(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)
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