OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology

by Dean Francis Alfar

  “I’m Makisig, fucking favored and fucking blessed. I intend to battle my way through hell and back, and rip the balls off the fucking idiots who stand in my way.”

  “You, Makisig, are fucking deluded.”

  “Is that a challenge, M’ki?”

  “It’s the fucking truth.” M’kiling stalks off. Makisig follows her. They continue their argument in strained whispers.

  Tangkad stands up. “I will take my leave, if all of you don’t mind. I find that this conversation has grown tedious.” He walks to a different corner of the ship, away from the quarreling lovers.

  Soon, Lakan Halawod excuses himself and attends to the sails. Karpyo retires to the sleeping quarters below.

  With only Sua and Puting Bato remaining in my immediate vicinity, I speak.

  “I remember the story of the War of Flame.” It is a story I have memorized and narrated to my own daughter. It is a story ingrained in my bones. “I remember how loremasters worded it.”

  Puting Bato gives me a radiant smile. Sua looks at me with hungry curiosity. I brace myself for a long night.

  This is what I tell Sua:

  WHEN THE GREAT flame exploded, the lands under the mandate of Sky and Ocean were driven into chaos.

  New words had to be created, and beings struggled with their tongues to formulate the sounds for ‘death’, ‘destruction’, ‘fear’, and ‘pain’.

  The gods were the first to comprehend the blessing. They came out of their shelters and saw the flame raining down from the sky. They opened their mouths and consumed the fires that fell, and they burned with the weight of a fraction of the Great Flame’s knowledge. Those that survived said, “It is delicious.”

  The Majarlikans were second to comprehend the blessing. They came out of their shelters and saw the flame raining down from the sky. The fires fell onto their skins and they burned with the weight of a fraction of the Great Flame’s knowledge. Those that survived said, “It is beautiful.”

  The keepers were the third to comprehend the blessing. They came out of their shelters and saw the flame raining down from the sky. They hunted the fires, hid them in weapons, in stories, in new words and in old, their minds burning with the weight of a fraction of the Great Flame’s knowledge. Those that survived said, “It is useful.”

  The walkers were the last to comprehend the blessing. They came out of their shelters and saw only that the world was burning. But the earth was awash with flame, and their feet burned from the weight of a fraction of the Great Flame’s knowledge. Those that survived said nothing.

  But when the fiery downpour stopped, when the conflagrations had been doused, and when the elements cooled and calmed, the gods were still hungry. They wanted the flame on the Majarlikans’ skin; the flame the keepers hid in weapons, in stories, in new words and in old; the flame from the feet of walkers.

  And thus, they broke the rules of pantheons. And thus, the first war began. And thus, new words found their way into existence, words for ‘revenge’, ‘anger’, ‘good’, and ‘evil’.

  The gods were powerful.

  The Majarlikans, the keepers, and the walkers allied with each other. The Majarlikans led with their burnt, golden skins; the keepers crafted weapons with seeds of the great flame they had secreted; the walkers fought with their heated strides.

  The War of Flame lasted several ages, but eventually the gods were defeated. Eventually, the gods were imprisoned. Eventually, but only for a time, the world found peace.

  SUA’S THIRST FOR knowledge was nearly insatiable. I spent the night talking—I repeated, verbatim, the story of destiny and our fishermen ancestors who claimed freedom from it; I paraphrased our beliefs on creation, of how the sky and the sea married, fought, reconciled, had children, and fought again; I used my own inadequate words to describe the gods that I remembered, what they did, what they looked like—until eventually, Sua was satisfied. Or exhausted. Or both.

  It was a good time.

  “WE ARE PASSING it,” Lakan Halawod announces.

  Everyone is still.

  I do not see anything, but Lakan Halawod is certain—according to the maps, according to the knowledge given to us by Gat Bughaw, according to all the related tomes that he has studied—we are passing through one of the gates to hell, the very same gate Lakan Buaya used a hundred or so ages ago. It is midday, and we are in the middle of a calm sea. There is a cloudless sky and the sun shines bright. The complete lack of menace in our surroundings makes my skin crawl.

  I rest a hand on the pommel of our sword.

  “We are through.” Lakan Halawod expels a breath.

  I suddenly feel mortal. There is no other way of describing it. It is as if, in one moment, in passing through that invisible gate, I was stripped of something and now the flesh under my skin is exposed. I feel so very strange.

  I see Tangkad about to say something, when Puting Bato abruptly tilts her head to the left. She quickly raises her bow and fires an arrow, as a large creature jumps out from the waters. She steps back, fires again.

  The creature lets out a soul-curdling scream, then shatters into shadow wisps in midair.

  Puting Bato screams its name just as a word begins to appear in my mind. “Syokoi!”

  Pandemonium erupts. Everyone starts moving as more of the pustuled, fleshy batrachians leap onto the ship. They are larger, more menacing than the syokoi I have seen. My heart thunders in my chest. Still not quite myself, I draw our sword. Then, I calm down.

  Four syokoi surround me. They crouch and croak, their limbs and their heads vaguely human-like, but their eyes are amphibious shadowy pools. They pounce; I slash one with our sword, kick the other behind me, elbow the syokoi on my right; they shriek. One of them explodes; the three that remain spring toward me for another wave of assault. I duck, strike, thrust; a shower of shadow wisps blurs my vision.

  Our sword is cool to the touch and silent. There is no blood for it to feed on.

  I survey the situation on the ship. Makisig is leaping, slicing, cursing, laughing, taking down two, then three more; Puting Bato is on top of some crates with the mast at her back, picking off creatures at her leisure; the crack of M’kiling’s vines reverberates against the din of battle, as she takes down a pair in quick succession; Karpyo is shouting as he pummels one to the floor, causing the ship to rock unsteadily; Sua is everywhere, throwing open-handed punches that stun and, eventually, destroy.

  A dagger whizzes past me. I correct my stance, flick my wrist, thrust our sword backward. From the corner of my eye, I see a splatter of shadow that dissipates before I can turn around. Lakan Halawod is already throwing another dagger, this time at a batrachian behind Tangkad, who has just hurled a small brown pouch at a monster a few feet away. The dagger hits its mark, then falls to the ground inert, the syokoi bursts, as a small explosive causes the ship to rock even more.

  As suddenly as it began, the battle is over.

  For a moment, everyone just stands there, waiting, breathing heavily. Even the monkey is quiet.

  Nothing happens for several heartbeats.

  And then, Tangkad starts to laugh.

  Soon, everyone joins him. Everyone except Sua, who is smiling but looks confused. If my insides were not hurting from trying to contain my laughter, I would have told Sua the reason why we are all suddenly beset with such good humor.

  We laugh, because we survived. We laugh, because until then, no one really knew what was in store for us in hell. We laugh, because no one will be able to take away this first victory from us, whatever happens.

  My palm begins to burn, just before I hear the humming of fast-beating wings.

  Several dozens of flying beasts suddenly appear on the horizon, like dark, menacing clouds. At first, I think they are an infestation of sorts—wasps, perhaps bees—because they are noisy and numerous. But as they draw closer, I realize that the sum of their parts resembles nothing I have ever seen. They are much larger than the minor inconveniences I believed them to be.

&n
bsp; The abominations have hairy horns, a crow’s body, a reptilian’s fangs, a grasshopper’s wings. Their clawed forelegs are much longer than their hind legs. And they are covering the distance to our ship quickly.

  Tangkad names them, his voice filled with dread. “Sigbin.”

  I swing our sword to block one large beak that is about to bite off my head. I lose my balance, from the unexpected strength behind the attack. I fall, shoulder first. The sigbin flies past me as I roll to my feet.

  Three more move toward me. I deploy the kaliradman technique of Kidlat at Kandila, hoping the flickering feints will keep them at bay. They are more resilient than the syokoi, faster, and more cunning. The triad I am fending off is working together, circling around me, forcing me to constantly turn, to see if one is about to strike at my back.

  And that is when I see Tangkad about to die.

  The moment unfurls slowly. One of the monsters plummets straight down toward Tangkad, who is facing somewhere else, who does not have the speed to evade it, who will get bitten if none of us are able to do something.

  I parry an attack with a lightning strike. I call out Tangkad’s name. It is too late.

  The sigbin bites off a portion of Tangkad’s shoulder. Tangkad falls, a bewildered expression on his face. As the sigbin is about to sweep past us, Makisig jumps, catches it in mid-flight, lands, as he twists the sigbin’s neck. The sigbin does not explode into shadows. The sigbin spits out black blood then dies.

  I am suddenly very aware of the heat spreading from our sword upward, boiling the blood on my hand, on my arm, on my neck, in my head. I feel the pull of our sword.

  I am just about to decide exactly what to do, when two of the sigbin surrounding me bare their teeth and dive. With the skill of all of us who have wielded it, our sword wills me to positions that are uncomfortable but not unfamiliar. Our sword, with my hand, blocks one. Our sword, with my feet, kicks another. I move with speed that is not my speed, with a strength that is not my strength. My vision fills with flame. When the first of the sigbin bleeds, our sword laughs. I let myself disappear.

  I come back when the skies are already streaked red. Immediately, my hand seeks out our sword and finds it strapped to my side, sated. Tangkad is in front of me, tapping my cheek.

  “Come back, Piray. Look at me.” Tangkad repeats the command over and over again, until my eyes focus on him.

  “You are dead,” are the first words that I say, because my last vision of him was of the sigbin killing him.

  “No, but I will be.” He twists a little to show me his wound, even as he unrolls a foul-smelling poultice with one hand. He starts dabbing it on my face and on my neck, then on my hands, while I stare at his injury in shock.

  It is not bleeding, but it is decaying. Bits of bone are protruding from blackened flesh and rotting muscle. Bubbling yellow pus erupts like tiny volcanoes. It seems like the jagged bite is growing larger before my very eyes.

  “I took something for the pain,” he says, responding to my unarticulated question. “I’m hoping the air will dry up some of the poison. Can you move your wrist?”

  I obey.

  “The others are all right. Heavily scratched, a sprained ankle, but no one else was bitten.”

  I see most of our companions over Tangkad’s injured shoulder. Puting Bato is talking to Sua, who is weeping, but otherwise seems unharmed. Makisig is absently scratching the head of his pet monkey as he stares into the distance. M’kiling is singing softly; Karpyo is throwing a sigbin corpse out of the ship and into the waters. I do not see Lakan Halawod, but I can hear him whistling the descant melody to M’kiling’s song.

  “How long do you have?” I ask, after Tangkad is satisfied that I have not been truly harmed.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps evening. Maybe until tomorrow.”

  He steps away and looks at the island barely visible on the horizon.

  “But damn it, I refuse to die without seeing hell first.”

  NEITHER TANGKAD’S POULTICES nor M’kiling’s hoard of herbs could help Tangkad sleep any better that night. The fever consumed him, he was simultaneously cold and hot, he spat blood and bile and strange words. We all pretended to sleep as Tangkad battled the worst of his demons. He did not want us holding a vigil by his side.

  At sunrise the next day, we rowed a small boat to hell’s shores. Tangkad was barely conscious, barely alive, barely recognizable underneath the black, rotting flesh. When Puting Bato whispered to him that we had finally arrived, he took one deep breath. And then, finally, he died.

  He was the first of us to be buried in hell.

  IT IS OPPRESSIVELY humid inside the jungle.

  The thick canopy of leaves makes it difficult to ascertain how long we have been walking. We are the best of the blood, the best of the eight kingdoms, but the strain of ducking, stooping, and climbing over the tangle of trees, errant branches and unfamiliar foliage—exacerbated by a night without sleep and a morning heavy with emotional introspection—is exhausting. The inability to measure our progress against ambient light saps our strength.

  There are no maps of hell. But Lakan Halawod insists we go to the island’s center, because it does not make sense for captive divinities to be held in hell’s perimeter, and none of us argue with him. This means walking inward into the jungle, and up, as the terrain shifts into an incline.

  We spend the day anticipating a nefarious attack to occur at any moment, but nothing happens. The jungle is silent and empty of wildlife. The only sounds we hear are the sounds we make. I am almost grateful for Makisig’s monkey, and the occasional complaint it articulates. The silence is just as oppressive as the heat.

  We make camp after Lakan Halawod announces that it is nightfall. We are all too tired to question his wisdom. We light a small fire in a clearing, eat a portion of our remaining rations, take turns to stand watch.

  I wake up with a start when I hear the faint wail of an infant. I sit up. Puting Bato is leaning against a tree, but her ears are perked up, her nostrils flaring. She is looking at a point beyond the thick trees, her bow ready.

  The crying stops, then continues, louder, a desperate, inarticulate call for help. The infant is in pain. The infant is in danger. The infant—

  “Don’t go.” Lakan Halawod is not addressing me, but his words still me. He has a hand on Puting Bato’s elbow.

  “There’s a child, Lakan. I have to—”

  “No. It’s a trap.”

  I turn and see how the others are faring. Makisig is cursing his chittering monkey, as it circles in a panic around his leg; M’kiling is standing, clenching and unclenching her fists; Sua is rolling to her side, not quite awake; Karpyo is sound asleep.

  “But what if it’s not? What if there really is a baby, out there, crying? What if the sigbin are attacking her?”

  “It’s not a ‘her’. It’s not a ‘him’. Think about it clearly, Puting Bato. There’s no one out here who can have a child.”

  “I have never argued with you, Lakan. But just this once—”

  “There is no child, Puting Bato.”

  “No! Do not deny her, Gubat. She is our child. I will not let her go. Not this time!” Puting Bato jerks her elbow from Lakan Halawod’s grasp and runs.

  The Majarlikan mutters curses as he follows her. Makisig is close on Lakan Halawod’s heels, his monkey bounding after him. M’kiling looks at me, looks at Karpyo and Sua who are still not on their feet, who will need to be defended because they are vulnerable to an attack.

  “Go,” I say.

  M’kiling leaves.

  “Sua, get up.” I shift my attention to the higante. I kick Karpyo. “Get ready.”

  The young woman and the higante move slowly, but eventually, they get to their feet. I take the time to pack our meager belongings. Things are difficult now; it is foolish to leave anything behind. By the time the sound of footfalls completely fades, Karpyo and Sua are alert, our food and water stowed.

  “Should we not follow them?” Karpyo asks.


  I am about to reply when we hear a pained scream. And then, abruptly, complete silence.

  I draw our sword.

  In the distance, I can hear a barely audible rumble of—words? A moment later, our sword tingles in my palm.

  Blood has been spilled.

  “We have to go,” I say, already running.

  We run until the trees are too thick to permit it. I keep thinking we are making too much noise, that we are not getting any closer, that surely a Majarlikan, our best warrior, and a diwata are more than a match for whatever enchantment an infant can cast. I almost convince myself that everything is going to be all right, when we find them.

  Sua gasps. Karpyo gnarls a string of expletives. I stare in shock at the incongruence of it all.

  Puting Bato is in the center, a baby held against her shoulder, one hand supporting the infant’s neck. She is humming, her eyes closed. Stray leaves have tangled their way into her white mane. Her ears are bent, her breathing regular, but her legs are bleeding from multiple slashes, dark red against her pale skin. She does not seem to be aware of anyone else’s presence. She does not seem to be aware that there’s a dagger buried in her shoulder.

  Just a few feet from me, I see Makisig, slouched against a large rock and grunting, as M’kiling tries to pull out an arrow embedded in his thigh. Two other bloodied arrows are on the ground beside her; one of them has a head missing. Makisig’s monkey is screaming near its master.

  Lakan Halawod is crouched, with a dagger ready, beside the warrior and the diwata, but his eyes are on the tikbalang. The Majarlikan does not even flick a glance at us. “Put that monster down, Puting Bato.”

  There is no response.

  “That’s not a child, Puting Bato.”

  Still no response.

  “Puting Bato, I—” Lakan hurls a dagger, leaving the sentence hanging unfinished in the air.

  Puting Bato’s eyes open—red-flooded orbs bereft of irises—as she turns and screams, “No!”