Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) (22 page)

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.

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.

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