“MEN!” he bellowed, “FORM UP ALONGSIDE ME!”
Relieved to finally have some direction and command, the soldiers, many still trying to buckle their braces and pull their pants up, quickly joined him in the centre of the parade ground. Hernando squinted into the shadows near the camp entrance, looking for the interlopers but all was still and all was quiet. Even the rifle shots appeared to have ceased. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he saw the grooms with the company’s horses, just outside the stables.
“You,” he shouted at the groom holding his splendid stallion. “Bring me my horse now.” The groom rushed to obey his command and Hernando effortlessly threw himself atop his mighty steed. “All of you grab your horses and follow me. We’ll get these damn insurrectionists if it’s the last thing we do.”
Looking at his infantrymen he ordered, “the rest of you soldiers, form bucket brigades and get these damn fires under control before they spread and burn our entire camp down. MOVE IT! We have to teach these rebels a lesson.”
Without waiting for his men to respond, Hernando stabbed his horse hard with his spurs and galloped out of the gate. He scanned the nearby fields searching for any sign of movement. The light was increasing, by the minute and he was finally rewarded when he spotted a lone figure staggering along a raised path in the middle of a rice field. It was clear the man was running out of steam and Hernando knew he would have absolutely no difficulty catching him, especially on his magnificent stallion, Geraldo, before he reached the relative sanctuary of the jungle. Spurring his horse on, he was aware of the narrowness of the raised, dirt levee on the rice field, but he had absolute faith in the surefootedness of his charge. With grim determination, he leant forward on his saddle and focused slowly on the rapidly growing figure. This will be your last moment, you fool, he thought to himself as he drew his sabre from its scabbard. By now, he was a mere twenty metres from the man who glanced backward and even in the limited light Hernando could see the fear on the man’s face. He grimaced, as he slowed his horse’s headlong charge and taking careful aim, swung his sabre in a low arc that would take it directly into the rebel’s side and almost slice the fleeing man in half.
As the finely tempered steel of Hernando’s sword sliced through the peasant’s clothing and ripped his stomach in half, the rebel released a terrifying scream that shattered the peacefulness of the Bulacan countryside. He immediately dropped to his knees, lying on his side, whimpering softly, his hands frantically trying to close the massive rent in his stomach from which his intestines had begun to spill out. His mouth was moving furiously, but all the came out of it were pinkish bubbles of air. Hernando stopped his horse and dismounted before warily approaching the injured man. One glance at his horrific wounds was enough to assure him that this rebel’s days were over. The man was clearly dying and there was nothing that could be done to stop that.
Despite the adrenaline of the chase and the execution still pumping through his veins, Hernando felt an innate sadness that this had been necessary. This wasn’t the first person he had killed in battle, but it was certainly the first one he had killed so up front and personal. He’d never looked into the eyes of his victims before – he’d never had to, but this was different and he felt quite wretched about the whole affair. He knelt down beside the dying rebel and gently turned him over onto his back. His face had been partially hidden previously, under the man’s wide, straw hat that the peasants wore when they were working the rice fields, but now the hat fell back off the man’s head and for the first time in his life, Hernando looked into the eyes of a dying man, for whose death he was directly responsible. He gasped and threw his hand in front of his mouth in utter shock and bewilderment.
This was no man, he had ruthlessly cut down. This was a boy. Good God, he thought, as the tears welled in his eyes. He can’t possibly be any older than eleven or twelve. Looking at the young boy’s eyes, he whispered softly, “what have I done... what have I done?” The child’s eyes fluttered a couple of times and his breath rasped in his throat, as he struggled to say something. Hernando leant closer to the boy’s mouth, his ear just inches away, as he felt the frothy spittle of blood splatter his cheek.
“Please... tell Mama...” The boy began to cough and blood poured from his mouth. Hernando stayed where he was, heedless of the warm, sticky liquid that now covered his right cheek. Taking one more deep breath, the boy continued. “...tell Mama... I’m sorry.” Hernando felt the death breath hit him on the side of his face as the boy took his last breath. Pushing himself back to his knees, Hernando looked at the young, unlined, and innocent face, as tears ran unheeded down his face. With utter gentleness, he reached down and closed the young boy’s eyes for the very last time.
“Sleep well, young man,” he whispered before he collapsed on top of the boy’s body sobbing uncontrollably. It must have only been a few minutes that he lay there, hunched over, his body wracked with deep and inconsolable sobs before he felt the gentle tug of a hand on his shoulder. It took him some time to react to the tug and the voice that was whispering in his ear, but when he finally lifted his head and looked up, he was staring into the concerned eyes of his First Sergeant, Sergeant Molinero.
“Sir,” the Sergeant gently implored him, “it’s over, Sir. We need to get back to camp and see how they are getting on putting out the fire. Please, Sir.”
Hernando looked at the man, yet didn’t really seem to recognise him. He shook his head once and then grasped the Sergeant’s arm in a vice-like grip before pulling himself to his feet. Placing his hands on both of the soldier’s shoulders he spoke trance-like, flat and emotionlessly. “Is this what we came here for Sergeant? Is this what we are now, child killers? Are we proud of ourselves now, Sergeant?”
The Sergeant had no answer to his Captain’s entreaty, so the two men just stood there in the middle of a rice field, in a country far from their homes and stared into each other’s eyes, for an eternity.
***
LUZVIMINDA:
Her unexpected encounter with the soldiers had been strange and surprising, but once Minda had arrived home, she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow she had briefly touched her destiny and then had it snatched away from her. There was something about that Captain that seemed familiar to her, almost as if they’d met before – perhaps in some long forgotten, previous existence. Minda wasn’t one to dwell on the supernatural or the mysterious. She was much more of a practical and logical person than that. She had grown up, however, hearing many tales from her Lola (Grandmother) about the various mystical and magical creatures that inhabited the forests that grew all around them. She always remembered her Lola Amelia telling all of the kids about the horrible and feared Aswang (A shape-shifting monster) that inhabited the jungles around the barrio and was just waiting for naughty, little children who were foolish enough to venture into its territory, so it could rip them to shreds.
She well recalled how frightened she and her siblings were of the terrible tales of the Aswang, or Tik-Tik as their Lola called it. After hearing the story of the Aswang, it was many months before Minda would even consider walking the tracks through the bush again and certainly never by herself. Growing up, her entire cultural background resounded in mysticism and magical beliefs. Although her parents were deeply religious and knowing that the Church frowned on such heathen beliefs, it didn’t stop them from still carrying their folklore deep inside them, alongside their new Christian doctrines. They just never spoke of them outside of the family circle. If Minda closed her eyes, she could still picture her old Lola, sitting around the fire, where the rice pot was bubbling away, telling stories of the supernatural and the arcane.
Her Lola had been a tiny woman, just four foot nine, but she was a giant in the eyes of her family. The old woman had commanded the utmost respect from everyone and her tongue was considered to be sharper than the hunter’s spear. When she spoke, you listened, or if you didn’t you would ultimately pay the price. A smile creased Minda lips as she lux
uriated in the memory of a woman who she considered to be her greatest role model. No disrespect to Mama, she thought, but Lola was the type of woman, Minda wanted to be. Proud of whom she was, proud of her cultural heritage and afraid of nothing and nobody. Lola Ame carried the many wrinkles that lined her face, with pride, almost like the war-tattoos of some tribes. Once, when she and Minda had been alone one evening, Lola Ame had told her that she, Minda, was born to achieve something special. “Little one,” she had said. “My precious, darling Minda, you have been born to greatness and one day the world will whisper your name with reverence and honour.”
Minda was merely seven years old at this stage and had been staggered by her Lola’s pronouncements. “What do you mean Lola? What will happen to me?”
She had grasped Minda’s jaw between her bony, gnarled fingers that possessed so much strength for such a tiny, old lady. Lifting Minda’s chin until she was looking directly into her eyes, Minda couldn’t help but notice, despite the age and the wrinkles, her Lola’s eyes looked like those of a child, bright, clear and sparkling. She’d gasped as the old woman’s eyes had flashed with fire-like flecks, as she’d begun to speak, softly but steadily, with none of the usual quivers of age.
“Minda,” she’d begun, “never question your destiny. You, my child, are as old as the very hills that surround us. You have lived, loved and fought right through the aeons that stretch back to the beginning and you will still be living, loving, and fighting for all eternity. You are an eternal being girl and don’t you forget it. Lola says so and what does that mean, Minda?”
Awestruck by the woman’s sheer intensity, all that Minda could say was, “if Lola says it, then it’s true.”
“Exactly,” the old woman had cackled and had leant forward placing a gentle kiss on Minda’s forehead.
Over the years Minda had recounted that conversation many times, in her head, but had never quite grasped its meaning. At the time, she’d wanted to ask her more, to ask her to explain what she’d meant by her mysterious words, but Lola Ame refused to discuss it further. “It is what it is, child. Nothing more to say on that. Just never forget it,” was her final answer. When she had died, two years ago, at the ripe old age of ninety-two, she had taken any amplification or clarification of her words, to the grave with her.
As Minda lay on her mattress, pondering this, she hugged herself and realised how much she truly missed her Lola’s wise counsel. Her thoughts that she’d known this Captain de Abreu... this Hernando, even before they met the other day, wouldn’t leave her though and she wondered if her Lola’s mysterious words, so long ago, had any bearing on how she felt today. One thing was for sure, she couldn’t get that handsome face out of her mind. As she lay there she smiled at the recollection of the surprise, embarrassment, and yes, desire she’d witnessed on Hernando’s face when the sheet had dropped away and her breasts were proudly pointed at his face. She giggled softly and felt that all too familiar now, warm and damp feeling at the pit of her belly.
Just as she was contemplating what she could do about the rising tide of excitement that was washing over her body, she was rudely interrupted by the call of “Minda!” Scowling, she rolled off the bed and stood up; smoothing the wrinkles in her clothes and willing what she knew would be the redness on her face to disappear, before she put in an appearance, in answer to the summons from her Mama.
Walking slowly out to the main room, she looked at her Mama questioningly, noticing she had a large grin splitting her face. “Yes, Mama?” she tentatively queried.
“Ah, Minda, there you are.” She walked over and placed her arm around Minda’s shoulders, before whispering into her ear, “you have a gentleman-caller, Minda.”
In total shock, she pulled herself away from her mother’s grasp, “who?” was all she could manage.
The small chuckle from her mother told her everything she needed to know, but she confirmed it anyway. “Why, it’s young Arturo de la Cruz, Minda. He’s come to ask you if you would walk with him for a while.”
Minda's forehead scrunched up in annoyance. What was Artie doing here, she thought in annoyance. Didn’t I make myself clear enough the other day that I wasn’t interested in anything like that? She remembered Artie had also expressed his intent to do other things before marriage... so, why was he here? Her interest piqued, she smiled at her mother. “Can I go with him, Mama? Maybe we can walk down to the lake and have a small picnic.”
Her mother looked hard at Minda, before shaking her head and sighing exasperatedly. She couldn’t figure out this young lady. One minute she was hot and the next minute she was icy-cold. What was going on inside that teenage head of hers? “Well, of course, Minda, you know what your father and I think about young Arturo. We both think it’s a good match. Yes, you may step out together, but of course, you will need a chaperone. We can’t have two young people alone in the fields together, now can we? No, no, no, that wouldn’t do at all,” she twittered, but Minda wasn’t even listening anymore.
“Mama, can you make a small picnic basket and I’ll go next door and ask Tito (Uncle) Romy if he is free to accompany us. Romy wasn’t really her blood uncle, just an old family friend who was long retired and spent most of his days sitting in an old, wicker, rocking chair in front of their house, playing solitaire.
“Tito Romy would be a perfect choice to accompany you pair, Minda. Yes, go and ask him and I’ll put something together for you all to eat.” She headed for the kitchen, but turned her head and added, “but first, go and tell young Arturo you will be with him shortly.” She gave an almost girlish giggle as she finished, “the poor boy will be panicking that you’ve said, no.”
The trio had walked a couple of miles from the house to the lake-shore in absolute silence. Tito Romy, leaning heavily on his old cane had lagged behind the youngsters and they could have spoken in total privacy, but Arturo didn’t want to say anything, just yet. Minda had raised her eyebrows in query just after they’d set off, but Arturo’s only response had been a dart of his eyes toward Romy, a quick shake of his head and then he’d surprisingly grabbed Minda’s hand and strode off, looking very much like any courting couple. Minda wasn’t too sure she was keen on this new development but decided to suspend comment, or thought until they reached the lake. If she was totally honest with herself, it felt quite nice to have her hand cradled in Arturo’s meaty paw... a lot nicer than she thought it would. As they walked she tried to glance sideways at his profile. He wasn’t so bad was he?
BUT, he’s not Hernando de Abreu, is he? She couldn’t believe she had just had that thought. Why should the young Captain’s features come to her mind, when she was looking at Arturo’s face? What was happening to her? She had absolutely no idea, but she could feel the colour rising on her neck, just at the thought of the dashing soldier. Damn! she told herself. Pull yourself together Minda. For the remainder of their stroll, she determined to focus on the beautiful day, the gentle breeze that made the heat just that little bit more bearable, and the waving stalks of corn and rice they passed, on their way.
Once they arrived at the edge of the water, Arturo gallantly removed his jacket and spread it on the ground for Minda to sit on. Her eyes crinkled and her forehead furrowed at this romantic gesture. Seeing her confusion Arturo laughed aloud and assured her, “no Minda, I’m not here to be the hopeless romantic to you. There are much more important things to discuss.” He sat down on the grass as she gracefully descended onto his proffered jacket, carefully straightening her skirts, so nothing untoward was revealed to her young gentleman friend. She giggled softly at the thought.
“So, pray tell Arturo, what could be more important than impressing me with your romantic gestures?” She waved her arm airily in front of her forehead as if swooning at the thought of a young man’s romance.
He laughed aloud at her play-acting before glancing across to see what had become of old Romy. The elderly man had finally caught up to the pair and was leaning on his cane, huffing and puffing somewhat. He
waved the cane at them and said, between loud, raspy wheezes. “I’ll just sit over here, with my back to the tree and rest up, while you youngsters have some food. I need to get my breath back.” Arturo smiled and signalled he understood, but his gaze remained fixed on Romy’s face.
Before long it became clear the old fella was sound asleep. His head had dropped down and all they could see was the top of his careworn, cap. With each breath he took, his head bobbed up and down. Satisfied he would not be overheard, Arturo reached for both of Minda’s hands and holding them tightly in his own, he whispered, “okay, now it’s safe to talk.”
Quite excited by the obvious tension on Arturo’s face, she smiled and nodded. “I’m all ears, Artie. What this all about?”
Arturo’s eyes lowered slightly and she detected a collection of moisture in one corner. Was the big, tough Artie about to cry? she wondered. What is this all about? “Did you hear about Kristoffer?” he gently asked her.
Her eyebrows rose a few centimetres and her face scrunched up in thought. “Kristoffer?” she queried. “Do you mean Kristoffer Davalo?” Artie nodded sadly. “No, what about him? He’s in my brother’s class at school,” she added.
“Not anymore he isn’t,” Arturo spat at her vehemently.
She reeled back at his anger and scratched her chin. “What do you mean? What are you on about?”
He shouted at her, “those goddamned Spaniards killed him! Ran him through with a sword!” The tears that had threatened to come, now came pouring down his face, as he thumped the dirt, with his fist, before adding, “God Minda! He’s just a little kid!”
She took a deep breath to try and compose herself and come to grips with the tale he was telling her. “Dead... killed him... but why?” The disbelief and horror were noticeable in her words.
Arturo wiped his face and reached out a hand, grasping her hands between his and squeezing tight. “Kris was with a group of KKK rebels who tried to blow up the Spanish camp.” Sighing deeply, he added, “when they escaped, some officer chased him on his horse and ran him through with his sword.” His voice cracked and the tears again ran, unheeded down his face. “He didn’t even have a gun, Minda. The bastard Spaniard just ripped his guts open in the rice field and left him to die all alone.” Releasing her hands he held his head in them and rocked backward and forward on his haunches, sobbing inconsolably.
Love Beyond: Walang Hanggang Pagmamahal Page 7