Long ago, the land of Ibalon, known as Bicol, was a land of lush and virginal beauty, but no one lived there.
One day, a mighty warrior called Baltog came upon the land. The richness and beauty of the region made him decide to take his family and his workers to this wonder place. Here they lived in peace and prosperity.
But one day, the tranquility of their lives was threatened by a huge man-eating wild boar. The ferocious beast destroyed the linsa or gabi plants and other crops as well. It also killed people. Soon, vast areas in Ibalon were reduced to waste, and countless people were either killed or maimed. Baltog was dumb-founded as he surveyed the depredation wrought on his kingdom.
Leaving his home under the cover of the night, he went to the muddy fields to wait for his enemy.
Baltog waited for long, long time. Finally, when the moon was bright, the man-eating boar came snorting and tearing crops as it went along. Baltog hid under the bushes. When the boar came within reach, he sprang at it. Man and beast tumbled to the ground in mortal combat. Fortunately, Baltog was able to pin down the beast and summoning all his strength, he finally subdued the boar, not with a spear, but breaking its super-sized jaws with his own strong arms. Baltog’s victory put an end to a terror that had ravished his kingdom for a time.
Ibalon, however, saw few years of peace. One day, huge carabaos followed by winged sharks and giant crocodiles rushed to Ibalon. Every mortal was in fright: death and destruction took a heavy toll. The mighty Baltog could no longer defend his kingdom, for years had sapped his strength. Defenseless, Ibalon had become an easy prey.
Luck, however, was still with Ibalon. On that tragic day, Handiomg, a mighty warrior of the neighboring kingdom, happened to pass by Ibalon. Handiong came to the rescue.
Handiong and his brave seasoned men threw themselves at the stampeding and winging wild enemies. For untold hours, Ibalon saw mortal combat. Blood flowed freely over the land and the streams. One by one, they slew the beasts.
Only one monster escaped Handiong’s mortal blows. This was Oriol., the serpent who could transform itself into a beautiful woman. With her seductive words, she enticed him. But Handiong pursued her through the forest without rest. To save itself, the she-snake struck an alliance with Handiong. She promised to drivethe evil spirits out of the mountains if Handiong would leave her alone. And at last, peace came to Ibalon again.
Handiong encouraged the people to plant, invent farming equipments, build banca and houses. Under his wise administration, Ibalon became rich and peaceful again.
Outside Handiong’s domain, there appeared another threat to his kingdom. This time it was Rabut, a far more terrible monster, for under its spell, mortals could turn to stone.
Handiong called his friend and companion, the mighty Bantong, to deal with the enemy. Together with a handful of men, Bantong raided the monster’s lair. He found the enemy taking its nap. With a cat-like agility, Bantong delivered a mortal blow at the monster’s neck. The wounded monster cried in agony, and in his struggle for breath, the earth cracked and the water in the sea rolled landward.
Ibalon underwent great physical change. New island beagn to dot the water near the peninsula. Finally, a tall and perfect cone reared its head to lord over the leveled ruins. This perfect cone is now known as Mayon Volcano.
Thus ends Ibalon.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
WE FILIPINOS ARE MILD DRINKERS
WE Filipinos are mild drinkers. We drink for only three good reasons. We drink when we are very happy. We drink when we are very sad. And we drink for any other reason.
When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted and stripped to the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed toward me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.
“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting me on the head.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered.
All Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,” he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog.”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, sake, vodka. . . .” He mentioned many more that I cannot spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right, “I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mud hole then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?”
I didn’t answer.
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the mud and was going: Whooooosh! Whooooosh!
Flies and other insects flew from his back and hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands except on the nose. It has to wallow in the mud or bathe in a river every three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mud hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was cautiously looking around.
“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our drinks.”
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs. Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snake bites, as counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we have taken from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my shell. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink but reacted in a peculiar way.
His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand clutched his throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a centipede.
“Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late. Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his shell. I noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to America!”
I was trying to be a good host.
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand.
Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink.
Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled: “Blaze, goddam you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from the house and strapped it on my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering what had happened to the big Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out which barracks he belonged to and took him there. His friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”
“No, thanks, “I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
About the author: National Artist for Literature Alejandro R. Roces wrote this prize-winning story as an undergraduate in the University of Arizona after World War II. His métier lies in writing humor and cockfighting stories.
When the Americans recaptured the Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. Yankee soldiers became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many friends. I could not pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu. I was barefooted and stripped to the waist. My pants that were made from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms were rolled up to my knees. My bolo was at my side.
An American soldier was walking on the highway. When he saw me, he headed toward me. I stopped plowing and waited for him. I noticed he was carrying a half-pint bottle of whiskey. Whiskey bottles seemed part of the American uniform.
“Hello, my little brown brother,” he said, patting me on the head.
“Hello, Joe,” I answered.
All Americans are called Joe in the Philippines.
“I am sorry, Jose,” I replied. “There are no bars in this barrio.”
“Oh, hell! You know where I could buy more whiskey?”
“Here, have a swig. You have been working hard,” he said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
“Well, don’t you drink at all?”
“Yes, Joe, I drink, but not whiskey.”
“What the hell do you drink?”
“I drink lambanog.”
“Jungle juice, eh?”
“I guess that is what the GIs call it.”
“You know where I could buy some?”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin, champagne, sake, vodka. . . .” He mentioned many more that I cannot spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France. In New Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in a hospital I pie-eyed with medical alcohol. On my way here on a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right, “I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mud hole then we can go home and drink.”
“You sure love that animal, don’t you?”
“I should,” I replied. “It does half of my work.”
“Why don’t you get two of them?”
I didn’t answer.
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mud hole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the mud and was going: Whooooosh! Whooooosh!
Flies and other insects flew from his back and hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands except on the nose. It has to wallow in the mud or bathe in a river every three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came into his eyes. Then he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mud hole to keep from getting splashed. I left Datu in the mud hole. Then turning to Joe, I said.
“Let us go.”
And we proceeded toward my house. Jose was cautiously looking around.
“This place is full of coconut trees,” he said.
“Don’t you have any coconut trees in America?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Back home we have the pine tree.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves sway down the earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took the bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree. Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our drinks.”
“Oh, chasers.”
“That is right, Joe. That is what the soldiers call it.”
I filled my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs. Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut. It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
“Please sit down, Joe,” I said.
“Where?” he asked, looking around.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the foot high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snake bites, as counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we have taken from the earth.”
“Well,” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
“Here is to the end of the war!” I said, also lifting my shell. I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink but reacted in a peculiar way.
His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand clutched his throat. He looked as if he had swallowed a centipede.
“Quick, a chaser!” he said.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late. Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would have helped him.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “The first drink always affects me this way.”
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a minesweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave his shell. I noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Joe took his shell but he did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to America!”
I was trying to be a good host.
“Here’s to America!” Joe said.
We both killed our drinks. Joe again reacted in a funny way. His neck stretched out like a turtle’s. And now he was panting like a carabao gone berserk. He was panting like a carabao gone amok. He was grasping his tie with one hand.
Then he looked down on his tie, threw it to one side, and said: “Oh, Christ, for a while I thought it was my tongue.”
After this he started to tinker with his teeth.
“What is wrong, Joe?” I asked, still trying to be a perfect host.
“Plenty, this damned drink has loosened my bridgework.”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead. He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m through.”
“OK. Just one more.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey. I handed Joe his drink.
Here’s to the Philippines,” he said.
“Here’s to the Philippines,” I said.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I saw smoke coming out of his ears.
“This stuff must be radioactive,” he said.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yelled: “Blaze, goddam you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take Joe back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me carry Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from the house and strapped it on my waist. Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering what had happened to the big Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the airfield. I found out which barracks he belonged to and took him there. His friends helped me to take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody thanked me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies called me and said:
“Hey, you! How about a can of beer before you go?”
“No, thanks, “I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
About the author: National Artist for Literature Alejandro R. Roces wrote this prize-winning story as an undergraduate in the University of Arizona after World War II. His métier lies in writing humor and cockfighting stories.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Peril in the Lagoon
By Loreto Paras- Sulit
By Loreto Paras- Sulit
The lagoon lay in a quiet hidden sort of splendour. The fine beach sloping gently into it from the green hills beyond invited the first newcomer for a dip and swim in its clear waters.
“We are coming! Here we come!” gaily shouted the three boys, throwing their camping things right and left their excitement.
“You have to put up the tent first,” quietly reminded nearby. “And you have to listen to a few must’s and must- not’s before you go venturing in that lagoon.
“Oh Uncle!” chorused the three in disappointment. What was wrong with you uncle? He was not a killjoy, no, not. Uncle Sidro who in the past was always the first to push them into adventure, hunting, fishing, swimming, treasure- hunting. When the three boys first learned that Uncle Sidro had bought a house near this lagoon, they knew that next summer they would surely be invited to come over. And they were.
The plan for the summer was that the boys cook their own meals- and be on their own. For Tony the eldest of the three fatherless brothers, was now sixteen, David was fourteen, and Berting was twelve.
After the summer heat and closeness of the city, after their examinations and lessons, all this was certainly a boy’s dream of paradise. Now here was Uncle Sidro dampening their spirits with his must’s and must not’s.
Swiftly they put up their tent, arranged their sleeping bags and things, which out of long practice and frequent camping they did quite well and quickly.
In between, they threw sidelong glances at Uncle Sidro, who smoked cigar after cigar as he sat on camp stool nearby. Finally when the boys at last few threw satisfied looks around, he spoke :”Well, boys, I guess you are all set to begin your vacation. You can do anything you wish but swim in the lagoon.”
“Oh, Uncle Sidro,” was all they could manage. The helpless glances they threw at the shining lagoon beyond revealed more eloquently their shattered palns and dreams.
“You see boys,” Uncle Sidro started to explain, “you have to understand and help me, I am responsible to your mother for your safety. She has always entrusted you to me as you know. When I invite you here for a vacation, I did not count on a shark slipping in one night into the lagoon and upsetting all our plans.”
“Oh so it is only a shark,” laughed Tony.
There was no answering smile from Uncle Sidro, “Only one, but the most vicious and murderous man- killer, if ever there was one,” he rejoined instead. “Unless it is killed or driven out of the lagoon, no one can swim there in safety. I don’t dare to trust you in that lagoon even if only to wet your feet. And as the past, boys, I shall always count on your ‘honor bright’. With that he left them.
“We may as well go home,” was Berting’s moody reaction. “My ‘honor bright’ will not stand the temptation of the lagoon.”
David, always the silent type, fingered his hunting knife thoughtfully. “I guess that shark has to be killed. But how do we go to it and find it without breaking our word to Uncle Sidro?”
“Kill the shark, eh?” repeated Tony softly. “What has been your experience along that line, my fine sir? Perhaps you think you are a Tarzan or a Superman?”
“I am going out for a walk along the beach.” Was David’s reply. He knew the two would tag along.
They could not walk along the beach. They had to run and jump and shout. The beach was smooth under their feet. The wind was sharp and cool, slapping them into life, into action, and the water, just a stone’s throw away, was sparkling and blue. Oh, to be this alive and bounding and yet be helpless!
They looked at it in silence, each revolving in his mind plans of how to remove the barrier between them and that inviting lagoon. Suddenly a gray fin darted out of the water, and a flying streak sped across the lagoon. The waters were so transparent that it was not difficult to see what swam in them. The Grey Killer was about!
Perhaps not all Uncle Sidro’s repeated warnings could have sobered them up as quickly as that swift glimpse of the Grey Killer.
“He seems to be about this morning. Suppose, we try a little deep sea fishing. If we catch him, we’ll haul him to the shore. He won’t have any advantage once stranded on land.” The swift plans of Tony left the other two looking at each other inquiringly. They were used to the whirlwind decision of Kuya Tony, and like good followers, since they did not have better plans to offer, kept quiet and followed.
Uncle Sidro have furnished them with a sturdy sailboat. He had only forbidden them to swim or wet their feet. Well, they would do neither. Going into some kind of action was better than not having to try anything. The fishing tackle was brought out in a hurry. “Don’ forget your knives,” reminded David. The sailboat hidden in the cave below their camp was untied and so out in the quiet, shining lagoon they sailed, their hearts beating rapidly.
The boys were well- versed in various fishing methods for Uncle Sidro had derived his wealth from the sea and the boys, every summer, went on fishing tips with him.
Half an hour’s sailing on the smooth waters of the lagoon revealed no sign of their prey. It only made them more determined to succeed for the hidden beauties of the lagoon, its promises for endless fishing and for exploration were unfolded.
The sun was fast climbing overhead and its glint on the water leapt back into theoir eyes. Berting was for giving it up and returning to the shore when a sharp tug at the end of their line startled them. David who was at the end of the boat, peered into the waters excitedly.
There was a sharper tug and David shouted, “ He’s caught! He’s –“ The rest was lost, for he tumbled into the water, into the very open jaws of the shark. The hook had caught at the end of the lower jaw, but in its frantic lashing it was able to tear it away.
The lagoon darkened with blood but not before the two brothers in the boat glimpsed the infuriated shark turning on David. David swam away, while the boat raced to rescue him.
For David had tangled up with the shark and with the two well- aimed plunges of his hunting knife finished the Grey Killer. From the boat overhead tangled the line that first caught the shark. Swiftly he hooked it to the line and then swam up gasping and exhausted to be pulled up into the boat.
On the shore a grave- faced Uncle Sidro waited as the three boys breathlessly unloaded the long shark onto the shore. They waited guiltily for the scolding, but the twinkle in Uncle Sidro’s eyes made them sigh and relief.
“Well boys,” he asked, “whose name shall appear on the medal I’ll donate for the shark killer?
But the boys were solemnly measuring the shark and a long whistle came from Tony. “Never mind the medal, Uncle,” said Berting. “Isn’t there a company that buys sharks from fishermen? Let us sell this one and buy a grand gift when we return to the city!” But is two brothers were not within hearing distance anymore.
They had plunged straight into the lagoon and were splashing and shouting like two joyful tortoises.
“We are coming! Here we come!” gaily shouted the three boys, throwing their camping things right and left their excitement.
“You have to put up the tent first,” quietly reminded nearby. “And you have to listen to a few must’s and must- not’s before you go venturing in that lagoon.
“Oh Uncle!” chorused the three in disappointment. What was wrong with you uncle? He was not a killjoy, no, not. Uncle Sidro who in the past was always the first to push them into adventure, hunting, fishing, swimming, treasure- hunting. When the three boys first learned that Uncle Sidro had bought a house near this lagoon, they knew that next summer they would surely be invited to come over. And they were.
The plan for the summer was that the boys cook their own meals- and be on their own. For Tony the eldest of the three fatherless brothers, was now sixteen, David was fourteen, and Berting was twelve.
After the summer heat and closeness of the city, after their examinations and lessons, all this was certainly a boy’s dream of paradise. Now here was Uncle Sidro dampening their spirits with his must’s and must not’s.
Swiftly they put up their tent, arranged their sleeping bags and things, which out of long practice and frequent camping they did quite well and quickly.
In between, they threw sidelong glances at Uncle Sidro, who smoked cigar after cigar as he sat on camp stool nearby. Finally when the boys at last few threw satisfied looks around, he spoke :”Well, boys, I guess you are all set to begin your vacation. You can do anything you wish but swim in the lagoon.”
“Oh, Uncle Sidro,” was all they could manage. The helpless glances they threw at the shining lagoon beyond revealed more eloquently their shattered palns and dreams.
“You see boys,” Uncle Sidro started to explain, “you have to understand and help me, I am responsible to your mother for your safety. She has always entrusted you to me as you know. When I invite you here for a vacation, I did not count on a shark slipping in one night into the lagoon and upsetting all our plans.”
“Oh so it is only a shark,” laughed Tony.
There was no answering smile from Uncle Sidro, “Only one, but the most vicious and murderous man- killer, if ever there was one,” he rejoined instead. “Unless it is killed or driven out of the lagoon, no one can swim there in safety. I don’t dare to trust you in that lagoon even if only to wet your feet. And as the past, boys, I shall always count on your ‘honor bright’. With that he left them.
“We may as well go home,” was Berting’s moody reaction. “My ‘honor bright’ will not stand the temptation of the lagoon.”
David, always the silent type, fingered his hunting knife thoughtfully. “I guess that shark has to be killed. But how do we go to it and find it without breaking our word to Uncle Sidro?”
“Kill the shark, eh?” repeated Tony softly. “What has been your experience along that line, my fine sir? Perhaps you think you are a Tarzan or a Superman?”
“I am going out for a walk along the beach.” Was David’s reply. He knew the two would tag along.
They could not walk along the beach. They had to run and jump and shout. The beach was smooth under their feet. The wind was sharp and cool, slapping them into life, into action, and the water, just a stone’s throw away, was sparkling and blue. Oh, to be this alive and bounding and yet be helpless!
They looked at it in silence, each revolving in his mind plans of how to remove the barrier between them and that inviting lagoon. Suddenly a gray fin darted out of the water, and a flying streak sped across the lagoon. The waters were so transparent that it was not difficult to see what swam in them. The Grey Killer was about!
Perhaps not all Uncle Sidro’s repeated warnings could have sobered them up as quickly as that swift glimpse of the Grey Killer.
“He seems to be about this morning. Suppose, we try a little deep sea fishing. If we catch him, we’ll haul him to the shore. He won’t have any advantage once stranded on land.” The swift plans of Tony left the other two looking at each other inquiringly. They were used to the whirlwind decision of Kuya Tony, and like good followers, since they did not have better plans to offer, kept quiet and followed.
Uncle Sidro have furnished them with a sturdy sailboat. He had only forbidden them to swim or wet their feet. Well, they would do neither. Going into some kind of action was better than not having to try anything. The fishing tackle was brought out in a hurry. “Don’ forget your knives,” reminded David. The sailboat hidden in the cave below their camp was untied and so out in the quiet, shining lagoon they sailed, their hearts beating rapidly.
The boys were well- versed in various fishing methods for Uncle Sidro had derived his wealth from the sea and the boys, every summer, went on fishing tips with him.
Half an hour’s sailing on the smooth waters of the lagoon revealed no sign of their prey. It only made them more determined to succeed for the hidden beauties of the lagoon, its promises for endless fishing and for exploration were unfolded.
The sun was fast climbing overhead and its glint on the water leapt back into theoir eyes. Berting was for giving it up and returning to the shore when a sharp tug at the end of their line startled them. David who was at the end of the boat, peered into the waters excitedly.
There was a sharper tug and David shouted, “ He’s caught! He’s –“ The rest was lost, for he tumbled into the water, into the very open jaws of the shark. The hook had caught at the end of the lower jaw, but in its frantic lashing it was able to tear it away.
The lagoon darkened with blood but not before the two brothers in the boat glimpsed the infuriated shark turning on David. David swam away, while the boat raced to rescue him.
For David had tangled up with the shark and with the two well- aimed plunges of his hunting knife finished the Grey Killer. From the boat overhead tangled the line that first caught the shark. Swiftly he hooked it to the line and then swam up gasping and exhausted to be pulled up into the boat.
On the shore a grave- faced Uncle Sidro waited as the three boys breathlessly unloaded the long shark onto the shore. They waited guiltily for the scolding, but the twinkle in Uncle Sidro’s eyes made them sigh and relief.
“Well boys,” he asked, “whose name shall appear on the medal I’ll donate for the shark killer?
But the boys were solemnly measuring the shark and a long whistle came from Tony. “Never mind the medal, Uncle,” said Berting. “Isn’t there a company that buys sharks from fishermen? Let us sell this one and buy a grand gift when we return to the city!” But is two brothers were not within hearing distance anymore.
They had plunged straight into the lagoon and were splashing and shouting like two joyful tortoises.
A VISION OF BEAUTY
By Jorge Bocobo
By Jorge Bocobo
A sad paradox in our country is that while our flora is rank and lush, we have practically no parks where trees grow luxuriantly, and our streets and roads are bleak when they should be lined with shade and flowering trees. For many years , I have conjured up in my mind a beautiful Philippines . with rows of fire trees, kakawatis, banabas, floridads, dapdaps, golden showers, and other flowering trees, and also mangoes, bamboos, sampaloks, santols, narras, acacias, and other shades on both sides of our streets and roads.
This dream of beauty for our country is intensified to the point of poignant longing whenever I travel in Europe, America and Australia where I behold such a riot of colors in public parks and home gardens, soothing, uninterrupted green foliage everywhere.
All this vision of beauty can come to a fascinating reality all over our country if we Filipinos will but take up this matter more seriously and assiduously. Let us not emphasize tree-planting but instead caring for trees. Our people, especially the school children, have planted countless trees on so many past arbor days, but the trees have died, for they were abandoned after the first few weeks.
A tree is not just an intimate and meaningless thing. To the man with a fine sensibility, a tree has a personality, as it were, which grows into his life as the years go by. For example. There is on my lot on Villaruel Street, Pasay City, a tall dita tree, as high as a six-storey building ; perhaps it is the tallest tree in this town. It is so high that during the last war the Japanese garrison nearby ordered me to have it cut by at least 5 meters because it might be used by guerillas. I have looked up at it practically everyday of the last thirty-two years. It is a forest tree and this fact alone gives me the sensation of being in a forest, which lends me a serenity of soul and a meditative mood. How refreshing this tree is to me, after the day’s toil and tension, as I look up to it etched against a star-strewn sky! When I see some birds (gray and colorless) nest on its highest branches, unafraid because they know they are safe from human cruelty, I feel that a man’s life should be like that of this tree, shielding the poor and helpless and helping them enjoy freedom.
There are other trees in my lot: sampalok, chico, macopa, caimito, - that give us fruits in abundance. But I wish especially to mention one tree: IT IS AN AURICARIA OF THE PINE FAMILY. Its branches are so symmetrical that people commonly call it the Christmas tree. Indeed every Christmas we cut the top, two meters high, which we use for our Christmas tree. On the very top of this tree, there is always a star-shaped formation of branches and leaves, and the mellow charm of the new day casts upon my soul and indescribable inward peace.
On my neighbor’s lot grows a santol tree near the boundary, so near that some of its branches hang over my lot and almost reach the window of my room. Nearly every morning I greet the dawn through the foliage of this santol tree. On a clear morning the dazzling brilliance or sunrise is subdued by the branches and leaves, and the mellow charm of the new day casts upon my soul and indescribable inward peace.
Some of the leaves of this tree remind me of autumn in America and Europe because they are deep red or golden. When they fall to the ground, they form a sort of Persian carpet.
Throughout my life I have remembered the trees in our homelot when I was a boy in Gerona, province of Tarlac. Most of them are dead and their withered trunks and branches have long been burned in the typical earthen kalang. But they have always been fresh and luxuriant in the garden of my recollections. They loomed before me the ageless sampalok; there was deep gloom among the branches even at noon.
This dream of beauty for our country is intensified to the point of poignant longing whenever I travel in Europe, America and Australia where I behold such a riot of colors in public parks and home gardens, soothing, uninterrupted green foliage everywhere.
All this vision of beauty can come to a fascinating reality all over our country if we Filipinos will but take up this matter more seriously and assiduously. Let us not emphasize tree-planting but instead caring for trees. Our people, especially the school children, have planted countless trees on so many past arbor days, but the trees have died, for they were abandoned after the first few weeks.
A tree is not just an intimate and meaningless thing. To the man with a fine sensibility, a tree has a personality, as it were, which grows into his life as the years go by. For example. There is on my lot on Villaruel Street, Pasay City, a tall dita tree, as high as a six-storey building ; perhaps it is the tallest tree in this town. It is so high that during the last war the Japanese garrison nearby ordered me to have it cut by at least 5 meters because it might be used by guerillas. I have looked up at it practically everyday of the last thirty-two years. It is a forest tree and this fact alone gives me the sensation of being in a forest, which lends me a serenity of soul and a meditative mood. How refreshing this tree is to me, after the day’s toil and tension, as I look up to it etched against a star-strewn sky! When I see some birds (gray and colorless) nest on its highest branches, unafraid because they know they are safe from human cruelty, I feel that a man’s life should be like that of this tree, shielding the poor and helpless and helping them enjoy freedom.
There are other trees in my lot: sampalok, chico, macopa, caimito, - that give us fruits in abundance. But I wish especially to mention one tree: IT IS AN AURICARIA OF THE PINE FAMILY. Its branches are so symmetrical that people commonly call it the Christmas tree. Indeed every Christmas we cut the top, two meters high, which we use for our Christmas tree. On the very top of this tree, there is always a star-shaped formation of branches and leaves, and the mellow charm of the new day casts upon my soul and indescribable inward peace.
On my neighbor’s lot grows a santol tree near the boundary, so near that some of its branches hang over my lot and almost reach the window of my room. Nearly every morning I greet the dawn through the foliage of this santol tree. On a clear morning the dazzling brilliance or sunrise is subdued by the branches and leaves, and the mellow charm of the new day casts upon my soul and indescribable inward peace.
Some of the leaves of this tree remind me of autumn in America and Europe because they are deep red or golden. When they fall to the ground, they form a sort of Persian carpet.
Throughout my life I have remembered the trees in our homelot when I was a boy in Gerona, province of Tarlac. Most of them are dead and their withered trunks and branches have long been burned in the typical earthen kalang. But they have always been fresh and luxuriant in the garden of my recollections. They loomed before me the ageless sampalok; there was deep gloom among the branches even at noon.
My Father’s Tragedy
It was one of those lean years of our lives. Our rice field was destroyed by locusts that came from the neighboring towns. When the locusts were gone, we planted string beans but a fire burned the whole plantation. My brothers went away because they got tired working for nothing. Mother and my sisters went from house to house, asking for something to do, but every family was plagued with some kind of disaster. The children walked in the streets looking for the fruit that fell to the ground from the acacia tree. The men hung on the fence around the market and watched the meat dealers hungrily. We were all suffering from lack of proper food.
But the professional gamblers had money. They sat in the fish house at the station and gave their orders aloud. The loafers and other bystanders watched them eat boiled rice and fried fish with silver spoons. They never used forks because the prongs stuck between their teeth. They always cut their lips and tongues with the knives, so they never asked for them If the waiter was new and he put the knives on the table, they looked at each other furtively and slipped them into their pockets. They washed their hands in one big wooden bowl of water and wiped their mouths with the leaves of the arbour trees that fell on the ground.
The rainy season was approaching. There were rumors of famine. The grass did not grow and our carabao became thin. Father’s fighting cock, Burick, was practically the only healthy thing in our household. Its father, Kanaway, had won a house for us some three years before, and Father had commanded me to give it the choicest rice. He took the soft-boiled eggs from the plate of my sister Marcela, who was sick with meningitis that year. He was preparing Burick for something big, but the great catastrophe came to our town. The peasants and most of the rich men spent their money on food. They had stopped going to the cockpit for fear of temptation; if they went atall, they just sat in the gallery and shouted at the top of their lungs. They went home with their heads down, thinking of the money they would have won.
It was during this impasse that Father sat every day in our backyard with his fighting cock. He would not go anywhere. He would do anything. He just sat there caressing Burick and exercising his legs . He sapt at his hackles and rubbed them,, looking far away with a big dream. When Mother came home with some food, he went to the granary and sat there till evening. Sometimes, he slept there with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke him up with its majestic crowing. He crept into the house and fumbled for the cold rice in the pot under the stove. Then, he put the cock in the pen and slept on the bench all day.
Mother was very patient. But the day came when she kicked him off the bench. He fell on the floor face down, looked up at her, and then resumed his sleep. Mother took my sister Francisca with her. They went from house to house in the neighbourhood, pounding rice for some people and hauling drinking water for others. They came home with their share in a big basket that Mother carried on her head.
Father wasstill sleeping on the bench when they arrived. Mother told my sister to cook some of the rice. She dipped a cup in the jar and splashed the cold water on Father’s face. He jumped up, looked at Mother with anger, and went to Burick’s pen. He gathered the cock in his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the backyard and started caressing his fighting cock.
Mother went on with her washing. Francisca fed Marcela with some boiled rice. Father was still caressing Burick. Mother was mad at him.
“Is that all you can do?” she shouted at him.
“Why do you say that to me?” Father said. “I’m thinking of some ways to become rich.”
Mother threw a piece of wood at the cock. Father saw her in time. He ducked and covered the cock with his body. The wood struck him. It cut a hole at the base of his head. He got up and examined Burick. He acted as though the cock were the one that was hurt. He looked up at Mother and his face was pitiful.
“Why don’t you see what you are doing?” he said, hugging Burick.
“I would like to wring that cock’s neck,” mother said.
“That’s his fortune,” I said.
Mother looked sharply at me. “Shut up, idiot!” she said. “You are becoming more like your father every day.”
I watched her eyes move foolishly. I thought she would cry. She tucked her skirt between her legs and went on with her work. I ran down the ladder and went to the granary, where Father was treating the wound on his head. I held the cock for him.
“Take good care of it, son,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Go to the river and exercise its legs. Come back right away. We are going to town.”
I ran down the street with the cock. avoiding the pigs and dogs that came in my way. I plunged into the water in my clothes and swam with Burick. I put some water in my mouth and blew it into his face. I ran back to our house slapping the water off my clothes. Father and I went to the cockpit.
It was Sunday, but there were many loafers an gamblers at the place. There were peasants and teachers. There was a strange man who had a black fighting cock. He had come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his fortune in our cockpit.
His name was Burcio. He held our cock above his head and closed one eye, looking sharply at Burick’s eyes. He put it on the ground and bent over it, pressing down the cock’s back with his hands. Burcio was testing Burick’s strength. The loafers and gamblers formed a ring around the, watching Burcio’s deft hands expertly moving around Burick.
Father also tested the cock of Burcio. He threw it in the air and watched it glide smoothly to the ground. He sparred with it. The black cock pecked at his legs and stopped to crow proudly for the bystanders. Father picked it up an spread its wings, feeling the tough hide beneath the feathers.
The bystanders knew that a fight was about to be matched. They counted the money in their pockets without showing it to their neighbours.They felt the edges of the coins with amazing swiftness and accuracy. Only a highly magnified amplifier could have recorded the tiny clink of the coins that fell between deft fingers. The caressing rustle of the paper money was inaudible. The peasants broke from the ring and hid behind the coconut trees. They unfolded their handkerchiefs and counted their money. They rolled the paper money in their hands and returned to the crowd. They waited for the final decision.
“Shall we make it this coming Sunday?” Burcio asked.
“It’s too soon for my Burick,” Father said. His hand moved mechanically into his pocket. But it was empty. He looked around at his cronies.
But two of the peasants caught Father’s arm and whispered something to him. They slipped some money in his hand and pushed him toward Burcio. He tried to estimate the amount of money in his hand by balling it hard. It was one of his many tricks with money. He knew right away that he had some twenty-peso bills. A light of hope appeared in his face.
“This coming Sunday’s all right,” he said.
All at once the men broke into wild confusion. Some went to Burcio with their money; others went to Father. They were not bettors, but investors. Their money would back up the cocks at the cockpit.
In the late afternoon the fight was arranged. We returned to our house with some hope. Father put Burick in the pen and told me to go to the fish ponds across the river. I ran down the road with mounting joy. I found a fish pond under a camachili tree. It was the favourite haunt of snails and shrimps. Then I went home.
Mother was cooking something good. I smelled it the moment I entered the gate. I rushed into the house and spilled some of the snails on the floor. Mother was at the stove. She was stirring the ladle in the boiling pot. Father was still sleeping on the bench. Francisca was feeding Marcela with hot soup. I put the snails and shrimps in a pot and sat on the bench.
Mother was cooking chicken with some bitter melons. I sat wondering where she got it. I knew that our poultry house in the village was empty. We had no poultry in town. Father opened his eyes when he heard the bubbling pot.
Mother put the rice on a big wooden platter and set it on the table. She filled our plates with chicken meat and ginger. Father got up suddenly and went to the table. Francisca sat b the stove. Father was reaching for the white meat in the platter when Mother slapped his hand away. he was saying grace. Then we put our legs under the table and started eating.
It was our first taste of chicken in a long time. Father filled his plate twice and ate very little rice. He usually ate more rice when we had only salted fish and some leaves of trees. We ate “grass” most of the time. Father tilted his plate and took the soup noisily, as though he were drinking wine. He put the empty chicken meat.
“It is good chicken,” he said.
Mother was very quiet. She put the breast on a plate and told Francisca to give ti to Marcela. She gave me some bitter melons. Father put his hand in the pot and fished out a drumstick.
“Where did you get this lovely chicken?” he asked.
“Where do you think I got it” Mother said.
The drumstick fell from his mouth. It rolled into the space between the bamboo splits and fell on the ground. Our dog snapped it up and ran away. Father’s face broke in great agony. He rushed outside the house. I could hear him running the toward the highway. My sister continued eating, but my appetite was gone.
“What are you doing, Son?” Mother said. “ Eat your chicken.”
But the professional gamblers had money. They sat in the fish house at the station and gave their orders aloud. The loafers and other bystanders watched them eat boiled rice and fried fish with silver spoons. They never used forks because the prongs stuck between their teeth. They always cut their lips and tongues with the knives, so they never asked for them If the waiter was new and he put the knives on the table, they looked at each other furtively and slipped them into their pockets. They washed their hands in one big wooden bowl of water and wiped their mouths with the leaves of the arbour trees that fell on the ground.
The rainy season was approaching. There were rumors of famine. The grass did not grow and our carabao became thin. Father’s fighting cock, Burick, was practically the only healthy thing in our household. Its father, Kanaway, had won a house for us some three years before, and Father had commanded me to give it the choicest rice. He took the soft-boiled eggs from the plate of my sister Marcela, who was sick with meningitis that year. He was preparing Burick for something big, but the great catastrophe came to our town. The peasants and most of the rich men spent their money on food. They had stopped going to the cockpit for fear of temptation; if they went atall, they just sat in the gallery and shouted at the top of their lungs. They went home with their heads down, thinking of the money they would have won.
It was during this impasse that Father sat every day in our backyard with his fighting cock. He would not go anywhere. He would do anything. He just sat there caressing Burick and exercising his legs . He sapt at his hackles and rubbed them,, looking far away with a big dream. When Mother came home with some food, he went to the granary and sat there till evening. Sometimes, he slept there with Burick, but at dawn the cock woke him up with its majestic crowing. He crept into the house and fumbled for the cold rice in the pot under the stove. Then, he put the cock in the pen and slept on the bench all day.
Mother was very patient. But the day came when she kicked him off the bench. He fell on the floor face down, looked up at her, and then resumed his sleep. Mother took my sister Francisca with her. They went from house to house in the neighbourhood, pounding rice for some people and hauling drinking water for others. They came home with their share in a big basket that Mother carried on her head.
Father wasstill sleeping on the bench when they arrived. Mother told my sister to cook some of the rice. She dipped a cup in the jar and splashed the cold water on Father’s face. He jumped up, looked at Mother with anger, and went to Burick’s pen. He gathered the cock in his arms and went down the porch. He sat on a log in the backyard and started caressing his fighting cock.
Mother went on with her washing. Francisca fed Marcela with some boiled rice. Father was still caressing Burick. Mother was mad at him.
“Is that all you can do?” she shouted at him.
“Why do you say that to me?” Father said. “I’m thinking of some ways to become rich.”
Mother threw a piece of wood at the cock. Father saw her in time. He ducked and covered the cock with his body. The wood struck him. It cut a hole at the base of his head. He got up and examined Burick. He acted as though the cock were the one that was hurt. He looked up at Mother and his face was pitiful.
“Why don’t you see what you are doing?” he said, hugging Burick.
“I would like to wring that cock’s neck,” mother said.
“That’s his fortune,” I said.
Mother looked sharply at me. “Shut up, idiot!” she said. “You are becoming more like your father every day.”
I watched her eyes move foolishly. I thought she would cry. She tucked her skirt between her legs and went on with her work. I ran down the ladder and went to the granary, where Father was treating the wound on his head. I held the cock for him.
“Take good care of it, son,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Go to the river and exercise its legs. Come back right away. We are going to town.”
I ran down the street with the cock. avoiding the pigs and dogs that came in my way. I plunged into the water in my clothes and swam with Burick. I put some water in my mouth and blew it into his face. I ran back to our house slapping the water off my clothes. Father and I went to the cockpit.
It was Sunday, but there were many loafers an gamblers at the place. There were peasants and teachers. There was a strange man who had a black fighting cock. He had come from one of the neighboring towns to seek his fortune in our cockpit.
His name was Burcio. He held our cock above his head and closed one eye, looking sharply at Burick’s eyes. He put it on the ground and bent over it, pressing down the cock’s back with his hands. Burcio was testing Burick’s strength. The loafers and gamblers formed a ring around the, watching Burcio’s deft hands expertly moving around Burick.
Father also tested the cock of Burcio. He threw it in the air and watched it glide smoothly to the ground. He sparred with it. The black cock pecked at his legs and stopped to crow proudly for the bystanders. Father picked it up an spread its wings, feeling the tough hide beneath the feathers.
The bystanders knew that a fight was about to be matched. They counted the money in their pockets without showing it to their neighbours.They felt the edges of the coins with amazing swiftness and accuracy. Only a highly magnified amplifier could have recorded the tiny clink of the coins that fell between deft fingers. The caressing rustle of the paper money was inaudible. The peasants broke from the ring and hid behind the coconut trees. They unfolded their handkerchiefs and counted their money. They rolled the paper money in their hands and returned to the crowd. They waited for the final decision.
“Shall we make it this coming Sunday?” Burcio asked.
“It’s too soon for my Burick,” Father said. His hand moved mechanically into his pocket. But it was empty. He looked around at his cronies.
But two of the peasants caught Father’s arm and whispered something to him. They slipped some money in his hand and pushed him toward Burcio. He tried to estimate the amount of money in his hand by balling it hard. It was one of his many tricks with money. He knew right away that he had some twenty-peso bills. A light of hope appeared in his face.
“This coming Sunday’s all right,” he said.
All at once the men broke into wild confusion. Some went to Burcio with their money; others went to Father. They were not bettors, but investors. Their money would back up the cocks at the cockpit.
In the late afternoon the fight was arranged. We returned to our house with some hope. Father put Burick in the pen and told me to go to the fish ponds across the river. I ran down the road with mounting joy. I found a fish pond under a camachili tree. It was the favourite haunt of snails and shrimps. Then I went home.
Mother was cooking something good. I smelled it the moment I entered the gate. I rushed into the house and spilled some of the snails on the floor. Mother was at the stove. She was stirring the ladle in the boiling pot. Father was still sleeping on the bench. Francisca was feeding Marcela with hot soup. I put the snails and shrimps in a pot and sat on the bench.
Mother was cooking chicken with some bitter melons. I sat wondering where she got it. I knew that our poultry house in the village was empty. We had no poultry in town. Father opened his eyes when he heard the bubbling pot.
Mother put the rice on a big wooden platter and set it on the table. She filled our plates with chicken meat and ginger. Father got up suddenly and went to the table. Francisca sat b the stove. Father was reaching for the white meat in the platter when Mother slapped his hand away. he was saying grace. Then we put our legs under the table and started eating.
It was our first taste of chicken in a long time. Father filled his plate twice and ate very little rice. He usually ate more rice when we had only salted fish and some leaves of trees. We ate “grass” most of the time. Father tilted his plate and took the soup noisily, as though he were drinking wine. He put the empty chicken meat.
“It is good chicken,” he said.
Mother was very quiet. She put the breast on a plate and told Francisca to give ti to Marcela. She gave me some bitter melons. Father put his hand in the pot and fished out a drumstick.
“Where did you get this lovely chicken?” he asked.
“Where do you think I got it” Mother said.
The drumstick fell from his mouth. It rolled into the space between the bamboo splits and fell on the ground. Our dog snapped it up and ran away. Father’s face broke in great agony. He rushed outside the house. I could hear him running the toward the highway. My sister continued eating, but my appetite was gone.
“What are you doing, Son?” Mother said. “ Eat your chicken.”
My Father Goes to Court
Carlos Bulosan
Carlos Bulosan
When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the island of Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so for several years afterward we all lived in the town, though he preffered living in the country. We had a next-door neighbor, a very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the house. While we boys and girls played and sand in the sun, his children stayed inside and kept the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the windows of our house and watch us as we played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the house to eat.
Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us from the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smell of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbor’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us.
Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went out to play.
We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbors who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our laughter.
Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living room and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with his fingers and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring with laughter.
There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of my brothers came home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he brought something to eat, maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make our mouths water. He rushed to mother and through the bundle into her lap. We all stood around, watching mother undo the complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of the bundle and ran wildly around the house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with her little fists, while the rest of us bent double, choking with laughter.
Another time one of my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother reached her first and tried to calm her. My sister criedand groaned. When father lifted the lamp, my sister stared at us with shame in her eyes.
“What is it?”
“Don’t be a fool!” Father shouted.
“You’re only a child,” Mother said.
“I’m pregnant, I tell you!” she cried.
Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. “How do you know you are pregnant?” he asked.
“Feel it!” she cried.
We put our hands on her belly. There was something moving inside. Father was frightened. Mother was shocked. “Who’s the man?” she asked.
“There’s no man,” my sister said.
‘What is it then?” Father asked.
Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father dropped the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sister’s blanket caught fire. One of my brothers laughed so hard he rolled on the floor.
When the fire was extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but Father kept on laughing so loud we could not sleep any more. Mother got up again and lighted the oil lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all our might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter.
It was like that for years.
As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anemic, while we grew even more robust and full of fire. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like barking of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what had happened to them. We knew that they were not sick from lack of nourishing food because they were still always frying something delicious to eat.
One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had grown fat with laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through the house, shutting all the windows.
From that day on, the windows of our neighbor’s house were closed. The children did not come outdoors anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house.
One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had filled a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was all about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food.
When the day came for us to appear in court, Father brushed his old army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the center of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept jumping up his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though he were defending himself before an imaginary jury.
The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We stood up in a hurry and sat down again.
After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.
“I don’t need a lawyer judge.” He said.
“Proceed,” said the judge.
The rich man’s lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, “Do you or do you not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complainant’s wealth and food?”
“I do not!” Father said.
“Do you or do you not agree that while the complainant’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?”
“I agree,” Father said.
“How do you account for that?”
Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to see the children of the complainant, Judge.”
“Bring the children of the complainant.”
They came shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands. They were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily.
Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he said, “I should like to cross-examine the complainant.”
“Proceed.”
“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became morose and sad?” Father asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change.
“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a minutes, Judge?” Father asked.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you,” Father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.
“Are you ready?” Father called.
“Proceed.” The judge said.
The sweet tinkle of coins carried beautifully into the room. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complainant.
“Did you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” the man asked.
“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are paid.” Father said.
The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.
“Case dismissed,” he said.
Father strutted around the courtroom. The judge even came down to his high chair to shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.”
“You like to hear my family laugh, judge?” Father asked.
“Why not?”
Did you hear that children?” Father said.
My sister started it. The rest of us followed them and soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.
Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us from the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smell of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbor’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us.
Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went out to play.
We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbors who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our laughter.
Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living room and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with his fingers and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring with laughter.
There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of my brothers came home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he brought something to eat, maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make our mouths water. He rushed to mother and through the bundle into her lap. We all stood around, watching mother undo the complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of the bundle and ran wildly around the house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with her little fists, while the rest of us bent double, choking with laughter.
Another time one of my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother reached her first and tried to calm her. My sister criedand groaned. When father lifted the lamp, my sister stared at us with shame in her eyes.
“What is it?”
“Don’t be a fool!” Father shouted.
“You’re only a child,” Mother said.
“I’m pregnant, I tell you!” she cried.
Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. “How do you know you are pregnant?” he asked.
“Feel it!” she cried.
We put our hands on her belly. There was something moving inside. Father was frightened. Mother was shocked. “Who’s the man?” she asked.
“There’s no man,” my sister said.
‘What is it then?” Father asked.
Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father dropped the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sister’s blanket caught fire. One of my brothers laughed so hard he rolled on the floor.
When the fire was extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but Father kept on laughing so loud we could not sleep any more. Mother got up again and lighted the oil lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all our might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter.
It was like that for years.
As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anemic, while we grew even more robust and full of fire. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like barking of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what had happened to them. We knew that they were not sick from lack of nourishing food because they were still always frying something delicious to eat.
One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had grown fat with laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through the house, shutting all the windows.
From that day on, the windows of our neighbor’s house were closed. The children did not come outdoors anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house.
One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had filled a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was all about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food.
When the day came for us to appear in court, Father brushed his old army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the center of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept jumping up his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though he were defending himself before an imaginary jury.
The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We stood up in a hurry and sat down again.
After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.
“I don’t need a lawyer judge.” He said.
“Proceed,” said the judge.
The rich man’s lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, “Do you or do you not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complainant’s wealth and food?”
“I do not!” Father said.
“Do you or do you not agree that while the complainant’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?”
“I agree,” Father said.
“How do you account for that?”
Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to see the children of the complainant, Judge.”
“Bring the children of the complainant.”
They came shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands. They were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily.
Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he said, “I should like to cross-examine the complainant.”
“Proceed.”
“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became morose and sad?” Father asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change.
“May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a minutes, Judge?” Father asked.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you,” Father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.
“Are you ready?” Father called.
“Proceed.” The judge said.
The sweet tinkle of coins carried beautifully into the room. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complainant.
“Did you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” the man asked.
“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are paid.” Father said.
The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.
“Case dismissed,” he said.
Father strutted around the courtroom. The judge even came down to his high chair to shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.”
“You like to hear my family laugh, judge?” Father asked.
“Why not?”
Did you hear that children?” Father said.
My sister started it. The rest of us followed them and soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.
Driftwood
By I.V. Mallari
By I.V. Mallari
I was a Kakawate tree. I grew on the bank of a river. I had been there for more years than I could remember. And my branches spread out-some of them reaching almost halfway, across the river.
Usually I was covered with green leaves. They grew in such great masses, casting such deep shadow all around, that nothing could grow under me. And when the wind blew, they rustled and danced to their own music.
Once a year I shed off my old leaves. And for a while, I became covered all over with clusters of pinkish-purple flowers. I was beautiful then, and I enjoyed watching my image on the quiet surface of the river.
It was while I was in flower that bumble bees and butterflies came to see me in great swarms. They hovered over my flowers, sucking the nectar in them. They ticked me, but I knew that they meant well. Besides, I liked their company and the strange music they made. And I also needed them. For without them, my flowers could never develop into fruit.
Birds came, too. They danced on my branches, or chased one another in the air above me. They chattered and sang all the time, as they made love to each other. They were wonderful to watch and listen to.
After their love-making, the birds paired off and set about building their nests in the crooks of my branches. Each pair worked together, and they did not stop until their nest was ready.
The nests were made of grass and small twigs, which the birds wove together into what looked like shallow baskets. But they were so strong that they did not fall off, no matter how hard the winds blew.
Soon each mother bird laid her eggs in the nest which she and her mate had build together-sometimes tow, sometimes more. Then she and her mate took turns sitting on the eggs until the eggs were hatched.
The baby birds kept their parents busy form sunrise until sunset. For they seemed to be hungry all the time-crying for food every minute of the day.
But the father bird and the mother bird did not seem to mind. For they were good parents. While one of them kept watch over the nest, ready to protect the young birds from any harm, the other went out in search of food-seeds, small insects, and worms.
This went on until the young birds were able to fly and be on their own. But sometimes they did not have a chance to grow up. For birds had many enemies-men and boys, as well as animals.
Sometimes the parent birds were killed, or caught, while they were in search of food. And the baby birds, with no one to look after them, soon died of cold and hunger, Sometimes too, boys climbed up my branches and raided the nests hidden in them, or even took the nests away with them. And I was sure that the birds would die in the boys’ hands before the day was over.
Boys, I found out, were more cruel than animals. Animals killed birds for food. Boys killed birds for fun. They even laughed when they saw birds suffer. That was why I did not like them.
I did not like boys, even when they came simply to hold picnics under me. I did not mind it when they took off their clothes, climbed up my branches, and dived into the water below. I did not mind it when, using worms for bait, they perched upon my branches – or sat on the grass, leaning against my gnarled trunk-to fish… And I did not mind it when, using my dead twigs for fuel, they cooked the fish that they had caught and the rice that they had brought.
But boys always made a lot of noise. They carved their names in my bark. They cut off my branches for no reason at all. And the heat and smoke of their cooking bothered me.
Worst of all, I owe my first misfortune to the carelessness of boys. One day a group of them. More thoughtless than the others before them, went home without putting off the fire which they had used for their cooking.
The day was hot and dry, so that the fire spread until all the smaller plants around me were in flames. The flames singed my branches and leaves and the smoke choked me.
The wind rose fanning the blaze. For one fleeting moment, I caught sight of my image on the surface of the river. And I saw that I was even more beautiful than when I was a flower. For the flames leaped and dusts with every gusts of wind.
But this time I was afraid. For I was being eaten little by little by the flames. And I could only stand there helplessly, wishing for rain that would not come.
When night came. I was still burning-the flames driving away the darkness. Nothing had remained but my trunk, and that was nothing but a twisted chunk of wood.
My days as a living tree had thus come to an end. For the rains did not come until long after the fire. And by that time, it was already too late. I could no longer grow either new branches or leaves.
Thus I stood, season after season, on the bank of the river. My bark had gone, of course. The soft parts of my wood had rotted away, and nothing was left but the hard core of me.
If at all, however that core of me had become harder than ever before. For its sap had dried up long since, and it was almost like a rock.
This made me hopeful and glad. For that core of me was my only remaining hold of life – or what, for me, had to pass for life. And its hardness and strength were signs that I would last a long time yet.
In the meantime, the river had been eating away the land on which I stood. Against its swift current, my dried-up roots were powerless to hold the soil together. And one night, I finally, after an unusual heavy storm, I found myself drifting about on the flood.
From that time on, I knew no rest. I kept bumping against rocks and against other chunks of wood like me, as I carried away helplessly downstream. And it did not come upon me, until long afterwards, that I had drifted out of sight of the place where I had stood for years and years and years. As the days went on, I learned to make the most of my aimless voyage down the river. For there were a thousand and one things to interest me along the way – carabaos lying lazily in the water, with nothing but their horns and noses showing; naked boys calling to one another, as they swam about in the river; men on salambaos dipping their huge nests into the water, which was swarming with fish; and houses standing in rows along the banks of the river, some of them half hanging over the water.
I passed town after town; each larger and more busy than the one before. How many of them there were, I could not remember for I soon lost count.
Finally, I came to a very large city. The waters of the river were held back by stone embarkments. The river itself was spanned by many bridges. And the buidings taller and more solid-looking than anything that I had seen before, some of them towering over the water.
The city was full of life. People kept hurrying to and fro. Cars and buses kept speeding up and down the streets along the river and across the bridges. And all the time, there was such a noise as had never heard before.
Day and nigh, small boats kept darting up and down the river; while larger ones, with smoke billowing from their smokestacks, lay at anchor along the embarkments. I kept bumping against the boats.
Little by little, the river got more and more salty. Its current was no longer swift. But its surface was broken by bigger and bigger waves.
I must have reached the mouth of the river, for I soon found myself in the open sea. And wave after wave caught hold me, held me aloft, and dashed me down again.
Then a storm broke, and the waves became terrible indeed. They turned to moving mountains, chasing one another across the surface of the sea. And with a mighty roar, they crashed upon one another and upon the sandy shore.
A huge wave carried me on its white crest, so that I could sea the heaving sea all around me, and dashed me against the shore. Then it tried to pull me back toward the deep, but another wave caught hold me and dashed me against the shore again.
How long the waves tossed me back and forth, I was too dizzy to remember. But when the storm had died down, I found myself sandy shore. And the sun shining on me.
Within a few days, I was dry as I could be. And I was lighter in color than I had ever been. For the water and the sun had bleached me.
It was thus that a young man and a young woman found me just before sunset. They had been walking slowly hand in hand, talking and laughing softly. Suddnely, the young woman stopped and said, “Oh, look at that beautiful piece of driftwood.” The young man let got her hand and went down on his knees to look me over carefully. “Its beautiful, isn’t it?” he said after a while. “It looks like a woman in grief.” “Yes,” answered the young woman, also going down on her knees. “It looks as though someone had carved it.” The elements have carved it sure,” said the young man. “Fire and water and wind and the sun-they’re better artist than man. Only they, working together, can produce such things of beauty as this piece of driftwood.”
The young man and the young woman took me their new home. And now, I occupy the place of honor in their living room; and they almost always ask questions, or make comments about me.
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