OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology

by Dean Francis Alfar

  The dagger imbeds itself in her back, just below the other knife. We see the infant’s face.

  It is a bearded old man’s visage, wrinkled, angry. The baby bares its jagged teeth to growl at us, and then resumes its feeding of the flesh and blood from Puting Bato’s neck.

  Faces of older women speaking to me, cautioning me to follow ritual to avoid being afflicted with horrors, emerge in the recesses of my memory. I did not believe them then, but I remember a name. “Tyanak.”

  Puting Bato twists back, falls to one knee, and starts humming again.

  “Damn it.” Lakan Halawod produces another dagger from one of his pouches.

  “Fuck the kapre’s balls, Hal-Hal. Give me that. Just—M’ki, just pull the fucking thing out. I can take down that bitch demon.”

  “This arrow’s deep, Makisig. And there is poison. Don’t pull at it, you idiot, you will just make it worse.” M’kiling retrieves something from one of her pouches. “I’m no healer, but damn it, I’ll not be defeated by a tikbalang’s poison.”

  Makisig glares at the diwata. M’kiling ignores him.

  “What is wrong with Puting Bato?” Sua asks. “Tell her to kill that thing. Tell her!”

  Karpyo sounds calm when he responds. “I do not think she can hear us, Sua. She’s somewhere else. But not here.”

  An idea strikes me. I take a deep breath.

  I channel my mother-in-law, back when she was still my mother-in-law. “What a beautiful child,” I say.

  Puting Bato stops humming, but does not open her eyes.

  I glance at the Majarlikan. Lakan Halawod nods. I advance.

  “I have a daughter too. I remember her being that tiny. It is truly a magical time.”

  Puting Bato stills. I take two silent steps toward her.

  “What is her name?”

  “Her name is Lipay,” Puting Bato replies. A red teardrop rolls down her mottled white cheek. “It means ‘happiness’ in Daragat.”

  I am so close now, I can smell blood. Our sword blisters my palm. “May I hold her?”

  Puting Bato opens her eyes, looks at me. In their red depths, I see so much sorrow. “No, you can’t.” She tightens her grip on the monster. “Run, Piray. Just run.”

  The tyanak in Puting Bato’s arms struggles against the tikbalang’s hold until finally, it is able to leap, using Puting Bato’s chest as leverage.

  Our sword blocks the tyanak. A dagger is hurled in Puting Bato’s direction. The abomination falls, and the tikbalang crumbles to a bloodied heap on the ground.

  “No!” Sua runs toward Puting Bato’s side. The tyanak on the ground jumps, intercepting her, latching on the exposed skin of her arm. Sua screams.

  We move. Lakan Halawod heads for Puting Bato; Karpyo and I go in Sua’s direction. Before we can reach her, Sua transforms.

  Sua’s skin turns yellow, her eyes turn pink. Leathery bat wings sprout from her back, something long and dark protrudes from her lips. She grabs the tyanak by the head and pulls it away from her yellow arm with ease. The tyanak shrieks but is silenced when Sua, the changed Sua, inserts the long appendage from her lips into the monster’s mouth.

  “Makisig!” M’kiling shouts.

  Sua chokes, spits bile, then drops the dried-up bones and skin of what remains of the tyanak. Her eyes revert from pink to white, the yellow drains away from her skin. Her entire upper half slides off from her waist and falls in a thud on the ground. Her wings flutter slowly, uselessly, just before her eyes close. I think she smiled.

  “I have done my side of the bargain, Su.” Makisig stands in front of the two halves of Sua’s body, an arrow still embedded in his thigh, his two golok swords dripping with Sua’s blood.

  I am still rooted to the same spot where I saw Puting Bato die, where I saw Sua transform then get killed, where our sword continues to scar my palm with heat, when the jungle comes alive.

  We are suddenly surrounded by the wails of infants, a vast number of them, all desperate. A strong compulsion to protect temporarily blinds me. I am about to move when I am lifted off the ground.

  “Now is not the time, Piray.” Karpyo hurls me onto his shoulder and starts barreling through the trees.

  I am upside down, still holding our sword with one hand, trying to gather my wits. I see a monkey’s tail, a flash of green, the glint of gold. I try to summon the strength to say that I can run, but every time I am about to, the air is knocked out of my chest, as Karpyo jumps or twists or pushes trees away.

  Abruptly, Karpyo stops, roughly rolls me down his shoulder and sets me on my feet, curses.

  When the world stops spinning, I see the problem. The edge of a hill is at our back, the forest in front. And in a crescent shape around us are demons, all of them taller than our higante—black-furred, their backs spiked, green saliva dripping from their open-snout growls. Red sacs like rubies expand and deflate from their ears, as gray smoke is expelled with their breaths.

  “Fucking sarangay.” M’kiling flicks her wrist; her vines crack painfully on the ground. The sarangays back away but do not retreat. “I’m tired of running. I make my stand here. The rest of you, just go.”

  “M’ki—”

  “No, Makisig. We’ll all die. I know you don’t believe it, but I do. I don’t want to run anymore.” M’kiling spares a glance at the salivating beasts. “I will hold them back. I will make them love me.”

  “Fine.” Makisig crosses his two flat-tip swords. “We do this together.”

  There is a moment of silence and then M’kiling smiles. The smile disappears as she glances back at us. “Go. We’ll follow if we can.”

  Karpyo and Lakan Halawod slide, then roll down the hill. I hesitate. Our sword wants to fight. From deep within the jungle, I hear more growls. I estimate twenty close by, with many more coming. Even with our numbers complete, we cannot survive an endless wave of assault. But that is the predicament that Makisig and M’kiling are preparing for, judging by their back-to-back formation. The very predicament M’kiling is counting on. They do not look like they will be following us soon.

  I make my decision. I ignore our sword, slide down. The last thing I hear from the companions I left behind is the cut-off scream of Makisig’s monkey.

  WE RAN AND did not stop until sunrise. By then, we had found an empty, shallow cave. We collapsed. And then, we mourned.

  We did not talk about it. We did not cry. But in the silence, the loss had become a tangible thing, heavy and cold. For me, it was not precisely the loss for loved ones—the eight of us were not quite friends—but more about my loss of faith in our ability to succeed. Suddenly, in the span of a day and a night, the word ‘impossible’ had found a place in my vocabulary. And I mourned that I finally understood it.

  Lakan Halawod said to always expect two waves of attack. Just as in our creation, there had been sky and water, strength and beauty, our destruction would be a double wave of shadow and earth, pain and fear. This was the theory of duality, he said. The theory of beginnings and endings. The theory of light and darkness.

  In another lifetime, I might have ignored him because such things, I thought, were the purview of scholars. In another lifetime, Karpyo might have had questions, because he was always the sensible sort. But all I did, all Karpyo did, was to nod. And then, we were on our way again.

  THE MOUNTAIN PASS is narrow, rocky, and dry. Two monoliths stand on either side, just three outstretched arms of Karpyo in width. The most prudent course of action would be to go around it. Mountain passes are generally treacherous routes; narrow ones are especially dangerous. Aside from being vulnerable from an attack we will not be able to see coming from above, we will have to commit to the path. Once in, if trouble comes, we will only be able to either go back or move forward.

  “We go in,” Lakan Halawod says.

  Karpyo and I exchange a look. There is no reason to doubt the Majarlikan—he saw where the sun rose this morning; he was studying the stars and their constellations before that—but despite all that we
have been through, despite the day spent walking with barely enough rest, a part of me still wants to go the long way around.

  Lakan Halawod tips his head to the west. “We’re losing light.” He glances back at us. “Are you afraid?”

  He asks the question with a smile, a smile that is reminiscent of the man he was, just two days before. It is as if I am seeing a ghost of the laughing, heavily bejeweled, beautiful noble overlaying the dirtied, bruised warrior in front of me. For a moment, I am struck by all that we have lost. And then, Karpyo brushes past me, jerking me out of my reverie.

  “I’m going.” The higante starts walking into the mountain pass.

  The Majarlikan follows, whistling a popular bawdy tune. After a deep breath, I follow the two of them.

  We walk slowly, partly to compensate for the rock-ridden terrain, partly because we are tired. With every step, my skin prickles with the tension. I keep my eyes on the slopes, my hand on our hilt, even as I struggle with hunger and thirst. When a pebble falls, I draw our sword. Even Karpyo laughs.

  We are halfway through the notch when I feel the tremors. I ignore it at first, attributing it to exhaustion. But then I see Lakan Halawod pause. The tremors abate and we walk on. Barely three steps forward, the trembling returns, much stronger than before. It stops.

  And then, the slopes on either side of us begin to move.

  “Run!” Karpyo shouts.

  We scramble toward the other end of the gorge. The cliff sides grumble their way to the center, dislodging earth and rock that then hurtle toward us and obstruct our path. From somewhere inside the mountains, I hear a chorus of strident laughter. The sound creates an image of one-eyed, hideous giants that are as large as hills and as ugly as my worst nightmares.

  Karpyo growls their name. “Bungisngis!”

  We run faster, avoiding and evading falling obstacles as they come. A particularly large boulder gets sliced off and slides down; Lakan Halawod trips as he struggles to sidestep around it. I stop and pull him up. Karpyo is ahead of us.

  I do not think we will make it. It is too far, and the slopes were close to begin with. We will be crushed and that is how we will die. Tragically, our sword remains inert, uninterested in a battle against what it deems to be a force of nature.

  Just as the mountains are about to slam into each other, when it is so close the rocky slopes are about to brush against my shoulders, Karpyo stops, then roars. He stretches his arms, braces his legs. And pushes back the two sides, widening the path.

  “Go! Just go!” Karpyo shouts.

  Lakan Halawod does not hesitate. He runs then ducks underneath Karpyo’s outstretched arms. I follow suit. We keep running as the shaking intensifies, as Karpyo grunts then yells at us to run faster; we keep running until we get to the end. When I finally step out, I look back. Karpyo is grimacing in pain, his arms bent, his eyes ablaze but coherent.

  “Tell them—”

  The mountains crash into each other.

  When I turn to Lakan Halawod, I am crying.

  “Piray, it’s not over.”

  I see the violent river in front of us, so blue we had thought it was the horizon, when we first saw it from one end of the ravine. From underneath the river, I see dark serpentine shadows. One of them jumps toward us, landing just a few feet from where we stand. Their draconic teeth are yellow like amber, their scales sharp-edged onyx. It clambers back to the river with its fins.

  “They’re markupo. We have to walk—”

  I am not listening to the Majarlikan. I surrender control to the burn on my palm, to the will of our sword.

  LAKAN HALAWOD TOLD me later on that I fought like a madwoman. A graceful madwoman, he said, after some consideration. He did not think I would survive, after foolishly diving into the river to battle that second wave. But somehow, I managed to stay afloat. Somehow, I managed to fight the markupos. Somehow, I was winning.

  He would have left me, if he had seen any indication of my losing. He did not say this, precisely, but I heard it, in the spaces between his words.

  When there were no more monsters for me to fight, I started to drown. He came then, swam toward me and dragged me out. He then half-carried me across the shallow part of the river, then for an hour’s worth of travel into the heart of another jungle. I did not come to until he had made a respectable fire in a small clearing.

  “YOU KNOW WHERE Oran is.” I stare at the flickering flames, trying to entice warmth into my cold skin.

  “I do.”

  “Did you always know?”

  “A story was passed down from generation to generation, about how my ancestors figured prominently in the imprisonment of the gods.” Lakan Halawod shrugs. “I’ve known the story all my life. But where exaggeration begins and the truth ends, that I don’t know.”

  I pick at the last few nuts in my palm, our meager dinner. The soggy crunch keeps the unbearable silence at bay.

  “What does the story say?” I ask, after I have decided that I truly want to know.

  “It says that two Majarlikans from two of the most prominent families created the prison, and the blood of these two will be needed to break the enchantment.” He laughs. “Two to create and two to destroy. It’s rather poetic, isn’t it?”

  “I am not of the blood.”

  “No, but I am.” He looks at the lines of his palms. “There were two disobedient ancestors in my history who decided to have an affair with each other. I am told that the reigning Datu then was so furious, he banished one family to Batisan. But by then, it was too late. And thus, I am here.”

  “What else did the story say?”

  He does not immediately respond. He picks up a leaf from the ground and throws it at the fire. “It says that only two beings can leave hell.” He rubs his hands to ward off the cold. “It was a way to ensure that, at most, we would only be dealing with two gods.”

  I digest this, slowly, letting the knowledge settle in my bowels. “Did the Datu know?”

  “Yes.”

  “You and Oran? Is that the plan?”

  “Yes.”

  I nod. “You will have to bring this sword back.” When he does not immediately respond, I add, “Please.”

  “I will.”

  THAT NIGHT, LAKAN Halawod and I made love. He called me by his diwata wife’s name, I called him by a name I thought I had long ago buried. We were two people, cold and wet and tired, seeking physical release, trying to find a way to articulate what words could not about loss and life and promises. Two people, sharing heat and the gift of flame. It was beautiful, in its own way.

  THE PALACE IS made almost entirely of stone. From my own experience, I know that the southern kingdoms prefer to inlay their structures with metals, the northern kingdoms rely more heavily on intricately-carved hardwood, the eastern kingdoms like to slab dyes on their walls, the westerners build in trees. I recognize elements of the kingdoms, but cannot pinpoint the structure’s architectural provenance. It simply looks strange.

  It is unusual because the palace is so large, with its towers seemingly having been chiseled out of a mountain. It is unpainted and unadorned, except for simple carvings that run across one wall. The stone looks to be white marble, but up close, I see that portions of it are made from pale limestone.

  I am about to touch it when Lakan Halawod stays my hand. “That’s not wise.”

  He utters words which sound like Salita to me, but, curiously enough, I do not understand them. The carvings gleam in response. A door becomes visible.

  “Come.”

  We enter a dimly-lit, cavernous room.

  I am mildly curious and strangely calm. It is as if the axis of my world has steadied, after being rocked by uncertainty and fear. To know that death is at hand—that it is even, to an extent, planned—and to know that our sword will find its way into my daughter’s hands, regardless of what happens to me, is liberating. The feeling of freedom is almost enough to fill the void in my stomach.

  “When will the attacks come?” I
ask, because my perception of danger is muted.

  “From what I understand, there will be none inside the stone palace.” Lakan Halawod is tracing symbols on the walls. “Of course, there is the god to contend with.”

  Oran, the rain god. The god of storms and tempests. The violent one, the kind one, the one that can be assuaged. Or angered. I am suddenly unsure of the shadowless Datu’s choice. “You are certain you will be able to convince Oran to our cause?”

  “Or die in the attempt.” The Majarlikan gives a hallow laugh. “What other choice do we have, Piray? Whichever god we choose to free first is capable of killing us. But gods can be spoken to and gods are jealous of the lands they consider their own. And whatever happens between our gods and us, the pale invaders will always be a common enemy. That is our greatest advantage. That is our hope.”

  He punches a depression in the wall, and suddenly, the room begins to dismantle itself. The walls tilt, slide away, then settle farther apart; the ceiling cracks open in seemingly random locations; portions of the ground shift upward and downward. Shafts of sunlight illuminate several large tiles on the floor, all with what I presume to be the symbols of our chained divinities.

  Lakan Halawod selects one—the one that looks, if I squint hard enough, like lightning—and stands on it.

  “I am Halawod, Majarlikan, from the family of—”

  He stops. At first, I do not understand. I am about to ask if he has forgotten what he was about to say, when he crumbles to the floor.

  Behind him is a thin, gray-skinned man, holding a sword that is covered with writhing shadow.

  “I have waited a long time for this.” The man smiles. When he announces his name, shadows skitter toward his blade. “I am Lakan Buaya. And you and I will free the gods.”

  I charge at him.

  He blocks then elbows me. I attack him again, this time aiming for his side. He evades it easily then slashes my back. I gasp, as icy pain radiates outward from the wound he inflicted.

  “You have some skills, Walker, but I wager you have not spent your entire life thinking you will duel gods.” He slams the back of his hand against my head.