Wild Song, page 21
It gave me a pang, Mother, to realize that Sadie was in the past now. I was never going to see her again, never going to speak to her again. In the same way for Samkad, Kinyo was no longer part of his future.
On our last days in the village, there was no talk of forgiveness, and the brothers studiously avoided each other. Johnny, too, was now in the past, but not because I willed it.
I saw him several times, marching in the field with the other Constabulary men and playing in the band. I tried to catch his eye, but he turned his face away. He didn’t want to see me, and even if he did, what was I going to say, Mother? Sorry you failed to kill Roosevelt?
They were all as good as dead to us, Mother.
Except, of course, the real dead liked to make their presence felt.
I found myself constantly arguing with Tilin in my head (and sometimes apparently, aloud, based on the startled looks people were giving me). How can you expect this of me, Tilin? What do I know of the world of the dead? How would I know how to move a spirit across a continent and an ocean back to Bontok? Do you somehow climb into my pack? Do you hide yourself under my hat? And do trains and ships have special tickets for the souls of the dead?
To which Tilin’s response was always the same. An invisible whisper, deep in my head. Don’t leave me.
Had Sadie still considered herself my friend, she would have told me my guilt was lingering in my belly like food poisoning. And she would be right – I did feel guilty.
I was tempted to tell Samkad, Mother. Samkad, who was always so obliging to the ancients, surely had picked up some wisdom about the dead. But what if he said we should not leave? What if his answer was that we would have to wait for some supernatural help that would never come? You see, Mother, I couldn’t wait to leave, and I didn’t want to risk jeopardizing our departure.
Sidong, still grieving for Tilin, seemed unsurprised by the news that we were leaving. The only thing that seemed urgent to her was to ask Miss Zamora for more boxes of those coloured crayons. When Miss Zamora found out about our imminent departure, she brought not only Crayola, but a large drawing book. ‘I was going to give this to you at the end of the fair,’ she told Sidong. ‘You are a most talented young artist. God bless.’ And, Mother, the look on Sidong’s face, the way she held the book against her thin little chest, I was so grateful I was tempted to throw my arms around Miss Zamora, despite all her scratchy clothing.
And some time after that, Mother, the ghostly whispering in my head stopped. It worried me. I tried to summon her in my mind. Tilin? Tilin? Where are you? But all my entreaties were greeted with silence. Had she given up on me? Had she changed her mind?
38
The Way Back
We left quietly, before anybody was awake. We were ready, all dressed up in our American clothes when Stanley arrived, crisply clad in a striped suit, his hat slightly askew on his head. Truman Hunt appeared, rumpled and red-nosed and smelling of liquor, to bid us a terse goodbye and check that Stanley had all our tickets.
I glanced back as Stanley led us through the deserted Reservation. Truman Hunt was standing by the open Igorot Village gate, his face a pale smear in the darkness.
Our train didn’t take us to Tacoma. It took us to a different shore, San Francisco. This way back, we saw none of the mountains and ravines that had rolled past our windows on our way to the fair. Instead, we saw dust and scrub and great brown fields under a great blue bowl of sky.
We arrived in San Francisco where we boarded a waiting steamship. I was amazed at how swiftly life on board became humdrum, as if we had always lived in its floating world.
As before, Sidong and I retired to the women’s room in steerage, and Samkad and Stanley slept in the men’s steerage. Stanley immediately fell in with a group of Filipinos and they spent the month at sea playing cards in the men’s quarters, while Sidong, Samkad and I spent the days walking on the deck and staring out at the endless horizon. This journey was warmer than our earlier crossing, the ocean mostly calm. And the temptation was great to shed our uncomfortable American costumes and put on the clothes we had brought from Bontok. But we knew better.
In fact, Mother, I couldn’t help thinking about how much more I knew now than when we were making our way over. It was like I’d developed magical new senses. Once in a while, when passengers came down from the cabins reserved for white people, I knew to keep my distance. I understood now that it was not curiosity that made them look at us the way they did, but fear. I knew to wait for the other women in steerage to finish with the toilets before Sidong and I took our turn, in case we did something quite acceptable in Bontok, but disgusting for someone from elsewhere. I knew to ask Samkad not to take his gangsa out, not to follow the usual rituals of leaving and journeying. He did not ask me why. He knew too.
At night, I waited for Tilin to creep around my dreams and freshen all my regrets. But, Mother, no such thing happened. I slept deeply and woke up restored, with no memory of anything untoward. Perhaps it was all part of the numbness that had settled on me over the journey. I felt no excitement about our imminent return to Bontok. I wasn’t even anxious about what the ancients might say, how they might interpret our early return. Sometimes I tried to picture Bontok in my mind, to remind myself of the place I was returning to. But, Mother, I could only summon a green flicker, so tenuous I couldn’t make out if I was picturing the side of a mountain or the canopy of a mossy forest.
Stanley had been efficient on the train journey, knowing which platform to wait on, who to hand our tickets to, which seats to take. Once in a while he would join us on deck, pressing us with questions about the fair. Had we seen the tiny babies born too soon, kept alive in glass boxes? Had we seen the wild animal display? What about the cascades all lit up every night? Had we spoken to the Indian chief Geronimo, who signed your hat if you paid him a few coins?
Samkad and I replied in monosyllables, but Stanley didn’t seem to care. Sometimes he brought out a newspaper to show us. He had spent his months at the fair collecting newspapers to take back as souvenirs. Once, he read aloud from one. ‘The appearance of the Igorots at a theatre last Sunday night was offensive to a lot of the women folk in the audience. There is a difference between seeing these little dark men on their own “diggings” at the World’s Fair grounds in open air, but then to behold them seated in an enclosed box in a theatre in a costume that, according to no form or fashion, can be considered even fairly proper.’
Stanley laughed merrily. ‘If only those Igorots were dressed up like you are now, there wouldn’t have been a problem!’
I glanced at Samkad over Sidong’s head. His jaw was tight. ‘Maybe you do not understand the English. You understand, yes?’ Stanley asked, perplexed at our lack of response.
I nodded. I understood everything now. Especially when words were being spoken at our expense.
‘Stanley,’ I said. ‘What is your Filipino name?’
He looked surprised. ‘Estanislao. How did you know I changed it?’
I just knew.
It was a relief, Mother, that Sidong was so completely entranced by her drawing things. On deck, she would often settle down in some sheltered spot to draw.
Which left me with Samkad.
At the beginning of this long journey back, Mother, there were only silences between Samkad and me. Neither of us wanted to speak, really. There was so much bitterness and grief in our throats, there was no point allowing any words to escape.
But as we walked the ship’s deck together, our heads touched, bending over one of Sidong’s latest masterpieces. Something between us was changing. When we heard snatches of music from the upper decks, I knew Samkad was remembering the sweet strains of guitar and violin that drifted from the Visayan village, night and day; or maybe the thump and glory of the Constabulary Band. And one day, when I was staring at the waves galloping high, I realized he was watching me. He knew I was thinking about the Wild West Show, the cowboys fighting pretend battles with the Indians and how Sadie was a better rider than any man there, even if she had to ride side-saddle.
And then he asked me, ‘Do you remember?’
‘Remember what?’
He sighed. ‘Do you remember what Bontok was like? I’ve been trying to, but …’ He shook his head. ‘It’s hard, it’s as if the World’s Fair was so loud and flashy it’s made me forget.’
I stared at him. This was exactly how I felt. But not wanting to admit it, I said, ‘Sure you remember. The smell of wood fires, every morning.’ And to my surprise, I could smell it, Mother, the fragrance of pine burning.
‘And the forest, Samkad, can you remember the scent of the trees after a rain.’ I closed my eyes and there were the trees leaning into each other, vines tangling everywhere, beards of dripping moss and the rich, dark smell of earth, the sudden barks of monkeys in the tree canopy and the surprise of sunlight spearing through the green wilderness.
I opened my eyes. Samkad was gazing out at the ocean. ‘And the rice terraces,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘The mountains.’
I followed Samkad’s gaze and there, in the gently undulating water, I saw the rise and fall of mountains carved into great, green paddies, the splash of the waves became the laughter of women planting rice, and the thudding of the sea against the boat turned into the beat of the gangsas, celebrating the abundance of life.
Samkad and I looked at each other.
‘Luki.’ His voice was low. ‘I thought following you was the right thing to do – the honourable thing. If I truly believed that we should be together, I told myself, I should be a man: fight for you, win you back. But instead …’
His mouth worked to find the words. ‘What a fool I was. Always so sure I knew who I was, and who I was going to become. And now?’ He shrugged.
Samkad was clutching the ship’s rail so tightly, his knuckles were white. I smoothed my hands over his, peeled them away from the rail. He watched hopelessly as I rubbed his hands between mine.
‘I have not been blind to your yearning for a different life, Luki,’ he said. ‘I knew that you needed more – that you deserved more. You say I was not wrong to follow you, but neither were you wrong to leave. You had to.’
‘You were not wrong to want a life for us together, Samkad,’ I whispered.
‘If we were in Bontok,’ he said, ‘we would be asking the spirits of our ancestors for guidance.’
‘Can we do that now?’ I asked.
He looked at me, confused. ‘But we are in the middle of an ocean. We have no ancestors here.’
‘How do we know that?’
Samkad seemed confused. ‘But what about …’ He looked around us, at the sailors lounging in the sun, the Americans leaning over their balcony, the other passengers strolling on the deck.
I smiled at him.
So the two of us returned to our respective quarters. I took off Sadie’s blouse and skirt and stockings and shoes and put on my Bontok skirt and top. And Samkad shed his American clothes and put his breechcloth on.
We returned to the deck with Samkad’s gangsa and together, we beseeched the spirits of the ocean to help us find our way back to Bontok.
39
Home
Mother, we could feel the ocean’s song trilling in our bones long after we stepped off our steamer’s tilting deck onto Manila’s solid ground. But we made ourselves put one foot in front of the other, lurching ungracefully like toddlers until the ocean ceased its singing, the rollicking of the waves ebbed from our limbs and we could walk steadily again.
One foot in front of the other.
Many months ago, our contingent of two hundred had walked the distance from the highlands to Manila – there were too many of us for Truman Hunt to put us on boat or train. But now, with just the three of us in tow, Stanley led us onto a train that took us swiftly to a small port town where we boarded a tiny steamer that took us along the coast to the foothills. What had taken us a week to cover on foot only took two days by train and boat. But I couldn’t help feeling nostalgic about those nights walking by the light of the moon, surrounded by endless rice paddies or weaving between slender trunks of coconut trees made of shadows.
Stanley bid us goodbye at the port town. A smart salute and he was gone, taking the little steamboat back to Manila with his suitcase full of newspapers and memories of the fair.
The up and down trek to our valley was tougher than I remembered; our penned-in existence in the Igorot Village had weakened my muscles and I was surprised to find myself easily out of breath. But it was a comfort at night, when we rolled out our blankets, to fall asleep to the familiar chirrup of the crickets. Soon enough, we found ourselves striding along the banks of the Chico River. After America, everything seemed strange and familiar at the same time – the river water burbling contentedly below us, the colossal boulders on the banks, the extravagance of flowers everywhere, and, of course, the sweet green rice terraces climbing the mountainside.
One foot in front of the other.
Sidong was enthralled. It was as if she had forgotten that all this had been so ordinary to her before. ‘Has that always been there?’ ‘What is this flower called?’ ‘That boulder! It has a face!’ ‘How green is the rice!’ It struck me that all the wonders of the World’s Fair had not excited her to chatter this way.
Whenever we stopped to rest, to eat, to get away from the sun, out came her book and pencil. She would sit, sketching furiously, her face intent, as if she was afraid everything around us would evaporate into nothing if she did not fix them onto paper.
One foot in front of the other.
Once, we saw a wild dog watching us from a tangle of bushes. I thought about Kinyo and the others butchering American dogs for Truman Hunt’s dog feasts. The ancients need never know, Kinyo had said, as if the only problem was the disapproval of the ancients.
The dog darted from the bushes and disappeared behind a stand of bamboo. There was a rustling and then a great lizard raised its head exactly where the dog had been. It was as if the dog had transformed itself into a lizard! After that, Samkad could not stop smiling. Perhaps the dog had reminded him of his own dog, Chuka. A long time ago, Chuka was a wild dog with no name. But she had chosen Samkad, followed him home into his sleeping room, and lay down by his side. Once he had named her, they became inseparable. It was a testament to his feelings that Samkad had left Chuka behind to win me back.
One foot in front of the other.
In the months that we had been gone, a new road had been scraped through the jungle. It took us one day to scale what had taken us three days to walk down. Gazing at the valleys ranging below us, we saw that several more roads had been carved into the side of the mountain. Great chunks of the jungle had been felled. And the clusters of villages we passed now bristled with the spires of new wooden chapels.
So much change! But I should not be surprised, should I, Mother? We had changed too. None of us were ever going to be the same again. I looked across at Samkad. He was walking hand in hand with Sidong. They were laughing about something.
I had left the village because I did not want to become a wife, and now I was returning with a daughter. I breathed deeply, filling my lungs with the sweet mountain air.
One foot in front of the other.
We were in the mossy forest now. Then there would just be the long green slope up to the village, the banana grove that sprouted up out of nowhere, and the path made of small boulders that lifted us up to the sun.
And then we would be home.
I felt it then, Mother, as we began to leave the forest. My invisible wound revealed itself. I had managed to keep it hidden until now, but the sight of those thatched rooftops at the top of the mountain stripped away all my defences. The pain was so sudden and so intense that I sank to my haunches.
‘Luki!’ Samkad let go of Sidong’s hand and ran back to me. ‘What is wrong?’
‘I’m all right,’ I said. But strange croaking noises came out of my throat. My chest was tight, I could not breathe. My sight dimmed.
Samkad knelt and put his arms around me. Sidong, not knowing what else to do, threw her arms around us.
Slowly I managed to fashion words from the rough noises in my throat. ‘Tilin. I shouldn’t have left her behind.’
I felt Samkad’s arms tighten. But there were no words he could say that would comfort me. So he said nothing.
I felt a soft hand in my hair. ‘Don’t cry, Luki,’ Sidong whispered. ‘We didn’t leave Tilin behind.’
I just looked at her. Her optimistic delusion both cheered and saddened me. I remember what I was like when you died, Mother. Death is a busy time and there was ritual and song and this and that and so many people wanting to talk to me. And then suddenly it was over and I was alone. And, oh Mother, how many times did I wish your spirit would come back and take me with you into the invisible world? It was a desperate, desperate time.
Sidong stroked my hair. There was so much love in the touch of those slender fingers, that even more tears came to my eyes. I straightened up, pushed Samkad away and rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘I’m not crying!’ I declared. But Sidong could see the fresh tears streaming down my cheek.
‘We didn’t leave Tilin behind,’ she said again.
Samkad and I exchanged glances. Throughout the journey, Sidong had been so peaceful, I had attributed it to the new drawing book and crayons. But now, I realized there was something more to it. I swore to myself. What kind of mother was I going to be to Sidong if I could miss something like this? I opened my mouth but it was as if my throat had filled with sand.
‘What do you mean, Sidong?’ Samkad said, his voice light.
Sidong clapped her hands. ‘Come!’ she said. ‘Come and see!’
She hurried to the flat stone where she’d set down her pack and her drawing book. ‘See, see!’ She opened the book.
