Juan Manalaksan
Narrated by Anicio Pascual of Arayat, Pampanga, who heard the story from an old Pampangan woman.Juan Manalaksan
Once
upon a time there lived in a certain village a brave and powerful datu
who had only one son. The son was called Pedro. In the same place
lived a poor wood-cutter whose name was Juan Manalaksan.
Pedro
was rich, and had no work to do. He often diverted himself by hunting
deer and wild boars in the forests and mountains. Juan got his living
by cutting trees in the forests. One day the datu and his son went to
the mountain to hunt. They took with them many dogs and guns. They did
not take any food, however,
for
they felt sure of catching something to eat for their dinner. When
they reached the mountain, Pedro killed a deer. By noon they had become
tired and hungry, so they went to a shady place to cook their game.
While he was eating, Pedro choked on a piece of meat.
The father cried out loudly, for he did not know what to do for his dying son. Juan, who was cutting wood near by, heard the shout. He ran quickly to help Pedro, and by pulling the piece of meat out of his throat he saved Pedro’s life. Pedro was grateful, and said to Juan, “To-morrow come to my palace, and I will give you a reward for helping me.” The next morning Juan set out for the palace. On his way he met an old woman, who asked him where he was going. “I am going to Pedro’s house to get my reward,” said Juan. “Do not accept any reward of money or wealth,” said the old woman, “but ask Pedro to give you the glass which he keeps in his right armpit. The glass is magical. It is as large as a peso, and has a small hole in the centre. If you push a small stick through the hole, giants who can give you anything you want will surround you.” Then the old woman left Juan, and went on her way.
As
soon as Juan reached the palace, Pedro said to him, “Go to that room
and get all the money you want.” But Juan answered, “I do not want you
to give me any money. All I want is the glass which you keep in your
right armpit.” “Very well,” said Pedro, “here it is.” glass, he hurried
back home. When Juan had received the
Juan
reached his hut in the woods, and found his mother starving. He
quickly thought of his magic glass, and, punching a small stick through
the hole in the glass, he found himself surrounded by giants. “Be
quick, and get me some food for my mother!” he said to them.
For
a few minutes the giants were gone, but soon they came again with
their hands full of food. Juan took it and gave it to his mother; but
she ate so much, that she became sick, and died. In a neighboring
village ruled another powerful datu, who had a beautiful daughter. One
day the datu fell very ill. As no doctor could cure him, he sent his
soldiers around the country to say that the man who could cure him
should have his daughter for a wife. Juan heard the news, and, relying
on his charm, went to cure the datu. On his way, he asked the giants
for medicine to cure the sick ruler. When he reached the palace, the
datu said to him, “If I am not cured, you shall be killed.” Juan agreed
to the conditions, and told the datu to swallow the medicine which he
gave him. The datu did so, and at once became well again. The next
morning Juan was married to the datu’s daughter. Juan took his wife to
live with him in his small hut in the woods. One day he went to the
forest to cut trees, leaving his wife and magic glass at home. While
Juan was away in the forest, Pedro ordered some of his soldiers to go
get the wood-cutter’s wife and magic glass. When Juan returned in the
evening, he found wife and glass gone. One of his neighbors told him
that his wife had been taken away by some soldiers. Juan was very
angry, but he could not avenge himself without his magical glass. At
last he decided to go to his father-in-law and tell him all that had
happened to his wife. On his way there, he met an old mankukulam, who
asked him where he was going. Juan did not tell her, but related to her
all that had happened to his wife and glass while he was in the forest
cutting trees.
The
mankukulam said that she could help him. She told him to go to a
certain tree and catch the king of the cats. She furthermore advised
him, “Always keep the cat with you.” Juan followed her advice. One day
Pedro’s father commanded his soldiers to cut off the ears of all the men
in the village, and said that if any one refused to have his ears cut
off, he should be placed in a room full of rats. The soldiers did as
they were ordered, and in time came to Juan’s house; but, as Juan was
unwilling to lose his ears, he was seized and placed in a room full of
rats. But he had his cat with him all the time. As soon as he was shut
up in the room, he turned his cat loose. When the rats saw that they
would all be killed, they said to Juan, “If you will tie your cat up
there in the corner, we will help you get whatever you want.” Juan tied
his cat up, and then said to the rats, “Bring me all the glasses in
this village.” The rats immediately scampered away to obey him. Soon
each of them returned with a glass in its mouth. One of them was
carrying the magical glass. When Juan had his charm in his hands again,
he pushed a small stick through the hole in the glass, and ordered the
giants to kill Pedro and his father, and bring him his wife again.
Thus Juan got his wife back. They lived happily together till they
died.
Juan
the Poor, Who became Juan the King. Narrated by Amando Clemente, a
Tagalog, who heard the story from his aunt. Once upon a time there lived
in a small hut at the edge of a forest a father and son. The poverty
of that family gave the son his name,–Juan the Poor.
As
the father was old and feeble, Juan had to take care of the household
affairs; but there were times when he did not want to work. One day,
while Juan was lying behind their fireplace, his father called him, and
told him to go to the forest and get some fire-wood. “Very well,” said
Juan, but he did not move from his place. After a while the father came
to see if his son had gone, but he found him still lying on the floor.
“When will you go get that fire-wood, Juan?” “Right now, father,”
answered the boy. The old man returned to his room. As he wanted to make
sure, however, whether his son had gone or not, he again went to see.
When he found Juan in the same position as before, he became very
angry, and said,-”Juan, if I come out again and find you still here, I
shall surely give you a whipping.” Juan knew well that his father would
punish him if he did not go; so he rose up suddenly, took his axe, and
went to the forest. When he came to the forest, he marked every tree
that he thought would be good for fuel, and then he began cutting.
While he was chopping at one of the trees, he saw that it had a hole in
the trunk, and in the hole he saw something glistening. Thinking that
there might be gold inside the hole, he hastened to cut the tree down;
but a monster came out of the hole as soon as the tree fell. When Juan
saw the unexpected being, he raised his axe to kill the monster. Before
giving the blow, he exclaimed, “Aha! Now is the time for you to die.”
The monster moved backward when it saw the blow ready to fall, and
said,–
“Good sir, forbear, And my life spare, If you wish a happy life And, besides, a pretty wife.”
Juan
lowered his axe, and said, “Oho! is that so?” “Yes, I swear,” answered
the monster. “But what is it, and where is it?” said Juan, raising his
axe, and feigning to be angry, for he was anxious to get what the
monster promised him. The monster told Juan to take from the middle of
his tongue a white oval stone. From it he could ask for and get whatever
he wanted to have. Juan opened the monster’s mouth and took the
valuable stone. Immediately the monster disappeared. The young man then
tested the virtues of his charm by asking it for some men to help him
work. As soon as he had spoken the last word of his command, there
appeared many persons, some of whom cut down trees, while others carried
the wood to his house. When Juan was sure that his house was
surrounded by piles of fire-wood, he dismissed the men, hurried home,
and lay down again behind the fireplace.
He
had not been there long, when his father came to see if he had done
his work. When the old man saw his son stretched out on the floor, he
said, “Juan have we fire-wood now?” “Just look out of the window and
see, father!” said Juan. Great was the surprise of the old man when he
saw the large piles of wood about his house. The next day Juan,
remembering the pretty wife of which the monster had spoken, went to
the king’s palace, and told the king that he wanted to marry his
daughter. The king smiled scornfully when he saw the rustic appearance
of the suitor, and said, “If you will do what I shall ask you to do, I
will let you marry my daughter.” “What are your Majesty’s commands for
me?” said Juan. “Build me a castle in the middle of the bay; but know,
that, if it is not finished in three days’ time, you lose your head,”
said the king sternly. Juan promised to do the work. Two days had gone
by, yet Juan had not yet commenced his work. For that reason the king
believed that Juan did not object to losing his life; but at midnight
of the third day, Juan bade his stone build a fort in the middle of the
bay. The next morning, while the king was taking his bath,
cannon-shots were heard. After a while Juan appeared before the palace,
dressed like a prince. When he saw the king, he said, “The fort is
ready for your inspection.” “If that is true, you shall be my
son-in-law,” said the king. After breakfast the king, with his
daughter, visited the fort, which pleased them very much.
The
following day the ceremonies of Juan’s marriage with the princess
Maria were held with much pomp and solemnity. Shortly after Juan’s
wedding a war broke out. Juan led the army of the king his
father-in-law to the battlefield, and with the help of his magical
stone he conquered his mighty enemy. The defeated general went home
full of sorrow. As he had never been defeated before, he thought that
Juan must possess some supernatural power. When he reached home,
therefore, he issued a proclamation which stated that any one who could
get Juan’s power for him should have one-half of his property as a
reward. A certain witch, who knew of Juan’s secret, heard of the
proclamation. She flew to the general, and told him that she could do
what he wanted done. On his agreeing, she flew to Juan’s house one hot
afternoon, where she found Maria alone, for Juan had gone out hunting.
The old woman smiled when she saw Maria, and said, “Do you not
recognize me, pretty Maria? I am the one who nursed you when you were a
baby.”
The
princess was surprised at what the witch said, for she thought that
the old woman was a beggar. Nevertheless she believed what the witch
told her, treated the repulsive woman kindly, and offered her cake and
wine; but the witch told Maria not to go to any trouble, and ordered
her to rest. So Maria lay down to take a siesta. With great show of
kindness, the witch fanned the princess till she fell asleep. While
Maria was sleeping, the old woman took from underneath the pillow the
magical stone, which Juan had forgotten to take along with him. Then
she flew to the general, and gave the charm to him. He, in turn,
rewarded the old woman with one-half his riches. Meanwhile, as Juan was
enjoying his hunt in the forest, a huge bird swooped down on him and
seized his horse and clothes.
When
the bird flew away, his inner garments were changed back again into
his old wood-cutter’s clothes. Full of anxiety at this ill omen, and
fearing that some misfortune had befallen his wife, he hastened home on
foot as best he could. When he reached his house, he found it vacant.
Then he went to the king’s palace, but that too he found deserted. For
his stone he did not know where to look. After a few minutes of
reflection, he came to the conclusion that all his troubles were caused
by the general whom he had defeated in battle. He also suspected that
the officer had somehow or other got possession of his magical stone.
Poor Juan then began walking toward the country where the general lived.
Before he could reach that country, he had to cross three mountains.
While he was crossing the first mountain, a cat came running after him,
and knocked him down. He was so angry at the animal, that he ran after
it, seized it, and dashed its life out against a rock. When he was
crossing the second mountain, the same cat appeared and knocked him down
a second time. Again Juan seized the animal and killed it, as before;
but the same cat that he had killed twice before tumbled him down a
third time while he was crossing the third mountain. Filled with
curiosity, Juan caught the animal again: but, instead of killing it this
time, he put it inside the bag he was carrying, and took it along with
him. After many hours of tiresome walking, Juan arrived at the castle
of the general, and knocked at the door. The general asked him what he
wanted. Juan answered, “I am a poor beggar, who will be thankful if I
can have only a mouthful of rice.” The general, however, recognized
Juan. He called his servants, and said, “Take this wretched fellow to
the cell of rats.” The cell in which Juan was imprisoned was very dark;
and as soon as the door was closed, the rats began to bite him. But
Juan did not suffer much from them; for, remembering his cat, he let it
loose. The cat killed all the rats except their king, which came out
of the hole last of all. When the cat saw the king of the rats, it
spoke thus: “Now you shall die if you do not promise to get for Juan
his magical stone, which your master has stolen.” “Spare my life, and
you shall have the stone!” said the king of the rats. “Go and get it,
then!” said the cat. The king of the rats ran quickly to the room of
the general, and took Juan’s magical stone from the table. As soon as
Juan had obtained his stone, and after he had thanked the king of the
rats, he said to his stone, “Pretty stone, destroy this house with the
general and his subjects, and release my father-in-law and wife from
their prison.” Suddenly the earth trembled and a big noise was heard.
Not long afterwards Juan saw the castle destroyed, the general and his
subjects dead, and his wife and his father-in-law free.
Taking
with him the cat and the king of the rats, Juan went home happily with
Maria his wife and the king his father-in-law. After the death of the
king, Juan ascended to the throne, and ruled wisely. He lived long
happily with his lovely wife.
“Edmundo.”
In Villa Amante there lived a poor widow, Merced by name, who had to
work very hard to keep her only son, the infant Edmundo, alive. Her
piety and industry were rewarded, however; and by the time the boy was
seven years old, she was able to clothe him well and send him to school.
Her brother Tonio undertook the instruction of the youth. Edmundo had a
good head, and made rapid progress. (7-41) One day Merced fell sick,
and, although she recovered in a short time, Edmundo decided to give up
studying and to help his mother earn their living. He became a
wood-cutter.
At
last fortune came to him. In one of his wanderings in the forest in
search of dry wood, he happened upon an enormous python. He would have
fled in terror had not the snake spoken to him, to his amazement, and
95
requested
him to pull from its throat the stag which was choking it. He
performed the service for the reptile, and in turn was invited to the
cave where it lived. Out of gratitude the python gave Edmundo a magic
mirror that would furnish the possessor with whatever he wanted. With
the help of this charm, mother and son soon had everything they needed
to make them happy.
At
about this time King Romualdo of France decided to look for a husband
for his daughter, the beautiful Leonora. He was unable to pick out a
son-in-law from the many suitors who presented themselves; and so he had
it proclaimed at a concourse of all the youths of the realm, “Whoever
can fill my cellar with money before morning shall have the hand of
Leonora.” Edmundo was the only one to accept the challenge, for failure
to perform the task meant death. At midnight he took his enchanted
mirror and commanded it to fill the king’s cellar with money. In the
morning the king was astonished at the sight, but there was no way of
avoiding the marriage. So Leonora became the wife of the lowly-born
wood-cutter. The young couple went to Villa Amante to live. There, to
astonish his wife, Edmundo had a palace built in one night. She was
dumfounded to awake in the morning and find herself in a magnificent
home; and when she asked him about it, he confided to her the secret of
his wonderful charm. Later, to gratify the humor of the king, who
visited him, Edmundo ordered his mirror to transport the palace to a
seacoast town. There he and his wife lived very happily together.
One
day Leonora noticed from her window two vessels sailing towards the
town. Her fears and premonitions were so great, that Edmundo, to calm
her, sank the ships by means of his magic power. But the sinking of
these vessels brought misfortunes. Their owner, the Sultan of Turkey,
learned of the magic mirror possessed by Edmundo (how he got this
information is not stated), and hired an old woman to go to France in
the guise of a beggar and steal the charm. She was successful in getting
it, and then returned with it to her master. The Sultan then invaded
France, and with the talisman, by which he called to his aid six
invincible giants, conquered the country. He took the king, queen, and
Leonora as captives back with him to Turkey. Edmundo was left in France
to look after the affairs of the country.
Edmundo
became melancholy, and at last decided to seek his wife. He left his
mother and his servant behind, and took with him only a diamond ring of
Leonora’s, his cat, and his dog. While walking along the seashore,
wondering how he could cross the ocean, he saw a huge fish washed up on
the sand. The fish requested him to drag it to the water. When Edmundo
had done so, the fish told him to get on its back, and promised to
carry him to Leonora. So done. The fish swam rapidly through the water,
Edmundo holding his dog and cat in his breast. The dog was soon washed
“overboard,” but the cat clung to him. After a ride of a day and a
night, the fish landed him on a strange shore. It happened to be the
coast of Turkey. Edmundo stopped at an inn, pretending to be a
shipwrecked merchant. There he decided to stay for a while, and there he
found
96
out
the situation of Leonora in this wise. Now, it happened that the
Sultan used to send to this inn for choice dishes for Leonora, whom he
was keeping close captive. By inquiry Edmundo learned of the close
proximity of his wife, and one day he managed to insert her ring into
one of the eggs that were to be taken back to her. She guessed that he
was near; and, in order to communicate with him, she requested
permission of the king to walk with her maid in the garden that was
close by the inn. She saw Edmundo, and smiled on him; but the maid
noticed the greeting, and reported it to the Sultan. The Sultan ordered
the man summoned; and when he recognized Edmundo, he had him
imprisoned and put in stocks. (314-350) Edmundo was now in despair, and
thought it better to die than live; but his faithful cat, which had
followed him unnoticed to the prison, saved him. In the jail there were
many rats. That night the cat began to kill these relentlessly, until
the captain of the rats, fearing that his whole race would be
exterminated, requested Edmundo to tie up his cat and spare them.
Edmundo promised to do so on condition that the rat bring him the small
gold-rimmed mirror in the possession of the Sultan. At dawn the rat
captain arrived with the mirror between its teeth. Out of gratitude
Edmundo now had his mirror bring to life all the rats that had been
slain. (351-366) Then he ordered before him his wife, the king, the
queen, the crown and sceptre of France. All, including the other
prisoners of the Sultan, were transported back to France. At the same
time the Sultan’s palace and prison were destroyed. Next morning, when
the Grand Sultan awoke, he was enraged to find himself outwitted; but
what could he do? Even if he were able to jump as high as the sky, he
could not bring back Leonora. When the French Court returned to France,
Edmundo was crowned successor to the throne: the delight of every one
was unbounded. The last six stanzas are occupied with the author’s
leave-taking.
Groome
summarizes a Roumanian-Gypsy story, “The Stolen Ox,” from Dr. Barbu
Constantinescu’s collection (Bucharest, 1878), which, while but a
fragment, appears to be connected with this cycle of the “Magic Ring,”
and presents a curious parallel to a situation in “Edmundo:”-”… The lad
serves the farmer faithfully, and at the end of his term sets off home.
On his way he lights on a dragon, and in the snake’s mouth is a stag.
Nine years had that snake the stag in its mouth, and been trying to
swallow it, but could not because of its horns. Now, that snake was a
prince; and seeing the lad, whom God had sent his way, ‘Lad,’ said the
snake, ‘relieve me of this stag’s horns, for I’ve been going about nine
years with it in my mouth.’ So the lad broke off the horns, and the
snake swallowed the stag. ‘My lad, tie me round your neck and carry me
to my father, for he doesn’t know where I am.’ So he carried him to his
father, and his father rewarded him.” It is curious to see this
identical situation of the hero winning his magic reward by saving some
person or animal from choking appearing in Roumania and the
Philippines, and in connection, too, with incidents from the “Magic
Ring” cycle. The resemblance can hardly be fortuitous.
ALL OVER THE WORLD
by Vicente Rivera, Jr.
ONE
evening in August 1941, I came out of a late movie to a silent, cold
night. I shivered a little as I stood for a moment in the narrow street,
looking up at the distant sky, alive with stars. I stood there,
letting the night wind seep through me, and listening. The street was
empty, the houses on the street dim—with the kind of ghostly dimness
that seems to embrace sleeping houses. I had always liked empty streets
in the night; I had always stopped for a while in these streets
listening for something I did not quite know what. Perhaps for low,
soft cries that empty streets and sleeping houses seem to share in the
night.
I
lived in an old, nearly crumbling apartment house just across the
street from the moviehouse. From the street, I could see into the open
courtyard, around which rooms for the tenants, mostly a whole family to a
single room, were ranged.
My
room, like all the other rooms on the groundfloor, opened on this
court. Three other boys, my cousins, shared the room with me. As I
turned into the courtyard from the street, I noticed that the light over
our study-table, which stood on the corridor outside our room, was
still burning. Earlier in the evening after supper, I had taken out my
books to study, but I went to a movie instead. I must have forgotten to
turn off the light; apparently, the boys had forgotten, too.
I
went around the low screen that partitioned off our “study” and there
was a girl reading at the table. We looked at each other, startled. I
had never seen her before. She was about eleven years old, and she wore a
faded blue dress. She had long, straight hair falling to her
shoulders. She was reading my copy of Greek Myths.
The
eyes she had turned to me were wide, darkened a little by
apprehension. For a long time neither of us said anything. She was a
delicately pretty girl with a fine, smooth. pale olive skin that shone
richly in the yellow light. Her nose was straight, small and finely
molded. Her lips, full and red, were fixed and tense. And there was
something else about her. Something lonely? something lost?
“I know,” I said, “I like stories, too. I read anything good I find lying around. Have you been reading long?”
“Yes,” she said. not looking at me now. She got up slowly, closing the book. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes,” she said. not looking at me now. She got up slowly, closing the book. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you want to read anymore? I asked her, trying to smile, trying to make her feel that everything was all right.
“No.” she said, “thank you.”
“No.” she said, “thank you.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, picking up the book. “It’s late. You ought to be in bed. But, you can take this along.”
She hesitated, hanging back, then shyly she took the book, brought it to her side. She looked down at her feet uncertain as to where to turn.
She hesitated, hanging back, then shyly she took the book, brought it to her side. She looked down at her feet uncertain as to where to turn.
“You live here?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
“What room?”
She
turned her face and nodded towards the far corner, across the
courtyard, to a little room near the communal kitchen. It was the room
occupied by the janitor: a small square room with no windows except for a
transom above the door.
“You live with Mang Lucio?”
“You live with Mang Lucio?”
“He’s my uncle.”
“How long have you been here? I haven’t seen you before, have I?”
“I’ve always been here. I’ve seen you.”
“Oh. Well, good night—your name?”
“Maria.”
“Good night, Maria.”
She turned quickly, ran across the courtyard, straight to her room, and closed the door without looking back.
I
undressed, turned off the light and lay in bed dreaming of far-away
things. I was twenty-one and had a job for the first time. The salary
was not much and I lived in a house that was slowly coming apart, but
life seemed good. And in the evening when the noise of living had died
down and you lay safe in bed, you could dream of better times, look back
and ahead, and find that life could be gentle—even with the hardness.
And afterwards, when the night had grown colder, and suddenly you felt
alone in the world, adrift, caught in a current of mystery that came in
the hour between sleep and waking, the vaguely frightening loneliness
only brought you closer to everything, to the walls and the shadows on
the walls, to the other sleeping people in the room, to everything
within and beyond this house, this street, this city, everywhere.
I
met Maria again one early evening, a week later, as I was coming home
from the office. I saw her walking ahead of me, slowly, as if she could
not be too careful, and with a kind of grownup poise that was somehow
touching. But I did not know it was Maria until she stopped and I
overtook her.
She
was wearing a white dress that had been old many months ago. She wore a
pair of brown sneakers that had been white once. She had stopped to
look at the posters of pictures advertised as “Coming” to our
neighborhood theater.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual.
She
smiled at me and looked away quickly. She did not say anything nor did
she step away. I felt her shyness, but there was no
self-consciousness, none of the tenseness and restraint of the night we
first met. I stood beside her, looked at the pictures tacked to a
tilted board, and tried whistling a tune.
She
turned to go, hesitated, and looked at me full in the eyes. There was
again that wide-eyed—and sad? —stare. I smiled, feeling a remote desire
to comfort her, as if it would do any good, as if it was comfort she
needed.
“I’ll return your book now,” she said.
“I’ll return your book now,” she said.
“You’ve finished it?”
“Yes.”
We
walked down the shadowed street. Magallanes Street in Intramuros, like
all the other streets there, was not wide enough, hemmed in by old,
mostly unpainted houses, clumsy and unlovely, even in the darkening
light of the fading day.
We went into the apartment house and I followed her across the court. I stood outside the door which she closed carefully after her. She came out almost immediately and put in my hands the book of Greek myths. She did not look at me as she stood straight and remote.
We went into the apartment house and I followed her across the court. I stood outside the door which she closed carefully after her. She came out almost immediately and put in my hands the book of Greek myths. She did not look at me as she stood straight and remote.
“My name is Felix,” I said.
She
smiled suddenly. It was a little smile, almost an unfinished smile.
But, somehow, it felt special, something given from way deep inside in
sincere friendship.
I walked away whistling. At the door of my room, I stopped and looked back. Maria was not in sight. Her door was firmly closed.
August,
1941, was a warm month. The hangover of summer still permeated the
air, specially in Intramuros. But, like some of the days of late
summer, there were afternoons when the weather was soft and clear, the
sky a watery green, with a shell-like quality to it that almost made
you see through and beyond, so that, watching it made you lightheaded.
I
walked out of the office one day into just such an afternoon. The day
had been full of grinding work—like all the other days past. I was
tired. I walked slowly, towards the far side of the old city, where
traffic was not heavy. On the street there were old trees, as old as the
walls that enclosed the city. Half-way towards school, I changed my
mind and headed for the gate that led out to Bonifacio Drive. I needed
stiffer winds, wider skies. I needed all of the afternoon to myself.
Maria was sitting on the first bench, as you went up the sloping drive that curved away from the western gate. She saw me before I saw her. When I looked her way, she was already smiling that half-smile of hers, which even so told you all the truth she knew, without your asking.
Maria was sitting on the first bench, as you went up the sloping drive that curved away from the western gate. She saw me before I saw her. When I looked her way, she was already smiling that half-smile of hers, which even so told you all the truth she knew, without your asking.
“Hello,” I said. “It’s a small world.”
“What?”
“I said it’s nice running into you. Do you always come here?”
“As often as I can. I go to many places.”
“Doesn’t your uncle disapprove?”
“No. He’s never around. Besides, he doesn’t mind anything.”
“Where do you go?”
“Oh, up on the walls. In the gardens up there, near Victoria gate. D’you know?”
“I think so. What do you do up there?”
“Sit down and—”
“And what?”
“Nothing. Just sit down.”
She
fell silent. Something seemed to come between us. She was suddenly
far-away. It was like the first night again. I decided to change the
subject.
“Look,” I said, carefully, “where are your folks?”
“You mean, my mother and father?”
“Yes. And your brothers and sisters, if any.”
“My mother and father are dead. My elder sister is married. She’s in the province. There isn’t anybody else.”
“Did you grow up with your uncle?”
“I think so.”
We
were silent again. Maria had answered my questions without
embarrassment. almost without emotion, in a cool light voice that had no
tone.
“Are you in school, Maria?”
“Are you in school, Maria?”
“Yes.”
“What grade?”
“Six.”
“How d’you like it?”
“Oh, I like it.”
“I know you like reading.”
She
had no comment. The afternoon had waned. The breeze from the sea had
died down. The last lingering warmth of the sun was now edged with cold.
The trees and buildings in the distance seemed to flounder in a
red-gold mist. It was a time of day that never failed to carry an
enchantment for me. Maria and I sat still together, caught in some spell
that made the silence between us right, that made our being together
on a bench in the boulevard, man and girl, stranger and stranger, a
thing not to be wondered at, as natural and inevitable as the
lengthening shadows before the setting sun.
Other
days came, and soon it was the season of the rain. The city grew dim
and gray at the first onslaught of the monsoon. There were no more walks
in the sun. I caught a cold.
Maria
and I had become friends now, though we saw each other infrequently. I
became engrossed in my studies. You could not do anything else in a
city caught in the rains. September came and went.
In
November, the sun broke through the now ever present clouds, and for
three or four days we had bright clear weather. Then, my mind once again
began flitting from my desk, to the walls outside the office, to the
gardens on the walls and the benches under the trees in the boulevards.
Once, while working on a particularly bad copy on the news desk, my
mind scattered, the way it sometimes does and, coming together again,
went back to that first meeting with Maria. And the remembrance came
clear, coming into sharper focus—the electric light, the shadows around
us, the stillness. And Maria, with her wide-eyed stare, the lost look
in her eyes…
IN
December, I had a little fever. On sick leave, I went home to the
province. I stayed three days. I felt restless, as if I had strayed and
lost contact with myself. I suppose you got that way from being sick,
A pouring rain followed our train all the way back to Manila. Outside my window, the landscape was a series of dissolved hills and fields. What is it in the click of the wheels of a train that makes you feel gray inside? What is it in being sick, in lying abed that makes you feel you are awake in a dream, and that you are just an occurrence in the crying grief of streets and houses and people?
In December, we had our first air-raid practice.
I came home one night through darkened streets, peopled by shadows. There was a ragged look to everything, as if no one and nothing cared any more for appearances.
I reached my room just as the siren shrilled. I undressed and got into my old clothes. It was dark, darker than the moment after moon-set. I went out on the corridor and sat in a chair. All around me were movements and voices. anonymous and hushed, even when they laughed.
I sat still, afraid and cold.
“Is that you. Felix?”
“Yes. Maria.”
She was standing beside my chair, close to the wall. Her voice was small and disembodied in the darkness. A chill went through me, She said nothing more for a long time.
“I don’t like the darkness,” she said.
“Oh, come now. When you sleep, you turn the lights off, don’t you?”
“It’s not like this darkness,” she said, softly. “It’s all over the world.”
We did not speak again until the lights went on. Then she was gone.
The war happened not long after.
At first, everything was unreal. It was like living on a motion picture screen, with yourself as actor and audience. But the sounds of bombs exploding were real enough, thudding dully against the unready ear.
In Intramuros, the people left their homes the first night of the war. Many of them slept in the niches of the old walls the first time they heard the sirens scream in earnest. That evening, I returned home to find the apartment house empty. The janitor was there. My cousin who worked in the army was there. But the rest of the tenants were gone.
I asked Mang Lucio, “Maria?”
“She’s gone with your aunt to the walls.” he told me. “They will sleep there tonight.”
My cousin told me that in the morning we would transfer to Singalong. There was a house available. The only reason he was staying, he said, was because they were unable to move our things. Tomorrow that would be taken care of immediately.
“And you, Mang Lucio?”
“I don’t know where I could go.”
We ate canned pork and beans and bread. We slept on the floor, with the lights swathed in black cloth. The house creaked in the night and sent off hollow echoes. We slept uneasily.
I woke up early. It was disquieting to wake up to stillness in that house which rang with children’s voices and laughter the whole day everyday. In the kitchen, there were sounds and smells of cooking.
“Hello,” I said.
It was Maria, frying rice. She turned from the stove and looked at me for a long time. Then, without a word, she turned back to her cooking.
“Are you and your uncle going away?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he not tell you?”
“No.”
“We’re moving to Singalong.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, anyway, I’ll come back tonight. Maybe this afternoon. We’ll not have to say goodbye till then.”
She did not say anything. I finished washing and went back to my room. I dressed and went out.
At noon, I went to Singalong to eat. All our things were there already, and the folks were busy putting the house in order. As soon as I finished lunch, I went back to the office. There were few vehicles about. Air-raid alerts were frequent. The brightness of the day seemed glaring. The faces of people were all pale and drawn.
In the evening, I went back down the familiar street. I was stopped many times by air-raid volunteers. The house was dark. I walked back to the street. I stood for a long time before the house. Something did not want me to go away just yet. A light burst in my face. It was a volunteer.
A pouring rain followed our train all the way back to Manila. Outside my window, the landscape was a series of dissolved hills and fields. What is it in the click of the wheels of a train that makes you feel gray inside? What is it in being sick, in lying abed that makes you feel you are awake in a dream, and that you are just an occurrence in the crying grief of streets and houses and people?
In December, we had our first air-raid practice.
I came home one night through darkened streets, peopled by shadows. There was a ragged look to everything, as if no one and nothing cared any more for appearances.
I reached my room just as the siren shrilled. I undressed and got into my old clothes. It was dark, darker than the moment after moon-set. I went out on the corridor and sat in a chair. All around me were movements and voices. anonymous and hushed, even when they laughed.
I sat still, afraid and cold.
“Is that you. Felix?”
“Yes. Maria.”
She was standing beside my chair, close to the wall. Her voice was small and disembodied in the darkness. A chill went through me, She said nothing more for a long time.
“I don’t like the darkness,” she said.
“Oh, come now. When you sleep, you turn the lights off, don’t you?”
“It’s not like this darkness,” she said, softly. “It’s all over the world.”
We did not speak again until the lights went on. Then she was gone.
The war happened not long after.
At first, everything was unreal. It was like living on a motion picture screen, with yourself as actor and audience. But the sounds of bombs exploding were real enough, thudding dully against the unready ear.
In Intramuros, the people left their homes the first night of the war. Many of them slept in the niches of the old walls the first time they heard the sirens scream in earnest. That evening, I returned home to find the apartment house empty. The janitor was there. My cousin who worked in the army was there. But the rest of the tenants were gone.
I asked Mang Lucio, “Maria?”
“She’s gone with your aunt to the walls.” he told me. “They will sleep there tonight.”
My cousin told me that in the morning we would transfer to Singalong. There was a house available. The only reason he was staying, he said, was because they were unable to move our things. Tomorrow that would be taken care of immediately.
“And you, Mang Lucio?”
“I don’t know where I could go.”
We ate canned pork and beans and bread. We slept on the floor, with the lights swathed in black cloth. The house creaked in the night and sent off hollow echoes. We slept uneasily.
I woke up early. It was disquieting to wake up to stillness in that house which rang with children’s voices and laughter the whole day everyday. In the kitchen, there were sounds and smells of cooking.
“Hello,” I said.
It was Maria, frying rice. She turned from the stove and looked at me for a long time. Then, without a word, she turned back to her cooking.
“Are you and your uncle going away?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he not tell you?”
“No.”
“We’re moving to Singalong.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, anyway, I’ll come back tonight. Maybe this afternoon. We’ll not have to say goodbye till then.”
She did not say anything. I finished washing and went back to my room. I dressed and went out.
At noon, I went to Singalong to eat. All our things were there already, and the folks were busy putting the house in order. As soon as I finished lunch, I went back to the office. There were few vehicles about. Air-raid alerts were frequent. The brightness of the day seemed glaring. The faces of people were all pale and drawn.
In the evening, I went back down the familiar street. I was stopped many times by air-raid volunteers. The house was dark. I walked back to the street. I stood for a long time before the house. Something did not want me to go away just yet. A light burst in my face. It was a volunteer.
“Do you live here?”
“I used to. Up to yesterday. I’m looking for the janitor.”
“Why, did you leave something behind?”
“Yes, I did. But I think I’ve lost it now.”
“Well, you better get along, son. This place, the whole area. has been ordered evacuated. Nobody lives here anymore.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “Nobody.”
I Sing
by Imelda Morales Aznar
I sing because of your heart-shaped hands, I sing
Because of the folds in your skin. They catch
My kisses the way leaves drink sunshine and I sing
Because you’re fragrant as a dream
Of cotton and wisps of foggy air
At dawn. Because it feels as if
I’m holding a cloud when I put your foot
On my palm, I sing.
Because of the folds in your skin. They catch
My kisses the way leaves drink sunshine and I sing
Because you’re fragrant as a dream
Of cotton and wisps of foggy air
At dawn. Because it feels as if
I’m holding a cloud when I put your foot
On my palm, I sing.
If I put my cheek near your little lips I’m kissed
By the gentlest, sweetest breath. I sing
Because your laughter is a song whose chords
Play in my heart. Your smile, pure miracle
By the gentlest, sweetest breath. I sing
Because your laughter is a song whose chords
Play in my heart. Your smile, pure miracle
Blossoming before me, makes me sing.
And I’m warmed to my soul by your gentle eyes
Whose depths cradle sparks of sweet days coming,
And I sing for the perfectness of things.
And I’m warmed to my soul by your gentle eyes
Whose depths cradle sparks of sweet days coming,
And I sing for the perfectness of things.
Suan, The Good Guesser
Narrated by Macaria Garcia. The story is
popular among the Pampangans.
There was once an old woman who had an only son named Suan. Suan was a clever, sharp-witted boy. His mother sent him to school. Instead of going to school, however, Suan climbed up the tree that stood by the roadside. As soon as his mother had passed by from the market, Suan hurried home ahead of her. When she reached home, he cried, “Mother, I know what you bought in the market to-day.” He then told her, article by article. This same thing happened so repeatedly, that his mother began to believe in his skill as a diviner.
There was once an old woman who had an only son named Suan. Suan was a clever, sharp-witted boy. His mother sent him to school. Instead of going to school, however, Suan climbed up the tree that stood by the roadside. As soon as his mother had passed by from the market, Suan hurried home ahead of her. When she reached home, he cried, “Mother, I know what you bought in the market to-day.” He then told her, article by article. This same thing happened so repeatedly, that his mother began to believe in his skill as a diviner.
One day the ring of the datu’s daughter disappeared. All
the people in the locality searched for it, but in vain. The datu called for
volunteers to find the lost ring, and he offered his daughter’s hand as a prize
to the one who should succeed. Suan’s mother heard of the proclamation. So she
went to the palace and presented Suan to the datu. “Well, Suan, tomorrow tell
me where the ring is,” said the datu. “Yes, my lord, I will tell you, if you
will give your soldiers over to me for tonight,” Suan replied. “You shall have
everything you need,” said the datu.
That evening Suan ordered the soldiers to stand around
him in a semicircle. When all were ready, Suan pointed at each one of them, and
said, “The ring is here, and nowhere else.” It so happened that Suan fixed his
eyes on the guilty soldier, who trembled and became pale. “I know who has it,”
said Suan. Then he ordered them to retire. Late in the night this soldier came
to Suan, and said, “I will get the ring you are in search of, and will give it
to you if you will promise me my safety.” “Give it to me, and you shall be
safe,” said Suan.
Very early the next morning Suan came to the palace with
a turkey in his arms. “Where is the ring?” the datu demanded. “Why, sir, it is
in this turkey’s intestines,” Suan replied. The turkey was then killed, and the
ring was found inside it. “You have done very well, Suan. Now you shall have my
daughter’s hand,” said the datu. So Suan became the princess’s husband.
One day the datu proposed a bet with anyone who wished to
prove Suan’s skill. Accordingly another datu came. He offered to bet seven
cascos of treasure that Suan could not tell the number of seeds that were in
his orange. Suan did not know what to do. At midnight he went secretly to the
cascos. Here he heard their conversation, and from it he learned the number of
seeds in the orange. In the morning Suan said boastfully, “I tell you, your
orange has nine seeds.” Thus Suan won the whole treasure. Hoping to recover his
loss, the datu came again. This time he had with him fourteen cascos full of
gold. He asked Suan to tell him what was inside his golden ball. Suan did not
know what to say. So in the dead of night he went out to the cascos, but he
could learn nothing there. The next morning Suan was summoned into the presence
of the two datus. He had no idea whatever as to what was in the ball; so he
said scornfully, “Nonsense!” “That is right, that is right!” shouted a man.
“The ball contains nine cents.” Consequently Suan won the fourteen cascos full
of gold. From now on, nobody doubted Suan’s merit.