Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) (37 page)

One of the soldiers pointed a gun at him while the other frisked him carefully. He had nothing, of course, but the sack with the empty water bottle, the notebook, and the pencil.

“With your kindness,” he said with some exasperation. “There is so little time. I have an important message.”

The frisking over, but with their Mausers still pointed at him, they told him to walk in front to the far end of the narrow road. One of the soldiers went into a house beneath which were other soldiers getting ready to sleep. He could make out, beyond the fence, out in the fields, the figures of men standing sentry.

Another soldier came out with a candle and Istak recognized at once the boots, the
rayadillo
uniform, the sword. The Cripple had told him about this brave young man, how well he had fought. In the faint light, how boyish General del Pilar looked, how self-confident.

“Good evening, Señor General,” Istak said.

General del Pilar, impassive, raised the candle to have a better look.

“I had a letter for you, Señor General, from Don Apolinario. As you perhaps already know, he is in Rosales. You must believe me. It was taken away from me. Below, in Baugen. They—the Americans struck me on the head. Here,” he turned to show the clotted wound on his head. “I know these mountains, Señor. Don Apolinario said I could help. And that is why I followed you all the way from Rosales, to guide you to your destination.”

He must tell the general, too, grapple with words too painful to use, describe what he saw in Baugen. “The children, the women, the men—they were all dead, their houses burned. And a boy—I tried to help him but it was too late. He died, whispering to me, ‘Americano, Americano.’ And there was a young girl—so very young.” He choked and was soon sobbing.

The general was quiet. He finally spoke. “This is nothing new.”

“But why the children and the women?” Istak asked in anguish.

“Do not ask explanations for what happens in war,” the general said. “We just have to give it to them double when we can.”

The youthful face gleamed and in the sallow light, the young eyes seemed to tease him. “So you are going to be the president’s guide. Surely, you must be tired and hungry.”

“No, Señor General,” Istak said. “There is no time to cat. You must get out of here quickly. I don’t think they saw me—I circled around the village. They could still be there—in Baugen. I did not count, but there must be two dozen of them, with horses. There is no time, Señor General …”

The young Bulakeño put an arm around Istak’s shoulder. “Run away from a few whites?” He laughed softly. “We cannot run on an empty stomach, can we?”

They did not go into the house; there was a table by the
bamboo stairs, and the food was placed there in a battered tin plate—cold chunks of rice and pieces of dried
carabao
meat that had been roasted and burnt in places. There was also a glass of water and to Istak it all never tasted as good as it did now.

They let him eat alone, which he did, swallowing the hard lumps of rice quickly. Then the general called for him in the yard, beyond the hearing of any of the men who were cither asleep or seated on their haunches, talking softly under the stars.

Now they would be able to talk; now he would be able to tell the general everything that the Cripple wanted him to relay to the president.

“
Sigue,
” Del Pilar urged him quietly. “What is it that you really want to say?”

“It is for the president’s cars, my general,” Istak said. “I was told to tell only him,” he caught himself quickly—he was not going to hide anything from this young man, “but since he is not here …”

“He is not here, he is far from here,” the general said curtly. “Continue.”

“Don Apolinario said that we should continue to fight, that the president must be safe always, for he is not just a leader but the symbol of our nation …”

Silence, and a slow nodding of the head.

“Don Jacinto and Don Apolinario—they think that since I know these mountains well, I should be your guide to wherever you want to go. They did not tell me where—all that I know, my general, is that I should guide you through these ranges.”

Istak did not expect the next question: “Where did you say Don Apolinario is now?”

“I already told you, Apo. In Rosales, where I came from.”

“And who is taking care of him there?”

“His former classmate and friend, Don Jacinto. I also told
you this. Don Apolinario was ill. His secretary, Cayo Alzona, and his servant were also ill. Don Apolinario’s kidneys weren’t functioning properly, so I gave him medicine to drink—boiled flowers and young leaves of banaba. He is better now.”

“You speak good Spanish,” the general said. “Where did you learn it?”

“In Cabugaw—here in Sur, Señor General. I was born here. I was an acolyte for many years. I know this part of the country very well. Padre Jose, the priest in Cabugaw—we used to go this way and beyond, to the land of the Bagos, where he preached.”

The general was silent, as if he were measuring carefully everything he was told.

“And how is Don Apolinario now? And what is he doing?”

“Writing, Señor General,” Istak said. “Always writing. I copied his drafts because he gets tired and he wants to write so much, to send them all to Hong Kong, and from there, to the world.”

More questions, some of them repetitive. Then it occurred to Istak—like a bludgeon it struck him, filled him with sadness and a dismal sense of futility—that for all the distance he had traversed, the hardships that he had undergone, the general did not believe him. The general was waiting for one mistake with which he could be trapped and then declared a spy.

He remembered what Don Apolinario had said, and it came to him in gleaming clarity. “We must learn to trust our own people, their judgment, if we are to build a nation. There will always be traitors, for it is the wretched who are often the most ambitious, but for every traitor there are a dozen who are true. We are going to build a nation—not of Tagalogs, Batangueños, or Caviteños—we are going to build a nation which includes all our brothers and sisters from the far south to the far north. Do you understand, Eustaquio, why I am here? I could hide much
easier in the villages or in the mountains of my own province, among my people, and I would probably be safer there.”

“My general,” Istak said sadly, softly. “You have not really heard any of what I have told you. What do I have to do so that you will believe me?”

Del Pilar stepped back; perhaps he did not expect this farmer to talk like this. He raised his right hand, but the hand did not cut across Istak’s face—it just loomed there, then dropped slowly. In the soft dark, he could see the young face, the earnest but mocking eyes.

“Eustaquio,” he said finally, “no one speaks to me like this.” Then he turned and marched toward the house.

In a while, everyone was stirring, and the yard was soon alive with men, their voices harried and tense. The general finally believed him, but how much he would never know.

They marched out in single file, the horses in the rear and the general himself in the lead, and headed toward the mountain—an endless curtain of darkness across the length of the land.

Although they did not tie him up or hinder his movements, two soldiers never left him. Soon, they entered a fold of land neither cultivated nor inhabited. They seemed to know where they were going. Certainly, the general had a map, a compass. At this time of the year, the mountain streams were shallow and could be crossed on foot.

Once there was a commotion in the middle of the column, for a boar had charged out of the darkness. Though it did not hurt anyone, it had caused some excitement and it was just as well, for they had, perhaps, become sleepy; Istak himself had started to drowse.

It was close to midnight when the column paused. Someone from the front came down the line. Istak thought his guards were to be relieved, for he could not understand their Tagalog. It became clear to him when the men beside him moved on, and he was told in Spanish not to move. It was here where he should stop and he was not to follow them.

He watched them plod on, swallowed by the night, the sound of their marching muffled till it was quiet again. Frustration, massive and overwhelming, swept over him; anger, too, beyond words. His chest tightened and only when he broke down and cried silently, the tears streaming down his face, was he able to breathe easily again.

He wanted to shout, but no one would hear, no one would care. It was all wasted then—the days of racing against the final hour, and it came in one, swift blur—the lowland dangers that he had passed, the patrol which almost trampled him. He knew the way, but he was not trusted, so they left him to go back. At least he was not shot. Did he not convince the general with all he knew about the Cripple? Or was it difficult for the general to believe that a peasant like him, speaking Spanish, could be just a peasant?

He wanted desperately to rationalize, to absolve the general. He was young, and because of his youth he was a poor judge of men.

He woke up in the chill dawn, the grass at his feet wet with dew. The trail was near the river. The sharp rise of hillside was studded with butterfly trees in bloom. Quickly, he remembered again with some relief that the general did not order him shot—just left behind to find his way back. He rose and turned around—the cool majesty of the mountains before him and
below, more of the low hills which they had passed in the night. In a while, sunrise—the mountains were blue, the peaks covered with mist and beyond the haze, the pointed ridge below which the pass cut through.

They must be over the pass, the soldiers who emerged faceless out of the darkness. A new day, perhaps a new life. Why should an impetuous young man and this fleeing president of a country riven by jealousies and personal hatreds matter to him?

Yes, just as he had told the Cripple, why should I care for others who are not members of my family, who have not done anything for me? I have this piece of land which I have cleared. My duty is not to this nameless mass you call Filipinas. No country can claim my time, my loyalty. And as for God—I served Him well by doing my fellowmen no harm, but instead brought them health when they came to me with their bodies racked with pain. And for all these, my father was punished, I was punished. I am not going to test fate again.

The Cripple had looked sadly at him, then spoke, the words taking shape like jewels shining, glittering, impinging into his consciousness how easily he had been seduced by self-preservation: “If there is no country as such or as you know and recognize, then in your mind you must give it its boundaries. Do this because without this country you are nothing. This land where you stand, from which you draw sustenance, is the mother you deny. It’s to her where your thoughts will go even if you refuse to think so, for it is here where you were born, where your loved ones live, and where in all probability you will all die. We will love her, protect her, all of us—Bisaya, Tagalog, Ilokano, so many islands, so many tribes—because if we act as one, we will be strong and so will she be. Alone, you will fall prey to every marauder that passes by. I am not asking that you love Filipinas. I am asking that you do what is right, what is duty …”

“And in the end I will be betrayed as others have been?”

“There wall always be betrayals because we are men, not angels. They who betray—no pile of money, no shining title or other forms of adulation by which they were bought can assuage the self-hate, the sense of inferiority and sickening weakness which will corrode their very bones. They know this and there is no greater punishment than this self-knowledge. They cannot end it with suicide, for they know that such an act is the final push that bogs them into the slime of their own creation.”

Was he rejected because he was Ilokano, or was it simply because the general did not know him? He had given all the incontrovertible proofs of his identity—not things that one could touch, or feel, but the account of what he had seen, what he knew. Had he been a spy, he would not have ventured this far, and alone. Again, the Cripple came to mind. He would understand.

It would be a long walk back to the plain, to Cabugawan. He had slept soundly and the tiredness in his legs seemed to have gone. He felt hungry again; it should not be difficult to calm that hunger and in the first stream that he had passed, he drank his fill. Nearby were papayas with fruit. The birds had eaten into the very ripe ones; he did not like them too ripe, for these often harbored tiny worms. He picked two and walked on; along the way, there would be guavas, too, or tree mushrooms.

He slept briefly, then woke up, the mountain breeze caressing his face. He brought out the journal—stained in places—and looked at his notations; it was ten days since he had left Cabugawan—it was now December, the first day of the month, and tomorrow would be Saturday.

He wet the pencil tip with his tongue, a habit that never left him, and wrote:

Duty. Justice. All his life he had never really given much thought to these, or to the possibility of his being really free. He was concerned with being secure, with being part of the structure that the friars had built, because wherever he went, he saw that they did not even have guns. Their being white marked them as superior beings, for how else could they have conquered this land, how else could they have written all those books and understood the mysteries of God? For as long as he was brown and Indio, he was marked an inferior man, destined to be no more than an acolyte.

All this ignominy had been wiped away—the Indio had fought the white man and won, but how fragile, how short-lived that victory had been.

It would be a hellish trek out of the Ilokos, and ahead of him, now, was a long march out of this towering ring of mountains. Closing his eyes, in the black pit of memory, his past came instantly alive, ever present and bright, as if it were only yesterday that he had left Po-on. God forgive me for this one conceit; I am not just a healer, but in a way, I was Moses, too. He had read the Bible and seen the world in the Magnificat: “He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree. He hath filled the hungry with good things and the rich He hath sent away empty …”