Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks)

by F. Sionil Jose

  Istak mounted Kimat again. The November wind was balmy and he felt so refreshed he was sure he could travel the whole night. The pain in his buttocks and at the base of his spine was no longer as sharp as it had been earlier in the day. Now, he was familiar with the rhythm of the horse, its even pace. He rarely used his heels to prod the animal. He had learned, too, of Kimat’s signals, how his head drooped when he was tired, how he raised his head when he tensed to alien sounds. Kimat seemed almost human in his expression of gratitude—he would nudge Istak after being given a piece of sugar cake or merely patted on the neck.

  Still no trace of the Americans. Soon he would reach the sea. How quickly he had traveled, unlike the time when they came down the Ilokos in a caravan. Kimat made all the difference. The mountains were closer, the wooded hills and long stretches of vacant land that were cattle ranches. In the coming dusk, the mountains were caparisoned with the soft luster of gold and blue, and high up in the ranges toward the land of the Igorots, clouds of deepening purple were impaled by peaks. He was sure he would find the trail and overtake them—they were such a big group, they would not be able to travel as fast as he. Indeed, the strongest man is the solitary man.

  In the late afternoon of the fourth day, he saw the coast. He was up in the hills. Tension tightened the air. He knew this by the manner in which the people of these shallow valleys responded to his questions. Anytime now, he should cross the path of the president—or the Americans. The coast was still far away, and the towns along them were a good half day’s ride.

  It was evening when he reached the village where the road branched from Pangasinan—a narrow road flanked by weeds and bananas. He entered it at a walk, hoping there would be someone who could lend him a pot and a stove to cook his supper.

  No dog growling from the houses, no poultry disturbed in the roost—just sepulchral quiet. The village was empty; either the Americans had just passed or were coming. He must move on.

  The road entered the open fields, which had already been harvested, and the harvest was spread in the fields to dry.

  Kimat was tired, so he dismounted and again led the horse farther up and away from the road. He laid his saddle on the stubble of hay and promptly went to sleep.

  He thought it was Kimat who woke him up with his grunting. The animal stood still—his head raised in the air, his cars pointed upward. Then Istak heard not just the grunting of horses but the creaking of wheels. He turned to the left and there, outlined against the night sky was a column—men on big horses, bigger than Kimat, cannon trailing their huge wagons, men with packs on their backs. Americans.

  His feet grew cold and his throat went dry. He crouched and held the animal tightly lest it make a sound. But Kimat did not move.

  It seemed as if the column would march on forever—the shuffling of feet, the strain of wagons, of gear. But in time the column ended. There must have been five hundred men. Istak mounted his horse and cut swiftly across the fields. He must out-race them in a wide arc, through clumps of bamboo and along irrigation ditches. Kimat seemed to understand and he ran faster than before. Istak crouched, the wind rushing toward him, cold and swift as a whiplash. He paused briefly to let Kimat drink when they forded a stream.

  It was dawn when he reached Bauang. He remembered the town: nothing had changed. He rode slowly; he had left the Americans behind. It was quiet and at first, until he got to the church, Istak thought the people were still asleep. There, hanging from the branches of the acacia tree were three men. In the early light, there was no mistaking them—Filipino soldiers in their rayadillo uniforms, their bare feet tied with wire, as were their hands. The church, the whole town was empty. He must get out quickly. He backtracked to a narrow sidestreet, and it was then that, from his right, he heard a loud command: “Halt!”

  He did not have to turn; that was an American voice. Digging his heels into the sides of Kimat, he dashed through an empty yard onward to the road beyond it. Kimat responded with a great surge of strength.

  The shot sundered the morning quiet and for an instant, he thought: I am dead—but he felt no scaring impact against his flesh, no blackness claiming him. Kimat ran on, across open fields, through a barrier of madre de cacao trees, and behind it, more fields, and beyond that, a sitio of some five or six huts.

  By then, Kimat had slowed and though Istak prodded the animal, he would no longer run. His canter turned into a slow walk, and just as they entered the village, the animal stopped, shuddered, and collapsed.

  Istak scrambled down and looked at Kimat. The horse had been hit—the rump was bleeding and blood trickled down the leg of the poor horse. Istak fondled his head; Kimat’s breath come slow, then he lay still.

  Istak turned to the houses before him. People had seen him for they now came forward.

  “The Americans,” he told them quietly, “they shot my horse. It is dead. You can have it for meat.” He patted the animal.

  They gave him food and asked where he came from and where he was going. He told them the usual story, then asked why there were no people in town. He knew the reason but he wanted them to explain. The president had passed through that afternoon with his party and the people had come out in the streets, rejoicing. Surely, the Americans were closing in.

  He had missed the president by a day, a few hours at the most. He thanked them for the meal and wanted to know if there was a horse he could buy. There was none. He must not waste time; now he must continue on foot.

  The quickest, shortest way was through the towns. When his legs felt numb and he could no longer run, he walked. Dogs followed and snapped at him, but they remained quiet after he had recited his oración for dogs. Always, he asked in each village for a horse he could buy, but there was none and the calesa drivers whom he hired could take him only as far as the next town. At times, he left the road, which was rutted with the deep imprint of bull-cart wheels during the rainy season, and went to the beach, where the sand was firm. Walking there was easier but the beaches were not always sandy. The shoreline was often rocky and it sometimes dropped, rugged and sharp, to the sea. He returned to the road, parts of which were not cobbled for carriages. If only he did not tire or go hungry! He had to pause for naps, then walk on, half asleep.

  Toward midafternoon, having slept so little the previous night, he paused again for a nap, hoping it would not last too long. An acacia tree at the edge of a village shaded him from the unrelenting sun. When he woke up, children were around him, waiting.

  They laughed when he stirred. He asked them where he was. Close to the town of Bangar, they said. Did they see the president and his party pass? Yes, they said, the other day. Were the Americans coming?

  Yes. The older people had fled the village, but they were children and they said the children were not harmed. As a matter of fact, the children were given candies. They were waiting for those candies.

  He felt relieved; surely he could reach the president before the Americans did. He asked for a drink of water and they brought him a small pot from which he drank, savoring each sip.

  The sun was once again a brilliant flood on the land. To his right, beyond the town, the hills were ramparts he must climb, and beyond, the mountains that fenced the Ilokos from Cagayan Valley—formidable ranges one after the other, and in the center Mount Tirad, straight and sharp. The pass was below this peak.

  It would be a three-day hike—and already his legs stung where the thorns of bamboo had slashed, and his arms and face were hot with sunburn. He had not changed his clothes—they had been wet with perspiration and dried and they smelled.

  It was dark at last and he had not eaten anything save the sugar cake that was for Kimat; he had slaked his thirst in the first stream that he crossed and his stomach was full. But God, he was tired. He could go no farther, and how his muscles ached! Wearily, he brought his knapsack and saddle down by a rock and the moment his head rested on it, sleep came like a balm banishing the day’s fever and fret.

  Morning laves the shore towns
of the Ilokos with the rich smell of harvest commingled with the salty tang of the sea. Though the nights were cold, the sun creeping up the Cordilleras brought warmth quickly. The day was clear, dew still sparkled on the grass, and in the yards of the houses, trash fires burned. He must be barely a day ahead of the Americans. Near Candon, at the first house where he went for a drink, he asked if they were near.

  The owner of the house was a music teacher and his three young pupils, interrupted in the solfeggio lessons, sat idly by. Brass instruments—a battered trombone and a couple of trumpets—lay on the table in the kitchen, where he was taken for his drink. Istak always felt comfortable talking in his own language with his own people. If he were going to Cabugaw instead, it would take just two more days.

  “I came from Cabugaw, Apo,” he said in deference to the man who was older and did not do manual labor. “I just want to know where the Americans are so that I can avoid them. They move quickly and without warning. In Bauang, I did not know they were already there. They hanged three soldiers right there in the plaza. And they shot my horse.”

  The music teacher took him to the tiny living room. The house was not a farmer’s house, but it was not a rich man’s house either. Its walls were split bamboo, the roof was thatch, and only the wooden floor attested to the man’s more prosperous means.

  “They will not find the people of Candon cheering them—if what they will bring are torture and vile words,” the man said evenly. He was past forty and had gray hair. “How long have you lived in Pangasinan?”

  “More than ten years, Apo,” Istak said. He had finished the second glass of water, and had stopped perspiring.

  “Only recently, did you know that we fought the Spaniards? We were overwhelmed, but we had proven we were not afraid of white men—Spaniards then, Americans now. Haven’t you heard about Candon and how the people here fought for freedom?”

  He decided to be honest. “No, Apo. But I am glad to hear of it.”

  The man took him down the road, telling him perhaps he had a better chance of getting a horse in Candon—if he could afford it.

  Candon was one of the biggest towns in Sur, with a tall church majestically spired. To his right, the blue ridges of the Cordilleras beckoned with more urgency. There it was—unmistakable in the distance, the sharp and pointed outline of Tirad. The narrow trough to the left beneath it was where the president would go through. The trail up the mountain was flanked by huge trees, and the pass itself had been widened with forced labor by the Spaniards so that they could cross to the other side on horses.

  The road from Candon led through ripening farmland, and farmers had started to harvest the bearded rice, which the Ilokanos preferred. It was a tedious chore—separating each stalk, then snipping each off with the hand scythe. The sheaves were piled in mounds in the fields to dry.

  By midday, he had started to ascend the foothills toward Baugen. There were no more extensive farmlands up the hilly and forested terrain. The trees had been cut and there were cattle—he was in ranching country, for which Baugen was noted. It was here where dried meat was cheapest, and draft animals and horses were brought all day down to the plain.

  It was hot. The dew on the grass and the morning mists that draped the low hills had vanished. The last creek which he crossed was warm, and warm, too, was the earth under his feet. Sometimes, a pigeon—gray and streaked with blue and red—would suddenly flutter ahead of him to seek a new canopy of green. He had rested and was suffused with his sense of well-being. Above him loomed Tirad—no longer as sharp and pointed as it first appeared from Candon. Now, it was a jagged summit.

  Shortly after noon, he approached the fringes of Baugen. Down the ridge, in the narrow valley, the barrio was a huddle of thatch-roofed houses with a single street through them. Experience in the last few days had taught him to be so cautious on entering any town that it was often necessary to skirt it. He surveyed the approach and decided he should go to the left, parallel to the small stream that originated from the mountain and ran through a slice of rice fields and jackfruit trees.

  The cogon was tall and he walked leisurely. He told himself later how lucky he was that he had followed his instincts. He was about to emerge from a stand of bamboo when he heard laughter. They were not Ilokanos laughing.

  He dropped to his knees and peered through the thin veil of trunks and leaves. Close to the river was an American soldier in blue, his rifle resting in the crook of his arm, while below him, down the shallow incline, were a pile of blue-and-gray uniforms, rifles stacked, and beyond, in the clear waters, six soldiers were naked and washing themselves, their white bodies shining in the sun like newly washed radishes. They were huge men, hirsute and heavily muscled, with legs as thick as posts and such long penises which, upon scrutiny, he saw were not circumcised.

  Beyond the creek were a dozen giant horses grazing on hay, four soldiers eating. His heart thumped so hard he thought it would break out of his chest.

  He realized with quiet deliberation that he was not really afraid. Now he knew what the enemy looked like, and there came this exhilarating feeling that they were not gods, that they were like him, with soft flesh that could easily be pierced and their blood spilled.

  He turned around to find out if there were other sentries like the man he saw at the bank. He listened for movement but there was none, merely the wind creaking in the bamboo around him, the rasp of his own breathing, and the thumping in his chest.

  Did they know where the president was headed or were they just a patrol scouting a way through unfamiliar terrain? He did not tarry to find out. He crawled away from the protective wall of bamboo, crouched low, then circled in a wide arc, seeking the cover of high grass and thickets, all senses working, waiting for the crack of a rifle shot that would mark his doom. But after some distance, when no shot came, he knew he was safe from them. It was then that he realized he was in a cold sweat, his brow was wet and his shirt, and again the old fear was a reality that dried his throat and transformed his legs into heavy stumps of wood.

  But he was safe, safe, and briefly, too, relief akin to pleasure welled in him and at the turn of the hill, his legs were his again, and he started to run toward Tirad.

  He paused to look at it—it was as if he could touch the green, green peak although it was still very far. God, he prayed, give me strength, this is all I ask. They have wings and I have but two aching feet. Surely, they must have a guide who knows this place, the recesses in these mountains. How else could they have known the way? You are right, honorable Cripple, we have been betrayed again. This is the changeless way of the world; will it never end?

  The tough mountain grass, sharp and pointed, lashed at him and boulders rose to block his way. Beside him, the gullies yawned and he stumbled but always rose and ran onward, not wanting to look back for fear that he might see giant horses thundering after him.

  CHAPTER

  16

  The dried carabao meat and the rice were long gone, so when hunger struck, he gathered a few green guavas along the trail. His legs were blistered. Where the thickets were high and thorny, they had lashed at his arms as well.

  He stopped once to drink from a small stream that forked from the Buaya River, then rested his back against a mossy boulder, facing the turn of the stream and the trail which he had just taken. In a short while, he would be in Baugen and he hoped there were people there who could tell him how long ago the president had passed. There were reports he could not quite believe, how the Americans were welcomed with brass bands and cheers in some of the towns of Sur. What was it that made his own people greet their conquerors and regard their own countrymen with ridicule if not hostility?

  He brought out the notebook from the knapsack.

  I am now very tired. My feet are sore. My chest is ever tightening and a weariness like a fat sack of grain weighs me down. At night, before I sleep in the open, the mosquitoes buzzing in my ears and keeping me awake, I wonder if I will wake up to a morning blessed with sunligh
t. I wonder why I am here, so far away from home. Is it because I cannot say no to the Cripple? Just as I couldn’t say no to Padre Jose? The Cripple, Don Jacinto—they did not say it, but I know they love Filipinas and this I cannot say for myself because I am not sure. How can I love a thousand islands, a million people speaking not my language but their very own which I cannot understand? Who, then, do I love?

  Tomorrow, when I wake up, I will no longer be surrounded by rice fields. I will most probably rise with the sun as it climbs from the east, first like a big winnowing basket of orange, then a blinding presence which brings green to the leaf, fruit to the trees, and yes, blue to the sky. It is the same sky above Cabugawan, a kindly roof to the people there, my kin, my loved ones.

  O Apo Dios who sees everything, knows everything, am I wrong? I feel no affection for these mountains, these people whose fates are not my concern. I feel only for Cabugawan, my people waiting for my return, waiting perhaps in vain.

  The tiredness in his bones disappeared, and once again he was alive to the sounds and scents around him and to the peace that the forest seemed to exude, comforting him with its somber stillness. He rose quickly, making sure the sack was slung securely on his shoulder. He always examined the twine with which it was tied—it was not loose even after all that climbing and straining. In fact, the sack had given him comfort, as he also used it for a pillow.

  One more hill, then Baugen. He recalled what he knew of it, a village with a dozen or so thatch-roofed houses, farmers who worked the narrow valley and looked after the ranches of cattle that were now sparse. They were all Ilokanos, and braver than most, for it was in these hills where the Igorots often rampaged. Baugen was also a way station for those who went up the pass at Tirad. How often had Padre Jose and he stopped here for a bath at the village well, for provisions, sometimes dried meat and dry-season fruits, a restful night in one of the houses, an early-morning Mass, perhaps a baptism and confirmation, then onward to the pass by noon.