by Oz Mari G.
“I’m glad Veren was able to convince you to go home. While I would have loved for you to work with us, I was quite worried about you, as you are very young.” Mrs. Bassig prattled on as she stripped the pillows’ old cases and replaced them with fresh ones.
“And thank you for your generosity, Ma'am. I truly appreciate that you offered me the job.” She would never forget how the older woman came to her rescue with no qualms.
“Did you call your father yet? He must be waiting for your homecoming,” Mrs. Bassig mumbled as she stripped the second bed and peeled the cases from the pillows.
Anza shook her head. “Not yet, Ma'am. I need to charge my phone still. It might be flat.” She found the tediousness of their exchange grating. She was worried about Veren and would rather go look for him.
“Oh, I’m sure Veren has informed your father already,” Mrs. Bassig said as she fixed the new sheets on the bed. “He's an efficient emissary,” she added as she tucked the ends of the sheets under the mattress.
Emissary?
“What do you mean, Mrs. Bassig?” Anza had taken a step closer to the older woman, unable to believe her words.
“I’m sure your father made the right decision in sending Veren … I like that boy,” Mrs. Bassig continued, unaware of the upheaval she created. She was busy shaking a pillow into a fresh case. She fluffed it and dropped it on the bed.
Anza’s heart, already beating fast because of her anxiety over Veren's unknown whereabouts, stopped and sank like a leaden weight inside of her stomach.
My father sent Veren after me? That can’t be true.
She had to find Veren to talk to him, to hear the truth from him. Maybe Mrs. Bassig misunderstood, or Veren just said that to protect her. There were a thousand other reasons that could have prompted Veren to say that to Mrs. Bassig.
She rushed out of her room to search for him and left Mrs. Bassig without a word, driven by undefinable emotions. The horror that Veren might have played her echoed in her head as she rushed to his room, but he wasn’t there. His backpack was also missing.
Did he leave me? Her heart pounded even harder at the thought.
She ran down to the lobby. Like earlier, no one had seen him. She felt crushed and bewildered, but told herself not to jump to conclusions until she had spoken to him.
Where did he go?
Short of running around in the rain, where else could she search? She had no choice but to go back to her room.
Just as she turned the corner of the stairway, she noticed movement in a small stone building at the end of the hotel compound, close to the herb garden. Someone slipped inside the structure. She didn’t see who it was, but her gut told her it was Veren.
She sprinted downstairs and ran the distance from the back door to the stone building. The pouring rain drenched her, but she didn’t care. The heavy wooden door was ajar. She pushed it in, just enough so she could squeeze through. It was dark, musty, and smelled of grain and damp stones. A barn.
Unable to see the interior, she cautiously paused by the entrance and waited for her vision to adjust. But she sensed a movement inside, which raised the hairs at the back of her neck.
The sound of a panting man echoed from inside. It was Veren. Then another sound came from the depths of the dark interior. It was something unknown to her. It sounded like the whimper of a wounded beast.
She took a step forward, but faltered when a harsh voice stopped her.
“Anza, no!” An agonised call came from the corner, behind sacks of grain piled high like a wall. “Stay there!” The guttural command wasn’t enough to dissuade her.
Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she could now see the heavy sacks that had partially barred the door. It looked like Veren had created a floor-to-ceiling barricade, to keep himself inside. Judging from the uneven height of the stack, it was unfinished, likely from a lack of material.
“Veren,” she whispered.
“Anza, please … leave me …” Veren’s harsh voice reverberated against the stone walls.
His plea went straight to her heart. It propelled her to climb atop the unfinished stack. Veren was curled on his side. His entire body shook—it looked like he was in horrible pain. He had a dog muzzle on, and he had shackled himself to the stone wall with chains attached to a thick leather vest strapped tight around his torso. That familiar contraption, an Impedio, one that she had seen in every Viscerebus household, explained everything to her.
Veren is a Viscerebus.
An Aswang like her entire family.
That one item confirmed everything Mrs. Bassig said to her earlier. Anger bubbled up inside her, threatening to explode. In its wake, the pain of betrayal.
He was her keeper because her father sent him. He meant to take her home because it was his mission to do so. And he was to gain her trust, her friendship, to convince her to come home.
She stood there, rooted on the spot by the competing urge to lash out, and to leave him, never to see him again.
“Anza, please go … you can’t be here,” he pleaded through pain that roughened up his voice.
The tortured tone broke through her fury. She realised he was protecting her from his reflexive transformation because she was the closest viscera source around. Her thoughts cleared like a cloud blown away by the wind.
If she ran to hide and left him to his fate, he might break away from his shackles. His wall of grain sacks was incomplete. Escape from this barn would be possible. If that happened, he would be in danger of attacking one of the staff in the inn. The humans would go after him in retaliation. They would kill him.
But even if he escaped them, an attack like this, in a place like this island, would make national news. The Tribunal would consider this a direct violation of the Veil of Secrecy. They would end his life, because he had just exposed the Viscerebus.
Veren would be in trouble no matter what.
By instinct, she knew what had to be done. All her life, she had prepared for and imagined doing this to her family members—to give out the only valuable thing she had to offer them: her viscera.
The clock had run out on Veren. There was no way for the sustenance to arrive on time.
She was his only chance.
She jumped down from the sack and rushed to Veren's side. He recoiled, crawling away from her. He held out his hand to ward her off.
“Anza, no! Stay away … Go to your room. Please, I can’t—”
“Shut up, Veren! You need my help.”
She started looking around for tools to use. She might need to go back to the kitchen and get a sharp enough knife, and the first aid kit.
“How much time do you have before you shape-shift?” She heard the urgency in her own voice.
“I don't know … An hour or less,” Veren replied, giving her a confused look.
“Okay, I need you to hold on. I’ll go to the lobby and ask for their first aid kit. And a knife.” She turned away from him. “Hopefully, a very sharp knife,” she muttered.
Veren's hand shot out and captured hers, stopping her.
“I have those in there,” he gasped out, pointing at his backpack. It was lying unnoticed behind her.
She reached for it and dug for the kit inside, conscious of the time constraints. She took out two soft bags marked with a big red cross. The smaller one contained two small bottles of pills. Sedatives and antibiotics. She zipped that one shut.
The bigger one was what she was looking for. Inside it, she found three hard plastic cases. The biggest contained a scalpel, some surgical clips, clamps, a pair of scissors, and various suture needles and surgical threads.
The middle-sized one was the heaviest. It held a bottle of antiseptic, a smaller bottle of alcohol, plastic-wrapped bandages, and cotton pads.
A longer but slimmer case carried two individually packed sterile syringes and needles, and two tiny glass vials.
“Anza, what are you planning to do?” Veren asked. His face reflected his dawning suspicion and was aghas
t.
“You’re going to absorb me, Veren. It’s the only way to save you.”
The firmness of her tone hid her own misgivings. She didn’t want him to doubt her intent, or to argue. If he fought her in this, she could lose her nerve.
“No … Anza, you don’t have to do this.” Veren's weakened denial was hopeful, contradicting his words.
“Veren, don't argue. I’ve made up my mind. This is the best option. You’ll end up killing a hapless human if we don’t do this. And they’ll murder you in return.”
She had taken out the scalpel and bottle of antiseptic, then hiked her t-shirt up, exposing her abdomen. She realised she didn’t know how to start.
“Veren, I need you to help me, too. You’ll have to guide me on where to make the incision.”
Veren's sharp intake of breath made her pause. He must have seen the determination in her eyes, saw her fear of what she needed to do, and her anticipation of pain.
“Okay,” he said. “Let me do it.”
He took off his muzzle and fumbled at the straps of the Impedio, but he stopped. He kept the Impedio on. After a moment’s hesitation, he took out the bottle of alcohol from his kit and squirted it on his hands, rubbing them vigorously. Then he grabbed the bottle of antiseptic from her. With shaking hands, he ripped open a package of cotton pads, twisted the cap off the bottle, and moistened the pads with it.
“Lean back, Anza, and hold your shirt up.”
She half reclined against a sack of grain. He wiped her upper abdomen, under her right rib cage with the antiseptic-moistened cotton pad. With efficient motion, he took a syringe, fitted a needle in it, and took one glass vial from his kit. He began siphoning the contents into the syringe.
“This is anaesthesia,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Thank Prometheus for that.
She nodded in acknowledgement. Her breathing became shallow.
“Are you sure, Anza?” he asked again, his expression pained.
She swallowed and nodded once more. “I am. Hurry, before you run out of time.”
She was conscious of the possibility that he could transform at any moment. She wouldn’t have the strength to stop him should the Impedio fail to keep him restrained.
The first puncture was quick, like an ant bite. He dispensed a quarter of the contents of the syringe. She felt the liquid spread through her muscles in tiny tentacles, radiating outward from the puncture point. Three more injections followed, then it was done.
She breathed out in relief. Sweat beaded her forehead.
“How long before the anaesthesia takes effect?”
“A few minutes... I’ll make this quick. But I have another vial if we need to …” He was unable to finish his sentence.
While they waited in the pregnant silence, Veren busied himself by preparing the suturing needle he would use later. He fished out a towel in a sealed bag from the bottom of his backpack. She marvelled at his level of preparation, despite her efforts to regulate her breathing to arrest her growing panic.
“How come you have all these medical tools with you?” she asked to distract herself and lessen the tension in the air.
“It’s part of an Iztari medical kit. A standard issue.” He couldn’t meet her gaze. “Tell me when the area feels numb.”
Finally, she felt the numbness in her upper stomach.
“Veren, it's time.”
He poured antiseptic on his hands and rubbed them together. He then took the scalpel from her, squirted alcohol gel on it, and spread it all over the blade.
“Ready?” he asked. His thumb and forefinger pressed on the area where he would make the incision.
She swallowed and nodded. “Yes.” She took a deep breath; braced herself for the cut and averted her face so as not to see the blood.
The sharp end of the blade cut deep into her flesh. She winced, not in pain, but at the strangeness of skin and muscles getting sliced, and the flow of warm blood that poured out of the cut and ran down her torso. Then she felt a sharp twinge of pain as the blade reached deeper and cut through the sheath that surrounded her liver. It made her gasp and jerk.
“Sorry,” Veren mumbled, his voice as pained as hers. One hand held her down to minimise her movement.
Her hands clenched on the t-shirt she held up while her body trembled at the pain, her abdominal muscles locked with tension. Tears leaked out of her tightly squeezed eyelids.
It was unlike any pain she had ever experienced.
“Relax, Anza. Deep breaths …”
Veren's calm voice alerted her to her shallow breathing. With extreme effort, she followed his direction. He widened the cut to expose a bigger portion of her organ. Thankfully, the cutting of her muscles didn’t hurt, giving her reprieve.
However, when he cut through her liver, though it was quick, she screamed. The sound reverberated in the barn. The pain almost made her lose consciousness. Through her fading alertness, she heard Veren slurp the piece he had taken from her. She was vaguely aware of Veren pinching the wound close; of his warm tongue as he licked the wound to stem the blood flow.
Cold sweat covered her body, her efforts not to hyperventilate forgotten. Every puncture of the curved needle as he sewed her up made her appreciate the power of the anaesthesia. But at every moment, she expected the return of the pain.
Veren worked quickly. His movements were practised and quick.
After what seemed like an eternity, he cut the excess suturing thread from the wound. With a gentle touch, he wiped her torso clean with the towel, then poured antiseptic on the cut. The last thing she remembered was Veren pressing a square bandage on the wound.
Then everything faded.
Veren panicked when Anza's body slackened. His thumb touched the pulse on her neck. It was strong and fast, but it slowed down to its normal pace after a while. He breathed a sigh of relief. She was fortunately unconscious.
His awareness of their surroundings came back. It was still pouring rain outside; the howling wind would have masked Anza’s scream. His strained muscles loosened somewhat. The effects of Anza’s liver strengthened and energised him, fortifying his Crux.
Then the enormity of Anza’s sacrifice dawned on him. Gratitude and something else he couldn’t comprehend engulfed him. It was his undoing—his tears flowed.
His bloodied hand picked up hers, and he kissed it with reverence. Every emotion he had inside him, he poured into that kiss. This child-woman in his keeping became his keeper. He was supposed to save her, and yet she became his saviour.
She did not know it, and she probably never would, but she would always own a part of him that no other person in this world ever would.
He unshackled himself from his Impedio. There was no need for it now. Her liver gave him a week before he would need sustenance again. He got out and washed the bloodied towel in the rain. He returned inside the barn to make sure Anza was comfortable. While she slept, he put away his things in the backpack and started dismantling his sacks of grain barricade, returning it to its previous location—stacked at the back of the barn.
He kept a close eye on her wound. It had stopped bleeding. When the rain abated, he slung his backpack on over his shoulder and lifted Anza in his arms. He was thankful that they didn’t encounter anyone along the way as he carried her to her room.
He realised this was the second time he would have to undress her. Her shirt and jeans were damp from earlier. Like before, he kept his eyes averted, but this time, he didn’t dress her in a bathrobe. He covered her with the sheet. Her cut bled a little. The blood seeped into the bandage, staining it. It would be easier to dress her wound if she had no clothes on.
After replacing the bandage, he took the shirt to her bathroom and washed it. There were spots of blood on it. He hung her jeans and wet underclothes to dry. His mind was occupied with worry and prayers that her wound wouldn’t get infected.
He was thinking of getting to his room to change out of his own damp jeans when his phone rang. It
was Edrigu.
“Veren, I have been trying to call you, but you were out of range. I was informed that your flight was cancelled. How are you doing?” His questions came out in a barrage. Edrigu knew he was due for his sustenance today.
“I’m well, Sir,” he replied. “The storm made it hard to get a signal.” He didn’t know how to tell Edrigu what Anza did for him.
“Can you still hold on for another day? I will try my best to fly in victus for you tonight. Although, I’m not sure if our team in Tuguegarao can brave the weather,” Edrigu said, forewarning in his tone.
“There’s no need for it, Sir,” he began. “Anza offered … her liver to me.” He choked down the emotions that rose in him.
“What? Wow!” A low whistle followed his words. “How is she?” Edrigu asked after a momentary silence.
“She's resting,” Veren said. He didn’t want to voice out his concern about infections, for fear he might manifest it into a reality.
“Do you have antibiotics in your supplies?” Edrigu asked, his perception of the situation clear. His calm tone implied that everything that happened was commonplace.
“Yes.” Edrigu's question had bolstered his confidence.
“Good. Give her two doses as soon as she wakes up. Now, you need to call Manuu to assure him you’re taking Anza home in another two days,” Edrigu said.
His mentor’s brisk manner reminded him not to be emotional, to think like an Iztari. That sobered him up.
“Should I tell him … what Anza did for me?”
“I think it is Anza's decision to make. Ask her when she awakens,” Edrigu advised.
“Okay, Sir. Thank you,” he said. The load on his shoulder lightened with the support of his mentor. “By the way, Sir, if I need a chopper, just in case, would you be able to arrange one?”
“Yes, just let me know if, and when, you need it. I’ll have one on standby,” Edrigu assured him.
After he ended the call with Edrigu, he took a deep breath and dialled Manuu Soledad's number. Their call was formal, his emotions held in check, no trace of the agitation that ruled him. He assured Anza’s father that Anza agreed to go home and that he would arrange it in two days when the weather improves. As expected, Manuu was impatient and wanted to send a helicopter to pick them up, but he told him the weather could make the trip dangerous.
