Philippine Speculative Fiction, Volume 10

by Dean Francis Alfar

  “Mommy,” Jorge said, pulling on his mother’s hem, “I want that doll.”

  “Hush,” Conchita said. “I don’t think it’s for sale.”

  “But I want it,” Jorge insisted.

  The old man inched closer to Conchita. He grabbed the woman’s hands and placed them softly upon the glass. “This doll is priceless,” the old man whispered. “It’s Don Gautamo Peréz’s doll, his gift to his wife. It brought him luck. Choose among the other dolls, and it will be yours. But not this.”

  It was then that Jorge began to scream. “I want that doll! You will buy me that doll!”

  This took Conchita by surprise. Jorge was a good child, and – habitual nighttime strangeness notwithstanding – was never roused to such frenzy as this. “Stop it, Jorge!” she barked, startled into harshness.

  The old man, calm and collected as ever, leaned over, and took the boy’s face with both his palms. Jorge immediately calmed down.

  “Boy, why do you want this doll?” the old man whispered into Jorge’s ear, loud enough for his mother to hear.

  Jorge took a minute to answer. “I can hear it calling for me.”

  “Forgive my son,” Conchita said. “He’s a good child. His imagination simply runs away with him. The memory of his father: that could be the reason for all this.”

  For the first time, a smile gleamed on the old man’s face. “Come, follow me.”

  Down at the very end of the upper west wing, they entered another room. It was smaller, less accentuated by the trimmings of wealth, flanked only by wooden walls, empty of anything but dust.

  In the middle of the room was a wooden casket, made in part of ceramic and glass. Etched on the circles of glass, lining all sides of the casket, was the family crest. On the wall overlooking the casket were these words: ‘Here lie the remains of Don Gautamo Peréz, who refused to die.”

  “Oh, my God,” Conchita blurted. “His body never left the house, all these years?” Shocked, she held her son tightly against her.

  “Lady,” the old man asked, “how did your husband die?”

  “IT BEGAN ON the night of our anniversary,” Conchita found herself saying. Part of her wanted to step back, to pull Jorge farther away, even to start running, but a greater part of her, it seemed, needed, more than anything, to tell the tale that she had kept to herself for so long.

  “A friend had invited him to a small gambling place outside of town. I had warned him against the habit, but he insisted, saying it would be the first and the last. I knew, even then, he would not have the heart to say no.”

  “And so he left me with my son that day, and every Friday of the week from then on. He had always felt insecure, because my wages were better, my job the better-paying of the two. And so he probably needed to prove himself, by whatever means necessary.”

  “By the time Jorge reached five, it was too late for my husband Guillermo to quit the habit. We lost much of our fortunes and the money he had inherited from his parents.”

  “Finally, on Jorge’s sixth birthday, I heard Guillermo talking, in a room I had thought was empty save for my husband, save for the dolls we kept for Jorge.”

  “I went to see who he was speaking to, and found Guillermo lying in a pool of his own blood. Both his wrists were sliced in shreds. Before he breathed his last, he whispered to me that he had offered up his life, in exchange for my chance to live the life I had always wanted.”

  “WOULD YOU GIVE anything for this doll?” the old man asked, as if Conchita had not spoken, as if he had not asked the question that prompted her to speak.

  Jorge, made distraught by the terrible secret that had been so abruptly revealed, could only nod in anger. “What would you want for it?” Jorge asked. “Mother has money.” He did not even look at her.

  “I am not asking for money,” the old man said.

  Conchita pulled her child even closer to her. “Sir, I beg you not to scare or confuse my son. He has been through a lot – the loss of his brother, the death of his father. All his life he’s been alone. I had to work triple hours, just so we could live the way we do. I beg you, if we cannot have the doll he wants, then it is best that we leave.”

  Jorge struggled out of his mother’s grasp and turned to the old man. “I will give you anything, even myself.”

  Conchita surged forward, reaching for Jorge, but the three maidservants appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Conchita’s shoulders, and pinned her to the ground.

  Jorge began to turn back toward his mother, but the old man grabbed his right arm. “Do you want this? How badly do you want this?”

  “Jorge!” The boy heard his mother, behind him. “Do not say anything!”

  But the old man was holding the Chinese doll now, and while part of Jorge didn’t understand how that could be so – he thought they had left it behind, in the workroom – another part of him felt that it was only right, and perfect.

  “Tell me!” The old man was screaming this time. “How badly do you want this doll?!”

  “You can take anything you wish! You can take me! I want it, because I want my brother back!”

  “You shall have your brother back.”

  With one hand on the doll and another on the boy’s arm, the old man muttered words in Chinese. At this juncture, the sun had set, and the moon, pale in its half-lit radiance, lurched, as if to draw closer. Between burps of Mandarin, the old man called on the name of Yen-Lo-Wang.

  The child began to tremble on his feet. A bouquet of burning candles filled the room. When the boy was just about to slump over, the old man pulled him up and ended his prayer. “My long wait has ended,” he pronounced.

  The boy opened his eyes and smiled. In front of him was another boy, who looked exactly like Jorge. But it wasn’t Jorge. The other boy had only one eye.

  The doll of Yen-Lo-Wang had disappeared.

  AT FIRST LIGHT, Conchita stirred, slumped upon a chair.

  In front of her was a boy, her son Jorge, smiling and holding up a ceramic doll. It wasn’t the doll of Yen-Lo-Wang, but another, one they had seen down the hall.

  Conchita stood up, barely able to hold herself upright. The boy rushed to her side, and gave her a hug.

  The old man, watching, said, “It took a while for your son to choose the doll he wanted. My apologies for not waking you; you seemed tired.”

  Conchita felt an awkwardness about the situation, but shrugged the whole matter aside, when she saw her son bubbly and in a happy mood. She reached for her bag and opened her wallet.

  The old man gently brushed her hands aside and said, “For you, it’s on the house. I found a friend in Jorge here.”

  ONCE THE MOTHER and son had departed, the old man led the young boy with one eye by the hand. The boy’s eye bore a darker feel to it, blacker than any man’s.

  The old man, his hands shaking as if from the thrill of discovery, opened the casket, and lifted from inside it a life-size doll made in the image of Doña Mercedes Peréz, crafted of straw and ceramic, clad in a flowing red flamenco gown.

  In the boy’s ear, the old man whispered, “Yen-Lo-Wang, I have suffered the pain of waiting for a century for this day. I am weak and close to expiring, but I’ve done my part of the bargain; you’ve been born anew.”

  The young boy grinned and said, “I will do as you wish.”

  As Yen-Lo-Wang breathed life into the likeness of Mercedes, Don Gautamo Peréz, old and frail, breathed his last.

  A life for a life.

  Joel Pablo Salud’s sorties into fiction are the result of rare hours he steals outside the rough-and-tumble world of assaying politics, as editor-in-chief of the award-winning Philippines Graphic magazine. He’s the author of the short fiction collection, The Distance of Rhymes and Other Tragedies, and the political essay collections, Blood Republic and The Chief is in the House. He’s a fellow of the 53rd UP National Writers’ Workshop, and has served as judge on prestigious panels such as the Palancas, National Book Awards, Nick Joaquin Literary Awards, Gintong Par
angal para sa Literatura, and journalism's Bright Leaf Awards.

  Vincent Michael Simbulan

  The Run to Grand Maharlika Station

  YOU HAVE BEEN warned not to stray from the path.

  The Malaya is a red streak in the void, spiraling through a string of warps that would send most ordinary pilots astray. The run to Grand Maharlika Station, isolated from the rest of humanity and guarding a crucial border with the Busao, is a rite of passage of sorts. It is a treacherous trip that is fraught with peril. Supplies are constantly needed, and only the best pilots are allowed to undertake the dangerous voyage.

  As the youngest captain to make the run, it was not without some small amount of pride that you accepted the assignment. It is a position you earned through many years of hard work and dedication, a challenge that you were chosen for, because of your exemplary record. It has not come without cost.

  You have seen to it that the astrogation and all equipment have been set, and not just checked but triple-checked. For most of the voyage, there should be nothing left for you to do but wait and examine the stray memories that, unbidden, surface during the long journey.

  WHEN YOU WERE eight years old you arrived home in tears, having been singled out as the victim of a young boy’s childish cruelty.

  As you entered the house, your father took you in his arms, lifting you until, for a moment, you felt as if you had taken flight. He wiped away the tears, and asked you for the name of the boy who had hurt you. It was something he would do once more, when you turned sixteen, and had your heart broken for the first time. Both times, you found yourself pleading with him not to hunt down the offending boy, as he half-seriously suggested that they would benefit from a visit from his fists.

  After he agreed not to strike down your tormentor, he cautioned you to guard your heart, and to know when not to listen to it, lest it lead you astray. You would laugh at him, nodding, but the lesson would soon be forgotten, for that was the one thing you could never do, no matter how hard you tried.

  YOU ARE BROUGHT out of your reverie, as you deftly maneuver past another set of warp gates. An alarm chimes on the control screen, reminding you that it is his birthday, the one day you have always been meaning to erase, but somehow always survives your attempts to purge it from your life.

  In the end, you have to live with the guilt of leaving him behind. Despite his reassurances that he would be fine, you could not deny the pain of parting, as he slowly succumbed to the ravages of time. It is the way of the world, he said, a parent must let go of his child.

  His eyes were shut, as he hugged you goodbye on your first mission away from Earth. You knew he dearly wished you had chosen a profession that would not take you so far away from him. This was not something he ever spoke of, but you felt it in your heart, and buried it under the wonders you found in the vastness of space. You were flying on a mission to the Oort Cloud, when news reached you of his passing.

  THE NEXT FEW days of the voyage pass without incident. You settle in for the week it will take to reach your destination. Some time on the fifth day of your voyage, a voice crackles through your communication array, faint at first – an indecipherable babble of static that slowly resolves into words you can understand.

  Can anyone hear me?

  Help me. I’ve lost control of my ship.

  Is there anyone out there?

  You are not sure how to react. If you follow your training, you should shut the channel and move on. Your hand settles on the switch, but the plea has struck a chord that refuses to let you ignore it. The static fades, and the voice grows stronger, clearer. The voice is definitely male, and it works its way past reason and logic, into your heart.

  I need help. If anyone can hear this…

  There is a sadness, a melancholic longing in the voice that sounds almost familiar, as if someone you once knew were speaking. And so, against your training, and your better judgment, you engage the override and leave the path.

  You stray.

  When you reach the source of the signal, you see a dark shape, limned by starlight. The ship is unfamiliar to you. It is a mass of odd protrusions and lights that are both entrancing and disturbing at the same time.

  Already this should have sent alarm bells ringing. But the voice compels you. You need to help. You need to see who is speaking because, more than anything, the voice has ignited a sense of loneliness that interferes with your ability to form coherent thoughts.

  Disengaging your harness, you make your way to the airlock and into the waiting maw of the alien vessel.

  THE INTERIOR IS cramped and dark, redolent with the scent of mold and wet fur. But your attention is drawn to the lone figure standing at the entrance to the cockpit.

  He is everything you dreamed of and more. Just by looking at him, you are filled with the sense that he is at once tender and rough, capable and vulnerable. His unnaturally-large eyes lock with yours, and you are lost.

  He takes you to the command console, and you make short work of the damaged control module. It is something even the greenest cadet would have been able to work out in minutes.

  A plea for caution, from many long years ago, surfaces. Your mind issues a warning, questions bubble into being, and you rise to ask them.

  But he is suddenly so close, his eyes locked on yours, and you feel your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His presence causes your traitorous heart to leap in your chest, erasing all the questions, all the doubts and uncertainty.

  His hand reaches for your cheek, a gentle caress that invites you to lean closer. His lips are surprisingly cold, but they soon feed on the warmth of your skin. You shudder and surrender, as he peels away your red and silver uniform, unclasps the white buckles of your boots, exposing you to the stale, cold air of the cabin.

  In the aftermath of your passion, you caress his earlobe, marveling at the delicacy of it. His voice urges you to keep talking, to tell him why you are here.

  Tell me more, he says. Where are you going?

  And so you tell him about your days as a pilot, of the responsibility you bear on your shoulders, to deliver much needed supplies to Grand Maharlika, in the Sarangao Quadrant, and the strange inhabitants who dwell beyond it.

  You tell him of the research being conducted on the Busao, about how little is really known about them. About how they can seem to change shape at will, and how they wield something that can only be described as magic.

  His fingers trace the contours of the small of your back as you talk, leaving a warm glow in the pit of your stomach that fills you with need. But he stops just short of bringing you to another climax.

  In a moment of clarity, a different kind of urgency fills you. “I have to go,” you say. “I’ve stayed too long.”

  He does not try to stop you. He rises and helps you to your feet. The lights are dim, but he leads you back to the airlock.

  Thank you for helping me. I would not have made it without you, he says, taking your hand and pressing it against his lips. His tongue is rough and warm.

  With great effort, you pull your hand away and take your leave.

  “I have to go now,” you say. A part of you wishes he would ask you to stay.

  As if reading your mind, he says, I will not ask you to stay, only because you are needed elsewhere. You are bringing hope. But I know that we will meet again.

  You manage a smile and nod in agreement. The outer hatch seals you away, as you step back into your ship, into the waiting comfort of the familiar and the mundane. Within moments, you re-engage the propulsion systems, coaxing your ship back onto the path. The forest of stars, streaking past on either side of you, is a splash of color against the cold darkness. It is a sight that has always filled you with a sense of peace, unlike anything else in the universe.

  As your long voyage resumes its steady, preordained course, you feel as if you are waking from a dream, but then your hand reaches for the mark on your neck, and you know it was more.

  MUCH LATER, AS your life slow
ly ebbs away, you will learn that, within the confines of the starship you left behind, the Busao who seduced you savored your lingering scent, as it dropped the seeming that kept its true nature from your senses.

  As its starship flares to life, patterns of color play along the surface of the vessel, until it becomes an exact replica of your own. With a silent command, the Busao’s ship flits through the vortices of space, taking routes that no other could take, passing through forgotten spaces between space, easily outpacing you until it reaches your destination, days before you do.

  Grand Maharlika Station is a glimmering blue-and-white jewel suspended in the void. With a thought, the Busao reconfigures its form – flesh distends on its chest, limbs shorten, and the contours of its face change into an exact replica of yours. It is perfect in every way. And so is she. She has your voice, your eyes, your ears, and your teeth.

  With your voice, the Busao/you recite the recognition codes, and the chief of the station himself welcomes it/you into the station.

  It/You lower the cargo ramps and open the airlock. The station smells of washed, antiseptic air, the kind the Busao finds revolting and abhorrent, the kind you need to survive. But it smiles sweetly, as four of the five people who maintain the station come forward to greet it/you.

  Navarro. Ruiz. Ortega. Fernandez. They extend hands, grasping its/yours warmly, stoking the hunger that grows within it/you. It/You gesture in the direction of the cargo ramp, and they turn their backs to retrieve the precious supplies that it/you have brought.

  In that moment, it/you strike. A geyser of red erupts as its/your teeth, its/your claws rend, rip, and tear at flesh, bone, and sinew. It/You gorge on delicious screams and tender meat.

  But the tenderest morsel of all is yours. The Busao slavers in anticipation, as it dispenses with your form, and waits for your arrival.

  YOU CONTINUE TO make up for lost time. You have pushed the engines as far as you can – any more, and you would burn out, fading like one of the dying embers of a white dwarf. The unplanned detour has left you behind schedule, but you are generally unconcerned. Your mind is still awash with the heat of your encounter.