Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) (13 page)

God in His Heaven, where was the shore? Then she remembered the helmsman looking at the stars and guiding his boat by them. She recalled how it was on those nights when her father also turned to the stars and identified landfall.

The evening star—if she swam toward it, she would reach land. She could float—that was easy—but how could she defend herself from the marauders of the deep? Once, she felt something rough like an is-is leaf brush against her leg and her whole being trembled. A shark! The fishermen in their village had often caught baby sharks in their nets and fish traps and their skins were rough and could cut. For a long while, she waited for the snap of those razor jaws. But if it had been a shark, it did not return. She prayed again that she would not fall asleep, that the sea would not grow rough again and that she could continue to float without tiring too much. Already she had drunk mouthfuls of water and her stomach turned.

Dawn came stealthily shimmering on the waters and with sunrise, she was now sure where land was. Through bleary eyes, she could see the high outline of mountains—so near but really far. She paddled slowly toward the vision, doubting that she would be able to reach the shore.

Toward midday, a plume of smoke rose hazily in the distance.
Soon it came into view—a black steamboat, one of those which must have come from the Ilokos or from other lands, headed for Manila—a place she had never seen but which she had heard about as the final destination of these giant boats that could go against the wind or sail on even when the seas were rough. It came closer and she could see shapes moving on the deck. She shouted till her throat ached and her lungs seemed ready to burst—but the big black boat did not lose speed—it glided on until it became just a speck in the distance, and then its plume of black smoke disappeared altogether.

In her worst moments of fear and hopelessness she thought she would just sink. But she kept on floating, marking time with her breathing, gulping the air painfully, her mouth now bitter and dry. Then, something glinted in the sun, and for a while she thought it must be a huge fish but it was not. She swam toward it for what seemed like forever and near it at last, she cried—it was a huge banana trunk and she embraced it, clung to it, and thanked God and all the spirits of the departed for this raft.

She paddled slowly. The sun rode the heavens and lashed down at her, blistered her skin, which hurt so much she would scream. Darkness finally came. It was cold. Her eyes closed and she would struggle to keep them open. The searing blisters, the aching in her throat were now dulled, even bearable, as sleep threatened to engulf her. Once, her grip on the trunk loosened and she seemed to have drifted off into sleep; she woke up in time, fear giving strength to her body and she gripped the trunk even tighter. Then, to her dismay, a skein broke off and now she was afraid that the whole trunk would fall apart before she reached the shore. Worse, it seemed as if the sea itself now wanted to claim her. The waves seemed bigger, and she could not see what was ahead as the sea heaved. Thoughts of death flashed through her mind once more, of fish feasting on her flesh
as she sank to the bottom. Her legs were already numb and her arms were heavy as logs. It was then that she made the vow: that if she lived, she would serve whoever saved her for as long as she was needed and she would do anything, anything demanded of her …

Morning again; the shore seemed much nearer. A wave lifted her, and through eyes that smarted she was overjoyed to see the line of trees on the shore. But her arms were no longer hers, her throat was being scraped by thorns. With no food in her belly for two days, it seemed as if it were being gnawed by sharp fangs. The banana trunk seemed so enormous, she could no longer hold on to it, and all around her, the turbulence of waves, the sound of crashing surf, of thunder.

“I was very surprised to find out later that I was alive,” she said. The man who rescued her had seen her from the shore clinging to the banana trunk. There were no houses in this part of the coast—surely she was not out there for a swim. He was not a good swimmer but he had four large coconuts whose husks were ripped partially then tied together. He used them as floats when he swam out to her. She was hardly conscious when he reached her, her arms like a vise on the trunk; he towed her to the shore and carried her to his cart, watched her sleep till early evening, when she finally woke up.

“It was dark,” Dalin said, “but there was this cooking fire at my feet, and this man with one hand tending the pot. I cried again and again with happiness. My body ached all over—the blisters on my skin—and I realized that I was naked, that he had removed my wet clothes and covered me with a blanket. More than that, I realized, too, that he had bathed me with fresh water—there was no salt water on me. Even my hair had been combed. I remembered my vow.”

He was more than twice her age. He had taken the seaside
route and was carrying back to the Ilokos three sacks of grain and a jar of salted fish. He had gone to eastern Pangasinan and had gleaned the newly harvested fields there. He would tell his people of the virgin lands where they could still settle, the mountains they had to cross.

That night she ate for the first time and never before had rice and green tomatoes dipped in salted fish tasted so good. But he forbade her to eat or drink too much. He made soup with marunggay leaves which scalded her insides and warmed her all over. He was right in warning her, for hardly had the food settled in her belly than she started to vomit.

She could not make out his face too well in the light of the cooking fire, but she could see the ridges on his forehead and his only hand. Before she went to sleep naked under the coarse Iloko blanket, the uneven earth covered with grass mat, she wondered what his thoughts had been when he undressed her.

She woke up very late, the sun a glaze upon the land and sparkling on the sea to her right. The blanket had slipped and her breasts and her belly were exposed. Nearby on the grass, her skirt and blouse were already dry and she stood up weakly and put them on. Her benefactor was nowhere in sight, the cart still unhitched beside her. He was not inside. Down to the left, his white bull was tethered to an ipil sapling and was grazing on the stubbly grass. Beyond the growth of ipil trees and scrub was a wooded hill; on the trail farther on, two carts were straining up the incline. He emerged from the screen of trees slumbering in the heat, on his shoulder a bundle of dry twigs for firewood.

He had a dark kindly face, a small nub of a nose. “There is food in the pot,” he said with a faded smile. “You vomited everything you ate last night …”

She wanted to rush to him, to kiss his hand, but she could only stumble forward. He helped her to climb up on the cart,
which was loaded with grain, coconuts, and the jar of salted fish, then he hitched it. He wanted to take her back to Lingayen, but there was no one there to whom she could return; besides (she did not tell him) there was this vow she had made. If she was going back at all, it would be on a pilgrimage of gratitude to the Virgin in Manaoag. Would he take her there? Yes, but first he must go back to his people in the north—they needed the grain he was bringing back.

That day, her dead skin started to peel and in time the blemishes disappeared. She gathered catuday flowers and marunggay leaves along the way, and cooked them flavored with young tamarind leaves.

He told her she could leave him anytime, particularly after she had regained her strength. After all, she was no stranger to this route but she said she would go wherever he would go. She was his servant and would ask for no money, just the food she ate. She drove the cart at night, and while they rested in the daytime, she gathered grass for the bull. It was a big beautiful animal—and patient.

On the seventh night on the seaside road they stopped by a river which they would cross in the morning. It was dry along the bank and on the opposite side other travelers had also stopped for the night. Her strength was fully restored, but sleep was often fitful and, as he told her, she often screamed in the night. She always slept in the cart, atop the sacks of grain, while he slept on the ground, sometimes beside the cart, but always close to the bull. They had eaten and she had washed the pots. Cicadas were lost in the grass as the darkness came quickly. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled. All the cooking fires of the other travelers arrayed farther up the bank had long been extinguished. Below them, the river had become but a thin and shallow stream, gurgling now as it coursed through boulders
and their catch of weeds. As the night deepened, she went down from the cart and lay beside him. He told her she was like a daughter to him. He was a widower; there was no reason for him to refuse other than his feelings of shame, if not of inadequacy. He had grown-up children and the grain he was bringing home was for them. I have not had a woman for many years, he told her, but in a while, he responded and quietly she accepted him. Gratefully she kept her pledge.

Years afterward, Istak would always remember not just this story but how he, too, had made his vow. That night she unfolded her past to him, he told her, “I will also do whatever you bid me.”

Her touch upon his chest was soft and warm. “You are not well yet,” she said.

5

I
t seemed as if an eternity passed before the second day came. The pain—continuous and dull—the loss of blood, the anxiety, all these had weakened him. His mind remained clear and he could hear the quiet talk of his kin, the things they forgot to bring in their hurry, the scouting for the direction they must take. He had not eaten anything except several spoonfuls of broth his mother had prepared from marunggay leaves. They stopped and when Mayang bent over to give him another spoonful, he asked in a whisper: “Where are we now?”

“You know how Bit-tik likes to wander. He says we are close to Vigan. From here, we can see the bell tower of Bantay …”

Through mists and the throbbing pain, he could imagine Vigan again, Ciudad Fernandina—regal city of the north, the repository of wealth as only Ilokano industry and commerce
could amass it; Vigan, anointed domain of power and learning, of grace and beauty and all the plenitude of blessings that are bestowed on those who commanded in the name of God and of the Spanish realm. He first saw it as a boy of fifteen when Padre Jose took him to the seminary there. He had followed the old priest silently and in awe of the resplendent appointments, the convent with its huge oil portraits of beatified priests, and within the vast masonry, the august halls glowing with the luster of piety and age, as if wisdom were impregnated in the gray walls forever.

Then to dinner in one of the pretentious houses nearby, and from the kitchen where he was sent to eat with the other servants, he had glimpsed the wide living room ablaze with crystal chandeliers, the finely crafted furniture, the porcelain vases that stood serene in solemn corners. The kitchen itself was floored with tile. And beyond it, the dining room with its giant fan overhead, a table laden with sweet ham and other exotic meats, and under the table, two young girls with fans stirred a breeze and drove away the mosquitoes from those legs encased in black woolen trousers or billowy satin skirts and pointed shoes. Here they were, the men and women of noble bearing, educated in Manila and well traveled in Europe, the wealthy mestizos, Europeans, and, of course, the Spanish prelates who ruled. And after the dinner, Spanish brandy, preserved sweets, and the elegant music of a string quartet. They glided with case, these elegant women in embroidered blouses, their fingers sheathed in diamonds, complaining of their peasant servants and how far they were from Manila, where they could be pampered with the latest gossip, fashions, and imports from the continent; the men in tight suits rambling on about the sinking price of indigo, the new profits to be made in ranching, and yes, their uneasiness and disdain for the heathen English
scourge of Freemasonry, which seemed to reach out to Ciudad Fernandina.

On the third day, the fever finally came. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it spread all over him like a flood of hot mud flowing from the wound in his breast. His head seemed wedged between two tree trunks and now the trunks began to press and grind against each other. He shook with chills no matter how many layers of blanket Mayang and Dalin covered him with. His mind was fogged and in those few moments of lucidity and wakefulness, he could see inchoate shapes of people, of children, peering at him through the open archway of the cart, overhear their conversations—the coffin which should be readied, but there was none, how they would have to bury him not in a cemetery but on some desolate mountainside, in the shade of a great tree so they could at least place a marker where he lay. Images formed, the faces blurred and soon flitted away, and then from the smoky chaos Padre Jose emerged, wraithlike, his eyes piercing, his mouth moving, though no words came forth. After some anxious waiting, the words, though almost in a whisper, took shape. The priest was speaking in Latin: “The ways of the world are devious and the trials through which we must go to earn God’s grace come in many forms. Do not despair, do not despair—we are men of peace, and we are destined to bring life to the sick, happiness to those who grieve—this is our burden.”