Fiction: War Zone (Part 3 of 10)

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

Badong and Titing were sitting behind a tree. Badong was playing with the knife he had taken from the wounded boy, jabbing into an invisible enemy.

“You should have told them the truth,” Titing whispered.

“What for?” Badong said. “Ikang said she can take care of the kid. What are we doing here, anyway?”

“Lower your voice!” Titing said. “We’re waiting for Kumander Gaston to go back inside the dugout.”

“Then?”

“Then—”

The knife fell from Badong’s hand. It would have struck Titing’s foot if he had not been quick to move aside.

“Oops. Sorry, man,” Badong said, pulling the knife off the soil.

“Fuck,” Titing said. “You’re going to kill me with that knife. Put that away.”

“Okay, okay,” Badong said, putting the weapon back in his pants. “You were saying . . .”

Titing continued, “Once Kumander Gaston is back in the dugout, we’ll crawl toward that mound”—he points at the embankment surrounding the dugout—“and peep inside.”

“Peep?”

“Peep, eavesdrop, watch the whole action.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, you’re so slow,” Titing said, slapping his forehead in affected frustration. “Take it this way: Kumander Horny is sad and lonely, what with his sister being killed and all, so he will turn to voluptuous babaylan for comfort.”

“You mean they’re going to do it?”

“Now that’s more like it, my boy. You’re thinking fast. Yes, Kumander Gaston’s going to rip Ikang’s clothes off, push her to the hard, cold earth, and get her so good she’d scream so loud.”

Badong felt a stirring in his pants, but he said, “That’s bull.”

“Listen, Badong. You may be able to resurrect the dead—I know it, you have supernatural powers. It’s useless denying it to me—anyway, you may be able to resurrect the dead, but when it comes to matters like this, trust me. I know the ways of the world. I’m older than you.”

“But not by much,” Badong said.

“All right,” Titing said. “I’m no old sage. I don’t know the ways of the world. I know what Kumander Gaston and Ikang will do because . . . I’ve seen them do it before.”

“In the dugout?”

“In the dugout,” Titing answered. “Several times.” He leaned and took a look behind the tree, checking for Kumander Gaston.

“You pervert,” Badong said. “No wonder you know a lot about Kumander Gaston and Ikang. But why are we peeping on them now? It’s noontime.”

“You uncircumcised idiot. Noontime, nighttime, all the time. Kumander Gaston fucks Ikang every chance he gets.”

Badong had never thought before that people did it during daytime. “Why does she allow him to use her?” he asked.

“Well, first, she likes it,” Titing said. “Second, she’s up to something. It’s not just Kumander Gaston that’s using Ikang; she’s also using him. She wants to get back at Kumander Higante.”

“Wait, you lost me there. What’s Kumander Higante got to do with Ikang?”

“It’s a long story, really. It took me a while—about three peeping sessions—to put the pieces together. Anyway, from the conversations of Kumander Gaston and Ikang, this much I gathered: Ikang’s husband was killed because of Kumander Higante. Some Muslim men hacked the poor guy one day while he was working in the field. It turned out that the murderers were really looking for Kumander Higante, because a few days earlier, the bastard and his men had ransacked the house of a Muslim family in the outskirts of the barrio. They raped the mother and young girl and left no one alive.”

“The Muslim men mistook Ikang’s husband for Kumander Higante?”

“Probably no. They were out to kill the first Christian they’d come across.”

“I see,” Badong said. “Now how does Ikang expect Kumander Gaston to help her?”

“About that I have no idea. Truth is, Kumander Gaston does not seem to be so keen on helping Ikang. He just keeps her hanging on so he can have a free pussy. Kumander Gaston is also afraid of Kumander Higante, I bet. Kumander Higante is himself a babaylan. They say he’s got an amulet so powerful he can fly. Wait, is it true? You must know. Kumander Higante got his amulet from Nong Seño.”

Badong shrugged. “Father creates an amulet for selected people only, and each amulet is unlike the others. I don’t know if the one he made for Kumander Higante enables him to fly. But I’m sure what he made for him is something special. I remember, it took Father forty days to create the amulet, and Kumander Higante waited patiently for it. He stayed with us.”

“That means he would recognize you when he sees you again,” Titing said, talking fast in excitement. “When he arrives later, he’ll let your secret out.”

“I don’t think so,” Badong said. “I was only eight or nine then, and I look different now. Besides, Kumander Higante did not actually live in our home. He stayed in a hut in the middle of our cornfield, meditating and performing tasks I wasn’t allowed to know.”

Titting’s face slackened, but brightened again when he peeked behind the tree. “Kumander Gaston,” he whispered at Badong, “he’s going back to the dugout.”

They remained still behind the tree for some time; then they crept toward the dugout.

The chief and Ikang were right at it, a few feet beside the unconscious boy. Kumander Gaston was on top of Ikang, his pants pulled down, his buttocks glistening in the semidarkness of the dugout. Ikang was thrashing wildly under him.

It took a while for Badong to figure out that Ikang wasn’t in the throes of passion. She was preventing Kumander Gaston from entering her. “No, no!” she grunted, pushing the chief away. “It’s Friday, Gaston. We can’t.”

The chief did not seem to hear anything.

“Your amulet,” Ikang said, “it will lose its power.”

Kumander Gaston paused. “I don’t care,” he said, his breath raspy. “I’m not afraid to die.” His hand, squeezed between him and Ikang, resumed moving, spreading her legs apart and arranging things.

Ikang stopped resisting, and closed her eyes as Kumander Gaston thrusted.

Titing started rubbing himself.

Badong could not take his eyes off Ikang’s face. She was biting her lips.

Ikang’s eyes opened, and they met Badong’s. She screamed.

(To be continued)

Fiction: War Zone (Part 2 of 10)

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

“I knew it,” Titing said behind Badong. “You inherited your father’s ability.”

“I didn’t,” Badong said, panting. He and Titing were carrying the wounded boy in a makeshift stretcher. The stretcher, made of a worn-out blanket and two bamboo poles, was slung on their shoulders. Badong was leading the way

“How come you knew this boy’s still alive?” Titing asked. “He looked more than dead to me. You must have a third eye too, like Nong Seño.”

“Stop mentioning my father,” Badong said, turning his head to the side. “The others might hear you.”

“I don’t understand you, Badong. Why are you keeping your identity secret? If Kumander Gaston knew you’re Nong Seño’s son, he wouldn’t let you be an ordinary warrior here.”

“I came here to fight, Ting. I want to carry a gun. When you told me you’re joining Kumander Gaston’s group, I gladly went with you because at last I had a good reason to leave home. I never wanted to be my father’s apprentice, much more a full-fledged babaylan.”

“If I were you, I’d want nothing but be like my father,” Titing said. “Look, Badong, if you’re a babaylan, you’re not just revered, you’re feared.”

“I don’t want to be revered or feared,” Badong said. “I want to live my own life, not my father’s.”

“That’s deep, man,” Titing said. “Though I doubt if you can really lead a different life. Remember, your father named you Salvador. You are meant to be a savior of the people. You are called to heal the sick and the dying, to fight evil spirits, to create amulets—”

“Enough with the rhetoric,” Badong cut in, slightly shifting the poles on his shoulders. “You’re putting all the weight on me.”

“I’m not,” Titing said. “It’s our little señorito, his weight’s taking a toll on you. Hold on, he’s becoming a bit too heavy for me, too. Let’s put him down for a while.”

They laid the stretcher on the grass and caught their breath. Titing stood up while Badong squatted down beside the boy.

“Some life he has,” Titing said, staring down at the boy. “Lying in a cradle like a baby. Look, he’s got a dagger or something. Check it out.”

An abaca string tied around the boy’s waist held a sheath. Badong pulled out the handle jutting out the sheath.

The wooden sheath looked plain, but the weapon it was hiding was a beauty. “That’s nasty,” Titing said with admiration. It was two finger spans in length, double-bladed, and encrusted with dried blood.

“Let me have that,” Titing said, reaching out for the knife, but Badong moved the weapon out of his grasp.

“No, I’m keeping it,” Badong said, tucking the knife back into the scabbard. He untied the string from the boy and transferred it to his waist. “I’ll return it to him when he comes to.”

“If he comes to,” Titing said. “We’re wasting our effort for him, man. He’s a goner. You should have left him buried.”

“If you were him, would you want me to do that?” Badong said.

“Yes. We’re just prolonging his agony. I doubt if he will last another day.”

“You may doubt the boy’s strength,” Badong said, “but never doubt the power of Ikang’s amulet. She can heal him.” Ikang was the babaylan of Kumander Gaston’s camp.

“Now I’m changing my mind,” Titing said. “If this boy were me, by all means dig me up and take me to Ikang. She only has to fuck me and I’ll live.”

“Hush,” Badong said. “Kumander Gaston isn’t far ahead.”

“Hah! I wish he would hear me. That selfish boar and his cliché-riddled speeches. Why doesn’t he share Ikang with us? Don’t you know that he’s got a wife and kids back in his barrio? It’s us Ikang should be sleeping with. We’re bachelors.”

“Kumander Gaston’s married? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I know a lot of things about him.”

“I mean, why would he cheat on his wife?”

“Don’t you have a thing between your legs? We’re in the middle of a war, Badong. We don’t know what will happen next. We have to grab every pussy we—”

Titing cut himself off when some of their fellow warriors caught up with them from behind. “Need us to take your place?” one of them asked.

“No thanks,” Titing said before Badong could say yes. “It isn’t really heavy.”

The other men walked ahead.

“I didn’t know carrying this boy makes you tick,” Badong said when they were out of earshot.

“Don’t you have a thing between your ears?” Titing said. “The camp is just a few hills away. We’ll give them the boy so they’ll be the ones to get near Ikang? They must be lucky.”

* * *

Enemies would have a hard time finding the camp, first because it was situated deep in the forest, and second, because it hardly resembled a camp. A rundown hut, a crude dugout, and dozens of frayed sacks—these sheltered the warriors under Gaston’s command.

Inside the dugout, Ikang nagged at the chief as she knelt beside the boy and laid out her healing paraphernalia. “Your sister did not want to listen to me, Gaston,” she said, taking out smoked leaves from an old wooden box. “I told her to keep away from water, but she insisted on building a camp near the river. She also probably took a bath there often, even during Tuesdays. How could her amulet protect her if she kept on doing things that could lessen its power?”

“So you’re saying she had it coming?” Gaston said. He was sitting near the dugout’s entrance.

“I’m not blaming her,” Ikang said. “I just want to warn you. Never take the amulet for granted. Learn from what happened to Dalia. You can be as stubborn as her, Gaston. Every so often you do prohibited things. You—”

Ikang stared at Badong and Titing. The young men were crouched beside the boy, ogling at Ikang’s breasts. “You two,” she said, “you may go now.”

“We’ll just stay here,” Titing said. “You might need us to do something.”

“I need you to leave,” Ikang said.

“All right, men,” Gaston said. “Ikang has to tend to the boy alone.” He stood up, stooping so as not to hit the low roof.

Titing scratched his head, but followed the chief.

Badong remained crouching. Ikang glared at him. “Haven’t you heard what I said?”

“Uhm, the leaves,” Badong said. “Is that what you’re going to use?”

Gaston, about to step out of the dugout, turned back.

“Yes,” Ikang said. “I will wrap them around the boy’s midriff. His wound’s pretty tiny. He will be healed in no time. Do you have a problem with that?”

“It’s just that . . . I think the bullet’s still inside him,” Badong said. “It should be taken out first. The leaves will only close the wound, but the boy’s guts will remain festering inside.”

“Are you teaching me what to do?” Ikang said. “Who do you think you are? I know what I am doing. I have healed everyone who came for my help.”

“But, Ikang,” Gaston said, “Badong seems to have a point.”

Ikang said, “So what do you suggest I do, Badong?”

Badong shook his head. “Nothing. I’m sorry. It was rash of me to question your methods. I know nothing.”

“You should know your place, kid,” Ikang said. “You may not be confident with what a woman can do, but never underestimate the power of the amulet I use. Nong Seño himself created it for me when he visited my barrio. Do you know Nong Seño?”

“Yes,” Titing butted in. The others stared at him. “He knows Nong Seño,” Titing continued. “Right, Badong?”

Ikang and Gaston turned back to Badong.

“Titing is right . . . ,” Badong said. “Nong Seño is said to be the best babaylan there is. So of course everyone knows him, even the people in our barrio.”

Titing stared at Badong in disbelief.

“It’s good that you know him,” Ikang said. “Remember, the amulets of all the warriors in this camp are mere replicas of what I wear, but they can already protect you against guns and bladed objects. Think how more powerful my amulet can be.”

“Pardon him, Ikang,” Gaston said. “The boy has to be attended to at once.”

The three men walked out of the dugout.

“Ikang is quite a tigress, eh?” Titing said. When Gaston and Badong remained quiet, he asked, “What exactly is our next move, Kumander Gaston? Aren’t we going to hunt the culprits now?”

“We have to wait for our allies,” Gaston said. “I’ve sent word to the military and the next camp, and Colonel Bangit and Kumander Higante will be here anytime now. Between them, they have two to three hundred men. The enemies will have nowhere to hide when our combined forces attack them.”

“Kumander Gaston,” Titing said, “did you say Kumander Higante? I didn’t expect you’d collaborate with him. He’s the reason the enemies attacked Kumander Dalia’s camp.”

“What made you say that?” Gaston asked.

“Kumander Higante had been attacking Muslim villages, killing innocent women and children. In retaliation, the rebels went after your sister.”

“I can’t blame Kumander Higante,” Gaston said. “Those women and children are not as innocent as you think. The civilian Muslims support the separatist rebels. They provide them food. They shelter them at night. The same blood runs through their veins—those women and children and the rebels. When those kids grow up, what do you think they’ll do? Do you think they won’t be like their fathers?”

Titing nodded. “So when are we going to kill them all?”

“Tonight,” the chief warrior answered.

“That’s good,” Titing said. “I can’t wait to scalp the bastards. I’ll crack their skulls and eat their brains.”

Badong’s grip tightened on his gun. Tonight would be his first battle. He had encountered a few enemies before, while he and some of his companions were roving in the nearby barrios. He had shot at the Moros, and he was pretty sure he had wounded a couple or so. But a skirmish did not a warrior make. Tonight would be the real deal.

(To be continued)

Fiction: War Zone (Part 1 of 10)

(This story first appeared in the January 28, 2012, issue of the now-defunct Philippines Free Press. I took the illustration above from the magazine's website, which likewise no longer exists. My apologies to the artist for lack of credit.)

Somewhere in North Cotabato. Early 1970s.

On the ground lay the body of Kumander Dalia. Upon seeing it, Badong averted his gaze, intending to avoid another vision. But there was no escaping from his gift. In flashes that lasted no more than a second, the young man saw everything the enemies did to her—how they tied her hands, violated her, slashed her breast.

Shots rang in the air. When Badong turned, he saw Kumander Gaston, Dalia’s brother, firing his rifle toward the sky. The chief of the vigilantes later addressed his men: “The death of our fellow warriors will not be left unavenged. The Moros will pay gravely for what they had done. We will skin them alive, and they shall rue the day they were born!”

The warriors dug a mass grave, and one by one the bodies were carried and flung into it. Badong gritted his teeth while doing the task, while his long-time friend, Titing, breezed through it as though he was only hauling logs.

“Dead man number twenty,” Titing said, looking down at a fallen fighter who was lying on his stomach. Titing slightly kicked the body, turning it face up. Badong braced himself for the vision.

The fighter’s face surprised Badong. “He’s so young,” he said.

“What was he doing here?” Titing said, bending over and lifting the boy by the ankles. “He should be home playing with a slingshot. A Garand’s taller than him.”

Used to Titing’s antics and tall tales, Badong ignored his friend. “He must just be twelve, thirteen,” Badong said, more to himself than to Titing.

“If his face isn’t bloody,” Titing said, “I bet you’ll see milk on his lips.”

Badong frowned. No vision had appeared to him yet.

“So, what, are you just gonna stand there?” Titing said. “I was just kidding about the milk. Don’t bother looking for it.”

Absentmindedly, Badong held the boy’s hand, intending to lift him, but the moment his skin made contact with the boy’s, excruciating pain shot through Badong’s stomach. He pulled back, and the pain instantly disappeared.

“Hey,” Titing said, grinning. “Afraid he’s gonna rise?”

Badong’s eyes inspected the corpse again. The boy had mud and streaks of blood all over him, but he had no gaping wound. His abdomen, though, was soaked with dried blood. A bullet must have hit him, Badong thought. Considering that the attack occurred twenty-four to thirty-six hours ago, he couldn’t have survived. He has lost so much blood.

When Badong touched the boy again, the pain returned. But he steadied himself. Titing was not aware of his unusual ability, and he wanted to keep it that way. He held the boy’s hands and helped Titing carry the body to the grave.

They threw the body down, and it landed with a thud on top of the other bodies.

“That must be the last one,” Kumander Gaston told his men. “Start filling up the hole.”

The few warriors who had spades started working. The others helped with their feet and bare hands. Badong kept staring at the boy as clumps of soil slowly covered his body. For one moment Badong thought he saw the boy’s eyelids flutter, but then he thought the sunlight was merely playing tricks with his eyes, as the sun was now visible at the horizon and had started to lift the morning mist.

The men worked faster, and Badong became more bothered. He did not see how the boy died; instead he felt his pain. He never had such an experience before. Could the boy still be breathing? he wondered.

Soil covered the boy’s neck, and finally his face.

Hold on! Badong shouted in his mind. Everyone stared at him, and he realized he had spoken aloud. “The boy . . . ,” he explained, swallowing. “He’s alive!”

He jumped into the grave and dug furiously with his hands. When he had uncovered the boy’s face, he felt for a pulse in the boy’s neck. He barely felt anything, but it was there, a sign of life, as faint as the light of the farthest star the naked eye could see.

(To be continued)

Fiction: Constancia's Children (Part 5 of 5)

(Published in the November 8, 2010, issue of Philippines Graphic)

It had been two weeks since Constancia and Mrs. Aguak went to the town plaza.

“I still can’t forget the boy’s face, Usman,” said Constancia. “He had been shot a couple of times in the head, and a bullet had grazed his cheek, exposing his teeth and facial muscles. He looked like he was smiling.”

Usman winced. “Mrs. Aguak must have been relieved to find out it was not Odin,” he said.

Constancia shook her head. “She would never be relieved until she sees her son.”

“Where could the boys be now, ma’am?” says Usman. He clasped his hands and whispered, “Oh my Amir, where are you? I’ll be waiting for you in the altar, er, in the mihrab.”

Constancia glowered at him, and Usman put his hand over his mouth, looking like a puppy kicked by his master. She tolerated, even encouraged, his flirtatious jokes about men, but not when it comes to the male students, and not this time especially.

To deflect Constancia’s attention, Usman asked, “The dead boy, ma’am. You must have been surprised to see him . . . I mean, aside from his hideous smile, he must have been the last person you expected to see.”

“Surprised is an understatement. I had always thought I would never see again that old student of mine, much more wearing a CAT uniform. It’s crazy. He disappeared one day and reappeared just as suddenly. If there are people who should be relieved, it’s his family and the family of the other student he killed years ago.”

“I really hope Odin and the other boys would come back soon,” said Usman. “But not in the same manner as that killer.”

“Usman,” said Constancia, “I’ll make a deal with God, and you shall act as the witness . . . If the boys come back, or even just one of them, I won’t leave this school. Your uncle be damned.”

* * *

The night after Constancia made her deal with God, Usman saw in the news that the military operation had reached its end.

One of the kidnap victims was killed and the other was rescued. The commander from Sulu was rumored to have escaped, back to where he came from. Kumander Hadjiri, Amir’s father, was killed, his lifeless body captured in video for the entire world to see.

Usman did not wait till morning to tell Constancia the news. He rushed to her house right after the TV program ended. “But ma’am,” he added, “it’s still possible the boys had escaped.

Constancia shook her head. “Do you want to buy my house, Usman?”

* * *

It had been forty days since the last time Amir talked to Constancia and more than a week since Kumander Hadjiri was killed.

Today was the start of the final exam. Two weeks more and it would be graduation. The superintendent would be the guest speaker, and Constancia would give him her decision on that day. In her home, she had packed most of her belongings. She was ready to move to Bacali.

Constancia’s voice rang out in the grounds. She was ordering the students to form their lines straight so that the flag ceremony could start. The students couldn’t help but stare at her quivering lips. She was wearing yellow lipstick, and she looked like she had eaten turd for breakfast.

She moved to the back and scolded those who were almost late. Then a familiar figure appeared in the gate.

“Amir, my son!” she exclaimed as she rushed to him. God wanted her to stay in this place, after all.

Amir was gaunt and was walking slowly, a hard-edged look in his face.

“You’re back,” she said. I want to hug you, but you look so frail.”

“Good morning, ma’am,” Amir said.

“Come to the office, have a rest there.”

“I’m fine, ma’am. I’d like to join them,” he said, pointing to the students in front of the flagpole.

“Okay, I’ll walk with you there then.”

They walked slowly, and all the students’ eyes were on them.

“Amir,” she said, “I’m so sorry for what happened to your father.”

Amir stopped walking. “Don’t be sorry, ma’am. They didn’t get Kumander Hadjiri.”

She didn’t understand, so she also stopped and looked at him.

“He made a sacrifice.”

“What do you mean?”

“He could have escaped if he wanted to, but he chose not to put the whole movement at risk. He knew the military wouldn’t stop until they got a commander’s head. That’s what the public wanted.”

“Amir, let’s talk about this in the office.”

The young man did not seem to hear her. He continued speaking in a calm voice. “I wanted to stay and fight with him, but he ordered me to leave.”

“Your father wanted you to have a different life, a normal life.”

Amir smiled. With the rays of the morning sun falling on his face, Constancia saw the same old Amir, the same old sweet smile.

“No,” Amir said. “Father said it was his battle . . . and I’ll have mine in due time.”

In that instant, the light on Amir’s face shifted. Perhaps he moved. Perhaps the clouds in the sky above moved. Constancia was not able to determine what happened. All she noticed was that Amir’s smile became that of the dead rebel lying in the town plaza.

She shuddered and remembered the other students. “The other boys,” she said, “where are they, Amir? Where’s Odin?”

Amir did not say anything.

“Please, Amir. If you can’t tell me they’re safe, at least tell me you don’t know where they are.”

The young man’s silence confirmed Constancia’s fear. She felt hot liquid welling up her eyes.

“In every family there’s a warrior,” Amir spoke as if in a trance. “He shall fight in the name of Allah. After he performs his duty, a white horse appears before him, to take him away, where he shall bask in the glory he deserves. His family shall not grieve, for his deed was not for nothing. He had saved the souls of fifty of them.”

For the first time DMNHS witnessed their principal cry. She cried just like the way she shouted in fury and laughed in mirth, in full volume and in full view of everyone.

* * *

Usman stared at Constancia in alarm. When a teacher cries in front of her students, she’s finished.

He came to her and led her inside the principal’s office.

When she was already inside and Usman was about to close the door, he flung it open again. He went back to the field.

The students had broken their queues and were whispering to one another. He shouted at them to be quiet and to form their lines again. He did not leave them until they were set to start singing the national anthem.

When he came back inside the principal’s office, he found Constancia sitting on her swivel chair, her eyes still red but her cheeks already dry. She was staring at a paper on top of her desk, a fountain pen poised on her hand.

“Ma’am, that’s the letter from the superintendent,” Usman said. “Are you going to sign it? Why, Amir has come back.”

Constancia was staring at nothing. “Amir has died in the mountains, with Odin and the other boys,” she said. “They are not my children, they are children of this land . . . And once they answer her call, they never come back.”

The End