Francisco Jose - Dusk

Inside the house, all the sash windows were wide open, and the waxed floors were solid, thick, and wide, as they were cut from huge tree trunks. The furniture had probably been made in Manila, for the pieces were sturdy but not as well made as some of the furniture in the kumbento in Cabugaw, which had come from Europe and was finely crafted, resplendent with gold and silver paint.

He stood in the middle of the sala , waiting. Then the rich man came out from one of the rooms.

He was about forty, with patrician features — a thin nose and a wade forehead. He was fair, like most mestizos. It could have been his grandfather — perhaps a Dominican friar? perhaps a Spanish officer? But there was nothing haughty about him. Warmth, welcome lit his eyes, and at once he asked Istak to sit on the wooden chair by the window which opened to the plaza where the carts waited.

“Good morning, Apo,” Istak began in greeting. “I am Eustaquio Sal—” He hastily corrected himself. “Eustaquio Samson, Apo. We arrived yesterday and those are our carts.”

“Yes,” Don Jacinto said. “I saw you when you arrived.” He did not waste words. “What is it that you want?”

“We are from Cabugaw, Apo.” Istak paused. Did the rich man know? There was no question in his face. “We are planning to go to the valley. But the other day—” He paused again. His lips trembled and his eyes misted. “The other day, when we were crossing the Agno, one of our carts overturned — then it got carried away by a tree that rushed down with the current. My mother — she drowned, Apo.”

The rich man’s face softened, and immediately Istak saw sympathy in his eyes.

“We also lost all our seed rice in that cart and some of our provisions. It is the rainy season now but we have nothing to plant. And we will be hungry, Apo.”

Don Jacinto had listened attentively, then quickly asked, “What do you want now?”

“We would like to borrow grain from you, Don Jacinto. And pay for it with a carabao or some of the tobacco that we have.”

Don Jacinto stared out of the window at a plaza washed with morning sun and glinting on the new grass. “It is a still a long way to the valley, you know. Rotten trails all the way now that the rains have come. And I am sure, the pass across the mountains in San Jose would be impassable in parts, very muddy, if not washed away. You can stay here, you know …”

Istak looked at the handsome profile. There was kindness and compassion in the man, and Istak knew at once that he could be trusted, mestizo though he was.

“We have to hurry, Don Jacinto,” he said evenly. “Even now, I know we have but little time. When the ferry is back …”

“Arc you fleeing from anyone?” Don Jacinto asked. How quickly the man had guessed their plight! “If you are, you don’t have to run anymore. You can hide here, in the forest close to the mountain, in the cogonal near the delta. You must work hard.”

Istak did not speak. “My father, they are looking for him, Apo, but he is dead …”

Don Jacinto waved a hand and smiled. “Do not tell me why. I can guess the reason. After all, you are not the only ones running away. There are so many of you, and I understand.”

“We have no cédulas , Apo,” Istak said plainly.

Again, the low, pleasant laugh. “Pieces of paper,” Don Jacinto said. “You can get new ones here. I’ll help you. And if you are worried about having new names — no one need know about this.”

Istak was silent. He had said more than he should have but, again, almost instinctively, he knew this man, this rich mestizo, was not like Capitán Berong or any of the mestizos in the Ilokos who flourished because they pandered to the friars. Don Jacinto would not betray them, though he may on occasion have pandered, too.

“I can help you,” he continued. “You must help mc, too. I have land which I cannot clear or plant because there are not enough hands for it. You can work there …” Then he turned to Istak. “There is plenty of land here — across the creek are more cogonals, mounds, many, many trees. They are yours if you can clear them. So why don’t you work for me and I will give you all the seed rice you need? There is still time — if you want to stay — to prepare some of the fallow land for planting.”

Already, Istak could envision fields of ripening grain, all theirs, and no priest telling them to leave. Already, he could imagine himself building a house, and asking Dalin to live with him.

The rich man told them to sleep in the large bodega roofed with iron sheets beyond the house should the rains come strong in the evening. They could store their things there while they built their houses.

After they had eaten breakfast, all the men went with Don Jacinto beyond the town, onward to the still unplowed farmlands spread on both sides. They reached a small creek, brown and full.

“It dries easily after the rainy season,” Don Jacinto explained. “Since this is all rainwater, when it stops raining, the creek becomes shallow and there are places where you can cross on foot, although a simple bamboo bridge would help. You can build a better one when the dry season comes.”

A bamboo raft was tethered to a sapling near the bank and they pushed it to the other side; the creek was not really wide, no more than a length of bamboo, and it was not swift the way the Agno was.

Across the creek, more cogon wastes dotted with mounds as far as the eye could see. Don Jacinto described an are to the right: “All this is my land,” he explained. “And beyond the cogonal are swamps — you will see, they never really dry up, even when it does not rain anymore. There are a lot of mudfish there — as big as your legs — and you will always have snails and frogs — if you have the patience to look for them — even in the dry season.”

In the horizon, to the west, an uneven line of trees. “When he was a boy, my father planted those to mark where his father had said the land was theirs. It is all recorded in the titles I keep. How can I farm all of this?” He spread out his hands in a gesture of futility. Istak was surprised; Don Jacinto’s hands were rough like any farmer’s. The rich man knew what he was talking about. More cogonals to the left, and within the near distance, all the way to the foothills of Balungaw mountain, the forest began — a thick, green canopy upon the land, brooding and secret.

“The forest belongs to no one — it is yours to clear if you want. Mark the land you clear. I told you, you don’t have to go to the valley. Here there is land for everyone who wants to sweat for it.” Turning to Istak, Don Jacinto whispered warmly, “It is also a good place to hide.”

Then, as if dragged into some deep misgivings, the rich man’s countenance changed. He shook his head, mumbled, then inhaled deeply. The lines in his brow deepened. “I hope I am not giving you false hopes,” he said softly, as if in apology. “The most powerful people in this part of the country are the Asperris; they are Spanish, they own whole villages, all the way to Balungaw to the east and Santa Maria to the north. They own the biggest house in this region — you will see it on the way to San Pedro — a castle of a house, with many, many rooms, and a tower — a massive building of brick. They came here much earlier than my grandfather and only God knows if they have title to the mountain, too. I am sure that this land that I am showing you, which I tell you is mine, is really mine. Help mc, too, if you can.”

They left Don Jacinto by the creek, then they headed toward the forest, beating a path through the high grass, disturbing pigeons in their nests, and gathering their eggs in their palm-leaf hats. Although the rains had come, new cogon shoots had not sprouted yet. If only the sun would shine the whole day and tomorrow, they could set fire to large tracts to make them easier to plow.