When the first Filipinos had come to this world, fleeing the wars on Earth, they had brought many seeds and animals with them. Over the centuries, the colonists had terraformed Bahay, spreading the life of Earth across the alien islands. And Bahay, in turn, had transformed the colonists.
Children ran about, climbing trees, playing ball, their skin bronzed by the sun. They had never known another world. Every generation was a little more native. They told stories of Bahayan folk heroes—of Miguel and the thousand colors of the night, of Alberto who conquered mountains, and of Lilibeth, the last rose of summer. They forgot the old stories from Earth. They sang new songs. Some had even begun to worship new gods, deities of the jungle and ocean. By now, few Bahayans remembered the homeworld. But Maria had her books and tapes. Maria remembered.
"Did you see the plane crash, Maria?" said a young boy. "Tito Ernesto is back from the war, and he shot it down!"
"Pow, pow!" shouted another boy, mimicking firing a gun at the sky. "When I grow up, I'm going to fight too."
"No you are not!" Maria placed her fists on her hips. "Don't you remember what happened to Tito Roberto? We're farmers and fisherman, not fighters! Go back to your mothers."
The children groaned. One blew her a raspberry. And then they ran off, chattering in awe of seeing the plane fall.
Some of these boys will grow up and join the Kalayaan, Maria thought. They will rise in rebellion against Earth. And most will never come home.
She lowered her head. She had been betrothed to Roberto once, a kind and honorable man. But he was dead, and Ernesto had inherited her, and Maria would soon have an air conditioner, a swelling belly, and a life of misery.
She walked around a guava tree, its fruit bending the branches, and approached her home. The nipa hut was small, balanced atop stilts. The walls were bamboo, the roof thatched with palm fronds. Some villagers built roofs from sheets of tarpaulin or corrugated steel, mimicking the fashions of the big city. Those were useful during monsoon season, but Maria's father called them an eyesore. He stuck to the old ways. His thatch roof leaked during the monsoon, but Father insisted it was worth it. The rice farmer feared technology, even something as simple as a metal sheet. It had taken years to convince him to allow electricity into the home. Only the baseball games on the radio, broadcast from the southern capital, had changed his mind.
Maria had to climb a wooden ladder to enter. When she stepped inside the humble dwelling, the scent of arroz caldo filled her nostrils—an intoxicating blend of ginger, lemon, and chicken. Her mother stood by the pot, adding garlic to the savory stew, while her father scooped rice onto banana leaves. It was a warm home. A loving home. Yet also a sad home, for Maria was an only child in a village where most huts contained many children.
Seeing her, her parents abandoned the cooking meal. They rushed toward Maria, arms outstretched.
"Nini!" Mother said, still addressing her as a little girl, even though Maria was already seventeen. "Are you all right? Did you know that a plane crashed?"
"Of course she knows!" Father said. "She's not blind, you know. The whole village saw it."
"Oh, be quiet," Mother said. "Maria, are you okay? What happened to your face?" She touched Maria's cheek. "Does it hurt? You're bruised!"
"I fell," Maria lied, still feeling the sting of Ernesto's hand. "When running to see the plane."
"Your head is in the clouds," Mother said.
Father rolled his eyes. "Leave the girl alone. Her head is perfectly fine."
"It's too big!" Mother insisted. "Too full of—"
"—questions and nonsense," Maria said. "I know. I've heard it many times."
Her mother's eyes softened, and she embraced her. "I'm glad you're okay, Nini. We saw the plane fall. We tried to find you in the paddies. They said you ran off."
"I'm fine, Nanay," Maria said to her mother. "Honestly. Nobody was hurt."
None of the villagers, at least, she thought, and an image of the Earthling's brutalized corpse flashed before her.
Mother sighed and brushed leaves out of Maria's hair. Kim de la Cruz was thirty-three, yet she had only one child. Most women her age had many children, often ten or more. A good Bahayan woman was expected to bless the village with many children—girls to plant seeds, boys to hunt and fish. Times of floods and plague took many village children. Every woman was expected to do her part to replenish the lost.
Yet Maria was an only child. She had broken something inside her mother's womb. Lola Mahalia liked to say it was Maria's big head, too full of questions.
"Come, Nini," Mother said. "Let me fry you some rice and fish, and then we'll return to the paddies together."
"But Nanay, why?" Maria said. "Why must I work every day? What if I want something else?"
Mother snickered. "Like what, silly girl?"
"To study the stars!" Maria said. "Or to travel south to Mindao, where they have libraries and schools, and I can learn things, and—"
"There's nothing to learn in libraries!" Father said. "You have everything you need here in San Luna. The cities are full of Earthlings these days. In the north, they kill. In the south, they steal and suck us dry."
"But why do they kill us?" she said. "Why are the Earthlings even here on Bahay?"
"Why, why, why?" Mother parroted. "Silly girl. Stop asking so many questions. Earthlings are evil, and the cities are dangerous, and good girls were not meant for such things. Good girls work in the fields, have many children, and—"
"But I don't want that!" Maria said. "I don't want to work in the paddies. I don't want to have children. I want to…"
Her voice trailed off.
"To what?" Mother said, tilting her head.
To fly away, Maria thought.
To fly far from this village. Far from this entire planet. Far from this war where men bashed skulls with rifles. Where planes crashed and burned. Far from the life that awaited her, of endless bruises and pregnancies and fire on the hillsides.
But she could say none of those things. Not to her parents. Despite it all, they loved her. They worked hard for her. Dreamed for her to be happy, to be married into a family with an air conditioner and three reed boats.
Yes, Maria knew her parents meant well. But these were not her dreams. And she could not forgive them for arranging her marriage to a cruel man, no matter how wealthy he was. How could she tell them all this?
"I want to be more," Maria whispered.
Mother flinched, pain in her eyes. "More than I am? Is my life truly so pathetic?"
Maria let out a soft laugh. She hugged her mother. "I love you, Nanay. You're the best woman in the world."
Mother sighed. "And you're a silly little thing, but I love you too. Go escape to your room, and your books, and your dreams. You're special, Maria. You're my joy and light. I just want you to be happy."
"I don't know how to be happy," Maria said.
She left her parents and entered her room.
* * * * *
In San Luna, being an only child placed you somewhere between "poor soul" and "circus freak."
Behold! Lonesome Maria! The girl with a head so big it broke her mother's womb!
They said she was strange. That she must be lonely. That she must dream of having many children and filling her hut with laughter. They all dreamed their own dreams for her, and they laughed when she spoke of exploring the stars.
Yes, being an only child earned Maria much ridicule. But it also came with some perks.
She had her own private bedroom.
That was nothing to sneeze at. She was the only girl in San Luna with her own room. Her friends all shared their rooms with multiple siblings, even sharing beds. Let Ernesto brag of his air conditioner. Maria de la Cruz had privacy, a far greater treasure.
It was a humble room, barely large enough for her little bed with its little straw mattress. But it was her domain, her Lilliputian kingdom, her place to dream.
The sun was setting, and she looked out the window at the
sky.
I dream of someday flying, she thought. Not in a plane. Not in the blue sky. I dream to fly among the stars. To visit other worlds. Maybe even to visit Earth.
Was it true that everyone on Earth lived in golden towers? That everyone owned a spaceship? That people could buy feasts in any local marketplace—true feasts for kings!—instead of toiling day after day in the paddies for a few grains?
She sighed. Silly questions. Silly fantasies. The dreams of a little girl. If she ever landed on Earth, they would kill her. She was only a slit. A gook. A yellowskin. All those horrible names they called her people. All the ways they demonized their enemy, made them subhuman, easier to kill.
I'm your friend, the pilot had said, his eyes kind.
And his teeth had shattered.
And Maria had stared at a bloody pulp where a face had been.
And—
Breathe, Maria. She took a shaky breath. Do not succumb to fear.
She turned toward the mirror and studied her reflection.
"My head is not too big!" she said to herself.
She was a slender girl, her skin tanned brown from long days in the sun. She wore a white baro't saya, the traditional dress of Bahayan girls. The piña fabric, made from pineapple leaves, was soft against her skin. Her black hair flowed down to her waist, just as smooth and silky. Her eyes were very black, the irises so dark one could barely see her pupils. Some said her eyes were too inquisitive, too piercing, too eager to stare and challenge. Whatever that meant. Mostly, Maria figured, it was just an excuse for people to berate her.
She touched her bruised cheek and winced. The gift of Ernesto's hand.
Her head was normal sized, perhaps. But there was something broken inside her. Something not like the other villagers, and it went deeper than her lack of siblings. It was the yearning to escape, to fly, to explore. A call she could barely understand, let alone articulate. She was different, had been different since birth, and everyone knew it.
She turned away from the mirror. What did her own life matter now as the war raged?
She knelt by her bed, reached underneath, and pulled out her decorative wooden box.
Inside she kept her greatest treasures. The books and tapes the missionary had left here years ago, giving her the precious gift of another language. A spiraling seashell she had once found on the beach where the river ended. An iridescent feather from a glimmerbird. A tooth from an ancient waterwhirl that had once washed onto the riverbank.
And most precious of all—little Crisanto. Her dearest friend.
He was sleeping now inside his jar, barely larger than a firefly, as delicate as dandelion fluff.
An alien intelligence.
A real live Santelmo.
"Wake up, Crisanto!" Maria said, speaking through holes in the jar's lid. "Why do you sleep for so long? I'm lonely."
Santelmos could live for centuries, she knew. There were Santelmos today who had lived during the Exodus three centuries ago, who had shepherded the first Filipino refugees from Earth, and who still watched over the colony on Bahay. Those elderly Santelmos were large beings, some the size of watermelons, some even larger, perhaps even as large as the great boulder in the village square which nobody could move. They shone like Pilak Mata, the pale moon of the east, great orbs of luminosity and wisdom. They knew the secrets of the stars, flew in silver starships, and explored the galaxy.
These luminous beings had discovered Earth long ago, long before humans had built starships or even knew the secrets of metal. On Earth, humans had known them by many names. The English called them the wills-o'-the-wisp. The native Mexicans knew them as brujas, believing them witches. The Bengali called them the ayelas, thinking them the ghosts of drowned fishermen, while the Japanese called them hitodama, mistaking them for human souls. The Brazilians called them boi-tatá, thinking them the fiery eyes of hidden serpents. Throughout human history, they had been there. Every culture knew them—mysterious orbs of light, floating in marshlands and forests, watching over mankind.
In the Philippines, the ancestral homeland of Bahayans, these glowing orbs had been called Santelmos, the shortened form of Saint Elmo's Fire. And the Santelmos had chosen the Filipinos for salvation. With their silvery chariots, they had lifted refugees from the fires of war. They had brought them here to a distant planet. They had formed the nation of Bahay among the stars, most blessed of worlds.
But little Crisanto was a baby. He had done none of these great things. He was so small he could fit in Maria's pocket. Sometimes at night, he would wake up and fly around the hut, leaving trails of light. Maria had tried to teach him to spell luminous letters and numbers in the air—like a child might draw figure eights with a sparkler. But Crisanto never learned that skill. Perhaps he was too young. Or perhaps Santelmos simply did not have a mind for letters and numbers, despite their great wisdom.
Since he could not talk or write, Maria did not know how young Crisanto was. But she heard that Santelmos could remain babies for decades. Time flowed differently for them. Often Crisanto slept for days, even weeks, content to lurk in her pocket or box. For him, it was probably just a catnap.
To him, my life must seem as ephemeral as a flowerbug, shining for just a season, Maria thought.
Crisanto rose to hover before her, a shining marble. Suddenly he flitted left to right, up and down. His way of saying good morning.
"Good morning, sleepyhead." She tried to smile, but her tears flowed. "Oh, Crisanto! I'm scared. Something happened today, and an Earthling plane crashed, and a man died, and…"
She cried for a moment, overwhelmed, and then she told him everything. How the plane had burned. How the village men had murdered the pilot. How Maria thought that Earthlings weren't evil after all—at least not all of them. For long moments, she spilled her heart out.
Only one detail she did not reveal. She did not speak of Ernesto hitting her. It shamed her. And she feared his reprisal if she spoke up—even if it was just to a ball of light. So she spoke of Ernesto returning from the war, murdering the pilot, but not of his hand slapping her cheek. Not his fist in her belly.
While she talked, Crisanto rested on her palm, sometimes bobbing up in surprise, sometimes dimming in grief, then shining brighter in rage. When the tale was finished, the tiny orb of light rose off her palm, then flitted out the window.
Maria gasped. "Crisanto, where are you going?"
She leaned out the window, glimpsed him fluttering across the village.
She climbed out after him, wearing only her nightgown, and ran barefoot in pursuit.
"Crisanto, come back!"
She had found him as a little girl. He had been so tiny nobody else could see him, no larger than a period at the end of a sentence. She had nurtured him, tended to him, and he to her. But he had never flown away like this.
She chased him between the huts. The sun set quickly on Bahay, and by the time she reached the mango grove, it had dipped behind the mountains. Crisanto shone ahead in the darkness, fluttering between the trees. Maria slipped on a fallen mango and scraped her knees. She rose and kept running, limping now. Past the trees, she could glimpse lights on the river—the last few fishermen rowing home. They did not see her, and she ran onward, following the little light.
Soon she reached the jungle and froze.
A wall of trees rose before her.
The trees of San Luna were familiar to her. Mangoes, bananas, avocados, pineapple—trees her people had cultivated for thousands of years, trees grown from Earth seeds. But here, before her—here rose alien flora. Here rose the native rainforest of Bahay, a sprawling, breathing biosphere far older than the human colony.
The Santelmos had tried to find the First Colonists a familiar world, a planet similar to the Philippines. This world had come closest. Bahay was a planet of natural beauty—soaring mountains, verdant islands, glittering blue seas, an atmosphere rich with oxygen.
But it was still an alien world. Even now, three centuries after the Exodus
, the alien jungles chilled Maria's blood.
She faced towering trees draped with vines like the hair of old men. Their leaves had little mouths, snatching up insects. Yellow eyes shone in the shadows, and grunts filled the darkness. Ferns stirred, and curtains of moss swayed like ghosts. There were great predators in the jungle. The beasts respected the village territory, but they would gladly devour any human who entered their domain. There were worse than animals too. There were spirits in there. There were old gods and evil whispers.
Maria stood, watching Crisanto float into those alien shadows. His light grew smaller and smaller, and she only stood watching until it was gone.
She dared not follow. Not even to follow her best friend.
"Crisanto," she whispered. And the rainforest answered with whispers and rustling leaves and the deep breathing of hidden things.
Maria fell to her knees, feeling the weight of the war, of the entire sky, on her shoulders. She raised her damp eyes to the stars, but the lights seemed distant and cold, and her own precious light was gone.
He heard what we did, Maria thought. He learned that we killed a man. And now my guardian angel has left me, and I'm in darkness.
On the mountainside, the crashed airplane was still burning, and when Maria looked at the distant fire, she saw in the flames the pilot's battered, bloody face.
Chapter Five
A Little Off the Top
"Well, here we are!" Father said. "Fort Emery Recruitment Center. Sorry, son, I know I told you we're going to Disneyworld. But the army's just as fun!"
The jazz player looked into the Toyota's rear view mirror and winked. Jon, sitting in the back seat, did not laugh.
Many said they looked alike. Both father and son had long, shaggy hair. But Jon's was black, while Father's hair was grizzled. Both had stubbly beards, though Jon's was far thinner, barely more than fuzz, even at eighteen.
The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1) Page 4