Some officer... that was the phrase that ran through Minda’s mind, some officer... God, she hoped it was not her Hernando that had killed the little boy. That would have been terrible. She jerked upright! Her Hernando? – Where in the hell had that come from? He was no more, her Hernando, than she was, his Minda. Placing a hand on Artie’s shoulder she tried to comfort him as best she could, but her mind was reeling with the thought that Hernando may have murdered a poor, defenceless, child. Surely he would go to hell for that, she thought. Isn’t that what those horrible fat men in their brown robes would say? “Oh Artie,” she tried, “Kris had just turned thirteen. I remember my brother going to his birthday party, just a month ago... and… now he’s dead?” She felt the tears creep into the corner of her own eyes, but equally, she felt this burning fury rising from deep within her stomach. She’d never felt this type of passion before, but as her eyes began to mist over she had just one thought in her head. Right, this is it! I can’t stand by anymore and watch these bastards do this to us. I don’t care what the KKK says about women members, I am going to join them, somehow, someway.
Lifting Artie’s chin, she looked into his damp, sorrowful eyes and gave him a tiny smile to show she was coming to terms with all of this. “So, Artie, wipe your nose, dry your eyes and tell me what happened. How come you know all of this?” A thought suddenly occurred to her. “My God!” she exclaimed. “Arturo de la Cruz, you weren’t on that raid as well were you?” He gave a weak half-smile at that and followed her instructions, blowing his nose on one sleeve and wiping the residual tears from his face with the other.
He smiled a little more forcefully, this time, before answering her. “No, Minda, I wasn’t there.” He slapped his thighs in annoyance, “mind you, I wanted to be there. My brother Carlos was in charge of the attack and he wouldn’t let me go. Said I was too young yet. Bullshit!”
“Too young?” Minda ventured, “but you’re older than Kris, so why was he there?”
“Ahhhh, well Carlos said they needed someone small and unnoticeable to sneak inside the front gate and plant the explosives. They needed a sort of a beggar waif, who the soldiers would pay little attention to.” Artie straightened up and with eyes shining, proclaimed. “Kris may be dead Minda, but he died a hero, a hero of our country and we should be so proud of him.”
She nodded sadly, “you’re right, of course. So, what now?”
Artie’s demeanour lifted and he almost grinned. “Well, Carlos said I can join their group now, to honour Kris, so I’m going along tonight to be sworn in and take the oath of allegiance...”
Minda bit her bottom lip thoughtfully and opened her mouth to speak, but Artie dashed in first. “... and, I want you to come with me, Minda.”
Her jaw dropped open. Could this boy read her mind? “Come with you?” she spluttered. “How can I come with you? You told me just the other day that women weren’t allowed or welcomed in the KKK.”
Artie grinned conspiratorially and placed his finger over his lips. “Shhhh, Minda,” he cautioned. “Don’t say that name too loud ha! There are ears everywhere.” He glanced across, to where Tito Romy was, but the old man was still sitting with his back to the tree, his head on his chest and they could even hear him snoring gently. “Yeah, well,” he continued. “Carlos said they’ve had a wee rethink about that one and they realise how useful woman could be to the organisation, especially when it comes to gathering intelligence from the soldiers.”
She sat back at that one and thought. She knew what Artie meant. They wanted women to gather information by sleeping with the soldiers. She bristled and spat back at him. “Well, you can count me out for a starter. I’m not going to give myself to any dirty Spaniard... even if it is for the good of the country.” Suddenly, unbidden, an image of Hernando’s strong, angular face popped into her mind and she couldn’t help but chuckle. Well, maybe not just any old Spanish soldier, she thought. “If I’m joining the organisation at all Artie, it will be as a revolutionary fighter. I’m not afraid to kill those damn Spaniards. My Dad showed me how to shoot years ago and I can fight just as well as any man,” she finished vehemently.
Artie swayed back from the forcefulness of her words, but his smile told her all she needed to know. “Hahaha,” he laughed. “I told Carlos that’s what you’d say and I was right. Anyway, Carlos said he doesn’t need you for intelligence. You already have it.” Minda stared at him thoughtfully and indicated with a raised eyebrow that he should continue. “Well, you’ve already been inside the enemy’s lair. The other day when you were injured, so Carlos said you could give us a detailed map of where everything is located inside the compound and maybe you can even pinpoint their weaknesses.” He looked at Minda, with what she fleetingly thought might be adoration and she cringed at the idea that Artie may be becoming sweet on her. “So, what do you say, Minda? Are you in?”
Sitting back on her bum, she folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head in thoughtfulness. “Hmmmm,” was all she said, as she tapped her forefinger against her chin. Artie waited patiently but she could see he was agitated just by the way his left leg kept twitching and bouncing up and down nervously, as he sat cross-legged across from her. “Hmmmm,” she repeated and then having made a decision, she looked straight into her friend’s eyes, her own eyes flashing with excitement and determination, as she said, “you bet Artie... you bet!”
He gave out a massive sigh of relief and grabbed her in a hug. “Welcome to the family Minda. This is going to be so exciting. You and me, together, fighting for our freedom. YES!” He pulled away slightly and added, “okay, the meeting tonight starts at twelve midnight. I’ll be outside your house waiting for you, so you’ll have to do your best to sneak out unnoticed.”
“I can do that,” she grinned, happy again, for her private room. She knew she’d have no trouble sneaking away without anyone knowing. She shivered in anticipation and hugged her arms around herself.
It was clear Artie was over-excited and he grabbed her again in another bear-hug. She felt, this time, there was more to the hug than just the anticipation of a new future. She could feel his heart beating furiously against her chest and the warmth of his soft breath, as he nuzzled her ear. She didn’t want this. She didn’t need this, but it was his next words that frightened the hell out of Luzviminda Torres. “Minda,” he whispered softly. “I love you.”
***
HERNANDO:
The ride back to the camp was carried out in silence. His soldiers had, at first, been jubilant at their Captain’s capture and killing of the rebel, but they soon saw from the thunder on his face and the pain in his eyes that it wasn’t going to be an appropriate time to celebrate. He detailed a couple of men to carefully clean up the body and wrap it in a sheet before taking it into town to try to find the poor boy’s family. There was no reason to be jubilant, no reason to take pride in what he had done. Hernando felt as disgusted with himself and his country as he had ever felt. He just wanted to rip off his damn uniform and never look at it again, but he knew he needed to hold it all together for now. His men depended on him to be strong and he had no doubt his commanding officer would be waiting for his return.
As they rode solemnly through the Camp gates, he started, as he heard a resounding cheer ring around the parade ground. There were soldiers everywhere, carrying buckets and throwing dirt over smouldering piles of debris. As one, they dropped their tools and thrusting their fists into the air chanted “Viva La España... Viva La España... Viva La España” (Long Live Spain).
In reality, Hernando just wanted to shoot the shouting soldiers and scream at them that murdering a little boy was not what their proud country sent them here to do. He knew, though, that he had to make a show and with all eyes focused on him, he lifted his hat and twirled it around his head in celebration, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings. As he dismounted and gave his horse to a waiting groomsman, Commandante de la Page strode across the parade ground, his face wreathed in smiles. “I hear you got o
ne of the bastards, de Abreu. Well done, you. Finally, I have something positive to report to those desk soldiers in Manila.” He winked outrageously at Hernando, before adding, “and, who knows, young man, I may even mention you for a citation. Not bad for your first month in the provinces, now is it? No, not bad at all.”
Hernando’s face was set tightly, his lips pulled into a single line as he struggled to keep his voice flat and emotionless. “Not much of a victory, Sir. I just killed a child.”
The Commandante threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Frankly de Abreu, I wouldn’t give a shit if you killed a baby... if that baby was trying to blow up my camp, that is.” Realising Hernando’s pain, his face softened a little and he placed his left hand upon Hernando’s right shoulder. “Don’t take it too much to heart Hernando,” he whispered softly. “If the enemy wants to use children to fight their battles for them, we cannot allow our emotions to stop us from doing our duty, now can we, man?”
Grimacing sadly, Hernando nodded his head. “If you’ll excuse me, Sir. I think I need to take a bath. I feel distinctly dirty.” Without waiting to be dismissed, he spun on his heels and marched toward his billet.
“Quite so... quite so,” the Commandante muttered, to his departing back. I better keep a little eye on young de Abreu, he decided. His first kill has been a tough one and I can’t allow his attitude and general depression to spread to the men. Glancing around he noticed all the soldiers were still standing around watching him intently. With as much bluster as he could muster, he pulled his sword from its scabbard and waved it airily above his head. “Back to work, men... back to work. Tonight, extra rations of ale for everyone. We have a victory to celebrate.” The men, in unison, cheered and turned back to their tasks, each knowing they were going to get drunk that evening.
***
Hernando threw himself face-down on his cot, as soon as he reached his room. He didn’t even take off his jacket or his sword. He just lay there, the pillow scrunched up between his fists, sobbing soundlessly into the material. It must have been around thirty minutes before he managed to screw up the clarity of mind, to sit up and wipe the tears from his face. Every single time he closed his eyes, all he could picture was a little boy’s intestines oozing out of his stomach and the look of absolute terror and fear he’d seen in the young man’s eyes. “DAMN!” he shouted at the wall. “What have I done?” he whimpered into his hands as he sought to stem his tears.
Finally, he stood up and shucked his jacket onto the floor. Dropping his sword belt from around his waist he allowed the scabbard to smack the floor loudly and then fall over. He knew that was an absolute no, no, for a cavalry officer. They were supposed to protect their swords like their childhood sweethearts. “What about that young man’s childhood sweetheart,” he railed at the empty room. “What about her? What must she be feeling right now? Oh, my God!” he wailed, “never mind her, what about the poor boy’s mother. She must be grief-stricken.” He was beginning to hyperventilate and lose what little control he had left of himself. It was only the gentle knock on the door that stopped him from falling into the endless whirlpool of self-recriminations and insanity.
Taking three long, deep, breaths, Hernando looked up at the door and muttered softly, “yes, who is it?”
An apologetic voice came from the other side. “Ahmm, Sir, it’s Sergeant Molinero, Sir. Are you okay, Sir? Ummm... would you like someone to keep you company, Sir?” Hernando was genuinely moved by the offer of his subordinate. At least there’s one Spanish soldier here who can see the pain he was feeling and the enormity of the horror they had perpetrated that morning.
Trying to keep his voice as steady as he could, he croaked out, “thank you, Sergeant, thank you. I appreciate your offer, but really I’m fine. I just need to have a wash and then lie down for a bit. But, again, I appreciate you checking on me.”
The Sergeant coughed nervously. “Very good, Sir. I’ve instructed one of the camp women to boil some water for you and to bring the large iron tub into your room, so you can have a proper bath, Sir.”
So moved by the Sergeant’s concern for his welfare, was he, that he shook his head and pulling himself together, strode over to the door and flung it open to see the Sergeant’s worried countenance. He placed his hand on the soldier’s shoulder and awkwardly pulled him into a bear hug. Sergeant Molinero, unsure of how to respond, stood there and gently patted his commanding officer on the back. Finally, realising the incongruity of the scene, Hernando pulled back and smiled at the earnest face of his First Sergeant. “Again, thank you for your kindness.” With a chuckle, he added, “no need to tell the men about this little hug, now is there Sergeant?”
Relieved, the Sergeant breathed out and said, “right, Sir, I’ll go chase up that water lady, shall I, Sir?”
Clapping him on the shoulder, Hernando grinned. “Good man, thank you.”
After his bath was delivered, he stripped naked and gingerly lowered himself into the boiling water. It was actually the first hot wash he’d had since his arrival in the country and it felt absolutely heavenly. He allowed his muscles, which he had been subconsciously tensing ever since the death of the Filipino boy, to relax and with his eyes closed he tried to focus on his home, something beautiful, the windswept, wild beaches of his Northern Spanish coastline. He so missed them.
As his eyes closed and his mind wandered far away from the killing field of Bulacan, he felt a deep lethargy and serenity overtake his entire being. He pictured himself walking, climbing over rocks on the debris-strewn beach, after a major Atlantic storm. As a boy, he’d loved nothing more, after a massive storm had swept through, to wander alone, beachcombing and finding fascinating items that had washed up on the shore, from the ocean’s tempest. He could picture himself gazing upward to the cliff tops and there, leaning out into the sea breeze, maybe looking for him, was a beautiful, young woman.
Hernando strained to recognise the waif-like figure that swayed on top of the cliff. Her face was indistinct, but he could see her full length, buttercup-yellow skirt, fluttering around her ankles in the fresh breeze. Her long, almost waist length, dark brown hair was billowing straight out behind her like the tail of a kite and he instinctively knew what it was like to bury his face in that crisp, apple-smelling hair and wrap it around his face. If he breathed deeply, he could swear he could smell her caramel skin that smelled of the jasmine soap he’d bought for her from the markets in Marrakesh, Morocco, when the ship had stopped there briefly for bunkering. He inhaled deeply to try and keep the smell of her within his senses.
He could see she was cupping her hands around her mouth as if trying to shout something into the breeze. Smiling deeply, he knew what she was trying to shout. He knew she was calling his name. She was calling “Hernando!” She was calling him because she was his woman. She was his wife. Shunned by Spanish Society, since they had returned home, almost two years ago and treated like a leper by his own family, she was still the most beautiful and loving woman he had ever met and she was his; his darling and delightful Minda.
He waved to try and catch her attention and laughed when she finally spotted him. She leant out over the ragged rocks and waved furiously back at him. “Careful my darling,” he shouted to her. “Don’t get too close to the edge,” but he knew, even with the sea breeze behind him, his words would never reach her ears. He watched, with an almost macabre fascination as what was inevitable, unfolded in front of his eyes. The rock on which Minda was resting her right foot, suddenly gave way and she pitched forward, unable to stop her momentum. Hernando stood transfixed in horror, as the woman of his dreams, pirouetted in mid-air before plummeting the sixty odd feet to the rocks below. He screamed vociferously, as he watched her body bounce several times off rocks, on the way down.
Knowing it was pointless before he even set off, he ran to where the bright yellow mound, that was his wife, had landed. As he reached her, he turned her over very gently and bellowed long and loud as he studied the bloody, mangled m
ess that had once been the face of the woman he loved. As he felt the tears course down his face, he felt like he was drowning in a river of sadness. He began to splutter and cough, as the tears rolled into his mouth and filled his lungs.
Hernando sat up with an almighty splash and vomited a stream of soapy water over the side of the bathtub. My God, I’ve fallen asleep in the bath, he thought. Taking a few deep breaths to steady his shaking limbs, he relaxed a little, as he realised he was still alive and it had all just been a weird dream. Pushing the perspiration, dripping into his eyes, back onto his forehead, he contemplated the meaning of the vivid dream he had just experienced. Minda, Luzviminda, was his wife and they were back in Spain. Despite his nervousness over his close call, he almost laughed aloud at that point. “Yeah, right!” he exclaimed. “Like I could ever take Minda back to Spain with me. I can just picture Father and my brother right now.”
He effected his Father’s deep baritone, as he mimicked him. “What’s this Hernando? What have you done man? You’ve married a heathen, savage, have you? Get out of my house you disgusting man, you are no son of mine and take that whore of a native girl with you.”
Hernando shook his head vigorously. No, when Minda and I marry, we will have to make our home here in The Philippines. There’ll be no going back to Spain for us, he thought. “When?” he said aloud. “Bloody hell Hernando, what has this woman done to you? She’s got you dreaming about impossibilities.”
Love Beyond: Walang Hanggang Pagmamahal Page 8
