Love Beyond: Walang Hanggang Pagmamahal

by Grant Leishman

  Love Beyond

  (Walang Hanggang Pagmamahal)

  A Historical Romance

  By Grant Leishman

  Copyright © 2018 by Grant John Leishman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address:

  grantleishman@live.com

  EBook published by Dream Publications

  Cover Design by Eeva Lancaster for The Book Khaleesi: www.thebookkhaleesi.com

  ISBN# (Paperback):

  DEDICATION:

  This book is for my muse – my beautiful wife Teresita Paclibar Leishman, without whom none of this would have been possible.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  Firstly, I must acknowledge the input of Teresita Leishman who provided or checked all of my Tagalog (Filipino) translations in this story.

  Secondly, I want to thank Eeva Lancaster of The Book Khaleesi, for her beautiful and inspired cover design of Love Beyond. www.thebookkhaleesi.com

  Finally, this story would not be complete without acknowledging the woman who became the inspiration for my character, Luzviminda.

  Teresa Magbanua was one of those rare Filipina gems who stood up and was counted when the Filipino people first started to organise their resistance against the accursed Spanish occupants of their land. Teresa joined the fledgling revolutionary movement the KKK (Katastaasang Kagalanggalangang Katipunan) and fought alongside and led the men, into battle, against the Spaniards. Her deeds and bravery are not generally recognised in this country and I salute this “True Daughter of the Revolution”. You can read more about Teresa’s amazing life on a blog I wrote some time ago, about her: https://www.rynshell.com/ryn-shell-vlog/teresa-magbanua-a-daughter-of-the-revolution

  DISCLAIMER:

  This book is a total work of fiction. Any similarities to real events and / or real people, is purely coincidental, except where indicated below:

  Although the towns, cities, institutions and several of the incidental characters named in this novel may be real, they are only included to provide realism and nothing about them or their activities should be construed from this work of fiction.

  Any mistakes, factual or otherwise, are totally of my own making and I take full responsibility for them all.

  This book is written in British English, as that is my mother tongue.

  Grant Leishman: Author – August 2018.

  ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR:

  The Second Coming Trilogy

  The Second Coming (Book1)

  Rise of the AntiChrist (Book2)

  Holy War (Book3)

  Just a Drop in the Ocean

  The Photograph

  Paranormal Alley (With Chris Leishman)

  Tortured Minds (With Colin Griffiths and Rachel McGrath)

  Limitless (A collection of short stories and poems by many authors)

  Tales of the Fantastic (A Fantasy & Paranormal Teaser Anthology of Samples from six different authors (FREE)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS:

  CHAPTER 1 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 2 - HERNANDO CHAPTER 3 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 4 - HERNANDO CHAPTER 5 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 6 - HERNANDO CHAPTER 7 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 8 - HERNANDO CHAPTER 9 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 10 - HERNANDO CHAPTER 11 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 12 - HERNANDO CHAPTER 13 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 14 - HERNANDO CHAPTER 15 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 16 - TOGETHER AT LAST CHAPTER 17 - HERNANDO CHAPTER 18 - LUZVIMINDA CHAPTER 19 - THE WEDDING CHAPTER 20 - THE JOURNEY CHAPTER 21 - FORT KAKARONG DE SILI CHAPTER 22 - WAITING CHAPTER 23 - ARTURO ESCAPES CHAPTER 24 - THE SPANISH ARE COMING CHAPTER 25 - THE BATTLE CHAPTER 26 - THE SEIGE CHAPTER 27 - DISBELIEF EPILOGUE POSTSCRIPT ABOUT THE AUTHOR CONTACT THE AUTHOR

  LUZVIMINDA:

  Minda twisted and turned as she tried to fit her rapidly developing body into her “Sunday-best” dress. Despite it being still only four in the morning, her tiny room felt hot and oppressive. There was no breeze blowing through the bamboo walls to bring any relief from the stifling heat. It had been the hottest summer Minda could recall, in her short fifteen years. It was always hot here, no matter what the season, but summer more so.

  Finally, she managed to get her dress resting comfortably over her budding breasts, but she could feel the trail of perspiration sliding down between her shoulder blades, down her back to nestle and pool in the cleft of her buttocks. It was going to be a long, hot and tiring day. Sundays always were, she pondered ruefully. Now, why was that? She knew her Bible well enough to understand that on the seventh day, God rested. Rested! That means did nothing! It certainly didn’t mean getting all dressed up in this silly finery and then traipsing a mile down the dusty road, just to have to listen to some fat, old friar, spout off in a language you don’t understand, before having to make the tiresome walk home again, in the blazing morning sun.

  “Why?” she asked herself aloud. “Why, does it have to be this way? What do these damn Spanish Friars want from us? They take our lands, they turn us into nothing better than slaves and then they want us to go along and worship their God with them on a Sunday.” She heaved a dramatic sigh, “and that’s not even to mention the unspeakable things those dirty, old men do in their secret room in the Church.” She shuddered involuntarily when she thought about some of the vile things her friends had shared with her.

  Shaking her head to clear these thoughts, she knew she had no option but to go along with the charade, for now anyway. Her Mama and Papa were both devoutly religious and would have no truck with any talk or even thoughts against the Franciscan Friars. “They are men of God, dear Minda,” her Mother had said to her once when she tried to hint at their “goings on” with the young girls and boys of the parish. “I will not hear of such blasphemy and if you ever suggest such a thing again, young lady, I will scrub your mouth out with the ashes from our fire and your Papa will take his large belt to you,” she had added with finality. The threat was more than enough for Minda. She had seen a couple of her brothers suffer the ashes treatment and she had no desire to follow suit. No, Minda never mentioned again the stories of the Friars, but it chewed away at her subconscious and whenever she came into contact with the horrible, brown-robed men, she would do her utmost to never be left alone in their presence.

  She hated the Friars, with a passion, but she hated the Spanish administrators and soldiers even more. Her father worked for the local municipality and as such, the family had a privileged place in the local community. She knew it was only because of this connection that she had been able to attend school and yet she was always horrified at the way ordinary Filipino citizens had to kowtow and beg the Spanish authorities for any small favour. She had witnessed her father take a severe beating once from a drunk and violent engineer who argued that a mistake in the ledgers was down to her father’s incompetence. Never mind that it was the engineer’s constantly alcohol-fuzzed brain that was responsible for the error. But, don’t get Minda started on the soldiers. There was a barracks about a quarter of a mile out of town, where several hundred Spanish soldiers and their horses were quartered. When the soldiers came into town, whether on official duty or on recreation, they would invariably cause havoc and strike fear into the hearts of the locals.

  The high-stepping horses, with their riders, all decked out in their military finery, was all too much for the simple, local, people. The soldiers would parade or march down the main street and nothing nor nobody was safe from their cruel treatment. Dare to get too close to one of their precious horses and you would quickly find yourself slashed around the head with one of the rider’s whips, or worse, the flat blade of one of their swords. Even more alarming was when young children ran too close to the hooves of the horses; they were liab
le to be trampled on, with no care or concern on the part of the soldiers.

  When they came to town to drink and carouse, they were no better. They would simply park themselves in an empty space of ground near the town centre and begin their drinking and constant harassment of any person passing by, especially the women and more especially the young girls. Minda was absolutely forbidden, under threat of severe punishment, from ever leaving the house when the soldiers were in town, but that had never been a deterrent to her. She had snuck out more than once and witnessed first-hand what went on at those soldiers’ drinking sessions.

  Hidden behind a hedge one evening, she had been horrified when she realised a young soldier was dragging a girl behind him and heading toward her hiding place. There was nowhere to go and she fearfully sank down on her haunches, in the dark, and waited for what would happen. The soldier and his girl had plonked themselves down on the grass, just a metre or so from where she was and she held her breath, trying to keep as still as possible. It was clear the girl was there of her own volition, as the giggling and laughter from the pair indicated, but for Minda, the whole idea of what they were about to do was terrifying but also just a little bit exciting. She couldn’t help herself as she edged closer to the pair trying to catch even a glimpse of what they were doing. The dark was just too pervasive, though and she had to satisfy herself with listening to them and drawing pictures in her now fevered mind.

  In the end, it had all been a bit of an anti-climax. She had heard the rustle of the pair’s clothing, a few drunken curses from the soldier and a sudden exclamation of pain from the girl and then it was all over and all she could hear was heavy breathing. Finally, she heard them climb to their feet and the sounds of clothing being adjusted before, at long last, one of them said a word.

  “A peso, wasn’t it? Hardly seems worth it, if you ask me.”

  “Two pesos, you miserable bastard,” came the immediate indignant reply.

  Minda heard the slap and the scream as the soldier hit the woman and then she felt him brush past her as he strode back to join his comrades. “You’re lucky to even get one peso, you little whore. Not like it was any good anyway,” he threw back at her as she lay on the ground muttering under her breath. Minda thought she’d recognised the voice of the girl, but she was too scared to move, let alone say anything, so she’d stayed hidden until she heard the woman clamber to her feet and leave, still cursing at the soldier.

  Yes, Minda had no time for any of the things the Spanish had brought to her beautiful, little town, or her peaceful way of life. She simply wanted nothing to do with them, full stop.

  Twisting and wrapping her waist-length hair, into a bun of sorts, she placed the obligatory bonnet on her head and tied the straps. No point in dwelling on it, there’s nothing I can do to change anything, she thought and I’d better get out here, or Mama will be in, shouting for me. As she left her tiny, room, the first light of the day was beginning to seep in through the bamboo slats. Being the only girl still at home, her blossoming body had ensured her a private room, for which she was eternally grateful. She didn’t envy her four younger brothers who all shared the big room with Mama and Papa. For now, anyway, she had a place where she could be alone and not have to listen to the inane chatter of her brothers. Her bedroom was her sanctuary, her place of peace and solitude. But, now she had to leave it and form up with the others, for inspection.

  This was their Sunday routine. The children would all line up, eldest through to the youngest and have their clothes checked for cleanliness and suitability for Mass, as well as their mother checking behind their ears and their hands to make sure they were spotlessly turned out. It was never a problem for Minda, but for her younger brothers, they were often caught out by this. Sure enough, six-year-old Louis was the recipient of the stern lecture today. One of Louis’ chores each morning was to feed the two piglets the family was fattening up for eventual sale and some extra income. When Louis fed the piglets, he was prone to having a play with them and invariably came back smelling and looking like he’d been rolling in mud for the past hour. He always tried his hardest to clean himself up at the water pump out the back, but usually failed dismally.

  Minda watched as her mother ran her fingers under the inside of the boy’s stiff, high-collared shirt. Sure enough, when her hand came out it was covered with a thin layer of grime. A quick, but slightly gentle clip across the ears was Louis’ reward for his dirtiness and a rapid admonishment from his mother. “Get back out to that water pump young man and scrub the back of your neck properly.” Louis hastened to run out the back before his mother could decide that a light tap around the ears was nowhere near enough. “And, do it properly this time,” an exasperated Francisca Maria Torres called after him, as she unfurled her fan and rapidly shook it to try and cool down both her temperature and her temper.

  Minda secretly smiled to herself. It was always the same. One of the boys would be caught out, but never her. It wasn’t so much that she was such a “good” girl, she definitely wasn’t that. It was much more the case she was essentially an indoor person. She hated the heat and she could never understand why her siblings were so intent on running around outside in it, getting hot, sweaty, and frankly, just a little disgusting with it. No, she preferred to lie on her bed, getting what relief she could from the soft breezes that wafted in through the slats in the bamboo walls, and reading. Yes, reading was very much her passion. Although, when things felt a little claustrophobic at times, at home, she would run away to her favourite place of solitude; a large, spreading acacia tree that hung over her special place, at the river. Here she would relax, rest, and dream or take a swim in the cool, refreshing, fast-flowing river.

  She voraciously read anything and everything she could get her hands on, which sadly wasn’t a lot. Minda had a thirst for knowledge and a wonder for the world outside their little town. The school library was a constant source of reading material, but because the school was run by the Friars, many of the works were of a monastic or religious nature. She didn’t really want to read those, but knowing a good education would be paramount to her future, she wanted desperately to improve her understanding and comprehension of written Spanish. Although she dreamed of a Philippines which no longer struggled under the yoke of colonial rule, until recently, she had never dreamed there could be another option, another way.

  The books she most wanted to read were those of the famous author Dr. José Rizal and his compatriots, the “illustrado”, like Marcelo H del Pilar. The illustrado were the lucky few, who had benefitted from the Spanish liberalism and education and were beginning to write seditious articles and books promoting Filipino revolution. Many of these free thinkers had fled to Spain and other parts of Europe to escape persecution and probable execution, for treason, by the Spanish authorities. She knew these writers were still producing their tracts and propagandising their beliefs of Filipino freedom, all across the capitals of Europe, but sadly little of their work was finding its way back to the grass-roots of Philippine society; the very people who would need to be motivated to take up arms and fight, should a revolution ever be attempted.

  As luck would have it she’d recently come across a small poem, written by Rizal when he was just eighteen years old, stuffed into the back leaves of a book on the history of the Franciscan Order, in the school library. She’d hidden the poem in her skirt pocket and taken it home, where she read it and marvelled over the words, every single day. Titled simply: To The Philippine Youth, it seemed to her a moment that would change her life forever and galvanise her spirit to uphold the hopeful words of the great man. One verse in particular in that poem would be the lynchpin on which Minda decided that she also, was going to work for her people and her country.

  “You, who heavenward rise

  On wings of your rich fantasy,

  Seek in the Olympian skies

  The tenderest poesy,

  More sweet than divine honey;”

  She could feel in that poem and
in those simple words a clarion call for her to be the best she could be and to spread the word of the Philippine people, to lift them out of the subservience to the Spanish masters. She had no idea whether change, or indeed revolution was even possible, but she knew she would dedicate her life to trying to change the attitudes and aspiration of young Filipinos. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, she would become a teacher. She wanted desperately to be part of something bigger than herself and she realised now, through Rizal’s words that she needed to “fly on her own wings of rich fantasy”. Well aware that eschewing marriage and going into teaching was considered something an “old-maid” would do, she knew she would face fierce opposition from her family, but it worried her not. She had been moved and motivated by Rizal’s simple poem to make her stand and her commitment to the future. At that point her most burning desire was to get her hands on some more of Rizal’s writings... and she had just the idea how she might do that. She softly chuckled to herself, at her own cleverness.

  Minda was snapped back to reality, when Louis reappeared, looking dishevelled, but at least now clean. After Mama had straightened up his stiff collar and run her fingers swiftly over his neck once again to ensure his compliance, the family headed out for the long walk to the Church. As always, in fact, almost with every aspect of their daily lives, there was a protocol and procedure for the walk to Church. Mama and Papa led the way, with Minda, as the eldest child still living at home, walking beside them. The other four boys would walk, two abreast behind them, ordered by age. There was absolutely no talking in the ranks. The only noise that could be heard was that of Mama, as her lips moved softly in a long practised and oft-repeated prayer, just a gentle murmuring coming from her mouth.