Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) (39 page)

He was rejected, then. But there was no one who could reject what he would do, and he would do it not because he wanted to prove them wrong; he would do it because now, there could be no denial, not after Po-on, not after Baugen.

He looked disdainfully at the white flag and detached it from the pole. Rising, he flung the pole away in the direction of the enemy, then folded the kerchief neatly and laid it on the grass. He would stay, he would care for the wounded, for surely there would be many.

He turned to his left, to the soldier posted there; he was dark, with very grave features, but the man was smiling at him.

“Cover, cover,” the soldier said, thrusting a chin toward the boulders on the shoulder of the rise.

Istak nodded, and said thank you in Tagalog, but did not go to the boulders. He walked, instead, to the trenches down the pass. That was where most of the men were positioned and that was where he would be needed. There was no firing still, just this waiting that tightened the nerves and parched the mouth. He could still run, as the general had said, toward the enemy and live. He had chosen to stay. Alive, he could still follow, convince the president, run errands, aid the wounded, or simply help them through the hostile Igorot lands. But there was a wearying tiredness in his bones, a gasping for breath, a deadening in his flesh—perhaps he should not run anymore.

It was such a beautiful Saturday morning; the sky was pale blue, and clouds white as newly harvested cotton floated along
the far horizon. Mountains, mountains all around—it did not seem that he had traveled so far and he would still have so many mountains to cross; he should stop here now, so that his flesh, his blood, could blend inexorably with this land. Rain on parched earth, benediction.

His gaze wandered to the distance below; they were still very far off, but he could see them clearly, shapes moving up the steep curves of the trail, shirts vivid blue against the bright green grass.

Is this then the final flood? And who can escape it when even this mountainside would surely be submerged by it? There came to mind quickly again,
Si Dominus custodierit civitatem frustra vigilat qui custodit eam
.

I do not watch in vain, and it is not God who is fighting against my city. I am a man of peace, I will not throw a single stone. My words, my thoughts may be hostile, but my deeds will speak of love. I will try to give love and light to those who need them …

But would he do this now? Those were no brutal illusions—the anguish, the death he had seen in Baugen, and in remembering, Istak shuddered. The nightmare would not pass—it was living blood which he had touched, it was a dead girl he had cradled in his arms, and the homes that went up in flames were homes of living people, just like Po-on had been, just like Cabugawan was now.

It is for Dalin, then, for my boys, for my neighbors who do not know of the struggle for this lonely summit. The few of us who are here waiting—we can hold back the flood, and even if it were to immerse us all, it would have to ebb and we could raise our heads again.

All around was stillness, strained breathing. All around was this clearness, not of doom but of life. Men defying steel—they
were not like him, they were trained to kill, and he had never held a gun; he did not know how to load one, much less aim one and play God.

The general had dismounted; he marched up the pass, telling his men in Tagalog, and now in Spanish as well, that they should wait till they had those blue shirts clear in their sights. Then and only then, he was telling them, although he himself perhaps was trembling, not to be afraid, that since they would not get out of this alive anyway, they should die like men. “Like men—understand? How many men are left in the world? You there, Kulas, you have no beard and no beard will ever grow on that face. But I know you have testicles. You are a man, are you not, Kulas?”

Laughter.

“Maybe, my general.”

More laughter.

It was eerie, the laughter that welled from them on this early morning.

The general mounted his horse again and rode to the edge of the pass, to the promontory where from down below he could be seen.

Volleys from below, bullets whistling, pinging on rocks, but none touched him.

He was taunting death with a boyish infidelity to life. No, this was not courage—this was madness with no explanation to it, as Istak could easily explain the raw fear which gripped him, made his legs heavy, immobile, as if they had been roots implanted deep in the land itself.

“Oy there, Simeon,” the general was saying now. “You have fought in Calumpit, in Tarlak. They are not good fighters, my brothers. They are cowards and they waste their ammunition. Do you remember how they fired without looking at us, without
raising their heads? They are white like milkfish and just as ill-trained.”

Now, the Krags resounded below and the bullets whined above him, thudding against the earthwork and cutting the leaves of grass. In the trench to his right, one had fallen and the blot of red quickly spread on the soldier’s back.

“
¡Fuego!
Fire!,” the general barked and their Mausers thundered as one. “
¡Fuego!
”

Istak raised his head and saw three men collapse way down the grassy sweep below. They did not rise—the blue distinct on the green.

“First squad,” the general was shouting now in Spanish. “I know you have testicles. But why do you shoot like women? They are coming now to your right—and you are missing them, although you can already smell their baby breath. You must like these barbarians who raped your sisters and your mothers. Arc you my brothers? Or my sisters?
¡Fuego!
”

The Mausers roared and the Krags below replied.

The numbness in his legs and the pounding in his breast had subsided. Now, Istak could think clearly, could feel keenly, as if he could trace every gulp of cool air that rushed to his lungs. Every touch of grass upon his skin reminded him that he was alive although death was in the air, in the shrill whistling of bullets above him, around him. He held his palms to the sun—they were as rough as they had always been. He crouched, blood rushing to his legs, then he raced to the trench at his right where the soldier had fallen. He crawled to the prostrate form; the
rayadillo
uniform was soiled with the green of leaves and branches and the rich brown of the mountain earth. The blot on the man’s back was like a gumamela blossom.
Hibiscus rosa sinensis
. He got the rifle and knelt by the fallen soldier—his pulse was still.

Why do you falter, why do you hesitate? These few moments are your last, you know that. What does life mean to you now?

NOW, NOW, NOW!

All my life, I have tried to be a man of peace and You have rewarded me amply by entrusting me with Your healing gift. I have served You well, my God, and though at times I wavered, though at times I questioned You, always I was true. Every time I healed, I knew it was not I but You who did this, and having been Your willing and happy instrument, I have given some substance to this empty life.

NOW, NOW, NOW!

I will give up this power, this gift entrusted to me—will I give You up, too, now that I have decided? Tell me, my one true God, assure me I do no wrong if I kill my enemy; it is not the question of my life or his that is impelling enough. It is right against wrong—good against evil—and my God, You are not blind—YOU know!

He was not a healer anymore. He was a destroyer and the gun which he now grasped seemed a part of himself. Feeling its weight, its cold steel, it was indeed a part of his arm, his very flesh. He had seen them take the bullets from their leather canisters and load their rifles—it was not difficult to do the same.

Then, from his right, the general greeted him in Spanish: “Oy, there, Eustaquio! Are you sure you want to die here? I told you to flee but you chose to remain. Oy, there, Ilokano, learn how to shoot, then.”

The soldier at his left lifted his rifle and ejected the spent cartridge then rammed another into it. It was easy—he did not need a lesson on how to load. And it was even easier to aim.

Istak lifted the gun and steadied it on the rock before him. Through the sights, the patches of green on the mountainside
below, the dead Americans lying on the grass, blue on green. The soldiers were still far, but they stood out clearly in his sights as they flitted about looking for cover or for a way to charge up the pass. Something moved behind a screen of cogon to the right; he aimed at it and fired, the report ringing in his ears, his shoulder jolted back so hard he thought it would be wrenched away. From behind the sprout of grass, a dash of blue sprang then fell.

Joy coursed through him like lightning. But was it really joy? He did not know; he was sure only of its intensity as it inflamed his whole being. He had finally killed a man.

And the exultation—if it was that—which had lifted him, dashed him back to the earth, saddened him. He had taken a life. This was war, this was righteous. What right have these white men to be here, millions of arm’s lengths away from their own land? He should have done this years ago when they were driven out of Po-on, when his village was burned.

He glanced fitfully upward; the sky—how blue it was, how serene and peaceful, even with the gunfire that rattled around him. The soldier who had taught him how to put a bullet in the belly of the gun now shouted at him to load again. The soldier—he was just a boy!—smiled at him. They were all strangers to him only a while ago. Not anymore; he was now one of them. In death, all men are brothers.

How clear his thoughts were now: here on this mountaintop, there is meaning to all this, bigger than life. None will thank me for this, nor will anyone remember. I have worshipped God. Is my salvation in my suffering? Or will suffering teach me of its necessity? I have become a new man. I have seen what can be seen only on top of a mountain.

He inhaled deeply, and turned to his back, toward the east bathed with luminous, early light.

I have been blinded, as many of us have been blinded by our
needs. I had thought only of my family—this was the limit to my responsibility, and therefore, my vision. On this pinnacle I can see much more now. I am no longer Eustaquio Salvador. So then I will pit this tender flesh against the steel of a new master. I can do this because my pulse is quicker, because I am free. Listen to the wind in the grass.

Who are they who come to us promising to teach us what we already know, who will give us a new god to worship? God is in all of us. Who are they to say that we are children, that they should be our teachers? Their defecation is foul, they are flesh who will be ripped apart by bullet or blade. But why are they strong and why are we weak? Can it be that their faith has made them more capable than we, more enduring, more brilliant? And even nearer to God?

There came to mind again old Padre Jose, sweating beneath his black cassock in the April heat, doggedly toiling up these mountains, braving a malignant land and an equally malignant people about whom he knew little yet was willing to meet and risk so much in his desire to learn more, and having learned more, would then convert and conquer. Conquer with what? With knowledge, more than anything, for what are guns? They will rust and fail, but not knowledge, which is strength. This was what Padre Jose had told him, and this was what he had learned to believe. Knowledge was just the instrument—there had to be a will to put spirit into the flesh, and move even old and creaking bones so that the hands may shape new churches and the tongue will utter the words that will touch men’s hearts.

When you know you will die, you accept Death. The thought is no longer fearful. It was thinking about Dalin, and his two sons, that pained him; they did not even know he would be here on this desolate mountaintop haloed with light and churned by the whirlwind. He prayed that they would grow
strong, that the land they would inherit would always be theirs, and most of all, that their mother would know no more travail.

They are coming now—more of them, down there below the gorge where they have left their horses; there are so many of them and there are so few of us. I am thirsty—sweat creeps down my back.

Why aren’t you coming up? Are you afraid?

Have we really stopped them? The president—he must be far away now with the time that we have bought for him. This is our gift not to him but to Filipinas. Honorable Cripple, I am not a patriot. But how do you measure the sacrifice this poor man beside me has made? He lies still, his hands no longer feel. He is so young, so very young—what had life promised to hold for him? Who is the woman he would have made happy, who would have borne his children? Honorable Cripple, you know the answers. And God—do I take Your name in vain? I don’t even know why I am here when I could have run away. It must be pride, or stubbornness, of which men of the north have plenty. If it is pride, what, then, can I be proud of? I have nothing to show, nothing which I have built by myself. Why then am I here? I will search the depths and will find nothing there. Nothing but

Duty,

Duty,

Duty.

MANILA
APRIL 30, 1900