“The Bulosans,” Mica offers timidly.
“Yes, the Bulosan hacienda, where the horses are,” Mama agrees. “Roman, keep him safe. Hide when you see soldiers. If it is too dangerous, if there is shelling, come home immediately. As soon as it gets dark, return home. Do you two understand?”
“O pò,” Roman answers. Yes, ma’am.
I watch Mama’s face. I am very worried about her. I should not leave her. Papa would not leave until she felt better. But Papa is not here. As soon as we find him and Isabelle, Mama will be better.
Mang Selso watches as we gather our things. He is seated next to his father, Tay Fredrico. He avoids our eyes and tries to tuck the blankets closer to his father.
But Tay Fredrico shoves them away. “Too hot,” the old man grunts.
I turn to say good-bye to Roderick, but he is asleep. I decide to tell Ate Lorna about Domingo, in case anything should happen to me. She sees something in my face and shudders.
“Ate Lorna, there is something I must tell you.”
She picks up the sleeping baby, busying herself with baby Alma’s clothing. “Go ahead, Alejandro, go with Roman. You can tell me tonight.”
“But Ate Lorna,” I insist.
“Alejandro, it will be dark soon. You had best be on your way.” She turns and picks up the sleeping baby.
I stand before her and try one more time. Roman shakes his head. “Come, Alejandro, she is right.”
WE CLIMB THE ladder into the kitchen. It seems strange that we no longer occupy it. We move quietly through the house, like visitors in a funeral parlor. When we open the door, we pinch our eyes shut from the glare of the sun.
“This way.” Roman grabs my shoulder. “We will avoid the soldiers better this way. Let us look where I last saw your father.”
“I should have told her,” I say out loud, thinking about Ate Lorna.
“She already knows, Jando.”
“The smell of gunfire, but no soldiers.” I search our surroundings. I do not focus long on the corpses. It is no use burying them. We do not want to waste our strength, and if we bury them too shallow, the rats unearth them the next day.
“The wind carries the battle from the city,” Roman tells me. “Look—” He points excitedly in the distance. Japanese planes fly, red circles blazing on their wings.
I shade my eyes with my hand and nod.
“I wonder how we are ever going to find Father,” I tell Roman.
He is listening to something. He puts his finger to his mouth. There are footsteps trailing us. Roman signals for us to take cover behind a group of banyan trees.
“Soldiers?” I whisper as we crouch low.
“Perhaps. Maybe just deer, but better to stay hidden.”
I nod. I try to convince myself he is right. But I know there are no more deer to be found. Deer will usually stand still or leap the other way. This one is following us. My heart is in my throat, and I can feel my skin tingle all over, especially on my arms. The sounds become louder and we lean back, away from sight. I pull out my father’s hunting knife. Roman has a big stick in his hand, the kind they use to play baseball in the United States. The sound comes closer until it is right in front of us, and I choke when I see who it is. It is Aling Anna’s nephew, Feliciano. He is a Makapili, a Japanese sympathizer. I feel my heart hit my chest.
“He won’t hurt us. He knows my sister,” I whisper.
Roman shakes his head and points. Behind Feliciano are a dozen Japanese soldiers. They walk with bayonets, prodding three captives with their blades. The men groan in pain at the jabs and try to keep balance with their hands tied behind them. A fall could mean a vicious beating. We wait an hour to let his group pass. We are about to leave when another group comes our way.
I stretch my neck to see if Papa is one of them and breathe a sigh of relief. He is not there. We hear more footsteps and gasp. Ate Lorna’s son, Taba, has been following us. He walks noisily without a care. When he comes within passing distance, Roman reaches out and grabs Taba, but not quickly enough. Taba shouts out.
“Mama, ay, they are killing me! Mama, help!”
My stomach sinks at the sound of many footsteps. When we look up there are bayonets glinting down at us. We get up slowly. Roman puts one hand on my shoulder and the other on Taba’s.
“Up, up!” the soldier shouts. “Guerrillas.” He alerts the others.
“No, only looking for food.” Roman brings his hand to his mouth back and forth. The soldier shakes his head and points his gun, then turns and hits Roman in the mouth with the wooden stock. Roman falls to the ground, his lip cut open. Taba begins to sob loudly, and I put my arms around him. The soldiers pull Roman up. “I’ll come. Let them go,” Roman pleads.
The soldier laughs. “Why let go? So can contact other guerrillas? You, and you and you. Get in line.”
A soldier pulls Taba away from me. Taba’s screams pierce our ears. I have to tell him in a big voice not to cry or they will kill us. Taba’s eyes grow big. They push Taba in front of me and I say, “See, I am right behind you.”
“I want to go home. Home now,” Taba cries. He doesn’t care who these men are. When the men ask him to stop crying, he only cries louder.
“Stop it, Taba. Remember what I told you.” I push him a little with my hand.
“Don’t push me. I’m not going!” Taba screams. It pierces my ears.
“No!” The soldier slaps Taba, and Taba sucks in air, immediately quiet.
Roman walks in the front of the line. There is no hope now of finding Papa or Isabelle. We will die, be butchered like Domingo Matapang. I wish now that I had told his wife, Ate Lorna, that the husband she kneels in prayer for is already dead.
part 2
I S A B E L L E
K A R A N G A L A N
~ THEY HAVE GORED DOMINGO MATAPANG like a cornered bull. I could see from the light of the moon when the bayonets made contact with his body. I have watched from this hiding place, a thin tree with branches that are as starved as I am. The soldiers tried to pierce him in the chest, but he wrestled them to the ground. I had to put my fist in my mouth so I would not scream; that was when I saw the blood come pouring out. They struggled until they stabbed him in the thigh, and still he fought. Somehow he managed to run away from them. They shot at him and he went down. When they got to where he had fallen, he was already gone. The soldiers were in a panic to find him. They whispered back and forth, then went quickly back to their commander.
After they left, Domingo appeared from the shadows. He refused at first to fall, staggering about until he collapsed a few feet from my tree. I have waited another hour, not daring to make a sound. The branches have torn my skirt, and my legs have gone numb. I feel as if the soldiers can hear every movement, from my stomach moaning to the sound of my breathing. My body is drenched in sweat.
New soldiers have come to relieve the first group. They watch with rifles slung across their backs. The captives still hang by their thumbs.
I was on my way home when I saw my brothers led to this field. I hid in these bushes to see if I could think of a plan to free them, but no plan ever came. I thank the Almighty for setting my brothers free. But I know it was not because of my prayers that they were saved. I think God is very angry with me. I have not been an obedient daughter. If I were, I would be home now.
I slowly inch my way down the tree. I let my legs drop first as I hang on to the branches, my body close to the trunk. The bark is rough edged and pulls at my shirt and scratches my thighs and face. The resin brushes against my skin and emits a fragrant aroma. I am terrified it can be smelled by the soldiers. There is no way out but to pass Domingo’s body. I take a deep breath. The twigs and branches crackle with each step. The sounds are thunder to my ears. The ground is dark with his blood. I move to step over him when his hand reaches up and grabs my ankle.
“Isabelle,” he gasps. “Help me.”
I almost scream. I try to shake his hand from my foot. “I—I cannot carry you. There
is nothing I can do. I will get help,” I whisper.
“Bella, I will die.”
“No.” I pry his hand from my foot and fall back on my butt. His eyes will not let me look away; angry eyes filled with disappointment and accusation. Selfish, his eyes say to me. No different from the words my mother often uses. I look away from their glare. I step back into the shadow of trees. He cannot see me, but he knows that I am here. He has the ears of a predator; he watches the darkness surrounding me. He moans my name, asking for help. I put my hands over my ears and tell myself to go. I pity his wife and children. But I will not help him. How could I possibly carry him? The best that I can do is find help. His eyes focus in my direction, holding me captive with guilt.
“No,” I whisper fiercely.
He stops his moaning and listens.
I know I should feel compassion for him, but I don’t. He has brought this danger upon himself. He knows how I feel about guerrillas. They harm our people more, by bringing the wrath of the Japanese. Easy for them to perform their hit-and-run missions, while we, the civilians, must bear the repercussions.
The anger of his words cuts me. “Then go now. Go quickly, they will come soon.”
I scramble up and jump over his body. I run through the tall grass. My feet tangle and I fall through the ferns and land with my hands splayed out before me, skinning my knees. I can see the Japanese soldiers talking a hundred feet from us. They point in our direction. I look back at Domingo.
“Help me, or go. Do it quickly. You will get us killed with your indecision,” he orders.
I hate him. I hate him for making me feel guilty. What has he ever done but worry his wife and cast suspicion and danger upon our house? He is a guerrilla leader, yet for all the kindness my family has bestowed upon him, he risks our lives by hiding under our care. And now, now he is calling out my name like an imbecile.
I have a whole life ahead of me. As soon as this war is finished, I will be a doctor. Domingo has chosen this kind of life for himself. I have not. Yet even as my mind thinks this, my feet are running back to him. I pull his arm upward without thinking. Domingo grunts horribly and grits his teeth. He pulls himself to a standing position.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
“Go, I will walk.” His tongue sounds thick in his mouth. He leans on me heavily, and I push up to bear his weight. His feet are like pedals that will not work. Shots are fired. Whether they are meant for us or for the other captives, I do not wait to find out. We hurry north toward home. We have many more kilometers to go, twenty-four kilometers, fifteen miles at least. We must pass through the city where the fighting is concentrated. We stick to the outskirts and keep moving.
WE HAVE BEEN hiding for several hours. We are just south of our hometown of Santa Maria in Bulacan province, maybe eight kilometers away. Yet our town seems hundreds of kilometers away. Domingo wishes to head farther northwest, toward his camp in the Zambales Mountains. Our clothing is damp from the evening downpours. We are cloaked behind a large grouping of ferns and climbing vines with purple flowers. It is not a very good hiding place, but Domingo cannot move any farther. He will die, I think. Twice now, Japanese patrols have marched by on their way south to Manila, and twice they have overlooked us. I fear our luck will soon come to an end.
Our beautiful city is burning. The scent of broken churches, charred flesh, and a fallen people carries like ashes in the wind. They are burning great fires, and the evening sky mingles with the heat and flames a blood red. A bad sign. This is the story at the end of the Bible. This is Judgment Day.
The ground shakes continuously from the sound of the Amerikano tanks. Overhead, the Amerikano planes buzz by, great birds swooping down with a vengeance. But who is winning? I cannot imagine the Amerikanos will win. How can they? They have lost once before, and how will they resupply themselves when their country is so far away? The Japanese need only jump north and they will be home. How I wish they would both go home.
“Isabelle,” Domingo whispers hoarsely, “leave me now. I will make contact with my men.”
His eyes are drained, void of their usual fire.
“Napápagod na ako,” he says. I am weary.
I do not argue. I do not think he will make it through the night. “You will be all right here?” Such a stupid question. I beg him silently to tell me that he will. I look at him. He does not look so threatening now. But when he was in good health, and his eyes burned with that ferocity, he became something else. He has grown a beard, a full one, and his hair is long and wavy, touching his shoulders. Few people know that he is a senator’s illegitimate and unacknowledged child. His father is a Japanese sympathizer. My father is more of a father to him.
Domingo’s bleeding has stopped for now. He has deep cuts, one near his hip, one on his thigh. A long gash starts below his right ear and continues winding to the nape.
“I am lucky,” he says, seeing my concern.
“I thought you were dying.”
“It only appeared that way. Because of the blood. It is not so bad. I have been in worse situations,” he tells me.
“What about the bullet?” I ask. “I saw them shoot you.”
“When they shot me, their aim was bad. I twisted and they only managed my shoulder.” He winces. “A flesh wound. Nothing more.”
I am still not convinced. He has lost a lot of blood. When I move him too quickly, the one on his left leg starts again. I have seen horrible things this day. I have seen babies; oh, I cannot describe it. Little babies, in a ditch, some of them half-alive, with their tiny fists reaching for absent mothers. Domingo saw them, too. We tried to save one who was still breathing, but when I picked it up, I realized it would soon be dead.
I watch as he presses his hand down on his shoulder wound. He glances up at me, his eyes drained. “I will manage. Make your own trail. Stay away from the roads.”
I look toward home. I wait for him to thank me, but already he has closed his eyes. I get up uncertainly and mumble, “Good-bye.”
“Thank you,” he breathes.
I hesitate.
“Go,” he orders.
I jump at his words and crash through the ferns. When I am a few meters away, I look back and see how flimsy a hiding place it is. If one looks closely, Domingo’s sandals can easily be made out. I keep moving. I remember what he has told me, and I cross to where the trees are thickest, away from the well-traveled roads, always careful not to make any noise. My eyes scan everything, the thick vegetation, the hanging vines as thick as my arms that entangle me from the shadows, the baby tree that my eyes mistake for a solitary soldier. I am dizzy from it all.
After an hour I come to a clearing, and with the help of the red moon I see a definite path. I hurry in the opposite direction. I come across a running stream. I fall down on my knees and throw water onto my face. I drink and drink; the taste of the water is so good. Something brushes against my leg, my schoolbag. In my bag is a tin cantina.
~
WHEN I RETURN, Domingo is clutching his knife. I have frightened him. He looks at me incredulous, angry.
“I found some water,” I explain.
He grabs the cantina. “Stupid girl,” he says.
I feel the anger rise in me at his words. “I could have—”
“Sit down before you give us away.” He studies me grudgingly. “Sleep, I will keep watch.”
I WAKE WITH my heart pounding; I look around, unsure of where I am. Domingo is sitting up, clutching his shoulder. His eyes are shut tight, and a look of pain covers his mouth. He has bandaged his wound with pieces of his trousers. I feel stupid for not thinking of it myself. I wait for his face to relax before I speak.
“Does it hurt much?” I ask.
“My men are waiting. You must leave, Bella.”
“Tell me where you are going and I will take you there. You cannot make it by yourself.”
“No, you must return home. Now.”
“I can’t,” I tell him. “It must be Father’s blood run
ning in me. Whatever it is, I cannot leave an injured man behind.”
He looks at me for a long time. “Then we must go, now.”
We continue northwest, climbing gradually up the mountains until my home is just a small dot below.
Domingo’s neck has become infected. It has turned his skin into a patchy bright red. His cheeks fall inward, and he looks like a dead man who does not yet know he has died. We move slow as banana slugs. Domingo insists on walking on his own. It is amazing. He does it from pure willpower and the help of a thick branch he has found. We sleep for six hours in the safety of a hollow tree trunk, and at dawn we start again.
We stop to rest often, passing through thick trails in the forest, overgrown with ferns, apitong, molave trees, all competing for space. Rattan plants assault us with their long thorns. The great banana leaves bow down as we pass. They are sad, too. Lianas drape down as thick as my legs. Tiny nik-nik flies attack for blood. Now and then there are waling-walings, queen of the orchids, sprouting at the most unlikely places. I have to wave away the flying roaches that drop from the canopies and land on my hair.
We continue northwest, toward the foothills of Florida Blanca, below the Zambales Mountains. He tells me we are searching for a cave. I point out various caves that I see or ledges that look as though they are the path to caves. But I already know that Domingo’s cave will not be anything like I imagined. I feel scared, and lonely, and proud somehow. And yes, stupid. Stupid for not going home when I had the chance. I think of my mother. What would she say right now? I can almost hear her. Why did you wait so long to help him? Could you not see he needed your help? She would not congratulate me for deciding to help. She would see only that I did not help sooner. You are always so proud, Isabelle. You do not know everything. See what happens when I tell you to come home and you do not listen? See what happens when I tell you to be like me and you try to be yourself? When I tell you better to be a nurse, and do not reach so high and think you can be a doctor? You are wrong, Isabelle, always wrong. You do not know your own self. Look what has happened to you now. Do you even know where you are going?
When the Elephants Dance Page 16