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cabaltera · 5 years

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The Girl from Bauko

a short story by an Ilocano writer.

BAUKO IS a remote mountain town up in the wilds of the Cordilleras. It is some five thousand feet above sea level, and thick fog covers the towering mountain slopes every day, even in mid-summer, and the golden sun hardly be seen at high noon.

Of all stories - love stories - worth remembering my Father told me, not one can surpass the poignant story of a ravishing and winsome mountain lass by the name of Maila.

Maila was a Kankanay, one of the principal tribes of mountain Province. Indeed, Maila was a bundle of unsurpassed pulchitrude and vivacity, possessing a pair of bewitching dimples in her rosy checks, deep as the ravines surrounding her father's luxuriant mountain clearing up in Bauko.

The epic story of World War II would be incomplete and colorless without this beauteous mountain lass Maila, Father would tell me with a sparkle in his eyes, because Maila was everything to him during those dismal , difficult years of enemy occupation.

Father was a guerillero during the war. He was not a professional soldier, he repeatedly told me, since before the outbreak of the Pacific War he was still young, vibrant and innicent, and was bent on his studies at the U.P. in Padua Faura.

Those days were the golden days of the Commonwealth under the tutelage of the charismatic political leader, Manuel L. Quezon. Padre Faura then was quiet and shady with giant acacia trees, branching towards the sky on both shoulders of the street, affording cool shades for the boisterous groups of colegialas heading towards the big and spacious corridors of the State University and the Ateneo.

Father joined the army probably because of compulsion of maybe he was afraid of those slit-eyed Japanese soldiers. In the mid-thirties, the cream of the Filipino manhood was called to undergo compulsory five-and-a-half-mo the training in a care all over the islands; Father was among them, although he opted to take summer infantry training in Camp Murphy, the premier army camp I those days.

Prewar trainees and cadets of the ROTC units of Manila's colleges, were on the list of the Japanese Empire and sure death was the penalty for being one of them.

Why and how bphe came to Bauko, he did not tell me, but guerilla rose in those difficult years lived anywhere in the wilds of Northern Luzon.

Perhaps the dense mountain growths of the Cordillera ranges provided safe sanctuary for them. They were wanted by the Japanese forces for sure and once the were caught, they were herded like animals to a monkey house with grills and baked under the burning sun to be skinned alive or tortured to death by all kinds of painful methods as by bayonet thrusts, merciless clubbings and by water cure. Japanese soldiers were no better than barbarians in Marco Polo time.

"I had a co-guerillo by the name of Lacuasan," Father would recall. "This man Lacuasan was as my age and was a native of sturdy Kankanay stock. Most of the time he wore a g-string and was armed with a hatchet and a spear. He had a perfect physique, with bulging muscles throughout his whole anatomy -- easily he could have competed with Charles Atlas or Henry Liederman.

Lacuasan was a runner, a courrier, of the famed 66th Infantry, the guerrilla outfit composed of mountain tribes -- fierce-looking Kalingas and half-civilized Bontocs and Ifugaos, much-feared headhunters of the mountain provinces. Lacuasan was fast moving in spite of his size Climbing treacherous and slippery trails like a deer, he knew every bend and waterhole in the vast plateaus of Bauko.

The 66th Infantry was commanded by a greying American officer, Major Parker Calvert, a West Pointer, who refused to follow the surrender orders of General Wainwright following the fall of Corregidor.

It was Lakuasan who invited Father to his mountain clearing atop a lonely knoll in Bauko. The hut he owned was a small one, surrounded by a wide swath of camote patch; around the hut were chayote vines laden with fruits. Below the clearing was a picturesque valley where a meandering river curled it's way with water sparkling with foam and the pine trees roared when the north wind passed by.

"I believe you feel sad and lonely," Lacuasan told Father. Although Father carried a higher Rankin their outfit, Lacuasan simply called Father by his nickname, Andy. Father liked it that way.

There was evening when Father and Lacuasan spent their time keeping away the seeping cold and wetness of Bauko weather by sipping tapey, the homemade rice wine of the natives.

This liquor was made with fermented rice, sweet varietals of the upland strains, sprinkled with binubudan, powdered rice with crushed ginger and yeast. Some was fermented and brewed using sweet upland corn.

"Have you ever visited our ulog before, Andy?" Lacuasan asked, his eyes sparkling like two tiny stars. Father shook his head, his curly hair waving in the cool breeze like young bamboo swaying with the wind in an August storm. Father at the time looked like a Robinson Crusoe, marooned on a lonely island in the South Pacific. He had gone a year without a haircut and was looking shabby with a long beard that covered the contours of his mouth.

"Come," Lacuasan said, "let's pay a visit!" The ulog was a square matchbox construction of bamboo, wood, and cogon with no opening except for a door to one side and reached by a movable staircase used by the maidens of Bauko every night. Here these young unmarried girls would sleep. Young boys, barely in their teens, frequented the ulog in the evenings to express their love to the maidens whom attracted them the most. If the young girl favors a relationship, she'd invite the boy to come up where they'd sleep together using a common pillow made of hardwood as big as the girl's thigh.

Sexual contact was strictly forbidden and a boy had better think twice before making ungentleman like advances towards the girl he loves. Bauko's young men are well disciplined so that mashing and even kissing and petting are absolutely taboo.

Lacuasan had to brief Father before an encounter with the girl he planned to date overnight. At first, Father was uneasy because he was completely ignorant of the customs of the places. But, with much tapey in his blood, he regained his courage and bravado.

Young Filipinos, they say, are fast lovers and Father did not find it hard to start. That was how he came to meet Maila. To him, Maila appeared a different breed from the rest of the girls; she was clean and neat and properly dressed in the native costume. Her hair carried a special scent like the ilang-ilang flower nipped as a bud, and a carnation petal adorned her way brownish hair. Her skin was flawless, reddish-white, and she looked like a goddess standing atop a boulder caressed by the sweet mountain air.

Maila was a half-breed, American blended with Igorot blood. Before the Great Wr she was a senior in a high school ran by Belgian sisters in Baguio. She spoke English fluently with an accent, and it was not long before Father learned that this mountain beauty was indeed very bright and intelligent. Father also found out that she was a student writer, the editor of her school paper, The Baguio Breeze.

Father was deeply impressed during the first meeting with Maila. From the start, Father enjoyed her company because, besides being a good conversationalist, she was adept at literature and could recite pieces of classic poetry from Walt Whitman to Tagore. Father fell in love with Maila on that first evening, their very first encounter.

Maila laughed loudly when father proposed to her. "You're a lowlander," she said. "I hail from a land above the clouds. How can that be possible? Shal, I stoop so easily li,e a giant from the sky to love a man from a civilized world? I'm of Igorot stock, looked down on by you lowlanders."

"No, we can never meet, " she signed heavily. The dimples in her cheek sparkled like bonfire and were very attractive in my Father's sight. "You forget that we come from two different worlds, two different spheres."

A big lump in Father's throat rendered him speechless. He knew he loved Maila and nothing would keep him from loving her more He was the type who never ran from a fight. He came from a family of hardworking peasants, unafraid to face adversity or anything that taunted his pride, courage, and honor. Now was his chance to try his luck in love. Maila was the answer to his dreams and imagination.

"Love has no boundaries, Maila," Father replied, "No, not even gaps in culture, origin, heritage, creed, skin or social status are barriers to it." Maila stared at Father hard and long. She smiled shyly and Father understood that Maila loved him too. She then stood up and muttered, " Andy, here in Bauko, we possess a priceless tradition of honor. If a suitor defeats a girl in a selected competition then she is conquered. Tomorrow, as soon as the great sun rises in the east, challenge me to a race. We wil, run uphill." She pointed to a treeless hill not far from where they stood.

"I gladly accept your challenge, Father replied, his voice a little louder than usual.

The early morning was murky in Bauko. Thick fog enveloped Lacuasan's hut atop the knoll. All around, there was an endless sea of mist. In high spirits , Father trodden the dewy grass like a colt prancing in pasture. The sun shone metallic dull and it's faint beams peeped through a thin veil of mist in the eastern horizon. He stared at the sunflowers and carnations scattered in abundance over the slopes of the Bauko mountainsides.

Maila appeared suddenly at the base of the barren hill where the race was to be held. Lacuasan was to draw the starting line. Pulling his pistol from a leather holster tucked in his waist, he advised the competitors to be ready and with the bark of his gun they were to climb the hill as fast as they could.

When the gun barked, Maila darted towards the summit like a frightened deer, her legs appeared like rapid clogs spiking furiously upwards. Meanwhile, Father sped up like a jet hitting fist-sized boulders with lightening ferocity. Father knew he was exhibiting now his prowess in the century race back in his high school years when he romped away with a gold medal in the pre-war national athletic meet in Manila. The Bauko beauty gasped for breath but she was no match for the lowlander, this soldier of fortune who had drifted up to the Bauko highland to hide from Japanese hounds.

"I surrender to you, Andy," Maila calmly admitted, breathing hard. "I didn't know you were a sprinter for the first caliber." She knelt down to catch her breath.

"And so?"

"Of course, the jog is up and I am now yours," was the curt reply. That was how Father won the the heart of Maila. Gasping for breath, Father walked slowly towards her. Clutching her by the shoulders, he gazed into her eyes. They held hands as they ascended a promontory. At the summit stood a solitary pine tree casting it's shade over a clean boulder. Here they sat together.

The sun now shone clearly and resplendent. The flowers around them bid a joyous celebration. Lacuasan followed them and congratulated both victor and vanquished and to Father for winning the heart of the fastest girl in Bauko.

IN EARLY DECEMBER, a runner from Volckmann's headquarters up in Kapangan visited the two guerrilleros. He handed Father a field order instructing them to report to headquarters for further duty as the forces of General MacArthur were fast approaching the beaches at Lingayen. In January, the liberation forces tangled with the Japanese army everywhere in Luzon. The Allied Forces surrounded the enemy in the mountain provinces by placing the infantry divisions to route Yamashita's forces holed up in Kiangan. Father and Lacuasan returned to their respective outfits to join the bloody encounters with Japanese soldiers in Bessang, Lepanto, and Kayan, the last being but a stone's throw from Bauko. In late August, the Americans issues an ultimatum to Yamashita's forces to surrender. That after the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki where thousands of Japanese were killed by atomic bombs. Yamashita had to surrender unconditionally.

The GIs boarded the jeep with Lacuasan at the wheel. Father waved at the Bauko beauties as the jeep moved away. Maila and the others waved back. He caught Maila's eyes supplicating. She had not stopped crying since their hands parted in a muted farewell. Looking back once more, he thought he saw Maila's lips, parted, imploring him to return. But the jeep made a sharp turn at the fork in the road and they were met by a strong wind from the vegetable fields lining the road, accentuating the fact that the poblacion was already behind them.

With the surrender of the wily Tiger of Malaysia and his forces, after the last prisoners of war were settled in camps in the lowlands, Father and Lakuasan hurriedly left for Bauko for a brief respite. Maila and her friends arranged a homecoming celebration for the two soldiers. That night the moon was big and round and the cool Bauko air hovered over the schoolhouse where the lively event was to be held.

On a clear Sunday morning, after the sun had dissipated the thick fog enveloping the Bauko skyline, Maila and her friends stood in front of the schoolhouse to bid Father and Lacuasan goodbye. The two GIs had a new assignment somewhere in La Union.

"Of course, I shall return," Father calmly told Maila, clutching her cold hands tightly. His lips quivered and Maila, shaking with grief, placed a lei of fresh everlasting flowers over Father's neck. She was sobbing so hard as Father consoled hee by lightly patting her back.

This short story is authored by Yolanda V. Ablang taken from Ilocano Harvest (a collection of short stories in English by Ilocano Authors). Edited by Pelagio Alcantara and Miguel S. Diaz. Published by New Day Publishing, 1988, in Quezon City.

Photos are not mine, but taken from the Internet, including australianmuseum.net.au

Additional editing done by myself.

#philippines #ilocano #literature #womenwriters #heritage #mountains #lovestory #country #20th century #filipino #filipina #baguio

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ardania22 · 5 years

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The Chronicles of Geyron, Chapter 13: Druid’s Hollow

When last we left off, Kalann was reeling in the aftermath of Sparks’ death, but a nighttime talk with Laura seems to have settled his soul... for the moment, at least. Now, at last, the companions arrive at their destination, as the adventure continues!

(If you’re just tuning in, The Chronicles of Geyron is a fantasy novel I’ve been writing and revising for the better part of a decade. I’ll be posting a chapter a day to this blog, so follow along and let me know what you think! You can follow my updates in chronological order here.)

* * *

Makuran stood in a black room, blocked from all but him. In front of him, on a black pedestal, stood a golden orb, glowing with a reddish light. Makuran shivered. He’d been using this room for the entirety of his command, and it still gave him chills.

He took a deep breath. “Master, he is coming.”

A deep laugh echoed from the orb. Indeed, Makuran. I have sensed them. I doubted that Crast’s monster would be able to destroy his companions. His loyalty to them is too strong.

“It destroyed their wizard,” Makuran said. “I think that must count for something.”

Yes, and I commend Crast for that, Xaran’s voice rumbled. It will be easier to destroy them when they find you. But do not underestimate him.

Makuran shook his head. “He doesn’t know who he is yet. He won’t give us that much trouble.”

Do not judge him too swiftly, worthless one. He is unaware, yes, but his anger and despair will trigger it just the same. Break him first, before he gets the chance.

Makuran nodded. “I will.”

Good. A deep laugh echoed throughout the chamber. I am pleased with you, my servant. Your greatest challenge lies before you now. Do not fail me.

The voice fell silent and the crimson glow faded.

Makuran stared at the orb for a few more moments, relishing in Xaran’s praise. Then he stalked out of the dark chamber.

It was time to prepare. Once they arrived, they would wish they had never come.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon the next day when Kalann and his companions reached Druid’s Hollow.

A dip in the forest earth led down to a clearing absent of trees and rimmed with large stones, allowing the sun to shine down on the ground with all its glory. The place was a relic of a bygone age, when humanity was just beginning in Geyron. In those days, the people harnessed power from the earth, using it to survive in the untamed lands. The earth’s magic was a powerful tool that could tear open a crevasse or bless a tree with bountiful growth. The men who wielded it were known as druids, and they were legend among the earliest people. Enclaves like Druid’s Hollow were where such men convened, to share their experiences and connect with the earth’s beating heart.

As human civilization grew, they found ways of drawing the magic out and into the open air around them. Eventually, all the earth’s magic was released into Geyron’s atmosphere, allowing new forms to be discovered. Thus was the art of wizardry born, but it was paid for by the loss of the ancient earth power. The old enclaves vanished over time, and only the greatest of them, Druid’s Hollow, remained, as if the forest refused to give it up.

Kalann stepped out of the trees at the edge of the dip, blinking in the brightness. After so long under branches, it was good to feel the sun again. He felt refreshed after his talk with Laura the previous night, and he was ready for whatever the day would bring.

Two people were standing in the bottom of the dip, waiting for him. One of them raised an arm in welcome. “Hail, Kalann Sefu!” he called in a weary voice. “Welcome to Druid’s Hollow!”

Kalann smiled. “Hail!” he responded. Without waiting any longer, he took off down the slope, his companions close behind.

As Kalann skidded to a stop in the center of the hollow, he took a closer look at the people waiting for him. The first, the one who had hailed him, was a tall, elderly man with a short white beard. He was clad in a white habit, and he walked with an odd limping gait, as if from an old wound that refused to heal properly. The second was a young woman; about nineteen, Kalann guessed. She had short caramel-colored hair and a mottled brown tunic that echoed the forest around her.

The white-bearded man stepped forward. “I’m glad you’re finally here. My name is Evartan. This young lady here is my friend and companion Tenno.” Tenno gave Kalann a curt nod. Kalann made a mental note not to anger her; something about her demeanor suggested a bomb ready to burst at the slightest touch.

“Pleased to meet you both,” he said, gazing at both of them. “You see I brought some friends along as well. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

Evartan smiled lightly. “Not at all. We’ll need all the aid we can muster up.”

“I’m actually curious about that,” Faro cut in. “What, exactly, are we doing here?”

“Isn’t that the question?” Evartan said. The smile vanished from his face. “I wish I could give you an easy answer. But the truth is, Kalann Sefu, you’ve become part of something much larger than yourself.”

Kalann wet his lips. “Does this have anything to do with the Urts that destroyed our village?”

Evartan nodded solemnly. “The situation is dire, I’m afraid. The force that destroyed your home was only one faction of a much larger army. Even now, those monsters are marching across the eastern plains, razing everything in their path. It’s only a matter of time before they reach Wethelnar— and if Wethelnar falls, Geyron will soon follow.”

Kalann nodded grimly. “I feared as much,” he said. “But what makes you think I can help you? And how do you know so much about our foe?”

“I did say I didn’t have an easy answer,” Evartan said. He glanced back at Kalann’s companions. “Make yourselves comfortable. This tale will take some time to tell.”

At this line, the companions crowded around Evartan, listening intently. Satisfied that he had their attention, the old man continued. “As a child, I had everything one could want in this life. I had two loving parents, many friends, and a good education. Everything was about as blissful as can be. But then...” He paused ominously before continuing. “Then, when I was eight years old, my parents decided to have another child. When he came into the world, he was deformed, twisted, cursed with a gnarled left hand and a face that had the lines of old age. My parents were scared of him at first, but he was their son. So we named him Makuran, and he became my brother.

“Sadly, he grew up detesting the world around him. He detested his parents, who argued about his future constantly. He detested the land, which rejected him like a curse. And he detested me, whom he thought as useful as a giant insect. We tried to change his outlook on the world, but it was no use. In time, I grew into adulthood and left my little village to explore the world. Makuran stayed behind. I didn’t see him again for almost forty years.

“Eventually, as old age began to approach me, I decided to return and see what had become of my family in my absence. I learned that our old house had caught fire many years ago, and my parents had both perished in it. Shortly after, Makuran had vanished, and most people believed him to be living on his own in the forest, where there was no one to disturb him. As you might imagine, I was greatly saddened by this news, and resolved not to leave until I found out what had become of my brother.

“As it turned out, I didn’t need to wait long. The first day I set foot in the forest, he found me. He had grown old and wild in those forty years, but he was still my brother. Indeed, he offered to join me on a walk that very night. It was the first time he had ever expressed any kind of affection to me. I thought—” He choked on the memory, pausing before continuing. “While we were walking, we were ambushed by Urts. I had never seen them before, and I was not prepared for their assault. I was captured, my wrists bound and my mouth gagged. And all that time, as I was fighting to save myself, Makuran was watching me.” A dark expression came over his face. “And he was smiling.

“He told me that he had found a master, someone to give him a purpose for his wretched life. He renounced the land and promised to destroy it. I tried to make him see sense, but it was too late. He was already twisted beyond recognition by whatever fell power had seized him. I was captured, thrown into a prison beneath his lair at Darkwood Castle. For five years I rotted there, eating scraps and going insane every other day. Had I given into despair, I surely would have perished by now. But I clung to the knowledge that Geyron needed to be warned. And thus, I decided to escape.

“It was a long and desperate struggle, but I finally managed to escape my captivity and return to the land. They pursued me, but I can be quite invisible when I put my mind to it. It was then I met Tenno. She’d been living in the forest ever since—”

“Evartan, they don’t need to know about my personal life,” Tenno cut in. Kalann jumped; he’d almost forgotten she was there. Her voice was surprisingly mellow, but laced with a deep inner passion.

Evartan smiled. “Of course. Forgive me, I am not used to telling stories.”

He took a deep breath and continued on. “At any rate, it was Tenno who nursed me back to health and sanity after I escaped. Since then, we have been on the run, hiding from Makuran’s servants and trying to find a way to warn Geyron of the upcoming danger. We couldn’t find a way to complete our mission, as the Urts were waiting for us at every turn. We needed to warn you of what was to come, but Makuran was always one step ahead of me, preventing us from stepping into the light. Until we got our hands on a handful of magic trinkets from a hedge mage.” He laughed at the memory. “With a little well-placed arcana, we managed to outwit my brother and gain enough time for me to place that letter on your doorstep. Unfortunately, we forced his hand enough for him to launch his attack early. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I had to call you to action.”

He smiled, and Kalann saw a look of determination in the old man’s eyes. “When the Urts attacked your village, we knew that we couldn’t wait any longer. We set the note after the fighting was done and traveled to Druid’s Hollow under the cover of night. If there is a way to end this menace, my brother will certainly know. But if we are to wrest the information out of him, I’ll need your help.”

Kalann raised an eyebrow. “That just leaves one question, then. Why me?”

Evartan grimaced. “Throughout my imprisonment, I heard Makuran mention some sort of prophecy many times. When I escaped, I made sure I didn’t leave empty-handed.” He dug into the pocket of his habit and pulled out a yellowed scrap of paper. “I was lucky to find it as quickly as I did. This is the missing puzzle piece that I have yet to figure out. What do you think?”

Kalann took the paper from Evartan’s hand. Laura, Selia, and Faro clustered around him. “What does it say?” Laura asked.

Kalann held the paper up and read aloud. The ink was faded with age, but it was still legible.

In time of Geyron’s darkest hour

Deliverance comes to save us all.

Three evils rise, while one draws nearer

By hero’s hand, they rise or fall.

One with the hair of a raging storm,

One who wields the power of light,

One entwined with a wild soul,

One unseen like a shadow in night.

At last when all things seem to fail

And kingdoms draw their final breath

The three shall fuse back into one

And spark the war for life or death.

Kalann mused over the words. “So, something terrible is coming,” he said.

“Brilliant observation,” Tenno monotoned.

“But a hero will come to save the land,” Selia put in. “A hero with stormy hair, light magic… by the spirits, this is an incredibly specific prophecy.”

Kalann glanced up at Evartan. “Well, it’s not me. I certainly don’t have a ‘wild soul’, or stormy hair, or anything like that.” But he couldn’t help thinking of his mysterious powers of light that kept cropping up. Were they somehow connected to this prophecy?

“I am aware,” Evartan said. “But look on the other side.”

Kalann turned the paper over. Someone had scrawled on the back, in handwriting that was barely legible. Kalann read it, and his jaw dropped in shock.

Whoever finds this, I know you are a good man. These words only appear before those worthy of seeing them. What you hold in your hands must find its way into the possession of a very specific person. Who that is will depends on when this is found. If my magic stands strong, you shall know.

And engraved in the page slightly below that, as if scorched in by a precise flame, were two words: Kalann Sefu

“Wow,” Faro said, gazing over the page. “What kind of magic can do that?”

“I wish I knew,” Evartan said. He pulled the paper out of Kalann’s hands, tucking it away in his habit. “No, Kalann Sefu, you are not the hero the prophecy speaks of. But for whatever reason, its founder decided that you must be the man to know it. I suspect Makuran was trying to determine the prophecy’s secret for himself but couldn’t get past this powerful magic. And if Makuran was so intent on finding you, then I think it’s important we find out what he has to say.”

In spite of himself, Kalann smiled. After so long being uncertain about the land’s fate, this mysterious man had given him a purpose. “Well,” he decided aloud, “I suppose we can put off returning to Pailan for a bit longer. Is everyone with me?”

As one, his friends called out their approval (Faro typically yelling at the top of his lungs). Kalann turned back to Evartan. “We’re in.”

“Excellent,” Tenno said, finally breaking into a smile of her own. “I’ve been looking forward to the day we roast this bastard.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Evartan said, turning his gaze eastward. “We have a duty to fulfill.”

#fantasy #fiction #writing #the chronicles of geyron #geyron #geyron novel #kalann sefu #laura #faro #selia #makuran #evartan #tenno

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