Saturday, May 17, 2025



The Summoner

Gil Marvel Tabucanon

Muriela stopped at a cliff as she watched the calm sea turn to purple. It was violet as the blanket on her late aunt’s flower-ringed body amidst the scents of candles, cheap coffee, and decaying rose wreaths, a sight and smell Muriela went through a week ago when asked to come home by her mother due her aunt’s demise.

It was late afternoon in Dalanon, a sea-locked village in northern Leyte. The place had no access to a highway except through a makahiya-framed footpath that flooded on slight rain. She noticed the copper-coin sun dip into the neighboring island’s hills, beyond which fanned a small town accessible by motorized boats where she and village folks bought their provisions. Soon the last of wives thrusting their baskets to collect their husband’s daily tally of fish would have gone home to pepare supper while shrieking at older kids to fetch water, change newly-born babies’ hand-sewn napkins, and feed the pigs.

Muriela was a part-time singer in Starlight, a posh night club in Cebu. She sang on weekends after school and during school breaks. Her family sent her to a Cebu university, though she found the course “tasteless as sawdust” as her fellow artistic classmate described it. An obsequiously obedient daughter who only wanted to please her mother and aunt, Muriela plodded on in “that course” set in stone for her by her family, though if she had her druthers, she just wanted to write crisp anecdotes setting some to music, and, of course, sing. At the university, it did not take long to make her talent known; while some sang and others performed, Muriela did both. Though she did not win in a sing-along contest, she received an offer to sing on weekends at a night club near a local hotel. 

It shamed her to talk about her sideline job to friends, especially her high-school chums like Tim, the village jester who wasted no time ascribing people nicknames or fabricating awkward situations for the fun of it. Tim was summoned by the Lupon, for sending bogus condolence cards to the village Pastor, after the latter barred his daughter from attending the Fiesta coronation. “Vestigial paganism,” he smirked. Tim denied the charge, but the Lupon head insisted who else could concoct such foolishness, effectively escalating their tiff to a hair-breadth away from an actual fistfight, stopped only by the Pastor’s quick withdrawal of the case. 

When interrogated during one of Tim’s usual fits of curiosity, Muriela admitted to singing at a night club, which in Tim’s prurient imagination, translated to being paid money for services other than singing. In fact, Tim neither heard nor wanted to hear Muriela’s protestation that Starlight is a reputable club catering to older couples, established as an alternative to mushrooming ballroom dance halls, and in response to husbands feeling left out on weekends by wives who prefer to dote on unmoustached and wackier flat-bellied Dance Instructors, called DIs. At the club, Muriela projected herself as “lady sunshine” in polka dotted bloomers, though she was conscious in her profession, she also needed to be unpredictable. At times she dished out quirky rock songs like “Whiter Shade of Pale,” strutting on stage in pale mascara matched by Gothic belts tightly wrapped around her body like the snake of Eden. 

When Muriela was a young girl, she, her mother Katang, and aunt Karita, fled to Dalanon to escape mob persecution from their home village, a mountain range away from Dalanon on the other side of the island. For Katang, it was a case worse than being dipped into the sulfuric fumes of hell, for in hell at least one knew why one was put there. In the case of her family no one knew why village folks kept away from them, which ultimately morphed into violence. It took them time to realise they were ostracized by friends from the village, “othered” even by their cousins and relatives. It was as if they had ceased to exist; they existed, but peripherally, with their names hardly mentioned except in fearful tones. 

The distancing began when Katang’s family, targeting in particular her sister Karita, became the fodder of a silent if vicious accusation of being practitioners of the “barang,” a folk belief where practitioners were able to summon carnivorous insects into the orifices of sleeping people, the bad ones usually. Nieto, Karita’s persistent and pig-headed suitor was found dead in a dry ditch at the foot of the forest near Katang’s family’s farm land. Her family became the chief suspect since it was well known in their barrio that Karita and her farmer father had little regard for Nieto, who, though he earned a living as a pump boat mechanic, had not learned the rudiments of hygiene and was said to bathe only once a month, if he did. It is said he suffered from fevers as a result of carbuncles, and a healer advised him to avoid contact with water. As Nieto could not take no for an answer, he was literally dragged and pushed out of Karita’s home and told never to come back. It took a week before Nieto’s body was found dead with boils, and insects swarming on them. The villagers theorized the live insects crawling out from Nito’s boils were from a “barang.” 

Though Katang’s family was brought to the office of the town police for investigation, nothing came out of it as Nieto’s case was unwitnessed. Karita, Katang, and their parents went back to tending vegetables, and resumed the rigmarole of making jars of papaya, capsicum and carrot pickles, laced in strong vinegar, which they sculpted into quirky flower, leaf, and spiral designs. Mothers would order by half dozens glass jars, especially during fiestas and special occasions. A month or two after Nieto’s body was found, Karita’s family noticed their usual customers deferred buying or else bought one instead of two or more small jars, until they stopped buying altogether. Even their cousins stopped buying and refused the pickles even if given free. Life became hard for Karita’s family, especially as their arthritis-prone father relied less on farming and more on their pickle business. The family coped from the lack of orders. It was the village’s sudden estrangement that was hard to take. They stopped going to church as people would move away from their seats. They could not walk on streets without someone changing lanes. Karita blamed it all on herself and asked her close cousin Loring what happened. 

“I really don’t know, cousin Karita,” Loring hesitated. 

“Please tell me as we are puzzled. Has this to do with Nieto’s death?” Karita insisted, holding Loring’s shoulders. 

“Yes. People are saying the voodoo powers of the ‘barang’ was responsible for Nito’s death,” Loring replied, adding “but beyond that I don’t know anymore.” Karita’s chest tightened as she shouted, “How could they forget that during the police investigation Nieto’s sister even read a note written in his handwriting, and tucked in his breast pocket: ‘wa nay bili’, meaning nothing has worth or meaning anymore.” 

Over time, Nito’s story receded from the village consciousness, and people went on with their business. Katang fell for one of their vegetable buyers from another village who turned out to be a married man, while Karita was abandoned by her suitors, and devoted herself to backyard piggery. Rumors circulated how Katang laced the man’s corn bits coffee with a potion called “lumay,” causing a man – any man – to declare an undying love, though none noticed how the other sister Karita could not even attract a village drunk. The vegetable buyer, it turned out, became Katang’s confidante after she discovered he could play on the harmonica assorted Cebuano love songs, beginning with “Patay’ng Buhi,” meaning “Dead but Alive,” a ballad which Katang had learned by heart. One thing led to another, and no one further noticed about Katang and her man as he only visited quarterly. Months later, gossip had it that Katang needed an emergency ferry to the neighboring island’s hospital for ruptured appendicitis. Only the discreet village midwife Nang Goring knew Katang was about to deliver a baby. Her pregnancy was what Nang Goring called “misteryosong pagmabdos,” or cryptic pregnancy, where the woman herself and her family are unaware of the pregnancy. They assumed the absence of her “binulan,” or menstruation, was caused by a hormonal imbalance due to a sudden weight gain. 

When news of Katang’s delivery reached the village, conflicting versions were heard, that Katang was raped by a seminarian, or crept into by a “dili-ingon-nato” or “not-like-us” spirits living on rivers where Katang washed clothes. They cited the girl’s blondish hair as seen through the sun, and complexion as fair as the stalk of a banana. All talks were forgotten as time passed, since Katang’s daughter, Muriela, showed exceptional talent in singing. People who heard her sing stopped what they were doing, and without realizing it, tears fell to their cheeks. 

Others were curious why Katang named her daughter Muriela. Like a broken record, she would say she read the name Muriela from from an old issue of her Bulaklak comics collection, meaning “sparkling sea,” for indeed her daughter was born at sea in transit to the hospital. If in the mood, she would add Muriela likely took her singing prowess from Lorelei, a character she again read from comic magazines. Lorelei was a river mermaid who sang behind rocks, driving sailors crazy with love. 

Just when Katang thought things had settled in the village, a freak storm came in late morning bringing mud and debris from the highlands. It was a normal cloudy day where people went on with chores, though the radio broached signal number 2 for the region. No one paid attention as stronger signals were raised before and the village was unscathed. As curtains of rain pummeled, the lazy brook rolled torrents and ripped its banks. While houses at the village center were spared, three boys coming from different families who gathered river spinach for lunch went missing. Their bloated bodies were found four days later presenting boil-like lesions ringed-in by maggots reminiscent of Nieto’s body. Shrieks pealed through the thick blanket of silence that entrenched into the village. Mothers counted their brood one by one as fathers in mud boots checked their house posts for cracks. 

Vigil prayers were organized and thanksgiving songs offered for sparing the village center. A big Mass was held at the square for the church wasn’t big enough for the crowd. Even those who did not usually attend church as they questioned the manner funds were spent attended. Everyone, even those from other denominations came to join the prayers. Katang and Karita were there, too, though their parents stayed home to babysit Muriela. The sisters remained mouse-wary at the back of the crowd and focused on the priest’s message on reconciliation amidst calamities. His message on the “need to set aside petty quarrels and issues,” and to “love one another, even our enemies, especially during disasters,” resonated with Katang and Karita, who were only too willing to forgive and forget everything. 

“But what about our children, father? Our sons who perished during the flood?” A high-pitched voice pealed from the back like a bolt of lightning, followed by a growing murmur. Another shout followed: “Aren’t we stupid enough to allow demonic forces in our midst?” after which a volley of “Yes, yes! We need to do something” responded. No sooner than the next response, Katang sidled and grabbed Karita’s hand, then whispered, “Let’s go.”


Early on the following morning before the first crow of roosters, a loud thud from a fist-sized rock broke against the wall of Katang’s house beside the stairs. The family awoke but chose to stay quiet indoors. As the glimmerings of the sun arose, they peeped through the sill, and seeing no one, came outside. Everything looked untouched, including a nearby plot of vegetables. On the wall facing the sun, the word “barangan!” or evil summoner, was scribbled in bright red. And all three of Karita’s pigs were lying dead. “Why, why are they doing this to us?” Karita shrieked and fell to the ground.

A week later, Katang and Karita wrapped Muriela’s head with a bandana as the three of them took the earliest morning boat trip to another island facing the other side of their island. It is to a town beyond the dormant Mt. Cancajanag, where people speak a different dialect, and where Katang’s cousin lives. Katang’s parents chose to stay behind. 

“In our age, nothing surprises us, dear daughters Katang and Karita. We are not scared. The people can peel us to the bone, and they can’t find a shred of guilt running through our family’s blood,” murmured Katang’s father as he gave Katang a bundle wrapped in old handkerchief consisting of seeds from their vegetable garden, and old bills and coins stored in a bamboo tube, which were savings from their pickle business. Their mother also gave Karita boiled eggs, hanging rice – locally called puso – wrapped in coconut leaves, their mother’s used tube-shaped shawl called patadyong and their father’s old camisa de chino, saying “in case you miss us and feel the need to hug or kiss us.” “We are just here,” her mother assured Katang and Karita, “and remember to sing our lullabies to Muriela lest she forget who or where she’s from.” As a final gesture of goodbye, Katang and Karita smelled the coconut-oiled hair of their mother, whispering “Mother, our dear mother.” 

Katang and Karita did not intend to settle in Dalanon. They were meant to go to the town at the neighboring island, except the confluence of their boat’s mechanical defect and the prospect of meeting a storm forced them to be dropped off at Dalanon, a sleepy but self-sufficient village facing a mountainous island beyond which is the town which was their original destination. The sisters and little Muriela were forced to ask for lodging from a local priest who allowed them to stay at the parish convent. They emptied clean their bowls of tinola garnished with lemongrass, tomatoes and a hint of tamarind served to them at dinner by the kindly man of God. 

“We don’t usually get visitors in this village,” the elderly priest said reassuringly. 

“We are looking for a new place to stay ,Padre, as livelihood prospects are dim in our home village,” Katang said matter-of-factly, without divulging details.” 

“I understand, hija” the priest seemed to divine their intentions. “You must have good reasons for leaving your home. May the Lord guide you to wherever you are meant to go. You can stay here in the convent, at least until after the storm has passed.” 

And so it was that Katang and Karita decided to remain in Dalanon. After the storm, they overstayed their welcome at the convent. To compensate they cleared and tended the old priest’s garden, scrubbed the church’s aisles and did marketing and cooking for the priest. Muriela, was allowed to assist the priest during Mass, a sight never before seen in the Dalanon, not that anyone minded. Little Muriela also sang and led the responses to the Psalms, flooring over all the local villagers with her mix of beauty and delightful assertiveness. Dalanon, though not as big as their home village, offered a kind of warmth to the sisters they never felt before or at any place else. 

Karita found work as a housemaid, then as cook and crafts assistant to a family whose business sold carved spoons and forks to different towns in the province. Her former trade in carving flowers out of papayas and carrots bloomed at the shop where Carding, her widowed employer, had given her a blank check discretion to carve any type of flower design on the wooden decors. Karita liked Carding in the sense of feeling safe when he’s around. On more than one occasion, Carding hinted he was open to a more intimate arrangement with Karita, and on Karita’s terms. Karita had, however, closed her heart to anyone after the incident following Nieto’s death where people avoided her and laughed at her behind her back for being more dangerous than the force of nature. She herself heard this in her home village when passing by a group of stand-bys taking turns at slugging down tuba at a corner store, for drunk men were poor at hiding secrets. Through years of taunting, Karita began to believe the odious streak ascribed to her, and regarded herself as not beautiful, though her eyes twinkled as she spoke. 

Katang found work in a bakery shop owned by Bado, a bearded man whose stout frame reminded her of tubs of lard delivered monthly to the shop. Bado’s skin pores smelled like string beans, or “batong,” the kind called “langto” in the vernacular, possibly from years of eating home-made kimchi and raw bean sprouts. Not that Katang minded. In time she got used to the smell, and might have even missed it one time when Bado went to the island to buy things. Katang rationalized Bado’s smell was a likely offshoot of his being a vegetarian, specializing in eating raw beans and pickled cabbages. Bado’s vegetarianism began when as a boy he watched a chicken prepared for broth. Instead, of lying low, the dying the chicken’s headless body leaped towards him. From then on, Bado was convinced animals had feelings, and it was presumptuous for people to think otherwise. 

Bado is a kind man for he seldom uttered a word, much less an unkind word. When drunk, his personality took a roundabout for then he became weepy and touchy-feely. Katang did not know this aspect of Bado’s personality until after a year of working in the bakery. Dalanon prepared for its first “Aurora,” or early dawn procession, and households asked that their American bread and Pan de Sal be delivered early. When Katang entered the bakery kitchen, she saw Bado crying. Thinking something was wrong, she rushed to Bado and embraced Bado with all the motherly affection she could muster. One thing led to another, and Bado could no longer help himself. 

Katang would have loved Bado had he asked and waited. Bado forced himself on Katang with the grip of a vise, leaving Katang limping on the floor like a rag doll. Katang would have killed herself, or, the thought entered into her to ask the services of a real summoner of insects, until he could breathe no longer. But then, she stopped herself, if she did that all their protestations of innocence in their home village would mbe put to naught. What would she tell her parents and Karita? More importantly, what would happen to Muriel whose future lay far ahead of her. Katang thought the best punishment she could inflict upon Bado was to marry him. She would get the bakery business for herself and give a loveless union to Bado. She would not sleep with him and insist on separate beds; her plan happened once they married. 

With Katang’s social connection, Bado’s shop branched to two neighboring towns. Her sister Karita, whose health deteriorated from farm work and overexposure to the sun, moved in with Katang and Bado, and had since taken an interest on patisseries. Karita’s residual energies were expressed lavishly in desert-making, and in ensuring Muriela would have a good upbringing and future. Beyond their best-selling sweetheart bread with snow-white icing on top and pan-de-coco, Karita also mass-produced two local favorites: the flat and crunchy salvaro flake, and the soft and coconutty salvaro loaves that looked like small pillows. The loaves were little Muriela’s favorite. To stop her from overeating, during school breaks, Karita asked Muriela to help her carve papaya, radish and carrot cubes into flowers and leaves to start a pickle business in Dalanon. While carving, Muriela sang and hummed tunes foreign to Karita’s ears, the aunt wondered if Muriela learned songs from the radio or composed them herself. 

Muriela grew into a lovely young woman more attached to her aunt Karita than to her mother who, after Bado’s mild stroke, took over the operations of the bakeshop. Karita would take Muriela to church as Katang worked non-stop supervising the shops. As Muriela grew to be a young adult, she continued to hold Karita’s upper arm while walking in public for she felt safe doing so. Karita would remind her she’s not a baby anymore for soon she will graduate from high school. Muriel’s would just shrug her slouching shoulders, pout her lips and place her wriggling head on Karita’s shoulders. 

Muriela remembered that particular night, about a month after her high-school graduation. Katang and Karita had an argument, their voices uncharacteristically loud that night. Muriela could not remember what her mother and aunt talked about, but she heard her name mentioned in relation to Cebu. That evening, the two sisters who did not usually eat together were there at the table dressed in their Sunday best. Bado was also there, with a bib and holding a special type of spoon used by semi-paralytic persons who could still feed themselves. The sisters, it seemed to Muriela, prepared a special dinner together of rellenong bangus or stuffed milk fish, and chicken broth. 

“Sit down, Muriela, we would like to talk to you,” said Katang in a tone that sounded funereal than motherly. She added, “You know your aunt and I love you very much.” To Muriela’s inquisitive mind, every time her mother or aunt wanted her to do something unpleasant, they would say, “You know we love you very much.” 

“What is it, Mama?” Muriela replied to Katang.

“Your aunt and I would like you to go to a University in Cebu to study law, beginning with a preparatory course to law,” said Katang grimly. 

“Remember why we transferred to Dalanon, Muriela?”, butted in Karita, while simultaneously taking a deep breath. “Your mother and I were accused of witchcraft. We were not able to protect ourselves. Partly perhaps because of our lack of education. With a law degree you – we – can fight back.” Karita wanted to say more, but was interrupted by Muriela. 

“I thought that was long settled, Auntie. I thought you were already on talking terms with friends from your old village, particularly the teachers who had asked for donations to their school’s drinking fountain project.” 

“It’s not a particular person who wronged us, Muriela.” Karita responded. It was the village itself who believed we caused Nieto’s death as well as the death of the three boys.” 

“We did not know we were being accused behind our backs until later,” Katang clarified, and added, “the village turned its back on us – we became virtual lepers. But that stopped, of course, when they heard we made it big here in Dalanon with our bake shops in many towns. Then, politicians, even teachers, started to ask donations from us,” Katang sighed and walked towards the window facing the sea. 

“We don’t hold grudges against specific people, Muriela,” Karita intervened. “I’m disappointed with the village as a whole who knew who we were since birth, and who did not speak for and in our defense. I guess the village folks were afraid. We recoil and do foolish things in response to those forces we do not understand,” mumbled Karita as tears welled in her eyes. 

Four years had elapsed, and just before Muriela’s college graduation, she received a telegram telling her to come home, as her aunt Karita had died. The family waited for Muriela before burial was arranged. Katang wanted Muriela to decide and arrange how Karita would go. Muriela said a simple burial would be in keeping with her beloved aunt’s wishes. An open house with Karita’s body bedecked with flowers, and a line scribbled in dark red on a purple blanket: “The wages of sin is not death, for in death is true freedom. It is life without understanding that’s in chains.”

---

Gil Marvel Tabucanon is currently teaching jurisprudence and legal theories at Macquarie University, Sydney. He can be contacted at gil.tabucanon@gmail.com

 


                                     
                                       The Lake Has Craters

                                                           Gil Marvel Tabucanon
     
     As Zac walked towards the archives building, he noticed a bent betel tree growing dangerously close beside an old Ficus. Both old and young trees competed for the sun. He treaded this path before, with friends, but did not notice anything out of the ordinary. Lately, he began seeing things, their shapes and colors, hearing voices, noting smells, actuations and motivations.

       “Can you help me access microfilmed news items between these dates please?” he asked the desk assistant, scribbling on a pencil the period. Zac’s fingers sounded like hoof beats on the table. He breathed deeply trying not to look like someone awaiting a medical diagnosis. His eyes wandered through the archival collection. What lives were lived and lost in those files, now peppered with dust from disuse and neglect! At the rack’s far end, two teenagers tenaciously argued the way they waved their hands, albeit speaking in lowest tones. Lovers’ quarrel, Zac bemused.
 
       A week ago, Zac was a bright but happy-go-lucky law student. He studied “enough to pass exams” in his words, though his professors knew he could do more. His knack for exposing contradictions, earned respect from his professors and irritation from peers who regarded him a “rabble rouser.” His class analyzed a case involving an American couple, who, because of their religious beliefs, were charged of defacing government property – in particular the metal plates of their own car by sticking a red tape over the state motto embossed at the car plate’s bottom: “Live Free or Die.” The couple said only the Creator can tell them that and not the state. Zac raised his hand and smirked: “It’s ironic, professor, that the accused understood the motto better than the state prosecutor himself. The accused wanted to live free enough to cover the motto they don’t believe in even if that meant violating the law.” The professor’s eyes widened as he mumbled: “You’re right!”

       After school, Zac went straight home. His parents were not there. Food was left on the table for his supper. He decided to write case abstracts, as was his wont at night. A teacher tipped the habit of summarizing cases can make the bar exams look like a “walk in the park.” As his pen had barely enough ink, he proceeded to his father’s law office in the other room. Zac noticed the top drawer of the old metal filing cabinet near the main desk was a tad bit open. His dad may have forgotten to lock it, albeit unusual for him, as he always locked his things out of habit. Zac tried to push the drawer but it did not fully close. He pulled the drawer to check if there was something inside that held it from being closed. As he was about to push it, his eyes caught an old folder with his name on it. He could have brushed that aside were it not for a child’s clothing tucked inside the file. Zac’s curiosity got a hold of him and, with goose bumps all over, decided to take the folder with him to his room.

       His heart pumped in what felt like a tiger wanting to jump from its cage. He dimmed his light, and looked out the window in case his parents were outside. There was silence in the garage. He placed the old baby shirt and underpants on the table. As he flipped through the pages, he instantly recognized what could only be a court order. A word popped from the page: “adoption.” His heart stopped beating as his consciousness twirled around the room. He could see everything from the ceiling down. “No wonder,” he said to himself. His parents could not tell him in which hospital he was born. Or why his skin tone was a tad bit darker than them. It’s not even about that. There was a certain awkwardness, exaggeration even, in the way his parents doted on him. He had bigger toys than boys his age, went to more places on summer breaks than his classmates. Yet his parents never visited, and neither was he close to his aunt Lilia, his father’s sister, who lived two towns away, in the small village of Dalanon. He saw his aunt once at the hospital when his parents came by for a visit after her surgery. That was about the only time he can remember, though it’s possible he forgot the other occasions.

Illustration 1
       Zac could not read past the main import of the adoption court order. He felt his mind was in a blur. He tried to scan the pages but decided to read more when his nerves settled. His hands shook like they had minds of their own. He tossed and turned on his bed for the most part until his parents arrived, laughing and giddy from a party.

       Zac’s father was a famous lawyer in the city. He was a squat yet amiable man with thick sideburns. If he did not practice law, he would have made a name for himself in politics. “Everyone a friend” was his motto. He walked the talk, the way he treated everyone alike. No human could do that, Zac mused, but his father was not an ordinary man. His father had a way with people, unlike Zac who chose whom he spent time with. His father played volleyball at the dockside with port laborers, joked with fish vendors, and regaled prominent wives with boogie-woogie where his father’s right arm became the crane from where ladies spun and tumbled.

       Zac’s mother was a homebody with expertise on patisseries and vegetarian dishes. Zac thought it was good he did not take on her sweet palate, though he savored her deserts out of respect. Her vegetarian dishes were one of a kind. “Why don’t you open a vegetarian shop, Mom?” he asked her. She thought cooking for the family was enough. “Your dad and I needed to rest for our ballroom dancing—the only exercise we can agree on,” she winked looking lovely in her newly trimmed hair that made up for more than a passing resemblance to Twiggy.  A homebody by day, Zac’s mother transformed herself into a glittering socialite at night. She and her husband were the brightest stars in the constellation of their small city’s parties.

       The night Zac found the folder, his parents came from a fund-raising event for blind people. They were active spokespersons for cause-oriented organizations, a fact Zac was proud of. That night, he was not sure. He doubted his parents truly liked to help people, or was all the philanthropy just for show? But no, they “are good people,” he reprimanded himself. He should know that more than anybody. His parents were everything to him. He became a good boy, at least he thought so, because of them.  He screamed and covered his mouth with a pillow, not that he cared. His parents lied to him. What else did they hide? Or want not to hide? Did his father want him to find out by purposely opening the filing cabinet? Why didn’t they tell him directly? And sooner. Zac’s mind was a misaligned kaleidoscope. A rogue missile, was more like it. He was no longer sure he knew his parents.

       He waited for his mom and dad to be still in their room. He tiptoed to his bathroom and read further the file from there. Despite his few semesters n law school, he found it hard to comprehend the adoption order. The images did not add up, though the facts were logically arrayed in a neat way, the way judges do: Zac was an orphan. The whereabouts of his biological mother is unknown, leading the social welfare officer to surmise she might have died. His biological father met a “gruesome” death early morning of 5 December 1982, but not much elaboration followed. Then, the baby was placed in an orphanage where his adopting parents found and took him. From a tender age, he answered by the name of “Atok,” but surmised his adopting parents chose “Zachary,” “Z” being farthest from “A.” Zac’s analytical mind could not put together two and two why he was picked: was it his smile, or helpless demeanor? Friends had told him in his unguarded moments, Zac would have this hapless look of a lamb about to be led into a slaughter house. But then, that does not seem to be a strong reason to adopt: to help maybe, but not to make him another person’s child. What gave him an edge over other kids in the orphanage? He looked at himself in the mirror. That face looked plainer than any boy on the street save for the daring mullet hairstyle. It could not be his looks. There was nothing spectacular about him.

       The next thing, it was day time. A faint light entered his bathroom window silent as a hungry cat. He had slept on the bathroom floor. Stray papers were scattered around, and the file was left open near his head. He noticed a tiny penciled scribble above the word “gruesome:” “stoned.”

II

       Zac’s stomach grumbled. A bowl of noodles seemed a convenient fix. After sneaking into his father’s office to return the file, he pasted a note saying he will not be home for lunch. He went straight to the “panciteria” where he and his friends would hang out to dissect controversial legal cases. Though nearly noon, the place was not as packed as their last visit. The staff recognized him, but they let him be by himself as he slurped his hot mami. He put his dark glasses on, and took a deep breath. He thought of his aunt Lilia in Dalanon.

       The bus to his aunt’s place took longer than expected. A recent landslide partly crippled the only artery that connected his city to the junction where Zac would stop to take the dreaded foot path to the isolated seaside village of Dalanon. The place had no access to the highway except through a ribbon of flood-prone earth framed by prickly weeds. He wondered why his aunt chose to stay in Dalanon sewing dresses for villagers when she could just have easily opened a shop in the city with the help of her brother. She’s not beautiful but “has her beauties,” he recalled a phrase used to described his favorite poet. His aunt Lilia is a middle-aged woman who’s kind and modest, and not cantankerous, unlike others who did not marry. Talking of lifelong commitments, how could she marry if she’s chosen to rot in this heaven-forsaken place?! Zac’s libertarian training came to the fore, as he brushed aside his previous thoughts with “of course, one lives where one is most useful and happy.”

       It was late afternoon when Zac arrived in Dalanon. His pants were strewn with mud and amorsecos, his hair disheveled and his eyes puffed like those of a bulgan fish. His aunt saw him first. She was at a local bakery operated by her friend Katang, a place Lilia felt most at home in. It was there she could relax and laugh in between dressmaking deadlines. It is with Katang where Lilia could let her guard down, where she could speak her mind out without being judged. That day they indulged in the latest gossip over small goblets of tuba.

       “Zac! What wind brought you here?” Lilia hollered, and embraced her nephew like a lost son.

       “I’m famished Aunt Lilia, I haven’t eaten for days.”

       Katang, who was within earshot, interjected, “I have paksiw, and some boongon. I’ll prepare supper for us all.”

       At the dinner table, Zac fibbed he’s taking time out from his girlfriend who had become too clingy for comfort. “I don’t want her to think I’m husband material. I need to do many things,” he said while looking at the ceiling. His Malayan complexion is belied by a near-perfect straight nose.

       The two ladies looked at each other, and ogled: “Pregnant?”

       “No Auntie, nothing near that.”

       Zac slept like he had not slept in a long time. He thought he heard himself snoring. He saw a lake and heard shrieks and shouts of yawa meaning “devil!” The earth spun, the way it spun when he read “adoption” in the file. “No, no!” He moved his neck from side to side, shouting. He awoke from a slap his aunt gave him. “What happened?” “You had a bad dream,” his aunt said, then patted her hand on his head: “Calm down.”

       “I’ll go back to the city the first opportunity before dawn, or my parents will call the police for my whereabouts.”

       “Better sleep, and I’ll prepare an early breakfast for you before you leave,” Zac’s aunt sounded reassuring and relieved.

III

The rest of the week was uneventful. Zac hardly talked to his parents. “School work,” he said. They thought he was in a phase: Lover’s angst or an intellectual glitch akin to a writer’s block, perhaps. They let him be. They did not poke into his unconscious as solicitous parents do. He had mood swings, they ratiocinated, but got over each one in time. They planned to take him to Hongkong during the summer break.

       Zac dreamed of the lake again. He stood in the middle of it at midnight. The waters clasped his knees. Cold gusts of wind licked his neck like puffs from a dying cigarette. He could discern the glimmerings of the setting moon on the lake’s surface. Ripples broke the calm as wavelets chased one another. Then, Zac heard an exchange of voices. At first polite, the tone became blurred and rugged like the jagged mountaintops surrounding the lake. Hurried footsteps, strained breathing, and pleas for mercy were heard as Zac felt himself pushed: “Run, Atok! Run!” The screams became shrieks, and the eyes of the ripples became craters as large stones were hurled in. Zac pushed himself away but his feet were held back by the lake waters.

       At breakfast he asked his Mom to prepare his lunch box. He said he would be at the library, and wouldn’t be home until after supper. “For my case studies,” he lied. Instead, he went to the archives. The trip towards there seemed like a slow-motion segment of his life’s film. He could hear his footsteps, the buzzing of a fly and the brush of the wind on his cheeks. He would scour for microfilmed news items within a month or two from the date of his biological father’s “gruesome” death. As none came out from national dailies, he checked for microfilmed copies of local papers. Hungry and disgusted, Zac almost gave up when he spotted a tiny mention under the heading “murder or rightful defense among the folks of Dalanon?” “Dalanon?” Zac’s hair stood. He saw a small body of water, sensed the brush of cold air, and smelled the pungent sea sprays. And those strange gurgling noises. No wonder he felt a strong pull towards the village.

       The incident was not covered in mainstream news, but in a tiny opinion corner of a local tabloid bannered “hard truths to stomach.” For the subject’s seriousness, the writing was light, irreverent even, interspersed with vernacular witticisms and popular moral teachings, such as “merisi,” meaning “bad deeds don’t pay.” The article, argued how village folks have the right to stump out criminality at their doorstep through self-help. It mentioned stealing fishnets goes beyond ordinary criminality as it turns upside down the very pot that provides food for families in the village. It then gave two thumbs up and “hurrahs” to the villagers’ acquittal. 

       Zac realized he was reading a rubber stamp commentary of a court decision dismissing the Dalanon murder case, in effect acquitting all the accused, for “lack of substantial evidence.” So, that was it? Zac sighed, strangely relieved to have gotten this far, though nagging questions remained. Neither the writer’s stand nor the court’s opinion bothered him. Zac’s analytical training assured him anyone could arrive at any kind of conclusion, depending on one’s ideological and emotional persuasion. As a law student, Zac was aware one could easily justify one’s conclusion, depending on which side one was on. What bothered him was the “accused’s acquittal” came by way and “courtesy of the pro bono services of Atty Frank Ziga,” his father.

IV

Dalanon was Zac’s only option. He broke down upon meeting his Aunt Lilia. “Why didn’t you tell me a murder happened in Dalanon?” Zac could hardly breathe as he whimpered, “Was my real father stoned?” Lilia herself trembled and could not answer coherently. “I’m sorry, Zac…really, really sorry. My brother made me swear not to say anything about the incident.”

       “I understand Auntie, but please tell me. Was my real father a criminal? Am I the son of a bad man?”

       “I will tell you everything, Zac. I want to take you to a place. But first we’ll pass by at your Nang Katang’s store. I’ll ask her to join us. She can better explain what happened.”

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       “This was where your father sat when he was stoned with these small rocks,” Katang pointed to a spot where a raised platform where folded fishnets used to be stacked. The place was a kilometer away from Dalanon village center, and near the boundary to the next village. “He sat under the raised platform the night he died as it was rainy. Some say he ate a late supper, and that he fed you, making sure you would not go hungry through the night,” Katang sighed. “The platform’s gone now,” she continued. “The village took it down after the incident. The village head thought it was a source of bad luck, a badge of shame for the place.” Zac looked closely at the spot where his father died. He saw himself there, a toddler, and barely out of babyhood, snugging in the arms of his elderly father. He noted the spot was at the end of a cove. Locals called the place a lake since the cove’s mouth was almost unseen. Around the still water were serrated mountain peaks, called “ngipon sa gabas” or “teeth of a saw” by villagers. Zac saw these in his dream.

       “I know your father,” Katang volunteered. “He was an old and venerable man, known for his wisdom and power to heal. He was our shaman in my former village. People there would ask him for advice,” narrated Katang as she walked towards the sea.

       “Did he tell you he was coming over to Dalanon?”

       “No, he never told anyone. I recognized him when his dead body was paraded around the village – hogtied – “like a criminal,” to warn folks not to steal fishnets.”

       “Did you believe them, Nang Katang?”

       “Of course, I didn’t. Your real father was not a fisherman, so why would he steal fishnets? He was a respected man in our village with simple needs. I think he wanted to come – he willed to come here, in spite of his old age.”

       “Did he know anyone in Dalanon?” Zac pleaded, already hard of breathing. 

       “As far as I know he only knows me and my late sister Muriela. It was your father who advised us to leave our village when our family was accused of witchcraft. He could have known I was living in Dalanon from my parents as they stayed behind in my former village.”

       Katang, then with wide eyes, blurted, “I think your father wanted to take you to this place! Yes, yes, but is it possible? Knowing your father’s acumen, I think he knew he would die here. They said when he was stoned, he did not run, and just sat and prayed. He raised you high up with both his arms, asked blessings for you, mercy for his murderers, and then shouted, ‘Run, Atok, run!’”

       Zac recalled his dream, as that was what his father said to him.

       “Zac, there is something we wanted you to know,” his Aunt Lilia finally found the courage to speak. “Early in the morning the day your father died, one of the villagers took you to your Nang Katang’s store. He knew you would be safe there, and wouldn’t starve. But your Nang Katang had a better idea. We brought you to the Catholic nuns, and convinced your now father Frank to adopt you. That’s how you ended up with them. Your future with your father Frank could not have been brighter. Your Nang Katang and I think your real father foresaw this – he with his goodness and years of experience of helping people,” his aunt Lilia said, as she and Katang embraced Zac, with the warm hug of a mother.


Gil Marvel Tabucanon is currently teaching jurisprudence and legal theories at Macquarie University, Sydney.