Wayawaya

Author: F. Sionil José or in full Francisco Sionil José (born December 3, 1924) is one of the most
widely read Filipino writers in the English language. His novels and short stories depict the
social underpinnings of class struggles and colonialism in Filipino society. José's works written
in English - have been translated into 22 languages, including Korean, Indonesian, Russian,
Latvian, Ukrainian and Dutch. 0 The The first time Dayaw crossed the river, he felt fulfilled, as if
he had finally passed the greatest test of all. It was so unlike that leap over the flaming pit the
feat of strength that would have assured his father, the Ulo, that he was no weakling, that in
spite of his seeming indolence and love of poetry and singing, he was capable nonetheless of
courage as were the bravest warriors of Daya. All his life he had been cooped up like the pigs
his mother fattened in the pit before they were taken out for the feasts. Daya, after all, was
hemmed in to the east by the sea, vast and mysterious, and to the west, this mighty river, for
beyond it was forest and mountain, land of the Laga Laud, the ancient and indomitable enemy
of his people. He had made the crossing at night after he had blackened his face and body with
soot, carrying with him nothing but a coil of maguey twine and his long knife, he had dashed
from the cover of reeds near the river's bank, for while Apo Bufan showed the way, it would also
reveal him to whoever watched the river. Days afterwards, he tried to fathom the reasons for the
deed, why he went alone, and for what. For one the river was there, a barrier to knowledge of
new things, new sights, and perhaps a new life. He was, indeed, aglow with wanting to know;
how many times he had mused, gazing at the changing cloud patterns in the sky, the shapes of
the waves as they broke and foamed on the beach, the track of ants, the wheeling of birds they
all seemed to follow a design that could not know what lay beyond the river and the sea without
crossing them. Once, he climbed the lofty dalipawen at the edge of the communal farms and as
if he was on some promontory, he scanned the world around him the shining sea in the east and
beyond the green, mangy top of the forest, far down the horizon to the west, the mountains,
purplish green in the last light of day. He envied those who lived there for they could see
everything. Was it possible for them to know everything as well? Wading across the river in the
dry season was not difficult; there were islands of reeds and upturned trees ragged down from
the mountains with their catch of moss of dried leaves, and clear pools where there would be
silverfish and shells. This was how it felt then, to ford this limit of what was safe. From the very
beginning, it was dinned to him, and to all the young Taga Daya to cross the river meant going
to war. The first time he came to this river was when he was thirteen and was with some twenty
boys of the same age; they had marched for one day and one night, in anxiety and fear, for they
had no warriors to protect them but this old, shriveled healer who made this journey every year.
They had been taught stealth and cunning, and once they entered the forest beyond the
cultivated fields and cogon wastes, it was possible for the enemy to be lurking there. They were
not warriors they would be hog-tied and brought to Laud as slaves. For a day, they walked
without eating and by the morning of the next day, when they finally reached the river, they were
weak, hungry and ready to die. Only the fear of capture kept them alive. There, on the sandy
bank, behind the tall reeds that had flowered with plumes of dazzling white, they lined up,
squatting while the healer sharpened his knife and prepared the strange mixture of tobacco and
weeds with which he treated their wounds after he had circumcised them. He was now on his
third night and the relentless sense of danger that hounded him was no longer as keen as it had
been on the first, particularly when a dog had howled and a man had come out with a lighted
pine splinter and a spear, wondering perhaps what lizard was out there after hi chickens. He
had slithered into the recesses of the bush and returned afterwards. He knew the tow by then,
and in the waning moonlight, he stole away from it, detoured through terraces in th mountains,
then down to the forest of scrub and cogon, making a new way each time. It was still dai when
he reached the river. He had already satisfied most of his curiosities, heard their songs, the
conversations. He had looked at their handiwork, their fields of sweet potato and rice, and
marveled at the quality of their crafts. He returned to the cove which was actually a small turn of
the river that was hidden by a wall of low branches. Within it was a pool that was fed by a spring
and beyond the spring, up a sandy bar, was a sprout of cogon behind which he had slept the
night before. He had taken care that there was no trace of him in the sand so that when he went
to the spring to drink, he had wiped out his tracks carefully. Now he went to sleep, and once
rested, he would merely race across the river to the sanctuary of his own land. It was long past
morning when he woke up, alive to the twitter of birds, the jabber of monkeys, the scent of moss
and green living things. He lay on his back motion less for some time, gazing at the
cloud-flecked sky. It was then that a rustling to his right jarred him from his reverie; he keened to
the footfalls on the grass and dried leaves. Whoever was approaching was not trying to hide his
presence. Then he burst into view, a girl lovely as morning and just as fair, her hair knotted to
the left above her ear. A fine, blue tattoo of flower designs ran in a thin line down her arms to
her wrists. She knelt down before the rim of the pool and gazed at her reflection there, then
stood up, untied the knot of her blue sack dress on her shoulder and let it slip down to her feet.
She stood naked and true and beautiful, her face upraised to such a bit of sun, her breasts and
nipples touched with pink. Her stomach was flat and below the patch of pubic hair, her legs were
supple well shaped; she stooped and untied the thongs of her leather sandals then she walked
nimbly into the water, shivering at first as she tested it with her toe. Then she plunged and
splashed about. She dived to the shallow depths an in the clear water, he could follow her
lissome figure turning, then surfacing to float on her back, so that her breasts were shiny with
water and sun. Dayaw watched, keeping cats keen; he wanted to know if she had companions
but he could hear only the rustle of the wind in the trees, the gurgling of the river as it coursed
through boulders and shallows. He had stashed across the river an iron plowshare, a piece of
newly woven cloth, a quiver iron tipped arrows. Now, he would also bring home a slave-healthy,
young and good to look at. With her sandals, her bangles of gold, she was no simple peasant;
she must come from the upper class of Laud. His agile mind quickly devised a way by which he
could capture her with her least resistance and trouble. It seemed that she would swim forever
but finally, she made for her clothes. By then, Dayaw had crouched closer to her things and as
she stooped to gather them, he rushed out and pinned her arms, clamping a band over her
mouth. That was a mistake for she bit his hand; the pain was sharp and his response was
immediate. He spun her around and struck her in the jaw. There was this dumb, surprised look
on her face as she staggered backwards and fell. Dayaw bound her hands and feet, and
gagged her mouth. He gathered her clothes, her sandals, then erased the signs of struggle on
the sand. And heaving her on his shoulders, he headed for the river. It did not matter very much
that he would cross now in the daylight; if they pursued him, he could easily outrace them, and
once he was in the sanctuary of his forest, it was a brave man who would follow him. Once or
twice, while he was knee-deep in the water, he turned to look, and again when he was finally
across, no one had seen him. Once across, he laid her on the grass, still naked, while he went
back to the water to wash the soot of three days from his face and body. When he returned, she
had revived and she cringed at his approach. "You are heavy!" Dayaw said, smiling. "And look
at my hand-you little wildcat!" He waved his right hand which had begun to swell, he. teeth
marks deeply imprinted still below the thumb. She made angry protesting sounds, shaking her
head. She tried to rise but when she realized it was useless to struggle, she did not move
anymore. In the sunlight, looking closer at her, she seemed fairer and prettier than when he first
sa her. That was what the Taga Laud women were noted for, unlike the women of Daya, who
had dark skin. "You are good for the eyes," Dayaw said, moving closer and tweaking her
nipples. She glared. him but did not move and very soon the nipples hardened. Pleased with
himself, Dayaw smiled. "If you promise not to make trouble," he said with a laugh, "I will give
you back your clothes." She nodded quickly. "We have a long way to go a long day's march, and
I don't want to carry you." He helped her to her feet and as she stood up, he realized that she
was tiny, she did not even reach up to his shoulder. He went beside her and ran a hand down
the curve of her back to her buttocks. Then he untied her hands and feet. Free at last, she
stretched her arms and stamped her feet. She picked the sack dress up and put it on. When she
looked at him again, entreaty was in her eyes. "Yes, I will hit you again," he said, raising his fist,
"if you cannot be tamed. And I don't want to do that." Shortly before midday, he found the water
tubes, the dried meat and the cakes of brown sugar that he had hidden under the trunk of the
dead tree. He ate ravenously and when he was through, he gave her a little of what was left.
She was hungry, and thirsty, too, but she refused what he offered her. Dayaw shrugged, "if you
don't want to eat, then march on an empty stomach." By nightfall, she still had not spoken a
word. Her jaw had begun to swell and he wondered if he had hit her so hard that her tongue had
been cut. In the dimming light, he held her face. She winced. "Open your mouth," he said, but
she refused. He glared at her and raised his fist. Slowly, she opened her mouth. No, her tongue
was not cut and her breath was warm and sweet like a baby upon his face. He gazed at the
sullen eyes, at the mouth, the nose; yes, he really had a good-looking slave, perhaps better
looking than any of the young women he know, even Liwliwa with whom he already spent many
nights. They reached the gulley where saplings grew and at this time of the year, the gulley was
dry. He told her to recline against a sapling. He tied her hands behind the young tree and then
her feet. It was not that he feared treachery; it was that she might run away and be captured by
another Taga Daya and he would then lose all claims to her. She seemed resigned and not once
did he protest. The dark came quickly. Fireflies emerged from the tall grass and winked at them.
The stars were out; would be some time before the rains came. He was tired but sleep was slow
in coming. He turned on his side. She was leaning against the tree, her legs raised. In the soft
dark, he could see the outline of her face in quiet repose. "What is your name?" She did not
answer. "I am Dayaw," he said, "the older son of the Ulo. My younger brother, Parbangon, will
be circumcised before the rains start. Do you know any Laud songs?" No reply. "I like to sing. I
make my own songs. Listen." He quickly formed the lines and gave a tune to them: "The river is
deep But we can ford it. Who will make the bridge? Perhaps love will do it. Perhaps time will
prove it..." He paused, "do you like it?" The pensive face was immobile, the eyes closed as if in
thought. "You don't like music," he said, "you silly girl, going there alone and so far away from
home. What were you doing there by yourself, anyway?" he paused and laughed, "well, you
may just as well ask what was I doing there, too." Silence again, the soughing of the wind in the
grass, crickets alive in the bushes. "It was Apo Langit that brought me there, that brought you
there. It was Apo Langit that made you my slave." For an instant, he vanquished the thought; he
was not going to use the force, she should go to him because she wanted to the way Liwliwa
wanted him. And it was Liwliwa and her promise of welcome that was in his thoughts when
sleep finally claimed him. In the morning, he was rudely wakened and when he opened his
eyes, he realized that she had kicked him, not in anger but because she was in pain. She had
slipped, twisted her back and could not rise. He stood up and looked at her wrists: they were
swollen. He was determined to teach her obedience, to humble her, but the pain in her face
touched him and he untied the twine that aboun her wrists. She quickly withdrew her hands from
behind her. He untied her legs next and free at last. She stood up and limped to the bushes
down the gulley. He did not go after her...she was going t urinate but when she did not return, he
followed her. She was lying on her stomach on the grass an crying silently. Then she turned to
him. "Why don't you kill me and let me suffer no more?" It was tl first time that she had spoken
and he understood everything; but for the different intonation, she wa speaking in her own
tongue. "You are in our own land now," he said coldly "You are a captive, a slav and you will be
killed, of course if you try to run away. You know that. Your life is in your hands." Then abruptly,
as a warrior would speak: "Let us go." She stood up and followed him quickly. Before noon, they
reached the fringes of Daya, the well-groomed fields that were being prepared for the seed. His
first impulse was to do what was customary, to strip her, parade her through the town and
humiliate her. The swelling of her jaw was subsided and its place was a dark bruise. Her wrists
had bled when the twine was cut. But he did not undress her; he merely tied her wrist again, this
time loosely, and then marched her in town. Thinking about it later, he was to realize why he did
not want her naked. He had seen her in her glory; he covered her and did not want others to
see her as he had seen her then. Out of their houses, where they were cooking the noon day
meal, came the women, the children, and the menfolk who were not working in the fields or at
the beach. The children gathered around her, fingering her dress, touching her bangles and
jeering at her. Her head erect she looked straight ahead as she walked but her eyes were
frightened and once or twice she stumbled. "Dayaw that is some trophy!" "Can she cook?" "Can
she weave?" "Can she gyrate her hips?" "Is she juicy and tight?" They shrieked and laughed
and Dayaw laughed with them, acknowledging their greetings, pleased that they knew where he
had been, proud that they could see his slave and also the new quiver, the piece of cloth slung
on his shoulder and the plowshare under his arm. He let the day lengthen though courtesy
demanded that she should have gone straight to the Ulo, his father, or tell him that he was back.
He had not told anyone where he was going, not even Parbagon who often came to his house
to listen to his songs and his kutibeng. Liwliwa came shortly after noon with a bowl of eggplants,
and bitter melons cooked with tomatoes, onions and dried fish, and a pot of rice. Her hair was
glossy with coconut oil, and while he reclined after they had eaten she kneaded his muscles
with oil and stirred him; and while the slave girl washed the pots outside, she closed the
bamboo door and welcomed him in the way he had expected it. When he woke up, Liwliwa had
gone his slave was in the room, fanning with him a small palm leaf. He showed her where she
should sleep, a corner of the kitchen, among the fish traps and cooking pots, and told her what
her chores would be, from sunup to sundown. She listened intently. Women passed and
peeped, and children who had not seen her earlier shouted obscenities to her. "Now, what
should I call you?" he asked, as he made ready to visit the Ulo. "Waywaya," she said, bowing.
He could see that she was crying again and he hated the sight of women in tears. At this time of
day, the Ulo would be in the community house, acting out his duties, dispensing advice and help
to those who needed it, allocating seed rice for the next planting season as well as new plots to
be cleared and new duties. Dayaw loved his father and had not meant to appear disobedient,
but through the years, his interest has veered; while the other youths would listen to the talk of
the elders, he got bored and would go by himself to the forest or to the beach. He was no
weakling, but while the other youths practiced the arts of war and exercised for the great leap
that would transform them into men, he played with his kutibeng and took pleasure in
composing new songs. When the great feast came, he was not even anxious. They had lighted
the wide pit and the hay and the logs there were a roaring flame. They lined up the young men
who would now be warriors, and one by one, they leaped across the chasm of fire. They had
practiced and he had not and when it was his turn, he started to panic for he now realized that
the pit was wider than he thought it would be. He ran an.. leaped just the same and barely made
it to the other side; he had burned his foot-the stigma that his father would bear - but he thought
nothing of it. The final test, after all, was when the warrior crosse the river. He had done that,
been in Laud for three nights, and what did he learn? Were the warrio of Laud all that skilled and
ferocious? Were they out to destroy Daya and everything his father ar his people had built? This
was what his father had told him and all Tag-Daya; he had heard this whe he was small, and
again when he trained and he still heard it now that the Ulo had begun to age an a few strands
of white laced his mane. Still, he was the Ulo, the repository of wisdom and strength until that
time when someone braver, stronger and wiser would lead them to battle. The community
house came into view- a magnificent structure as tall as a bamboo, with a high-pitched roof that
was almost an arm's length in thickness, so thick that it could last a hundred years! The flooring
was solid parunapin, taken from the forest and drawn across the gullies by water buffaloes. The
bamboo on the walls had been tempered in brine so that all the insects would not be able to
attack it. The posts- almost as fat as a man's thigh, were the best sagat there was. And above
the walls, just below the eaves were the skulls of their enemies, impaled on rattan staves. He
waited until everyone had gone, then the Ulo beckoned to him. His dark, handsome face was
shrouded in gloom. "Do you know that had you not returned today, tomorrow we would have
dispatched men to Laud to look for you?" "Forgive me, Father," Dayaw said contritely. "Well,
how far did you go?" "I crossed the river, Father." He wanted to say more but he held back. "And
what else did you do?" "I wanted to know the enemy..." "That is a foolish thing to do, going there
alone, with no one behind you. And this girl..." Dayaw smiled. "She is wildcat but I can tame her.
I will know more about Laud from her. But this I already know the Taga Laud - they are like us
and I think they want peace." "So do we," the Ulo said. "But time has a momentum and we must
be ready for war. Always. And you don't prepare for war by reciting poetry and going on an
adventure by yourself..." Again, the sarcasm. The Ulo did not hide it anymore, his frustration that
his older son, bright with tunes and words and wise in his own way did not have any Feeling for
combat, for politics, for the craft of ruling. He was getting on in years and to whom would he
pass this accumulated wisdom and experience? Dayaw, his son, his blood, but he had been
claimed by the talisman of forest and sea when it was all before him, the opportunity to rule, to
unite, conquer not just land but also the many regions beyond Daya, the lands of Abagatan and
Amianan. When Dayaw was still young he had looked upon the Ulo with awe; it had pleased
him to know that his father was a leader, respected and loved, that it was he who led the
warriors and had given the taga Daya a sense of unity their best defense against their enemies
which had eluded them for years. With the years, however, he had also seen the panoply of
power and of ceremony that had consumed the Ulo, that for all his avowals of justice, he was
not beyond the reach of fawning relatives and panderers. He could not understand how in a
year of drought his mother could still go down the far reach of Amianan bringing with her a
retinue of friends, honey and rice in two boatloads, and return with nothing but beads and
gushing talk about lavish feasts given by the rich and powerful whom she had met. He could not
understand how his mother's brother continue in blessed idleness while everyone worked, how
his father could hand over grain from the communal granary to his favorite warriors who had not
even fought in Laud. There were times when the people grumbled and had less to eat but the
Ulo had brought them peace, the right to work and live without the Taga Lau.. descending from
the mountain to badges their lives. "The war must stop, Father," he said quietly. "And you took
slave," the Ulo hissed at him, "This means that they will seek revenge." His father was right and
again, he was clobbered not by superior intelligence but by his ow impulsiveness. If he had only
carefully thought out the consequences of the deed. And thinking about it later, he recognized
this magic compulsion about Waywaya that he could not exorcise. Again, it came to him not as
a flash of lightning but just as scaring, the knowledge that his perdition was in himself. He went
down the wooden stairs into the wide grassy yard once more; the urge to leave Daya came.
How often had he thought about it, but always he seemed rooted in the land. When the ships of
the Narrow Eyes docked at the stone pier which they had built from coral, he had often
wondered if they could take him so that the niggling doubts, the nagging sentiments would be
banished forever. However, after the Narrow Eye had loaded the tobacco and the rice in
exchange for knives, plates and beads, they would leave and he would not even tarry to ask
that they take him. It was dusk when he reached his house and from the distance he saw
Parbangon idling at the foot of the stairs strumming the kutibeng. His younger brother would
probably be with him the whole night, asking a host of questions, listening to his new songs.
Waywaya kept house. Liwliwa sneered at her and envied her for she was doing what she,
herself, would have wanted to do had Dayaw but asked her. She said Waywaya would not be
able to last; her ways, her attitudes were different and all because she was from Laud. The older
women made the same remarks she was alien to the ways of Daya. But in time, all the pots in
the kitchen were clean of soot, the firewood rack below the house was neatly slacked and there
was always husked grain in the bin. The grass roof was patched where it had thinned and
where the rattan twines on the floor had loosened, she had tightened it so that the split bamboo
was once more taut and secure. Waywaya asked if she could weave and Dayaw retrieved one
of the old looms his grandmother had left, and there was enough cotton too and vegetable dye
which she mixed in a way different from the women of Daya. She did not use the patterns from
where she came; she fashioned new ones, using the primary reds and blacks of the Taga Daya
and in time, she made trousers for Dayaw, for Parbangon and last of all, a dress for herself.
There were many nights that Dayaw did not sleep in his house, he loitered often in the
communal house for the unmarried, and when the weather was good, he would go to the beach
or the fields with Liwliwa. And when he returned in the morning, there was the usual plate of
steaming rice, the bowl of ginger broth which she had brewed, the perfunctory questions about
how the night had been, if he slept well, and inevitably, how Liwliwa was. Once, he woke up in
the night with a parched throat and he went to the water jar for a drink. She was awake and sat
up. In the dark, he went to her and for a moment he wanted to touch her. There was no stopping
him; she was his property, but he remembered the past impulsiveness that had been his
damnation and he withdrew, hissing to himself. Lightning! Lightning! It was a good year; the rice
grew tall. Apo Langit had been kind and the harvest had been abundant. By the time the
easterly winds began to blow, the fields had all been gleaned, the bat wing ships of the Narrow
Eyes were rounding the point again; they brought more jars and plates, more bells and gongs.
The slaves were even given new clothes, some were set free, but they selected to remain to
partake of Daya's peace and prosperity. A good year, but not for Waywaya. She had her first
horrible bout with fever before the harvest and though Parbangon came and prepared
marunggay broth for her, the fever worsened. Dayaw made an offering to Apo Daga;
apprehensive and frightened, he placed the bowl of glutinous rice with hard boiled eggs in the
corner where she slept. The fever did not leave till a few days afterwards and she was still weak
when sh got up to do her work. She was friendly; she smiled at all whom she met and to
Dayaw's people and friends, she showed obeisance and respect. He was convinced, though
she never admitted it, that he bearing was noble, but why, why did she go to the river? She told
him afterwards that she was curiou that she would have crossed the river, too, if only she was
made to run swiftly like a deer, that sh had gone up the mountain often and looked at creation
spread before her, the forest and the pla and beyond, the river emptying into the sea. He finally
took her there on a night when the surf was rough, a night without stars. At first, she was scared
but he held her hand. Together they breasted the surf as it collapsed on them until they got to
where it was calm and the water was up to their shoulders when it heaved. He thought he could
soften her loneliness if he explained, although he did not have to. "It is what you remind my
people of, not what you are...." he told her. In the soft dark, her eyes shone, the grateful smile.
She chose to be elusive "Don't worry," she said. "I can belong anywhere, I can even be across
the sea although I don't know what is there...." "But the greatest unknown, one that we can
never get into, is the mind of other people," Dayaw said. She was not meant to do all that work,
to bear all those insults. She had become very thin and one afternoon, in the month when the
rains were to come again, Dayaw came upon her at her weaving, the shuttle unmoving in her
hands. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Dayaw was engulfed by the pity and compassion he
had felt for her from the very start. In the morning, he prepared long provisions for the long walk:
dried meat, rice cooked in coconut milk, salt and sugar, and the tubes of water. He told her to
gather her things, nothing really but her old dress, the buffalo skinned sandals that were almost
frayed and the length of fabric that she had woven. They left Daya before light broke upon the
land and late the following day, they finally reached the river. All through the night, he had been
quiet and now, looking at her moving quietly, a great sadness filled him. He was taking her back
and he wanted to go as far as it was possible, to cross the river with her, so he waited for
darkness, until the stars swarmed out of the sky. Once, she slipped over a mossy boulder and
he reached out to steady her and her grasp firm and warm. They reached the curve at the other
side, and as he had planned, headed for the cove where he had found her. After they had eaten
the cold rice and the dried meet and drank from the pool, she laid on the sand the piece of cloth
she had woven and they lay down. He slept easily, and at the first sliver of light, he woke up to
find that she was still beside him. He watched her, the slow rise of her breast, her parted lips,
and her closed eyes. Then she stirred. "I had expected you to leave in the night," he said. "Well,
you know why we are here. I have caused you harm and sorrow. Also, I did not do right from the
beginning, I know that now." He rose, unsheathed the knife at his side and handed it to her
without ceremony. "You can have your revenge now," he said simply. Her eyes widened in
amazement, in wonder. She fell on her knees, hugged his legs then kissed his feet, "Dayaw, I
belong to you," she murmured. That was how it really began. Back in Daya, in the mornings
when dew was still glistening on the grass and cooking fires still sent grey smoke trailing, above
the houses, he would rise to find that she already had food for him. She would hover silently
around, waiting for his every whim to express itself. The first time was a revelation; she had
gone with him to gather firewood in the communal forest beyond the fields; it was to be their fuel
for many rainy season and she had balanced a heavy load on her head and his own load was a
pole slung over his shoulder. The day was warm and beads of sweat were on her nape like
pearls. They were about to break through into the clearing and he was tired so he brought his
load down and helped her to bring her bundle down, too. She was close to him and could smell
her warm body, her hair. He drew her to the shadow of a great tree; she met his gaze without
fear, without pretense. It was as if she had expected this moment, too, and with one deft pull at
the knot on he. shoulder, she let her dress drop so that she stood before him as he had seen
her for the first time, only now there was no anxiety, no fear in her eyes. She was not as
experienced as Liwliwa and ther was this unspoken demand that he teach her, but for the
moment he knew only his need, the fire th must be quenched and when it was, he lay on his
back, his breathing quiet and slow. The sun filtere through the leaves above them. She lay
beside him, unmoving, while his hand stroked her smoot flat belly. "I hope I did not hurt you," he
said afterwards. "I will be better next time," she said "I al sorry I don't know too well how to
please you. And no one but you will teach me." She still slept in the kitchen except on those
nights when he called her in, but after two months, when she was finally sure, Dayaw forbade
her to sleep there for always. That morning, before the men went to the fields or put out to sea,
he put on the robe that she had woven and she slipped into her old Laud dress, and on her
head a garland of kalachuchi that Parbangon had made. Then they went down the steps, bright
with happiness. Parbangon walked ahead of them, blowing on the buffalo horn, the shrill blasts
echoing in the morning quiet. They walked hand in hand, first, to the farthest end of town, close
to the sea, and the people peered out of their windows or paused in their yards to watch them.
The young men smiled, but none of the girls greeted them. Liwliwa had done her words more
than that, she had cursed them. Their march around the town ended in his father's house beside
the community hall. They passed at the bottom of the flight while Parbangon blew at the horn
again and again. The Ulo came out, his face glum and with a wave of his hand, he forbade his
younger son to continue the bleating. To Dayaw, he said with a slow shake of his venerable
head: "Now" more in sadness than in anger "Dayaw, you will never be Ulo" "But I will be happy,
Father," Dayaw said, looking straight at his father. Within the house, his mother was waiting; she
shared her husband's sorrow and she must have wondered what terrible deed of hers had
displeased Apo Langit. And that evening when Waywaya came with her offering of rice and
coconut milk, Pintas accepted both, but in the presence of her daughter-in-law, she emptied the
pots into the pit where her pigs were. Hate this was the strongest and rawest of feelings that
bound people together and it was hate, Dayaw knew, that made the Taga Daya regard
Waywaya and now, himself, with derision. And how did this feeling start? How did it take root? It
was in the fears and insecurities of his own people and it was the Ulo his father who knew how
to use hate. It was he, his family and his family's relatives and friends who benefited from the
largesse that hatred created. Indeed, without hate and fear, the Ulo would not have been able to
shape Dayaw into the fortress that it had become. But at what cost? Knowing this, Dayaw often
wondered how it would be if he fled to the deeper forest. Such a flight was a wish that he
sometimes played in his mind, imagined himself starting out, clearing the land with his bare
hands, planting the crops on a patch that the wilderness would constantly encroach upon. The
labor would be severe and the vigil constant. How to watch over the field, protect it from wild
pigs, marauding deer and rats and no fence would really keep away the wild buffaloes and when
the grain was ripe, there would be the birds. How much simple it would be if he just stayed and
moved with the daily rhythm that his father had decreed. Here, there was a community, order,
certitude the finality that would assure him and everyone not only of their place but of their
destiny. How was it in other lands? Hate and injustice were everywhere and he himself had
contributed to the inequity of things. Look at what you have done to Waywaya: you do not love
her, you merely possess her. You are as guilty as your father, as your warriors who have
ambushed and maimed that Taga Laud. And in the evenings, when he strummed his kutibeng
and sang, the words were sad. Waywaya understood. "Why are you unhappy?" she asked.
"Because you are." "With you I am always happy." "And when I am no longer here?" "I'll stand
by myself," she said. He shook his head. He had made up his mind; he would speak to the Ulo
again, find out how they could clear the dust that had suffocated them. He formed clearly and
sharply the thoughts that he would express.

Our tools are lined with the skulls of our enemies and they do not evoke their ghosts t rampage
in our midst they don't disturbed our sleep for the skulls of our loved ones and they are there
without honor. What has war has brought us? Women wailing when they should be singin How
much blood has been spilled? It was not used to water the crops, quench our thirst, or wash th
dirt from our bodies. And the flesh of our enemies we did not fill our stomachs with it, or make th
fields fertile with it. Who knows what they who fell before our lances could have achieved, wh
offspring they would have sired, what clearings they would have made? All this is for the mind
guess, for the death that we bestowed unto them is final. They walk slowly on the beach, the
waves to their right dappled with moon silver. It was a quiet night interrupted by the sounds of
children playing in the moonlight, the howling of dogs; the planting season would soon set in,
still no avenging warriors from Laud, still no tear in the fine fabric of peace. "They are afraid," the
Ulo said, "They cannot penetrate the wall of our determination. And if they come, will they be
fast enough to flee to their sanctuary, to escape our hound dogs? Then you ask, why are we
strong?" Dayaw stared at the waves breaking on the surf with a murmur. "Nature has been on
our side Father," he said. "Not just nature," the Ulo was exuberant "We know our past, we don't
repeat its mistakes. That, too, is tradition." "The past could also be a prison, Father," Dayaw
said. "You always look back, not ahead. Do you know that across the river, they are cooking not
with earthen pots but with copper? They have kilus better than our, not for making pots but for
melting metals. And they have beeswax and mountain dyes. Hardwood. And their spears..."
"Our bamboo spears are lighter, easier to throw." "Their spearheads are better." "We fight in
groups, we eat rice - not camotes." "They have lowland rice, too, and they use water from the
spring.." The Ulo was silent. Dayaw continued eventually. "We have to change, Father. To be
where we are, we have to change..." "That is the law of life," the Ulo said. "You are not telling
me anything." "Change not war." "War that is part of change. And however you may detest it,
with war we have become prosperous. And I have worked very hard..." "We have worked very
hard." "And now, our seed is the best in the land. Our water buffaloes are the strongest. We
used our knowledge to breed, not just plants, but animals..." "And people?" "Don't speak like
that to me." "You wanted Liwliwa for my wife." "Her father is powerful and..." "The way Mother's
father was powerful..." "Yes, and everything we do should contribute to Daya, to our unity, our
progress... Even our leisure. Our weaving, our pottery..." "The Taga Laud have better..." "That is
not the test. A people survives not because of its pots. It survives, endures because it has a
will..." "And who provides the will, Father? The leaders?" "Yes!" The Ulo ignored the remark.

"She has also helped the weavers, sold what they made, improved their designs. And the
carvers. Ha.. there been any time that out crafts have been so encouraged? We don't rely any
more on the bowls. and plates that the Narrow Eyes bring from across the sea. Soon we will be
firing our kilns and makir- plates just as beautiful......" He had heard it all before and he would
hear it again. But what is truth? Dayaw had asked himse many times but could not find the
answer except that he believed what he felt and saw, the sunri: that glad denied him, the wind in
the bamboo, the smell of new rice, of meat crackling in the ope fire. And now Waywaya the
scent of her hair, the warmth and softness of her being - he would not be leader now, with her
as his wife. "Parbangon is growing like bamboo shoot, Father," Dayaw said, divining his father's
thoughts. "And he is already taking after you" "He must know poetry, and music, too. He will be
a complete man." Then Dayaw said it. "So he will be the leader. Father. What I cannot be. But
Waywaya at least, you can be kind to her." "She is Taga Laud," the Ulo said sadly. "She is my
wife. And her baby..." he said this slowly "our baby, he will have your blood, Father!" He
marvelled at the miracle of life in her belly, felt its first stirring. With eyes shining, she had told
him of her deepest wish that the child become truly happy and not given to gloom because of
her. Dayaw watched her go through the phases, the first three months during which she
hankered for oranges, for chicken as only the Taga Laud could cook, but when it was cooked its
blood coagulated with its flesh she would have none of it. She became emaciated and he
worried about her health; he gathered water buffalo milk, lots of fish. But why did she have to
die? O Apo Langit, O Apo Daga all of you who shape the course of time and the destiny of men,
what wrong has she done? He had watched her bleed; he could not staunch the flow and there
was no healer who would come. "Waywaya you have son!" he cried and she looked at him and
smiled, then slowly, ever so slowly, she closed her eyes. He took his son and hastened to his
father's house. "You have a grandson, Mother," he told Pintas who met him at the stairs. "And
the slave whom all of you loathed don't regard your feelings to her anymore. She is no longer
among us." The traces of beauty were still on her face. "It is not my fault, child of mine. It's fate,"
Pintas remonstrated. "I am not blaming anyone." Dayaw said. "Not even fate. But promise me,
Mother, raise my son to love his mother as I have always loved you." "And why do you say
this?" "I have a duty to do, Mother. I'll not be there to watch him grow..." It was then that the
immensity of what he was saying struck her. She shrieked an animal cry of surprise and grief
that brought the Ulo to the house. To him, Pintas fled, her face contorted with fright. "Stop him,
my husband. He does not have to do it. She was not one of us!" "What foolishness is this" his
father asked. "Must you spite me? Whatever it is that I have done, I did because you are my
blood and I want you honored..." "I do not seek honor, Father." "You have already shown that.
But now, I want you alive, whatever your faults, whatever your weaknesses." "Tradition, Father.
We have to live up to it. You said that." "Don't throw it back to me like spoiled meat..." "But I
believe in tradition, too, Father. This you never understood. There are traditions we must uphold
because they are not just for us they are for all people..." The Ulo was silent. "How many
seasons passed that she was without honor among my people? But I can honor her now.”

"Then live with dishonor!" the Ulo screamed at him. "For me! Now!" He went forward and
embraced his father, tears scalding his eyes, "My son, my son," the Ulo whispered. Dayaw felt
his father's arms tighten around him. It was the last time that they would embrac Parbangon had
already been circumcised and had already started to build his own house. "She is light," Dayaw
told him remembering how he had carried Waywaya across the river. "I will carry her upright,
strapped to my back." "But that is not how it is done, Manong," Parbangon insisted. And of
course, his brother was right. "You are not that strong..." Parbangon shook his head. "No, that is
not the reason. You fear for me." Dayaw did not speak: he was condemning his brother to a life
travail but Parbangon knew all that. "She was sister to me. She cooked for me, wove for me. I
have not done anything for her. Let me honor her too." Dayaw wrapped Waywaya in the blanket
she had woven, the bright red with blas of her people, the designs of moon, mountain and tree
coming through the slats of bamboo. On both ends of the pole to which the bier was attached
were the wreaths of kalachuchi that Parbangon had made. They reached the river easily
following afternoon for they rested and ate but little and Dayaw marveled at the boy's strength.
They untied the thongs of their sandals ad waded across the shallows, stepping over mossy
boulders, taking care that their precious burden did not tilt into the water. There was still plenty
of light when they reached the other side and he followed the bend to the small cove where he
first saw her. How peaceful it was and briefly, in his mind's eye, he saw her again as he saw her
then, poised before the pool, serene as nightfall, and a sharp, almost physical pain coursed
through him. By dusk, they reached the town of Laud; they had been watched even before they
had approached the fringes and now, the enemy appeared from everywhere, women, children
and men who looked at them more with curiosity than hate. He knew where to go; he had
studied the town only too well and to his knowledge, Waywaya had contributed her share. A
clutch of women met them before they reached the clearing in front of their community hall and
they started wailing, their voices high-pitched and nasal, listening to what they said- the sister,
the friend who was no more- again tears dimmed his eyes. Through the blur, he could see the
structure before him, the high posts with finely carved filigrees, the beams jutting out and around
the rafters- just below the grass roof- a line of skulls of his people. The huge door of the
community hall swung open and down the massive stairs he came, the leader of Laud, and as
Dayaw by the shoulder as Dayaw lowered Waywaya onto the wooden platform where offerings
were made, and spoke in a voice that quavered. "It has been two harvest seasons. We missed
her..." Then he beckoned to one of the older women who had met them, and to her he said
"Look at your jewel, woman!" Darkness came quickly and with it, bird calls and the cool breezes
of the mountain. He sat with the old chief in the place of honor, and they filed up to him. The
warriors of Laud with their wooden shields and shiny battle axes, and raised their arms in salute.
Then the gongs started beating, sonorous and loud- his knell. Death would be welcome, for with
Waywaya's passing no longer would the sky hold its dominion over him, nor would the earth that
he had cultivated; whose fruits he would offer to her. How will it feel? There would be pain but
he could bear that. He had been wounded before, had seen blood ooze from the wound, had
felt his head grow light and his strength slowly ebb. It was not this pain which he learned for the
warrior was prepared for it. It was this deeper anguish that no herb, no sorcery could staunch.

All around them the huge pine splinter torches had been ignited and they cast a red glow ove.
the crowd; it was time to do the final ceremony and they rose- just him and her family, and they
formed a small procession to the side of the mountain where a hole had already been dug. They
le him shove her coffin within the; they pushed a boulder at the entrance to the burial place and
covere it with earth. Waywaya's mother planted before it a few strands of ramos- they would
grow, tall ar purple. He was a Taga Daya, he must show them that he could dam his feelings but
as tears streame down his cheeks, he shuddered violently and cried. The chief laid an arm
around Dayaw's should and took him back. The gongs were louder now and above their rhythm
rose the squealing of pigs being butchered. They went up the hall, its floor of hewn wood, and
from the roof dangled lamps of iron, ablaze with light. "I have asked my father." Dayaw said,
"that they do not cross the river anymore, that if they do, they bear gifts of life. I pray that you do
the same. This is what Waywaya would have wanted..." The old chief, squatting on his deerskin
rug, did not reply; his gaze went beyond the bonfire outside the wide open door, leaping now,
lighting the sombrous sky. In the yellow embroidery of flames, it seemed that his eyes were
glazed and when he finally spoke, his words were slow and they bore great feeling. "There
something about an old tree, "he said, "it grows no more. At the same time, it is difficult to cut it
down. Its roots are deep although it can draw no more sustenance from the earth. Maybe, it is
right that the new trees should grow." He ate little when the food finally came. Parbangon ate
nothing for he had falllen asleep. They brought Dayaw wine sweet slightly bitter and he
wondered if it would be in the wine. But it was not. It was late and he must rest so they left him
while the feasting and dancing continued outside. He slept fitfully until dawn- that deep and
tranquil quiet when just a tint of purple appeared in the east and stars still studded the sky like
gems. Now, thoughts crowded his mind like drones and he was filled once more with regret that
he had not been kinder to her. He could see her now in this time of day, her hair glossy and
black, her precious face, the luminous eyes, the moist lips- the image of her alive and breathing
and touching, pottering in the kitchen, preparing his meal. And the baby yes, their son, how
would it be when he finally b became a man? And Parbangon, would they enslave him order
him return as he had hoped they would so that he could tell Taga Daya? And how would it end
for him? He had been trained not to fear death and though he had considered fighting, there
was no sense to it as there was really no logic for his being here, just as the lo said. No logic,
but since when did love have any? Morning and it was time to leave the old chief was at the
door and as he approached, Dayaw glanced at Parbngon who was still asleep. "Don't wake him
up," the chief said softly. "He needs rest; we will take him back to the river." A wave of joy
engulfed him. They went down the broad steps, into a brilliant morning, where some of the
warriors had already gathered. The old chief put an arm around his shoulder, murmuring,
"Husband of my daughter- my son." "Father of my wife- my father," he returned the farewell. In
the clear, everything stood out now the bamboo houses with their grass roofs, the corrals for the
pigs, the chicken houses, the vegetable patches, the orange trees. He knew almost everything
around him just as Waywaya had described it; why, he was almost home at home! They walked
him to the edge of the village. He must utter now the important word. "Waywaya," he said in
reverential prayer. "I loved her. The fruit of our union- a boy. Your blood is in him, he is across
the river. Will you let him grow in peace ignorant of a time like this? "Will you?" The chief did not
answer and if he spoke. Dayaw did not hear. The gongs started again and then, from the
women in the distance came a sound of wailing. Was it for him? In his heart, though he was
afraid, he was glad. The forest awaited him... as sunset, he knew that he would not reach the
river.