then—” A scowl came over the Cripple’s face, his eyes suddenly blazed. “¡Sin vergüenza!” he cursed softly. “And do you know what my enemies spread about mc? Those wealthy mestizos who ingratiated themselves with the president? To destroy mc, who exposed their perfidy and stood in their path, they spread the rumor that I had syphilis. Syphilis — it damages not just the body but the brain! No, they did not say it bluntly, to my face and hearing. They insinuated it, hinted at it. In this, I couldn’t confront them, fight them. The people close to mc, they knew it was a lie. That behind this is nothing more than greed and, perhaps, envy. I never aspired to wealth, Eustaquio. So I can look any man in the eye. Remember this, Eustaquio. Remember this.”

Istak had finished the hard-boiled egg, the fried rice from Don Jacinto’s kitchen much tastier than what he had at home; it was fried with pork fat and had bits of onion and garlic.

“I would have peace of mind if I were you, Apo,” Istak said. “Just use less salt.” He leaned forward and pressed the flesh in the Cripple’s forearm. The indentation left by his thumb lingered.

“You have a little edema,” Istak said. “I really think it is your kidneys.”

The Cripple grinned again — the happiness spreading across his pinched, pallid face. It was the first time Istak had seen him so pleased, the melancholy eyes dancing with laughter.

“What else can you do, Eustaquio? You speak Spanish, Latin — both very well. And you are a healer like no herbolario I have ever seen. What are you really or what do you want to be?”

“I am a poor farmer, Apo,” Istak said.

“No, you are not just a farmer,” the Cripple said. “In the past, surely, you must have wanted to be something else.”

So it was; Cabugaw again, the old church, the stone belfry and the bats that roosted in the eaves, the booming clap of bells in his ears and old Padre Jose telling him to read as much as he could, for the world was open only to those who could read and this skill was the most precious gift that any teacher could give.

“I had a teacher, Apo,” Istak said with a touch of sadness. “I wanted to be a priest, to be like him, knowing so much and imparting it all to others.”

“And why did you not become one?”

Istak turned away. “I am an Indio, Apo,” he said simply.

The Cripple leaned forward, his eyes ablaze. “You can still be one if you want to, Eustaquio. Bishop Aglipay has founded the Filipino Church. It is very strong and it is all ours. No Spanish friars ordering us. And we are not subservient to Rome. We must build this church not only because it is ours but because we must have a continuing faith in God. My mother wanted me to be a priest, too. So you are not really alone.

“Do you really believe in God?” the Cripple asked after some silence. “This was a belief you got from the Spaniards, no matter how kindly they may have looked upon you.”

For some time, Istak could not speak, although it would have been so easy to affirm his faith. He had prayed as a matter of habit when he ministered to the sick, a prayer which those who were healed thought had curative powers in itself. He had not tried to correct the impression, for who really knew what prayer could do? There was this power he held, power which was not really his but Someone else’s. Yet, there were times when he doubted the existence of a just and merciful God, and now that it was put to him bluntly, now that he must open up his own mind to himself, he realized with some sorrow and apprehension that his belief was not as steadfast as it once had been and that if given the chance he would not now want to be a priest. Was it all Dalin’s doing?

“I do what I think is right, Apo,” Istak said.

“You are not answering my question.”

“I doubt, Apo,” he said quickly. “And I am ashamed that I do.”

“No, no, Eustaquio!” The Cripple shook his head emphatically. “You doubt, you think — have you forgotten the old injunction? What did the Spaniards say about us? That we are children, without minds, that we can easily be led. This is what the Americans are saying, too. This is what they are telling the world. That we cannot manage our affairs, that we do not deserve to be free. A nation which has people who can think, that nation already has strength. It is the mind which rules, Eustaquio — not instinct or habit.”

Long after they had parted, the Cripple’s words burned in Istak’s mind. In their next encounter, he would have more reasoned-out replies not only to his inquisitor but — he now realized — to himself. He went to his bangcag, the life-giving well, to the guardian of the earth, to draw from them the knowledge that seemed to have ebbed. It had pleased him, of course, to use Spanish, and a bit of Latin again, to argue in a language that was not his and find that desuetude had not dulled his mind, that he could still express himself fully in it, although, at times, the words shaped slowly. He brought to mind how he once told Padre Jose that he was tormented by doubts and the old priest had tweaked his ears, reminding him that there are questions of faith which have no answers, for the ways of God are immutable and imponderable. Istak had believed; he had wakened in the mornings, smelling real coffee brewing in the kitchen. He had lingered, too, at the belfry when he tolled the Angelus and from that pinnacle, watched the west burn with the dying day, the whole rim of the world ablaze with dazzling reds that turned to purples, voluptuous forms or ogre shapes obscured with the onrushing night. Only God could paint these.

The guava tree had borne fruit and the well was full and flowing ceaselessly into the bamboo conduits that carried the gift of life to the seed. He would bring some of the fruits to his patient and boil some of the young leaves in water from the well. Mushrooms had also sprouted in the pit where he had stacked the dead trunks of bananas and hay, and he filled his fish basket with them. The Cripple would like a tasty meal even if there was no salt in it.

He had never taken care of anyone before with whom he was as involved as he was now. Although it had given him immense satisfaction to hear the Cripple tell of his improvement, Istak was not sure that he was doing right, he was not even sure that the Cripple’s old ailment was completely cured. It was in moments like this that uncertainty badgered him, that the hunger for more knowledge became more acute.

Would he raise his sons, for instance, the way he was — full of questions? This early, the older boy, Antonio, had already shown intelligence and a questioning spirit. He had taught the boy the cartilla and he could read just enough Spanish for a nine-year-old to absorb. Istak regretted most that he had no books here; in Cabugaw, there had been the Augustinian texts, the literature and science of Europe. Now that he had shared the rich man’s food, perhaps, Don Jacinto could lend him some of his books.

All this was in his mind the evening he returned to town with his medications. This time, however, the Cripple did not bother him with questions; he offered Istak a job instead.

In the azotea again. Across the wide expanse of grass the balete tree was ignited by a thousand fireflies, and beyond the old tree, the orange lights of several homes flickered. The evening was cool; it would be December soon and the bracing winds from the mountains would veer down to the plain.

The Cripple had finished his supper. He had also drunk the concoction which Istak had brought in a bamboo tube but that was now in a glass pitcher. The Aladdin lamp was lighted and its luminous glow reached out to them.

The Cripple was pensive, his eyes on the far distance, the pith of darkness. “I have difficult days ahead, Eustaquio. I am depressed by the way the war is being fought, and now, all these personal problems, too. As you very well know, Cayo, my secretary, is not well. He is in Balungaw with my servant, in the hot springs there, recuperating from this fever and I don’t know how long he will be there. Thank God, it is not the pox. I need someone to transcribe what I have written, to remember the things that I say. Your Spanish is polished — as if you grew up with the language. Do you have difficulty recalling it?”

“Yes, Apo,” Istak said.

“You will do. And as for Tagalog, it Does not matter that you don’t speak it. You can learn enough so that you will understand what I automatically say sometimes.”

This kind of work was beyond his expectations. He should forget the dream but in his heart he was glad that the Cripple saw value in him still. But what was this votive flame that was drawing him closer to this cause that led men to their graves? Would he eventually be singed by it, would it scorch all the allegiances of the blood?

“What are your feelings toward the language of our masters, which we have learned? Does it give you a sense of pride? Of being equal to them?” the Cripple suddenly asked.

It had never occurred to him this way. Language was a window through which he could see — as Padre Jose had said, and indeed, he saw so much, learned so much. But how was he to explain this now? He turned to the side of the room where the bookshelves were. All those books were in Spanish, and perhaps, a couple or so in Ilokano.

“I have made their language mine, Apo,” Istak said finally. “And with it, I am able to speak with you, to Don Jacinto — but to my relatives, my wife, I have to speak in my own tongue, which I love no less.”

The Cripple smiled, that cryptic smile that could be mistaken for cynicism. “And I have to write in Spanish, and this then will have to be translated into English by our friends in Hong Kong. English, the language of our enemy — so that it can then be spread to many corners of the earth. To reach our own people, we have to use the language of foreigners. But someday we will be able to talk with everyone in a language that is our own. Yes, Eustaquio — there is so much the world does not know, how the Americans have tortured our people, committed the most brutal crimes against humanity. And yet, read their own constitution — how civilized and humanitarian it is. Yes, we have so much to tell everyone.”

The Cripple paused as if a heavy cloak of weariness had descended upon him. “And Luna is dead. Only he really understood how the war should be fought by men lacking arms but not spirit. Everyone can help in this war, Eustaquio. Do you understand?”

Istak bowed. “I am just a poor farmer, Apo.” His voice did not rise above a whisper.

Perhaps, had the Cripple been able to, he would have risen quickly. He jolted himself upright, instead, his voice leaping, his eyes burning: “You are not a poor farmer! You are Eustaquio Samson — is that not your name? And you are a Filipino with a good head — this I recognize as you should recognize it, too. And this is what has always been wrong with us — yes, the Spaniards have succeeded in humiliating us, always they are the superior teachers — we the inferior pupils! Whatever we do that is honest and good, we must be proud of it. We must not be subservient to anyone, not you to me, as I have never been to anyone. In me, in you — in all of us is dignity. We should stand bravely because we are citizens of a sovereign nation no matter how weak that nation. We are Filipinos now, do you understand, Eustaquio?”

Istak did not move. The words swirled around him, engulfed him, lifted him off his feet. No one had ever spoken to him like this before; his parents had always stressed obedience, hard work, and Padre Jose — for all his goodness, what did he din into him but piety, love, respect, duty — how they differed from Mabini’s thralling call to pride.

“Yes, Apo,” Istak said.

“You do not know it,” the Cripple continued equably. “I am no longer an official in our government. What I do now I do as a duty, not to the president but to Filipinas. Our motherland, she is bigger than any of us, and we must serve her, and serving her means serving you and everyone who is Filipino. Even now, President Aguinaldo is fleeing from the Americans, just as I am hiding here, unable to run. He has a weak, undisciplined army — what is left of it — led by General Tinio. He will be safe. But the Americans will surely capture me — I don’t know when they will come or when I will be betrayed, just as I don’t know when they will catch up with the president. Some say that everything is lost, that all we can do now is run and hide, but we can still wage war from the mountains, from the swamps, where they cannot reach us. We know the folds of the hills, the depths of the muck — they don’t. But even if the war is lost, even if there is an American pointing a gun at each one of us, we must continue to oppose this new master till Filipinas is free.”

A long pause, then the Cripple continued sadly: “But when will Filipinas ever be free from its leaders who are wealthy and crooked, in whom we have put so much trust?”

To Istak’s questioning look, the man sighed. “I am voicing thoughts that I should keep to myself. But I have always mistrusted the wealthy men who have joined the revolution. I know that great wealth is always accumulated by foul means, by exploiting other people. If we have wealthy men at the helm, we can be sure that they will enrich themselves further. Virtue and wealth seldom go together. The greatest criminals are also the wealthiest men.”

Istak looked at his bare feet, at the shiny wooden floor. Was he the epitome of virtue because he was poor? How had it been in the village? There was foul gossip and cussedness anywhere in the world where small men had to think of their stomachs first before thinking about others. “The poor are not always virtuous, Apo,” he mumbled.

“Ah, but I did not say they are.” The Cripple became vibrant again. “What I do say is this: it is more difficult for the poor to be virtuous. When you are hungry and you steal a ganta of rice, that is not a crime; but when you are rich and you steal gold, is that not despicable? In this war, hundreds have died with honor, but I also know that some have already profited by their professions of patriotism. When this is all over, we will know who among the ilustrados have enriched themselves with the funds that should have gone for the purchase of guns, food, medicine for our soldiers. We will know who betrayed the revolution to the Americans. And because we are Filipinos, we may even proclaim these thieves as patriots. Patriots don’t become rich, Eustaquio.” The Cripple raised his hand in a gesture of futility and for the first time, Istak pitied him, his infirmity, his incapacity to express himself beyond words, in deeds that would bespeak iron physical courage as well.

What could a farmer like him do? Had the lives of people really changed during all the years that salvation was offered by the priests? If the revolution succeeded, what assurance was there that his life would change? Would brown rulers be different from the Spaniards? Would it not be worth waiting to find out what kind of rulers the Americans would be? He did not know much about America, but he had read about Lincoln and how he had freed the slaves. Surely, there must be some redeeming virtue in a nation which produced such a man.

“I don’t want to make you angry, Apo,” Istak said clearly. “All that I can look after is my own farm, serve those who seek me when they are sick. I have my children to look after so that they will not know what hunger is.”

The Cripple bowed as if enveloped in thought and for some time he did not speak. Darkness deepened, dishes clattered in the nearby kitchen, mice scurried in the attic, a dog howled somewhere in the vastness of the night. The Cripple spoke again. “I understand only too well what you are trying to say. That you are a farmer? Or that you are Ilokano? And if I ask you, what is under your skin, inside your skull, do not tell me it is blood and flesh and brains!” His gaze turned to the sky studded with stars and as if he had reached out for one and held it out to the farmer, his words took shape again, crystal-clear, lucid. “Don’t ever be a patriot, Eustaquio. Those who think they are or will be delude themselves. Patriotism is selfless. And it is not the generals who are the bravest — they usually have the means to stay away from the battle and thereby lengthen their lives. The bravest are usually those whom we do not know or hear about, those anonymous men who dig the trenches, who produce the food. They are the corpus — you understand that word — the body and also the soul of a nation. Eustaquio, my words are just words, but all through history — and you have studied it — it has always been the many faceless men, those foot soldiers, who have suffered most, who have died. It is they who make a nation.”

^* The Filipinos usually coin nicknames (often terms of endearment) from a person’s physical attributes. “Kalbo” (“bald”) is the name given to a man by people who know him. President Ramos is called “Tabaco” because of the unlit cigar always clamped in his mouth. A fat boss will be called “Taba” (“fat”) by everyone in his office, although not to his face.

CHAPTER 14

My concern is here in this land that I have cleared. Yes, my house is small — a typhoon can destroy it. I have no weapons to defend it against the Americans, who have everything. I will welcome them to partake of my food, and if they will command me to serve them, what choice do I have? The little people have always been like this — they die, but then they can bring on a plague. All that I want is to be left alone.

Amami adda ca sadi langit—

Dalin and the two boys intoned the Lord’s Prayer. Always in the hush of dusk before they supped, they prayed with the words that the Augustinians had shaped for them, and with the end of the novena, they now sang softly, their voices blending together with what Istak had taught and explained to them:

Tantum ergo sacramentum

Veneremur cernui

Et antiquum documentum

Novo cedat ritui …

So be it, the old giving way to the new. Where the senses cannot confirm, let faith be the unswerving guide, the final and only answer. Faith made them persevere so that they could reach Rosales. His two boys, his wife — they looked up to him with more than faith; Dalin could only write her name before; now she could read and knew a lot more than woman’s work. Still she had not changed really — she was still the same woman who took that desolate trail to Po-on. What is it, then, that makes people endure? To remain steadfast? Surely they must be imbued with more than courage.

And now, the Cripple was asking him to face the enemy, fling stones at him, and bare his chest to him. No, courage is also the capacity to use wisdom so that we, not he, will prevail, to learn how the enemy can be destroyed, to have the patience to wait, to search for his weakness, to attack when he Does not expect it.

Istak could not sleep. The gecko called from the dalipawen tree beyond the house, and the cocks crowed from their roosts in the nearby branches. Dalin was quietly asleep beside him. In the morning, he would have to return to town with answers that had been thought out, dredged from his deepest being. It was only at night when he was home lying wide-awake that the big thoughts — as he called them — came but did not linger. A body that was tired succumbed easily to sleep; he waited for it but it was a long time coming.

Daylight again, Dalin preparing breakfast in the kitchen, the smell of corn coffee, of dried fish frying in coconut oil. Outside, the boys already shouting, the dogs yelping, the world alive and pulsing, and here he was, though rested, still disturbed, still unsure.

At the low eating table, the two boys ate noisily. He nibbled at the dried fish, the fried rice almost untouched on his plate.

“Whatever it is that the Cripple is asking you to do,” Dalin said, “do it. He is a man you respect and honor; he will not ask you to do work which will dishonor you or leave you without reward. And reward does not mean silver.”

She seemed fairer in the morning light of the open doorway. It must have been her blouse as well, its long sleeves rolled up. Her hair, neatly combed, hung down her shoulders. Every so often, she washed her hair with the ash water from the stalks of palay that she burned — now it shone lustrous in the light.

“I am not going to be involved with his violence,” Istak said quickly. “My duty is to them.” He thrust a chin at the boys, who continued eating. “And to you.”

Dalin shook her head. “How quickly you have forgotten.” She sighed. “You have tried to run away from it, but it seeks you just the same.”

“We have had peace for years now,” he said, shaken a little by what she said.

“We cannot escape our fate,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his hand.

Don Jacinto gave him a corner in the cavernous storeroom beneath the house. The windows were wide, the sun flooded in, and it was bright even till late in the afternoon. Then, a maid would come with a candle or a pair of oil lamps and he would continue writing till the work was done. If needed upstairs, he would go up the stone flight of the azotea without having to pass the main hall. The Cripple merely thumped on the wooden floor with a cane and the dust of many years would drift down, threatening to smother him. But soon, no matter how loudly the Cripple thumped, no more dust descended on him.

The work was not difficult; most of the time, it was simply copying neatly what the Cripple had written and corrected. Istak had some difficulty at first — he had not written with a pen for a long time, and the nib often flattened out as he pressed on it too hard. After two days it all came back — the old agility, the smoothness. Though his back ached from the hours hunched before the writing table, it was not the body that was really fatigued but the mind, for everything that the Cripple wrote, he absorbed. Writing provoked thinking as well, and it had been a long, long time since Istak was made to think as he was doing now. He marveled at the Cripple’s tenacity and how, despite his infirmity, he could still write so much, even now that he was no longer in power and the war was being lost. The Americans were getting closer and very soon they would reach Pangasinan.

It was the Cripple’s view on the Church, on Bishop Aglipay, whom he wanted to be the undisputed leader of the Filipino priests, that bothered Istak most. Mabini’s belief in God was formidable and steadfast, but he thought little of the Roman Church as an institution. The Cripple’s letters and resolutions asked instead for the creation of a Filipino Church, serving not Rome but the Filipino people.

Shadowy figures stole into the house and talked with Don Jacinto, who then took them to the Cripple’s room. They did not tarry. Their faces were grim and melancholy when they arrived, but when they left it seemed as if they were recipients of indescribable grace, their gait quicker, the sorrow banished from their faces. Surely, the Cripple held some secret talisman as well.

Istak was justly proud of his penmanship, which he had developed through the years. Though he no longer gave his capital letters fancy loops, he still decorated them with a curl or two. It was, after all, with this penmanship that the trained writer was recognized; the more elegant the calligraphy, the better it spoke of the writer’s skill.

The Cripple was meticulous; he said the loops occupied too much space and interfered with the reading because they were distractive; the penmanship drew attention to itself and not to what was being said.

“Remember, Eustaquio, these are curtains to a window. And the words are themselves the window. First, the writing must be neat but not ornate, for if I wanted beautiful letters, then I would have nothing but a page of the alphabet in ornate lettering. The Chinese consider calligraphy an art form and it can be beautiful, but attention, as tradition demands, is drawn to the shape of the characters themselves. Great calligraphers are, therefore, great poets, too. But you are not Chinese. Words should not hinder the expression of thought unless one is expressing poetry. I am not writing poetry; I am writing to convince people of the validity of our struggle, its righteousness, and the utter fallacy and hypocrisy of the Americans in saying we are not capable of self-government.”

For all his wisdom, Padre Jose had never spoken to him like this and with such lucidity. How he would have rewritten now that pompous journal which he had started in Cabugaw, influenced as he was by the classics and the Latin poets; he was but twenty-one then, and Padre Jose — bless him — had said that even one so young as he had already shown wisdom by being concerned not only with living but with what made life bearable. How apt, how beautiful it had all sounded. He was shut up in the convent, assured of his meals and safe from conscription in the public works in Vigan and elsewhere, yet he could see the inequities heaped upon his people, the drudgery that warped the lives of his own kin in Po-on. He saw, but could not bring himself to loathe the old priest, just as he could not hate the Americans the way the Cripple did. He had heard in frightened whispers what they had done to Filipino soldiers, the women they chanced upon, these big men with red hair and red beards, pillaging the villages, but he had seen not a drop of blood nor heard one gunshot.

“They have done all these, Eustaquio.”

He brought to mind what had happened to Po-on, how he was shot and left to die, but there was a reason.

“There is no need for reason in war,” the Cripple said with a sneer. “Passion rules. And yet, for those of us who can and should think, we must always remind ourselves that if we lose, it will not be only our lives — which have become inconsequential — but those of our future generations. We have so many structures to build so that we will be strong — for one, a church that is truly ours. We are a divided citizenry. We have ambitious leaders who think only of themselves, and an army in retreat. But not everything is lost. Our men can continue fighting even though they may no longer be in uniform. They will be indistinguishable from the village people in the daytime and at night, whenever the opportunity comes, they will strike. Every Filipino becomes suspect then.”

In a month, the Cripple had regained his health and Istak returned to his bangcag. The rains lengthened, the rice grew, and by October, the first harvest was in. Now, the rains no longer came in nine-day torrents; the sun shone and the air was thick with the scent of newly cut hay. The moon came out silvery and full. It was on nights like this, lying on the sled in the yard, listening to the children play in the moonlight, their eager voices lifting his spirit, that thoughts bedeviled him. The Cripple still believed in God, but not God as the source of all good. Men could be morally upright not because an omnipresent God meted out punishment to those who strayed, but because men possessed reason. Where did this reason, this conscience come from? Man did not sprout from some empty seed by himself, but through a Supreme Will. And the city which this man builds is the City of God as well; shall it have blood as its foundation — as the native belief held and thus struck fear in the young — so that it will last for centuries, longer than Rome, for all eternity even? How long can this city last if it is not God who keeps watch over it?

An unblemished November day, the fields caparisoned with gold. He was starting out for his bangcag when Don Jacinto arrived. Had the Cripple’s condition worsened? He had prayed for him more than he had ever done for any of the sick who sought him.

“It is not his health,” Don Jacinto said. “He wants you to go on an errand — something only you can do.”

As he entered the room, the Cripple turned to him, grinning. “Thank you for coming, Eustaquio.”

“At Don Jacinto’s bidding, Apo,” Istak said. The Cripple pointed to a chair. What errand could he do for this man who, with his pen, could squeeze water from stone?

“Have you ever gone back to the Ilokos since you left it, Eustaquio?”

“No, Apo,” Istak said with a shake of the head.

“You told me you know your way across those mountains to the valley. Through the land of the Igorots. You said you were there every year with this old priest. That you even made some friends among the Bagos …”

How well the Cripple remembered! In the late afternoons when he asked Istak up to the azotea to have a merienda of cocoa and galletas, he had asked Istak about his boyhood, how he had learned so much without formal schooling. Istak had reminisced, sometimes with reluctance, for he was uneasy recalling his Spanish mentor.

The Cripple’s mind was a cavernous repository not just of ideas but of facts. He asked Istak about the Igorots — how they reacted to the missionary priests, how he himself felt about the savages that they were, whose homes were decorated with the skulls of their enemies, who regarded the Christian Ilokanos with hatred. Istak was frightened of them at first and that fright had not really left him, even afterward when he saw them again and remembered many of them, not just their villages perched on mountainsides or their well-groomed fields but also their names. There came to mind how the Bagos had attacked their bull-cart train. Would they ever change, would they ever be brothers to us?

“Yes, Apo,” Istak said. “I was with them. Perhaps they still have no guns, so they cannot fight those who are armed. But they know their land — they rain stones from the mountaintops, they ambush those who are not wary or who cross their territory without their permission.”

“They were a splendid sight in Malolos when the republic was inaugurated,” the Cripple said quietly. “They paraded in their loincloths, armed with axes and spears. Like the Moros in the south, they are our brothers. We must recognize their belonging to Filipinas, their willingness to fight for her.”

He turned to Don Jacinto briefly, then to Istak. “Some months ago when the war already seemed lost — yes, Eustaquio, we always prepared for the worst — Bishop Aglipay and General Luna went north to look for our last redoubt. Now I am going to ask you, Eustaquio, to do a favor not only for Don Jacinto and for me — but for yourself, your family, though you may not think of it this way. In time, I know you will. It is a very dangerous job, and you must do it with great caution and secrecy. You will surely go through territory already occupied by the Americans and if you are caught, you will most probably be tortured before you are shot. Remember, the enemy has spies who are brown like us, the opportunist Chinese and mestizos in Manila whom the Americans have enlisted to work for them, and those bastard Macabebes.”

“Please don’t tell me what you don’t have to, Apo,” Istak said. “Just tell me what the job is, if I can do it.”

“You can,” Don Jacinto said, smiling benignly. “We have been discussing this since yesterday. You are the man to do it.”

“You know the land of the Bagos. The Ilokos is your own country,” the Cripple said. “You speak excellent Spanish, and even Latin, and it is just as well, for the people you are going to meet cannot speak your language, nor you theirs.”

Istak sat still, taking in every word. He recalled now how they had talked about the many languages in Filipinas, how necessary it was to have but one with which the people could reach one another. For the time being, it would have to be Spanish, but in the future, it would be a language wholly theirs, expressive of their souls and rooted in their lives.

The Cripple continued: “You will not attract attention — this is one reason why we have chosen you. Forgive me, Eustaquio — but you don’t look like a soldier or the ilustrado that you are. You are a farmer … the way I was.”

How well he had put it! The praise burned in Istak’s face. An ilustrado—so that was what he had become.

“The most important thing, Eustaquio,” the Cripple emphasized, “is not that we are not farmers anymore, but that we should never, never forget that we were.” He paused and looked at his old friend. Don Jacinto nodded.

The Cripple now told him what he was to do:

“Ride to Bayambang — that is where they will be tomorrow. They are moving very fast at night, with the Americans pursuing them. I should not tell you, but this knowledge should never leave you, not even if they torture you, that the president is headed for the Ilokos. He will cross the mountains into Cagayan. This is as much as I know and I cannot tell you more although I wish I could. There is no other way, Eustaquio. The Americans have landed in San Fabián and their cavalry has advanced already to San Jose, to the towns near here, San Quintín and Umingan. The escape route is sealed.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything, Apo,” Istak said, wondering when the Americans would backtrack to Rosales itself.

“I trust you,” the Cripple exclaimed. “If only we could learn to trust one another — Tagalogs trusting Ilokanos, Pampangos trusting Tagalogs. An Ilokano showed the way — more than a hundred years ago, Diego Silang trusted his neighbors. The people of Pangasinan became his allies. His rebellion was defeated, yes — but it was a beginning, the cooperation among the peoples of the north. More of this and, Eustaquio, we have a nation! Not this, not this …” The Cripple sighed and shook his head. From a folder on his desk, he withdrew a sheaf of papers. He picked out a few and began to read. “The defeat of the insurgents is inevitable; not only are they disunited and disorganized — they are also hated by the natives …” He paused, looked at Don Jacinto and Istak and asked: “Does it not sound familiar? It is this chauvinist Thomas Collins again, and his report tells of how bands and cheering crowds have welcomed them in the towns they have entered. Yes, this could all be true, maybe it is also true that there are many Filipinos who do not like war and want peace at any cost. But this … this!” The Cripple’s lips were compressed and anger flashed in his eyes. He returned to the paper he was reading and quietly continued: “Our forces are assisted by Macabebes — native scouts from Pampanga — who know the terrain and are familiar with insurgent methods. Like our Indian scouts in the Indian campaign, they are absolutely loyal to us …” The Cripple stopped, his head dropped, silence.

“There is truth in what this Collins says,” he finally said in a small, defeated voice. “How can we build trust among our own people? How can we make them confident of themselves and their countrymen so that they will not sell their souls for a few silver dollars? We need more leaders like Diego Silang.” He raised his thin arms in a gesture of futility, then dropped them on the table. “There is so much that the past can teach us,” he continued softly, as if he were talking more to himself than to anyone else. “Diego Silang — more than a hundred years ago, what did he prove? That with a brilliant and selfless leader, we can be united the way he united the north. And united, we can then make Filipinas strong, formidable …

“We have no time for remonstrances, fault-finding, self-scrutiny. We must only think of how we can survive. No, not us, but the republic. The president must not be captured.”

“They must flee quickly,” Don Jacinto said. “And to escape their pursuers, they need a very good guide, someone who knows those mountains. I have not forgotten what you have told me, Eustaquio.”

The Cripple opened the drawer on his desk and brought out a small brown envelope. “You must give this letter to the president, Eustaquio,” he said quickly. “If it is lost or if you have to destroy it, remember that this is what I have written in this letter, and you must repeat this to no one but him. No one, remember that. I believe that the war is lost, but not the struggle. The mistakes that were committed, we learn from them. We cannot fight an enemy as powerful as America in the manner with which they are slaughtering our men — with cavalry and cannon. We will fight them — I am simply reiterating this — in a guerrilla war everywhere. A long, costly war, not set battles and frontal attacks. They are well trained, well supplied. We should never stop and I–I will continue what I am doing — trying to reach the councils of the world, speaking of our rights. I will wage this campaign in their own newspapers, in the chambers of their own government. I will do this with the pen. Whatever we do, in whatever battlefield we fight, we must be united. The president is a just man. Tell him what I have told you — that this is not a Tagalog war, but a war involving all of us.”

One last question was burning in Istak’s mind; the Cripple, the president, all of them — surely they must know that the revolution had failed. And it had failed because the leaders could not see themselves as Filipinos. Always, they were men of Cavitc, of Bulacan, and now, he was Ilokano. How could anyone rise from his origins? Everything starts from there just as with him everything started in Po-on. But he asked it anyhow:

“Why do you persevere, Apo, if everything is lost?”

The question was lightning, perhaps, or thunder. Don Jacinto, who was listening to everything, head bowed, jerked up. The Cripple, immobile in his chair, leaned forward and raised his hands in an angry gesture, but slowly brought them down. In the morning light, his face had seemed solemn and at peace but suddenly the fire in his eyes banished all this. He breathed deeply, then spoke: “You say then that we must leave the leader to his fate? He has committed mistakes … but until he is captured or killed, he is not just a leader, he is a symbol of our struggle, of our will. Yes, we have already lost the war. This is true. Even an unlettered man can see this. This land belongs to us, Eustaquio, and someday, we will win. We lose now, but we will fight again, each one of us, until they tire, until they are bloodied and wearied, until we are free and justice triumphs.”

Istak had not ridden in years, but Don Jacinto assured him that Kimat, his beautiful chico-colored horse, was not a difficult animal. He should not forget to give the horse a piece of sugar cake every afternoon, together with the grass. Don Jacinto gave him fifty pesos — the largest sum Istak had ever had. The letter in a leather pouch was sewn into the jute mat that was to be his saddle. Farmers could not afford the leather saddle Kimat was used to. At the gate, Don Jacinto embraced him, reminding him what the Cripple had said: “Eustaquio, you are no longer Ilokano, you are Filipino.”

How would he tell Dalin what he was to do, where he was going? There were just the three of them who knew. Remembering the stories of torture the Americans had inflicted upon his people, he wondered about his capacity to be silent if his flesh was torn, or if his boys or his wife would be forfeit for what was entrusted to him. He had kept a few secrets to himself. Not even to the old priest from whom he had learned so much or to Dalin had he revealed how he had been aroused by Capitán Berong’s daughter. That was, of course, a trifling matter, important only to himself. What he knew involved not just the two friends who shared the secret with him, but, perhaps, a thousand others whose lives depended on how well he could keep the secret, then lead the president to the valley.

Don Jacinto held the reins for a while and patted his favorite horse on the head. Before he let go, he whispered to Istak: “Do not worry about your family.”

A chill wave collapsed on him. He might never return; how would he tell Dalin this? She had understood why he had to work for the Cripple for days. And how exhilarating it had been — to have the mind soar again, to speak again with someone who could scale those ethereal heights. He had forgotten the feeling, although on occasion something akin to it would lift him from his mundane self, when he brought back color to faces already marked by Death, when a bony arm still and numb responded to his touch. Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Would Dalin understand? For all her intelligence, she had never really thought much beyond what was circumscribed by Cabugawan. Nights he would lie awake, his arm laid across her breast, and they would talk not about what the Cripple had said but about the ripening corn, the sick, and why he had to see all who came to him as if a compulsion possessed him. How would he explain to her the sickness which he had survived, which ordained him to do what he was doing? And now, no dream hastened him, nothing but a cripple’s words — yet they were all that mattered.

Even without Istak’s telling her, Dalin knew how much he had enjoyed writing again. The time would come when the words he shaped would spring to life, and these same words would claim him — not as words but as a promise, as Vigan in the past had been, and perhaps, someday, Manila — all the evocations that the Cripple had made. Manila, where people could appreciate better what he did with words and prayers; Manila, where there were more men like the Cripple. But it was not to that Queen City he was headed. He was going back to the north, to the beginning.

Later: How would he tell his sons? Antonio was not even ten and though the boy already knew how to plow straight furrows and control the plowshare so that it did not sink too deep, still he was just a boy. And Pedro, who could help in the transplanting of rice, in the pasturing of the carabaos, who was as proficient as his older brother at reading and writing — what would happen to them? They would not starve as long as Dalin was alive, that was true. He regretted that he had spent so little time with them.

Kimat cantered through the narrow lane bordered with flowering madre de cacao trees. The jute-mat saddle held the letter sewn within, the silver pesos were in his pocket. Slung across the horse’s back was the bag with cakes of cane sugar. He would add to his pack rice, salt, and dried beef. It would suffice. With money, he could always buy provisions on the way.

Antonio’s dog, Kebaan, barked in greeting when he approached; the barking frightened the horse, which reared, but only for an instant. Kimat became still as soon as Istak smoothed his mane and said a few soothing words. All the boys in the neighborhood who had heard the neighing rushed out of their homes to look at the beautiful beast, bigger than the ponies which pulled the calesas. Though Don Jacinto had been to Cabugawan a few times, Kimat always drew attention from the children. Their own uncle astride the steed impressed upon them all of their uncle’s importance, that something unknown, exciting, was happening.

Dalin came down the stairs. Through the open door, the kitchen fire reached out to them with its warm glow. Istak, tying Kimat to a gatepost, could discern at once the anxiety in her face as she approached. He held her by the waist and drew her up to the house, leaving the boys in the yard to admire the horse.

“That is Don Jacinto’s mount,” she said. “Where are you going?”

He did not reply; instead, he kissed her softly on the brow. It was moist with perspiration. “Do not be angry, Old Woman,” he said affectionately. “Just do not forget that you are precious to me and that I will always treasure you in my mind and heart.”

The concern in her face deepened. He told her everything without any embellishment, and when he was through, she embraced him and cried, “I may not see you again. I have waited for this day, I knew it would come.”

She had always been brave. Like the house posts uprooted from the Ilokos, she was also sturdy. She would be able to withstand the long wait, the uncertainty, he assured himself as he held her, feeling the quiver in her body, the trickle of her tears against his cheek. “I will return, just wait,” he whispered.

He left her so she could finish her cooking, the smell of the vegetable stew clinging to his nostrils. This was the pleasure of home he would certainly miss, and briefly, he wondered where he would have his breakfast; the road to Bayambang was not within his compass and he did not know of a single eating place along the way.

At his instruction, his older son had gone quickly to the neighbors, to Bit-tik first. Now the men, the women, and children were gathered in the yard, sitting on their haunches, on the long wooden mortar where the sheaves of rice were pounded.

To them, he entrusted his family. He was leaving, he said, on a journey to the north. They knew of the Cripple’s presence in Rosales, this great man whose wisdom they could not fathom. He was tempted to tell them he would go across the Cordilleras and that he would probably try and see Po-on again. Po-on where they came from and where it all began. Po-on which clung to them tenaciously as memory.

In the afterglow, he recognized all the faces raised to him. The soft light hid the lines of care and hard work just as it hid from them, too, the glaze of tears in his eyes.

He was valuable to them — teacher, healer, patriarch; now he realized with searing sharpness that they were valuable to him not only as cousins and neighbors — they were the earth, the water, the air which sustained him.

He asked Bit-tik to stay after they had gone; he would have a last word with him. They stood in the yard talking, while above, the stars swarmed and the cool harvest air filled the lungs. He wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “How do you think the weather will turn out in the next few days?”

“You are the one who knows more about the ways of God, Manong,” Bit-tik said. “I hope that it will be good, not because the harvest season is upon us — but because you will be going on a long journey.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “It is a long trip. And the boys — you know, they cannot yet take care of the farm or of their mother.”

“Do not insult mc,” Bit-tik said. “If we cat, they will eat.”

Istak did not speak again. Before he turned to leave, he tightened his arm around the broad, strong shoulders of his younger brother.

Supper was waiting in the house; the stew was steaming on the low eating table, on top of it a big black mudfish which had been broiled. The new rice in the open pot was red and fragrant. A small coconut bowl was beside the rice pot; it was half filled with salted fish sauce flavored with lime juice and roasted red pepper. A plate of boiled camote tops completed the meal. The two boys ate quickly with their hands; they were growing and they always seemed famished. He watched them — Antonio, who was older, who had already handled the plow, whose brow was wide like his; and Pedro the younger, who had inherited his mother’s handsome features. He had delivered them himself — held them up to his wife, their umbilical cords still uncut, their bodies still wet and shining with the juices of the womb. They were such tiny, wailing things then, and now they were big. Three more harvests, just three more short years and Antonio would be circumcised, and Pedro after him. Would they be able to take care of their mother? Would they stay in Cabugawan, or would the call of far and exotic distances bewitch them as once he himself had hearkened, had longed for the distances he would traverse? Now, there was this long and perhaps perilous journey. What new wisdom would he extract from it?

“Take me with you, Father,” Antonio pleaded, looking eagerly at him. “I can ride behind you, I know. I will take care of the horse, gather the grass for him.”

“No, son,” Istak said softly. “This is a journey I must take alone. Maybe, when I return — we can go on a long, long ride. You in the back, Pedro in the front because he is smaller.”

They continued eating, Dalin wordless now. Outside, the darkness was complete.

They all went down to the yard, the night alive with the soughing of the wind, the whispering of insects. He held his two boys close to his chest, half kneeling, smelling the day on their young bodies. Antonio — he had learned some reading, writing, a little arithmetic, and Pedro — only eight years old — alert of eye and swift with his hands and legs. Again — how would they fare when he was gone? But Don Jacinto had promised to help them if by some awry turn of fate he did not return. And they were among relatives here.

He stood up and held Dalin, felt her heart thump against his chest. The hard work in the fields, the pounding of rice, the weaving, and the cooking had roughened her palms. With the pain in her face was this grace, this luster which he had always loved. He could say nothing except look at her and hope to God that whatever might happen, she would always be safe. He wanted most to remember her as he saw her, the starlight in her eyes, the silence of her prayer. He held her tight, then let go.

His provisions were light — the sack that was half full, a clean shirt and trousers, a thick blanket which Dalin herself had woven, a length of saluyot twine, his old bolo, and a pencil and his journal. He tied them into a bundle which he slung over his shoulder. It would be his pillow for the night.

As he mounted the horse, Dalin finally broke into a plaintive cry. Tears burned in Istak’s eyes. The boys followed him beyond the gate, where they were joined by their cousins. It was too early for them to sleep; soon the moon would be out in all its sheen. They would have gone with him beyond the arbor of bamboo at the end of the village, but Istak told them this was as far as they should go.

The night was all around, fireflies winking in the air. Bayambang was two towns away to the west. The president would be there in a day. If Istak did not tarry, he would be there ahead of them. He had all that time to plan.

CHAPTER 15

Istak took the road to Santo Tomás. Times were perilous and brigands who preyed on travelers would covet his horse. Kimat was well trained and amiable, and he responded quickly to every nudge and snap of the reins. The night was cool; the shadowed, even fields, some still heavy with grain, were perfumed with the scent of harvest and newly mown hay. From underneath some of the farmhouses along the road, a dog would stir and sometimes rush out to snap at the horse’s legs. But Kimat did not frighten easily. Istak rode at a canter, almost in a walk. He did not want to tire the animal needlessly — there were many miles to go. Before he reached Alcala, after Santo Tomás, the moon sailed out of a cloud bank. He found a spot beyond the road with a stand of tall grass behind it; he dismounted, took a long sip from his water bottle. His eyes had become heavy and the hide of the horse was wet with perspiration.

“A pity, Kimat,” he whispered into the animal’s ear. “This is just the beginning. We still have many rivers to cross, mountains to climb. Patience, my friend. Patience.”

He tied to his own leg a length of saluyot twine and attached it to the reins so that if Kimat strayed too far, he would wake up. With his jute-sack saddle unrolled into a mat and his knapsack for a pillow, he lay down.

Above, the moon had disappeared into a cloud bank. How vast were the heavens and here he was, a puny man with a puny life. He had tried to give this life meaning by being a healer, by hoping that he would leave his tiny imprint at least in Cabugawan. But all men die — as anonymously as they have lived, no matter what their achievements.

While the horse grazed, he closed his eyes and imagined Dalin, her smile, her eyes.

He must have fallen asleep; he was awakened by the crunch of cartwheels on the dirt road. He rose quickly. There, on the road beyond the screen of grass was a column of men, some of them on horseback, moving toward Bayambang. In the waning moonlight, it seemed their horses were much, much bigger than his mount and the men seemed bigger, too. They marched with stolid yet easy strides; they did not seem tired. Yet they did not talk — they would have come upon him with the stealth of a cat had it not been for the creak of the carts drawn by horses and the shuffle of feet on the dirt.

They did not see him, nor did they see Kimat, who had now raised his head but did not neigh or make a sound. How fortunate that he had dismounted a distance from the road, and had a grass screen to hide him. He was sure now that they were not Filipinos — they were Americans, and the shorter men behind them were probably their Pampango scouts. They were going to close in on Bayambang, where President Aguinaldo was!

The last sound of the column had barely died when Istak mounted Kimat and cut across the fields — it was now all plain all the way to Bayambang. He must detour around Alcala, and though he did not know the way, at least he knew the general direction of Bayambang — the Ilokano farmers would show him the way through pockets of scrub and new clearings if he strayed.

Near the town of Alcala, just as light was about to break, intermittent gunfire erupted from across the expanse of ripening grain. Then silence again, the crowing of cocks. Now, a sallow light upon a land rimmed by flounces of bamboo, woods, and farmers’ homes. Close to the right was a village. The people there would no longer be Ilokanos but Pangasiñenses. He had learned a little of their language from Dalin, so he would be able to ask directions. How would they greet him, a stranger with a beautiful horse?

He rode swiftly through a line of trees to the village. He was wrong — it was still Ilokano, and at the well, a group of women were filling their earthen jars. They looked at him passively as he approached. Why had he come this early? And not through the village road but across the field?

“I was lost,” he lied, allaying their suspicions immediately. “My horse needs a drink, and so do I …”

One of the women filled a wooden tub and Istak led the horse to it. Kimat took long drafts, and shook his mane after he was full.

“I am on my way to Bayambang,” he said. “And on the way, I saw the Americans — I did not want them to take my horse, so I cut across the fields.”

“Were you the one they fired at?” one of them asked, her eyes wide with expectation. “We were wakened by the shooting.”

“No,” he said with a smile. “It seems God is very kind to me. They did not see me at all.”

A farmer and his sons appeared with sickles; they were on their way to harvest before the sun came out in full force.

“Follow the village road,” the man said, “then turn right at the fork till you reach the river. From there, just follow the river to the west. You will be in Bayambang.”

He was hungry; he wanted to cook his breakfast and roast the dried beef. But the man’s wife, who was among those by the well, said there was still enough rice, coffee, and fried fish waiting in their kitchen.

Beyond the fork of the road, as the man had said, Istak came upon the Agno and its wide delta. He was familiar with the delta in Carmay, how the waters came cascading down the mountains and every year wrought new channels upon it. But the river, giver of life, was also cruel. Again memories — how his mother was swept away and he was unable to help her. Where in its long and uneven course did she finally surface? Or had her body sunk to the bottom? Through the years, all through the length of the river that he could reach, he asked so that there would be one spot at least where he and his children could pray, where they could light the votive candles when the Day of the Dead came. He never found out; the whole river, then, was Mayang’s burial ground, each drop sacred.

Alcala was now behind him; would he be too late? But the president did not travel alone, unguarded or without arms. And the men who had passed him in the night could not have been more than a hundred.

Beyond the narrow strip of delta was the ferry, a huge raft made of three tiers of bamboo strapped together by rattan. At one end of the big raft was a hut where the ferryman stayed when it rained or when it was hot. It was the start of the dry season and the Agno was no longer wild and deep. One man with a pole could push the raft to the other side. But during the typhoon season when the river swelled and giant whirlpools sucked away in the current, four men would have difficulty guiding the raft across.

Istak dismounted at the river’s edge where the ferry was moored. The ferryman, like the drivers of the carriages and the bull carts that carried commerce between the towns, would be a rich source of information. He was small, dressed in loose, tattered clothes that seemed to hang from a frame about to collapse. He was eating a breakfast of dried fish and freshly cooked rice, and a couple of fish were still roasting over the coals in the stove by the hut. The strong aroma reached out to Istak.

“Let us eat,” the ferryman said in greeting.

Istak said he had already eaten, then asked the ferryman if he had heard the gunfire early that morning. The ferryman nodded between mouthfuls. “It must be the rear guard of the president,” he said.

The president had been able to escape, then. “Three days ago,” the ferryman said. He had finished eating and was dipping the tin plate into the calm brownish water to wash it.

“Did they cross here?” Istak asked.

“No,” the man replied. “There were so many of them, I would have had to make a lot of trips. Farther up the river — in Bayambang. They crossed over the bridge. Hundreds of them, with guns, big bundles, and women and children.”

The man gazed at the broad spread of water. “Still, there were those who crossed here.” He turned to Istak. “Years ago, we had that ferry in Bayambang — but then they built the railroad and that bridge, and we earn so little.”

“Can you take me across?” Istak asked. There was no need for him to proceed to Bayambang.

“Are you a soldier?”

Istak shook his head. “Just a farmer in a hurry to see my dying father.”

The man continued: “It was three days ago that they left Bayambang — that is what my passengers told me.”

Three days — if they marched every day, they would already be far, far away, well into La Union. There was not one moment to squander.

“Will you take me across?” he said.

“You are alone,” the ferryman said. “You must wait for the others. There should be more in a short while.”

“I am in a hurry,” Istak said.

The ferryman grumbled.

“You just had a very good breakfast,” Istak said.

“If you are alone, you have to pay benting. And your horse, that is another benting. That is salapi. A man’s wage for two days. Are you sure you want to cross alone? Wait till there are at least five of you so you will pay only micol.”

Istak shook his head. “Benting it will be,” he said, and proceeded to the shallow rim of the river, Kimat in tow.

The man strained at the bamboo pole, and slowly the raft floated toward the deeper reaches. It was quite placid, unlike the last time he had crossed, when it was a massive tide of brown. Again, an ancient grief swept over him. How many lives had this river taken?

“There are portions which are not deep,” Istak said. “At this time, it is possible to wade across.”

The ferryman laughed. “If I told you where it is shallow, what would happen to me? Everyone would wade across. I should really tell you that it is dangerous to travel alone.”

“My horse is swift,” Istak said.

The ferryman looked at Kimat; the horse was erect, undaunted by the waters eddying around the raft.

“The Americans,” the ferryman said. “I have heard so many bad things about them, how they tortured and killed. And you have a horse which they might take.”

“But I am not going to Bayambang,” Istak said.

“Yes, but they have already crossed the river, too. Yesterday, in large numbers. That was what I was told.”

“They can have my horse,” Istak said. “What can they do to me? Just a poor farmer … the horse is not even mine.”

The sun now blazed down, burnishing the delta with brilliant white. In midstream, the current was hardly discernible and the ferryman guided the raft deftly. On the other bank, a row of trees and the deep gully through which he must pass. Where the raft would be moored, a couple of women were waiting, their bamboo baskets filled with greens.

“The roads are not safe at night,” the ferryman warned.

“And the Americans? What advice can you give if I should meet them?”

“They don’t bother us little people,” the ferryman said.

Up the incline, more ripening fields shimmered in the morning sun. To his right, several women were already harvesting the grain with hand scythes. There would always be a few stalks left for gleaners and those who would glean would most probably be Ilokanos, just like the first settlers in this part of Pangasinan.

He mounted again.

At noon, when he would rest, he would bring out his journal and write about his crossing and the gunfire that ripped the quiet dawn. There were still many rivers to cross but they would be narrower and he could ford them on horseback.

He rode through villages already stirring. Dogs sprang from under the houses to snarl at him. He varied the pace of his ride. No animal could run indefinitely without tiring, but it was as if Kimat anticipated his every move. He trotted, slowed down to a walk, or gathered speed in a gallop without waiting for Istak to snap the reins on his flanks.

He had ridden most of the night and all morning. His buttocks began to throb with a dull, raw pain. So this was how it was with Padre Jose when they toiled up the hillocks of the Cordilleras. The old priest had always complained of how much his buttocks had been mashed, but only on the second day did the old priest moan. He was on a horse, of course, but Istak, his favorite sacristan, always followed on foot.

He was not tired but his eyes grew heavy. Unharvested fields all around; in another week, they would be bereft of grain. He sought the shade of a low butterfly tree away from the road and dismounted, tied the length of twine to the reins and to his leg, and brought down his knapsack for a pillow and lay down. Kimat could wander as far as the length of rope would permit. Above, the noonday sky was swept clean of clouds. From the knapsack, he brought out his journal.

The Cripple had given him the journal but it was seldom that he had used it. He had made only four notations, one about the Cripple himself, how quick his wit and how he had compared the wanderlust of the Batangueños, his kinsmen, with that of the Ilokanos, and how clannish both people were. Both were also proud and steadfast in their personal honor. How quickly they defended it with their lives, the Batangueños with their folding knives, the Ilokanos with their bolos. How does the old Ilokano saying go? Inlayat, intagbat. If you raise the bolo, you must strike.

Yet, he had always detested violence; he was patient, he was industrious. These virtues were instilled in him as a boy; his two sons would be no different, although they had Pangasinan blood.

Dalin came to mind, and for a while he could imagine her — her long tresses shiny with coconut oil, her face, her radiance. How well she had raised the children and, most important, she had stood by him and supported him when he wavered.

He took the pencil out and started to write, this time in Ilokano, for he wanted Dalin to read it someday:

My Dearest Wife — I am now far away resting in an open field, but it seems you are near and I can even imagine hearing your voice. We have gone through ten years together yet it seems as if all these happened only yesterday, only because when I am with you time stops. Thank you for having shared my sorrows, the times when the harvest was niggardly, when there was little rice in the bin. Thank you for having taken care of me and grabbed me before I could fall into that black, bottomless pit. I will still have many distances to travel, but even now, I feel like I could fly, only because I want this journey to end so that I can hurry back to you. I have asked myself so many times why I am doing this and while I am not yet sure of the reason why — of one thing I am sure: Cabugawan is where I am headed, for that is where you are.

Words are never really enough to express love, and words having failed him, he closed his eyes and dreamed.

It was the sun, warm on his face, which woke him. Kimat was close by, grazing on the grass. He had not looked around closely before. To his left, he saw the village — some eight thatch-roofed houses. It must be an hour before sundown and the afternoon had become cool. He started to rise and it was then that a bolt of pain shot down his spine as if someone had lanced him — his whole being was aflame. He felt that if he so much as made one slight move, he would die. He fell back on the ground, gasping. He remembered then that he had never ridden far before. After a while, he rose again — the pain no longer throbbed. He reined Kimat in and, with some difficulty, placed the saddle and the twin sacks on the animal’s back. Leading the horse close to a low dike, he mounted the dike, then the horse, the pain coursing through him quickly again.

In the village, he looked for a calesa driver. There was always one who provided the village with its transport. He needed some grass and rice bran for Kimat. The villagers were Ilokanos; he was close to San Fabián now. The sea lay ahead to the left, the low hills of the Ilokos loomed to the right, and ahead rose the blue-green ranges of the Cordilleras.

The driver had just come in for the day; he had a new calesa, with the floral designs on the sides still bright and the tinwork on the harness still shiny. The grass and the bran would cost Istak five centavos.

“Tell me about the road from San Fabián to Rosario — the road along the coast to the north. Are Americans already there? Surely, you must have heard.”

The driver was a farmer, perhaps in his early twenties. He had not traveled far, he said, but was sure the Americans were not yet there.

“They are already in Bayambang,” Istak said.

“Maybe just a few,” the calesa driver said. The bran that Istak wanted was already mixed with molasses in a wooden trough, and Kimat had started eating.

“I am going north,” Istak said. “And I don’t want to cross their path.”

If the president had crossed the river from Bayambang, he would probably have gone on to Dagupan by train and from there onward to San Fabián. The people here would be Pangasiñenses; they would probably understand Istak if he spoke in Ilokano. He could always speak in Spanish but he did not want to appear to be an ilustrado. The people of the north had always regarded the Pangasiñenses with condescension, for they were considered self-indulgent and lazy, they waited for their coconuts to fall rather than climbing the palms to harvest them. And their women — he smiled in remembrance of the tattered concepts of his own womenfolk — they are lazy like their men, and worse, they are filthy. He had teased Dalin about this when they finally dismantled their makeshift hut and built a better dwelling with hardwood posts, but Dalin had always kept her pots clean and the yard well swept. She even bathed the two pigs she raised as if they were human beings. It was not right — attributing inborn faults and virtues to people, but if he felt comfortable anywhere, it was among his own people.

The Cripple had decried the treachery of the Macabebes. Perhaps it was money which made them join the Spaniards. With American silver they were now fighting their own kin. Why do people betray their brothers and eventually themselves? Do not trust anyone, not even your own instincts, the Cripple had warned; you are alone, you must always be on guard not only against those who will harm you but those who will take the message and stop you from doing your job.

He had talked with the boatman as he was now talking with this stranger — freely. They were little people like himself, far removed from the battlefield or the cares of high office. He knew his instructions, but he must also trust people. Still …

The driver was inquisitive. Istak was just another traveler — one of the hundreds that had crossed the river. He must now tell a longer story, with a semblance of truth to it.

“I am going to Cabugaw,” he said. “My father is dying. We have a small piece of land there — and maybe, with the share, we can go back to the Ilokos — my family and I. There is nothing like living where you were born, where you know everyone. You know what I am trying to say.”

The driver turned away. He stirred the molasses and added water and bran in the trough where Kimat was feeding. In the thatch-roofed house beyond them, a stove fire had been kindled and the driver’s wife was preparing the evening meal. To her, the man said aloud: “Be sure you include an additional plate for our visitor,” to which Istak said quickly: “No, you have already been very kind. I must be on my way.”

“You cannot travel in the dark,” the driver said.

Istak did wait, though, for a plate of hot rice and a piece of roasted dried meat. While he waited, the rig driver told him about the village, how his villagers had come down, too, from the north — Paoay — and how they had claimed the forest. Large patches of jungle still covered Pangasinan, and the natives were too lazy to clear them. And there were no more tributes or excessive taxes to pay. Surely, the future was better here.

Istak mounted Kimat again. The November wind was balmy and he felt so refreshed he was sure he could travel the whole night. The pain in his buttocks and at the base of his spine was no longer as sharp as it had been earlier in the day. Now, he was familiar with the rhythm of the horse, its even pace. He rarely used his heels to prod the animal. He had learned, too, of Kimat’s signals, how his head drooped when he was tired, how he raised his head when he tensed to alien sounds. Kimat seemed almost human in his expression of gratitude — he would nudge Istak after being given a piece of sugar cake or merely patted on the neck.

Still no trace of the Americans. Soon he would reach the sea. How quickly he had traveled, unlike the time when they came down the Ilokos in a caravan. Kimat made all the difference. The mountains were closer, the wooded hills and long stretches of vacant land that were cattle ranches. In the coming dusk, the mountains were caparisoned with the soft luster of gold and blue, and high up in the ranges toward the land of the Igorots, clouds of deepening purple were impaled by peaks. He was sure he would find the trail and overtake them — they were such a big group, they would not be able to travel as fast as he. Indeed, the strongest man is the solitary man.

In the late afternoon of the fourth day, he saw the coast. He was up in the hills. Tension tightened the air. He knew this by the manner in which the people of these shallow valleys responded to his questions. Anytime now, he should cross the path of the president — or the Americans. The coast was still far away, and the towns along them were a good half day’s ride.

It was evening when he reached the village where the road branched from Pangasinan — a narrow road flanked by weeds and bananas. He entered it at a walk, hoping there would be someone who could lend him a pot and a stove to cook his supper.

No dog growling from the houses, no poultry disturbed in the roost — just sepulchral quiet. The village was empty; either the Americans had just passed or were coming. He must move on.

The road entered the open fields, which had already been harvested, and the harvest was spread in the fields to dry.

Kimat was tired, so he dismounted and again led the horse farther up and away from the road. He laid his saddle on the stubble of hay and promptly went to sleep.

He thought it was Kimat who woke him up with his grunting. The animal stood still — his head raised in the air, his cars pointed upward. Then Istak heard not just the grunting of horses but the creaking of wheels. He turned to the left and there, outlined against the night sky was a column — men on big horses, bigger than Kimat, cannon trailing their huge wagons, men with packs on their backs. Americans.

His feet grew cold and his throat went dry. He crouched and held the animal tightly lest it make a sound. But Kimat did not move.

It seemed as if the column would march on forever — the shuffling of feet, the strain of wagons, of gear. But in time the column ended. There must have been five hundred men. Istak mounted his horse and cut swiftly across the fields. He must out-race them in a wide arc, through clumps of bamboo and along irrigation ditches. Kimat seemed to understand and he ran faster than before. Istak crouched, the wind rushing toward him, cold and swift as a whiplash. He paused briefly to let Kimat drink when they forded a stream.

It was dawn when he reached Bauang. He remembered the town: nothing had changed. He rode slowly; he had left the Americans behind. It was quiet and at first, until he got to the church, Istak thought the people were still asleep. There, hanging from the branches of the acacia tree were three men. In the early light, there was no mistaking them — Filipino soldiers in their rayadillo uniforms, their bare feet tied with wire, as were their hands. The church, the whole town was empty. He must get out quickly. He backtracked to a narrow sidestreet, and it was then that, from his right, he heard a loud command: “Halt!”

He did not have to turn; that was an American voice. Digging his heels into the sides of Kimat, he dashed through an empty yard onward to the road beyond it. Kimat responded with a great surge of strength.

The shot sundered the morning quiet and for an instant, he thought: I am dead — but he felt no scaring impact against his flesh, no blackness claiming him. Kimat ran on, across open fields, through a barrier of madre de cacao trees, and behind it, more fields, and beyond that, a sitio of some five or six huts.

By then, Kimat had slowed and though Istak prodded the animal, he would no longer run. His canter turned into a slow walk, and just as they entered the village, the animal stopped, shuddered, and collapsed.

Istak scrambled down and looked at Kimat. The horse had been hit — the rump was bleeding and blood trickled down the leg of the poor horse. Istak fondled his head; Kimat’s breath come slow, then he lay still.

Istak turned to the houses before him. People had seen him for they now came forward.

“The Americans,” he told them quietly, “they shot my horse. It is dead. You can have it for meat.” He patted the animal.

They gave him food and asked where he came from and where he was going. He told them the usual story, then asked why there were no people in town. He knew the reason but he wanted them to explain. The president had passed through that afternoon with his party and the people had come out in the streets, rejoicing. Surely, the Americans were closing in.

He had missed the president by a day, a few hours at the most. He thanked them for the meal and wanted to know if there was a horse he could buy. There was none. He must not waste time; now he must continue on foot.

The quickest, shortest way was through the towns. When his legs felt numb and he could no longer run, he walked. Dogs followed and snapped at him, but they remained quiet after he had recited his oración for dogs. Always, he asked in each village for a horse he could buy, but there was none and the calesa drivers whom he hired could take him only as far as the next town. At times, he left the road, which was rutted with the deep imprint of bull-cart wheels during the rainy season, and went to the beach, where the sand was firm. Walking there was easier but the beaches were not always sandy. The shoreline was often rocky and it sometimes dropped, rugged and sharp, to the sea. He returned to the road, parts of which were not cobbled for carriages. If only he did not tire or go hungry! He had to pause for naps, then walk on, half asleep.

Toward midafternoon, having slept so little the previous night, he paused again for a nap, hoping it would not last too long. An acacia tree at the edge of a village shaded him from the unrelenting sun. When he woke up, children were around him, waiting.

They laughed when he stirred. He asked them where he was. Close to the town of Bangar, they said. Did they see the president and his party pass? Yes, they said, the other day. Were the Americans coming?

Yes. The older people had fled the village, but they were children and they said the children were not harmed. As a matter of fact, the children were given candies. They were waiting for those candies.

He felt relieved; surely he could reach the president before the Americans did. He asked for a drink of water and they brought him a small pot from which he drank, savoring each sip.

The sun was once again a brilliant flood on the land. To his right, beyond the town, the hills were ramparts he must climb, and beyond, the mountains that fenced the Ilokos from Cagayan Valley — formidable ranges one after the other, and in the center Mount Tirad, straight and sharp. The pass was below this peak.

It would be a three-day hike — and already his legs stung where the thorns of bamboo had slashed, and his arms and face were hot with sunburn. He had not changed his clothes — they had been wet with perspiration and dried and they smelled.

It was dark at last and he had not eaten anything save the sugar cake that was for Kimat; he had slaked his thirst in the first stream that he crossed and his stomach was full. But God, he was tired. He could go no farther, and how his muscles ached! Wearily, he brought his knapsack and saddle down by a rock and the moment his head rested on it, sleep came like a balm banishing the day’s fever and fret.

Morning laves the shore towns of the Ilokos with the rich smell of harvest commingled with the salty tang of the sea. Though the nights were cold, the sun creeping up the Cordilleras brought warmth quickly. The day was clear, dew still sparkled on the grass, and in the yards of the houses, trash fires burned. He must be barely a day ahead of the Americans. Near Candon, at the first house where he went for a drink, he asked if they were near.

The owner of the house was a music teacher and his three young pupils, interrupted in the solfeggio lessons, sat idly by. Brass instruments — a battered trombone and a couple of trumpets — lay on the table in the kitchen, where he was taken for his drink. Istak always felt comfortable talking in his own language with his own people. If he were going to Cabugaw instead, it would take just two more days.

“I came from Cabugaw, Apo,” he said in deference to the man who was older and did not do manual labor. “I just want to know where the Americans are so that I can avoid them. They move quickly and without warning. In Bauang, I did not know they were already there. They hanged three soldiers right there in the plaza. And they shot my horse.”

The music teacher took him to the tiny living room. The house was not a farmer’s house, but it was not a rich man’s house either. Its walls were split bamboo, the roof was thatch, and only the wooden floor attested to the man’s more prosperous means.

“They will not find the people of Candon cheering them — if what they will bring are torture and vile words,” the man said evenly. He was past forty and had gray hair. “How long have you lived in Pangasinan?”

“More than ten years, Apo,” Istak said. He had finished the second glass of water, and had stopped perspiring.

“Only recently, did you know that we fought the Spaniards? We were overwhelmed, but we had proven we were not afraid of white men — Spaniards then, Americans now. Haven’t you heard about Candon and how the people here fought for freedom?”

He decided to be honest. “No, Apo. But I am glad to hear of it.”

The man took him down the road, telling him perhaps he had a better chance of getting a horse in Candon — if he could afford it.

Candon was one of the biggest towns in Sur, with a tall church majestically spired. To his right, the blue ridges of the Cordilleras beckoned with more urgency. There it was — unmistakable in the distance, the sharp and pointed outline of Tirad. The narrow trough to the left beneath it was where the president would go through. The trail up the mountain was flanked by huge trees, and the pass itself had been widened with forced labor by the Spaniards so that they could cross to the other side on horses.

The road from Candon led through ripening farmland, and farmers had started to harvest the bearded rice, which the Ilokanos preferred. It was a tedious chore — separating each stalk, then snipping each off with the hand scythe. The sheaves were piled in mounds in the fields to dry.

By midday, he had started to ascend the foothills toward Baugen. There were no more extensive farmlands up the hilly and forested terrain. The trees had been cut and there were cattle — he was in ranching country, for which Baugen was noted. It was here where dried meat was cheapest, and draft animals and horses were brought all day down to the plain.

It was hot. The dew on the grass and the morning mists that draped the low hills had vanished. The last creek which he crossed was warm, and warm, too, was the earth under his feet. Sometimes, a pigeon — gray and streaked with blue and red — would suddenly flutter ahead of him to seek a new canopy of green. He had rested and was suffused with his sense of well-being. Above him loomed Tirad — no longer as sharp and pointed as it first appeared from Candon. Now, it was a jagged summit.

Shortly after noon, he approached the fringes of Baugen. Down the ridge, in the narrow valley, the barrio was a huddle of thatch-roofed houses with a single street through them. Experience in the last few days had taught him to be so cautious on entering any town that it was often necessary to skirt it. He surveyed the approach and decided he should go to the left, parallel to the small stream that originated from the mountain and ran through a slice of rice fields and jackfruit trees.

The cogon was tall and he walked leisurely. He told himself later how lucky he was that he had followed his instincts. He was about to emerge from a stand of bamboo when he heard laughter. They were not Ilokanos laughing.

He dropped to his knees and peered through the thin veil of trunks and leaves. Close to the river was an American soldier in blue, his rifle resting in the crook of his arm, while below him, down the shallow incline, were a pile of blue-and-gray uniforms, rifles stacked, and beyond, in the clear waters, six soldiers were naked and washing themselves, their white bodies shining in the sun like newly washed radishes. They were huge men, hirsute and heavily muscled, with legs as thick as posts and such long penises which, upon scrutiny, he saw were not circumcised.

Beyond the creek were a dozen giant horses grazing on hay, four soldiers eating. His heart thumped so hard he thought it would break out of his chest.

He realized with quiet deliberation that he was not really afraid. Now he knew what the enemy looked like, and there came this exhilarating feeling that they were not gods, that they were like him, with soft flesh that could easily be pierced and their blood spilled.

He turned around to find out if there were other sentries like the man he saw at the bank. He listened for movement but there was none, merely the wind creaking in the bamboo around him, the rasp of his own breathing, and the thumping in his chest.

Did they know where the president was headed or were they just a patrol scouting a way through unfamiliar terrain? He did not tarry to find out. He crawled away from the protective wall of bamboo, crouched low, then circled in a wide arc, seeking the cover of high grass and thickets, all senses working, waiting for the crack of a rifle shot that would mark his doom. But after some distance, when no shot came, he knew he was safe from them. It was then that he realized he was in a cold sweat, his brow was wet and his shirt, and again the old fear was a reality that dried his throat and transformed his legs into heavy stumps of wood.

But he was safe, safe, and briefly, too, relief akin to pleasure welled in him and at the turn of the hill, his legs were his again, and he started to run toward Tirad.

He paused to look at it — it was as if he could touch the green, green peak although it was still very far. God, he prayed, give me strength, this is all I ask. They have wings and I have but two aching feet. Surely, they must have a guide who knows this place, the recesses in these mountains. How else could they have known the way? You are right, honorable Cripple, we have been betrayed again. This is the changeless way of the world; will it never end?

The tough mountain grass, sharp and pointed, lashed at him and boulders rose to block his way. Beside him, the gullies yawned and he stumbled but always rose and ran onward, not wanting to look back for fear that he might see giant horses thundering after him.

CHAPTER 16

The dried carabao meat and the rice were long gone, so when hunger struck, he gathered a few green guavas along the trail. His legs were blistered. Where the thickets were high and thorny, they had lashed at his arms as well.

He stopped once to drink from a small stream that forked from the Buaya River, then rested his back against a mossy boulder, facing the turn of the stream and the trail which he had just taken. In a short while, he would be in Baugen and he hoped there were people there who could tell him how long ago the president had passed. There were reports he could not quite believe, how the Americans were welcomed with brass bands and cheers in some of the towns of Sur. What was it that made his own people greet their conquerors and regard their own countrymen with ridicule if not hostility?

He brought out the notebook from the knapsack.

I am now very tired. My feet are sore. My chest is ever tightening and a weariness like a fat sack of grain weighs me down. At night, before I sleep in the open, the mosquitoes buzzing in my ears and keeping me awake, I wonder if I will wake up to a morning blessed with sunlight. I wonder why I am here, so far away from home. Is it because I cannot say no to the Cripple? Just as I couldn’t say no to Padre Jose? The Cripple, Don Jacinto — they did not say it, but I know they love Filipinas and this I cannot say for myself because I am not sure. How can I love a thousand islands, a million people speaking not my language but their very own which I cannot understand? Who, then, do I love?

Tomorrow, when I wake up, I will no longer be surrounded by rice fields. I will most probably rise with the sun as it climbs from the east, first like a big winnowing basket of orange, then a blinding presence which brings green to the leaf, fruit to the trees, and yes, blue to the sky. It is the same sky above Cabugawan, a kindly roof to the people there, my kin, my loved ones.

O Apo Dios who sees everything, knows everything, am I wrong? I feel no affection for these mountains, these people whose fates are not my concern. I feel only for Cabugawan, my people waiting for my return, waiting perhaps in vain.

The tiredness in his bones disappeared, and once again he was alive to the sounds and scents around him and to the peace that the forest seemed to exude, comforting him with its somber stillness. He rose quickly, making sure the sack was slung securely on his shoulder. He always examined the twine with which it was tied — it was not loose even after all that climbing and straining. In fact, the sack had given him comfort, as he also used it for a pillow.

One more hill, then Baugen. He recalled what he knew of it, a village with a dozen or so thatch-roofed houses, farmers who worked the narrow valley and looked after the ranches of cattle that were now sparse. They were all Ilokanos, and braver than most, for it was in these hills where the Igorots often rampaged. Baugen was also a way station for those who went up the pass at Tirad. How often had Padre Jose and he stopped here for a bath at the village well, for provisions, sometimes dried meat and dry-season fruits, a restful night in one of the houses, an early-morning Mass, perhaps a baptism and confirmation, then onward to the pass by noon.

He breasted the hill, no longer keeping to the trail which he knew the Americans would take; he walked behind stands of grass as he cautiously approached the village.

It finally came into view. There were more houses now, more fruit trees. Then a shot rang out. He dropped onto his stomach; no, the shot was not for him. Blue-shirted American soldiers dashed into the village, shouting, firing. The screams of pain and fear were not only of men and women but of children. He crawled away to the edge of the forest bordered by butterfly trees and though he could not see the village now, he could still hear the screams, the guttural shouts, and the neighing of frightened horses.

When the firing stopped, he slithered close to the village again; the big men walked about the village. They had gathered in small sheaves portions of a roof and were igniting them and tossing them onto the houses. How easily the grass caught fire — first a grayish trail of smoke, then the flames in a crackling, swirling rage. Sparks burst from the roofs and landed on the other roofs which were already burning, too. A dozen houses — and not one was spared.

Po-on all over again, the toil of years vanishing in an hour. So this is how a house burns; how quickly the fire devours everything — the palm-leaf sidings, the floors of bamboo, all the familiar implements, the remembered corners, a bamboo post where some coins were kept in its hollow, an eating table, a battered chair, a chest. In a while, everything was ash but for the sturdy posts of wood which still stood, blackened and red, slowly burning, smoking.

The soldiers did not leave immediately; it seemed as if they wanted to be sure that nothing was spared, nothing lived. They had bivouacked in a gully beyond the village, and they came back to look at their handiwork. They had mounted their horses, their packs in their saddles. He counted carefully — there were twenty-three soldiers, and the twenty-fourth did not sit upright; he was slumped like a sack across his horse instead. Perhaps the soldier was dead, for his body was tied to the saddle.

Were they all the Americans who had come to this village? They rode easily and they seemed to be in no hurry as they headed toward Tirad.

Istak looked keenly around him, wondering if there was someone left behind, a rear guard, perhaps, or the main force following this patrol. There was none.

He ran to the village, no longer cautious, wanting to know if there would be someone, anyone, who had lived through this hell. Not a moan, not a whimper from the bloodied bodies sprawled in the yards; to each he went looking for a breath of life. Who would bury them? There was nothing he could do, no one he could save. He moved away from the human pyre, the bodies with indistinct features. Toward the other end of the village was an old brick-lined well and there, a youth slumped on the wet ground, a spot of red on his back.

Istak bent over him — he was not even seventeen. His pulse was still beating, though faintly. Istak turned him over carefully and the glazed eyes beseeched him. He tore open the shirt. The bullet had pierced his chest. Only a miracle could help and when Istak closed his eyes to pray, the path ahead of him was filled not with light but with darkness.

“Tell me, what happened?”

The lips opened, a gurgling sound. There was no need for him to know. Had he not seen what was done? The gurgling ceased, blood had foamed in the young man’s lips and some of it had dried. Then the words came softly, disjointed. “My sister — she was taking a bath at the well … one of them started forcing her, I cut his skull in two …” The eyes closed.

Istak could feel the life leak away as if from a broken pot. He could not put back the blood which had soaked the ground around him; it was not just this boy’s blood — it was an American’s as well.

Wearily, he rose and walked down the trail toward Tirad, where the butchers had gone. He saw her lying on her back in the sun, the girl who was taking a bath at the well, the piece of blue Ilokano cloth she had wrapped around her body already dry and in a heap beside her. She was so young, so very young — perhaps not even fourteen. Those small breasts were just starting to grow; below the waist, the pubic hair that was barely discernible was covered with blood. A little wound above the navel no longer bled. A line of blood had trickled right on the grassy trail and dried. He stifled a sob, remembering Dalin, what was done to her and how she had survived it. And Orang, too, how a Spaniard had defiled her. He picked up the cloth and covered her with it.

He must say a prayer. He knelt, and as he started to pray, he heard a thunder of hooves behind him. He turned, but not quickly enough, and the last thing he saw was a blue shirt.

Consciousness returned, his head throbbing as if it would split. He passed a hand over it, and at the back of his head was a huge lump now pulpy and soft. He withdrew his hand to look at what had stuck to it — clotted blood that had not yet dried. For a while, his vision dimmed and even in the blur, he saw again the girl prostrate on the grass. He stumbled, reached out to her and held her hand — it was still warm but limp. The face was calm, the eyes closed. Go to sleep, young one, and in this sleep, forgotten is the past, the anguish and the pain. Go to sleep, young one, and rest in peace.

Overhead, the sun was still high. When he tried to rise, it seemed as if the earth heaved and the sky was suddenly so close he could touch it. He let the dizziness pass without moving, afraid that if he stirred the sky would fall on him. It was no longer darkening; all around him the land was bathed with light — the edge of the dark forest, the slope of grass.

He rose slowly, feeling his bones, wondering if there was any other wound in his body that had numbed, but there was none. He was not yet up on his feet when he realized that the bundle slung over his shoulder was no longer there; it had been cut loose. A pang of anxiety gripped him. He looked around quickly. It was nowhere, not on the grass, not on the rise of ground before him. His hands went to the pocket of his loose trousers; the notebook was still there — it had not been taken — and so was the nub of a pencil.

What would he do now? Without the letter, who would believe this peasant? It was all there — the reason for his being here, his purpose, his measure as a man. But he knew what was in the letter. No, he must not stop. He must go on, convince them he was sent by the Cripple not just with a message but to help them through these mountains. He must tell them, too, of Baugen.

CHAPTER 17

December was at hand and the air was already crisp, the valleys scented with harvest. He needed to rest — his lungs were caving in, his legs were like logs. Though his throat was parched, he did not approach any of the few isolated houses along the way to ask for a drink. Time was precious, and it must not be wasted on his simple needs.

At times he tried to run, his failing breath permitting it. How he wished Kimat were with him now. But in this tortuous region, anyone on horseback would be easily spotted by the Americans.

The Cripple was right; the Americans were no different from the Spaniards — they were here to humiliate, to deny life. The three insurrectos who were hanged in the plaza in Bauang — they had been dead for more than a day and still they were not cut down and buried decently. The people must see the fearsome handiwork and be coerced into betraying Aguinaldo.

The trail that clung to the hillside was darkening and in the night it was not the marauding wild boar or the snake that he was afraid of. It was the occasional brigand whose face he could not see and the treacherous crevices hidden by weeds and caved earth at the side of the trail.

The Buaya River was no longer swift and bloated the way it was during the rainy season. It whispered through boulders and pools, placid in the starlight, the trees and reeds alongside it like a black margin to the river’s course.

There was no habitation along the trail, even in those narrow valleys. Once or twice, he went down the river to drink, and put to flight a couple of deer as thirsty as he was.

Often, as he walked in patches clear of foliage, he would see the silhouette of Tirad — lofty and serene against the sky. Around him spread this quietude as if the earth breathed, muted sounds of crickets in the grass, night birds in the trees.

And again, thoughts of Cabugawan! He drew his strength from the earth and the earth meant peace. It was all changed now; he brought to mind the horrors that had been described so many times, they were vivid and real — how the Americans pumped water into the mouths of their prisoners, then stomped on their stomachs to pump out not just the water but information as well. Surely, they must have given him up for dead, as in Po-on. Otherwise, with the letter from the Cripple, they would have tortured him and he would then have brought harm not just to himself and to the president, but to the courageous Cripple he had left in Rosales.

He was in a narrow valley, small rice fields close by, the mooing of cattle, some farmer boy calling his water buffalo, a mother shouting to a wandering child to hurry with the firewood — the sounds of home that were all too familiar.

Then in the soft dark, a village suddenly stood before him. The thatch-roofed houses were indistinct. Some oil lamps were lighted, and cooking fires glimmered through the cracks of split-bamboo walls. He knew the village — the last before the ascent to Tirad. How many times had he been here with Padre Jose, and beyond, to the forbidding country of the Igorots. If he had to go deep into their land, he hoped that the men he knew — Kuriat, Ippig, and all the others — would still be in their villages and remember him. He had in the dim past brought them sugar, salt, and tobacco, and they in return had given him baskets, spearheads, and most important — protection.

He had not even reached the first house when from out of the darkness, the shout “¡Alto!” The command did not have to be repeated. He stopped and waited. From the shadows, two soldiers, their rifles pointed at him, approached, and a feeling of relief came over him, so pleasurable that he was smiling when the soldiers were upon him. He did not wait for them to speak. He addressed them in Spanish. “I have a message for the president,” he said.

One of the soldiers pointed a gun at him while the other frisked him carefully. He had nothing, of course, but the sack with the empty water bottle, the notebook, and the pencil.

“With your kindness,” he said with some exasperation. “There is so little time. I have an important message.”

The frisking over, but with their Mausers still pointed at him, they told him to walk in front to the far end of the narrow road. One of the soldiers went into a house beneath which were other soldiers getting ready to sleep. He could make out, beyond the fence, out in the fields, the figures of men standing sentry.

Another soldier came out with a candle and Istak recognized at once the boots, the rayadillo uniform, the sword. The Cripple had told him about this brave young man, how well he had fought. In the faint light, how boyish General del Pilar looked, how self-confident.

“Good evening, Señor General,” Istak said.

General del Pilar, impassive, raised the candle to have a better look.

“I had a letter for you, Señor General, from Don Apolinario. As you perhaps already know, he is in Rosales. You must believe me. It was taken away from me. Below, in Baugen. They — the Americans struck me on the head. Here,” he turned to show the clotted wound on his head. “I know these mountains, Señor. Don Apolinario said I could help. And that is why I followed you all the way from Rosales, to guide you to your destination.”

He must tell the general, too, grapple with words too painful to use, describe what he saw in Baugen. “The children, the women, the men — they were all dead, their houses burned. And a boy — I tried to help him but it was too late. He died, whispering to me, ‘Americano, Americano.’ And there was a young girl — so very young.” He choked and was soon sobbing.

The general was quiet. He finally spoke. “This is nothing new.”

“But why the children and the women?” Istak asked in anguish.

“Do not ask explanations for what happens in war,” the general said. “We just have to give it to them double when we can.”

The youthful face gleamed and in the sallow light, the young eyes seemed to tease him. “So you are going to be the president’s guide. Surely, you must be tired and hungry.”

“No, Señor General,” Istak said. “There is no time to cat. You must get out of here quickly. I don’t think they saw me — I circled around the village. They could still be there — in Baugen. I did not count, but there must be two dozen of them, with horses. There is no time, Señor General …”

The young Bulakeño put an arm around Istak’s shoulder. “Run away from a few whites?” He laughed softly. “We cannot run on an empty stomach, can we?”

They did not go into the house; there was a table by the bamboo stairs, and the food was placed there in a battered tin plate — cold chunks of rice and pieces of dried carabao meat that had been roasted and burnt in places. There was also a glass of water and to Istak it all never tasted as good as it did now.

They let him eat alone, which he did, swallowing the hard lumps of rice quickly. Then the general called for him in the yard, beyond the hearing of any of the men who were cither asleep or seated on their haunches, talking softly under the stars.

Now they would be able to talk; now he would be able to tell the general everything that the Cripple wanted him to relay to the president.

“Sigue,” Del Pilar urged him quietly. “What is it that you really want to say?”

“It is for the president’s cars, my general,” Istak said. “I was told to tell only him,” he caught himself quickly — he was not going to hide anything from this young man, “but since he is not here …”

“He is not here, he is far from here,” the general said curtly. “Continue.”

“Don Apolinario said that we should continue to fight, that the president must be safe always, for he is not just a leader but the symbol of our nation …”

Silence, and a slow nodding of the head.

“Don Jacinto and Don Apolinario — they think that since I know these mountains well, I should be your guide to wherever you want to go. They did not tell me where — all that I know, my general, is that I should guide you through these ranges.”

Istak did not expect the next question: “Where did you say Don Apolinario is now?”

“I already told you, Apo. In Rosales, where I came from.”

“And who is taking care of him there?”

“His former classmate and friend, Don Jacinto. I also told you this. Don Apolinario was ill. His secretary, Cayo Alzona, and his servant were also ill. Don Apolinario’s kidneys weren’t functioning properly, so I gave him medicine to drink — boiled flowers and young leaves of banaba. He is better now.”

“You speak good Spanish,” the general said. “Where did you learn it?”

“In Cabugaw — here in Sur, Señor General. I was born here. I was an acolyte for many years. I know this part of the country very well. Padre Jose, the priest in Cabugaw — we used to go this way and beyond, to the land of the Bagos, where he preached.”

The general was silent, as if he were measuring carefully everything he was told.

“And how is Don Apolinario now? And what is he doing?”

“Writing, Señor General,” Istak said. “Always writing. I copied his drafts because he gets tired and he wants to write so much, to send them all to Hong Kong, and from there, to the world.”

More questions, some of them repetitive. Then it occurred to Istak — like a bludgeon it struck him, filled him with sadness and a dismal sense of futility — that for all the distance he had traversed, the hardships that he had undergone, the general did not believe him. The general was waiting for one mistake with which he could be trapped and then declared a spy.

He remembered what Don Apolinario had said, and it came to him in gleaming clarity. “We must learn to trust our own people, their judgment, if we are to build a nation. There will always be traitors, for it is the wretched who are often the most ambitious, but for every traitor there are a dozen who are true. We are going to build a nation — not of Tagalogs, Batangueños, or Caviteños — we are going to build a nation which includes all our brothers and sisters from the far south to the far north. Do you understand, Eustaquio, why I am here? I could hide much easier in the villages or in the mountains of my own province, among my people, and I would probably be safer there.”

“My general,” Istak said sadly, softly. “You have not really heard any of what I have told you. What do I have to do so that you will believe me?”

Del Pilar stepped back; perhaps he did not expect this farmer to talk like this. He raised his right hand, but the hand did not cut across Istak’s face — it just loomed there, then dropped slowly. In the soft dark, he could see the young face, the earnest but mocking eyes.

“Eustaquio,” he said finally, “no one speaks to me like this.” Then he turned and marched toward the house.

In a while, everyone was stirring, and the yard was soon alive with men, their voices harried and tense. The general finally believed him, but how much he would never know.

They marched out in single file, the horses in the rear and the general himself in the lead, and headed toward the mountain — an endless curtain of darkness across the length of the land.

Although they did not tie him up or hinder his movements, two soldiers never left him. Soon, they entered a fold of land neither cultivated nor inhabited. They seemed to know where they were going. Certainly, the general had a map, a compass. At this time of the year, the mountain streams were shallow and could be crossed on foot.

Once there was a commotion in the middle of the column, for a boar had charged out of the darkness. Though it did not hurt anyone, it had caused some excitement and it was just as well, for they had, perhaps, become sleepy; Istak himself had started to drowse.

It was close to midnight when the column paused. Someone from the front came down the line. Istak thought his guards were to be relieved, for he could not understand their Tagalog. It became clear to him when the men beside him moved on, and he was told in Spanish not to move. It was here where he should stop and he was not to follow them.

He watched them plod on, swallowed by the night, the sound of their marching muffled till it was quiet again. Frustration, massive and overwhelming, swept over him; anger, too, beyond words. His chest tightened and only when he broke down and cried silently, the tears streaming down his face, was he able to breathe easily again.

He wanted to shout, but no one would hear, no one would care. It was all wasted then — the days of racing against the final hour, and it came in one, swift blur — the lowland dangers that he had passed, the patrol which almost trampled him. He knew the way, but he was not trusted, so they left him to go back. At least he was not shot. Did he not convince the general with all he knew about the Cripple? Or was it difficult for the general to believe that a peasant like him, speaking Spanish, could be just a peasant?

He wanted desperately to rationalize, to absolve the general. He was young, and because of his youth he was a poor judge of men.

He woke up in the chill dawn, the grass at his feet wet with dew. The trail was near the river. The sharp rise of hillside was studded with butterfly trees in bloom. Quickly, he remembered again with some relief that the general did not order him shot — just left behind to find his way back. He rose and turned around — the cool majesty of the mountains before him and below, more of the low hills which they had passed in the night. In a while, sunrise — the mountains were blue, the peaks covered with mist and beyond the haze, the pointed ridge below which the pass cut through.

They must be over the pass, the soldiers who emerged faceless out of the darkness. A new day, perhaps a new life. Why should an impetuous young man and this fleeing president of a country riven by jealousies and personal hatreds matter to him?

Yes, just as he had told the Cripple, why should I care for others who are not members of my family, who have not done anything for me? I have this piece of land which I have cleared. My duty is not to this nameless mass you call Filipinas. No country can claim my time, my loyalty. And as for God — I served Him well by doing my fellowmen no harm, but instead brought them health when they came to me with their bodies racked with pain. And for all these, my father was punished, I was punished. I am not going to test fate again.

The Cripple had looked sadly at him, then spoke, the words taking shape like jewels shining, glittering, impinging into his consciousness how easily he had been seduced by self-preservation: “If there is no country as such or as you know and recognize, then in your mind you must give it its boundaries. Do this because without this country you are nothing. This land where you stand, from which you draw sustenance, is the mother you deny. It’s to her where your thoughts will go even if you refuse to think so, for it is here where you were born, where your loved ones live, and where in all probability you will all die. We will love her, protect her, all of us — Bisaya, Tagalog, Ilokano, so many islands, so many tribes — because if we act as one, we will be strong and so will she be. Alone, you will fall prey to every marauder that passes by. I am not asking that you love Filipinas. I am asking that you do what is right, what is duty …”

“And in the end I will be betrayed as others have been?”

“There wall always be betrayals because we are men, not angels. They who betray — no pile of money, no shining title or other forms of adulation by which they were bought can assuage the self-hate, the sense of inferiority and sickening weakness which will corrode their very bones. They know this and there is no greater punishment than this self-knowledge. They cannot end it with suicide, for they know that such an act is the final push that bogs them into the slime of their own creation.”

Was he rejected because he was Ilokano, or was it simply because the general did not know him? He had given all the incontrovertible proofs of his identity — not things that one could touch, or feel, but the account of what he had seen, what he knew. Had he been a spy, he would not have ventured this far, and alone. Again, the Cripple came to mind. He would understand.

It would be a long walk back to the plain, to Cabugawan. He had slept soundly and the tiredness in his legs seemed to have gone. He felt hungry again; it should not be difficult to calm that hunger and in the first stream that he had passed, he drank his fill. Nearby were papayas with fruit. The birds had eaten into the very ripe ones; he did not like them too ripe, for these often harbored tiny worms. He picked two and walked on; along the way, there would be guavas, too, or tree mushrooms.

He slept briefly, then woke up, the mountain breeze caressing his face. He brought out the journal — stained in places — and looked at his notations; it was ten days since he had left Cabugawan — it was now December, the first day of the month, and tomorrow would be Saturday.

He wet the pencil tip with his tongue, a habit that never left him, and wrote:

Duty comes in many forms; at times duty to country may conflict with duty to family. Yet, with a lucid mind the guises can be torn away and in the end, duty becomes but one, and that is duty to value justice above everything — to do what is right not because someone ordains it, but because the heart, which is the scat of truth, decrees it so.

Duty. Justice. All his life he had never really given much thought to these, or to the possibility of his being really free. He was concerned with being secure, with being part of the structure that the friars had built, because wherever he went, he saw that they did not even have guns. Their being white marked them as superior beings, for how else could they have conquered this land, how else could they have written all those books and understood the mysteries of God? For as long as he was brown and Indio, he was marked an inferior man, destined to be no more than an acolyte.

All this ignominy had been wiped away — the Indio had fought the white man and won, but how fragile, how short-lived that victory had been.

It would be a hellish trek out of the Ilokos, and ahead of him, now, was a long march out of this towering ring of mountains. Closing his eyes, in the black pit of memory, his past came instantly alive, ever present and bright, as if it were only yesterday that he had left Po-on. God forgive me for this one conceit; I am not just a healer, but in a way, I was Moses, too. He had read the Bible and seen the world in the Magnificat: “He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree. He hath filled the hungry with good things and the rich He hath sent away empty …”

He closed the journal and turned to the narrow plain below, and there, in the last light of day — the pursuers in even file. He started counting quickly those that he could clearly see. A hundred, two hundred. Perhaps five hundred men, their horses loaded with provisions. By nightfall, they would be at the pass. How could they have marched so fast? They would get to Del Pilar before morning if they marched through the night.

He should no longer care, why should he? He had come to warn them, help them, and the general had rejected him. Let him and his men and even the president suffer the fate they had fashioned for themselves. He could save himself easily — he knew where to detour to a distance away from their line of march, and he would then be free to return to Cabugawan. There was all the time to do that in the safety of the night.

O Apo Dios, You who know everything and see everything. You will not begrudge me if I seek safety so that I can be with my loved ones. I have tried to give these soldiers all that this humble self can give but they did not trust me. Surely, I will do no wrong to the Cripple, to Don Jacinto, and most of all, to my own self-respect if I leave them to their fate. Surely, O Apo Dios, You will understand.

He turned to the darkening and disheveled landscape around him, the mountains that bore down on him with their silence and their gloom. He listened to his hurried breathing, to the thunder in his heart, to the depths of himself crying, yes, I do no wrong, but I must prove in flesh and in spirit that I am Indio, I am one of them!

CHAPTER 19

The night came quickly, and though he was already up the incline, following the trail which laced the mountainside, still the pass seemed as distant as the stars that glimmered above. What sublime obstinacy was it that demanded he should now persist? He consoled himself; at night, the Americans might not march, not in this jumble of trees and rocks where they could be ambushed easily, that they were — like the Spaniards and the Guardia — afraid of the dark and the Indio phantoms that lurked in it.

He had raced the wind, propelled by a strength that did not flag. He climbed the trail, now shrouded by tall trees, quiet and sepulchral, and dark as men’s minds. What was it that urged him on?

Duty — the thought was emblazoned in his mind, a torch over the trail, food to his stomach, the rich, fresh air in his lungs, and yes, the bone to his tender flesh. Duty, and this meant Dalin as well, his two sons, and oh, my father, I can see you now with your one good arm reaching out, and Mother — you who had prayed that I be able to vault the distance from Po-on to a pinnacle where I could draw you up, where you would no longer know the cares of living.

And remembering them, tears stung his eyes, blurring briefly what was ahead, the brambles that tore at his legs, the huge boulders that blocked his way.

Then someone shouted the familiar ¡Alto! He did not stop; he ran forward instead, shouting: “The Americans! They are coming. With horses. Hundreds of them. The Americans — they are coming!” A commotion ahead, a mad whirl of bodies. Arms seized him, clamped his mouth, pinioned him, bade him keep quiet. Around him figures moved quietly.

They knew who he was, and he was thankful that he had reached them safely. They left him by the side of the trail while a soldier went up toward the pass. He sat quietly, letting the coolness of the mountain seep into his being, quieting down the tremor in his heart. And it was then that a tiredness crept into his limbs, his body, and with it, a heaviness of the eyelids, the diminishing awareness of everything around him, and finally, sleep — deep and dreamless.

He woke up with the whole world grown still; even the insects seemed to have gone to sleep. Then, the sound of digging, low Tagalog voices, brisk commands. Above him, the night arched beautiful and dusted with stars. It had become cold; he missed the familiar warmth of Dalin, the contours of her body, and the smell of their narrow sipi. Dalin — how she had changed through the years, from the headstrong woman that she was when they first met, into this wife and mother who knew how to persevere, to wait for the good times that might never come.

His mind remained sharp; it encompassed in one sweep again how it was in Po-on, those seemingly wasted years in the convent in Cabugaw. If he were there still, perhaps at this time he would still be reading, or writing, putting into pompous words the thoughts that came: he was so presumptuous then. Now, he was no longer afflicted with verbosity; he had discipline, detachment, maturity.

A soldier approached him.

“Yes,” he mumbled, “I am rested now.”

In a while, another soldier came with a cup. It was hot coffee sweetened with cane sugar, and it warmed his insides quickly. Then another came with a plate; he could see the pieces of dried meat, the white chunks of rice. He ate gladly, thankfully.

The air smelled so clean, spiced with the scent of grass. The crickets came alive again and they filled the night with their music. Thoughts of his boys crowded his mind. And Dalin most of all, the sound of her voice calling him Old Man. What was he doing up here, on this lonely roof of the Ilokos?

A soldier jarred him from his reverie. The general wanted to see him. He rose and followed him to the dark turn of the trail, and there the general sat, reclining against a boulder.

“Good evening, Apo,” Istak said.

“You came back to tell us the news, Eustaquio,” the general said quietly. “Have you rested?”

“Yes, Apo,” he said. “I am grateful.”

“Do you know how many they are? Surely a thousand.”

“I did not count, Señor General. I couldn’t go near — I was afraid—” He paused. That was the truth, he had been afraid. “They were in a very long line. With many horses. More than a hundred. Maybe three.”

“Sleep now,” the general said after a while. “We have plenty of work when it is light.”

The stone upon which he rested his head was hard, and the grass pierced the blanket in places and pricked his arms, his legs, but sleep did come again, this time fitfully.

He woke up long before daybreak, birdcalls echoing from the forested slopes below them. In the first flush of light he viewed the sweep of mountain and sky, the summit grassy in places. He knew the turns of the pass very well; every year he and Padre Jose, old, portly — beads of sweat on his ruddy face and even on the smooth dome of his bald head — had taken this route on the way to the village of Angaki and the other Igorot settlements beyond.

All around, these young Tagalogs barely out of puberty, the milk of their mothers not yet dry on their lips, pausing in their labor, appraising the earthwork they had made on sections of the pass. Among them, he felt old and tattered in spirit. He was not equal to them in strength, but he knew this land better than any of them, the secret crevices of these mountains, the labyrinthine ways to the valley — and the Igorot villagers that might attack them. He could lead them to wherever they wanted to go. This was, after all, what he was here for. And if it was their decision to make a stand here, they could do it better with ambushes farther down. They should also secure the mountainside at the right, for there was a steep trail there which overlooked the pass.

He turned again to the young men around him, sardonic indifference on their faces. It was not only their youth which saddened him — it was the casualness with which they waited in their trenches. Would these also be their graves? How many funerals had he attended, how many open graves had he seen, watched the coffins cased down, or sometimes just a frayed mat in which the corpse was bundled, the feet sticking out, the soles white and sometimes still specked with dirt if the man had been a farmer and could not afford slippers, let alone shoes. He wanted to strangle the thought but he saw with horror that, indeed, many of the soldiers were barefoot like him. They were farmers, too, but they were all Tagalogs; they would not trust him, they would not want him by their side when the hour came.

The wind swooped down bringing with it again the scent of grass and earth. It was harvesttime in the plains below, in Cabugawan as well. In his mind’s eye, his boys were romping around, trying to help although they could do but little, trailing behind their mother to see if she had missed any stalk with her hand sickle. There would be nothing missed, of course, and in a week the field would be bare and the sheaves would be laid out, spread like flowers to dry in the sun before they were neatly piled in the granary behind their house. How wonderful it was — the smell, the taste of new rice, the steam rising from it, even with just a dash of salted fish and lemon.

Istak did not speak with the soldiers. He doubted if any could speak Spanish. In fact, they could be wondering how it was possible for a farmer like him to know the language of their former rulers. He was much older, too, and he realized with some discomfort that he was not young anymore.

Morning rode over the hills, gleaming on the narrow valleys below, shimmering on the trees, its song of praise reflected on the shale and on the smooth surfaces of red rock. It came to him with a sudden twinge of remembrance that it was Saturday and if he were in Cabugaw now, he would be about through with the offertory of the morning Mass. He must not think about that, he was here in the splendor of morning, the hillsides burnished with light. If only this would last!

From around the curve of the pass above, the general appeared on his white horse. He came down at a slow canter, his spurs reflecting bits of sun. He was handsome — Istak saw that; no wonder then that the women in Pangasinan and wherever he went had swooned over him. He had a yellow scarf about his neck, and though they had climbed trails and muddy gullies, his rayadillo uniform was clean and his boots neatly polished. He was examining the earthworks, pointing out here and there what needed to be done. Their positions gave them a clear sweep of the terrain below.

The general rode to where Istak sat on a shoulder of the narrow pass. His gold epaulets shone. He had been viewing the surrounding flanks with his field glasses and he seemed satisfied with what he saw. “Do you think they marched in the night, Eustaquio?”

“I do not know, Señor General,” Istak said. “I am not sure. It seems they are afraid to fight at night.”

Istak could see better now; the trenches were rimmed with earthworks. On both sides of the pass, soldiers were stationed behind boulders, but instinct told him at once — although he was no soldier — that there should have been trenches way up to his left, up to the peak of Tirad itself. It would be a difficult climb for the enemy to make, to crawl up that cliff and cross the ravine now covered with grass, but anyone who persevered could do it.

Would it do to tell the general, this imperious young man, what he had missed? He had had so much experience, he had lived through battles, and he, Istak, had never been in one.

Still, there was time to do it. He went to the solitary figure at the crest of the pass. The general was seated on a boulder, looking down in the direction of Angaki on the opposite side. What were the thoughts rankling him? He had but a handful of men to block the oncoming horde.

“My general,” Istak said. “Please do not be angry with me — but I know this pass. I have crossed it several times.”

Del Pilar looked up from his perch and there was a brief flash of kindness in the young eyes.

“Yes, Ilokano,” he said. “What do you want to tell me?”

“That side to your left, there is a trail there — maybe you think it cannot be scaled, but it can—”

The general smiled. “I have thought of that,” he said coolly. “But the Americans — they are not all that persevering. They don’t have the patience. There are so many of them, and so well-equipped — they will not do it the difficult way. They will do it the easy way — like it has always been …”

Istak bowed. Why was this boy so sure of himself? What bravado was this? Or courage?

A shout erupted from below; the air tensed quickly. A soldier raced up to the general. “They are here, my general. We wait no more!”

The general turned to where the soldier had pointed. A line of blue ants was clambering up the slope, dodging behind boulders disappearing in the tall grass, perhaps two hundred of them, five hundred even — and more farther down.

The general turned to him and spoke curtly. “I have been generous — perhaps, you can see that. You can save your life now by going down the mountain and joining the Americans. You will carry a white flag so they will not shoot you. This is the only way out for you. And you have my word that you will not have a bullet in your back. So go, Eustaquio — while there is still time.”

Istak listened, his chest tightening, his whole being aflame. A soldier had flung disdainfully before him a bamboo pole and to it was tied a big white kerchief. He looked at it, but he must not be angry, he must suppress all the emotion that sought to erupt in him as it had once, the anger at the Guardia, at what he saw in Baugen, and now, toward this dumb, unfeeling dolt of a boy, so very much like the new priest who had replaced Padre Jose, so full of life and yet so distrustful and vicious. But the general was doing what he thought was right, he was a soldier who commanded the loyalty of all these men, all of them older than himself. He had turned and marched away, he was down the pass, and Istak could hear him exhorting the men, though he did not understand Tagalog too well.

He was rejected, then. But there was no one who could reject what he would do, and he would do it not because he wanted to prove them wrong; he would do it because now, there could be no denial, not after Po-on, not after Baugen.

He looked disdainfully at the white flag and detached it from the pole. Rising, he flung the pole away in the direction of the enemy, then folded the kerchief neatly and laid it on the grass. He would stay, he would care for the wounded, for surely there would be many.

He turned to his left, to the soldier posted there; he was dark, with very grave features, but the man was smiling at him.

“Cover, cover,” the soldier said, thrusting a chin toward the boulders on the shoulder of the rise.

Istak nodded, and said thank you in Tagalog, but did not go to the boulders. He walked, instead, to the trenches down the pass. That was where most of the men were positioned and that was where he would be needed. There was no firing still, just this waiting that tightened the nerves and parched the mouth. He could still run, as the general had said, toward the enemy and live. He had chosen to stay. Alive, he could still follow, convince the president, run errands, aid the wounded, or simply help them through the hostile Igorot lands. But there was a wearying tiredness in his bones, a gasping for breath, a deadening in his flesh — perhaps he should not run anymore.

It was such a beautiful Saturday morning; the sky was pale blue, and clouds white as newly harvested cotton floated along the far horizon. Mountains, mountains all around — it did not seem that he had traveled so far and he would still have so many mountains to cross; he should stop here now, so that his flesh, his blood, could blend inexorably with this land. Rain on parched earth, benediction.

His gaze wandered to the distance below; they were still very far off, but he could see them clearly, shapes moving up the steep curves of the trail, shirts vivid blue against the bright green grass.

Is this then the final flood? And who can escape it when even this mountainside would surely be submerged by it? There came to mind quickly again, Si Dominus custodierit civitatem frustra vigilat qui custodit eam.

I do not watch in vain, and it is not God who is fighting against my city. I am a man of peace, I will not throw a single stone. My words, my thoughts may be hostile, but my deeds will speak of love. I will try to give love and light to those who need them …

But would he do this now? Those were no brutal illusions — the anguish, the death he had seen in Baugen, and in remembering, Istak shuddered. The nightmare would not pass — it was living blood which he had touched, it was a dead girl he had cradled in his arms, and the homes that went up in flames were homes of living people, just like Po-on had been, just like Cabugawan was now.

It is for Dalin, then, for my boys, for my neighbors who do not know of the struggle for this lonely summit. The few of us who are here waiting — we can hold back the flood, and even if it were to immerse us all, it would have to ebb and we could raise our heads again.

All around was stillness, strained breathing. All around was this clearness, not of doom but of life. Men defying steel — they were not like him, they were trained to kill, and he had never held a gun; he did not know how to load one, much less aim one and play God.

The general had dismounted; he marched up the pass, telling his men in Tagalog, and now in Spanish as well, that they should wait till they had those blue shirts clear in their sights. Then and only then, he was telling them, although he himself perhaps was trembling, not to be afraid, that since they would not get out of this alive anyway, they should die like men. “Like men — understand? How many men are left in the world? You there, Kulas, you have no beard and no beard will ever grow on that face. But I know you have testicles. You are a man, are you not, Kulas?”

Laughter.

“Maybe, my general.”

More laughter.

It was eerie, the laughter that welled from them on this early morning.

The general mounted his horse again and rode to the edge of the pass, to the promontory where from down below he could be seen.

Volleys from below, bullets whistling, pinging on rocks, but none touched him.

He was taunting death with a boyish infidelity to life. No, this was not courage — this was madness with no explanation to it, as Istak could easily explain the raw fear which gripped him, made his legs heavy, immobile, as if they had been roots implanted deep in the land itself.

“Oy there, Simeon,” the general was saying now. “You have fought in Calumpit, in Tarlak. They are not good fighters, my brothers. They are cowards and they waste their ammunition. Do you remember how they fired without looking at us, without raising their heads? They are white like milkfish and just as ill-trained.”

Now, the Krags resounded below and the bullets whined above him, thudding against the earthwork and cutting the leaves of grass. In the trench to his right, one had fallen and the blot of red quickly spread on the soldier’s back.

“¡Fuego! Fire!” the general barked and their Mausers thundered as one. “¡Fuego!”

Istak raised his head and saw three men collapse way down the grassy sweep below. They did not rise — the blue distinct on the green.

“First squad,” the general was shouting now in Spanish. “I know you have testicles. But why do you shoot like women? They are coming now to your right — and you are missing them, although you can already smell their baby breath. You must like these barbarians who raped your sisters and your mothers. Arc you my brothers? Or my sisters? ¡Fuego!”

The Mausers roared and the Krags below replied.

The numbness in his legs and the pounding in his breast had subsided. Now, Istak could think clearly, could feel keenly, as if he could trace every gulp of cool air that rushed to his lungs. Every touch of grass upon his skin reminded him that he was alive although death was in the air, in the shrill whistling of bullets above him, around him. He held his palms to the sun — they were as rough as they had always been. He crouched, blood rushing to his legs, then he raced to the trench at his right where the soldier had fallen. He crawled to the prostrate form; the rayadillo uniform was soiled with the green of leaves and branches and the rich brown of the mountain earth. The blot on the man’s back was like a gumamela blossom. Hibiscus rosa sinensis. He got the rifle and knelt by the fallen soldier — his pulse was still.

Why do you falter, why do you hesitate? These few moments are your last, you know that. What does life mean to you now?

NOW, NOW, NOW!

All my life, I have tried to be a man of peace and You have rewarded me amply by entrusting me with Your healing gift. I have served You well, my God, and though at times I wavered, though at times I questioned You, always I was true. Every time I healed, I knew it was not I but You who did this, and having been Your willing and happy instrument, I have given some substance to this empty life.

NOW, NOW, NOW!

I will give up this power, this gift entrusted to me — will I give You up, too, now that I have decided? Tell me, my one true God, assure me I do no wrong if I kill my enemy; it is not the question of my life or his that is impelling enough. It is right against wrong — good against evil — and my God, You are not blind — YOU know!

He was not a healer anymore. He was a destroyer and the gun which he now grasped seemed a part of himself. Feeling its weight, its cold steel, it was indeed a part of his arm, his very flesh. He had seen them take the bullets from their leather canisters and load their rifles — it was not difficult to do the same.

Then, from his right, the general greeted him in Spanish: “Oy, there, Eustaquio! Are you sure you want to die here? I told you to flee but you chose to remain. Oy, there, Ilokano, learn how to shoot, then.”

The soldier at his left lifted his rifle and ejected the spent cartridge then rammed another into it. It was easy — he did not need a lesson on how to load. And it was even easier to aim.

Istak lifted the gun and steadied it on the rock before him. Through the sights, the patches of green on the mountainside below, the dead Americans lying on the grass, blue on green. The soldiers were still far, but they stood out clearly in his sights as they flitted about looking for cover or for a way to charge up the pass. Something moved behind a screen of cogon to the right; he aimed at it and fired, the report ringing in his ears, his shoulder jolted back so hard he thought it would be wrenched away. From behind the sprout of grass, a dash of blue sprang then fell.

Joy coursed through him like lightning. But was it really joy? He did not know; he was sure only of its intensity as it inflamed his whole being. He had finally killed a man.

And the exultation — if it was that — which had lifted him, dashed him back to the earth, saddened him. He had taken a life. This was war, this was righteous. What right have these white men to be here, millions of arm’s lengths away from their own land? He should have done this years ago when they were driven out of Po-on, when his village was burned.

He glanced fitfully upward; the sky — how blue it was, how serene and peaceful, even with the gunfire that rattled around him. The soldier who had taught him how to put a bullet in the belly of the gun now shouted at him to load again. The soldier — he was just a boy! — smiled at him. They were all strangers to him only a while ago. Not anymore; he was now one of them. In death, all men are brothers.

How clear his thoughts were now: here on this mountaintop, there is meaning to all this, bigger than life. None will thank me for this, nor will anyone remember. I have worshipped God. Is my salvation in my suffering? Or will suffering teach me of its necessity? I have become a new man. I have seen what can be seen only on top of a mountain.

He inhaled deeply, and turned to his back, toward the east bathed with luminous, early light.

I have been blinded, as many of us have been blinded by our needs. I had thought only of my family — this was the limit to my responsibility, and therefore, my vision. On this pinnacle I can see much more now. I am no longer Eustaquio Salvador. So then I will pit this tender flesh against the steel of a new master. I can do this because my pulse is quicker, because I am free. Listen to the wind in the grass.

Who are they who come to us promising to teach us what we already know, who will give us a new god to worship? God is in all of us. Who are they to say that we are children, that they should be our teachers? Their defecation is foul, they are flesh who will be ripped apart by bullet or blade. But why are they strong and why are we weak? Can it be that their faith has made them more capable than we, more enduring, more brilliant? And even nearer to God?

There came to mind again old Padre Jose, sweating beneath his black cassock in the April heat, doggedly toiling up these mountains, braving a malignant land and an equally malignant people about whom he knew little yet was willing to meet and risk so much in his desire to learn more, and having learned more, would then convert and conquer. Conquer with what? With knowledge, more than anything, for what are guns? They will rust and fail, but not knowledge, which is strength. This was what Padre Jose had told him, and this was what he had learned to believe. Knowledge was just the instrument — there had to be a will to put spirit into the flesh, and move even old and creaking bones so that the hands may shape new churches and the tongue will utter the words that will touch men’s hearts.

When you know you will die, you accept Death. The thought is no longer fearful. It was thinking about Dalin, and his two sons, that pained him; they did not even know he would be here on this desolate mountaintop haloed with light and churned by the whirlwind. He prayed that they would grow strong, that the land they would inherit would always be theirs, and most of all, that their mother would know no more travail.

They are coming now — more of them, down there below the gorge where they have left their horses; there are so many of them and there are so few of us. I am thirsty — sweat creeps down my back.

Why aren’t you coming up? Are you afraid?

Have we really stopped them? The president — he must be far away now with the time that we have bought for him. This is our gift not to him but to Filipinas. Honorable Cripple, I am not a patriot. But how do you measure the sacrifice this poor man beside me has made? He lies still, his hands no longer feel. He is so young, so very young — what had life promised to hold for him? Who is the woman he would have made happy, who would have borne his children? Honorable Cripple, you know the answers. And God — do I take Your name in vain? I don’t even know why I am here when I could have run away. It must be pride, or stubbornness, of which men of the north have plenty. If it is pride, what, then, can I be proud of? I have nothing to show, nothing which I have built by myself. Why then am I here? I will search the depths and will find nothing there. Nothing but

Duty,

Duty,

Duty.