OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology

by Dean Francis Alfar

  There is weight in every sound that she utters, a weight equivalent to the sum of all the hopes of all eight kingdoms under Sky and Ocean.

  This is what she says:

  THINGS ARE CHANGING.

  Pale-skinned invaders have come, as invaders always come, to our lands. They come bearing powerful artifacts, they come with their strange words that persuade and destroy, they come with a manifested pantheon. They come for war.

  Things are changing.

  We are the blessed ones, but we do not bow to our gods. We are favored, but we are not slaves to fate. We have proven our worth with every age, just as our ancestors did in the War of Flame, just as our ancestors did when they liberated themselves from destiny, just as our ancestors did when they united the lands under Sky and Ocean.

  Armed with our gifts and wisdom, we have fought the invaders. And at first, the battles were easily won.

  Things are changing.

  The rebellion of the minor cities weakens us. With each battle we wage against the rebels, with every brother or sister or cousin or friend that dies because of our disagreements, with every drop of blood that seeps into the lands from the wounds of internal discord, we diminish. We have begun to lose.

  Things are changing.

  The pale-skinned pantheon roams free. Their gods do not bless their warriors; their gods fight with them, command them, empower them. And against the rules of pantheons, these gods have taken an overt interest in matters that are not the purview of the divine. Foolishly, the pale-skinned ones allow it; they even embrace the intrusion. And against their misplaced faith, we will eventually fall.

  This is what I have foreseen. This is how it will be. Unless things change.

  And thus, I, the Datu of Sugbu, of Bundok, of Daragat, of Dampisan, of Libis, of Luwag, of Timog-a, of Kawayan, invested by the power of the ages that have come and gone, by virtue of my triumph in the age of monsters, and with the support of the Wise Council, proclaim this:

  It is time.

  It is time to send eight of the best, eight of the blood, eight to represent the kingdoms, eight on an impossible quest.

  An impossible quest that this eight must succeed in.

  It is time to free our gods.

  THAT DAY OF the shadowless Datu’s pronouncement already has the sheen of years-old memory, blurred on the edges, inconsistently clear in certain details. That was only several weeks ago. I was different then.

  On the day of the pronouncement, losing to the pale-skinned invaders was as strange to me as the foreigners themselves. The kingdoms under Sky and Ocean had never truly lost. When the gods broke the rules of pantheons, the first fifteen kingdoms imprisoned them. When kingdoms became cities after defying the Datu’s rule, they were dealt with as well. This was the way it had always been. Our history was rife with victories.

  I did not understand this so-called impossible quest. How could I? I had the blood of blacksmiths and heroes, my feet itched with the burn of the Great Flame, I carried with me our sword. I had never really encountered ‘impossible’.

  I did not question the Datu’s edict. But my actions articulated my doubts.

  When I said goodbye to my daughter, I did it with the heaviness of a parent leaving for a short trip. I told her to behave herself, to attend to the customers who would inquire, to practice the kalimadran technique of Tubig at Tanikala because her feet were always too far apart, the motion of her limbs too sharp for the gliding kicks and strikes.

  I did not tell her I love her.

  GAT BUGHAW PROVIDES the details of the quest in a smaller chamber decorated with thick embroidered cloth, away from the solemn presence of the Datu and her nobles.

  The old man is unfazed by the vast differences in size and girth, and the wide array of weaponry carried by the eight of us assembled before him. When he speaks, he sounds like one of the aging scholars in the academies.

  “The first to be freed is Oran, the rain god,” the gray-haired advisor says, still in formal Salita, as he leans heavily on his cane. “As you all know, there have been two documented attempts at rescuing the gods from hell. The first happened in the War of Rivers, when the kingdoms of Batisan, Ilogos, and Sapa-an revolted against the twelve. The second was in the dark days of the Rice Plague where two kingdoms—”

  Gat Bughaw drones on. I pretend to listen out of courtesy, but my attention keeps straying to my companions. Though I am skilled, though I carry our sword, I am not without tragedy. My scars are constant reminders of my mistakes.

  I have become more careful since then.

  The being that is most difficult to ignore is the tikbalang. She introduced herself as Puting Bato, hailing from the island kingdom of Daragat. She stands over six feet tall, her human body well proportioned to her horse head. Her skin is mottled and pale, just like her namesake, but her mane, impeccably groomed, is an immaculate white. In the confines of the tapestried chamber, her mane seems to radiate its own light. She has a well-maintained recurved bow and a quiver of arrows strapped to the crest of her back.

  The biggest in our set of eight is the higante from Libis known as Karpyo. He is over ten feet tall, with the girth of three brawny men. I have worked with him before, in a small but profitable venture under a Majarlikan, investigating a predatory tree. He is smarter than he lets on, calm during the heat of battle, and generally pleasant to converse with.

  “…Lakan Buaya of Batisan believed in the theory of duality. His attempt at…”

  The young woman from Dampisan is called Sua. She has long, lustrous hair, luminescent skin, exotic eyes. She stands with the grace of an acrobat, carrying no weapons. I remember her as the child cured by dint of Majarlikan will of the curse of the Yellow Bat, during the age of alchemy. Lakan Kalintaw, her Majarlikan healer, became the shadowless Datu for the age that just passed; quite recently, he died. I wonder if I should offer her my condolences.

  Most people would have noticed her first, but the diwata M’kiling’s allure escapes me. She is a native of Bundok, her reputation stemming from moderately glorious accomplishments and a vast array of lurid love stories. Now that I see her in the flesh—and indeed, there is an abundant amount of it displayed—I am certain I do not like her. While I have heard that she is quite capable—especially with the use of her flowery vines that she purportedly wields like whips—she is also a notorious troublemaker. The less I deal with M’kiling, the better.

  “…most loremasters now believe that those etchings on bamboo were nothing but deranged ravings from the starving, as the Rice Plague…”

  The most striking man in our group is the heavily-built, white-haired warrior who has been unrepentantly ogling M’kiling’s breasts. I did not immediately recognize Makisig, the hero from Luwag, despite the two brass-hilted golok swords on his back, the lyre on his waist, and the small monkey that shrieks and curls around his leg. But then he started frankly assessing all the females in attendance before settling on M’kiling’s generous display, triggering my faulty memory. Even if only a handful of the popular stories of his are true, he should be a powerful ally.

  Halawod is the name of the beautiful dark-skinned man on my right, who stands, feet apart, tattooed arms crossed, bearing the title of ‘lakan’. A Majarlikan from Timog-a, he wears expensive silks and gold and jade, carries a bolo with an intricate hilt at his left, a string of small pouches at his right. Less ostentatious daggers—gunong short blades, from what I can see—are strapped around his ankles. He is smiling, looking pleased with the turn of events. I do not know what to make of his overly elaborate weaponry.

  “…thus, we believe the most likely path is the one taken by the Batisan Majarlikan, especially since many of the landmarks he had mentioned can be identified through simple inference…”

  The last of my companions is a dwende from Kawayan, named Tangkad. He is only half my height, and I am not very tall to begin with. He carries himself with an arrogance that is in the same vein as Makisig’s, though I know from the way he stands he is no
warrior. But his eyes betray a reckless intelligence that belies his size. It is he who dares ask Gat Bughaw—after the old man’s long, drawn-out monologue comes to an end—the question I, myself, have been meaning to ask.

  “Why Oran?”

  “Because he is chaotic,” Gat Bughaw replies. “Because he is not known to be allied to any of the other gods, and thus, he is less likely to free them.”

  “The Datu says we are to free ‘gods’, not ‘god’.” Lakan Halawod’s pleasant smile does not falter. “Letting one of the gods do the work for us—”

  “It does not really make any difference whether it is one god or all of them.” M’kiling shrugs.

  “Are we being told everything?” Karpyo looks more curious than alarmed.

  Tangkad grimaces. “Probably not. After all, we are just—”

  The advisor thumps his cane, effectively silencing everyone in the room. “Please. All your questions will be answered in due course.” Gat Bughaw focuses his gaze on Tangkad. “Oran is the first. He was chosen because of certain characteristics. The next god will be chosen just as carefully.”

  “So, we are to travel to hell, rescue a god, return, then travel back again, once you and the Council have decided which of the divinities we should release next?”

  “Our hope is that Oran, once convinced to our cause, will facilitate the rescue of the next god.” Gat Bughaw glances at all of us. “But that is for later. Right now, I suggest you all concentrate your energies toward rescuing the rain god.”

  “Can Oran decide to kill us?” Sua speaks with a heavy accent.

  “Yes.” Before anyone can interject, Gat Bughaw adds, “But we will provide you with the words crafted by the best loremasters. We believe these words will assuage him.”

  “It is nothing to be afraid of, little one.” Puting Bato pats Sua on the back; Sua shrinks back. “It is just a god. The Datu will provide us with everything we need.”

  “Fuck that, Gat-Bug. Everything I need is here.” Makisig slams a closed fist against his bare chest. “And there.” He cocks his head toward M’kiling’s breasts.

  M’kiling blushes.

  There is more discussion after that; more arguments and questions, clarifications and repetitions, but eventually, we all quiet down, retreating to the privacy of our own thoughts. The Datu’s advisor then proceeds with the sundry details of arming us with loremasters’ secret maps, filling our coffers with gold and jade and silver, and providing us with generous stores of rations. Almost too quickly, we are sent on our way.

  As we are leaving Sugbu, the capital city of the eight kingdoms under the mandate—the city I come from, my daughter’s city—Gat Bughaw says one last thing.

  “May the shadows spare you and your stories.”

  I WONDER HOW my companions saw me, that first time. They would have noticed that I am small, that my face is heavily scarred, that I stand like a warrior, that I have no tattoos. They would have seen our sword, which looks more like an intricate plaything than a weapon, being made predominantly of gijo wood as it is.

  I would have shown them our sword if they had asked. I am proud of our sword’s craftsmanship, its dark ironwood edge that cuts like the sharpest of blades. It is inlaid with gold and blood, the gold from the first of us who bore it, our blood and the blood of our enemies providing the stain. It is beautiful.

  But no one asked. Most of them were curious about different things, more personal things which I did not want to answer. My history is my legacy to my daughter, a legacy I write with blood. It is not something so freely given.

  My companions on this impossible quest are all gone now, every single one of them, from those I intended to rely on, to those I intended to stay away from. They were the best of the blood, the best of the eight kingdoms. All dead. And soon, I will drown and join them.

  THERE ARE MANY conflicting theories on the locations of the various gates to hell, but most loremasters agree that at least one of these doorways is located in the Seven Pearled Seas. The loremasters reference a chest of copper plates retrieved from the shores of the ruined city of Batisan, purportedly having once belonged to a Majarlikan, Lakan Buaya. The noble had painstakingly etched, on metal, the progress of his crusade to rescue the gods. The last copper plate detailed the Majarlikan’s arrival in hell. Lakan Buaya and his crew were never heard from again.

  Gat Bughaw told us to retrace Lakan Buaya’s steps as best we could. Thus, we first traveled by land to the ruins of Batisan, passing through several rebelling cities along the way. Inevitably, we got ourselves into battles with rebels and mercenaries, self-styled heroes, their followers and henchmen, and occasionally, with the unallied neutrals who roam the forests, looking for easy prey.

  Everyone distinguished themselves adequately.

  We fought in small teams at first—Karpyo and I naturally banded together, because of our history; Makisig and M’kiling proved to be a formidable pair when they could be roused from their endless rutting; Puting Bato and Sua bombarded our enemies with arrows and quick punches; Lakan Halawod threw what seemed like an endless supply of daggers while Tangkad assaulted our foes with foul-smelling explosives.

  Eventually, we learned to rely on each other.

  Lakan Halawod is our navigator and scholar, well-versed in various vernaculars, from the smaller dialects to the language of constellations. He is, at most, a competent fighter, but by the respect demanded by his blood, we all consider him as our leader.

  Makisig is undoubtedly our best warrior, with his astounding proficiency in wielding any weapon, be it sword, whip, dagger, or even, much to Puting Bato’s dismay, a bow. He is at his best using his golok flat-tip blades, however, his movement graceful, efficient. His skills more than make up for the small inconvenience of his pet monkey, who, on more than one occasion, forced us to move more quickly than planned against our enemies, with its petulant, ill-timed cries.

  Puting Bato is our scout. Despite her height, she is fast on her feet and her eyes are sharp. Since the time she saved my back from being slashed by an ax-wielding kapre, I have become more forgiving of her self-righteous, condescending demeanor.

  M’kiling, not surprisingly, is an expert in mountain lore. She grudgingly took on the responsibility for hunting for our food, including providing for the needs of Makisig’s pet, when one battle destroyed our store of rations. Her reputation for being a master whipcracker is deserved, though I still feel that as weapons go, vines are rather tedious to maintain.

  Karpyo does most of the heavy lifting, from boulders to fallen trees to inconveniently located rebel siege engines. Tangkad is our healer who is always complaining, even as he scavenges for bones and flesh and feathers and claws from our fallen foes. Sua is the woman who is the most difficult to feed, who is constantly imbibing strange liquids, who is constantly being coddled and talked down to by the others, but in the middle of battle, she can hold her own with her open-palm fighting technique.

  And I, aside from lending my sword arm, care for the weaponry.

  It is only when we are finally sailing the Seven Pearled Seas—after fifteen nights on foot, after twelve manageable battles, after Lakan Halawod summoned his oarless golden ship—that we let down our guard. People begin to take an interest in each other’s lives, trivial tidbits are passed around: Puting Bato had a Majarlikan lover once; Tangkad has a fiancé back home; Karpyo has three children and a nagging wife; Sua has an estranged sister; Lakan Halawod was just recently married to a southern diwata; Makisig has slept with a princess, a slave, several commoners, a merchant, a mermaid; M’kiling likes to sing when she’s upset.

  “And you? What’s your life like?”

  M’kiling asks me this in pidgin Salita, as the ship rocks peacefully on a starlit night. She looks bored.

  “There is nothing to say.”

  “Your scars are interesting. I bet there’s a story there somewhere.” Tangkad dares me to deny it.

  “We can also talk about how Pi always speaks so fucking formally, a
s if we’re always in the fucking luklukan.” Makisig makes an exaggerated, elaborate bow in my direction. “You, Pi, can of course join the conversation.”

  I do not reply. The moment stretches.

  “Well, that was uncomfortable,” Lakan Halawod says, laughing. “Anyone else have a topic we can talk about? We can also take bets on who’s going to blink first.”

  M’kiling shrugs; Tangkad smirks; Makisig is no longer paying attention to me, his eyes riveted by Puting Bato’s hair. The rest attempt to look as if they are comfortable with the awkward silence and fail miserably.

  “Why were the gods imprisoned?” Sua asks suddenly. When all eyes focus on her, she drops her gaze to her lap.

  “Why would anyone want their gods free?”

  Puting Bato swats Tangkad’s arm. “She’s an immigrant, you fool. She doesn’t know any better.”

  “She’s an immigrant?” Karpyo asks. “How’d you know that?”

  “Well, isn’t it obvious? Her eyes—”

  “She could be from one of the merchant guilds who have settled in the eight kingdoms,” Lakan Halawod says.

  “She could be, but she’s not, is she? Because then she would know why our gods are imprisoned, because any child from the eight kingdoms—”

  “Does it matter?” M’kiling asks.

  “She could just have ignorant parents.” Lakan Halawod winks at Sua. “Or, she could have been hit on the head and forgot why we chained our divinities.”

  “I remember being hit on the head once.” Karpyo rubs his forehead. “It was completely unexpected, having come from a rather large boulder—”

  “All of this is beside the point. Sua, our friend and companion, wants to know why the gods have been imprisoned. Does anyone remember the wording used by loremasters?”

  “No need to get testy, Put-Put. I can think of more interesting ways to spend the night than talking about old, fucked-up wars.” Makisig leers at the tikbalang.

  “My name is Puting Bato—”

  “Again, I ask, does it matter? We’ll all die anyway.” The diwata rolls her eyes, when everyone looks at her. “Do you all seriously believe we can go traipsing into hell, rescue a god, and come out alive?”