Fiction: Artifacts He Unearthed

During the Silliman University National Writers Workshop last May, my co-fellows and I were asked to create a batch anthology. Our indie book is worth mentioning in this blog because my story in it has got a lot to do with this blog. Here are five fun-for-me facts about the piece:

1. The story is in the form of blog posts.
2. The story is about blog posts that quote blog posts that quote blog posts.
3. I am the main blogger in the story, and I am writing about the blog of my co-fellow Jovy, who wrote about his experiences in Kulaman Plateau and my blog about Kulaman Plateau.
4. I am writing my blog posts in 2017, and Jovy (whom I killed with his permission) wrote his in 2015, and he made references to this very blog that you are reading, written from 2012 up to the present.
5. I call my piece "speculative metanonfiction," but my co-fellow and roommate Reno said it's really a fan fiction of myself.

You may read my story by downloading for free the anthology in the webpage of the writers workshop. Scroll down to the image of the book cover, and click the link right below it.

I won't tell you to enjoy reading my story because I wasn't thinking at all of readers when I wrote it. I was just excited by the fact that, for the first time in a little more than a year, I was writing a new story. I hope to take the part about Jovy in the story and rewrite it in a traditional narrative format in the coming months.

"Arguably the best-produced anthology" was how Sir Ian, coordinator

of Silliman's creative writing center, described our book.

The cover photo, taken by Arkay, shows Pre jumping off a cliff

in Siquijor. Jonggai did the book layout, and Reno wrote the intro.

My goal was to have the longest output among those who wrote

their pieces while in the Writers Village, so my story occupies 20

of the 124 pages of the book. I mentioned my name at least 10 times,

so maybe Reno was right: the story is a fan fiction of myself.

My excuse for including this photo is that I need to show you what

the whole book looks like. This was taken by Mike, alumnus

of the same workshop.

Anthropomorphic Lids

While conducting my personal—and mostly online—research on the Kulaman Plateau limestone burial jars, my vocabulary also expanded. One of the first new words that I learned and that I now regularly use is the adjective anthropomorphic, defined by Merriam-Webster as "described or thought of as having a human form or human attributes." The term is usually used to describe the lids of many of the burial jars, and here now are photos of jar coverings that are anthropomorphic.

The photos in this post were all taken at the University of San Carlos Museum in Cebu City. Most of the figures are crudely carved, and some look more like monkeys than human beings. However, probably out of respect by the authors, none of the academic papers I've read so far states that the lids are simian. Curiously, though, a paper or two describe the lids as "phallic," though I can't identify right now which papers do.

Look closely at the photos at the bottom of this post. The one on the right-hand side is a close-up of the lid of the jar at the left. When I first saw the jar in the museum, I thought to myself that the lid was indeed phallic. But when I looked at it closely, I noticed that tiny holes were bored into it, and the holes resembled a human being's eyes, nostrils, and mouth. I wondered if the lid was just unintentionally phallic.

I also remember now that I read in one academic paper that some of the Kulaman jars have designs that indicate the sex of the deceased interred inside. I'll get back to you on this in future posts. It's interesting to think that the ancient people of Kulaman Plateau had manifestations of their sexuality in their art. They were, after all, human beings like us—living, loving, longing.

Fiction: War Zone (Part 10 of 10)

(Published in the January 28, 2012, issue of Philippines Free Press)

The boy flinched when he heard the gunshot. He stared at the dugout’s entrance in horror. After a while, a man came out, a gun slung on his shoulder.

The man had Badong’s face and body, but his eyes were that of someone the boy didn’t recognize. They were the eyes of a mad man. Badong aimed the gun at the boy’s face.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said, trembling. “She took my knife. I wasn’t able to do anything.”

Badong froze. He lowered his gun. “You didn’t stab Titing?”

“N-no,” the boy answered. “I wanted to—”

“Go away,” Badong cut the boy off.

The boy was confused. He thought Badong was going to kill him because he wasn’t able to protect Ikang. Now that he had admitted his failure, Badong was setting him free. But the boy didn’t want to leave the camp. “I can’t,” he said. “I want to stay here and fight.”

“Don’t be a fool. Go home.”

“Please. I know I’m not yet fit to be a warrior, but I thought you’re taking me as an apprentice. I can learn to be a babaylan.”

“Why don’t you want to go home?”

“I have no home . . . I’m an orphan.”

“You said your father is a blacksmith.”

“He was. He joined Kumander Higante’s group, and the Moros killed him.”

Badong stared hard at the boy. “Go anywhere, then. Anywhere but here.”

“I told you, I want to fight,” the boy said, tears welling up his eyes. “I want my father’s killers to pay.”

“Look, kid. I don’t have time for this. I still have to catch up with the others and join them in the attack. Just follow what I say.”

“No.”

“Don’t force me to use my gun again.”

Tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks. He sobbed. But his feet didn’t move.

“Listen,” Badong said. “I . . . I did not come back here for Ikang. I believed she was powerful and Titing could not harm her. I came back here for you.”

The boy forced himself to stop crying.

Badong continued, “I have a third eye, and I saw how Titing and Ikang would die. I saw how your knife would pierce Titing’s heart. I thought you were destined to kill him.

“I realized I couldn’t let you have blood in your hands. You’d end up like the rest of us. This is your second life, and I think God gave this to you because he wanted you out of here, away from the war zone.”

The boy stopped crying, but he remained quiet.

“You need not worry about your father’s killers,” Badong said. “I’ll take care of them. I’ll seek justice for your father. I promise you that.”

Badong can see in the boy’s face that he was starting to consider leaving the camp. Badong knew, however, that there was still one thing the boy was worried about. An idea then came to him. “You want to be a babaylan, don’t you?” Badong asked.

“Yes,” the boy answered. “Why?”

“You don’t have to make do with me as your teacher. You can be the apprentice of the best babaylan there is.”

The boy waited for what Badong would say next.

“Head east, and then ask around for the barrio where Nong Seño lives. You’ll get to his home in a fortnight. Tell him about me, and show your amulet to him. I didn’t make that amulet, but a drop there came from mine. It’s enough for him to know I’ve touched it.”

“Thank you—”Before the boy could utter another word, the shots rang. With every pop, Badong’s body jolted.

The gunshots stopped. Badong turned around, and he and the boy saw Titing standing up. His gun was still aimed at Badong.

Titing fell down, this time on his face. The dagger’s handle jutted out his back.

Badong fell, too, on his knees. The boy held him, terrified to see another death, much less that of Badong.

“I’m all right,” Badong said. “I’m not hurt.”

The boy looked at Badong’s chest. There was not a single sign that he had been hit with a bullet. He checked Badong’s back, and he saw tiny holes in his shirt. But there was no blood, and the oiled skin underneath glistened.

“Leave now,” Badong told the boy.

The boy nodded. He walked off, but before he reached the dugout’s threshold, he turned back, came to Titing’s body, and pulled the dagger up.

He ran fast away from the camp, plunging into darkness. But he felt no fear, for the amulet and the dagger, tapping against him with his every step, reassured him that in several hours the sun would be up, lighting his path.

The End

The 100th Post: Portraits at the Plateau

At the provincial museum, June 2014

After being gone for a year, I'm back here in Sultan Kudarat Province. This also happens to be my 100th post for this blog. So to mark these occasions, I'm giving you . . . photos of me!

Ha-ha. I'm just being vain, of course. I'm using these lame reasons to turn this blog into a Facebook or Instagram account. Cut me some slack, though. I let 99 posts pass before doing this. If you have noticed, aside from the About Me page, I don't have a photo of me anywhere in this blog. I did it on purpose. I wanted to post here as few personal stuff as possible. Also, whenever I wrote about something, I would choose only the most relevant or best-looking photos to accompany the text, and normally there would only be three to five photos. My selfies never made the cut.

Next to vanity, my purpose in posting my photos is to show you proofs that I have really been to the spots that I have featured in this blog. So one photo below is of me in the White Cave, in Sitio Siokong, Barangay Kuden, Senator Ninoy Aquino. Another one shows me at the top of Ilyan Hill. The photo has an accompanying one-minute video in another post, and I've written about the hill when I had not yet climbed it.

Inside the White Cave, March 2013

At the peak of Ilyan Hill, March 2013

Fiction: War Zone (Part 9 of 10)

(Published in the January 28, 2012, issue of Philippines Free Press)

Harried voices woke the boy up. He had intended to stay awake the whole night, or till the warriors came back. But his body had not been fully restored to health; he had fallen asleep.

There was only one place the voices could be coming from. He rushed out of the hut and ran toward the dugout, forgetting to bring the knife Ikang had given him as a replacement for his.

He did not barge right into the dugout, however. When he was near the threshold, he crouched low. He could hear his heart beat. It pounded on his chest like a bull butting his head against a thick wooden wall. He peeked inside.

A man was standing inside the dugout. He was stooping, his head touching the roof, and protruding on his hunched back was the boy’s knife. The boy knew the knife was his because the handle looked familiar and the glinting blade was long, not completely buried in the man’s back.

“Bitch,” the man cursed Ikang, who was hastily putting back her duster on. The boy had a glimpse of her sensitive parts and averted his gaze.

By the man’s voice and the outline of his body, the boy recognized him as the fighter Badong was frequently with. “What have you done?” Titing continued talking to Ikang. “I’m just trying to save you.”

“You’re a fool,” Ikang said. “There’s nothing you can do for me. You’re even a hindrance to my plans.”

With tottering steps, Titing moved back from the woman, clawing at his back. His fingers touched the knife, but he couldn’t pull it off. His foot brushed against the gun leaning on the wall, and the gun fell on ground with a soft thud. He took the gun and aimed it at Ikang.

“No!” the boy and Ikang said at the same time. The boy rushed at Titing, and as Titing pulled the trigger, the boy tried to wrestle the gun away from him. A couple of shots rang out, and dust and debris fell from the roof.

“Little bastard,” Titing told the boy, pulling the gun away from his grasp. Titing slapped the kid hard on the cheek and shoved him out of the dugout.

Ikang rushed at Titing, intending to harm him in whatever way she could, but Titing was quick to turn back and fire at her. She froze as she felt tiny burning holes passing through her, out her back. She looked down and touched her stomach, and almost instantly blood flowed out between her fingers.

She stared at Titing in disbelief. The stab wound did not seem to hurt him as much as she expected. The cold realization then struck her that his amulet was protecting him, while she could not rely now on hers. With Gaston, she had committed an infraction, and just like Gaston, the amulet could not save her now. She fell to her knees.

Titing was crying and cursing. “This is not my fault,” he said. “You made me do this to you . . . not my fault.” He wiped his snot with his hand and pointed the gun back at her.

Ikang closed her eyes as the cold barrel of the gun rested against her forehead. She waited for death to come, but instead he heard something breaking and Titing gasp. She opened her eyes and looked up, and saw the tip of the knife protruding from Titing’s chest. Blood was dripping profusely from the knife’s tip.

The boy, she thought. The boy has saved me.

Titing dropped to his knees. He and Ikang were now in the same position as they had been moments earlier. Above Titing, Ikang saw not the boy’s face but that of Badong.

She saw panic in Badong’s face when he looked down on her bloodied belly. As Titing dropped on the floor face down, Badong held her in his arms. “You’ll be all right,” Badong told her, his voice cracking. He laid her down on the ground and put his own gun away.

The boy was standing on the doorway. Badong told him, “Get me her box.” The boy nodded and searched for it inside the dugout.

With trembling hands, Badong opened his amulet and poured some oil on his thumb. He then made the sign of the cross on Ikang’s forehead.

“Go away,” she said. “Go back to them.”

“No,” Badong said. “I’m staying here with you.”

The boy placed the box beside Badong. Badong took out a pair of scissors and cut open Ikang’s dress. The boy walked out of the dugout.

From the old box, Badong took out a handful of coconut husk. He himself had placed them there when he used them for the boy. However, when he was about to cover Ikang’s stomach with the husk, she stopped his hand with hers.

“That won’t save me,” she said, grimacing with the pain. “N-nothing can save me.”

He shushed him. “You’ll survive,” he said. “Never doubt the power of your amulet.” When he moved his hand, her grip tightened.

“I’m doomed,” she said. “I slept with Gaston on a Friday . . . I’m vulnerable too.”

The realization also hit Badong. “No,” he said. But he didn’t lose hope. “My amulet will save you.”

“I don’t want you to save me . . . Go back to them. Finish what we have started.”

He didn’t listen to her. He removed her hand from his. “You’re not going to die,” he said, placing the coconut husk on her stomach. “You’re going to pull through this and together we will kill the enemy one by one, taste victory from one camp to another. Kumander Gaston will be killed, Kumander Higante will be killed, all our enemies will be killed. And when all of these are done, we will have a happy life. We will build a family.”

She brushed the coconut husks away. “Let me die,” she said, looking at him with pleading eyes. “You’re only . . . prolonging my agony. I want to be with my daughter.”

Badong moved back from her.

She gasped and moaned, tears flowing out of her eyes.

Badong could not bear to look at her suffering, and his eyes fell on his gun. His visions came to his mind, and he understood them better. So this is why, he thought. I saw Titing’s and Ikang’s deaths clearly and not in muted flashes because I would be there. I’d stab him and shoot her myself. I was looking not only at their deaths but at the murders I’d commit.

He took his gun and rested the barrel on her forehead, right on the spot where he had made the sign of the cross. She stopped moving, and when she looked at him for the last time, he saw that her eyes were filled with gratitude, even love.

(To be continued)

A Glimpse of White Cave

No, this is not a gooey baby alien. This very hard rock

is a chunk of a speleothem from the White Cave of Kulaman. 

I visited the provincial museum last week to see the limestone burial jar that I had heard was on display there. To my surprise, the jar was not the only item in the museum that came from Kulaman Plateau. The bare collection also included a chunk of speleothem from the White Cave in Sitio Siokong, Barangay Kuden.

When the staff pointed the smooth white rock to me and said it was from a cave in the municipality of Senator Ninoy Aquino, I was appalled. Tourists aren't supposed to touch the stone formations in the cave, much less take a chunk and bring it home. But since the deed has been done, I guess there's no point going ballistic over it. I just hope that (1) the rock was taken out of the cave for the sole purpose of displaying it in the museum, (2) no other rock has been taken out of the cave, (3) a similar thing will not happen in the future.

I noticed that the piece of speleothem looked different when shone upon by sunlight. It was slightly translucent. Inside the cave, where only flashlights and similar devices could be used, the stalactites, stalagmites, and other limestone formations looked solid. Artificial light seemed to bounce off the smooth surface.

The provincial museum, which also serves

as the local tourism office, is at the back

of the capitol, about 30 meters away.