We got into the car, and I began telling our mothers what had happened, as we headed out of the powerless village toward the hospital at Paranaque. When JP’s mother momentarily stopped fussing about her son and turned her ire towards me—“Punyeta ka! Taking my son on your damn rides! Alam mo, he could have died! Antipatiko! Always crashing, always running around, you stupid, irresponsible boy!”—my mother told her to stop and be thankful that nothing worse had happened.
At St. Michael & the Archangels Hospital, the doctor at the emergency room reassured us that JP would be fine, but recommended that both JP and I stay overnight for observation, in case we got pneumonia. My mother and I waited for JP’s stitches to be done and for us to be admitted, listening to the sound of the hospital generators.
“Sorry po,” I told my mother.
Instead of the scathing reprimand I expected and fully deserved, she just shook her head. “We’ll talk about that later. What matters is that you’re here.”
I could only nod.
“We should be grateful,” she said. “How you managed to bring him all by yourself is a blessing from God.”
“Mama, I wasn’t alone,” I told her. “There was this girl who helped me. Alam mo, the one who lives at the old house at Shepard?”
My mother frowned. “The de Vera house? You must be confused. There was only you and JP. And nobody lives in that house. A reporter lived there,” she whispered. “During Martial Law he wrote against Marcos, got caught up in some movement. Alam mo, they say na-salvage sila—men entered that house and killed him and his daughter. The wife was abroad when it happened. She never came back to Manila. Kawawa sila, the poor people. It’s better that you don’t know about these things.”
I turned away from her.
“That’s why no one wants that house. If anyone moved in, the association would know. You’re just tired. It’s been a horrible day.”
As my mother continued to talk, I sat back and closed my eyes, the world increasingly unsteady around me, my fist tight around the handle of an old umbrella that now belonged to me.
POOR, POOR LUISA
WHEN SUMMER ENDED, it was time for Luisa to attend her new school. But she was quite afraid.
“I don’t know the other children there,” Luisa told her mother.
“I’m sure you’ll make new friends,” her mother said with a smile.
“I don’t think so,” Luisa said quietly. She imagined that no one would talk to her.
Poor, poor Luisa.
ON THE MORNING of the first day of school, after she kissed her mother goodbye but before the school bus came to pick her up, Luisa rushed through her house.
In the closet, she took a mop and cut off the stringy ends used to clean the floor with. This was her new hair.
In the living room, she borrowed her father’s old pair of thick glasses. This became her new eyes.
In the bathroom, she squeezed a tube of blue sparkly toothpaste all over her cheeks and forehead and chin. This was her new face.
In the kitchen, she filled a small bag with vegetables and wore it on her back under her clothes. This was her new body.
So it was as a blue-faced hunchback, with stringy hair and thick glasses, that Luisa boarded the school bus for her new school.
She imagined that it was better if no one knew who she was.
Poor, poor Luisa.
THE CLASSROOM WAS filled with children, and Luisa quietly took her seat, keeping her eyes on the floor.
It was only when the teacher called her name that Luisa looked up; this is what she saw.
To Luisa’s left was a green-faced girl with spaghetti hair and doughnuts on her eyes.
To Luisa’s right was a chocolate-coated girl with two halves of a coconut shell on her head.
Behind Luisa sat a girl covered in bright yellow banana peels with pillow cases for feet.
And in front of Luisa was another girl completely covered up by a pink shower curtain.
And no one, no one was talking or looking at anyone else.
Luisa was confused by her strange and quiet classmates.
Poor, poor Luisa.
WHEN THE BELL rang for recess time, all the children walked into the school’s garden. Curious about how everyone looked and having nowhere else to go, Luisa followed them.
The odd children stood in the sunlight, not looking at each other.
Luisa waited for someone to talk, but no one did.
Poor, poor Luisa.
FINALLY, LUISA DECIDED to be the first to say something.
“Hi there,” Luisa said to the unusual children.
“Oh!” said the green-faced girl with spaghetti hair and doughnuts on her eyes.
“Ah!” said the chocolate-coated girl with two halves of a coconut shell on her head.
“Er!” said the girl covered in bright yellow banana peels with pillow cases for feet.
“Uf!” mumbled the girl completely covered up by a pink shower curtain.
They were all surprised.
“Why are you all wearing strange things on your faces, heads, bodies, and feet?” Luisa asked.
No one answered her question.
Poor, poor Luisa.
BUT SHE REALLY wanted to know, so she spoke again.
“Won’t you tell me, please?” Luisa asked.
“Well, you’re very strange-looking yourself,” said the green-faced girl with spaghetti hair said.
“That’s right,” nodded the chocolate-coated girl.
“You should see yourself,” said the girl covered in bright yellow banana peels.
“Uf!” mumbled the girl completely covered up by a pink shower curtain.
“Oh!” cried Luisa, remembering what she had put on herself. “But this isn’t really what I look like!”
Luisa took off the stringy mop and shook out her long black hair.
She took off her father’s old pair of thick glasses and blinked her large brown eyes.
She wiped off the sparkly blue toothpaste from her face and revealed her dark brown skin.
And finally, she removed the small sack filled with vegetables from her back and straightened up to her full height.
“This is me,” she said. “My name is Luisa.”
The other children looked at her and at each other in silence.
Luisa suddenly felt very shy and afraid. She began to walk away.
Poor, poor Luisa.
“WAIT,” SAID THE green-faced girl with spaghetti hair. “This isn’t me, either.”
“Wait,” said the chocolate-coated girl. “It’s the same with me.”
“Wait,” said the girl covered in bright yellow banana peels. “I don’t even like bananas.”
“Uf!” mumbled the girl completely covered up by a pink shower curtain.
And to Luisa’s amazement, the other children shook out and took off and wiped away all the different things they had put on their faces, heads, bodies, and feet.
In the middle of the garden, surrounded by a mess of avocado pudding, spaghetti noodles, doughnuts, chocolates, coconut shells, yellow banana peels, pillow cases, and a pink shower curtain, stood four young girls.
“I’m Zarah,” said the first girl.
“I’m Maureen,” said the second girl.
“I’m Nikki,” said the third girl.
“And I’m Kate,” said the fourth girl.
“Hello, Luisa!” the four girls said together.
“Hello, hello, hello, hello,” said Luisa happily.
WHEN LUISA GOT home, her mother asked her about her first day at school.
“It was a bit scary, then a bit silly,” Luisa told her. “But I have new friends.”
“I knew you’d make new ones,” her mother said, embracing her.
Luisa smiled and gave her mother a kiss.
AZAMGAL
114 TORRES STREET, Cebu City
December 12, 1952
DEAR MR. FERNANDEZ,
I just wanted you to know how much I enjoyed readi
ng your novel, The Road to Azamgal. I was lucky enough to have found a secondhand copy in a tiny bookstore along Lopez Avenue, near the place where I live (if you should somehow miraculously find yourself in Cebu City, I would be more than willing to show you—it is a treasure trove of books).
I must confess to being unfamiliar with your work prior to my wonderful discovery, but now you have a devotee. Apart from the sheer luxuriousness of your language (there are too many passages I have since underlined with pen, a particular favorite being the part when Riza and Magda begin the journey), I was struck by the sheer inventiveness of your writing, how you manage to bring your creations to life in my mind. I could see Azamgal through the children’s eyes (like little Andro, I could barely repress my delight), and felt the dark presence you hinted at (how is it possible that, like Magda, I “felt a certain heaviness in the glorious city?”).
My sadness when I finished the book (twofold, of course—first, because of heartbreaking unexpectedness of Riza’s leavetaking; and second, because I was done reading the book and myself had to depart Azamgal) was mitigated only by my discovery that you had written other Azamgal books since then, and that I would thus be able to return to that fantastic world you made real, in the pages of other books. I promised myself that I would immediately quest for those books!
I offer you my humble (but effusive) praise. You have a dedicated reader for life.
Yours in Azamgal,
Manuel de Jesus
114 Torres St., Cebu City
February 2, 1953
DEAR MR. FERNANDEZ,
Thank you for your wonderful letter. Albeit brief, the mere fact that you took the time to respond means the world to me. There is no need to thank me for my interest—it is I who should (and am continuing to) thank you.
Before I go on, may I wish you a belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year? The festivities in the part of Cebu City where I live have only recently concluded. But I must tell you that nothing, not even the modest bonus I received from my employer or the gift of a writing journal I received from a friend (yes, I must confess that I, too, write from time to time, but am nowhere near your mastery of the written word!) made me happier than to find The Towers of Azamgal, the second book of your series.
I found the children’s further exploration of Turrets (and the nearby secret libraries) just as wonderful as the first—in particular, little Andro’s discovery and subsequent befriending of the Tattered Bird was so effective that I found myself awash in a whirlwind of joy, when she finally agreed to help them. And of course the introduction of Moret Azamgal (the Prince of the city himself!) was both suspenseful and evocative (I admire the facility with which you are able to make me feel like I am meeting a real person for the first time)—I hope you don’t make him into a villain; the children have enough enemies as things are (no, I did not miss how Hannamid the Sorcerer paid particular attention to Magda—it made me shiver).
I do have a small question (and a hope). Why is Roberto so underused? While he is not as lithe as Andro or as smart as Sarah or strong like Magda, he is their eldest brother. In my culture, an elder brother—in particular, the eldest brother—is a source of authority. I hope that you give him something to do, something that can help his siblings apart from the usual sighs of dejection (if I may be permitted to observe this—he is the one who, despite all that has occurred, even after the incident at the Second Infinitesimal Library doors, was the first to lose hope). As an eldest son myself, and with several siblings who follow me, this is only part of the novel I was a little disappointed in (you will forgive my candor, I trust?).
I have been looking for the third book, with no success. But I have not given up hope. I have written to my friends in Manila (the capital city of my country), and they have all promised to search for it (and the other remaining books).
Thank you once again for writing. And if (and only if) you should choose to write me again, you should call me Manolo. It is the name that I permit only my closest friends to use, and I believe that through the power of words (your novels and your reply to my letter), you have more than earned the right.
Yours in Azamgal,
Manolo
114 Torres St., Cebu city
November 22, 1953
DEAR MR. FERNANDEZ,
I apologize for only writing to you now. If you recall, in my last letter, I mentioned that I had asked my friends to look for the third (and succeeding) Azamgal books. One of them, an ex-colleague of mine from the days when I taught at a university in Manila, pulled through, and a used copy of The Palace of Azamgal arrived in the mail three months ago (she found a similar small bookstore near the American military base). And so it was with inexpressible joy that I immersed myself in the novel.
You may be asking yourself why, then, did it take me a few weeks to write you? There are two reasons.
First, I must confess (and I take it as sign of our friendship that you will not take offense) that I found the third installment the weakest of the series (so far—I ordered the remaining books through a bookseller).
While there were wonderful highlights (in particular, your revelation that Riza had, in fact, not left the city but had become one of the Vestry Heralds, as well as your stunning description of the interior rooms of the Shifting Palace—how marvelous that it reflects the hopes and dreams of the first person who enters a room), I found the majority of the other parts quite the disappointment.
I find the development of certain characters, particularly Prince Moret, unbelievable. I hope that his single act of betrayal (because that is what it was, no matter how you attempt to sugarcoat it) is met with some commensurate act of redemption in the next book. Do not make him a villain.
The second reason it took some time to write you was because I was writing myself. Please find included in this letter how I imagined certain portions of Palace should have been written. I have also included how I feel the first two opening chapters of next book should be written (the next installment is The Labyrinths of Azamgal, if I am correct?).
I trust you will read these pages in the spirit in which they are offered—which is from one who loves what you have created passionately, who only wishes the best for the children. If you should be so inclined (and if I may go out on the limb just for a moment), feel free to use any or all parts of what I’ve sent you to inspire you (or perhaps even replace relevant sections in subsequent editions—and no, I do not seek any credit; being part of Azamgal is sufficient reward should it ever happen!).
In the section of the book about you, it is mentioned that you live “on an island with five dogs and a disagreeable cat.” I live on an island myself, and find it a constant source of inspiration. May I advise you to take a walk around your island and draw inspiration from what you see and hear? It is my belief that you were going through some difficulties in your life while you working on Palace and were unduly influenced by the circumstances you found yourself in. Life is difficult (I myself am going through difficulties) but we cannot permit it to drain us. I believe you can rise above your situation and return to the heights reached by The Road to Azamgal, or even Towers.
Yours in Azamgal,
Manolo de Jesus
114 Torres St., Cebu City
May 15, 1954
DEAR MR. FERNANDEZ,
I was hoping you would reply to my last letter but received none. For long moments, I thought that I had offended you and had, in effect, put a terrible strain on our friendship.
But all my misgivings evaporated when my long-awaited copy of The Labyrinths of Azamgal arrived.
Can you imagine my unmitigated delight when, upon beginning to devour the novel, I found myself reading my own words?
I cannot thank you enough for using the two chapters I sent you! Even if you changed vast tracts of certain passages (and introduced a new character, Alma, that I disagree with), I am eternally grateful.
The rest of the book, while not on the same level as Road, was much improved (although
I have a few notes for you, which I will get to in a while). Clearly, you took my advice and let your island inspire you.
Now here are the notes I promised:
First, it seems we differ in the conception of what a labyrinth under Azamgal should be. While I appreciate the seemingly herculean effort you took to imagine yours, I am sending you what I feel it should be (kindly note that my descriptions not only include the physical description, which you also, in your own way, covered, but I also dealt with the metaphysical and spiritual dimensions of such a labyrinth—which, I’m certain you’ll agree, are in line with Magda’s internal journey now that she has become a Priestess—the youngest—of the Church of Azamgal).
Second, I have taken the liberty of rewriting all the scenes where the children interact with Prince Moret. We have discussed before the implausibility of his becoming a villain, which is why I was surprised that you insisted on his becoming one in full. I cannot guess why you insist upon this illogical and unjust disservice to such a noble character. May I remind you that it is established that the bloodline of Azamgal brooks no evil? You may think that your revelation that Prince Moret is the bastard son of Princess Elmira skirts this, but I find it simply unbelievable and problematic—which is why I have taken out all references to such. In my revision, Prince Moret is neither villain nor bastard, because his mother would never take a non-royal lover out of wedlock. I have also noted the lack of redemption of Prince Moret’s act of betrayal in the previous book and dealt with it by having him perform the Atonement Rite of Azamgal (kindly read through the passages carefully, as I have outlined the process in full, so that when you reference it in the future you will not perform any errors).
Third, I have restored Riza back to her family, fully and beyond a shadow of doubt. There is no question that she would return and use the skills she learned as a Vestry Herald toward the advancement of her siblings.
And lastly, I include how the first five opening chapters of the next book should be written (it may be misleading to tell readers that it will be called The Mines of Azamgal, as your publisher states in the last page—when clearly, the children will be embarking upon little Andro’s quest next. Therefore, it should be called The Astronomer of Azamgal, which directly references Andro as the city’s youngest and most gifted stargazer).
How to Traverse Terra Incognita Page 9