When the Elephants Dance

by Tess Uriza Holthe

  I remember walking up those stone steps and how my heart jumped when the door was opened and I saw my younger half-brother walk past the door in fine clothes. He was carrying a leather schoolbag. He was clean and well fed. There was happy chatter coming from the back rooms. Just a glimpse, but it was enough. I wanted that life. And when Mr. Matapang, my father, came to the door, I saw an older version of myself. There was no doubt we were blood related.

  I revealed my identity to him, and the hate in his eyes was scorching, but even more painful was the love I had unconditionally built for him. It could not be undone in my heart, even when he denied me to my face. All the fantasies I had created around him were still there. I had built a make-believe world where he existed and searched and longed for my return, his eldest son. I have never let go of that image. It taunts me still.

  Perhaps that was what I was thinking when I married Lorna. She came from a wealthy family. I thought to be closer to my father’s circle in that way. I am ashamed to admit it even to myself. I should have known they too would react like him. An unwanted orphan, a bastard.

  Feliciano continues with his rambling. “You even talk like him. The other week, he ordered the Reyes family taken in. I reminded him that these people were once his friends, and asked again if he was certain he wanted them brought in. He said, ‘Why not? They are known guerrillas.’ ”

  I smile at Feliciano. His talk has opened up a well of bitterness. I relish my words as they leave my mouth. “And you, you are like your father. Jamie Bautista.” I watch his eyes narrow. I can see the anger burn in them. His hands are balled into fists. “Yes, I have seen your father, the drunk. The weakling who could not live without his woman. He walks our barrios like a ghost.”

  Feliciano stops; he takes his pistol from his holster and his hand shakes. “I will shoot anyone who compares me to him.”

  “Use it or put it away. I grow bored with your threats.”

  He continues to hold the gun toward me. His eyes are red.

  “You are not going to cry, are you?” I scoff. “The man who would give his people to the enemy has feelings? The man who can watch our women being raped can also cry? You are very talented. Who knew you were capable of such feelings? Ah, but I see he is not a man at all, but a boy. A frightened, misguided boy who is very much like his father,” I taunt him. I cannot resist. He holds the gun unsteadily now.

  “I am not like my father. My father is weak. I am strong. The Japanese and the Makapilis bow to my words. He is defeated. I can never be. But I have already told you. I am done with the Makapilis. After I saw what they had done to the women, to Isabelle.”

  “It is late, I wish to find my son. It may be too late already. We must hurry.”

  He searches my face. For kindness, maybe, or understanding. He will find no compassion here. He begins to speak, then stops himself and looks up at the stars and takes a deep breath. “This way. I know of two encampments.”

  We turn up a ridge, leaving the flatlands and the waist-high cogon grass bending in the wind. We pass the sugar cane plantations, with the cordillera mountains far north in the distance. We climb alongside rice terraces, the ground soggy from the recent storms. The moon is a slice of lemon above us. White orchids freckled with coral and magenta bloom in abundance. I have walked this trail many times with my troops, sometimes at a full run, and long ago with my friends. Feliciano glances back to me. “I tell you the truth, whether you believe so or not. I am done with the Makapilis. I have turned my back on the Japanese. I see now what they have done to our people.”

  “I am here to rescue my son. I cannot grant you redemption. You have killed many of our people, maybe not with your own hands, but with your finger that has pointed to them and turned them over to the enemy. Does that not eat at your conscience?”

  He stands strong at my words, his silence angering me more.

  “You wish to impress Isabelle by rescuing her brother. And now that the Amerikanos are so close to winning, maybe you fear punishment. You think that siding with a guerrilla commander will win you leniency. You wish to change sides in the eleventh hour, but that cannot be done. I will not vouch for a traitor. Find some other fool.”

  His eyes flinch slightly, the jaw clenches a little, but that is all. There is intelligence and a fierceness in him that few of my men possess, but I am not swayed by it. He stares, blinking at me several times, then turns abruptly and begins walking once again. The crickets quiet as we pass, listening in the cloying heat, and then they sound loudly again. The whir of the mosquitoes is constant at my ears. And high in the trees an owl speculates out loud as we pass.

  I hear a sound, a voice. I reach out for Feliciano. He turns to me with hope in his eyes. I put my finger to my mouth and purse my lips and point with them toward the shadow of trees. In our discussion we have almost missed a small encampment a hundred meters below us. There are tents and Japanese soldiers standing guard. I count four guards and six soldiers lying down. Feliciano crouches beside me. I watch him from the corners of my eyes, aware of the positioning of his hands and his gun. The soldiers talk easily among themselves. They trust that their guards are watching over them. The fools.

  There is a grouping of captured Filipinos at one end, five of them seated against a tree with their hands tied behind their backs. They are blindfolded and badly beaten. A guard walks from behind the trees with a large stick. He questions one woman, and when he is not satisfied with her answer, he pulls her head back and hits her across the face with the stick. The woman’s face is no longer a face at all, but a mound of purple flesh. The woman and her group belong to Ocampo’s guerrillas. I can tell by the red woven wristbands they wear, their blood pledge against the Japanese. I grit my teeth at the sight. I fight the urge to shoot the woman and take her from her misery. I tell myself to go. Nothing can be done. We must go. I feel like weeping.

  I see no sign of the children. I make a circular movement with my finger. We will move around the perimeter to make certain my son is not present. As we complete the circle, a Japanese guard stops to listen. He looks into the trees and calls out to a comrade. Soon they are all craning their necks into the darkness, their rifles at the ready. I look to Feliciano and point backward for us to go.

  The words come out pained. “My son is not here.”

  “What of the captives?” he whispers.

  I feel a tear in my soul when I speak the words. “Nothing more can be done for them. We must find my son.” Hold on, Taba. I will find you.

  He looks at me in surprise, then nods slowly in understanding.

  WE TRAVEL ANOTHER hour in the same northwesterly direction. The wound in my leg expands and begins to throb with the heat of infection. We climb the side of a waterfall at a furious pace. The sound of rushing water is a balm to my soul. The water sprays the nearby rocks, making them slippery to our grasp. My throat constricts with thirst. I feel a fever starting in my bones, but I do not let Feliciano see this. Instead, I speed my stride, forcing the boy to move faster. He says nothing, but his shirt is stuck to his back from sweat and his breathing has become labored.

  Feliciano’s group, the Makapilis, keeps mainly to the flatlands, serving as eyes and ears to the Japanese army. They do not traverse the jungles as we do, so his conditioning is not good. He leads us to another encampment, but this time it is the Japanese themselves who warn us of their presence.

  They speak loudly, and we hide in a thick cropping of brushes and ferns. The soldiers have grown weary this last year. They talk loudly among themselves in areas they know may house guerrillas. They hope for us to avoid one another. Unless they are a small patrol and we can pick off the stragglers, we let them pass. It is safer for us to let the bigger patrols by unless we are expecting them or we are forced to fight. We prefer to combat them in our own way, after we have studied their habits and have weighed the benefits to an attack. A direct assault can be more costly to our troops if open combat occurs. They are better equipped than we are. It is wiser to plot ou
r raids and come in full force on smaller groups.

  Feliciano looks around quickly and then whispers, “This is the only other encampment I know of. It is to grow larger in the coming days to go against Augustino’s guerrillas.”

  I nod and scan the area with my eyes. This is Augustino’s territory. I wonder if he knows of the Japanese strategy. I cannot worry about that now. Again, I am aware of Feliciano’s proximity to me, of the positioning of his hands to his gun. I count five guards and two men seated in the center of a grove of papaya trees. The men are not regular foot soldiers. They are higher ranked. To our right is a large tent. To the left are metal slabs laid out on the ground. There are five bodies tied to the slabs, three adults and two children. They are laid flat, on their backs, with their hands outstretched as if they were on a cross.

  “In the morning, the sun will heat the metal and they will cook to death,” Feliciano explains.

  “I know this,” I tell him through clenched teeth. I see Alejandro immediately. He wears the same torn shirt and ragged trousers with the large belt around his waist. He looks dully at the stars. The fire has gone from his eyes. He is defeated. The sight of him brings my anger full to the surface. To the right of Alejandro is my son, Taba. He moves restlessly. I sigh and send a prayer of thanks that he is alive. The adults have been badly beaten. Roman Flores is among them.

  “Wait here,” I tell Feliciano.

  He reaches out to stop me. “I have a plan.”

  I wait for his explanation.

  “I know these men. The two in the middle are Majors Koiso and Matsura. They will recognize me immediately. I will take you in as prisoner. There is a high price for your head. Your likeness has been drawn, and Matsura carries a sketching in his pocket. You and the Amerikano Holden are highly prized. There is great honor in your capture. They would not plan to kill you until later. They would show you first to our Filipinos to break their spirits further. They would display you to their comrades as a trophy, before finishing you. It will buy us time. Later, while the soldiers sleep, I will untie you and we can rescue the others.” He takes a piece of rope from his pocket and a mask and looks at me expectantly.

  I laugh quietly. “Do you think I was born yesterday? I am no fool.”

  “We have only one gun. You must trust me.”

  “As Isabelle trusted you? A boy whose loyalties change with the wind?”

  He keeps his eyes on me and slowly pulls the black Makapili mask over his face.

  The sight of the mask unsettles me. It brings a riot of emotions to the surface. I feel my breathing come sharp and quick. I see his eyes through the slits still focused on me. Next he pulls out a white band and ties it around his arm, and still he watches me.

  “You must trust me,” he insists.

  There is truth to his words. We are outnumbered, outgunned. I hold out my hands.

  “No, they must be tied behind your back. I will tie them loosely.”

  “You think me crazy?”

  “There is little time.”

  I take a deep breath and put my hands behind my back, and he begins to tie.

  “Loosely,” I grunt. When he is done, I look over my shoulder at him. “Let us not regret this. If this is a trick, I will not rest until you are found.” I pause for a moment and swallow my pride. “If nothing else, Feliciano, save these three, they are innocent. My son is just a boy. Their lives are in your hands.”

  He nods, his attention already fixed on the soldiers. The soldiers listen at our approach. The officers stand and grab quickly for their guns. Feliciano bows and presses his gun into my back to urge me forward.

  “Commanders, I bring you the guerrilla leader Domingo Matapang.”

  I jump at the sound of his voice beside me. My skin crawls at his words. I am a lamb to the slaughter. The commanders squint at Feliciano while the guards look anxiously at the surrounding jungle. Feliciano pulls off his mask, and the majors’ faces relax in relief. The response alone turns my stomach. Their casual trust in him means many things. He has done much to win their loyalty, but at what cost?

  I glance toward the prisoners. Roman Flores makes eye contact with me, and I raise my brows slightly. Alejandro cranes his neck to see. Taba watches with large eyes.

  “Feliciano, excellent!” the one named Koiso exclaims. He studies me from head to foot. He calls the other commander, and the man takes a drawing from his pocket. Koiso slaps the paper with the back of his hand. “It is him. But how did you capture him? The general will be pleased.”

  “I was on my way back from the Villamar Hotel. He was injured. You see?” Feliciano lifts my shirt and points to the bandages along my side.

  “But who has bandaged him?” Koiso asks suspiciously. He has a long straight nose. His eyes are small and close together.

  “He was with his wife, but I killed her.”

  At his words, my son begins to cry. “I want my mama.”

  “Quiet!” Matsura shouts. He walks over to Taba and kicks him in the side. Taba loses consciousness. I grit my teeth so hard, I feel as if my jaw will break.

  “You see?” the long-faced Koiso asks Matsura. “What did I tell you about Feliciano? He is loyal to our side. He has proven this many times.” He turns to Feliciano. “You will be rewarded by the emperor.”

  Feliciano bows obediently. “I am honored.”

  “Place him with the other captives,” Koiso orders.

  We begin to walk toward Roman and the others. It is perfect.

  “Wait,” Matsura orders.

  My blood pumps fast through my body. We stop.

  “Yes, Commander?” Feliciano asks.

  Matsura comes toward us. He walks pigeon-toed, his wide hips giving his thin frame a pear shape. His cigarette is stuffed in the corner of his mouth. He takes the lighted end and presses it to my neck. I grunt loudly in pain; the fury in me is almost uncontrollable, but I quench it. He takes a step back and kicks me in the stomach. I drop to my knees.

  Matsura smiles proudly. “We have defeated you. With your father’s help, we will defeat the Americans as well.”

  I force myself to bow my head. The burn to my neck is a hot dagger. The Japanese laugh among themselves in approval. Feliciano smiles and nods with them. I glare at him, but he refuses to look my way. He grabs my arm and leads me toward the others. He pushes me to the ground. My shoulder bears the brunt of the fall. Feliciano follows the commanders into the tent without a backward glance.

  “Domingo,” Roman whispers.

  “If I cut you free, can you fight?” I ask Roman.

  “I will fight,” he answers.

  “And the other prisoners?”

  “They are near death. The children have not yet been harmed. Alejandro has been very quiet.”

  “As long as he still breathes.”

  “But how will you free yourself?”

  Three guards approach and we bow our heads. The guards talk quietly among themselves and glance my way. They come for a closer inspection, and I avoid their eyes. They make a show of being unimpressed. With mouths turned down they walk to the middle of the encampment and ready their mats for sleep. I breathe a sigh. There are now only two active guards. One walks a smaller circle around our perimeter, seventy feet from us. The other walks counterclockwise in a larger circle. I wait. The larger circle takes the guard fifteen minutes to walk. The smaller circle takes the other guard ten minutes.

  When they have passed, Roman asks his question again. “How will you untie yourself?”

  “Feliciano is with us. He led me to this camp.”

  Roman frowns. “You trust him?”

  “We shall see. I mean to take this guard. When he returns from his walk.” We wait until the guards intersect again, and I begin to strain against my ties.

  I turn toward the tent, and the sound of laughter rings out. The commanders laugh and joke easily with Feliciano. Their voices carry, pricking at my skin. Roman raises his head and looks toward the tent and shakes his head.

  Koi
so’s voice is loud and jovial. His shadow moves, giant and godlike, before a lantern. “You have served us well, Feliciano. You are very brave to take this guerrilla commander on your own. He is said to be very deadly with the knife.”

  Feliciano’s voice is thick with pride. “It was not difficult. The stories of him have grown as they have been passed on. He is just a man. Older than me, starved, with nothing but pride left. We fought, but it did not take much to subdue him. I convinced him that if I took him in as a prisoner, we could raid your camp.”

  Roman looks at me sharply.

  Laughter bursts forward from the tent. “And he believed this? The fool.” Koiso crows like a bird.

  Matsura’s shadow stands; it reaches for something, and he pours. “Drink, Feliciano. In honor of your prize. For days we have tried to track this guerrilla and you fool him with a few kind words.”

  I am struggling with my ties. They will not loosen. My breath comes quickly. I strain and twist, but the rope will not unravel. I try to quiet my anger.

  “I will kill him,” I curse. “Roman, there is a knife in my right boot.”

  Roman nods. He can barely move. He is lying on his back, on a slab of metal. The metal appears to be large pieces of a truck or airplane. His wrists are tied tightly and the ropes are staked to the ground. I put my foot near his hands, and he strains with his fingers.

  “Tell me, how can we reward you?” Matsura voice booms. “Anything.”

  “I am humbled by your words, Commander,” Feliciano answers. “But it is I who must serve you. As I have told you, I just returned from the Villamor Hotel, where I have selected ten beautiful Filipinas. They are on their way as we speak. That was how I ran into that fool Domingo.”

  Roman is unable to reach my knife, yet he continues to try. My ties are unbreakable. I wrestle with them furiously. One of the guards has returned. He notices our movement and walks toward us. He approaches and we stop moving.