“Kung hindi ko po subukan—”
“Kung matalo ka—”
“Kung manalo po ako? Tulad ng mga bayani sa mga kuwento mo?
“Hindi ito kuwento, Rosa! Alam mo ba kung ano ang nakataya?”
“Opo. Ang pagkatao ko.”
V. At the Plaza Binondo4
WORD ABOUT THE impossible race, fueled by both Ser Pietrado’s celebrity and Rosang Taba’s absurd temerity, spread throughout the districts of Ciudad, and the extraordinary crowd that gathered to watch divided into two camps alongside the Plaza Binondo, one of the oldest sites in the city.
On the side of the Ispaniola-in-Hinirang, rich velvets, silks, and fine brocade created a sea of color, punctuated by gaily hued parasols and glittering jewelry. The entire Cortes was present, resplendent in their hastily constructed pavilions that shimmered in the afternoon sun. The Mother Church, foreign envoys and diplomats, visiting artists, guildlords, and the highest members of the Guardia Civil added to their numbers.
Across from them, the Katao of Hinirang stood shoulder-to-shoulder — uniformed tradesmen, laborers, and servants, forming an expanse of white, blue, and red camisa, brown salakots and lilac bellos. Hawkers moved among them, offering bibingka, turon, and cassava cakes, as the crowd’s collective heart beat in fervent anticipation of the incredible event.
When Ser Jaime Alonzo Pietrado ei Villareal arrived, dressed in turquoise doublet and breeches, the Ispaniola-in-Hinirang burst into a thunderous applause. Ser Pietrado gave a blinding smile and an ill-repressed moan escaped the lips of many young women who dreamed of sharing his bed.
When Rosang Taba made her appearance, dressed in cloth and colors of her father’s mountain tribe that magnificently displayed her unabashed health, the Ispaniola-in-Hinirang began to laugh. But the spontaneous cheer of the Katao of Hinirang robbed their laughter of its cruel power and shook the very foundations of the Plaza.
The Guvernador-Henerale approached the two contestants, accompanied by the most exquisite woman of Ciudad.
“Rosa,” he spoke as the crowd strained to listen. “I assume the Plaza Binondo is the start of your race course. You will now tell us both the middle and the end.”
“Opo, Ser,” said Rosang Taba replied. She raised a huge arm and pointed eastwards. “Ser Peitrado and I must go through the length of the Street of Lost Hope and return here.”
A gasp escaped the side of the Katao of Hinirang, and Rosang Taba’s father began to laugh, and was almost immediately followed by another, and another and soon all the crowd on that side was laughing with tears in their eyes.
All of the Ispaniola-in-Hinirang did not know what to make of it. The Guvernador-Henerale raised his hand for silence.
“Ser Pietrado, do you understand the course?” he asked the handsome young commander.
“Of course, Your Excellency,” Ser Pietrado bowed. “That street over there. No doubt it loops back to this Plaza.”
Rosang Taba nodded.
“Very well. Proceed to the mouth of the street. You may then take your fifteen paces, Rosa,” the Guvernador-Henerale instructed them. “At my signal, the race will begin.”
“You are a foolish woman,” Ser Pietrado told her as they moved towards the mouth of the Street of Lost Hope. “And have chosen an appropriately named street for our course.”
“Opo, Ser.”
When they reached the street, Rosang Taba counted fifteen steps from its beginning and Ser Jaime Alonzo Pietrado ei Villareal, the pride of the Ispaniola-in-Hinirang, realized that he would lose.
VI. The Street of Lost Hope5
THE STREET OF Lost Hope is the narrowest lane in Ciudad, averaging five handspans in width. No more than one person can navigate its length at a time.
And Rosang Taba was no ordinary person.
VII. The Race6
ROSANG TABA RAN as fast as she could, and Ser Pietrado, with an animal roar, quickly closed the fifteen-pace gap. But he could not pass her — so tightly was her bulk wedged along the slender path that he could not even see where they were going.
She endured his curses and threats and maledictions, squeezing through the wickedly narrow lane. Her shoulders began to bleed as she scraped roughly against the constrictive walls.
“Let me pass, you pig!” Ser Pietrado cried, savagely planting a boot in her back.
“Hindi!” Rosa shouted, biting back the sting, refusing to allow even one tear to escape her eyes, as she fought to maintain her position and balance.
“Let me pass!” Ser Pietrado screamed, as he attempted to clamber over her, only to be frustrated by the low ceilings formed by the lane’s old arches.
“Hindi!”
Each time he struck her with his fists or feet, Rosa voiced her passionate denial of his demands, fueled by a conviction whose depths only her heart understood.
“Jódalo! Let me pass!”
Ser Peitrado howled in anger and hurled at large rock at her head.
“Hindi!” She cried, ignoring the red-tinged pain and sudden warm wetness that engulfed her senses.
He tried pushing her, biting her, clawing at her, ramming her, tripping her, entangling her, everything he could possibly do, but she was a natural bottleneck all the way around and back to the Plaza Binondo where they began, to the deafening roar of the Katao of Hinirang, and the stunned silence of the Ispaniola-in-Hinirang, sparkling mutely in the sunset.
VIII. A Drinking Song7
Nasaan ka nang kumarera si Rosang Taba? (Si Rosang Taba!)
Sa Binondo, sa Plaza ng Binondo
Ay, nakita ko ang Ispaniola mapahiya (wala silang nasabi!)
Sa Binondo, sa Plaza ng Binondo
Itaas, itaas, itaas
Ang baso, alak at tuba
Kung kaya niya, kaya ko
Kung kaya ko, kaya mo
Nasaan ka nang nanalo si Rosang Taba? (Si Rosang Taba!)
Sa Binondo, sa Plaza ng Binondo
Ay naku, ang bilis kumalat ng balita (makinig ka sa sinasabi!)
Mula sa Binondo, sa Plaza ng Binondo
Itaas, itaas, itaas
Ang baso, alak at tuba
Kung kaya niya, kaya ko
Kung kaya ko, kaya mo
Nasaan ka nang tumawa si Rosang Taba? (Si Rosang Taba!)
Sa Binondo, sa Plaza ng Binondo
Ay, ay, ay, at tayo lamang ang naki-tawa (wala silang masabi!)
Sa Binondo, sa Plaza ng Binondo
Kung kaya niya, kaya ko
Kung kaya ko, kaya mo
IX. Dénouement8
WITH THE GIFT of gold given to her by the amused Andreia Carmen Jimenez ei Rojillo, Rosang Taba did three things: she purchased her family’s freedom, visited a mountain that figured prominently in her dreams, and married a man who could not drown in the irrepressible bounty of her heart. She had thirteen children, numerous grandchildren, and died surrounded by her massive family when she was ninety-four, continuing to add to the girth of her insatiable body and spirit. She never raced again.
Ser Jaime Alonzo Pietrado ei Villareal left on the next outward bound galleon and vanished quietly into the sea.
An Excerpt from “Princes of the Sultanate” (Ghazali: 1902);
Annotated by Omar Jamad Maududi, MLS, HOL, JMS.
Prince Adnan of Marawi9, the Butterfly Prince10 (162111 – 1654)
IN THE FINAL year of the Sultanate’s “Hundred Years of Plenty”12, Sultan Abdul-Qahaar13 abdicated14 in favor of his eldest son15 by the Lost Sultana Faiza16, Prince Adnan. At the coronation ceremony that would have bestowed upon him both all of the Sultanate17 and the formal name of “Abdul-Raheem”18, Prince Adnan appeared garbed in nothing but butterflies19. The gathered peers of the Sultanate refused to recognize his father’s will and his own claim, branded him a madman20 and exiled him to the famous healing springs21 of Marawi, the seat of Prince Adnan’s maternal uncle Datu Ihsaan Nasiruddin22. The vacant throne of the Sultanate23 was contested by many, with the assassination of the first and strongest claimant, Prince Zakir Fahad24, mar
king the beginning of the “Decade of Blood”25 with a series of twelve Sultans ruling over the span of ten years.
In Marawi, Prince Adnan’s malady26 was determined to have been deliberately caused by external forces27 and treated under the strict supervision of Datu Ihsaan Nasiruddin of Marawi. Prince Adnan gathered a ragtag army28, returned to the city of Muhannad, and regained the throne of the Sultanate in “The Butterfly Siege”29 to the general acclaim of the people. However, he refused the title of Sultan and ruled as the first “Prince Among Princes30”, establishing the Rule of Princes that is perpetuated to this day.
In 1654, at age 33, he was murdered by Lady Yafiah Banan31. He was succeeded by his half-brother Prince Ziyad Muhannad, the Chained Prince32.
The Middle Prince
IT IS BELIEVED that the heirless Sultan of Sulu, when he dreamt that his end was near, expressed an old man’s wish to have a son and see him grow. The Sultana, who was as barren as an empty mirror frame and wracked with guilt, called on anyone who could help make her dying husband’s desire come true.
She had done this before, several times in fact, summoning every holy man and imam, all the doctors and chirurgeons, storytellers and wisewomen, admirals and tailors, weavers and hermits, merchants and owners of nightingales, as well as, later, all manner of bakers, soldiers, traders, vagabonds, janissaries, scalawags, popinjays, and inventors of fabulous lifelike toys from within and without the Sultanate, across the Sea of Sulu to islands nearby and far — all to no avail.
This time she made certain to invite the invisible powers of the welkin above, the secret warders of the groves, the spirits of the weave, the intelligences of words and oaths, the weeping dugong of Coron Island, the dwarves of the scattered punso, as well as any free-willed jin, ifrit, lamia, sirocco, tiq’barang, and elemental of Hinirang who could conceivably help.
She did this in a variety of ways: by blindfolded courier pigeon; with golden anklets attached to newborn salamanders; with engraved notes wrapped in silk of glorious colors encased in polished lacquer boxes buried near graveyards at midnight; with clever vials whose liquid sediment spelled out the entreaty when shaken; by burning vetiver-infused flax in freshly turned fields; with gargantuan rocks that formed letters in barren sands; by pleading in the ears of the deaf; and by forcing scorpions with minutely inscribed messages on their carapaces into empty bottles before these were corked and hurled into the sea.
When not a single envoy arrived, the Sultana choked back her quiet tears and decided to do something herself.
This is what she did: she took a knife of unburnished bronze, heated it over the dying embers of a stolen fire, and cut herself three times, enough to draw blood and cause her to swoon — once across her thigh, once across her arm, and once across her breast. The blood from her thigh she kept in an earthenware jar, which she then buried in the royal atrium. The blood from her arm she kept in a leather flask that once held fine olive oil, which she suspended from the kitchen rafters. The blood from her breast she caught in a glass thimble, sealing it with beeswax before hiding it in her armoire.
Convinced that what she had done was sufficient, the Sultana told her husband that he would be a father soon. The Sultan was so enveloped by the joy of anticipation that he leapt from his sickbed and danced with the Sultana, to the delight and applause of the royal household.
In due time, the Sultana gave birth to a son, whose skin was as dark as earth on a moonless night. The Sultan marveled over his ebony son and showered both mother and child with kisses.
The following year, the Sultana gave birth to another son, who arrived in the world smelling strongly of olives. The Sultan was delighted to be a father of two fine boys and declared a tremendous celebration that lasted for a month and a day.
And finally, the next year, the Sultana gave birth to the youngest son, whose complexion was so fine and delicate that one could almost believe he was a creature of spun glass. The Sultan was so happy that he died on the spot, leaving the Sultana in charge of the realm until the eldest prince came of age.
NOW IN THE YEARS THAT FOLLOWED, the people of the sultanate began to notice an odd occurrence. Every building that they put up, whether house or temple or seraglio or tent or stall or quay, had a distressing tendency to collapse upon itself. It was never anything that happened suddenly, but even the most unobservant citizens noticed the gradual destruction, and there came a time when very few old structures, like the palace, and absolutely no new ones were left standing.
The people, who were left with no homes, workplaces, shops, mosques, or inns, grew tired of living in the public open parks and esplanades, exposed to the wind and the sun and the moon, and with much anger took their case to the palace. The Sultana listened with helpless dismay at their complaints, promised them a solution forthwith, and sent each away with bottle of wine from the royal cellars and a goodly selection of dates, figs, and honey cakes. She then summoned her sons, all the members of the royal household, the Puissant Lord Commander of her army, and her ancient Vizier to see what could be done.
The members of the royal household suggested dividing what structures remained between all the people and having the royal family move to another island. The Puissant Lord Commander of her army suggested an imagined menace to divert the attention of the people. The Vizier, who had dreamed about this meeting years before when he was still a hairless boy, said that the only way to return the lost integrity of past, present, and future buildings would be for someone to go across the Celibate Ocean, survive the beautiful terrors of the Deep Waters, find the island of the Coral Crone, steal her most cherished possession, and immediately return to the kingdom.
The eldest prince volunteered to sail that very day. The Sultana embraced him and commended him for his courage. She told him that he would make a fine Sultan when the time came.
The youngest prince, beautiful and possessed of a fragile bonhomie, sang rather than spoke that he too would undertake the quest, for if one had a good chance, what more two? The Sultana gingerly held him in her arms, kissed him carefully on the forehead, and told him that she was certain he too would succeed.
The middle prince expelled a fatalistic sigh, and regarded both his brothers and mother. “Well,” he said in a resigned tone, “I suppose I’ll try as well.” At which point his mother embraced him, commented on how supple his skin was, and wished him luck.
Before the three princes left, the Vizier gave each of them a tiny wooden cup that could convert any liquid it held into fresh water, as well as a fine inner robe with gems sewn into the inseams, and the following words of advice: listen to the animals, help those you can, and show kindness to all you meet.
The eldest and the youngest princes set sail in their respective ships, leaving behind the middle prince, who took his time checking his ship’s inventory of supplies at the tattered remnants of what once were the quays.
THE MIDDLE PRINCE did not really want to go off on the quest. His love was of stories — the tales held in the large collection of books and scrolls in the palace library, as well as the occasional interesting anecdotes told by travelers who had graced their court when they still had buildings of interest to foreign visitors. He preferred to read and imagine things, the outside world holding little appeal to someone who had already walked the entire world in his head.
But the reason he didn’t want to go, the real reason, was that he knew that he, as the middle brother, had no hope of accomplishing the quest. In most stories he read about situations like this, the two elder brothers invariably failed because of a combination of vanity, pride, cowardice, greed or envy; and were transformed into pigs or some other equally lowly creature; were enslaved for years on end; got lost until they became old men; were cursed; blinded by a variety of sharp objects; turned to stone; or run out of the kingdom with only ravens and hungry jackals for company. It was usually the youngest brother who would, by dint of his compassion, helpfulness, and humility, succeed — helped along the way by cunning old wome
n, faithful wide-eyed dogs, rainbow-hued fish, or grateful ants, who would do whatever was needed to be done, solve the quest, and win the princess (and, if there were three princesses to choose from, he would get the youngest who, of course, would prove to be the fairest, cleverest, and most interesting as well).
His destiny sickened him, but the middle prince resolved to find a way not to fall into the trap of how things invariably turned out. But deep in his heart he doubted one could fight doom when it was spelled out so obviously, so repetitively, by all the stories he had ever heard. He seriously questioned if one person could change the way of the world.
So with nothing more than a meticulously supplied ship and a half-fervent, half-dismal desire to prove the stories somehow wrong, the middle prince sailed into the Celibate Ocean. His only consolation was that if there was a princess involved, either of his brothers could have her, because his interest did not lie in that direction — for princesses who marry princes become sultanas in due course, and he did not like his mother all that much.
THE CELIBATE OCEAN proved to be just that, endless and virginal, and within a few days the middle prince lost sight of his brothers’ ships, each of them borne by winds insistent on taking them in different directions. He stared at the empty expanse, sometimes blue, sometimes bottle green, sometimes broken by a peculiar iridescence, and moved inexorably towards the horizon. Already he was struck by a profound ennui, missing the comfort of the palace library, the smell of old books, and the ability to pace around. Within the confines of his laden one-man vessel, he was forced to stand if he wanted to stretch and extend a leg or an arm over the prow if he wanted to break the monotony of his position.
Tired of the monotony of water and the dull churn of the sea, he decided to try talking to the fish, remembering the Vizier’s advice to pay heed to the animals which was irrefutably backed up by all the tales he’d read.
The Kite of Stars and Other Stories Page 7