Francisco Jose - Dusk

Ten years he was witness to this ritual of homage and obedience; ten years, too, he pondered and recited Virgil and Cicero, taught the children of Cabugaw’s nobility, Capitán Berong’s mischievous daughters — Carmencita, most of all. He had served in the Mass for so long, he could be a priest if it were just the liturgy that had to be mastered. Ten years and he saw his palms slowly shed their coarseness just as a serpent discards its skin in molting. What have I brought back with me from the house where God breathed? What have I done to myself and to this puerile mind? Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine —he remembered the lines and found in them neither solace nor meaning. And yet, thinking of Cabugaw again, remembering how difficult it would have been for Padre Jose to live alone, Istak felt a sense of achievement. As the oldest of the acolytes, he had helped Padre Jose in keeping the records, in going to the Igorotc country, and in running the affairs of the church. It was perhaps out of gratitude that the old man called him to his room one afternoon and said, “Eustaquio, I will send you to the seminary in Vigan if you want to be a priest. You are now twenty.”

The letter was written but Vigan was a full day away on horseback and the old priest was taken ill. A week later, he was ordered to live out his last years in Bantay and teach in the Vigan seminary across the river, an hour or so a day if he could.

The father’s footfall was soft and slow; and, in a while, Istak could hear the old man’s heavy breathing. But he did not speak for some time.

Ba-ac spoke finally, the anger gone from him. “Do you want to return to Cabugaw?”

Without turning, “No, Father. I am not wanted there anymore.”

“But you are! You are!” Ba-ac cried. “Oh, my son, you don’t know your worth. Here, nothing. But there, everything.”

Istak let his father continue.

“Sometimes, I pray my strength will return so I would be able to take you away from this dark pit where we have all been flung. But I don’t have the hand to do it and so I say words I never really mean. I am not cruel. Does any one of my children think I am? Yet, I sometimes sound like I am and only because of this arm …”

Istak turned to his father. In the darkness, he could see the wasted face, the stoop, the shabby clothes that clung to the shriveled frame.

“Go to town tomorrow,” Ba-ac repeated. “You are needed there. The sacristans must have a place for you, even in the kitchen. Padre Zarraga should take you back. Beg him. Your place is there.”

“My place is here, too,” Istak said quickly. “You know I can handle the plow as well as An-no.”

“That is not to your liking.” Ba-ac was insistent. “I have known it since that day Padre Jose selected you. I still remember what he said, that you will go far because your mind is sharp. But what can I teach you?”

His father was going to start the ancient miserere again.

“How does a one-armed fool feel? Do you know what the priest did to me, Istak? Do you know how it is to be like this? He had no mercy, son. And he was a man of the cloth, a friar, a Spaniard!”

Istak had heard the story a hundred times, but he never stopped the old man, for every time he told the story, it seemed that the searing pain was eased a little.

“They hung me by the wrist of my right hand. How could I go to work on the new church when I was with fever? But they did not believe me and a week it was — a week and maybe longer. And when they brought me down, this arm was dead. I felt nothing but a rage as large as a house. And my arm — it was bloated and red. They cut it off — I watched them do it and I did not wince. I wrapped what they had cut off with banana leaves and buried it by the trail. They hung me by the right hand — and this stump — I swear to God, I stole nothing, not even time. Am I really a thief the way I am now marked? I stole not a single grain to feed you. You are the eldest, you know that. When I took you to town — a small boy then, barely up to my waist you were — but you were old enough then and you knew. Tell me, my son, that you believe me.”

“Yes, Father,” Istak said and within him he cried, Yes! I believe you. He rose, wrapped an arm around his father’s shoulder. “There is nothing we can do but understand that we have to live, to know that we die when the time comes. As for the priests, not all of them are bad. Padre Jose — he would have helped if he had known. But he did not …”

“Still, you cannot rot here. Even Capitán Berong — he said you should be in Vigan, Lawag — or even Manila, where there are schools.”

“They are not for us, Father, and you know that,” Istak said. “But with Padre Jose’s help, I could have gotten in.”

“You will not return to Cabugaw, then, if the new priest asks you?”

Istak turned away and did not answer. He would not take me back because he is young and so am I. But more than this, he will not take me back because I know what he has done; he cannot share a roof with a witness to his mortal sin.

Across the black maw beyond the cluster of houses, a steady barking of dogs broke out. “Must be An-no,” Ba-ac said tentatively.

Istak grunted and sat on the tree stump again. The whirr of crickets diminished, the barking of the dogs ceased, and the night became quiet once more. A breeze stirred and wafted to them the smell of dead leaves and the dung of animals. The sky above Cabugaw was slashed by the trail of a rocket. The thin line exploded, then came the distant whump. A dog barked again as a bull cart strained up the incline of the irrigation ditch before the village. Istak and Ba-ac turned to where the sound of creaking wheels came from.

The bull cart rolled past the other houses and headed for them. A couple sat on the bar before its bamboo canopy. As the cart stopped, An-no jumped down and went to Ba-ac at once, held his father’s good hand and pressed it to his brow in salutation.

“You went to town on foot,” Ba-ac said.

In the dark, the woman greeted them. Istak could not see her face, but her voice was warm and accented. The cart had a canopy; the visitor must have come from afar. She got down after An-no. Even in the dimness, although her face was indistinct, Istak could see that she was young. She did not have the stoop of an old woman. “She is Dalin,” An-no said, introducing her. He was younger than Istak by two years, but though younger, he was bigger; the work on the farm had made him stronger, too. “They came from the land of salt,” An-no announced.

“They?” Ba-ac asked.

“Her husband is in the cart,” An-no continued. “Sick. He did not even speak all the way from the fork of the road where I saw them.”

“He is dying,” the woman said. Istak could make out her face now — a young face, with a full mouth and eyes that were large and bright.

“I am grateful to your son, Apo,” she told Ba-ac. “I could not find the way. We have to hurry to anyone who knows how to care for the sick. My husband — since yesterday, he has been talking without reason and is very hot with fever. I must hurry.”

Ba-ac ordered An-no to unhitch the bull cart and invited the woman up to the house, where a bowl of chicken broth awaited her. Having heard the voices, Mayang came down and joined them. She held a burning pine splinter and in its smoky glow, her face was serene. Now, Istak could see Dalin’s handsome face, her shapeless cotton blouse, the full breasts underneath. In a glance Istak knew, too, that she had not yet known childbirth. She looked around her, at the family that welcomed her, and her voice quavered. “Thank God, I am with good people.”

“You are very young,” Istak said, amazed he had spoken the thought aloud at all, and when he turned away in embarrassment, his younger brother was glaring at him.