Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) (34 page)

The president had been able to escape, then. “Three days ago,” the ferryman said. He had finished eating and was dipping the tin plate into the calm brownish water to wash it.

“Did they cross here?” Istak asked.

“No,” the man replied. “There were so many of them, I would have had to make a lot of trips. Farther up the river—in Bayambang. They crossed over the bridge. Hundreds of them, with guns, big bundles, and women and children.”

The man gazed at the broad spread of water. “Still, there were those who crossed here.” He turned to Istak. “Years ago, we had that ferry in Bayambang—but then they built the railroad and that bridge, and we earn so little.”

“Can you take me across?” Istak asked. There was no need for him to proceed to Bayambang.

“Are you a soldier?”

Istak shook his head. “Just a farmer in a hurry to see my dying father.”

The man continued: “It was three days ago that they left Bayambang—that is what my passengers told me.”

Three days—if they marched every day, they would already be far, far away, well into La Union. There was not one moment to squander.

“Will you take me across?” he said.

“You are alone,” the ferryman said. “You must wait for the others. There should be more in a short while.”

“I am in a hurry,” Istak said.

The ferryman grumbled.

“You just had a very good breakfast,” Istak said.

“If you are alone, you have to pay
benting
. And your horse, that is another
benting
. That is
salapi
. A man’s wage for two days. Are you sure you want to cross alone? Wait till there are at least five of you so you will pay only
micol
.”

Istak shook his head. “
Benting
it will be,” he said, and proceeded to the shallow rim of the river, Kimat in tow.

The man strained at the bamboo pole, and slowly the raft floated toward the deeper reaches. It was quite placid, unlike the last time he had crossed, when it was a massive tide of brown. Again, an ancient grief swept over him. How many lives had this river taken?

“There are portions which are not deep,” Istak said. “At this time, it is possible to wade across.”

The ferryman laughed. “If I told you where it is shallow, what would happen to me? Everyone would wade across. I should really tell you that it is dangerous to travel alone.”

“My horse is swift,” Istak said.

The ferryman looked at Kimat; the horse was erect, undaunted by the waters eddying around the raft.

“The Americans,” the ferryman said. “I have heard so many
bad things about them, how they tortured and killed. And you have a horse which they might take.”

“But I am not going to Bayambang,” Istak said.

“Yes, but they have already crossed the river, too. Yesterday, in large numbers. That was what I was told.”

“They can have my horse,” Istak said. “What can they do to me? Just a poor farmer … the horse is not even mine.”

The sun now blazed down, burnishing the delta with brilliant white. In midstream, the current was hardly discernible and the ferryman guided the raft deftly. On the other bank, a row of trees and the deep gully through which he must pass. Where the raft would be moored, a couple of women were waiting, their bamboo baskets filled with greens.

“The roads are not safe at night,” the ferryman warned.

“And the Americans? What advice can you give if I should meet them?”

“They don’t bother us little people,” the ferryman said.

Up the incline, more ripening fields shimmered in the morning sun. To his right, several women were already harvesting the grain with hand scythes. There would always be a few stalks left for gleaners and those who would glean would most probably be Ilokanos, just like the first settlers in this part of Pangasinan.

He mounted again.

At noon, when he would rest, he would bring out his journal and write about his crossing and the gunfire that ripped the quiet dawn. There were still many rivers to cross but they would be narrower and he could ford them on horseback.

He rode through villages already stirring. Dogs sprang from under the houses to snarl at him. He varied the pace of his ride. No animal could run indefinitely without tiring, but it was as if Kimat anticipated his every move. He trotted, slowed down to a
walk, or gathered speed in a gallop without waiting for Istak to snap the reins on his flanks.

He had ridden most of the night and all morning. His buttocks began to throb with a dull, raw pain. So this was how it was with Padre Jose when they toiled up the hillocks of the Cordilleras. The old priest had always complained of how much his buttocks had been mashed, but only on the second day did the old priest moan. He was on a horse, of course, but Istak, his favorite sacristan, always followed on foot.

He was not tired but his eyes grew heavy. Unharvested fields all around; in another week, they would be bereft of grain. He sought the shade of a low butterfly tree away from the road and dismounted, tied the length of twine to the reins and to his leg, and brought down his knapsack for a pillow and lay down. Kimat could wander as far as the length of rope would permit. Above, the noonday sky was swept clean of clouds. From the knapsack, he brought out his journal.

The Cripple had given him the journal but it was seldom that he had used it. He had made only four notations, one about the Cripple himself, how quick his wit and how he had compared the wanderlust of the Batangueños, his kinsmen, with that of the Ilokanos, and how clannish both people were. Both were also proud and steadfast in their personal honor. How quickly they defended it with their lives, the Batangueños with their folding knives, the Ilokanos with their bolos. How does the old Ilokano saying go?
Inlayat, intagbat
. If you raise the bolo, you must strike.

Yet, he had always detested violence; he was patient, he was industrious. These virtues were instilled in him as a boy; his two sons would be no different, although they had Pangasinan blood.

Dalin came to mind, and for a while he could imagine her—her long tresses shiny with coconut oil, her face, her radiance.
How well she had raised the children and, most important, she had stood by him and supported him when he wavered.

He took the pencil out and started to write, this time in Ilokano, for he wanted Dalin to read it someday:

Words are never really enough to express love, and words having failed him, he closed his eyes and dreamed.

It was the sun, warm on his face, which woke him. Kimat was close by, grazing on the grass. He had not looked around closely before. To his left, he saw the village—some eight thatch-roofed houses. It must be an hour before sundown and the afternoon had become cool. He started to rise and it was then that a bolt of pain shot down his spine as if someone had lanced him—his whole being was aflame. He felt that if he so much as made one slight move, he would die. He fell back on the ground,
gasping. He remembered then that he had never ridden far before. After a while, he rose again—the pain no longer throbbed. He reined Kimat in and, with some difficulty, placed the saddle and the twin sacks on the animal’s back. Leading the horse close to a low dike, he mounted the dike, then the horse, the pain coursing through him quickly again.

In the village, he looked for a
calesa
driver. There was always one who provided the village with its transport. He needed some grass and rice bran for Kimat. The villagers were Ilokanos; he was close to San Fabián now. The sea lay ahead to the left, the low hills of the Ilokos loomed to the right, and ahead rose the blue-green ranges of the Cordilleras.

The driver had just come in for the day; he had a new
calesa
, with the floral designs on the sides still bright and the tinwork on the harness still shiny. The grass and the bran would cost Istak five centavos.

“Tell me about the road from San Fabián to Rosario—the road along the coast to the north. Are Americans already there? Surely, you must have heard.”

The driver was a farmer, perhaps in his early twenties. He had not traveled far, he said, but was sure the Americans were not yet there.

“They are already in Bayambang,” Istak said.

“Maybe just a few,” the
calesa
driver said. The bran that Istak wanted was already mixed with molasses in a wooden trough, and Kimat had started eating.

“I am going north,” Istak said. “And I don’t want to cross their path.”

If the president had crossed the river from Bayambang, he would probably have gone on to Dagupan by train and from there onward to San Fabián. The people here would be Pangasiñenses; they would probably understand Istak if he spoke in
Ilokano. He could always speak in Spanish but he did not want to appear to be an
ilustrado
. The people of the north had always regarded the Pangasiñenses with condescension, for they were considered self-indulgent and lazy, they waited for their coconuts to fall rather than climbing the palms to harvest them. And their women—he smiled in remembrance of the tattered concepts of his own womenfolk—they are lazy like their men, and worse, they are filthy. He had teased Dalin about this when they finally dismantled their makeshift hut and built a better dwelling with hardwood posts, but Dalin had always kept her pots clean and the yard well swept. She even bathed the two pigs she raised as if they were human beings. It was not right—attributing inborn faults and virtues to people, but if he felt comfortable anywhere, it was among his own people.

The Cripple had decried the treachery of the Macabebes. Perhaps it was money which made them join the Spaniards. With American silver they were now fighting their own kin. Why do people betray their brothers and eventually themselves? Do not trust anyone, not even your own instincts, the Cripple had warned; you are alone, you must always be on guard not only against those who will harm you but those who will take the message and stop you from doing your job.

He had talked with the boatman as he was now talking with this stranger—freely. They were little people like himself, far removed from the battlefield or the cares of high office. He knew his instructions, but he must also trust people. Still …

The driver was inquisitive. Istak was just another traveler—one of the hundreds that had crossed the river. He must now tell a longer story, with a semblance of truth to it.

“I am going to Cabugaw,” he said. “My father is dying. We have a small piece of land there—and maybe, with the share, we can go back to the Ilokos—my family and I. There is nothing like
living where you were born, where you know everyone. You know what I am trying to say.”

The driver turned away. He stirred the molasses and added water and bran in the trough where Kimat was feeding. In the thatch-roofed house beyond them, a stove fire had been kindled and the driver’s wife was preparing the evening meal. To her, the man said aloud: “Be sure you include an additional plate for our visitor,” to which Istak said quickly: “No, you have already been very kind. I must be on my way.”

“You cannot travel in the dark,” the driver said.

Istak did wait, though, for a plate of hot rice and a piece of roasted dried meat. While he waited, the rig driver told him about the village, how his villagers had come down, too, from the north—Paoay—and how they had claimed the forest. Large patches of jungle still covered Pangasinan, and the natives were too lazy to clear them. And there were no more tributes or excessive taxes to pay. Surely, the future was better here.

Istak mounted Kimat again. The November wind was balmy and he felt so refreshed he was sure he could travel the whole night. The pain in his buttocks and at the base of his spine was no longer as sharp as it had been earlier in the day. Now, he was familiar with the rhythm of the horse, its even pace. He rarely used his heels to prod the animal. He had learned, too, of Kimat’s signals, how his head drooped when he was tired, how he raised his head when he tensed to alien sounds. Kimat seemed almost human in his expression of gratitude—he would nudge Istak after being given a piece of sugar cake or merely patted on the neck.

Still no trace of the Americans. Soon he would reach the sea. How quickly he had traveled, unlike the time when they came
down the Ilokos in a caravan. Kimat made all the difference. The mountains were closer, the wooded hills and long stretches of vacant land that were cattle ranches. In the coming dusk, the mountains were caparisoned with the soft luster of gold and blue, and high up in the ranges toward the land of the Igorots, clouds of deepening purple were impaled by peaks. He was sure he would find the trail and overtake them—they were such a big group, they would not be able to travel as fast as he. Indeed, the strongest man is the solitary man.

In the late afternoon of the fourth day, he saw the coast. He was up in the hills. Tension tightened the air. He knew this by the manner in which the people of these shallow valleys responded to his questions. Anytime now, he should cross the path of the president—or the Americans. The coast was still far away, and the towns along them were a good half day’s ride.

It was evening when he reached the village where the road branched from Pangasinan—a narrow road flanked by weeds and bananas. He entered it at a walk, hoping there would be someone who could lend him a pot and a stove to cook his supper.