The Sea Is Ours

by Jaymee Goh

  “Perhaps another monk can be assigned to ensure the care of such a sacred site,” Prasert observed in a crisp tone.

  A smile twitched the corners of Preecha’s lips. He wondered whether a miracle cure or a marvelous engineering feat had been promised by Prasert and to whom it had been promised. He opted to ignore his older brother and continue with plans for the day’s work. Perhaps before his study time, they would both have reached a required decision.

  “Let’s wind the dragonfly for a test run,” Preecha said to the young boy that worked with his head averted. He was rewarded with a round eyed smile. With fervent devotion, the pair had not left the clearing for a full month. The sacred place would remain clean and holy.

  Almost as big as the boy, the dragonfly was hooked by its feet to the side of a papaya tree at the edge of the clearing. A sense of peace flowed through preacher as his fingers caressed the carved piece. Held together with the tensile sinews of bamboo fiber, this exotic tool weighed about the same as his arm. He and the novice arranged it on the stele, seeking a balance point. Prasert shuffled impatiently behind them as they murmured together.

  With a legs anchored, the pair wound the body, each turn rising in pitch until it was almost too stiff to turn yet facing its target. Prasert blew his nose loudly, rocked from heel to toe and clenched a fist in a pocket.

  “Ready?” asked Preecha, looking at the eagerly grinning face of the novice.

  Released, the dragonfly’s wings thundered, the clear silk fabric a tight tympanum that beat the air. As the stele lifted clear of the ground, one leg slipped. The novice wailed in anguish as the load swung. Preecha grabbed his arm and pulled him back, wondering what material would hold the rock more securely.

  Prasert’s lips were pressed as thin as he could make them. Never would he admit his fascination with Preecha’s creations. He stood defiantly still. On the path at the edge of the clearing, torn between two worlds, his servants cautiously awaited his wishes.

  A second leg broke free and the dragonfly wobbled again, the weight pulling it nearly backwards. Prasert stood defiantly before he started to duck, but the stone marker clipped him and sent him sliding down the bare rock, his pith helmet going past them all the way down to the net of vegetation.

  Stunned, he lay in a muddy hollow. Laments of the novices rose to a keen that drowned the dwindling rumble of the landing dragonfly. Prasert’s starched white shirt was now a gritty red, and his hands were scraped with most of his nails broken. Murmured requests from Preecha reduced the wails to whimpers and then silence.

  A gust of wind shook the leaves of the Bodhi tree, swaying it back and forth as if laughing gales from deep in its spirit belly. It was as if the Lord Buddha himself was shaking in laughter at Prasert’s predicament.

  Terrified by the cries of the novices and the shaking Bodhi tree, the two servants at the bottom of the clearing tripped and fell over each other going back down in the trail. For days, weeks even, they would not be able to look at their master.

  Slowly, Prasert rose to his knees where he scraped and flicked mud off. He was trembling, his face pomegranate red, when he finally stood outside the hollow. Without looking at anyone, Prasert stalked away as straight-backed as his muddy shoes would allow.

  Stricken, the novices raised beseeching eyes to Preecha, wails silenced by his serenity. All the wasps had stopped their motion in apparent deference to the Bodhi tree. A fly walked from one novice’s eye to the other without him blinking it away.

  Preecha inspected the dragonfly, especially the legs from which the load had slipped. Giggles in small twigs of the Bodhi quivered to a stop. Splattered red mud was beginning to dry on the rocks as the sun rose over the river embankment.

  “Sometimes, even the proudest people have to get close to the Lord Buddha,” said Preecha, hoping to give peace to the young monks and wishing that they leaned less on his words. At least Prasert would not return to see him again, but he did not wish to say that.

  The Last Aswang

  Alessa Hinlo

  Ever since the day she was cleaved, news came to Udaya in twos: bad later balanced by good more often than not. If she were lucky, both pieces were positive, but this was a rare occurence.

  Neither of those situations happened today.

  Udaya studied the swaths of jusi folded neatly in each of the women’s laps. In turn, they watched her with expectant expressions on their faces. “What exactly is the issue?” she asked Lagnat, though she could guess.

  Lagnat, her ever-loyal and long-suffering servant, had been put in charge of these women. In the past, the ones set with the task of preparing Kagubutan’s gown hadn’t needed such close supervision, but these seamstresses were new and younger. They lacked the proper respect for their benefactor. To them, Kagubutan was a name uttered as protection and curse, and not one of the diwata who’d saved them from the invaders who came bearing golden crosses.

  Lagnat offered her a pained smile. “They cannot do it.”

  “Why not?” Her question came soft and quiet.

  One of the women—a young and pretty thing with soulful eyes—shared glances with her companions before leaning forward. “It’s unreasonable, this timeline you set. No one can embroider these patterns so quickly.”

  The impassioned words drew nods from the other women. Udaya was not so swayed. “Your predecessors did, with far less time, and the oldest of them was four times as old as the youngest of you,” she said. “You are not inexperienced. You all came with high recommendations. I would not have chosen you otherwise.” She dipped her head in regret. “A pity your previous employers were incorrect about you.”

  Her words quelled most of the women. Instant protestations spilled from their lips. Whether they respected Kagubutan or not, they knew failing her would leave a mark on their barely-made reputations.

  The instigator, however, was not deterred despite the obvious loss of support. “I don’t understand why it must be done by hand! Aren’t there machines capable of aiding us? You’re the local liaison! Can’t you get one of them? Even just one would help us. What’s the point of trading with España if we don’t take advantage of what they offer?”

  Udaya narrowed her eyes. This argument came up more and more these days—and not just from the mouths of seamstresses either. She’d let it pass without comment before, but perhaps that time had come to an end. “What is your name?”

  Panic twisted Lagnat’s face. What did her servant think she would do? Drink the woman’s blood? “Mistress—”

  “Answer me.” Udaya ignored her servant’s counsel.

  With the aid of Kagubutan and her sisters, the datus and rajahs had driven the explorers and conquistadors from their islands. Even then, victory came with a price. The terms of the truce had been bitter, to Udaya and her fellow warriors especially, but the alternative had been worse. No one wanted a drawn-out war. So many lives had been lost already. In the end, the datus and rajahs had agreed over the objections of the diwata.

  To think that España would try to find other ways to control them.

  “Your name?” Udaya repeated a third, and final, time.

  The seamstresses on either side of the instigator shifted away, not wanting to share in her ire. They were opportunists, Udaya noted with no small amount of amusement. Though they’d been complaining moments before, they now returned to work with fervent dedication.

  Then, and only then, did the woman realize her position. Udaya could almost sympathize. It was hard being alone. The woman swallowed with visible difficulty and wet her lips. “Hiyasmin.”

  “Hiyasmin,” Udaya echoed. The syllables filled her mouth, the shape etching itself into her memory. For better or worse, she’d never forget the young seamstress and no place on these islands would hide her from Udaya’s nightly travels.

  A commotion came from behind her. “Terrorizing children, liaison? So the stories my father told me are true.”

  Udaya turned to face the owner of that voice. And here was the ot
her bit of news. Outside of the covered pavilion where the seamstresses worked stood a young woman. She held a parasol to keep the sun’s rays from hitting her face. Strange to see the features so characteristic of her people set in such pale skin. Though it had been many years, Udaya recognized the young woman instantly. She always remembered the children.

  “Ambassador,” she greeted carefully. “When did you arrive?”

  Maria Flora Agcaoili smiled. It was a beautiful smile.

  It was also a dangerous one, and Udaya took warning.

  Ambassador Maria Flora Agcaoli had come into the position through an unusual string of events. Though she’d been born in Ilocos, she’d grown up in Americana Mexica where her father had been the previous ambassador. When a disease from those lands had struck him down unexpectedly, the vacant position left a gap of power. Rather than send someone else, the diwata had pushed the rajahs to appoint Maria Flora. On this point they agreed, and she’d become the youngest of the ambassadors, a voice for islands she could barely remember.

  “Yesterday,” Maria Flora replied. “I would have come immediately but the voyage tired me.”

  “It is a long voyage.” Udaya understood the need for appearances. Then she noticed the ambassador’s two companions and stiffened. “Why are you here?” she asked the old man in the black robe.

  Maria Flora clucked her tongue. “Liaison,” she said, “don’t be rude. Father Ignacio has come a long way.”

  “I am sure,” she replied with barely hidden hostility. First España sought to gain influence through trade and technology. Now they attempted again to insinuate their faith of a cold and distant god? Fighting a battle of blood and violence against armored men was simple compared to this.

  The priest, for his part, took her greeting in stride. He bowed his head. “You serve the Diwata Kagubutan?” The syllables rolled strangely off his tongue, mangling her benefactor’s name.

  “I am her liaison,” Udaya corrected. Her eyes fell upon the man next to the priest and stilled. He might not wear armor and he might not bear sword, but she knew his kind on sight. She had fought many and killed more in her time. Once, he would have been a conquistador. But now—“This is your bodyguard?”

  A frown flitted across the priest’s face. “Javier is here to ensure my safety.”

  Udaya smiled. Though time had dulled her senses, she still loved the taste of fear. “You do not trust us?”

  Her question made the old man uncomfortable. The not-conquistador scowled. A keeper of his thoughts, he was not. Good. Udaya preferred straightforward men. It made them easy to predict.

  Maria Flora’s laughter rang through the pavilion. “My father’s stories about you were indeed correct. I am glad. I worried that you might have changed and I’d have nothing familiar with which to ground me.” She grew puzzled. “Odd that you look so young. It’s been many years. Many doñas would kill for your secret.”

  Udaya merely tilted her head. The ambassador had been gone a long time. No matter how good her intentions, growing up on foreign soil changed you. It couldn’t be helped, and Udaya bore no ill will towards Maria Flora.

  But some things should remain unsaid.

  “Why have you come? As you can see, we are busy with preparations for the ritual.” She gestured towards the gathered women, who bent over their embroidery with intent focus. Udaya harbored no illusions. She knew they eavesdropped and she knew this encounter would be the subject of tonight’s gossip over supper.

  “Yes,” the ambassador replied with a nod. “The pagdiwata. When Father Ignacio heard that my visit would coincide with the ritual, he asked to come. I warned him the voyage was long, but he insisted.”

  The emphasis made Udaya narrow her eyes. Neither the priest nor the not-conquistador noticed the change in inflection, but she did.

  “I see.” She addressed the priest. “Have you need to speak to the dead, priest? I thought you already had your crucified messiah?”

  Maria Flora winced, and the bodyguard called Javier stiffened in offense. Udaya ignored them both. Their reactions did not interest her.

  Father Ignacio’s calm remained unperturbed. Udaya would be impressed, if he weren’t a representative of that accursed religion. “I know the history between our peoples is contentious. But I believe we can find common ground through understanding and compassion. I came here merely to learn.”

  Udaya had heard similar words once, and the results of that were carved into her belly. She shrugged. “If you wish.” She nodded at Lagnat before turning to Maria Flora. “If you have time, I can take you to Kagubutan now.”

  The suggestion startled the ambassador. “If… if you are sure.” Maria Flora glanced sidelong at Father Ignacio and Javier.

  “Of course you are welcome as well.” Udaya tipped her head at the two men. Ignoring Maria Flora’s covert signals to stop, she spun on her heel and left the pavilion.

  They would follow. They always did.

  ~*~

  Maria Flora breathed in wonder at the sight of the stunning balete. “Diwata Kagubutan lives here? Amazing!”

  Udaya hid a smile. “You came here once as a child.” At the other woman’s questioning look, she nodded. “You were very young. I suppose you don’t remember.”

  “How are we supposed to get there?” Javier cut in rudely.

  Disapproval radiated off Maria Flora, and she cast a sharp glance towards the man.

  “It’s a fair question,” Udaya said. It felt strange playing peacemaker.

  A chasm ringed the balete, making it impossible to reach by anyone other than those most trusted by Kagubutan. It hadn’t always been that way. Once you could walk straight into the balete’s shadow.

  That changed when the datus and rajahs began to demand more and more of the diwatas after the war with España ended. The peace, however tenuous it might be, had made them bolder and forgetful of their place. Datus and rajahs lead, but they are not goddesses who walk on earth.

  Udaya knelt by the bamboo key-cage and opened it with care. A small snake, constructed of molave and animated by a diwata’s pure will, uncoiled itself and slithered into her waiting hands. One of the first casualties suffered by the islands during the war was the loss of their serpents and crocodiles. Though España understood little of their islands and the people who lived there, they quickly grasped that these creatures were sacred and served as messengers for the diwata. The poisons they’d unleashed had been cleansed by Kagubutan and her sisters but not before they claimed their targets.

  She blew into the little wooden snake’s face. “Tell your mistress that I come with guests.”

  A tiny tongue, made of a sliver of palm, flickered as if tasting the air before the snake slipped down her arm, then torso, then leg. It moved through the grass and over the edge of the chasm.

  Maria Flora was delighted. “How brilliant! I’ve never seen such a thing. I hear the automatons in Europa are made of metal.”

  “Metal is not alive,” Udaya murmured. “It lacks a soul.”

  Javier was considerably less impressed. “That doesn’t solve the problem of us crossing-”

  A loud crack interrupted him. Before them, a delicate bridge of narra constructed itself, one plank and cross-beam as a time. Udaya noted with amusement that the design was more ornate than usual. The duende were showing off. Not a bad idea, considering her companions.

  “Come.” She gestured to Maria Flora and Father Ignacio and stepped into the bridge. She walked slowly, allowing the structure to form. The others followed behind her but their uneven footsteps revealed their trepidation. “It is stronger than it looks. We won’t fall provided you don’t outpace the building.”

  “How is it staying up?” Father Ignacio asked.

  Duende ingenuity. “Magic.” Her mouth curved as the reply only further fueled their curiosity.

  As always, some things were best left unsaid. Unlike the tikbalang, duende were small. For all their brilliance, their appearance did not strike fear. No need to info
rm outsiders of their existence.

  ~*~

  Udaya led them into the balete. For her, the trailing branches parted. After a brief touch, they did the same for Maria Flora. Father Ignacio navigated with difficulty, but he too eventually made it past the obstacle. Even so, she noticed the way the branches hovered after him as if waiting. An unclear judgment.

  Javier, however, could not pass. Udaya stared at the bodyguard, ensnared thoroughly by the branches and hissed softly, baring her teeth at him.

  Maria Flora looked at her in concern. “Should we help him?”

  “No,” she replied flatly. “The balete has judged and found him lacking. He waits outside.”

  “Oh, but—” The ambassador glanced in worry at the priest.

  Father Ignacio shook his head. “It is all right. If I wish for there to be true peace between our people, I must show trust.” He sighed at his bodyguard’s predicament. “I wish others would follow that example.”

  Pitiful Javier. Even his charge disapproved of him.

  Udaya led them inside, abandoning the bodyguard. He’d be there when they returned. The balete would take good care of him.

  Several gold-framed boxes lined the spiraling walkway that descended into the balete. Translucent, they displayed their contents clearly in the mid-afternoon sun.

  Maria Flora touched one. “They’re cold!”

  Father Ignacio peered at the contraption. “These are similar to the transport boxes carried by the Manila galleons, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, the Kalakalang Galyons,” Udaya murmured. “They are modified and made larger though.” Nothing the archipelago and Americana Mexica traded required such large containers.

  “Fascinating.” The priest adjusted his spectacles and studied the contents. Each box held the figure of a kneeling woman, her head bowed and eyes closed in repose. Clothed in simple garments that left the shoulders and backs bare, a single gumamela decorated their neat, tidy buns. “You made them into receptacles for art. I see the Diwata Kagubutan is a lover of beauty.”