“Father Julian is right, Clemente,” Father Melensio added as he gargled, without a care, a pint of holy water he kept in the cupboard. “Life offers more than enough troubles for our faith to be tested. It’s bad enough that indio priests are being ignored by the Spanish clergy. Suddenly, we are regarded as wolves roaming the lands they have forcibly laid claim to! Yet, we know it should be the other way around. What unforgivable sin have we done to deserve such treatment from our spiritual fathers? Why add to the unforgivable color of our skin something as ludicrous as heresy? Understand this, young priest—” the elderly of the two whispered, “The Spanish Inquisition may have seen the last of its days in Europe some hundred or so years ago, but it has yet to fail in its battle against heresy in all the colonies of Spain as we speak. You do not want to find yourself or that stick for a neck of yours on the wrong side of the executioner’s garrote, now do you? The little compunction left in their souls may have prevented the inquisitors from beheading kings, but you!—they shall throw a feast while your head slumps wide-eyed in a basket to be licked by rabid dogs on the cobbles of the Walled City! Besides, the heavens are filled with stars, each of them unique in radiance and light. Whatever made you believe this is the star you have been waiting for?”
“No star has shown such radiance, my brothers, in all my life as a priest.”
“In all your life as a priest…” Father Julian murmured in singsong, grinning incredulously so. “Which hasn’t been much, you have to admit. How long has it been since your ordination? Two years? Three? There aren’t enough holy tassels dangling on your priestly eyelids for you to make such a pompous claim! Forgive me, my brother, for being too honest. I am your mentor and guide. It is my sworn duty to look after your spiritual well-being.”
The young priest refused to give in to his brothers’ cynicism. “I beg you, please, my brothers, to listen. I was staring into the night sky, deep in prayer, when it suddenly appeared like a bolt of lightning. At first I thought I was seeing St. Elmo’s fire, but this one blazed longer and more dazzling than any I have ever encountered! Please, I am not losing my mind. I am not seeing visions. See for yourself! Stand by the patio and look to the East!”
The temperamental Father Julian, whose tolerance for stupidity and gullibility mirrored that of a Spanish inquisitor, thought it wise to restrain his displeasure. Besides, he was not about to ruin a perfectly good day by being the pharisaical fool. Lowering his voice so as to feign severity, his mouth whirred: “Do not forget, Father Clemente, the reason why Father Melensio and I were sent to this parish a year ago. It was with the intention of assisting you in your spiritual journey as a priest. You have been forewarned in the past, reprimanded for embracing this and that profanity. Let it be told now, young priest, that I am well aware of your habit of pilfering the library’s banned books! Whatever made you think that the Greek poets and the philosophers were worth the time you should’ve rather spent in prayer, meditation, and study of the canons? And what is that concoction you seem to enjoy sniffing at the corner of your chambers during the wee hours? So, you have read about those deviant monks who inhaled magical potions to attain a vision of heaven and the future? I warn you, as I have warned you before, young priest, to desist from what the Church had not dared touch! The only reason why you were made to stay as parish priest of the church of San Ildefonso was my own benevolence, and my word that I shall oversee your spiritual growth in matters of doctrine. Besides, this God-forsaken province is not exactly a Garden of Eden for priests. It would take a lifetime and the sharp end of a sword just to dispel some disgruntled wives’ tale about aswangs and the tikbalangs. Please do not force my hand to report this to the Archbishop, who, may I add, stands as administrator in this colony of the Holy See.”
“My brothers, all you have to do is stand on the patio and look to the East…” the young priest implored kindly, his head arched low.
Father Julian could only bow in final surrender. As Father Melensio was about to head towards the patio, the rooster’s first crow for the day echoed long and hard in the stagnant air. “Ah, listen to that, unbeliever,” he said softly, walking. “Like Peter the apostle, the rooster is reminding you never to betray your Lord and Master in Heaven. Treason is a crime in God’s court as it is on earth’s hallowed halls. More to the point, it is already morning. The sun is up. There are chores to do, prayers to be recited. We also promised the fishermen some blankets and assistance to build stronger houses by the coastline as a thunderstorm may arrive any time within the day. Ready your hands, my brothers, as we have a full and tiresome day ahead of us.”
“My brothers, listen one last time. Go to the patio and look to the Eastern sky. See for yourselves! I am not one to make this prophecy a laughing matter.”
The elder priest donned his robes. “A prophecy, you say?” Father Melensio muttered. “Since when did superstitious nonsense receive the imprimatur of the Holy Pope of Rome? It seems you have no inkling whatsoever of the heresy you are close to committing, my brother. In the old days, false prophets are beheaded mercilessly for uttering mere nonsense. I beg you—pray and reconsider.”
The young Father Clemente remained still. Father Melensio stared deep into the young priest’s eyes. Although Father Clemente’s faith in the tale of the Child-Savior was held firmly by a slim thread of confidence in the unexplainable, it was nevertheless brave and determined. Father Melensio told himself, “Well, it’s probably well worth looking into if only to preserve some semblance of peace.” Father Melensio called on Father Julian to join him at the patio, but there was no answer. At the patio, Father Julian’s wooden cane lay slumped on the floor as though he had left in a hurry. He glanced at the eastern sky and saw a bright object perched along a string of other stars in the blackness of space. “Clemente! Grab your things and follow me!”
As the two priests brushed past the prayer gardens of the parish church, and the low string of houses made of rattan, bamboo, and nipa along the nearby village, the lone star glowed brightly above the sparkle of an infant sun, delimited by a thin swab of rainbow that crowned it with a kaleidoscope of colors. Surprisingly, no soul moved in the nearby rural community. It was empty of the usual rancor from early market-goers who, by this time, should’ve filled their baskets with the richness of the sea. There were small fishes and bits of vegetables and flowers scattered everywhere, forming a pathway that led to a spot near the fishermen’s community by the shore. A gloom of sad clouds festered inches above the horizon.
At the porch of the tallest wooden house in the village, Isidro the blacksmith sat nonchalantly in his wooden chair, quizzically rolling a piece of tobacco leaf. Day in and day out, he would be seen strutting the village’s single dirt road in a Spanish officer’s uniform. It was a warning to the village folks of his friendship with the governing authority. On his porch, his chest heaved with copper-bronze medals that had formed the myth of his courageous exploits against indio rebels who wished to occupy the Walled City in faraway Maynila.
Father Clemente was the first to blurt out a warm yet loud greeting. “Isidro, have you, by any chance, seen Father Julian pass by? We are looking for him. He left the parish in a hurry this morning to follow where this bright star leads.”
“Ah, this blinding ghastly orb!” the blacksmith grinned, pointing to the phantasmagoric vision in front of him. “I have heard a good many tales about this star, how it will hail the coming of a savior of the islands. Can you believe such folly, Father Clemente? This morning, before the cock crowed, Mahlik the Seer called on all the villagers to pay homage to this so-called God-Child, presumably the son of Crisanto the fisherman. I can already foresee the mayhem this will create. I would rather enjoy my tobacco leaf than waste my time in such a silly escapade! And I admonish that you do the same, Father Clemente. There are mysteries even priests are called upon to shun.”
It took a long while before Father Clemente slipped an answer. “We are only looking for Father Julian,” he smiled warily, choosing his word
s wisely. “In the rush of the moment, he has forgotten his trusty cane. I fear he might stumble and hit his head on a rock. He was never without his cane. Will you kindly point out the way?”
Isidro the blacksmith noticed a pointy metal object wrapped in paper under Father Clemente’s folded arm. “You are but a few steps away. I saw him rushing to the fishing village near the coast. You will find Father Julian among the throng of people gathered there, I am sure. The great scholar of the Church—Father Julian—is the last man I would think of hurtling in the dungeons of Fort Santiago on account of heresy. Despite all these tributes to my bravery,” he proudly pointed to his medals, “I have yet to summon the nerve to strangle a priest!”
Father Melensio could not help but hold back his disapproval of the man’s apparent hubris. “All dressed up yet nowhere to go, Isidro?”
“I have a delivery of more than a hundred rifles and boxes of ammunition to General Diego Bolivar and his troops stationed at nearby Fort San Vicente,” Isidro the blacksmith retorted in the manner of a portentous titan—loud, almost lurid, his head held high. “I was told that a hundred Spanish soldiers had docked there last night for shelter because of the incoming storm. They were on their way to the mountains of Laiya to quell a small uprising of katipuneros there. I was tasked to oversee the shipment and movement of supplies.”
“I see…” the elderly priest replied. “I can already envision Father Julian fighting off the wolves that had invoked this heresy. I shall tell you all about it when you arrive from your journey.” The two priests, thereafter, loped to the direction of the star.
The star was nearly on top of their heads when the two priests chanced upon a small shelter made of bamboo surrounded by a swarm of people. At the center of the throng, a faltering voice was enjoining everyone to leave the hut and return to their homes. The people of the village—the faces of friends and acquaintances, all of whom appearing like a wayward flock of sheep—were kneeling in the direction of the small hut. All in the thick of hysterical worship.
Father Clemente grabbed the gem-studded crown of the Virgin in his hands and squirmed his way into the very center of the multitude. Father Melensio was left gaping at the star that glimmered in the face of a sky ready to burst with wind and rain. In that small hut, right below the mysterious orb, a child wrapped in swaddling cloth and a torn piece of a fisherman’s net had fallen asleep in his mother’s arms.
“My friends, my flock, listen to what I have to say!” Father Julian bellowed at the top of his lungs. “The real Savior was born thousands of years ago in a manger in Bethlehem! He wrought miracles in Nazareth, died, and rose again from the dead to save us from our errant ways! This child before you today is just one of us! A mere mortal! The son of a fisherman who is both a dear workman and a friend to all of us! This child is as human and as frail and as sinful as you and I! He is not the savior from Heaven! Rise from your kneeling and seek forgiveness for this treason! Go back to your homes! Have nothing to do with this blasphemy!”
“Father Julian, what are you doing?” Father Clemente grabbed the old priest’s arms. “Stop what you are doing! Can’t you see it has brought a revival of their faith?”
“Leave me alone, young priest! I am fighting for the faith of the Church, not your faith in a charlatan! I implore you help me in this battle for the hearts of your parishioners! They are terribly gullible to believe something as preposterous as a redeemer of the islands! Salvation has already been wrought and none but the Holy Church possess jurisdiction over humanity’s souls! Have nothing to do with this wickedness, Father Clemente! Your priesthood is at stake, if not your very soul and life!”
The crowd grew thicker as the old priest’s words fell on deaf ears. His pantomime of disgust drew more of the villagers into the center of the kneeling and screaming throng. For a considerable amount of time, which seemed to have become tedious and longwinded, Father Julian roared with a prophet’s fury, urging everyone to forget the impertinence of heretical belief, his voice vanishing every now and then under the mounting praises and cries of a people steeped, as they say, in fallacy. Father Melensio, at last, reached the middle of the crowd and joined in urging the people to repent and find their way back to their homes.
“There is nothing here for you, my children!” Father Melensio added with a voice strong as it was resolute. “Go home! Go back to your families! Care for your children! A storm is coming and you need to toughen your houses!”
In the past it was without concern that people hear the boom of distant thunder and see flares of glimmering electricity cut through dark clouds and an impenetrable wall of rain. Thunderstorms and the monsoon had always been a commonplace occurrence in this part of the islands. But the impending storm that day, the one that snarled with a lion’s growl, even when it was still two kilometers away, gyrating to the whooping beat of more than four hundred kilometer-per-hour winds, howled with the deliberate hum of a cyclone. Although a distant scratch of lightning raised the hairs on the back of Father Clemente’s head, his eyes could never more stray from the holy vision of a child wrapped in swaddling cloth and fast asleep in his mother’s arms.
The aging scholar Father Julian was scarcely prepared for the pandemonium that was to arise that day. In the middle of his ranting for the people to return to their families, a stone the size of an infant’s fist flew past the crowd, from the direction of the squall, and landed on his left temple. The impact was of such force that Father Julian’s legs buckled quickly under his enormous weight. It was as if the vigor of a thousand mallets battered him to the muddy sand. The blood of the old priest, livid as freshly harvested grapes, spewed in all directions. Father Clemente immediately shoved his arm under Father Julian’s head as they felt the warm ooze flow from his head. The sight and scent of blood angered the young priest, but could make very little of what had just happened.
“What have you done?” Father Clemente screamed in anger. “Have you all gone mad? Is this the kind of faith by which you worship this child?” His chestnut-brown eyes blazed with shock.
Far within the middle of the kneeling crowd, Mahlik the Seer cried out, “The demon-storm is upon us! It was the devil who struck down the priest!” At that instance, Father Clemente felt the sudden rush of hellish winds and rain. Wave upon wave began to heave like the disgruntled breathing of a hungry beast ready for the kill. From halfway up the thick clouds, lightning belted out what echoed like the shrill of specters about to be scorched in the belly of hell. The crowd inched themselves closer to the frail hut, grabbing what they could of the battered posts and steeples to keep it from crashing to the ground. Others formed a veritable wall around the mother and child to prevent the wind and rains from hurtling them to the sea. Father Clemente and Father Melensio grabbed hold of the fallen priest and pulled him to a safe place under the hut’s roof. The screams and songs of worship, amid nature’s violent outburst, refused to be intimidated.
“Run to your homes!” Father Melensio blurted out as the winds slapped his face. “Go back to your families! There is nothing for you here but suffering and death! Your lives are in danger! Go and see to your families!”
“There is nothing left of our homes, priest!” an old woman cried out. “My children and my family are all here to worship the child! This storm is the devil’s doing, to keep us from paying homage to the Child-Savior! It is you who must leave this hallowed ground! You belong to the church of the invaders! You are a conquistador! Go and leave us to our fate!”
The crowd belted out their violent concurrence with the old woman’s words. To appease the crowd and thwart an already infuriated mob, the young priest Clemente surrendered his trove of treasures at the feet of the mother of the child. The gold from the Virgin’s crown shimmered under the cold flame of that singular starlight. Thereafter, the priest fell on his knees.
An hour passed and the squall had not subsided. As the songs and hysterics of worshippers clotted the icy air, the winds and rains and waves ranted in sadistic chorus
. The huge waves had already dragged many of the low, squat houses into the middle of the deep, forgiving nothing. An untold number of the worshippers had already drowned. Miraculously, the only light that managed to slit through the fuming cumulonimbus was the bright shafts from the still-glowing star looming right above their heads.
In the thick of nature’s rage and the pandemonium of believers, a quaint chuckle from the newborn child was finally heard. It hung in the glacial air like the gong of church bells, which spread to the farthest limits of the crowd. The silence that ensued was said to have been more deafening than the stone-hard gush of wind. Father Clemente rose from his place of worship and stared long into the eyes of the child, faintly afire under a warm shaft of starlight. As the infant slowly raised his hands as though he were reaching for the star, the winds and rains abruptly succumbed to an uncontainable calm. The eye of the cyclone dangled mellifluously over the crowd.
Enthralled by the vision of a heavenly sign, the crowd immediately burst into praise. Father Clemente fell on his face in the presence of the acknowledged God-Child, and together with the mass of worshippers, sang hymns of adulation. Father Melensio and the wounded Father Julian could do no more than reproach the ignorance that had been displayed at that hour.
OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology Page 8