Francisco Jose - Dusk

When he opened his eyes again, they were all in the room — Bit-tik, the children, Orang, even Dalin — all staring at him as if he were some apparition. And beside him, An-no — the color returned to his skin, his eyes open, too, as if he had just wakened. He asked softly if there was food in the kitchen.

The following day they brought a four-year-old boy to Istak — the son of his own cousin. His belly was swollen. Istak knew at once it was not air, worms, or food, but a boil that must be lanced.

He looked within himself, at the new life he had obtained for An-no; it was not just the guava leaves and his brew that had helped. It was his prayer, his faith in the Almighty ever present in the very air he breathed, watching and helping him! Of this he was now sure when he raised his hand — it was as if the hand were no longer his, no longer subject to his will. His right hand calmly pressing the swollen side of the boy had become an instrument, a knife. Where his forefinger had pointed, there spurted thick, greenish pus. It spilled on the bamboo floor and down to the earth below. He pressed the belly until no more pus oozed from it. He had merely wished the child’s belly to open, to drain it of its poison, and that was what had happened. Where the wound should have been, there was just this slight indention, the skin untouched and whole. They had all seen it — the children, the women, the men — their eyes wide in supreme awe. Eustaquio, their cousin, their uncle, their neighbor, was blessed with faith. He would be the true light that would lead them.

Within him, Istak cried in humility and wonder: I am no different from you! We come from the same Po-on and here we are cast together by fate. So it is only I who know so much, but you have knowledge, too, which I do not have — the knowledge that each of us retains, as experience has given it to us, that which is ours and ours alone.

The affliction that had almost taken the life of An-no was not confined to Cabugawan. Soon enough, there spread stories of how people were dying in the south, not by the dozens but by the hundreds. Manila, where there were many médicos titulados , was not spared by the plague; the whole city was engulfed for days by smoke from fires that were stoked constantly so that the plague would be fumigated away.

As the hot season dried up the rivers into stagnant pools, as the heat festered and Apo Init bore down upon the land like an avenging ball of fire, the plague took more victims in Rosales and in the villages that ringed it.

“Do not go to town,” Istak told his relatives, at the same time wondering when it would strike the village in full force. “We are self-sufficient here, we will keep our village free.”

He could not stop, however, those who sought his help, the sick in the neighboring villages who had heard of his healing powers.

It was shortly before the Angelus on a particularly hot and humid day that Istak himself finally became afflicted. It came as a hot flush of fever which engulfed him totally, enervating him, fogging his senses. Then he was defecating and vomiting as well.

By nightfall, he knew that cholera had gotten into his system. He told Dalin to leave the house, to stay away from him until death claimed him, and that when it happened, they should not touch him or anything he had used, for surely the contagion in his body would strike her, too.

“This cannot be, my husband,” Dalin wailed.

“Do as I tell you, Old Woman,” he said weakly.

Dalin did not leave him. She brought him instead plenty of water to drink, water from the spring and brewed from the guava leaves. And she washed him with the same water when he could no longer move.

Tearfully, she walked into the night assisted by An-no and Bit-tik and made the brew in an open fire in the yard, not just for Istak, but for everyone.

While there was still a little sense to his mind and he could still pray, softly Istak intoned: Ave Maria purísima, sin pecado concebida. Santo Dios, Santo Fuerte, líbranos, Señor de la peste y de todo mal … por vuestras Hayas, por vuestra líbranos de la peste, O divino Jesús …

Days afterward, Dalin told him how his body had grown cold, how he sought the life-giving brew from the spring almost by instinct when he could no longer speak. Sometimes, in the night, he would mumble prayers, then lapse again into silence, while beside him, Dalin braved the pestilence and watched.

On the third day, Dalin said, they thought he had become mad, for he suddenly started talking to someone whom they could not sec, someone in the room.

He was damning the invisible visitor, telling him that he was paying too heavy a price for all that he was doing, that he wanted to be no more than what he had always been, a farmer like all of them, to live in peace, undisturbed by hallucinations and disordered dreams. He had gone back to sleep, froth in his mouth. And they were all afraid until he began to snore.

Late in the night, he woke up, his body taut as a bowstring. The oil lamp was burning low on the wooden table at his feet. He turned fitfully and saw Dalin sitting upright by the window.

A shouting in the yard had wakened him; he wanted to rise, but it seemed as if his whole being were tied to the floor.

It was not he who did it; it was my father, but he is dead. What do you want of us? Haven’t you sought us long enough? Did you not leave me for dead? I have a new life, I am no longer the man you left in Po-on with a hole in his chest, he wanted to shout. But no word escaped his mouth.

His ears picked up the minutest sound, the snap of house lizards on the beams, the shuffling of horses’ hooves in the yard, even their slow breathing, and most of all, he now recognized that voice, rasping and almost effeminate, could almost see the man speaking; how could he ever forget the last words that he had heard from him? Or that blaze of red that had exploded in his face before he was lost to the world?

“Do you think you can run away from Spanish justice? To the highest mountain? The deepest jungle? There is no running away!”

Yes, Capitán Gualberto had caught up with them.

He lifted his arms, but they did not respond; a shout erupted from his lips, but he heard no sound; more shouts in the yard, and as he struggled with words that would not be freed, a sudden weakness came over him — his body had withered; he could feel it shrink smaller and smaller until all memory and all feeling were stilled.

Morning. On the brink of this lightless day, the beating of his heart was a faint echo in his ears. He realized that he was breathing and could hear his lungs sucking in air. He wanted to lift his arms again, but they were numb. It all came back, the voice of Capitán Gualberto in the yard, the scuffling there, and yes, Dalin had whispered to him: “They are taking An-no! They will not bring him back!”

Fools! He is my brother, yes, but he is an ignorant farmer who can hardly write his name. What did he ever do to you? It is I who did everything, who sent my father on an errand of death. It is I who should pay …

There was no more scuffling in the yard. He would remember it all clearly later, but now his mind was clouded and all that he could perceive was this narrow room, this sad-eyed woman bending over him.

He lifted his eyes to the grass roof, where a house lizard clung motionless to a bamboo rafter, and then at Dalin again. Tears gathered in her eyes. “Thank God,” she murmured.

His strength was returning slowly; he raised his hands — they were not his and he recoiled at the sight, the bones kept together by brown, withered skin. And his palms, when he turned them, were white and bloodless.

What happened to me? he wanted to ask, but all he could hear was a meaningless rasp, not his own.