Copyright © 2010 by Chester B Cabalza. All Rights Reserved.
DR JOSHUA APPEARS LIKE A foreign tourist when he steps down from the PAL Boeing aircraft. He waves his hands at me and steals the show as he kneels to kiss the sun-burning cemented ground. People laugh at his droll actuations. The family driver Manung Max and our houseboy Andoy trail my steps in welcoming my brother at the city’s airport to fetch him. Before that, dad has advised me to head straight to Happy Valley since the entire clan awaits us there, possibly with a big surprise.
Amazed at the havoc changes in Tuguegarao City; the rapid commerce and industry that keeps flourishing in this emerging provincial city. Dozens of pharmacy flunk beside new roads. But my brother seems to be a changed man, either. He still loves women. As we leave the airport en route to Happy Valley, he has requested Manung Max, to drop him by in one of the pharmacies along Mabini Street.
As we park along the aisle of the busy calle commercio, he brings out some chocolates from his luggage, and goes straight inside Venus pharmacy. I still recall this newly-renovated drug store. Many times he then visited a beautiful Chinese druggist, named after the cute little pharmacy.
My brother’s ex-girlfriend Venus is indeed a polyglot. She speaks all the languages in the town. A successful entrepreneur herself; just like her father Mr. Ting, also known as the motor czar in town. Curiously, I chase his paces. However, an Indian merchant named Brahman, my brother’s erstwhile classmate in grade school, recognize us, and halts us to enter their store. They converse a bit. And in his gladness, he calls out Venus, at the same time, giving orders to his workers to clean the storage room. Delightedly, I have seen Venus’ overjoyed face upon seeing my brother, inside the store.
“This is for Lachmi,” he says and hands over a bag of chocolates to her as he touches her soft yellow skin.
“How did you know about our daughter?” asks Brahman in confusion.
“I told him during his last visit here two years ago,” Venus rebuts.
“By the way, how was Rosemarie?” she blushes minutely.
“Well, she gave birth to our son a month ago,” he smiles.
It suddenly eases the merchant Indian’s baffled face.
“What’s the celebration, why you’re back?” inquires Brahman.
“Well, it’s my brother’s graduation next week!” he declares and peeks once more at Venus’ youthful beauty.
“Finally young boy...” he clasps me, “...congratulations!”
I nod and shake my hand with the odorous Bombay.
“What are your plans, eh?” she asks in Ibanag.
“Actually, I wanna work in Silicon Valley,” I arduously reply in English.
“Don’t you wanna try in India,” he breaths, “they have good ICT hubs there, too,” Brahman chortles excitedly.
“I’ll think about it!” my candid reply.
“We have to go now,” Joshua hurriedly speaks up and we leave the couple.
“Wait!” says Brahman.
“I heard a lot about the bricks in Bagumbayan,” and he elaborates something, “is it Jefferson an archaeologist, right?” referring to my eldest Indiana Jones brother.
“Yup. Perhaps he knows about the bricks...” I say as Joshua waves his hands and rides the maroon Nissan Patrol.
In fact, Brahman’s family just lives near the centuries-old yet devastated brick factory. He inherited the house from his immigrant Indian parents which the couple is still presently living in. He belongs to few surviving Indian families in town.
I feel Joshua’s infuriation. He could not believe that his first girlfriend would end up to Brahman. He was his old nemesis in grade school back then. And his immigrant clan was our family’s market competitor in electronics and houseware businesses, where his family now monopolizes.
Instead of going straight to grandpa’s kingdom in Happy Valley, my brothers and I have decided to settle first at Tuguegarao City and seek refuge in our ancestral house. By now, the rest of the kindred are all waiting for us at the vast hacienda of grandpa. They know we are coming home to Happy Valley that very same day, off Tuguegarao city.
The archeologist Dr Jefferson is already used to the hot weather in town after he was commissioned by the National Museum to excavate in Peñablanca inside the famed Callao Caves, a site where he first achieved prominence in his discovery of the bones of the first man in the Philippines.
Undeniably speaking, the province has been so close to his heart.
I feel a relaxing ambiance inside the house; the only time I mingle with my brothers again. That time, I think I can not ask for anything more in my party except to be with my siblings. Together we celebrate. Couples of beer and a feast of seafood. A simple bonding over lunch has made my day finally oozing!
In the afternoon, Kim and I hop at the low-storey mall in the city. While Jefferson rests at the silyon, a curve bedlike woven rattan, with elongated wooden arms to support his hanging feet. So he sleeps. But when he opens his eyes, darkness almost enshrouds the house because it’s already dusk. He stands up from the silyon. Though still dizzy, he strives to stride in our spacious living room, and frets as he stares at an antique painting of grandma, that barely hangs on the wall.
That night, he roams the city alone. Passably, he is interested to find out some transformation in the capital of the region. Tremendous urban conversion helms the city. New nightclubs and bars flunk along unfamiliar streets as he enters one of the bars. Inside are sparkling lights; my brother’s a middle-aged customer draws near his table to the podium, while watching young luscious girls ramp on the floor, dance in their tempest shindig. Abruptly, a strange man’s with his massive heavy arm tap him and a boisterous voice resonates around the semi-dark room.
“Jeff, is that you?” asks the new arrival.
He finds uneasy identifying the man who burst into hasty elation upon seeing him. He wonders who he is. And thought that perhaps he was a former classmate or a long lost friend? The stranger’s face seems blurred. Surprisingly a dashing light lit his face and slowly my brother recognizes him.
“Brahman! Look at you now, you doubled you weight!” he says.
“What do you do now?” asks the Indian entrepreneur.
“Well, I’m still an excavator,” my brother humbly replies.
Brahman laughs loudly.
“I met your brothers this morning,” he tells him, “they came to Venus’ pharmacy,” and puffs a smoke.
“Actually we had a great time this lunch!” Jefferson cheers.
“Well, I read about your discoveries. Unbelievable, eh” Brahman confesses.
“So how were the treasures you collected? Are they like bullions of the Marcos’?” he teases him while rubbing his hands.
“I don’t collect it,” he answers, “the country owns the artifacts!”
“You have not changed Jeff!” the Indian states.
“So do you, buddy! They are not for five-six!” he sharply replies with amusement.
Jefferson’s eyes wanders inside the dark-sparkling room while Brahman chews peanuts and watches sexy dancers frolic.
“Have you heard about the Spanish brick kiln in Bagumbayan, do you?”
“I do, must be that a historical site?” Jefferson comments.
“Historical your ass!” his foul response, “I don’t see any NHI landmark.”
“Why?” Jeff looks at him in vexation.
“I don’t know? Why should you ask that to me?” the Bombay’s reply.
“You’re really an entrepreneur!”
“That’s your cup of tea, you’re an archeologist, right!” he laughs annoyingly.
“If you could only see it, it’s an interesting piece,” seriousness encroaches their talk, “but I regret to say, it has been completely ruined. I reside a few blocks away from the site and everyday when I see it, I could just have imagined how people suffered building it long time ago,” he ends up saying.
“Now you have a heart for history, eh?” the archaeologist gags.
“Are you free tomorrow? Let’s see the brick kiln,” Brahman suggests.
“Sure! I will bring my brothers with me,” Jefferson says as he tosses his bottle of beer with him.
THE NEXT day, Jefferson brings us to the ghost-hunted Spanish brick kiln and meets Brahman. We deem that this site was once a glorious brick factory where a cradle of history did wrap the town of Tuguegarao. The two towering forbidden brick ruins on opposite side stand as living witnesses of a bygone era, now swank by an unkempt grotto at the foot of the right tower. It looks like the towers are suffocated and strangled by huge acacia trees’ roots on top of it for many centuries. In the middle, a basketball court has been constructed, used during sportsfest and other cultural affairs in the barangay. Today, a narrow road divides the site from the queue of houses. As we trek down the nearby bank, a gentle river charms my brother. He has this symbiotic relationship with nature. As if his life was once part of its flowing waters. At the riverbank, women laboriously wash clothes as they busy themselves exchanging rumors and stories of their neighbors. Children cheerfully swim while men viciously clean trucks and jeepneys at the bank.
Before the town of Tuguegarao turned into a city, many calesa or horse-ridden rigs cross the tributary in the so-called River Side behind the cathedral. Water splash the rig and soak passengers as it cross the rough watercourse. By now, a newly-build bridge save the river from further pollution. Migratory birds flock the cogon and enchantingly encircle the dying lovely river. But surprisingly, odd sounds of people wallop Jefferson’s ears. He turns around but sees no one passes by. All he heard was Brahman who narrates tales to us about the calm waters.
Thunders rumbled in the dark skies. There was outrageous blast produced by sudden invasion of lightning and thunderbolts. The angry sky poured out its wrath. It rained impulsively. Flooded an isolated tribe near the mouth of the potent Chico River. That time, tribesmen lamented for help but their cries were unheard by their gods. Then, a vehement disaster in widespread: nipa huts stumbled and flown away by the super typhoon; drowned animals floated by ravaging flood; fruits had fallen away from crippled bearing trees; thus hunger and sickness struck the place. Hopeless the tribe was. They blamed themselves for their neglect to protect the forest – believed to be the dwelling place of gods and spirits.
Ancient history proved they deemed on supernatural occurrence. They reckoned in magic and spell. Never neglected their rituals to make peace with nature. In fact, they had numerous superstitious beliefs, enveloped by their tradition. If sickness and death occur, even misadventure befell them, they regarded them as harrowing the spirits.
During those days of recovery from tragic natural calamity, hysterical women cursed their fate brought by sudden disaster; misunderstood the earth shall perish and darkness shall conquer their land. But resilient tribesmen surpassed the trial. But then, they evacuated to the cabecera across the trail of the mighty river. They rode the waves through their saddled indigenous sailboats down the Pinacanauan River; lined with thick grasses and trees. The tribesmen sighted people dwelling in villages dotting the Banag shores. Like them, they saw natives of medium in height, brown complexion and hardy people. It was a market day. Natives sold fish, shrimps, and edible shells. Some were vegetables, root crops, rice, and corn at the riverbank.
A frail old leader of the tribesmen said, “Let’s land over there where the gods destined us to settle with the Ibanags for meantime.”
While landing the Banag shores, they played their gongs and beaten a wooden mortar. It signified their merry-making. Hopeful expressions transformed them. It brightly shone sullen faces they left in their devastated territory. But string of angers worried busy native Ibanags caused by loudness of foreign praises.
In a sudden appearance, Padre Lazaro, a bearded and broad mestizo friar approached them in his black sotana and a huge rosary hanged over his neck and said, “Tolay, what made you come here.”
“Padre, our gods punished us because of our neglect to protect their dwellings,” the old leader tiredly uttered. He pointed to him the farthest place where they came from.
“In spite of their wrath, we were grateful to a have a safe voyage and land in this peaceful and bountiful shore.”
“Come all of you,” he courteously said and invited them like a shepherd to the lost herd of sheep. He led them to the cathedral.
“The spirits bless you Padre,” the aged leader gratified him.
“No…God bless us all,” he rather replied.
The amiable welcome of the friar to the tribesmen alarmed the natives. Their quick evacuation meant competition with the Ibanags. Though, some understood famine broke out in their land. In fact, the friar was hailed as an icon to the town for his vigorous generosity when he broached reforms in farming to the natives. During the advent of their conversion into the new religion, the faithful converts helped in the construction of conventos. They also built the baroque cathedral and its magnificent belfry sited at the heart of the pueblo near the potent river.
We then leave the riverbank. Heatstroke clouts us, especially Brahman who perspires ounces of heavy sweats. Jefferson roofs his head with a bandana, shelters it from sun’s rays since his chronic migraine would attack again. When we climb up stairs of the ruins, the archaeologist quickly notices the cone-shape structure of the right-bombed tower. And theorizes that perhaps the site was one of the two existing throttlehold holes where old veins of trees apparently stick, becoming witnesses of past events of Japanese cruelties in Cagayan. But something has agitated again my brother. A paranormal spell casts his mind. He senses a strong vibration. Immediately, he whispers to the Bombay name of the spirits who gravely warded the site. As a seasoned digger, it is only in that site he feels a strong paranormal. Louder, he hears peculiar cries of anguish, retribution and affection.
“What was the brick kiln for?” Kim curiously asks the archaeologist.
“For building churches and convents,” Jefferson replies.
The aggressive conquistadores persuaded many Ibanag families to join workforce. Men toiled diligently. They were exposed from scorching heat of the sun. While women and children alike left their homes, suffered a lot, as they fell in line to build canals in the riverside. Enormous supply of bricks found beside the potent river and were passed side by side until it reached the production site. Their labors were obliged in exchange of unpaid taxes to the encomienderos. But Ibanag’s conversion into Catholicism also caught up adapting to the ways of clothing, food, and taste of their Caucasian masters. The bossy Spaniards easily intimidated them simply they were peace-loving people, courteous, and hard working.
Many times, the cabecera flooded during heavy typhoons. But they effectively built strong founded canals, roads and bridges. Since Padre Lazaro was regarded as the messianic Noah, the enormous and glorious cathedral would serve as the ark to natives in times of natural calamities such as floods.
The tribesmen settled nearby the riverside. As part of their tradition, proximity to water mustered their fishing. Customs and supernatural beliefs still colored their world; sealed with animist practices. Later much exposure to trade and market multiplied their production in basketry, jewelry, spear making, and exotic weaving. They polished their ingenuity in handicrafts. But jealousy between the tribesmen of Kalinga and the native Ibanags broke the vision of union.
The spell is so strong that my brother Jefferson almost brawls with the spirits. After all the many adventures he has undergone, he deems not to give up unveiling the secrets and deciphering unknown objects beneath the ruined brick kiln. Thin air sweeps centuries-old acacia trees. Atop is still windy. This has caused obstruction and we do spelunking down the catacombs. And those livid spirits keep hunting us to leave their space. But the prime archeologist knows how to appease with them. He drops coins, cigarettes, and biscuits to the cavernous well. Then looks down the hole and sees nothing but total darkness. Suddenly, Brahman’s frightened not to even look down and successively wipes his perspiring face. Afterward Jefferson slowly goes down followed by Joshua and me.
“Common coward!” Joshua challenges the Indian fellow.
“Light me first,” and Jefferson says and quickly takes the flashlight from me.
Down the abyss, cobwebs hang as curtains to the creepy underground tower. Brahman shakes in fear. Though shaking, he incessantly narrates tales to the archeologist as he lights the borderless realm of darkness beneath the brick kiln.
“Don’t be so frightened!” cautions my brother to us.
“Of course not!” Brahman raises his voice like a sturdy tomb raider.
“Bravo!” and Joshua applauds, teasing everybody like a kid.
One time, the great Padre Lazaro visited the tribesmen in their quiet place. A partition of work was largely observed. A group of women sheltered in a nipa hut for weaving; old men for basketry, young men wrought jewelry and spears, while children refined them.
The maidens approached him. They knelt in a primitive way. And one at a time kissed his feet as a gesture of honor and respect. As he paced towards the chieftain, men guarded their leader, protected him from injurious crack of the bearded friar. Several months had passed of elusion to their customs and beliefs, that time he tried to impede.
“The morning is bright which made the gods merry for your visit Padre,” the chieftain greeted him.
“Kindly tell to your gods that my visit here, neither will make them happy nor you for I have come here today to preach the gospel of my God. The God of gods,” he proclaimed.
“But Padre!” the old chieftain protested, “our lives have scrupulously been protected by our gods.”
“You say that because you knew nothing about the truth,” he remarked in his bold words.
“What truth Padre?” his confounded query.
“That my God is the way, the truth and the life,” he insisted.
“What can we do to please your God?” the chieftain humbly offered his service in behalf of the tribe.
“Be converted and baptized,” said Padre Lazaro, “serve the church and attend masses,” he ordered him. But whispers of discomfort dispersed among the tribesmen.
Years passed by. The tribesmen known for their industry controlled market and trade. Conversion into Christianity forbade them to practice their animist beliefs and so, they developed an interest into the new religion. Because of intermarriage with the native Ibanags, tribesmen gradually drifted away from their unique folkways. But some of them were still adamant in preserving their damaged mores. With alarming number of converts, the parish intended to found a new diocese and expanded its religious converts to other remote villages.
That time, the Spanish soldiers were accused of fraud and tyranny to the people. Their incessant odium to natives and tribesmen punished and forced them to labor forces. Immediately Padre Lazaro meddled. His charisma won the support of his faithful. But he asked natives and tribesmen to build a new church in Piat despite some malicious contempt from soldiers. He also would want selected maidens to work in his church. One was Perpetua, the lovely daughter of the old chieftain.
Slowly we pace down the kilns underground, but suddenly, Jefferson bumps into a stone-like grave.
“Sepulchers,” he thinks and flash it.
As he holds the first tomb, an electrifying aura abuzz his mind, things happened so fast inside but we could not understand him. An occult symbol safeguards the brick tomb or perhaps the graveyard of centuries old corpses. They wanted to spot sunlight, or maybe they were perpetually dying for sunlight. Hence, they may be trapped here for centuries.
“What do you see?” asks Brahman.
“Her long black hair. She’s beautiful but I cannot see her face,” says the archeologist-turned-spirit questor.
Perpetua had just finished wiping the pews when Padre Lazaro tremendously caught her sight. The long black hair hanged over her lean, short shoulders, revealing her naïve beauty, fragility and passion, and an epitome of innocent lass. He anticipated her greeting. He drew nearer and patted her back. But she shivered when she turned her coy countenance to him.
“Padre, it is you,” she simply said.
“Yes my dear,” his sweet words, “can I invite you to the garden?”
“No! I have still many works to do Padre!” she declined.
“Good child!” wheedled the friar, “you are laborious. That will lead you to heaven,” but then, out of fear she went along with him in the garden, beside the baroque cathedral. She was typically shy and down to earth.
Jefferson closes his eyes and touches another tomb. But he feels a stronger spirit who might have dwelt there. He’s strappingly stunned. This time seeing many images: a Caucasian bearded man, with him a rosary, a bible, and a flower. Sometimes he was approachable. He suffered wrath in his life. But he was deeply in love.
“Tell me Jeff, what do you see!” insists Brahman.
“Quiet!” he says to shut up the Bombay.
“He wants us to leave!” Jefferson retorts.
“What! Oh well, that’s hell,” Brahman murmurs.
“Kindly shut up!” Dr. Joshua tells us.
The friar stood up admirably like the crowned and glorious Spain to his colony. He was a fine storyteller. He told her his years of mission in southern Isabela where many Ibanags also settled. Sharing his recollections and hardships, even how he learned native’s vernacular language and how he alertly preached the gospel.
But she feigned listening to the good-looking mestizo.
“You know Perpetua, the Ibanags were just like your tribe,” he clued-up the lass, “they were animists before who prayed and believed to many spirits.”
She stood silently. She wanted to defend her point of view but she could not. But then, his concealed egotism revealed; unrelentingly demeaned her father’s indigenous beliefs.
The sun immersed. She bid goodbye to her master. But he grabbed their solitude, raised upward her face unto his face and then kissed her. She was so anxious. Her entire body perspired as if judgment time befell at that moment. Save for he forbidden his lust and stared at her seriously. For the second time, he clasped her and tried to say something. Tandem, he did and persuaded her to return in the garden tomorrow. She hastily ran from the quaking place and hid to her quarter.
Her piety embraced the religion too much. It was her way of serving the Ibanags, as well as her tribe. Though, she undoubtedly confessed her drastic conversion. It led a resistance from his father.
But she had a distinct intimacy with the friar. It paved and grew on its own way. Even though infernal passion inflamed their trodden paths, bonded unusual love, and at times, could hardly be understood. The chained melody of a cross and a rose fell to scrupulous schism from heaven. They defied heaven. Down the dark and clandestine love they walked the peril of undying love. Though, it cost honor and respect.
“Tonight come to me and we will make love,” said the friar, “Be not afraid. You will always be my love… always…”
“You promise me that Lazaro,” and she held his hands.
The night unveiled the liar’s proposal. The thorns of a rose were pointless and painstakingly lost its purity. And the sweet promises of his lips captured her emotions. It expressed intimacy which broke the chain of decency. Then, a heavy rain dropped; candlelight inflamed, while in bed outstretched their weak flesh, capitulated into a torrid lovemaking, and befell in its own vanity.
The sun resurrected from the culprit of a night’s conceit. Padre Lazaro opened his eyes but saw nothing except blurred panorama. He was scared darkness might have engulfed him; then he simultaneously closed his eyes, re-opened: Perpetua crammed to dress her naked body. She turned to him and sadly said, “We both defied heaven!”
She ran hurriedly downstairs but one of her colleagues saw her in disgrace. Afraid to speak up, she wandered far to a distant place and kept herself away from guilt and sin.
Several days had gone, she still banished and deviated alone. She suffered severely from mockery and vanity. Until she returned home pale and sick. His father became so worried about her.
When news reached Padre Lazaro about Perpetua’s return, immediately, he visited her, unknown to many people. But as he reached the settlement, the chieftain barred him.
“Where are you heading Padre?”
“I heard about your daughter,” he said, “and I decided to pray over her sickness,” he ruled.
“She is recovering right now.”
“Good news to my ears,” he remarked.
They entered a grass-thatched hut. A servant led them into Perpetua’s room – pale as she was. Guava leaves placed all over her body. A faith healer chanted. Pleased the spirits to get rid of her frail body. But he prayed intimately. He knelt before her, placed his right arm on her forehead, while reading a bible passage. But the primitive chant sustained after he left the room.
“What do you want us to talk about Padre?” the chieftain asked.
“About the approaching fiesta of Santo Pedro,” he discussed with him and later left the chieftain alone.
The fiesta was a much awaited and most delightful celebration in town. Both the Ibanags and tribesmen loved boisterous festivities. They joined their masters in their merry-making and religious gathering.
That morning, Padre Lazaro celebrated the Eucharist. Fresh memories with Perpetua intrigued his impure thoughts. By the time she recovered from her pain and sickness, she went to hear mass. She shielded herself with black veil from head to shoulder as a sign of remorse. Disgusted parishioners passed rumors from one another. And during communion, she abstained for the first time which led to widespread gossip.
The parade was another show up of the festivity: cymbals and tambuli played boisterously. Then, primitive image of Santo Pedro held a huge key and a rooster on his right arm, paraded around the pueblo in a majestic float. The carabao ridden-rigs decorated colorfully with variety of fresh flowers and anahaw leaves. That festive night, native dances and traditional music graced the fiesta. They did not know a covert squabble between the friar and Perpetua took place behind the brick factory.
“How are you my lovely Perpetua?” the friar kissed her.
“Please don’t fool me,” she mercifully pleaded.
“Lazaro. I carry a child in my womb,” she cried.
“You mean…” he said infallibly.
“Don’t worry I will keep it. Even though, the gods and your God will ostracize me yet mine was infidelity to them.”
“No, don’t blame yourself.”
“Why? it was my choice.”
“It was not your choice. We both fell in love with each other.”
“But there is no way to get out from here,” she said.
“Elopement!” he answered.
“No! What will people say about you?” her vulnerable words, “if that happens, people will distrust you,” remorse broke her heart.
“Let it be done!” and she wept overly.
“Leave me alone. Let the gods punish me! I will take any crucible – so let it be done! Leave me now Lazaro!” sobbing and ran away from the brick kiln.
Hurriedly, we all have left the underground sepulchers. Brahman breathes deeply after climbing up the steep hole and altogether we laugh at our adventure once we gaze the sunlight. But Jefferson deems there are more secrets down there. He still feels its matchless energy. A powerful energy envelops with mysteries but mysteries which can be deciphered.
“There’s love down there!” Jefferson remarks.
“DON’T SAY ANYTHING! A-AGAIN!” Brahman feigns.
The next day, Kim refuses to join our strange and mysterious expedition as we return to the underground. This time Jefferson hears several voices searching for vengeance. He senses a bit danger! There are deception and vengeance to the traitor and death of a woman’s sturdy father. I light candles around the sepulchers while Brahman tries to nervously communicate with the dead but my brother sees this dramatic event:
A great turning point occurred to the lives of the tribesmen. Insolence of the Spanish soldiers ridiculed their indigenous beliefs. That time, rampant injustices impended them, corrupted their innocence and illiteracy. They blamed them of disobedience to the laws.
The Dark Age had come. Soldiers tortured and forced them to workforce. They induced indigent natives; stole their jewelry and sacred idols with huge sum awaited. The jovial community banished. It was a dawn of another merciless time. Tribesmen thought suffering caused by their unfaithfulness to their gods. Even then, they still bore anguish from their cruel masters.
It came a point for a secret tribal session, called by their chieftain. That aimed to develop strongly their aegis and defense, against wooly assault from their mestizo adversaries who conspired with brown Ibanags.
But Padre Lazaro came as mediator, pending outcome of fierce sentiments between feuding tribesmen and Spaniards.
“Get out from our sight, sorcerers!” soldier censured them in a loud voice.
“People, what do you want to mend?” he mediated.
“We want them out here!” the Ibanags ousted the tribesmen and immense reverberation of echoes shored up.
“If so, let your will be done,” the chieftain retorted and he walked out from his raging opponents.
The judgment drove Padre Lazaro to their settlement. Tribesmen turned frantic again. They recalled misfortune when they were struck by a burly calamity. But he spared more time and spoke with his lover behind the belfry.
“Think the future of the child,” Padre Lazaro held Perpetua’s hands closely into his chest.
“Worry not. I swear I will keep the child. Soon your name shall always be known to him,” she promised.
“And now I decided to turn back my celibacy?” he courageously cried, “then you will leave me?”
“Trust me. We will be inseparable soon!” She sobbed.
“O my God what have I done to suffer such agony? I love her so much!” he lamented, “I want to be the father of our future child,” and he embraced her intimately.
“Padre, what comes into your mind to clasp my daughter that tight?” asked the chieftain and neared her, “and it seems you weep like a lesser god,” he added.
“I just want to bid farewell to your daughter,” he said.
“By the way Padre, before the sun rises tomorrow I will bring with me memories of our friendship and your goodness to my people. I know our gods have been calling us already.”
“Someday I could reach you across the mighty river,” the friar’s last words to his friend.
The dawn descended. Tribesmen began their exodus from the bounty land of Ibanags. They rode in their sailboats carrying with them their wooden carved gods painted with blood of slaughtered animals during some important rituals. They entirely left their homes and materials in the settlement. And they brought only with them clothes and food. The followers of the old chieftain chanted. Musicians played morosely their gongs which signified their sadness.
They returned to the mountains, believed their gods had been calling them back. They sailed the course of the mighty Cagayan River and reached its upper stream stretching from the mouth of Chico River.
After their exhausting voyage, they overjoyed upon reaching safely their promised land. Tribesmen communed with nature and offered spirits with food. And then, they innately lent a hand each other and built their sedentary dwelling.
Later, their chieftain felt mortality had been transcending onto him. He realized the ruthless world would soon vanish in his sight, returning unto the ground and joining the gods and the spirits. Expectantly, an heir would come from his own lineage. Traditions decoyed him; her only daughter should be married to a man who would give him a progeny.
Then, the search began. Gongs reverberated. It called for all brawny adult men to bid for the bride price. Those potential grooms presented their precious jewelry, water buffalos, and a wooden trunk coated with gold plated tints. All were gifts to the aging chieftain. After that, bride service had to be rendered simultaneously to the family. A stringent test should be taken place, determining sincerity of future son-in-law.
Many tried the ignoble process but exhausted to the demand of bride service. Others had been forced by their parents to win the influx love of Perpetua. Hidden with her, an incisive revelation to her frail father which would coerce their relationship. Scared to dare speak the truth that it might infringe their traditions, as well as might be abhorred by the tribesmen. Inside her heart was her acceptance of disgrace fate which would thread to an uncertain path.
The moment came to honor such a valor man. A successful young man who had passed the rigid scrutiny of a tough engagement. Then, a simple ritual ceremony would be prepared for the chosen one, as shaman invoked their gods. Animals burned and blood dispersed around its premise.
In a bamboo glass, a liter of blood and water produced a mélange substance - used for anointing the groom’s forehead. Silence subdued. And then, the chieftain paced slowly towards his future son-in-law, held the bamboo glass while his right thumb immersed on it.
“Stop it father,” Perpetua lamented.
The tribesmen were alarmed. They all turned their eyes to her and tears fell as she sat behind the throne of his father.
“I’m pregnant!” she was crying.
Her shocked father sternly looked at her.
“You dishonored me! You disgraced the gods!” he fiercely condemned his daughter.
The bamboo glass mixed with blood and water spilled over the soil.
“Pardon me father for I defied the gods.”
“Who is the father?” he slapped her.
“Uhh…Padre Lazaro,” she cried in berserk.
“No! This could not be happening!” his wrath exploded, “he’s a traitor! Vengeance!”
“Father, please don’t kill him,” she pleaded.
“Nobody can stop me!” he led his armed men and sailed the raging river.
Ferocious vengeance engulfed him. But whirlwind trailed over their sailboat. It created panic among his valor men. Still adamant in his quest, he braved waves but terrified the woes of his armed men.
He commandeered better tactics for a quick maneuver of sailboat fleets. In his stationary position, faced the far distant Banag shore, another rapid waves ensnared them. His warriors trembled. Then, vehement waves assaulted their tiny sailboats and carried them away. All three boats sank but his vessel survived. Helplessly, like a starved predator searching for a prey amid the wide river, the waves gulped his team. His frail body guzzled beneath the bed of unknown – the spirit world of the mighty river.
Isolation and guilt espoused Perpetua’s shedding heart. Her father’s death weakened her spirit. Tribesmen even scorned her. They deemed she dishonored their gods and their leader. Days and nights she wanted to abort her child. But during her turmoil pregnancy, in one sullen midnight, her womb shell broke. Blood flowed gently. It passed through her clear legs down her trembling toes. She knelt and slowly laid her body onto a wooden bed. Patiently proscribed her nerves and pushed her strengths. She wept noiselessly. It was quiet and serene. Nobody knew she was giving birth. Alone in her murky room, she fought her agony. Long in her suffering, sweats and tears fell all over her body. Flowing tepid blood flooded the soil, like sea anemone, it burned her guilt. She struggled but gained gradual strength. Her ultimate goal buoyed her spirit. She breathed deeply. And then, slowly an offspring awakened the sleeping world.
Many tribesmen panted when she born a son. They cursed them. They said the child would bring death to the entire village. Though, it weakened her sullen spirit, she brought up her son.
Years passed. He turned to be a boy scorned by the villagers. Their neighbors would not want their children to play with him. Since then, Isauro confronted her mother.
“Mother, you never told me about my father?” he asked many times.
“Why my son?” she asked fragilely.
“I don’t know. I feel that I am the only child in the village with no father. Mother, is he still alive?” he paced toward the window and looked up the sky.
“Son, did you know that you are the son of gods?”
“Really,” Isauro’s perplexed word.
“Look at the stars. You are one with them! Soon you shall know more things.”
“But mother?” still bothered.
“I know. It will be revealed to you later on son,” she said.
Isauro turned thirteen when tribesmen rushed to hide. By then, strangers had infested their land.
“Be not afraid. We are your friends,” said the missionaries, “we are sent here today by Padre Lazaro.”
“Where is he?” asked fiercely by an old tribesman.
“He killed our chieftain! We want vengeance!” tribesmen fought them but they lost to the friars with armed soldiers.
Brahman falls accidentally to a small tomb and cries a foul as we move to more sepulchers. Quickly, Charles and I hold his hands so firm.
“Hold me! Hold me!” Brahman cries childishly until he resurfaces.
But this time, the prime archeologist Dr. Jefferson feels a fervent love story and acceptance.
“I saw the boy,” says the archeologist.
“What was he doing?” I ask him.
Everybody seems eager of the romance story. Then, we kneel again to pray for the dead souls every time we discover new tombs. Jefferson says the souls should be freed from their graveyard, from bondage of darkness, and be contented with their lives. He has seen some hope this time. Though, there are still images of sufferings.
They suffered from their masters and exploited their fertile land. Some friars who ruled their land recruited boys to serve the cathedral in the cabecera.
One was Isauro Antonio, the son of Perpetua.
Isauro had just finished wiping the icons when Padre Lazaro approached him. The once young, handsome and bearded friar observed him. Tendered by age, he tapped the teenager’s back.
“Padre, it’s you,” Isauro humbly said.
“Son, can we go to the garden?” the friar invited him.
“Ah! I have still many things to do, Padre,” he countered in his shuddering voice.
“Good child! You are arduous. That would lead you to heaven,” coaxed the friar.
“No Padre,” he smiled, “I am just doing my obligation. Some might think I am idle.”
“Poor soul! You sounded like your mother.”
“You know my mother?” he exclaimed.
“Yes I know her. She served in the conventos before. How is she now?”
“She’s very sick this time.”
“God bless her,” the friar paused.
“Padre, do you believe I am son of the gods?” he curiously asked.
“So, do you believe?”
“I don’t know?” he said, “if the gods own me, why people in our tribe always cursed us?” he thought.
“Because I am you father,” the friar said that shocked him.
With his father’s kindness, Isauro stayed in the convent, and assisted him. One day, he asked permission from the friar to visit her mother. That time, Padre Lazaro was piously praying alone in his room when he came in.
“Remember this son,” he preached, “every good deed will be praised if not seen later,” the friar’s words. His eyes were still closed, “don’t do things for the sake of praises for you will be frustrated if you hear none of it. Let those good deeds be a product of a good heart and a cheerful spirit. Keep on realizing the beautiful persons that God had fashioned you,” he looked at him.
“I hope so, Padre,” he said and left alone his father.
“Peace is what I leave with you, it is my own peace that I give you,” the friar mumbled, “do not be worried and upset and do not be afraid, my son.”
Isauro sailed the trail of the watercourse for a two-day voyage. As soon as he stepped down their tribe, hurriedly, he went off to their house and searched his sick mother.
“Mother, it is me…Isauro!” he cheered up.
“How are you my son?” she replied inaudibly in her bed.
“Very fine!” he remarked.
“God bless you, son,” she coughed firmly.
“Mother, I met a friend of yours,” he said blissfully, “he told me that he still love you so much.”
“Was he Padre Lazaro?” then she shed tears.
“Yes it was Padre Lazaro. Do you remember him?”
“Yes,” and she regained her strength, “he is your father, son.”
And Jefferson deciphers the mysteries of the brick kiln and orders mama’s priest friends to hold a mass at the site.
The chief archeologist also persuades and decrees city officials to give decent burials to centuries-old dead beneath the historic site. In his fervent desire, he has requested support from the National Museum for auxiliary dig of the once superb site in the town, to give credence on this glorious archeological and historic burial site, flavored with vengeance, love and romance.
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