He breasted the hill, no longer keeping to the trail which he knew the Americans would take; he walked behind stands of grass as he cautiously approached the village.
It finally came into view. There were more houses now, more fruit trees. Then a shot rang out. He dropped onto his stomach; no, the shot was not for him. Blue-shirted American soldiers dashed into the village, shouting, firing. The screams of pain and fear were not only of men and women but of children. He crawled away to the edge of the forest bordered by butterfly trees and though he could not see the village now, he could still hear the screams, the guttural shouts, and the neighing of frightened horses.
When the firing stopped, he slithered close to the village again; the big men walked about the village. They had gathered in small sheaves portions of a roof and were igniting them and tossing them onto the houses. How easily the grass caught fire—first a grayish trail of smoke, then the flames in a crackling, swirling rage. Sparks burst from the roofs and landed on the other roofs which were already burning, too. A dozen houses—and not one was spared.
Po-on all over again, the toil of years vanishing in an hour. So this is how a house burns; how quickly the fire devours everything—the palm-leaf sidings, the floors of bamboo, all the familiar implements, the remembered corners, a bamboo post where some coins were kept in its hollow, an eating table, a battered chair, a chest. In a while, everything was ash but for the sturdy posts of wood which still stood, blackened and red, slowly burning, smoking.
The soldiers did not leave immediately; it seemed as if they wanted to be sure that nothing was spared, nothing lived. They had bivouacked in a gully beyond the village, and they came back to look at their handiwork. They had mounted their horses, their packs in their saddles. He counted carefully—there were twenty-three soldiers, and the twenty-fourth did not sit upright; he was slumped like a sack across his horse instead. Perhaps the soldier was dead, for his body was tied to the saddle.
Were they all the Americans who had come to this village? They rode easily and they seemed to be in no hurry as they headed toward Tirad.
Istak looked keenly around him, wondering if there was someone left behind, a rear guard, perhaps, or the main force following this patrol. There was none.
He ran to the village, no longer cautious, wanting to know if there would be someone, anyone, who had lived through this hell. Not a moan, not a whimper from the bloodied bodies sprawled in the yards; to each he went looking for a breath of life. Who would bury them? There was nothing he could do, no one he could save. He moved away from the human pyre, the bodies with indistinct features. Toward the other end of the village was an old brick-lined well and there, a youth slumped on the wet ground, a spot of red on his back.
Istak bent over him—he was not even seventeen. His pulse was still beating, though faintly. Istak turned him over carefully and the glazed eyes beseeched him. He tore open the shirt. The bullet had pierced his chest. Only a miracle could help and when Istak closed his eyes to pray, the path ahead of him was filled not with light but with darkness.
“Tell me, what happened?”
The lips opened, a gurgling sound. There was no need for him to know. Had he not seen what was done? The gurgling ceased, blood had foamed in the young man’s lips and some of it had dried. Then the words came softly, disjointed. “My sister—she was taking a bath at the well … one of them started forcing her, I cut his skull in two …” The eyes closed.
Istak could feel the life leak away as if from a broken pot. He could not put back the blood which had soaked the ground around him; it was not just this boy’s blood—it was an American’s as well.
Wearily, he rose and walked down the trail toward Tirad, where the butchers had gone. He saw her lying on her back in the sun, the girl who was taking a bath at the well, the piece of blue Ilokano cloth she had wrapped around her body already dry and in a heap beside her. She was so young, so very young—perhaps not even fourteen. Those small breasts were just starting to grow; below the waist, the pubic hair that was barely discernible was covered with blood. A little wound above the navel no longer bled. A line of blood had trickled right on the grassy trail and dried. He stifled a sob, remembering Dalin, what was done to her and how she had survived it. And Orang, too, how a Spaniard had defiled her. He picked up the cloth and covered her with it.
He must say a prayer. He knelt, and as he started to pray, he heard a thunder of hooves behind him. He turned, but not quickly enough, and the last thing he saw was a blue shirt.
Consciousness returned, his head throbbing as if it would split. He passed a hand over it, and at the back of his head was a huge lump now pulpy and soft. He withdrew his hand to look at what had stuck to it—clotted blood that had not yet dried. For a while, his vision dimmed and even in the blur, he saw again the girl prostrate on the grass. He stumbled, reached out to her and held her hand—it was still warm but limp. The face was calm, the eyes closed. Go to sleep, young one, and in this sleep, forgotten is the past, the anguish and the pain. Go to sleep, young one, and rest in peace.
Overhead, the sun was still high. When he tried to rise, it seemed as if the earth heaved and the sky was suddenly so close he could touch it. He let the dizziness pass without moving, afraid that if he stirred the sky would fall on him. It was no longer darkening; all around him the land was bathed with light—the edge of the dark forest, the slope of grass.
He rose slowly, feeling his bones, wondering if there was any other wound in his body that had numbed, but there was none. He was not yet up on his feet when he realized that the bundle slung over his shoulder was no longer there; it had been cut loose. A pang of anxiety gripped him. He looked around quickly. It was nowhere, not on the grass, not on the rise of ground before him. His hands went to the pocket of his loose trousers; the notebook was still there—it had not been taken—and so was the nub of a pencil.
What would he do now? Without the letter, who would believe this peasant? It was all there—the reason for his being here, his purpose, his measure as a man. But he knew what was in the letter. No, he must not stop. He must go on, convince them he was sent by the Cripple not just with a message but to help them through these mountains. He must tell them, too, of Baugen.
CHAPTER
17
December was at hand and the air was already crisp, the valleys scented with harvest. He needed to rest—his lungs were caving in, his legs were like logs. Though his throat was parched, he did not approach any of the few isolated houses along the way to ask for a drink. Time was precious, and it must not be wasted on his simple needs.
At times he tried to run, his failing breath permitting it. How he wished Kimat were with him now. But in this tortuous region, anyone on horseback would be easily spotted by the Americans.
The Cripple was right; the Americans were no different from the Spaniards—they were here to humiliate, to deny life. The three insurrectos who were hanged in the plaza in Bauang—they had been dead for more than a day and still they were not cut down and buried decently. The people must see the fearsome handiwork and be coerced into betraying Aguinaldo.
The trail that clung to the hillside was darkening and in the night it was not the marauding wild boar or the snake that he was afraid of. It was the occasional brigand whose face he could not see and the treacherous crevices hidden by weeds and caved earth at the side of the trail.
The Buaya River was no longer swift and bloated the way it was during the rainy season. It whispered through boulders and pools, placid in the starlight, the trees and reeds alongside it like a black margin to the river’s course.
There was no habitation along the trail, even in those narrow valleys. Once or twice, he went down the river to drink, and put to flight a couple of deer as thirsty as he was.
Often, as he walked in patches clear of foliage, he would see the silhouette of Tirad—lofty and serene against the sky. Around him spread this quietude as if the earth breathed, muted sounds of crickets in the grass, night bi
rds in the trees.
And again, thoughts of Cabugawan! He drew his strength from the earth and the earth meant peace. It was all changed now; he brought to mind the horrors that had been described so many times, they were vivid and real—how the Americans pumped water into the mouths of their prisoners, then stomped on their stomachs to pump out not just the water but information as well. Surely, they must have given him up for dead, as in Po-on. Otherwise, with the letter from the Cripple, they would have tortured him and he would then have brought harm not just to himself and to the president, but to the courageous Cripple he had left in Rosales.
He was in a narrow valley, small rice fields close by, the mooing of cattle, some farmer boy calling his water buffalo, a mother shouting to a wandering child to hurry with the firewood—the sounds of home that were all too familiar.
Then in the soft dark, a village suddenly stood before him. The thatch-roofed houses were indistinct. Some oil lamps were lighted, and cooking fires glimmered through the cracks of split-bamboo walls. He knew the village—the last before the ascent to Tirad. How many times had he been here with Padre Jose, and beyond, to the forbidding country of the Igorots. If he had to go deep into their land, he hoped that the men he knew—Kuriat, Ippig, and all the others—would still be in their villages and remember him. He had in the dim past brought them sugar, salt, and tobacco, and they in return had given him baskets, spearheads, and most important—protection.
He had not even reached the first house when from out of the darkness, the shout “¡Alto!” The command did not have to be repeated. He stopped and waited. From the shadows, two soldiers, their rifles pointed at him, approached, and a feeling of relief came over him, so pleasurable that he was smiling when the soldiers were upon him. He did not wait for them to speak. He addressed them in Spanish. “I have a message for the president,” he said.
One of the soldiers pointed a gun at him while the other frisked him carefully. He had nothing, of course, but the sack with the empty water bottle, the notebook, and the pencil.
“With your kindness,” he said with some exasperation. “There is so little time. I have an important message.”
The frisking over, but with their Mausers still pointed at him, they told him to walk in front to the far end of the narrow road. One of the soldiers went into a house beneath which were other soldiers getting ready to sleep. He could make out, beyond the fence, out in the fields, the figures of men standing sentry.
Another soldier came out with a candle and Istak recognized at once the boots, the rayadillo uniform, the sword. The Cripple had told him about this brave young man, how well he had fought. In the faint light, how boyish General del Pilar looked, how self-confident.
“Good evening, Señor General,” Istak said.
General del Pilar, impassive, raised the candle to have a better look.
“I had a letter for you, Señor General, from Don Apolinario. As you perhaps already know, he is in Rosales. You must believe me. It was taken away from me. Below, in Baugen. They—the Americans struck me on the head. Here,” he turned to show the clotted wound on his head. “I know these mountains, Señor. Don Apolinario said I could help. And that is why I followed you all the way from Rosales, to guide you to your destination.”
He must tell the general, too, grapple with words too painful to use, describe what he saw in Baugen. “The children, the women, the men—they were all dead, their houses burned. And a boy—I tried to help him but it was too late. He died, whispering to me, ‘Americano, Americano.’ And there was a young girl—so very young.” He choked and was soon sobbing.
The general was quiet. He finally spoke. “This is nothing new.”
“But why the children and the women?” Istak asked in anguish.
“Do not ask explanations for what happens in war,” the general said. “We just have to give it to them double when we can.”
The youthful face gleamed and in the sallow light, the young eyes seemed to tease him. “So you are going to be the president’s guide. Surely, you must be tired and hungry.”
“No, Señor General,” Istak said. “There is no time to cat. You must get out of here quickly. I don’t think they saw me—I circled around the village. They could still be there—in Baugen. I did not count, but there must be two dozen of them, with horses. There is no time, Señor General …”
The young Bulakeño put an arm around Istak’s shoulder. “Run away from a few whites?” He laughed softly. “We cannot run on an empty stomach, can we?”
They did not go into the house; there was a table by the bamboo stairs, and the food was placed there in a battered tin plate—cold chunks of rice and pieces of dried carabao meat that had been roasted and burnt in places. There was also a glass of water and to Istak it all never tasted as good as it did now.
They let him eat alone, which he did, swallowing the hard lumps of rice quickly. Then the general called for him in the yard, beyond the hearing of any of the men who were cither asleep or seated on their haunches, talking softly under the stars.
Now they would be able to talk; now he would be able to tell the general everything that the Cripple wanted him to relay to the president.
“Sigue,” Del Pilar urged him quietly. “What is it that you really want to say?”
“It is for the president’s cars, my general,” Istak said. “I was told to tell only him,” he caught himself quickly—he was not going to hide anything from this young man, “but since he is not here …”
“He is not here, he is far from here,” the general said curtly. “Continue.”
“Don Apolinario said that we should continue to fight, that the president must be safe always, for he is not just a leader but the symbol of our nation …”
Silence, and a slow nodding of the head.
“Don Jacinto and Don Apolinario—they think that since I know these mountains well, I should be your guide to wherever you want to go. They did not tell me where—all that I know, my general, is that I should guide you through these ranges.”
Istak did not expect the next question: “Where did you say Don Apolinario is now?”
“I already told you, Apo. In Rosales, where I came from.”
“And who is taking care of him there?”
“His former classmate and friend, Don Jacinto. I also told you this. Don Apolinario was ill. His secretary, Cayo Alzona, and his servant were also ill. Don Apolinario’s kidneys weren’t functioning properly, so I gave him medicine to drink—boiled flowers and young leaves of banaba. He is better now.”
“You speak good Spanish,” the general said. “Where did you learn it?”
“In Cabugaw—here in Sur, Señor General. I was born here. I was an acolyte for many years. I know this part of the country very well. Padre Jose, the priest in Cabugaw—we used to go this way and beyond, to the land of the Bagos, where he preached.”
The general was silent, as if he were measuring carefully everything he was told.
“And how is Don Apolinario now? And what is he doing?”
“Writing, Señor General,” Istak said. “Always writing. I copied his drafts because he gets tired and he wants to write so much, to send them all to Hong Kong, and from there, to the world.”
More questions, some of them repetitive. Then it occurred to Istak—like a bludgeon it struck him, filled him with sadness and a dismal sense of futility—that for all the distance he had traversed, the hardships that he had undergone, the general did not believe him. The general was waiting for one mistake with which he could be trapped and then declared a spy.
He remembered what Don Apolinario had said, and it came to him in gleaming clarity. “We must learn to trust our own people, their judgment, if we are to build a nation. There will always be traitors, for it is the wretched who are often the most ambitious, but for every traitor there are a dozen who are true. We are going to build a nation—not of Tagalogs, Batangueños, or Caviteños—we are going to build a nation which includes all our brothers and s
isters from the far south to the far north. Do you understand, Eustaquio, why I am here? I could hide much easier in the villages or in the mountains of my own province, among my people, and I would probably be safer there.”
“My general,” Istak said sadly, softly. “You have not really heard any of what I have told you. What do I have to do so that you will believe me?”
Del Pilar stepped back; perhaps he did not expect this farmer to talk like this. He raised his right hand, but the hand did not cut across Istak’s face—it just loomed there, then dropped slowly. In the soft dark, he could see the young face, the earnest but mocking eyes.
“Eustaquio,” he said finally, “no one speaks to me like this.” Then he turned and marched toward the house.
In a while, everyone was stirring, and the yard was soon alive with men, their voices harried and tense. The general finally believed him, but how much he would never know.
They marched out in single file, the horses in the rear and the general himself in the lead, and headed toward the mountain—an endless curtain of darkness across the length of the land.
Although they did not tie him up or hinder his movements, two soldiers never left him. Soon, they entered a fold of land neither cultivated nor inhabited. They seemed to know where they were going. Certainly, the general had a map, a compass. At this time of the year, the mountain streams were shallow and could be crossed on foot.
Once there was a commotion in the middle of the column, for a boar had charged out of the darkness. Though it did not hurt anyone, it had caused some excitement and it was just as well, for they had, perhaps, become sleepy; Istak himself had started to drowse.
Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) Page 27
