How to Traverse Terra Incognita

by Dean Francis Alfar

  Mira was seventeen when this happened, and suddenly found her grief crowded by a wave of sympathizers, most of them men, offering their condolences amid suggestive looks of more intimate comforts, should she wish.

  “No, thank you,” she replied to each and every man.

  Among those who offered sincere comfort were her father’s most devoted customers.

  “It is a terrible tragedy that your father is dead,” Old Nenang clucked. “But we are glad that Janus the Twin-Faced has you to carry on the tradition.”

  “Tradition?” Mira managed to repeat. “But—”

  “We look forward to hearing from the spirits, and for you to tell us what tomorrow brings.”

  It was then that Mira realized that she had only two choices at that point in her life, given her tender age and the fact that she was a woman: first, to take on the mantle of her father and perpetuate what, to her, were lies; or second, to take a husband from the gaggle of suitors who spoke of their devotion to her and become a wife, then a mother.

  Of the second, the fortune-teller’s daughter was appalled. Though in the handful of years that passed for adolescence, a few of the boys had become handsome men, none of them truly interested her. Or they were only interested in having her. She doubted any of them knew her enough to truly love her. And she was certainly not interested in just becoming a wife. She knew that even if, like her father, she could not see the future, she was certain that she would not settle for an ordinary life of cooing after her husband and rearing children.

  Of the first, she was likewise appalled. Without a means of livelihood, it would be impossible for her to maintain her life. Without money, she could not buy food or clothes. But the duplicitous nature of her father’s “tradition” did not sit well with her.

  Ultimately, she chose the first option, thinking that it was not something she had to do forever.

  “Just until I have enough to go to Manila,” she told no one in particular.

  And so she took over her father’s dubious enterprise, reaching out to his loyal following and inviting them for readings and visitations in her home, in exchange for the usual small fees. She planned to employ every bit of trickery that had belonged to Janus the Twin-Faced, except for taking a name that, to her, always sounded ridiculous and out of place.

  “Oh, but what do we call you?” Old Nenang, her first querent, was mortified when she discovered that the fortune-teller’s daughter was content with just her common name.

  “Mira is fine,” the fortune-teller’s daughter answered. “It is my name, after all.”

  “Oh, but Janus the Twin-Faced said that the spirits would respond only to powerful names, ancient foreign names.”

  “My father’s name was Maximo.”

  “Your father was Janus the Twin-Faced,” Old Nenang replied. “If you don’t take a name like that, then the spirits will not reveal the future. And if you cannot see the future, you will not see me. Or my friends.”

  “But I can tell you the future. Place your hands on the table and—”

  “Maybe you will guess. Are you really gifted?”

  Mira regarded the wrinkled woman for a long moment before releasing a pent-up sigh.

  “Fine,” she told Old Nenang. “I will take a name. So the spirits will cooperate.”

  “So, what do we call you?”

  “Janus the Twin-Faced,” the fortune-teller’s daughter replied. “It worked for him. It should work for me.”

  And so it was that the second Janus the Twin-Faced began business. She emptied out her trove of personal knowledge about the old woman, feigned the appearance of spirits, and told her to watch what she ate in the days to come. For the next querent, she read the spread of worn cards and cautioned her against unexpected visitors. For the woman after that, she intimated the wisdom of watching her husband’s nocturnal leavetaking, knowing full well that the man’s unfaithfulness was whispered of around town.

  Festivals came one after the other, and soon it was as if Janus the Twin-Faced had never died and had been a young woman all that time. And through the months that followed, the fortune-teller’s daughter learned not to turn away her suitors but instead invite them for a reading, so they would, like all her other customers, cross her palms with coin after she read theirs.

  Of course, their chief concern was her attention, and so their questions always revolved how their suits would fare in the future, to which she would always answer in vague positive generalities.

  It was Crisanto Montemayor, at the tail end of the harvest festival, who changed all that. She recognized him the moment he entered her receiving room: the slim, distant-looking man with dark brown hair and a strong jaw that appeared at the periphery of the cloud of suitors that followed her, when she was not telling fortunes. She took his arrival as a small triumph, for it was his first time to visit her there, and his financial contribution would be appreciated, and appreciated again and again, when she convinced him to return.

  “Good afternoon, Mira,” Crisanto greeted her softly.

  “I am Janus the Twin-Faced,” the fortune-teller’s daughter intoned in a deep voice. “Address me properly, and the spirits will listen.”

  The young man blushed, nodded, and took the seat across the table from her. “I’m sorry,” he said with some hesitation. “Good afternoon, Janus the Twin-Faced. I’ve come for a reading.”

  “We begin with your palm,” the fortune-teller’s daughter said, reaching for his. In her mind, she was reviewing everything she knew about him, parsing information that she would reveal bit by bit. She thought about referencing his older brother’s newly born son, or perhaps alluding to the time, years ago, when he fell from an acacia tree and broke his arm, already spinning threads into a fabric of story, when she touched his offered palm.

  At the moment her hands touched his, the future broke into the present, invading the confines of her small room in a cascade of powerful images and noise. Too stunned to move, the fortune-teller’s daughter could only watch, as tomorrows crashed into each other like waves upon the ocean.

  She saw Crisanto managing his father’s business, ensuring the continuance of their family’s merchandise store. She saw the smile that crossed his lips, as he blew out the lamps and went upstairs to the living area above the store. And she saw herself greet him with a kiss that became an embrace that became so much more, as passion overtook them both.

  With a gasp, the fortune-teller’s daughter released Crisanto’s hand. Immediately the future recoiled and left only the present.

  “Are you—are you all right?” Crisanto asked with concern.

  She took a breath before she answered him. “Yes,” she said. “The spirits have spoken. Your store needs you. See to it. And—and be wary of your left arm.”

  “Oh,” he replied with dejection. “I thought perhaps you could answer a—”

  “The spirits have spoken enough for the day,” the fortune-teller’s daughter said, making to stand. “Come back tomorrow.”

  When the confused suitor had left, Mira took stock of what just occurred, deeply perturbed. After she had calmed herself down, she looked at her own palm but could see nothing, beyond the lines etched there. She tried divining her own future with cards but, like her father, exhibited no extraordinary epiphanies.

  “Spirits,” she called out to the room. “Are you real? What is happening?”

  She waited for their reply, but when it became clear that no responses were forthcoming, the fortune-teller’s daughter closed shop and sat alone with her thoughts.

  It was with a degree of trepidation that Janus the Twin-Faced received her first customer the next day. She sat firmly in place, set her back against the chair, and readied herself for the onslaught of the future, when she requested the querent’s palm. But the future did not come. The fortune-teller’s daughter went through the routine and gave a satisfying, though indistinct, reading. She prepared for the next customer and went through her intense mental preparation against tomorro
w, but nothing occurred—so she told him to be careful of the boil he was hiding. And so it went for the rest of the day, querent after querent who thought little of spending a few coins for future guidance, all flush with money from the harvest. But the fortune-teller’s daughter did not see anything beyond the present, despite her wishes, despite her preparations. She dispatched each querent with words they wanted to hear.

  Crisanto returned for a reading later in the afternoon.

  “Good afternoon, Janus the Twin-Faced,” Crisanto said with a smile, as he sat down across from her.

  “Good afternoon,” the fortune-teller’s daughter replied, almost forgetting to lower the tone of her voice. Her earlier excitement and anxiety were rekindled by the appearance of the man who had triggered the future in the first place. “Quickly, give me your palm.”

  Crisanto complied, raising an eyebrow at the urgency of the fortune-teller’s daughter’s request.

  When Mira touched his hand, the unseen doors of the future opened once again, and the small room was invaded by tomorrow. With an exultant shout, the fortune-teller’s daughter stood up, both her hands trapping Crisanto’s hand in a firm grip, as she saw his proposal, her acceptance, their wedding and subsequent passion.

  Laughing, she released his hand and watched the swift retreat of the future.

  “Are you—I mean, Janus the Twin-Faced, are you all right?” Crisanto asked, standing next to her.

  “Only yours,” the fortune-teller’s daughter said, after her laughter subsided. “I can see only yours, and I am in it.”

  “What do you—”

  “What does that mean?” Mira turned to face him.

  “What does what mean?” the confused man said.

  “Give me your palm again, Crisanto,” the fortune-teller’s daughter told him.

  Crisanto extended his hand toward her again. “All right, but—”

  “I want to see more,” she told him.

  All their tomorrows surged once again: living and laughing together, moving to Manila, having a child—a daughter who looked exactly half hers and half his, putting up a large store that attracted many customers—none of them querents, holding hands as they grew old together. She saw the accident that would rob Crisanto of the use of his legs, saw her taking care of him, taking over the daily business of the store, coming home to his marvelous smile. She watched their hair turn grey, as their lone daughter and son-in-law produced four beautiful children, saw herself playing with all of them, teaching the youngest boy card tricks, while Crisanto nodded from his wheelchair.

  She saw her entire life, intertwined with his, and knew that until his last breath Cristanto remained faithful and true, loved with a passion that grew deeper with the years, and asked for nothing more than to be given the chance, every day, to make her happy.

  The fortune-teller’s daughter was in tears when she released Crisanto’s hand and dismissed all their tomorrows.

  “Janus,” Cristanto began.

  “Shhh,” she said, wiping away the tears from her eyes. “I have a decision to make.”

  Crisanto looked at the fortune-teller’s daughter in silence.

  “And,” she smiled at him. “My name is Mira.”

  AN EXCERPT FROM A DOOR OPENS: THE BEGINNING OF THE FALL OF THE ISPANCIALO-IN-HINIRANG (EMPRENSA PRESS: 2007) BY SALAHUDDIN ALONTO, ANNOTATED BY OMAR JAMAD MAUDUDI, MLS, HOL, JMS

  OVER A CENTURY before the Final Revolution that ended the Ispancialo rule in Hinirang,1 there was an obscure uprising that almost brought the colonizers to their knees2. Archival discoveries in the past 50 years3 have brought to light the sequences of events that have been characterized as ‘The Door Uprising’4. Inveterate diarists and letter-writers, the Ispancialo who were aware of the uprising provided copious details—enough to inspire a goodly number of popular novels5 and films6.

  In 1784, a Door in the Katao faithlands was opened by chance by a student7. The audienca royal of Hinirang, including representatives from the military, religious, arcane, poetic,8 and scientific,9 decided to shut the door10 by sending an expeditionary force through the portal. What occurred next was a massacre,11 as the expeditionary force found itself assaulted by the heroes of the Katao’s folk belief system12. Though a few survivors managed to escape and shut the Door, the damage was already done.

  For the next hundred years, native storytellers all over the archipelago began telling the old heroic tales,13 blurring geographical and tribal lines with heroes from the north appearing in southern tales, and vice versa14. This undermined the Ispancialo strategy of ‘divide and conquer’, by which clannish tribes were set against each other, effectively quelling disturbances15. However, the heroic tales, in which heroes from different tribes and traditions joined forces, continued to spread, leading to a gradual and inevitable sense of nationalism16.

  This culminated in the famous 1896 Revolution,17 when at last the Katao overthew Ispancialo rule, followed by the declaration of an independent and sovereign Hinirang in 1898 18.

  ENDNOTES

  1. The Ispancialo ruled for 327 years.

  2. There were frequent uprisings by the Katao of Hinirang, who resented the Ispancialo’s encomienda system. Among the most dangerous ones occurred in 1589, when the first Ispancialo governor, Miguel López de Legazpi, was made a viceroy, with the subsequent appointment of the audienca royal. At the height of the religious mass to commemorate the event, over eighty Katao, armed only with stones, attacked the assemblage, ultimately falling to superior Ispancialo numbers and weaponry.

  Norhata Kudarat, Colonial Hinirang, 1565-1653 (Mirabilis Press, 1991), 107

  3. Alberto Manalastas, “Historical Trove Unearthed in Diliman,” Diario Manila (Ciudad Manila, Hinirang), December 11, 2003

  4. Certain revisionist scholars such as Meynard Bolasco and Gabriel Lo-tonon prefer the use of the term “gate”.

  5. The first such novel was Sangria Yesterday by Nolledo Patalinjug, winner of the Carlos Palanca Memorial Award Grand Prize for Novel in 1981, and published by Anvil Books in 1982.

  6. Among the most notable is The Blood Door, the critically-acclaimed 2002 Hinirang-Nippon film directed by Satoshi Kon.

  7. It was Alonzo Nicolas Clessidraña of the Concilio Ciencia who discovered the door to the Katao’s faithlands.

  Alonzo, researching the chronal peculiarities of the forbidden area underneath the Plaza Emperyal, stumbled across the forgotten wooden opening on his thirty-third day of investigation, just before he was about to abandon his pursuit of a degree at the Orden and instead help his grandfather maintain his shop along the Encantó lu Caminata.

  Instead, despite the fervent protests of his research companions, he forced open the odd-looking door, using the calipher resonancia, and vanished into the unearthly radiance. Those who were left behind, after a painful and hurried discussion, shut and barred the wooden aperture, and rushed to report everything to their superiors.

  Victor Montes, Gregorio Lacuesta, Wilfredo Co, Uprisings (Best Day Publishing, 1989), 23

  8. Masters of the Spoken Word, the Poetics were versed in many secret methods of power, such as what would in later decades be characterized as the bildungsroman form of twisting moral identities and the use of inveterate haplology and edulcoration.

  9. Realizing that the situation was beyond their capacity to handle, the Concilio Ciencia sent emissaries to the other members of the audienca royal of Ciudad Meiora—the Secular, Poetic, Arcane, and Spiritual institutions whose policies and movements decided the fate of Ispancialo Hinirang—requesting an emergency meeting to determine what needed to be done. The missive stated in no uncertain terms that secrecy was required, due to the delicate nature of the situation and that it was imperative that all five Powers convened immediately.

  Anne Marie Tambour and Marlene Ford-Cunanan, eds., Power Plays: the Balance of Power in Colonial Hinirang (Ateneo Press), 1983

  10. First to arrive at the squat red towers of the Concilio Ciencia was an unremarkable qalesa bearing two e
xtraordinary men. Alejandro Beltran Alessio du Virata y Ramirez, the Guvernador-Henerale of Hinirang, eschewed his normal accoutrements of rank and wore a dull-colored cloak over simple vestments. He was accompanied by Ser Humberto Carlos Pietrado y Villareal, the elder brother of the man who had recently, rather embarrassingly, lost a peculiar footrace against a Katao woman. They represented the Military Government, the most visible of the Powers.

  A few minutes later, a velvet-covered palanquin brought the representatives of the Gremio Poetica. Betina du Zabala, the Most Excellent Primo Orador, gestured impatiently at her companion to hurry out of the conveyance. Biting back her tongue, Esperanza du Zabala, the Most Excellent Segundo Orador, locked vicious gazes with her mother, and rushed into the Orden’s tower. Both Oradors, recently arrived from the Mother Country, were masters of Poetics, and the Gremio Poetica held sway over all art and communication in the Ispancialo demesne.

  Maestra Onsia Helmina and Maestro Cinco Almario, of the Escolia du Arcana Menor, arrived next, on foot. Maestra Helmina clutched her robes close to her breast and looked up to try to read the thoughts of her reluctant younger companion. But Maestro Almario, rumored to have Katao blood in his veins, kept his silence. So, without a word, the representatives of the Arcane surreptitiously erected invisible wards around themselves and entered the tower.

  The last to arrive were a pair from the Katedral Grandu, divinely-inspired clerics of the Tres Hermanas and spiritual heirs of the Pio Familia. Madre Gorospe invoked her eighty-six years of Faith to calm herself down, inwardly trembling at the implications hinted at by the summoning missive. But her companion, the tiq’barang cleric Sister Veronica T’gubilin, smiled in anticipation and stomped her hooves once to contain her excitement.

  Within the red towers, Consejal Lucio Pejeno, current head of the Concilio Ciencia, ushered all the leaders in, after requesting for them to leave their companions in an outer room.

  “Thank you all for responding so quickly,” Consejal Lucio Pejeno began. “Forgive the terse nature of the letter I sent. The sensitive nature of—”