Wild Song, page 19
‘But the third brain, Luki. The third one was labelled: IGOROT, FEMALE, PNEUMONIA. And there is only one woman who’s fallen ill in the village, isn’t there? Only one.’
No. No. No.
I wanted to pull away but Johnny wouldn’t let go.
‘I asked the nurse. She looked in her book. The nurse, she said …’
No. No. No.
‘She said Tilin died a month ago.’
No. No. No.
Johnny folded me in his arms and held me, until I could scream no more.
Part Four
34
Mourning
How could this be? We had walked down the mountain together, fled our tormentors in Manila’s stony streets, sailed that boundless ocean, and crossed America by rail. How could Tilin’s journey end like this, in a smelly iron bed, surrounded by strangers? American medicine had not saved Tilin. And I had betrayed her by leaving her to die alone.
I tried to put myself there, in that bed, enduring the tinctures and cures and potions of American healing. That nurse wouldn’t have known the right words to ease her spirit into the invisible world. I tried to feel Tilin’s soul, curled up inside her, sticky with congealed phlegm, desperate to free itself from the shrivelling darkness of her flesh.
And when her body finally released her spirit, what was it like to be alone, without your people to sing the songs that would comfort you, without anyone there to bid you goodbye, to tell you they would see you in the invisible world when they too reached their deaths.
Nobody had been there to sit with her, to honour her, to demonstrate to the world of the spirits that she was precious, someone who deserved their love, someone that they should welcome.
When we reached the village gates, I looked up at Johnny, at the whites of his eyes gleaming from under his visor’s shadow. He was saying something, but somehow I could not make out the words. He patted my shoulder, but I felt nothing. I was numb with grief.
When Johnny left, my heart felt like a trapped bird beating its wings feverishly in my chest. How could everything continue to be so ordinary? The sounds of life on the Reservation drifted on the slight breeze – distant trumpet blasts, the crunch of marching feet, laughter and song from the Visayans, and the soft chatter of visitors still wandering about.
I became conscious of a sound, like barking. It was Truman Hunt chasing after me as I entered the village gates. He waved a small piece of paper. ‘What did you do?’ he cried. ‘Sadie just sent me this note to say you’re fired and she’s terminating our deal.’
Sadie? Mother, I almost laughed to remember how devastated I’d been earlier today. It seemed so trivial now. I’d had no idea of what was to come.
I looked at Truman Hunt. I felt like I’d turned into smoke. One gust of wind and I might disappear. Could he see right through me? But my voice, when I spoke, was solid.
‘Tilin is dead.’
The words had an extraordinary effect. Truman Hunt’s face collapsed into itself, his eyes seemed to wrinkle and implode, the corners of his mouth drooped right down his jaw. It was like his skin had suddenly turned inside out.
But I knew he was just shocked that I’d found out. Because if he had truly cared about Tilin, Mother, he would have told us about her death as soon as it happened.
I could have accused him, Mother … said, How could you? or Why did you not tell us? But I didn’t see the point. I was not interested in the answer.
He began to bluster. ‘We did not think she would die … and then I couldn’t think of a way to tell you. And I was so busy running things here, I couldn’t … I couldn’t …’
I began to turn away.
‘Where are you going? Are you going to tell the others?’ Truman Hunt said. ‘Please. Don’t tell them. We had important news just now. News we’ve been waiting for. The President is coming to visit tomorrow. President Roosevelt himself!’
It amazed me, Mother. Had Truman Hunt mentioned this last week, I would have been leaping about in excitement. But the last few days had changed me. I could summon no interest in the President’s visit.
‘You can’t tell anyone about Tilin!’ Truman Hunt was saying. ‘They’ve got a lot of preparation to do for tomorrow and I don’t want them distracted! You can’t just turn up and …’
Mother, I walked away then. I could feel rage building inside me, but why waste my feelings on Truman Hunt? I needed to be strong. I had to tell Sidong. I had to tell Samkad. I had to tell the others. And then we had to build a death chair for Tilin. We had to show her that her spirit did not deserve to be alone.
Oh, Tilin. You had surprised me into becoming your friend. I was determined not to like you, but we had more in common than I had realized. And now, you were gone.
As Truman Hunt had said, everyone was preparing for President Roosevelt’s visit. A stage was being built on the other side of the pretend fort. The President would be seated on the stage, and one by one, the different peoples of the Reservation were going to perform in front of him. Kinyo and a group of men were practising a pretend battle with axes and spears. Several women were practising a dance. And Anteng walked past, humming My Country ’Tis of Thee.
Samkad and Sidong were sitting under a tree, and as they turned their smiling faces towards me, I flinched, knowing that I would soon be plunging them into darkness.
I told everyone.
And we did our best, the men beating their gangsas and the women singing ritual songs. We did all the things necessary to guide a spirit to its new life in the invisible world. But how could it be right to hold a funeral without a body? How could we help Tilin into the invisible world when a month had already passed since her spirit had ebbed from her corpse? Who was listening to our comforting words? How could Tilin’s spirit find her way back to the Igorot Village?
It was unbearable to think of Tilin in America’s invisible world, all alone amongst the spirits of utter strangers. Everyone knew this, and by the flickering light of the fire, the furtive looks did not escape me. We were going through the motions for our own comfort. But was any of this going to be of use to Tilin?
And, Mother, through it all, Sidong said nothing. Mother, she just bowed her head and sat silently, her fingers lacing and unlacing in her lap, listening to the funeral.
That night, when the fire had died down and the last of the songs had been sung, Sidong and I prepared for bed in silence. If we’d had Tilin’s corpse, resting in that death chair, we would have stayed up, sat the night through with her, talking to her, telling stories, reminding her of the life that she had had. We would have kept her company until her spirit was ready to join the world of the dead.
But we didn’t have Tilin’s corpse. We didn’t know where Tilin’s spirit was.
Sidong snuggled into my arms, lying on my shoulder like a baby; I could feel her tears rolling wetly down my arm. We adults are here to protect children, to comfort them, to answer their questions. But, Mother, there was nothing I could do for her.
Sidong raised her head and whispered, ‘She cannot die here, Luki.’
‘I know,’ I whispered back, holding her closer. But she pulled free and sat up. In the darkness, I could feel her eyes boring into me.
‘What happens when we leave? What will happen to her spirit? We cannot leave her here! Would she know how to find her way to us?’
I had wondered the same thing. If only there was a way to take her spirit back to Bontok with us.
Sidong sobbed into my shoulder. ‘Tilin! Tilin!’
The other women in the House for Women sniffled and sighed, listening helplessly as the child wept for her sister.
I held her until she fell asleep, and then I lay there in the dark, feeling too hot, then too cold, listening to the twitchings of insects in the thatched roof overhead and the sleep rumblings of the other women.
I rolled out of bed and carefully groped my way to the door.
Outside, the stars pressed down from the sky, the young trees stretched up to the moon, and the coals died quietly in the ash heap. The white city beyond the tall bamboo fence had switched off all its lights, and the observation wheel was now just a vague smudge on the horizon.
I lowered myself slowly onto a log outside the House for Women. A mist began to rise, glowing white around my feet, like it did every morning in Bontok. But this was not Bontok, I reminded myself. This was Saint Louis.
I thought of death. I thought about losing you, Mother. I thought about how I’d longed for you to walk with me again.
The air grew cold. It flowed around me in a small current, causing my skin to prickle where it touched.
I felt a pressure in my ears, the kind of pressure you feel when you’re walking up a steep mountain trail. Up and up and up and your head is suddenly expanding fit to burst … until, suddenly … pop!
The pressure was gone, my head empty and clear again. But Mother, I could not move. It was like I had been left unbalanced, the weight of muscle and sinew and bone pushing me down onto the log. I tried to move, tried to raise my hand, waggle my knees. But nothing. My will somehow seemed unconnected to the physical part of me. And then I felt myself bend forward, I felt my hand close around a stick, stirring the coals, so that it flared into a weak, guttering fire.
My vision began to waver. It was as if I was looking at the world through a screen.
Mother, I didn’t understand what had happened until, suddenly, I rose to my feet. And it wasn’t me that willed myself to stand. I took a deep breath, and it wasn’t me that inhaled. And then it wasn’t me that took one step, and another step, put my feet together then hopped. I laughed out loud, but it wasn’t me that made the sound.
‘Your body feels good,’ I said. ‘So strong.’
I didn’t speak, Mother, but the words came out of my mouth. There was another spirit that had crowded into me, pushing mine aside, taken control of my physical self.
Tilin? I whispered.
‘Shh,’ I said. She said.
I picked up a bottle of water, tilted my head back and drank. It wet my parched throat. ‘Did you feel that too? I haven’t had a drink like that in a long time. So refreshing!’
Tilin. You can’t do this.
‘Stay down,’ I said. She said.
And then in the blackness, I saw Samkad emerge. He trudged towards me, his face haggard.
‘Couldn’t you sleep, Luki?’
Tilin shook my head.
‘I don’t blame you.’ He sat down buried his head in his hands and began to weep.
Tilin sat me down, put my arm around his shoulder and rubbed my cheek against his hair. Tilin! I begged. Stop it!
‘I wish I had never come to America,’ Samkad said. ‘I came because I thought you needed me to protect you. But I have not protected anyone!’
Tilin put my arms around Samkad and I could feel his body shaking as he sobbed wretchedly.
Please, Tilin.
‘Brother!’ It was Kinyo. He bent over us, rubbing Samkad’s back. ‘You are grieving for Tilin. I am so sorry, brother.’
Samkad pushed Kinyo’s hand away, jumping up. ‘Take your hands off me!’
Mother, he glared at Kinyo as if he wanted to run a blade through him.
‘Kinyo. I realize now that you are right. You are no brother of mine.’
‘I am sorry I said that. I was angry. Now you are angry too,’ Kinyo said softly. ‘Luki, help me calm him down.’
I would have. But I couldn’t move. Tilin kept my body absolutely still. Kinyo sighed and tried again. ‘Brother, I know you’re upset …’
‘I heard you talking to Truman Hunt,’ Samkad said. ‘I heard you cheering when he invited you to join his travelling show. You disgust me.’
‘Luki!’ Kinyo’s eyes begged me to say something kind, something to defuse Samkad’s anger. But I just looked at them, silent and unblinking. Kinyo shook his head. ‘Brother, I am not going to argue with you. You need time to mourn.’
‘Yes, Tilin is dead! And she wouldn’t be dead if we had stayed in Bontok! Roosevelt might as well have strangled her with his own hands.’
Kinyo sighed. ‘Brother, we belong to America now. You have got to get used to it!’
‘NEVER!’ Suddenly Samkad had his hands around Kinyo’s neck.
And, Mother, I wanted to pull Samkad off his brother. But I just sat there, trapped in Tilin’s grip.
There was shouting. Several men appeared. They tried to pull the brothers apart, but Samkad had become a wild animal, hitting and biting and strangling.
CRACK. One of the men brought a clay pot down on Samkad’s head. He dropped to the ground, dazed.
‘To the jail with him,’ one shouted. ‘And this time, he’s not getting out.’
They each took an arm and dragged him away, leaving Kinyo looking downcast. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Luki.’ he murmured before he walked off in the direction of the jail.
And still Tilin, filling every space inside me, held me absolutely still.
Tilin, you cannot do this to me.
‘I am not staying long,’ I said. She said. ‘I just wanted to tell you something.’ My voice was dwindling, as if the spirit could not pass enough air out my throat. ‘Don’t leave me here, in America. Take me back to Bontok. Please.’
And only then, Mother, did I feel her weight lift. I raised my hand and touched my face. My body was responding to my will again. Tilin was gone.
35
The President
It was unfair, I knew, to want everyone to stay sad, to continue to grieve like I was grieving. Truman Hunt looked harassed as he lined us all up and then ushered us out of the Igorot Village to the parade ground. He made no comment about the funeral singing and the empty chair made of branches we had built the night before. Except to say – quietly, so the others couldn’t hear – Why couldn’t you wait? Why did you have to tell them? Now look – they’ve all turned into ghosts! I needed them lively for the President!
He was right. They were all in a strange mood. The other women, who knew Tilin well, had been shocked and unhappy to know Truman Hunt had kept her death a secret. And yet, apart from a few sharp glances, none of them took him to task. The men, who did not know Tilin, were sombre but just as silent. It pricked me, Mother, to see this. Perhaps they were conflicted by Truman Hunt’s secret plans to take them on tour across the United States.
But the gloomy mood lifted once we were out on the wide open parade grounds, where a large platform festooned with red, white and blue ribbons had been built, where the Constabulary Band was playing a series of cheerful tunes in one corner and the Scouts were marching in another.
I couldn’t be resentful, Mother. It was exciting to be gathered in one place with all the different peoples of the Reservation. Hundreds of tourists watched us from behind a rope barrier. They cheered as we took our places in front of the stage – encouraging the Visayans to burst into song. The Mangyans and the Aeta men, whom Americans labelled Negritos, were dressed in breechcloths like our own men, except for one, who wore an American suit and tall hat.
We had seen the Aetas, Mangyans and the Visayans on the ship, but being confined to the Igorot Village, it was our first time to meet the peoples who had arrived later.
The Moros shuffled in behind us and quietly sat on their heels to wait.
‘Mind them, they’re bloodthirsty,’ Truman Hunt whispered. But there was nothing menacing about them in their shiny purple, green and gold clothing and head wraps.
There were also a people called the Bagobo, the men with long hair down to their waists, and dressed in beautiful beaded costumes.
It was exciting. But it was also profoundly sad. It felt so full of life, and yet I couldn’t stop thinking of the dead. Tilin, my friend. I thought. I don’t want to leave you. But how can I take you with me? Tell me, Tilin.
And then there was Samkad, still sitting in jail, the cut on his head bandaged, with two bored Scouts guarding him. Mother, I wondered whether to tell him what had happened to me last night. But when I went to see him in the morning, he just turned his face away and stayed that way until I left. He’s not ready to know about you, Tilin, I thought. And it was just as well, it would have just depressed him even more to see how easily our fellow Igorots had cheered up.
All the school children had to gather around Miss Zamora, because they were going to sing for the President. Sidong didn’t resist when I led her to the teacher, who was sitting on a chair, her large skirt fluffed out like a giant mushroom, the embroidered sleeves of her lowlander costume looking stiff and uncomfortable. Sidong crouched at Miss Zamora’s feet, opening her drawing book and taking out her box of Crayola, as I quietly explained that Sidong’s sister had died. Miss Zamora was nodding sadly when Truman Hunt appeared.
‘What did I tell you, kid? No more drawing.’ He grabbed Sidong’s Crayola box and drawing book and handed them to Miss Zamora. ‘You hang onto these, miss.’ He tipped his hat and left us. Sidong sobbed at Miss Zamora’s feet.
The teacher reached into her bag and pulled out another box of Crayolas. She handed the book and the two boxes of Crayola to Sidong, then turned to smile at me.
‘Don’t worry. She will be fine.’
I made my way back to the Igorot group. The sky was blue overhead. Around me, faces were smiling. Tilin, I thought, can those in the invisible world enjoy the world of the living?
I felt the briefest of touches on my shoulder. ‘Miss Luki.’
‘Johnny!’
Though his hat visor cast a strong shadow on his face, I could see that the bruises had faded. His swollen eye was almost fully open. He smiled at me.
‘Yo quiero … I just wanted to talk to you again before … There is something I wanted to tell you.’
He touched my shoulder again and, Mother, there was a look in his eyes that made me want to take his hand in mine, but I didn’t dare. I could imagine how excited the tourists watching from behind their rope barrier would be to see a Constabulary Soldier and an Igorot woman holding hands.
