Francisco Jose - Dusk

They reached the forest before midday, first the primary growth of trees, and as they went deeper, the forest thickened, tall trees blotting out the sun, vines clambering everywhere, the earth damp and wet, smelling of rot and the decaying veneer of the land. When Padre Jose and Istak went to the Bagos, the forest they passed was a fearful domain whose recesses could never be reached, where death could waylay those who did not treat the forest with respect. It was a haven for the Bagos, who knew how to live from its surfeit, a sanctuary to the remontados who had escaped the wrath of the Spanish. It was neither haven nor threat — it was an enemy to be vanquished, and the conquest must be complete — not a single tree must stand so that the good earth would yield its blessings at last. Grimly, Istak recalled what the old men of Po-on had said, how they, too, had cleared the lands below the Cordillera. They had poured their sweat, even their blood, into each patch. And how did it all end for them? For Ba-ac? The land belonged to the King of Spain — all of it, and the King’s ministers were the friars — it was they who benefited from the land for which they had shed not a drop of sweat.

But he was not here to question, no matter how painful the memory. There was power which was man’s, and there was power which was God’s alone.

At Vespers that evening, Istak went to the church. Like most of the churches of the new towns which they had passed, the church in Rosales was quite small, unlike the stone churches in the Ilokos. The floor was hardened earth — it would be some time before the town would be prosperous enough to have a church of brick. How would he ever thank God for their new fortune? Dalin, most of all? He owed her his life. What, after all, was belief or faith? It was easy for Jesus to want to live, not die, but He died. Did He know He would rise from the dead? His agony was real. So, then, perhaps it is faith that is tested, not by those who will kill for it but by those who will die for it. I have not lost faith, Istak cried within himself. I will always be under this holy roof, but not under the bell.

Yet now, more than at any other time, this implacable sorrow hounded him — the knowledge that they were forced to leave the warm womb of home that had nourished them. If they had not left, if they had not been ordered to depart immediately, surely Ba-ac and Mayang would still be alive. Was all this part of a divine plan which no man, least of all himself, could sunder?

I have always worshipped You according to Your rules, given You proper obeisance, and still You were unmindful of Your son in his hour of need. Where, then, did they all go — my hours of penance? Were they lost in the ether? But You are wise and ever-present like the air I breathe. You snatched me from Death once, and perhaps will again, and still again. And each time Your gift of life is renewed, I stray further from You. What really was my suffering? How could it ever compare with what You suffered on the cross? You have tested me and though I have faltered many times, still I have been true. There must be some deeper reason why I am this way, why men commit themselves to something they cannot touch or see. If You are the God of my people, how could You also be the God of those who oppress us?

He had not cried when his mother died, and now Istak wept, the tears burning in his eyes. All the bruises that had hurt in the last few days became this vise clamped upon his chest.

His mother. His father. They had paid dearly. Their flight had come to an end.

It did not rain that night, so they did not go to Don Jacinto’s storehouse to sleep; it was wide and empty until the next harvest season, when it would be full again with the rich man’s share of the harvest.

After supper, they gathered around Dalin’s cart, now Istak’s as well. Above it, from a low branch of the balete tree, a lamp dangled and lighted up their faces, work-weary — yet alight with hope. The children had all been put to bed, but the older ones were awake, trying to listen to what was being said.

“You have seen the forest,” Istak said. “It will take us years before we can clear it.”

“We will burn the trees during the dry season,” Kardo, the youngest brother of Ba-ac, said. He had some experience clearing the forest beyond Cabugaw.

“We will plant whatever we can in the land we clear,” An-no said. “We will trap the wild pigs and deer that will come to destroy the crops, and we will raise our families here,” he continued, his eyes touching Orang, beside Dalin at the other end of the circle. She had overcome her shame and no longer kept to herself. Dalin had drawn her out slowly. In the tawny light of the lamp, her long hair shone.

Orang’s voluble father did not say much this time. “Though we did not start with you in Cabugaw, we have shared many things — we traveled as one family. I think we should continue this way. When we start building our houses, we should all be neighbors.”

“What shall we call our village? Shall we name it after a saint? Or after a flower the way this town is named?” Bit-tik spoke eagerly.

“I should not have brought posts from the old house,” Blas continued. “They remind me of where I came from.”

Indeed, there was enough mature bamboo for posts. There were the trees in the forest to use as timber. And cogon for roofs. They would just build huts now; the planting was more important, and after the harvest, they would build their permanent homes.

“Our village should be close to the creek. We could bathe our work animals there. We should have a street which we hope will someday be wide enough and long enough to lead to town. We have to sell what we cannot cat or use,” Istak said.

Kardo added: “We will dig a well in the middle of the village, and when we have enough money, we will line it with brick so that it will not cave in.”

“And we will have a fiesta, too, don’t forget that.” Blas started to gush. “And we will have a patron saint, just like Rosales has San Antonio de Padua. This is Istak’s choice — I will sing the dal-lot and compose new poems. I will celebrate our journey, retell vicissitudes we suffered and how we surmounted them all, no matter how sad and painful. This, after all, is our own calvary, is it not so, Istak? And during the Holy Week, I will sing the pasyon in a way you have never heard before. Orang — daughter of mine, are you listening? She has the best voice in all Candon and she can sing very well. I have taught her well …”

“But what will we call our barrio?” Bit-tik was insistent.

“Cabugawan,” Istak said simply.

And so the rains came, and the typhoons and the floods as well, and after the rains, the drought — a cycle blessed with God’s bounty and damned by His negligence.

They persevered. In the evenings, the cogonal distances crackled with huge bursts of fire which quickly died, for that was the way the wild grass burned. That was the way — so the Spaniards said — the Indios also behaved, with rash and easily spent enthusiasms. The cogonals they cleared yielded to their will. These lands had never been plowed before — the roots of the wild cogon had bored deep and wide into the soil and many a time a plowshare would snap as it lost in the constant wrestling with the stubborn mesh. All of them also worked parcels in Don Jacinto’s land, and here they did not have too many difficulties; the land had been planted before and had merely lain fallow; the soil yielded smoothly to the plow.

The rats did not multiply as fast as they were warned would happen. For one, the rats were herded into bamboo traps — lured there with grain and beaten to death. They were as big as cats, and were skinned carefully, dried in the sun or broiled in open fires, their fat sizzling on the coals. Like chicken, they all said.