Another familiar voice, one that cut me to the core. I stopped, mid-leap, and my vision suddenly became startlingly clear. I saw my best friend, the girl I loved, bound and on the ground a foot from me with her eyes wide in terror. And I saw, from the way she held herself from me, what I had turned into.
“You have no choice, boy. You’ll die if you don’t eat!” Ciskong was practically shrieking. I noticed him now in the far corner, no longer a stooped old man. He was a tusked boar, partly hairless, and he stank of grease and excrement. The rest of the villagers had also transformed—I could spot two- and four-legged and winged creatures, too large and smelly to be the kind of animal you would want to meet in the dark.
My mouth quivered. The girl, the only human I could see, uttered a low moan. I couldn’t remember her name. I pressed a paw against her leg, her scent stirring the hunger that coiled inside my stomach and down my groin. I pushed, feeling my claws on her skin, and promised to make it quick.
Her fist smashed into my snout.
Another memory. Memories, actually, running towards me like children begging for coins. We are younger, playing a video game. We pass a level, and while the screen loads I turn to her and joke, I suppose because it came up somewhere in the storyline, that I would never date a woman older than me. She smiles, bearing the jab like it didn’t matter.
We are older, drinking beer for the first time. She remarks on the texture and the taste. I laugh, telling her she is overthinking the process of getting drunk.
We are ageless. I am bribing some guy so I can change schedules with him for the semester. He thinks I’m crazy, offering a thousand-peso bill for it, and walks away smiling. I am the one laughing, though, because I get to be in the same class as her. We walk to the store to buy food, to celebrate, not wanting to admit how frightened we had been at the thought of losing each other.
Stupid, useless memories. But they stopped me from lashing back at her, which was important, because I was suddenly aware that I could crush her skull with my jaws if I wanted to.
I turned my head. Every fibre of this new body screamed at me not to, to end it all now because there was no other way to end it. But I forced it. I drew an image of her and me sitting on the steps outside her apartment and made myself understand that it’s okay to die for her.
It’s perfectly all right.
I dug my claws into the dirt and ran. Behind me, I heard Ciskong curse and cry, telling me what I already knew. The blood pounded in my head. I closed my eyes, not caring where my legs took me, just as long as it took me past that desire to hurt her at all.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
* * *
The rest of that night was a blur—a confusing mesh of running between trees and crashing into bushes and looking up at a star-filled sky.
And then I was twisting and groaning underneath a thin blanket with the memory of having run under flickering Christmas lights out on the street, dodging honking cars and sidewalk vendors selling ridiculously strong-smelling fried fishballs and squid. I remembered the blaring stereos of a late outdoor concert, the feel of manicured lawn grass under my paws, and the sting of a well-thrown rock careening into my haunches.
“Drink,” that voice murmured. I hissed back. “Don’t be a fool. The night’s gone and out.”
Slowly, very slowly, I opened my eyelids. A beam of orange sunlight was streaming through the curtained windows. Enrique sat at the foot of the bed with a glass of water in his hands.
“Drink,” he repeated. I reached for the glass and swallowed the water greedily. He looked at me, his eyes searching. “Can you talk?”
What an idiot. Of course I could talk, if I wanted to. I snorted and opened my mouth. My tongue rolled to the side, hitting a sharp tooth.
“Shit!” He placed a hand on my knee. “You were so sick last night that when you didn’t die I was hoping they lied about all that other stuff too. Maybe you just need dead food. Here.” He went up to a table by the door and handed me a plate. I sniffed the contents suspiciously. “Don’t worry. It’s not what you think it is.”
That was all I needed to hear. I gobbled the meat up, every single bloody raw bit of goodness of it. While I worked my way around a piece of fatty gristle he smiled and said, “At least you can understand me now. That’s something. Last night I was chasing after you and calling, and it’s like you couldn’t even hear.”
I finished the pork—it seemed like pork—and sighed. There had probably been a good kilo of it and it seemed to have found all the hollow spaces in my belly. He started talking again, but I didn’t have the patience to listen. I dropped my head back into the pillow and fell into a deep sleep.
When I woke up, there was blood on my cheek. “Ugh,” I grunted, wiping at it. It smelled like saliva. Enrique was sitting on a chair across from the bed, his arms crossed over his chest.
He had been sleeping, too, but as soon as I moved he opened his eyes. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Itchy,” I replied. “And sore. And a little bit curious how you got clothes on me.”
“Don’t ask about that,” he said, grimacing.
I glanced around the small room. “Where are we?”
“An old friend’s place. In Legazpi.”
“You have friends?”
“Of course I have friends. I’d go crazy if I stayed in Sakul all the time. Anyway, I had to pretend you were piss-ass drunk and threw your clothes away.” He jerked his thumb out the window. “I was hiding you out in the alley, but you started turning back before dawn so I wasn’t too worried.”
“It’s true, then. If I’m in that form when the sun rolls out, I’m dead.”
He frowned. “Not exactly. It’s more complicated than that. But yeah, if someone’s trying to kill you, it’ll weaken you to a point where they can easily walk up and chop you to bits with a bolo. And they usually like to do that.”
Normally, I would have laughed at that. I didn’t feel like it, though. My head was still tender at spots, and I was distinctly aware of how sore my hands and feet were. “Thank you,” I said. “You didn’t have to help me. I was running into the woods to die.”
“Idiot. If you die, then they’ll have no reason to keep Rachel alive.” I blinked. He shrugged. “Ciskong told me before that the stone demands live food in order to stabilize the power, initially. So they’ll keep her around because they want you fully awakened. They might even start hunting for you, just to keep up, you know?”
I blanched. “That’s not right.”
“You need living flesh to be able to do what some of them do—assume different forms, fly, have enough strength to punch out a wall. Me, the most I can do is turn into a dog who knocks over garbage cans hoping someone threw out an aborted fetus the day before. No, don’t give me that look. This is your reality now.”
“I didn’t ask for this!” It was an unfair statement, I know, but I couldn’t help it. “Why am I so important, anyway? Half of the stuff that poured out of Ciskong’s mouth was rubbish.”
“They gave you Lola Selda’s stone when she died.”
“I know that part.” It made me shudder to even think about it.
“Hear me out. They said it’s the stone that possesses the most powers—the chief aswang, if you will. Lola Selda was holding out on dying until she could find the proper heir. They believed he would be born...”
“Under the shadow of a banyan tree, yadda yadda, caul and shit. I got that part too.” I pursed my lips together. “It was pretty hard to miss. Why do they need me, though? That part doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Why does a country need a president, or a kingdom need a king? One of the older aswangs... I never met her, but they said she foretold you would come. It’s not like what you see in movies, Pablo. It’s almost the opposite for us—people can easily kill us, and they’re pretty perceptive. As soon as people start suspecting you, you’re as good as dead. So there’s less and less people wanting to take on a stone with each genera
tion. The elders aren’t too happy about that. They want—well, what they say we used to have. Power, privilege, enough fear and respect from their neighbours.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He shrugged. “I’m not trying to defend it. I’ve always thought it was pretty stupid. Why cling to a dying tradition, if it doesn’t work anymore? Especially one as unpleasant as this. Some of them like being who they are, though. I’d say most of them do. It gives them something... something to hold on to, I guess. They don’t know anything else. But anyway, that old aswang said that a boy will arrive, one who will be an excellent vessel for Lola’s chief stone. Apparently, you’re supposed to have pretty impressive powers.”
I laughed. “Apparently. I just feel like a large, helpless lemon.”
“Yeah. That’s why—”
“Okay, I get it. They want me to kill someone. Maybe you haven’t known me too long, Riko, but it’s not too late to find out that I don’t like doing things just because older people told me to do them. And anyway, what makes them so sure it’s me? Couldn’t they have scanned through the rest of the country, make sure there’s no other caul-wrapped newborns peeping out from under banyan shadows?”
“That wasn’t necessary. Only someone from the bloodline could take in a stone.”
I couldn’t help but notice the way he said that. I turned to him. “Why do you help me?” I asked. “It can’t just be because you have the hots for my friend.”
“No,” he replied. “I’m your brother.”
“None of this,” I said, “is even supposed to make sense, is it?”
He bowed his head so that his arms lay across his knees. “Julio is my father. I’m his illegitimate kid.”
I sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”
We fell silent. I could hear a bird scuttling outside—a sparrow, actually. It distracted me from having to talk or move or feel anything.
Given everything you wouldn’t think I could be more upset with my father than I already was. Hell, I had played with that possibility a few times in my head—having a sibling, a playmate, a balm to that loneliness that used to define my childhood before Rachel Ann came along. But in those fantasies the other kid was my mother’s, too, and I wasn’t lying in bed after a night spent frolicking through town as a dog right after learning the old stories about monsters were true and that my father was, quite literally, one of them.
Actually, though, I didn’t dwell on that for long. I started thinking about that teacher... balding, thin-lipped, ball-bellied, clueless Mr. Melano, and those words he’d dropped that lazy afternoon a lifetime ago. If I had been born with a different name, would I be here right now? Would I have met any of my friends, my cousins, Rachel Ann? Would my father have loved me more?
“Are you angry, Pablo?” Enrique’s voice was cracked, a youthful echo of my father’s own. I looked at him. My brother. My kuya. Words I never thought I’d get the chance to say my whole life. I turned it over in my head, to see if there was some other way I could look at it. Enrique. My father’s other son.
It’s kind of hard to get your head around it when you thought you’d been alone most of your life. “I’m not angry.” I was surprised I could even speak so clearly. “I’m in shock, of course.” I wondered if I sounded like it.
Enrique nodded. “Understandable.”
“Did you know him? My... Dad, I meant.” I swallowed, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t go away.
“He used to come visit me a few times every year. Maybe two or three times. He’d bring me a toy and then he’d take me out to the mall or down the bay for a bike ride. Some nights he’d sleep over and tell me stories. About his work, growing up in Camalig, the time he spent in Saudi Arabia. About you. The last time I saw him was before he left for Canada. He came up to Sakul to say goodbye.”
I tried not to let it bother me that Enrique sounded so happy talking about Dad. It reminded me of how I probably used to talk about him, how he used to hold me up in the air so I could pretend I was flying, or how he would rush home after work every day to bring me a toy. Did he know the rest of it? Somehow, looking at him, I doubted that. I felt a prickle of jealousy at the unfairness of it all—that Enrique could grow up with the father I had always wanted, the one I had lost all those years ago.
“That sounds nice,” I said.
“You are angry.” He scowled, that all-too familiar expression. “You know, your parents weren’t even married when I was born.”
I didn’t even think about that. Did my mom know about him? I glanced at Enrique, who must’ve read my mind, because he shook his head. Maybe Rachel Ann had it right when she told me all I ever think about is myself. But right at that moment, it was hard not to. I couldn’t even really make myself care about what Enrique was feeling right now. All I could think of was my father’s betrayal. Visiting Enrique all the way in Sakul right before he left? I had a basketball game that day, my first, and I had begged him to come. He had said he couldn’t, because he had to rush to Bicol and wrap up some loose ends. It was also my last; I wasn’t very good at it anyway, and when the fantasy of making my dad proud and hearing him cheer for me had ended, I found I had very little reason to keep playing.
The loose end coughed. “I need some time,” I said. He nodded, a hurt look on his face. I turned away from him, shut the windows so I wouldn’t have to hear the birds outside, and thought about how much of an ungrateful son of a bitch I’d been.
See, the thing I guess I couldn’t get over was the intrusion. Not having siblings gives you this sense that every song in the world is played to your tune—that you’re something unique, special, and in my case, thank God we don’t have to deal with more of you. And then you blink and suddenly there’s this other guy who shares at least half your genes and who’s just as involved with the man you always figured was your problem alone. It was much better when I thought that he was getting it on with Rachel Ann. That, at least, was something I knew how to deal with , even if it did involve copious amounts of alcohol and self-pity.
I left the bedroom an hour or so later, my legs wobbling uneasily under me. I felt nauseous, like I was trying to balance myself over a wire with feet that wanted to move together at the same time. I kept thinking about how much more solid the ground was when I was closer to it. I had to support myself against the wall to even get out of the hallway.
It was all good, though, because I met a guy who appeared to be Enrique’s friend out in the hallway, and I looked exactly like someone who was having a bad hangover. The guy held out his hand. “You need any help?”
“I’m looking for Riko.” I wasn’t, but it was the easiest thing to say. His stare was making me uncomfortable. I was afraid if he kept doing it that I was going to slink back and snap at him.
“Out on the deck. If you guys are hungry, there’s still rice in the kitchen. I can buy corned beef if you want.”
“No thanks. I’m not, really.” The idea of corned beef and rice made me want to hurl.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
I paused. “Actually, can I use your Internet?”
He took me to an old computer by the window and walked away. It was dial-up, so it took a while, but eventually I got a browser open and went up to my Dad’s email provider website.
Saint. Itumayam. Done.
Do you want to change the password?
I thought for a moment, and then changed it.
I got in. His inbox was neat and tidy—no junk mail, at least as far as I could see. Most of his mail was work-related stuff—timetables, schedules, change of schedules, papers. A few were from friends, asking how he was, him replying about how things were going well and how difficult it was working overseas and how much he missed me and my mom and wished we were there.
The pretension was revolting. He was telling people that I was a great son. I got good grades, I was an enormous help to my mother, and get this—I absolutely couldn’t wait to join him there when I finished my nu
rsing studies for college. We hadn’t even talked about what I was going to take in college. Why was he assuming I wanted to be a nurse? I happened to know that putting catheters into people was not a thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
I took a deep breath and tried not to let this all distract me. I scrolled down. There. One email caught my eye. It was from an immigration agent. I opened it. “…if you can get your son’s papers to me by next week, we can file their applications as soon as you receive your Canadian permanent residence…”
The son of a bitch was serious. I had thought it was a threat, to make me comply to all their future demands. I didn’t realize that they were actually planning to send me to Canada. Me and my mom, who had not said a word to me all this time. I searched for the agent’s name, and the first time it popped up was a year and a half ago. So they had been hiding this from me for that long, maybe longer. I thought it was clear from all our conversations that Dad was intending to come home as soon as his contract was over. That he was saving money so he could start a business.
My ears were ringing by this point. I placed my hands over my head and closed my eyes. Focus, I told myself. I shouldn’t get too angry about this. A week ago, yes, I could; I could’ve brought it up and ranted to the high heavens about how the fuck could they expect me to respect them, when they couldn’t even respect me enough to tell me the truth? But there was no point now. Too much had happened, and all of this, in the end…well, it was insignificant. A tiny drop of water in an ocean of real problems. Funny, the way the world works sometimes.
In the end, it wasn’t revenge that fuelled me. It was pity—pity, and a desire to have the truth finally peek through the blanket of lies I’d grown up with. I wrote one letter, addressed to my mom. “I would like to tell you about my bastard, Enrique,” it said.
I paused for a moment before I hit send, knowing that my family, and all the world as I knew it, ended with that mouse click. Then I went outside, clumsily picking my way through the concrete. The light flashed into my eyes and I yelped. Enrique heard me and came running. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You should have stayed inside!”
Birthplace Page 18
