Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) (9 page)

The churchyard was not yet cleared of the litter of the revelry which marked the new priest’s birthday, the palm leaf and banana wrappers of rice cakes, the orange peels and frayed paper wrappings of candies, the blackened remnants of rockets and firecrackers. At the door of the
kumbento
, a young acolyte was scrubbing the tile floor. He recognized the old man, so he let him in.

How many times had he been here when Istak still served in the sacristy and yet had never set foot beyond the tile porch into the sanctum within. This massive building—his grandfather and his father had helped build it; they had fired the brick for its walls, and the lime that set the mortar, they had gathered it from the sea. He had seen the scars on his father’s back, what the bull-whip had etched permanently there, like harsh lines drawn by the harrow on the land, and though he was very young then, he could never forget, and remembering it, Ba-ac felt a loathing for the building slowly coil in him. He pushed the heavy wooden door and stepped into an alcove, dimly lighted by an oil lamp. In a while, night would engulf the town and soon, one of the acolytes would climb the belfry to toll the Angelus.

Beyond the alcove, as the boy at the door had told him, were the stairs, and up the stairs of huge solid planks were the priest’s quarters, forbidden to all of them unless they were called. He went up the flight, apprehensive that no one had announced his coming. The walls were lined with heavy velvet drapes, broken only where a sash window was open to the oncoming evening. He was in a
sala
with some cane furniture, and beyond it, another door. In a voice which quavered, Ba-ac announced himself. “There is a man, Apo. There’s a humble servant entreating you for an audience …”

No reply. He wavered, wanting to return downstairs to the porch to ask the boy to announce him, or wait there till the
priest made his appearance. But gathering more courage, he pushed the door ajar; it opened to still another room, better lighted than the alcove below. The last light of day shone on the mahogany floor and washed the walls with tawny light. A tall cabinet of shining wood with a glass front stood in a corner, a monumental piece of carpentry, exquisitely carved. On the walls were huge pictures of priests in various postures of supplication, their faces upturned and swathed with holy light. This is where my son lived, he told himself; he saw this every day, this splendor, and for a moment, he wondered if Christ would be comfortable here. He felt smaller now, and when he rapped on the door, he did it quietly lest he disturb the opulent silence. Barely above a whisper, he spoke in Ilokano, knowing that all the Augustinians could speak the language. “Señor, one of your lowly servants is here to beg a favor from you …”

No stirring beyond the heavy door. Then a voice called from within. “Come in—since you have already gotten this far.”

Ba-ac pushed the door ajar and peeped in: another room except that the floor seemed shinier. Statues of saints—he recognized San Lazaro immediately—stood on pedestals. Barefoot, he barely lifted his feet so that he would not make any noise. A chandelier dangled from the rose-colored ceiling adorned with cherubs in pink, and as a slight breeze blew in from the open window, the many-faceted glass prisms tinkled.

The young priest was kneeling before a low cabinet; he was not wearing his soutane but was dressed only in long-sleeved underwear. On the floor were a silver crucifix and the chalice which he was cleaning with a stained piece of cloth. Ba-ac knelt before the priest, grasped his hand, and kissed it. He did not rise, he could not rise until the young priest commanded him to.

“Who are you and what do you want?” the young priest
asked in heavily accented Ilokano. He was muscular; his hirsute arms and his neck were pale, as were his hands; his face, which was exposed to the sun at times, was ruddy; there was a quality of malevolence in his eyes, and as he stood up, he lifted the big crucifix and appraised it in the fading light. The silver gleamed.

“I am the father of Eustaquio, Apo,” Ba-ac said, still kneeling, his voice quavering as recognition came swiftly. His old eyes were not mistaken. This was the same young priest who had condemned him to his fate, who had—although he did not wield the knife—cut off his hand. It was the same face, deceptively young and kind in countenance; in the past five years—had it really been that long?—he had not aged one bit. There was something youthful about him, perhaps eternal as Satan is eternal, and now Ba-ac was face-to-face with him again, and this time he was again begging as he had done in the past, proclaiming his innocence in a frightened and distraught voice which was not heard. Yet it was possible that a man could change, as men everywhere have changed when confronted with the evil of their ways or a superior moral force. Perhaps, this was a new man—a vain wish, knowing it was he who had sent Istak away—his poor, patient, ever-forgiving son.

“And who is Eustaquio?”

“Your acolyte, Apo,” the old man said. “He tried to serve you as well as he could, but …”

The young priest turned to him. “I know. And I suppose that you think he has become a Christian because he served here, don’t you? And that you are one, too?”

“I am, Apo,” Ba-ac said, bowing. “By Mary’s breath, and Joseph’s and Jesus’, too.”

“How gratifying! And your son Eustaquio. He is in your house now, among his
carabaos
. Did he really think he was bright enough to be a priest?”

“It was Padre Jose, Apo,” Ba-ac said. “The old priest, he told me he wanted Eustaquio to be a priest …”

The young priest paced the floor. It was now nearly dark, but Ba-ac could still see everything clearly, the white underwear, the brute hands.

“Soon, they will be aspiring for membership in the order. Then they will want to be bishops—vicars of Christ. Soon, they will grab the habiliments not just of the Church but of temporal power. There is no ending to that. Soon—” He sighed and turned to the old man who was still kneeling before him. “Do you really think that you Indios are educated enough to understand the meaning of government or of God?”

Ba-ac did not answer; he had not come here to be told that his brain held only so much. He did not have the education of this priest, or of his son, but this he knew, that Eustaquio was asked by Capitán Berong to teach his daughters, that Padre Jose—and he was old and wise—wanted Eustaquio to be more than just a sacristan.

“I do not ask that you pity Eustaquio, Apo,” he said. “I came here for the land—to beg you to allow us to stay one more harvesttime. We have lived in Po-on all our lives, Apo. My father, my grandfather. And the last harvest was not good, as you know. That was why your share, Apo, was not as much as it should have been. The drought—that was the reason. We did not keep anything you did not know about. We did not steal.”

The priest looked at him, at the right hand that was missing. “I did not know Eustaquio came from a family of thieves. Padre Jose—he was too old to be sound of mind. He should not have trusted your son too much, given him ideas that made him feel important. It should not be difficult for you to survive—with your special talents, you will not starve. The land should then go to a farmer better equipped—with two hands. But tell me truthfully,
do you people really have two hands? No, you have four feet like the water buffalo.”

Ba-ac, still kneeling, let the words sink; they were lies, they were poison, and it was a holy man uttering them.

“All of you,” the priest said softly, “you were born to be like the
carabao
, to serve us. The little knowledge you got from us—it is dangerous. You will soon imagine yourselves as Spaniards, and because you know it cannot be, you will soon be thinking like those robbers who want the country for themselves, filibusters, rebels.”

“No, Apo,” Ba-ac said, knowing what the priest was leading to. “My son, he is a true Catholic. You cannot find a more loyal servant than him.”

The priest glowered at him. “So you see why you must leave this place. I don’t want contagion here.”

There was no use arguing; perhaps, if he appealed to his sense of mercy. “All our lives, Apo,” Ba-ac said in desperation, raising his left hand. “We have lived in Po-on, working faithfully for you. Please, until the next harvesttime is over. We have very little food, Apo. In God’s name—”

The blow that blazed across his face did not really hurt the old man, although it knocked him to the floor.

“Don’t blaspheme, you wretch,” the priest said evenly. Ba-ac was prostrate at the feet of the young priest and when he opened his mouth to continue with his pleading, he tasted salt. He brought his palm to his lips, and in the shadowy light, the blot of bright and living red was distinct. He shook his head and rose slowly, leaning on the side of the cabinet behind him. His left hand touched something solid and in the corner of his eye, he saw it was the crucifix. The moment of truth, of revelation, and he grasped it.

The young priest was too stunned to react; what could this
armless old man possibly do, this ignorant Indio with fire in his eyes? He did not back away, although he easily could have done so, so that when the silver instrument crashed into his face, he did not even raise his hands to defend himself. He fell, not noisily like a tree, but just as slowly, and even when he was already slipping, Ba-ac raised the instrument again, and when he finally stopped to look at it, silver had turned to red. The young priest was unconscious, prostrate on the floor, and Ba-ac bent over him and struck again and again at the Castilian brow, the blue eyes, till the whole face was pulped.

Ba-ac stood over the man, not quite believing that he was dead. Blood still oozed from the wound in the face and neck. He glanced at the hairy arms which were nerveless, the powerful torso that seemed to dissolve into a black blur as the night encompassed everything. The Angelus must have already tolled, but he had not heard it. He must flee, not just this church, not just Po-on, but Cabugaw. But to where? He breathed deeply, and felt very light, as if the crushing weight upon his chest which had long oppressed him had finally been lifted by this single act.

The sense of elation stayed, but it was soon compounded with fear, not just for himself but for his poor, sinless family, and his younger brothers as well. He did not try hiding the dead priest under the bed, although it did cross his mind to do so—anything to delay the discovery, anything to give him time. But did he or Po-on really have this precious time? They had all been doomed from the very beginning, their fate foreordained because they had dark skins, because their noses were flat.

He breathed deeply again and tried to calm the trembling of his hand, the strangling in his throat, the earthquake within. Then he walked calmly to the huge wooden door, down the black stairway to the alcove. The young acolyte who had sent him upstairs was still there.

The acolyte was perhaps only twelve, or eleven even. “Did you see him, Tatang?” he asked.

Ba-ac nodded. “He did not want to see me—he said he was going to sleep …” He wanted to say more, but was afraid lest the tremor in his voice betray him.

At last, he reached the door and outside, in the wide yard, he could pick out the goats still tied to their stakes and grazing grass. He walked slowly, as if on a Sunday stroll; it suddenly seemed as if the churchyard were without limit, like the river delta he would have to cross. When he got to the fringes of the town where the houses were made of bamboo and buri palm and not of hardwood and stone, he walked faster, but without seeming to run. It was when he reached the open field that he began to run out of the reaches of Cabugaw. He was surprised at his stamina. He was consumed by only one thought: to flee as fast as he could, alone if that was possible. He was a dead man and it was a dead man who would return to Po-on, to Mayang and her quibbling, to the boisterous boys who bore his name.

As he crossed the river, he slipped on a moss-covered stone. But he rose quickly, then ran again, his lungs close to bursting, his throat rasping dry. Across the river finally, he paused on the bank. Was that the tolling of bells? He keened—yes, the church bells of Cabugaw were tolling as they often did when there was a fire, a calamity that must be announced, a Moro raid, although it had been ages since there was one. The tolling was long, insistent. They had found the body! Did the boy tell them that he was the last man to see the young priest? And did not the boy recognize him? Indeed, who would fail to recognize him since there were not all that many one-armed men in the entire Ilokos.

As he neared Po-on, Ba-ac consoled himself. They had a little time, as the Guardia and their Spanish officers did not like pursuing their quarry at night. They were afraid of the
bandidos
who hid in the villages and ambushed them on the trails to get their Mausers and their revolvers. This had become increasingly common, particularly because there had grown to be so much uneasiness and discontent all over the Ilokos. The bells had proclaimed to the whole town what he had done; he was marked, convicted, but they did not have him yet.

Ba-ac fled down the fields, over the rough, uneven earth the plows had gone through, the soft, ash-brown scars where the torches had seared. He was thirsty but amazed at his own strength, that he could reach Po-on so fast, not on a spirited mount but on his feet.

Even as he hurried, walking fast when running squeezed his lungs, there came lucidly to mind as if it had happened only days ago, how the same young priest had ordered him confined in Vigan and there, in the fortresslike
kumbento
, his inquisition had started, the memory ever present now like a branding iron scorching the flesh. He was an ever-loyal and obedient Christian. Did he not know that there were roads to be built, to lace the country so that progress would come to each town and village? These were, after all, what the
ilustrados
, the
filibusteros
, were asking for in Europe, where, like frightened dogs with their tails between their legs, they had fled? Ba-ac had tried to explain that he was with fever during those two weeks when his contribution to the well-being of the patria was demanded. He had sent word through his youngest son, Bit-tik. He did not mean to refuse service. Why should he when he knew what the punishment was? Had he not given up his eldest son to work for the church in Cabugaw and this dearly beloved son had seldom visited his parents in the last ten years? True, he had not given work for two weeks, but let him pay for that with four weeks’ labor if it had to be paid double, for that is how long the rice which he brought with him would last.