He watches the fire grow as dawn approaches, and he continues watching until it consumes all the paper, including the wooden box, and the leather straps that once held the lid in place.
He looks at his right ring finger. The wound, somehow, had completely healed, leaving a faint scar around the base.
He takes his spade and begins to fill the hole.
Somewhere in the distance, he hears a child laugh.
* * *
“Often the sorrowing pilgrim is envied / Circling the globe like a seagull above / Little, ah, little they know what a void / Saddens his soul by the absence of love.”
- Dr. José Rizal, “El Canto del Viajero,” 1896
December, 1896.
It is a cold morning on the field of Bagumbayan. His master stands several yards away from the rifle squad, his back toward them, dressed impeccably with his black trousers, coat, and bowler hat. Despite the rope that binds his elbows to his sides, his master cuts a noble silhouette to all the witnesses present.
“Fuego!” came the order, followed by the near simultaneous report of gunfire.
His master turns to face his accusers one last time. Then he falls; a martyr to his contemporaries, a hero to a generation yet unborn.
Not much is known about the exact fate of his mistress. Some say she fought in the Revolution of 1898. But most say she went on to marry a prominent Cebuano, and settled in Hong Kong, where she gave birth to a daughter. Yet the girl hardly knew her mother, for she was barely two years old when her mother passed away on the Ides of March, 1902.
Doña Josefina Abad, as she now calls herself, lies on a simple cot in a Hong Kong hospital. “Consumption,” was the word the doctors had used to describe her malady. They had also instructed her husband to keep their daughter away from her. The disease, they cautioned, was infectious, caused by bacteria in her lungs.
But she did not want to die alone, so she called for a priest. Her confessor, her friend, the boy who became a man. The doctor allowed him to stay with her only if he agreed to wear a medical mask.
Father Spada, as he now calls himself, sits by her side. He had just been ordained the previous year. She holds on to his warm, familiar hand, the same hand he had cut years ago, softer now than when she first held it.
She asks him if he can read her the poem he had rescued from the grave.
“I remember it by heart,” he says.
She tells him that she truly loved his master. That she loved him deeply, but his destiny would not allow him to fade like the others. She is glad to have found another.
Father Spada removes his mask, touches her forehead, kisses it gently. He then whispers the last poem into her ears. She closes her eyes just as he reaches the end:
Adiós, mi dulce extranjera / mi amiga, mi alegría
Adiós, queridos seres / morir es descansar.
Silence follows. He sits with her awhile. Father Spada then removes his rosary and lays it on her chest, placing her cold hands over it.
He stands up, inspects the room, and sees her waiting for him by the doorway.
She is a young girl, seventeen or eighteen years of age, with smooth alabaster skin, chestnut blonde hair, and rich blue-green eyes that stare out between forgetfulness and forever. She wears spider silk robes and a crown of emeralds and gold.
She is, will always be, exquisitely beautiful.
“The Sweet Stranger” copyright © 2008 by Michael A.R. Co. This story was a Gregorio Brillantes Award Finalist for prose fiction.
Afterword
It was my first time in Boracay back in 1997. It was a different beach back then: less commercialized with a lot more nudity.
Many foreign ladies, from Europe mostly, had no qualms about removing their bikini tops. They loved our balmy Philippine climate, they loved exposing themselves to the sun, and we welcomed their strange customs without complaint.
I approached one of them as she sunbathed near the shoreline. Of course, she didn’t have a top on. Her name, which she spelled for me in the sand, was “Laurence” and she pronounced it “Law-Rahnss” because she was French. I asked her why she was topless, and she just shrugged. She then asked me what I did for a living. And I said, “I’m a writer.”
That was true. I was a professional writer. I did newsletters, brochures, and occasionally some ad copy. But I never wrote fiction. Yet there I was, concocting an elaborate piece of verbal fiction just so I could maximize my time ogling this sweet stranger. I thought it would impress her.
Ten years later, when my first story “The God Equation” won first place in the Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards, I discovered that I might indeed have the talent for telling written lies.
I guess this is where inspiration comes from: talking to beautiful women in tropical beaches.
Or perhaps, reading British novelists. Tolkien, Fleming, Gaiman.
In 2006, Neil Gaiman (yes, the Neil Gaiman) had sponsored a writing contest with a local bookstore chain. It was called the Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards, and the top prize went as high as US$2000. It was, by far, the biggest cash prize for any literary contest in the country, including the prestigious Palanca Awards.
I knew I had to give it a shot.
I had an idea percolating in my brain for at least ten years. Fear had kept me from committing the words to paper, and laziness prevented me from even trying. Thankfully, greed took me in with open arms.
I feverishly wrote the story about the angelic assassin over a two-day period. I submitted my entry minutes before the deadline. It would take many months before the winners were announced. When the time came, Neil (I like to think we’re on a first name basis) couldn’t attend the awards night, so the organizers played a video recording of him saying swell things about each of the winning stories. He described my story as “muscular” and he thoroughly enjoyed it. That’s all a 145 lb guy needed to hear.
I’ve written more stories since then. Two of them (“In the Eyes of Many” and “The Sweet Stranger”) were also shortlisted in subsequent Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards. Through the gentle and persistent prodding of my wife, a novelist in her own right, I’ve decided to share some of these stories to a wider audience. I’ve re-edited them slightly for this edition.
“The God Equation” came from a simple premise about the nature of faith. I think that at the heart of all belief is the secret fear that everything is a lie, and one overcomes this fear not by seeking answers but by acceptance: whether it’s accepting Jesus as their Lord and Savior; accepting the cycle of reincarnation as the path to Nirvana; accepting that Sisyphus will always roll that rock; or accepting that the universe is filled with big questions beyond the sound of one hand clapping. And it is these questions, not the answers, which drive us to keep on living.
“Waiting for Victory” sprung from my interest in the five-century-old Magellan expedition. When I was in grade school in the U.S., I was taught that Magellan was a great explorer, and that he was killed by “unfriendly natives.” When I returned to the Philippines, however, I was taught that Magellan was a villain and he was killed by the country’s first hero, Lapu-Lapu, the chieftain of Mactan. Just like the relativity of time (Julian, Gregorian, Einsteinian) it just shows that history will always be written by the victors. But individual characters do make major historical impacts, whether you believe in butterflies or not. For those unfamiliar with Philippine politics, we have a president, not a prime minister. You might want to read the story again.
“The Off Season” was my attempt at writing a Christmas crime story. Not having a criminal mind, I decided to focus on the consequences. It was a fun story to write, inspired by the notion that Christmas began as a pagan holiday and that “Old Nick” was also the nickname of the Devil. He might even have worked for the CIA. Choose what you want to believe.
“In the Eyes of Many” is a personal favorite. It’s surprisingly prescient, the way SF is supposed to be. I think it’s one of my best, although “The God Equation” seems to have its
share of fans. I wrote the story before Twitter became popular, and I was tempted to rewrite the story to include the site, just to keep things up-to-date. What a futile exercise that would’ve been. Wikileaks, anyone? The right to privacy is one of Man’s greatest lies. (Although some would blame the serpent.)
“The Sweet Stranger” is an East-meets-West fantasy. It’s also a coming of age story with a love triangle involving Dr. José Rizal (the Philippine national hero), Josephine Bracken (his Irish mistress), and one of his students. History does mention a “Father Spada,” but I’m sure he never was a student of Dr. Rizal. Apologies to his descendents.
I come from a nation of performers. We sing, we dance, we make up stories. We take inspiration from our perceived pasts, painful presents, and fantastical futures. We enjoy wordplay, in native and foreign tongues, and we take inspiration from the both classics and clichés. Our skin comes in many shades, and you can find us working in many lands. We are often misunderstood, and it’s no surprise that we often misunderstand ourselves.
I guess this could also describe other nationalities.
Perhaps that’s what fiction is for: a way of sharing how similar we actually feel about the stuff in our world and beyond. Little lies to help us see bits of truth, with a small letter t.
Believe me. I’m a writer.
Michael A.R. Co
December 30, 2010 (Rizal Day)
Table of Contents
Dedication
Copyright
THE GOD EQUATION
WAITING FOR VICTORY
THE OFF SEASON
IN THE EYES OF MANY
THE SWEET STRANGER
Afterword
The God Equation and Other Stories Page 10
