by Ron Ripley
“And if he should kill you first?” the dead man asked. “What of me?”
Bontoc considered the question, for it was a fair one. Ishihara had upheld his end of the agreement thus far, and he did not see any reason for the dead man to suffer from Bontoc’s poor luck, should that be the case.
“When I know where my father is for certain,” Bontoc answered, “then I will cremate your bones and leave them with a priest. Should I fail, the priest will mail them to Japan for me.”
Ishihara bowed, giving Bontoc a glimpse of the bloody mess of what had once been the back of the man’s skull. When he straightened up the dead man said, “I thank you.”
Bontoc nodded, tore off another mouthful of pork, and considered how he would locate his father.
***
Two days of travel passed, and on the third day, before Bontoc was to start again, Ishihara returned to the camp, grinning.
“I’ve found a railroad,” the dead man said. “And I know where it goes.”
Bontoc looked at Ishihara in surprise.
“How?” he asked.
Ishihara chuckled. “During the war, the prisoners were kept in Davao Prison. It is up the rail. I remember. You might find information there.”
Excitement sprang up within him, and Bontoc hurriedly finished his preparations. Davao was still a prison, and he had heard of men who finished out their lives there. If any would have heard of travelers nearby, it would be those in the prison, both guards and inmates.
Within a short time, Bontoc was once more on the move, following the dead man along a narrow, twisting trail. Before they had covered much ground, they came to the railroad.
“To the left,” Ishihara said. “Less than a day’s march.”
With his heart pounding, Bontoc turned left and jogged along the railroad cut. He kept a steady pace, ensuring distance while retaining his strength. There was no telling what the guards at the prison might do when a boy appeared out of the jungle, but he wanted to be prepared to run if they felt the urge to chase him, or try and hold him.
Killing a handful of villagers in the jungle did not hold the same penalty as killing a guard near a prison.
Bontoc knew he would have to be careful.
A few hours before sunset, he arrived at the outskirts of the prison. The area was marked by plowed fields, prisoners bent to their tasks and chatted with each other and their guards.
Bontoc came to a stop, hunkering down in the tree line, watching all of the men before him.
“Guards and prisoners?” Bontoc asked, not taking his eyes off any of the men.
“And there is a priest here as well,” the dead man replied.
Bontoc considered the statement, then he nodded in agreement. A moment later he asked, “Which way to the priest?”
“A short distance to the right,” Ishihara answered. “Why?”
“The priest will know if my father passed through,” Bontoc replied.
“How do you know?” the dead man asked, a note of interest in his voice.
“Yesterday was Sunday,” Bontoc answered. “My father never missed Mass.”
Ishihara snorted in surprise but kept any comments to himself as Bontoc got to his feet. Keeping the tree line between himself and the men, Bontoc moved along the right. He glanced out occasionally, seeking some sign of the priest.
Soon enough he found it.
A wiry man of medium height stood beneath the shade of a tree, speaking with both a guard and a prisoner. The man was different in that he wore a short, black-sleeved, button-down shirt, and a matching pair of black pants. His skin was a dark brown, his hair almost entirely white and matching the brilliant white of his collar. The man’s eyes were bright and attentive, set deep within the sockets, his high cheekbones scarred and pockmarked.
There was a similarity between the priest and the guard, and it took only a moment for Bontoc to realize that the men had to be brothers. Possibly even twins. Yet while the priest’s face was damaged, the guard’s was not. And where the priest had a full head of hair, the guard kept his shaved to the skin.
Bontoc stepped out of the tree line and held out his hands, palms up, to show that they were empty.
A few of the prison guards watched him, but the prisoners ignored him.
The guard with the priest motioned for the prisoner with them to leave, and the man did so.
“What do you want, boy?” the guard asked when Bontoc had gotten within twenty feet.
“I would like to speak with the priest,” Bontoc answered. “I am looking for my father.”
“Is he here?” the priest asked.
“He is not a prisoner,” Bontoc stated. “He would have stopped for Mass.”
“And how would you describe him?” the priest inquired.
“He is a tall man,” Bontoc said, “and thick. He is rough, and there is an air of death around him.”
The guard and the priest glanced at one another, then the priest replied, “Yes, child. Your father was here yesterday, and he is as you describe him.”
After a moment of silence, the guard said to the priest, “Brother, I think I do not need to hear what will be discussed.”
The priest patted his brother on the shoulder, saying, “True. I will see you tonight at dinner.”
The guard gave a short nod and left Bontoc and the priest.
Around them, the sound of work continued, and the voices of the prisoners rose up once more. Bontoc’s presence was forgotten as quickly as it had been noticed.
“You seek to end your father’s life,” the priest said.
Surprised, Bontoc nodded.
“You have the look of vengeance about you,” the priest said, smiling sadly. “That same look has sent many men here, to Davao Prison. Would you tell me what your father did that demands this of you?”
Bontoc considered the question, he thought of telling the priest about the beatings, and about the torture. But then, he simply stated, “He blinded my mother.”
A look of horror flickered across the priest’s face, and then quickly replaced by a stern expression of resolution.
“Murder, in and of itself,” the priest said after a moment of silence, “is a horrific act.”
Bontoc considered the young men he had killed in the strange village and decided that the priest was wrong.
“Blinding someone,” the priest continued, “is worse. That person has been condemned to a life of reliance upon others. Others who might not care for the victim as they should. Who cares for your mother now?”
“Her sister looks after her while I seek my father,” Bontoc answered. His voice was grim and determined. “I would have words with him about the blinding.”
“I can see that you would,” the priest said. He turned and looked towards the tree line. “There is a railroad cut that moves deep into the jungle. From there, paths lead off into the swamp. Your father will go there, into the swamp. For a man like him, there are places to hide. But he will keep to the cut for some time.”
“Are you certain?” Bontoc asked, keeping his excitement to himself.
The priest nodded. “I overheard several of my parishioners speak of him, and how they had told him of an old house far enough in the swamp to be safe, but close enough to allow access to several towns.”
“Thank you,” Bontoc said, and he turned to head back into the jungle.
“Are you certain of this?” the priest asked.
“Of course I am,” Bontoc answered without a look back. “He blinded my mother.”
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: In the Great Swamp
The fire burned brightly in the darkness, and Ishihara sat across from Bontoc.
There was a look of anticipation on the dead man’s face as Bontoc removed the bones from his pack. He smiled at the thought of how the guards would have reacted had they searched his bag.
The smile fell away as he looked at the bones in his hands. They were light and yellowed. And Bontoc wondered if Ishihara would object greatly to r
emaining with him. His father had collected heads, and Bontoc had always assumed he would do the same.
He glanced at Ishihara and said, “I’m not sure how to do this.”
“The fire is hot enough,” Ishihara said in a soft voice. “Place the bones in it. They will burn. When they have gone, you must gather up the ashes. Not all of them, merely some, and then leave them for the priest.”
Bontoc nodded, picked up the skull, and tossed it onto the flames. The femur followed, and then all he could do was wait.
And he did so, watching the bones burn and Ishihara fade away.
***
Before the sun had risen, Bontoc had found a guard, bribed the man with the small bit of money he had left, and left the container and instructions with Ishihara’s ashes for the priest.
With his part done, Bontoc returned to the jungle, and he sought out his father.
He traveled for the entirety of the day, and he slung a hammock in a tree to keep himself safe from his father, should the man be out and about.
The next morning, Bontoc was again on the move, and it wasn’t long before he located the building the priest had spoken of.
It was small and dilapidated. There was no glass in any of the windows, although the screen had been tacked in. The walls were made of rough-hewn logs, all of the surfaces covered with various specimens of jungle growth. Smoke curled up from the mud and stone chimney, and the door looked thick and sturdy.
Getting into the building would be difficult.
Bontoc sat and stared at the structure, plotting how best to gain access.
He felt himself grow anxious, and then a strange calm settled over him.
Bontoc knew that if he died, his mother would be cared for. His aunt could be counted upon for that. And his own debt to Ishihara for traveling with him was already paid.
No matter what happened, Bontoc could die, and if he did, he would haunt his father.
Bontoc removed the bolo from the pack and stood up. He walked purposefully to the door and banged upon it with the hilt of the weapon.
“Go away!” his father yelled from within. “There’s not enough food or space for two!”
Bontoc slammed the door again.
“I said leave!” his father screamed.
Bontoc felt a grin spread across his face and he hammered on the door with abandon, shaking the thick wood in the frame. The hinges complained, as did his father. Both only encouraged Bontoc to strike the door harder.
Fury entered his father’s voice, and the whole building shuddered with the man’s rage as he approached the door. Bontoc braced himself, crouching down just before the door was torn open.
His father filled the doorway, his body wet with sweat, eyes wide with anger. The man’s mouth was open, the lips flecked with spittle, and his head jerked from left to right, searching for the one who had ignored and harassed him.
He didn’t look down until it was too late.
Bontoc slammed the point of the bolo into his father’s groin, driving it up to the hilt as he sprang up. The force of the blow lifted the man off his feet and sent him falling back. The walls of the house shuddered as Bontoc’s father crashed to the floor.
Keeping his hands on the weapon, Bontoc moved forward too, and as his father let out a high-pitched squeal of agony, he twisted the blade in the wound. Blood spurt from the wound and Bontoc twisted it again before he ripped it free. His father flailed on the floor with the gracelessness of a dying fish, blood splattering and spraying out. Bontoc felt the warm liquid strike him, and he grinned.
His father looked at him in horror and started to speak.
Bontoc didn’t let him finish.
He stepped forward and with a rough motion, he cut halfway through his father’s throat. More blood sprayed out, and the man’s lips moved silently even as his skin became pale. The flesh around the neck wound flapped and twisted with each movement, and then they stopped. The flow of blood slowed, and the light of life faded from the man’s eyes.
Bontoc squatted down beside the body of his father, then looked around the room. Canned food was stacked on the floor beside a blanket. His father’s heads were on new shelves, and Bontoc bowed to them. He whispered thanks to them for not intervening on his father’s behalf.
“You may take us,” a voice whispered in return, the words coming from all corners at once. “But only if you bring your father’s head as well.”
Bontoc nodded, picked up his bolo, and severed his father’s head. He held it for a moment and looked at the twisted, shocked expression frozen on the man’s features.
“Did he tell you how to cure a head?” the voice asked him.
“No,” Bontoc replied.
“Then listen,” the voice said, “and we will tell you what you will need to bring your prize home.”
Bontoc closed his eyes and listened as the dead told him what to do.
* * *
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Arrival
Chapter 2: A Different Kind of Home
Chapter 3: Old Time Radio
Chapter 4: News and More News
Chapter 5: No Rest for the Wicked
Chapter 6: Tuning in to Hank
Chapter 7: History and Antiquity
