Francisco Jose - Dusk

Istak held his mother by the shoulder as if to assure her that he knew what he was doing, that no harm would befall them. “Evil is often a creation of our minds, Mother,” he said. “It starts as a spark, then it is fanned into a fire, self-willed and self-sustaining. No, Mother, if we do not think about it, if we do not let it bother us, it will not be there. This is not to say that there are no evil men, but our best protection against them is our innocence and our truth.” This was real Christian virtue, but even as he said this, his thoughts were about his younger brother. Did his mother know what An-no had told him in the woodshed? Had she seen his younger brother’s face — the unbridled desire for Dalin which had now warped his mind?

He found himself saying, “It is An-no, Mother, that I am worried about, not Dalin.”

“What has he told you?” Mayang asked. “Fool sons of mine — I could see him following her all the time with his eyes the way you do. And she had just been widowed. It is a sin!”

Istak shook his head. “You see more than what is there, Mother.”

But Mayang did not hear, for she had turned to leave, mumbling, “My sons, my fool sons.”

They were set to leave. Dalin came down the bamboo stairs, wearing a well-starched skirt. An-no walked behind her, a dark scowl on his face. Together they went to Istak, who had, by then, removed the palm-leaf canopy of the cart.

An-no told him: “I want to go to the cemetery to help dig the grave. It is better if there are two of us.”

“What is this now?” Istak turned to Dalin, perplexed. She had washed her face and her skin shone.

“I tried to explain,” Dalin said, “that I don’t want anyone but the two of us to go to the cemetery — you because you can say the prayers and help me dig the grave. Just the two of us — it is best that way. I don’t want to be a bother to people the way I already am. And the cemetery is far.” She turned to An-no. “How can I repay you? You made the coffin, you brought me here. I will have a lifetime paying you for all you have done. But it is my wish that you stay …”

An-no dug his toe into the ground and mumbled something unintelligible.

“Help me carry the coffin,” Istak asked his brother, and together they brought it to the cart. The few neighbors who had gathered in the yard had heard her wish, and to them she said, “God be with you, thank you for coming.”

They drove out of the yard. Istak whacked the reins on the broad back of the bull and the cart dipped down the low incline onto the dusty path lined with dying weeds. The trip would take the whole morning and it would almost certainly be high noon before they would reach the cemetery. The brown fields spread around them. To their right, the Cordilleras seemed so near though they were at a far distance. Since he went to Cabugaw ten years ago, he had gone up these ranges every year during the dry season when the rivers were no longer bloated. Padre Jose always brought with them four of the best horses in the church stable. The old priest did not ride the best one; he reserved it for the tortuous trails to the land of the Igorots that lay beyond the narrow pass called Tirad. Istak had looked forward to these trips, to the rambling discourses of the old priest, to the meetings with the Igorots whom he finally got to know — and yes, to see them again — the bare-breasted girls who worked the narrow valleys and mountainsides, their arms tattooed, their bodies glistening with sweat in the sunlight.

He carried the Iloko missal, the holy water, and candles; on their two-pack horses were their ration of water, some salt, sugar, hand-rolled cigars (which the old priest was addicted to), salted meat, rice, and their iron cooking pot. He soon learned the way so well, it seemed he had lived in this forbidden land all his life. He knew them, too, the Igorots, who did not harm them although his own people expected otherwise; the Igorots were savages — did they not kill strangers or one another when their tribal laws were violated?

Now the mountains beckoned to him — if he could only flee this withered plain and lose himself up there close to the clouds where the air is so pure it made breathing such a pleasure. Maybe someday he would be able to go there again and forget what had happened, break out of the mountains into the valleys beyond. Dalin was beside him, and though he did not believe what his mother had said, she seemed to have cast a spell over him.

The bull loped down the trail and the wheels hit a bump — a root of a tree. Briefly their arms touched.

“Why did you not want them to come along?” he asked afterward. The village was well behind them, just a line of madre de cacao trees.

She turned to him, her face determined. “I told you I would bury him anywhere. That is why it is just the two of us. Over there, at the bend of the river where An-no came upon us, beyond the clump of bamboo — no one can see us dig the grave there.”

“But why there?” Istak asked, surprised. “It is not done that way, you know that.”

“It was what he wanted. He knew he was going to die. Bury me, he said, where there’s water — the river, the sea. Any place where there is water, for water is life, too. Do you understand? And when we have buried him, then I will go. Far away to where his people are so that I can tell them. You will not even remember me then.”

“But I will remember you,” Istak said. He wanted to add, “always,” but he held back. “You cannot travel by yourself now. You know how it is — by land, even by sea — the way is very dangerous. Unless you have companions. You know what I mean.”

She nodded, not as if to acknowledge the truth of what he said but as if to accept the sorrow which she must bear. “But what can they steal from me?” she asked, expecting no answer.

Istak did not reply. “You can stay with us,” he said much later. If she left, there would be peace in their household; the ill wind that his mother had prophesied would not blow their way. And yet, he needed to see her again. Banish the omens then. Why should he believe them? Did he not trust in Someone who bestowed grace on men and saw them safely through their journeys?

They rode in silence. The sun edged up the sky and dust swirled around them as the bull continued its even pace. In a while, the trail dropped into the wide delta of the river, and all around them, the sprouts of cogon grew lush and tall, and farther down, the earth had become sandy. Stones littered the way — some of them boulders that had slid down from the mountains together with dead, uprooted trees when the heavy rains fell in July. Dalin looked around her.

“This will do,” she said, pointing to a spot surrounded by tall grass. Istak drew the reins and the bull stopped. They got down and Dalin unhitched the cart, then tethered the animal to a sprout of cogon and gave it some hay. She got a spade and a hoe from the cart and started digging. Istak took a spade and worked at the other end, the blade sinking quickly into the sandy loam. Soon, the hole was deep, up to their waists, and Istak clambered up, his body dripping with sweat. Dalin, too, was tired and her face was damp with sweat. They had worked in silence.

Questions cluttered his mind. Did she really love the old man? Why should she condemn him to hell? It was so easy to ignore a dying man’s wish and do what was right. Could it be that she herself did not believe in God? And why should she? If God was just, the suffering she had gone through would not have happened. But to such questions, of course, Padre Jose had an explanation — the nature of suffering, the necessity for it, for faith was founded on it, and man would suffer as Christ did. In pain was man’s redemption.

He offered her his hand and helped her out of the narrow pit. Her grasp was firm and warm and her hands were callused like a farmer’s. “You are very tired; you have worked very hard,” he told her.