He was more than twice her age. He had taken the seaside route and was carrying back to the Ilokos three sacks of grain and a jar of salted fish. He had gone to eastern Pangasinan and had gleaned the newly harvested fields there. He would tell his people of the virgin lands where they could still settle, the mountains they had to cross.
That night she ate for the first time and never before had rice and green tomatoes dipped in salted fish tasted so good. But he forbade her to eat or drink too much. He made soup with marunggay leaves which scalded her insides and warmed her all over. He was right in warning her, for hardly had the food settled in her belly than she started to vomit.
She could not make out his face too well in the light of the cooking fire, but she could see the ridges on his forehead and his only hand. Before she went to sleep naked under the coarse Iloko blanket, the uneven earth covered with grass mat, she wondered what his thoughts had been when he undressed her.
She woke up very late, the sun a glaze upon the land and sparkling on the sea to her right. The blanket had slipped and her breasts and her belly were exposed. Nearby on the grass, her skirt and blouse were already dry and she stood up weakly and put them on. Her benefactor was nowhere in sight, the cart still unhitched beside her. He was not inside. Down to the left, his white bull was tethered to an ipil sapling and was grazing on the stubbly grass. Beyond the growth of ipil trees and scrub was a wooded hill; on the trail farther on, two carts were straining up the incline. He emerged from the screen of trees slumbering in the heat, on his shoulder a bundle of dry twigs for firewood.
He had a dark kindly face, a small nub of a nose. “There is food in the pot,” he said with a faded smile. “You vomited everything you ate last night …”
She wanted to rush to him, to kiss his hand, but she could only stumble forward. He helped her to climb up on the cart, which was loaded with grain, coconuts, and the jar of salted fish, then he hitched it. He wanted to take her back to Lingayen, but there was no one there to whom she could return; besides (she did not tell him) there was this vow she had made. If she was going back at all, it would be on a pilgrimage of gratitude to the Virgin in Manaoag. Would he take her there? Yes, but first he must go back to his people in the north—they needed the grain he was bringing back.
That day, her dead skin started to peel and in time the blemishes disappeared. She gathered catuday flowers and marunggay leaves along the way, and cooked them flavored with young tamarind leaves.
He told her she could leave him anytime, particularly after she had regained her strength. After all, she was no stranger to this route but she said she would go wherever he would go. She was his servant and would ask for no money, just the food she ate. She drove the cart at night, and while they rested in the daytime, she gathered grass for the bull. It was a big beautiful animal—and patient.
On the seventh night on the seaside road they stopped by a river which they would cross in the morning. It was dry along the bank and on the opposite side other travelers had also stopped for the night. Her strength was fully restored, but sleep was often fitful and, as he told her, she often screamed in the night. She always slept in the cart, atop the sacks of grain, while he slept on the ground, sometimes beside the cart, but always close to the bull. They had eaten and she had washed the pots. Cicadas were lost in the grass as the darkness came quickly. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled. All the cooking fires of the other travelers arrayed farther up the bank had long been extinguished. Below them, the river had become but a thin and shallow stream, gurgling now as it coursed through boulders and their catch of weeds. As the night deepened, she went down from the cart and lay beside him. He told her she was like a daughter to him. He was a widower; there was no reason for him to refuse other than his feelings of shame, if not of inadequacy. He had grown-up children and the grain he was bringing home was for them. I have not had a woman for many years, he told her, but in a while, he responded and quietly she accepted him. Gratefully she kept her pledge.
Years afterward, Istak would always remember not just this story but how he, too, had made his vow. That night she unfolded her past to him, he told her, “I will also do whatever you bid me.”
Her touch upon his chest was soft and warm. “You are not well yet,” she said.
CHAPTER
5
It seemed as if an eternity passed before the second day came. The pain—continuous and dull—the loss of blood, the anxiety, all these had weakened him. His mind remained clear and he could hear the quiet talk of his kin, the things they forgot to bring in their hurry, the scouting for the direction they must take. He had not eaten anything except several spoonfuls of broth his mother had prepared from marunggay leaves. They stopped and when Mayang bent over to give him another spoonful, he asked in a whisper: “Where are we now?”
“You know how Bit-tik likes to wander. He says we are close to Vigan. From here, we can see the bell tower of Bantay …”
Through mists and the throbbing pain, he could imagine Vigan again, Ciudad Fernandina—regal city of the north, the repository of wealth as only Ilokano industry and commerce could amass it; Vigan, anointed domain of power and learning, of grace and beauty and all the plenitude of blessings that are bestowed on those who commanded in the name of God and of the Spanish realm. He first saw it as a boy of fifteen when Padre Jose took him to the seminary there. He had followed the old priest silently and in awe of the resplendent appointments, the convent with its huge oil portraits of beatified priests, and within the vast masonry, the august halls glowing with the luster of piety and age, as if wisdom were impregnated in the gray walls forever.
Then to dinner in one of the pretentious houses nearby, and from the kitchen where he was sent to eat with the other servants, he had glimpsed the wide living room ablaze with crystal chandeliers, the finely crafted furniture, the porcelain vases that stood serene in solemn corners. The kitchen itself was floored with tile. And beyond it, the dining room with its giant fan overhead, a table laden with sweet ham and other exotic meats, and under the table, two young girls with fans stirred a breeze and drove away the mosquitoes from those legs encased in black woolen trousers or billowy satin skirts and pointed shoes. Here they were, the men and women of noble bearing, educated in Manila and well traveled in Europe, the wealthy mestizos, Europeans, and, of course, the Spanish prelates who ruled. And after the dinner, Spanish brandy, preserved sweets, and the elegant music of a string quartet. They glided with case, these elegant women in embroidered blouses, their fingers sheathed in diamonds, complaining of their peasant servants and how far they were from Manila, where they could be pampered with the latest gossip, fashions, and imports from the continent; the men in tight suits rambling on about the sinking price of indigo, the new profits to be made in ranching, and yes, their uneasiness and disdain for the heathen English scourge of Freemasonry, which seemed to reach out to Ciudad Fernandina.
On the third day, the fever finally came. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it spread all over him like a flood of hot mud flowing from the wound in his breast. His head seemed wedged between two tree trunks and now the trunks began to press and grind against each other. He shook with chills no matter how many layers of blanket Mayang and Dalin covered him with. His mind was fogged and in those few moments of lucidity and wakefulness, he could see inchoate shapes of people, of children, peering at him through the open archway of the cart, overhear their conversations—the coffin which should be readied, but there was none, how they would have to bury him not in a cemetery but on some desolate mountainside, in the shade of a great tree so they could at least place a marker where he lay. Images formed, the faces blurred and soon flitted away, and then from the smoky chaos Padre Jose emerged, wraithlike, his eyes piercing, his mouth moving, though no words came forth. After some anxious waiting, the words, though almost in a whisper, took shape. The priest was speaking in Latin: “The ways of the world are devious and the trials through which we must go to earn God’s grace come in man
y forms. Do not despair, do not despair—we are men of peace, and we are destined to bring life to the sick, happiness to those who grieve—this is our burden.”
They were not in the sacristy or in the convent in Cabugaw but on a mountainside, surrounded by Igorots whose arms and breasts were tattooed. Again, Padre Jose spoke to him: “My God is the God of all men, and it was He who gave this land to all of you.”
“Look at yourself,” the old priest commanded, and Istak looked down at his belly, at his chest and arms. They were tattooed. In his hand a spear—and his hair was long. He was an Igorot, too, and he was telling Padre Jose harshly: “Your God is not mine. He is not in the seminary in Vigan, he is not in you, and if he is in all men, then he wears the uniform of the Guardia, he has a gun pointed at us. I was baptized in the river and the river is cold and it is my brother An-no who carried me there, and it is Dalin and my mother who cared for me. It is they and my people whom I will serve, not you and your god. And as for you—and the likes of you—I will kill you! Death to all Kastilas!”
And with one mighty heave, he flung his spear at the old priest. But the spear bounced off the old man’s chest and fell broken to the ground. Padre Jose was no longer flesh—he was stone!
The old priest smiled. “You are mistaken, Eustaquio. And I forgive you as I always have because deep in your heart, you are an honorable man, a man of peace …”
Istak picked up the broken spear, detached the blunted spearhead, and rushed at the old priest. He struck him in the chest again and again, but stone was harder than metal and with every blow, the ache in his arm increased until, exhausted, he cast the useless spearhead away.
Padre Jose spoke calmly: “My child, I am beyond touching or hurting. Still I would like you to know that like me, you have a mission. You will lead your people to the new land. You will undergo great suffering as you do now. You will cross many rivers and you will be filled with sorrow. But you will reach your destiny. Though you are not a priest, you will serve your people and your God as well, and you will do this because you have faith. You will do what I have never done, because you are from this land, because God has chosen you …”
On the seventh day, the fever left him and he slept well and without screaming. Sometime in the night, he woke briefly to find Dalin by his side, wiping his brow. The solid wheels of the cart were creaking—they were relentlessly moving, moving. He slept on through the yaw and jerk of the cart. When he woke up, the cart no longer jerked; they were now on the plain, on a trail, or on the beach.
Soon it was daylight and they stopped traveling. No one was in the cart—they were all outside. Mayang was saying there should not be too much salt in the chicken broth. How sweet her voice sounded! Then she was saying how sad it was that she was not able to bring all the yarn she needed so that once they had arrived in the new land she could start weaving.
Beyond the door spread an obscure forest. Birds twittered outside, and the delicious scent of meat roasting over an open fire drifted to his nostrils, lifting him, and for the first time, he craved food. It came to him then, the dream about Padre Jose and for an instant, a chill coursed through him.
Inang! Inang!—he called but only a gurgling sound escaped his lips as if pebbles filled his throat. He coughed then repeated, “Inang! Inang!” and now the words took shape but were a mere whisper.
“My God, thank you,” his mother said at the door. “He is alive.”
In a moment, Dalin was in the cart, too.
They brought him newly cooked rice and roasted pork and sliced tomatoes; aroma flooding his senses. He had not eaten for days except broth; now was the time to practice self-restraint. Padre Jose had always dinned it into him, to restrain himself, to avoid temptation, for to surrender to it was to invite perdition.
He took just a mouthful of rice, a tiny piece of pork, savoring the meat fully, letting it linger in his mouth, and a cup of the chicken broth. He was weak; he could not even raise his head from the coverless pillow without Dalin holding him up. Then he realized that he could feel with his right arm the ridges in the split bamboo mat which walled the cart; the arm was no longer numb. Slowly he raised it, moved the thumb first, then all the fingers. They were all responding. He tried to raise the entire arm, flex it, and it was then that this lacerating pain lashed at him and he screamed.
They crowded around the cart. His brow was damp and cold. He asked Dalin to examine the wound to see if there was pus. She lifted the bandage carefully and smiled. “It is beginning to heal. The wound is closed and there is no swelling,” she said happily.
The worst was over.
“You did not know what was happening,” Dalin told him afterward. “We all thought you would die.”
He smiled, remembering quickly the bits of conversation he had overheard, the dream.
Dalin said, “We were frightened. And when you became very hot, thank God, you told us what we should do.”
“And what was that?”
“We took you to a stream and your father and An-no, they soaked you in the water, up to your neck, till your body cooled. On the fourth day, when your fever became worse and there was no stream, you told them again what to do. They cut a wild banana stalk, took off the skins, wrapped you in them, till the fever subsided again …”
He had not forgotten his lessons, not from the books that he had read, but what Padre Jose had told him.
“You know so many things,” Dalin said, wonder in her eyes.
“I had a very good teacher,” he said. “An old, kindly priest.”
“A priest?” Dalin asked. Istak nodded.
After a while: “You were talking in your sleep,” Dalin said, “Now I find it difficult to understand why you said those things.”
“What did I say?”
“You were shouting, ‘Kill the priest! Kill all Kastilas!’ ”
Istak became silent. It was An-no who took him to the creek, the brother who loathed him, who coveted Dalin for himself. It was Padre Jose whom he had always respected and loved—yes, he had really loved the old priest not so much in return for the many kindnesses that had been shown him, but for the light that Padre Jose had cast upon the path Istak had taken. And yet, in the deeper wilderness of his mind, in this dream, he had wished his benefactor harm. In wine, truth; in dreams, the soul?
If these thoughts were hidden in the fastness of his mind, if he did not recognize them, would they surface someday as evil deeds?
It was true then what Padre Jose had said, that there is evil in all of us, that only with faith and its capacity for exorcism can we master this evil.
“Where are we now? And how long have we been traveling?” he asked.
“A week,” she said. “We are still close to the mountains, but in a day we will be down by the shore. We have been harvesting wild bananas and green papayas.”
“How long before we get to the sea?”
“Tomorrow,” she said.
He went back to sleep and dreamed that he was flying, floating over the caravan, scouting far ahead of it the plain beyond the hills. He floated above the treetops and waved at those below; he soared with ease in any direction he wished; it was such a natural thing for him to fly. Then he saw the narrow road which cut the mountainside and skirted the coast, and ahead were hundreds of Guardia waiting. They would all pass through this dreaded funnel, they could not hurdle the mountain.
He woke up at noon and remembered the dream. He called for Ba-ac, who came to the cart immediately. They propped him up on a sack of grain. Beyond the line of carts, a dense growth of scrub, butterfly trees browned by the dry season.
“Father, we will soon reach the Spanish road and we will all be searched there.”
“I know,” Ba-ac said sadly. In the light, his father seemed much older. “But there is no other way.”
“We must cross singly,” Istak said. “They will not think of stopping or searching just one cart. One at night, one in the daytime. And we should all then meet … but where?”
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br /> Dalin, who knew the road, was ready with a suggestion. “Before we reach the Abra River,” she said, “we cannot miss that, we will wait till everyone is there.”
Istak had passed the road many times when he and Padre Jose traveled to Abra. The people were forced into building it, just as, even now, the ilustrados were forcing the people to work for nothing, exacting punishment if they refused. It was a narrow dirt road flanked by brick embankments, gently sloping with the descent of the hills, clinging to the strip of land before it plunged into a rocky coast. There were battering waves during the typhoon season, but the sea this time of the year should be blue and calm.
“If you look long enough,” Dalin said, “you can see the bottom.”
That night, Istak could not sleep. He lay, waiting for each lurch as the cart dipped into ruts or went over stones, the swish of tall grass as they cut through outgrowths.
“Where are we?” he asked. Dalin was in front, holding on to the reins of the bull. She turned briefly and shushed him. They must be passing again through dreaded territory and the wheels had been greased anew with coconut oil so they would not creak.
Istak closed his eyes but could not sleep. The pit in his stomach deepened. He would endure the hunger till morning. What was it compared to what awaited them in this dark maw of night? Even the Guardia were not safe here. But the cocks—they would give them away by their crowing. He was alarmed.
“They have all been killed,” Dalin assured him.
Morning again; the sky lightened slowly and the stars winked out. Istak could raise half his body now. They were on a rise of ground and close by the forest, with the mountain rising behind the tall trees. On one side, through the curtain of tall grass, the land plummeted to the sea, and there, like a brown line on the coast, was the Spanish road.
Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) Page 10