Francisco Jose - Dusk

On the third day, the fever finally came. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it spread all over him like a flood of hot mud flowing from the wound in his breast. His head seemed wedged between two tree trunks and now the trunks began to press and grind against each other. He shook with chills no matter how many layers of blanket Mayang and Dalin covered him with. His mind was fogged and in those few moments of lucidity and wakefulness, he could see inchoate shapes of people, of children, peering at him through the open archway of the cart, overhear their conversations — the coffin which should be readied, but there was none, how they would have to bury him not in a cemetery but on some desolate mountainside, in the shade of a great tree so they could at least place a marker where he lay. Images formed, the faces blurred and soon flitted away, and then from the smoky chaos Padre Jose emerged, wraithlike, his eyes piercing, his mouth moving, though no words came forth. After some anxious waiting, the words, though almost in a whisper, took shape. The priest was speaking in Latin: “The ways of the world are devious and the trials through which we must go to earn God’s grace come in many forms. Do not despair, do not despair — we are men of peace, and we are destined to bring life to the sick, happiness to those who grieve — this is our burden.”

They were not in the sacristy or in the convent in Cabugaw but on a mountainside, surrounded by Igorots whose arms and breasts were tattooed. Again, Padre Jose spoke to him: “My God is the God of all men, and it was He who gave this land to all of you.”

“Look at yourself,” the old priest commanded, and Istak looked down at his belly, at his chest and arms. They were tattooed. In his hand a spear — and his hair was long. He was an Igorot, too, and he was telling Padre Jose harshly: “Your God is not mine. He is not in the seminary in Vigan, he is not in you, and if he is in all men, then he wears the uniform of the Guardia, he has a gun pointed at us. I was baptized in the river and the river is cold and it is my brother An-no who carried me there, and it is Dalin and my mother who cared for me. It is they and my people whom I will serve, not you and your god. And as for you — and the likes of you — I will kill you! Death to all Kastilas!”

And with one mighty heave, he flung his spear at the old priest. But the spear bounced off the old man’s chest and fell broken to the ground. Padre Jose was no longer flesh — he was stone!

The old priest smiled. “You are mistaken, Eustaquio. And I forgive you as I always have because deep in your heart, you are an honorable man, a man of peace …”

Istak picked up the broken spear, detached the blunted spearhead, and rushed at the old priest. He struck him in the chest again and again, but stone was harder than metal and with every blow, the ache in his arm increased until, exhausted, he cast the useless spearhead away.

Padre Jose spoke calmly: “My child, I am beyond touching or hurting. Still I would like you to know that like me, you have a mission. You will lead your people to the new land. You will undergo great suffering as you do now. You will cross many rivers and you will be filled with sorrow. But you will reach your destiny. Though you are not a priest, you will serve your people and your God as well, and you will do this because you have faith. You will do what I have never done, because you are from this land, because God has chosen you …”

On the seventh day, the fever left him and he slept well and without screaming. Sometime in the night, he woke briefly to find Dalin by his side, wiping his brow. The solid wheels of the cart were creaking — they were relentlessly moving, moving. He slept on through the yaw and jerk of the cart. When he woke up, the cart no longer jerked; they were now on the plain, on a trail, or on the beach.

Soon it was daylight and they stopped traveling. No one was in the cart — they were all outside. Mayang was saying there should not be too much salt in the chicken broth. How sweet her voice sounded! Then she was saying how sad it was that she was not able to bring all the yarn she needed so that once they had arrived in the new land she could start weaving.

Beyond the door spread an obscure forest. Birds twittered outside, and the delicious scent of meat roasting over an open fire drifted to his nostrils, lifting him, and for the first time, he craved food. It came to him then, the dream about Padre Jose and for an instant, a chill coursed through him.

Inang! Inang! — he called but only a gurgling sound escaped his lips as if pebbles filled his throat. He coughed then repeated, “Inang! Inang!” and now the words took shape but were a mere whisper.

“My God, thank you,” his mother said at the door. “He is alive.”

In a moment, Dalin was in the cart, too.

They brought him newly cooked rice and roasted pork and sliced tomatoes; aroma flooding his senses. He had not eaten for days except broth; now was the time to practice self-restraint. Padre Jose had always dinned it into him, to restrain himself, to avoid temptation, for to surrender to it was to invite perdition.

He took just a mouthful of rice, a tiny piece of pork, savoring the meat fully, letting it linger in his mouth, and a cup of the chicken broth. He was weak; he could not even raise his head from the coverless pillow without Dalin holding him up. Then he realized that he could feel with his right arm the ridges in the split bamboo mat which walled the cart; the arm was no longer numb. Slowly he raised it, moved the thumb first, then all the fingers. They were all responding. He tried to raise the entire arm, flex it, and it was then that this lacerating pain lashed at him and he screamed.

They crowded around the cart. His brow was damp and cold. He asked Dalin to examine the wound to see if there was pus. She lifted the bandage carefully and smiled. “It is beginning to heal. The wound is closed and there is no swelling,” she said happily.

The worst was over.

“You did not know what was happening,” Dalin told him afterward. “We all thought you would die.”

He smiled, remembering quickly the bits of conversation he had overheard, the dream.

Dalin said, “We were frightened. And when you became very hot, thank God, you told us what we should do.”

“And what was that?”

“We took you to a stream and your father and An-no, they soaked you in the water, up to your neck, till your body cooled. On the fourth day, when your fever became worse and there was no stream, you told them again what to do. They cut a wild banana stalk, took off the skins, wrapped you in them, till the fever subsided again …”

He had not forgotten his lessons, not from the books that he had read, but what Padre Jose had told him.

“You know so many things,” Dalin said, wonder in her eyes.

“I had a very good teacher,” he said. “An old, kindly priest.”

“A priest?” Dalin asked. Istak nodded.

After a while: “You were talking in your sleep,” Dalin said, “Now I find it difficult to understand why you said those things.”

“What did I say?”

“You were shouting, ‘Kill the priest! Kill all Kastilas!’ ”

Istak became silent. It was An-no who took him to the creek, the brother who loathed him, who coveted Dalin for himself. It was Padre Jose whom he had always respected and loved — yes, he had really loved the old priest not so much in return for the many kindnesses that had been shown him, but for the light that Padre Jose had cast upon the path Istak had taken. And yet, in the deeper wilderness of his mind, in this dream, he had wished his benefactor harm. In wine, truth; in dreams, the soul?

If these thoughts were hidden in the fastness of his mind, if he did not recognize them, would they surface someday as evil deeds?