The God Equation and Other Stories (12 page)

“Maestro,”
the boy said. “So like the
duende,
you are saying that
tikbalangs
also come from Spain?”

“Ay naku,”
said his master. “Have you not been listening? There are no such things as
duendes
or
tikbalangs
or
kapres
or
aswangs
or
manananggals
or
tiyanaks
. I am giving you a scientific answer to these fairy tales! If horses come from Spain, why are the
tikbalangs
—
” He paused, looked at his ward
’
s confused, inquiring face, and patted him on the head. “Nevermind. I have an even better question for you. If
tikbalangs
really existed, large creatures as they are said to be, where are they now?”

Where indeed?

There is nothing in the talisay tree
’
s branches. Nothing to be afraid of. No birds, no snakes, no lizards, and certainly no cigar smoking creatures with Spanish faces.

Nevertheless, he continues his incantation.
“Tabi tabi po. Tabi tabi po.”

He makes the sign of the cross, recites three Pater Nosters, and he goes back to the task before him.

After paying his respects, the ground becomes more yielding. Part of him knows that this is because he had gone past the rocky layer and has reached more sandy earth. Another part of him knows it is because the
encantos
are satisfied with his bloody libation.

He works in silence and tries to ignore the small wooden box he had set next to the unlit lantern.

His master was very specific with his instructions: “Dig the hole but do not open the box. Was it not Pandora who unleashed the troubles of the world because she could not follow orders?”

The boy does not know who Pandora is. But uncharacteristically of him, he did not bother to ask.

The box is rectangular and unadorned. It is as long as his forearm, and as wide as the length of his two hands. The box reminds him of a Chinese treasure chest without the jade inlay and intricate carvings. There is no lock. The lid is held in place by braided leather straps, tied in exotic knots, the likes of which he had never seen before. The boy was given the noble and fearsome honor of burying it. And he was specifically told not to tell his master where.

He shifts his eyes away from the box and pretends it does not exist. For now, it would be just him and the hole. Nothing more.

“Tabi tabi po,”
he murmurs.
“Tabi tabi po...”

Inch by inch, layer by layer, the hole grows deeper. The cicadas begin their mating calls and he realizes he needs to work faster if he is to finish early. He is careful not to sever any roots so he tries to dig around them. The talisay tree does not seem to mind.

A strong breeze blows in from the west, enough to scatter the fallen leaves. The air tastes salty but he could smell something sweet. It lingers elusively, blending with the earthy fragrance of the forest. At first, he thinks it smells like rose water, then decides it is more exotic than that. Nutmeg perhaps. Cinnamon, maybe.  The cicadas continue singing.

Something stirs inside him. His stomach quivers, his heart races. He is aware of her presence but pretends not to notice. He keeps his eyes down, his wiry torso bent over, and wonders if he should say anything at all. He can hear the soft rustling of leaves as she walks nearer. He senses her approaching the talisay tree. She stops when she is barely three paces away from him. She stops and does not say a word.

The hole is getting deeper. As deep as the silence they share between them. The strange mistress does not seem to mind.

When the hole is as deep as his waist, deep enough for him to crouch in, he continues digging, prolonging his awkward agony, until fatigue and boredom finally take over. He lays down his spade and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. He stretches his arms above his head, pretends to yawn, pretends to be unaware of her presence. He estimates it must have been a quarter of an hour since she arrived. He turns around.

She is sitting on the ground in a posture he had seen once before. She sits like a
sirena,
a mermaid, looking out to sea.

“Hell … hell …” he stammers. “Hello.” He always greets her with the first English word she taught him; she told him it was a greeting that didn
’
t mean anything and was therefore more honest than “how are you doing?” or “a good day to you.”

She doesn
’
t return his hello. She is a year or two older than he is, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen. She has smooth alabaster skin, a compact but slender figure, a proud bosom, a strong jaw, light-colored tresses which his master once described as “chestnut blonde,” and blue-green eyes. Her melancholic eyes stare not at him nor through him but at the space between her world and the next, in a time between forgetfulness and forever. The blue-green richness of her irises accentuates her dilated pupils, like wet flower petals after a heavy rain. He looks away, and stares at her feet, which to his surprise are bare. Her toes are slightly stained with sand and soil. The rest of her body is wrapped in a red
falda
, a white
camisa
, and a dark green
mantilla
shawl with an unusual lace pattern similar to knot work.

She is exquisitely beautiful.

He remembers how he felt when she first appeared in Talisay barely a year ago; how his chest tightened when she walked past him; how his loins stirred when she bent over his study table. She smelled like cinnamon at the time.

He thought she looked too young to be his teacher, but his master insisted all of the school
’
s students should learn English, the “language of the future.” It wasn
’
t difficult to agree to his master
’
s request. She did demonstrate some experience with languages, as if she was older than she looked. Although her Spanish was mediocre, her beauty made learning a new foreign language pleasurable, and the sixteen-year-old boy of this story learned fast under her tutelage.

There had been whispers, of course, among the villagers and especially among his classmates. Where did the master first meet her? Hong Kong, as officially claimed? Germany, as some suspected? What about America and its growing Irish immigrant population? And who was this Señor Taufer, the blind American who traveled with her to Talisay? Was he really her stepfather? Or could Taufer be her lover, too?

Although they lived as husband and wife, no one had witnessed his master
’
s wedding. Some suspected she was only after his master
’
s money. Others suspected she was a spy, sent by the colonial government to report on his master
’
s political propensities. But her conversations with others were always apolitical, and she spent her free time walking along the shoreline, staring into the western horizon. One of his younger classmates said that Taufer was either her client or her pimp and that she
’
s just a pretty “foreign whore,” but the child quickly revised his views after receiving a sharp and stinging slap on the back of the head.

“Don
’
t let your filthy words defile her reputation or I shall spit on your tongue and scrub it with my spade to cleanse them for you.”

For good measure, he slapped his classmate again, but a little lighter this time, just to remind him who the
emperador
of the class was. The offense was never repeated in his presence, but secret smiles were shared among the others. Whispers have a way of spreading without speakers.

Especially if such whispers came from primary sources.

Late one moonless night, as her young champion went out of his hut to relieve himself, he passed by his master
’
s house and heard muffled sounds. He thought it was from some kind of animal, like the fluttering wings of a bat, the purring of a cat, or maybe a dog panting and scratching against the walls. It frightened him at first, but he mustered the courage to investigate. Upon hearing the unrestrained grunts of his master and the rhythmic gasps of his mistress-lover, the boy felt jealous
y
well up inside him. He knew it was wrong to listen in and he knew it was best to leave discreetly and immediately, but he found he couldn
’
t. His body refused to obey his reason, and he found he was anxiously aroused. He stayed where he was, crouched just outside his master
’
s bedroom window, and listened until his master was finished. Only then did he walk to the outhouse to relieve himself.
He would also find relief in other ways.

She visited his dreams ever since that night. Once, she appeared as a fairy princess wearing light spider silk robes, and a crown of emeralds and gold.  He came to her in the form of a unicorn without a horn, for she had lured him with a song and a cube of sugar, and she rode him without a saddle, holding on to his mane, and he took her swiftly away across the ocean, rescuing her from his master, to take her back to a place she called “Tír-nan-Og,” the land of the young, the land of her race. He asked her if they were going to island of Luzon, because that
’
s where the Tagalogs are from. He awoke before they reached the isle, because in this particular dream she flew off his back, on leathery wings, leaving behind her womb and her legs, leaving him alone to fend for himself, and he sank into the open ocean and drowned. This was an exceptional dream. Most of his dreams were not as innocent as the one just described.

About seven months ago, he had a dream that felt as real as the spade in his hand.

He was collecting seashells for his master by swimming into one of the hidden coves where a fresh water river met the sea, when he saw a white figure sitting on top of a green rock. The woman was drinking from an oddly shaped bottle, like a crystal conch. He thought he had stumbled upon a
sirena,
but the presence of her two long legs negated that possibility. He swam closer, and found it was his master
’
s Irish mistress in a translucent white dress. He had always harbored fantasies of catching her bathing, for surely she must bathe every day as is the custom in this tropical country. How else could she smell so sweet?

He pulled himself onto the rock, and sat beside her, shook off the salt water from his hair and his muscular, brown arms. He laid the seashells on her feet, and some were the same color as her eyes, for even in his dream, she had beautiful, mysterious eyes.

She offered him the bottle filled with a brown liquid, and she told him it was
uisce,
the “water of life” in her native tongue. She held the bottle close to her chest, enticing him to come closer.

He took the bottle from her hand, gently touching her fingers and accidentally brushing the swell of her bosom with the back of his palm. He took a whiff.

“I cannot drink this,” he said. “
Maestro
says I am not old enough to drink.”

She took the bottle from him.

“Sláinte,”
she said, and then she licked the opening, and brought it to her lips. She titled her head back, exposing her delicate neck, which was moist with sea water and perspiration. He watched her swallow and he tried to swallow with her, but his mouth was dry. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and offered the bottle to him again. She asked him if he would care to drink it now.

The bottle felt lighter this time. She had consumed most of its contents but left some for him.

“Es-lawn-cha,” he mimicked her toast, to the best of his ability. He brought the bottle to his lips, and noticed the salty-sweet taste of her, a delicate brackish taste dancing on his tongue, and then the shock of the burning liquid crashing into his mouth, slithering down his throat like a sea serpent, caressing his fast beating heart.

He winced, recovered, tears welling up.

She laughed and told him that he held his drink well. Her breath had the same sinful aroma. And then she touched his hair, played with his ears, and glided her fingers down his neck.

She laid herself down on the rock and pulled him to her. She asked him how he liked the taste of the water of life, and she invited him to taste some more. And taste her he did. Their kiss was long and deep and thorough. Then he tossed the shells out to sea and he took her, and claimed her, and as the waves thrashed about them he covered her with his body and their motions rivaled the violence of the tides.

He had many dreams like that.

The sun is setting fast. The fallen leaves about them are bright red. He feels giddy but does not know why; either his giddiness was brought about by his early exertions or from the memory of her nubile body splayed against that cold, wet rock.

While standing inside the hole, he keeps his eyes fixed at her naked feet. It is getting late and he welcomes the prospect of walking her back to his master
’
s house.