An-no was finished with his chores and went to Istak. “Why don’t you want to come with us?”
Istak held his brother by the shoulder; An-no was taller and bigger of build. “This is what you want, is it not, my brother?”
An-no shook his arm off and his voice was no longer rimmed with bluster. “We need you, Manong,” he said. “No one among us can speak their tongue. This is a journey where wisdom is needed.”
“I have to stay,” Istak said simply. “I must speak to them, beg them.”
The dogs started to howl. Among the children roused from sleep and uncomfortable in the bull carts, one started to cry.
“This is one time we should stay together,” An-no said. “Can you not see that Father needs help? What have you really learned in Cabugaw?”
“What Does one need to know?” Istak asked, holding up his hands to show the raw blisters, but in the dark, An-no could not sec.
He could make out An-no’s angry face. “Stay behind, then,” his brother said, “and recite your Latin. Maybe the fruits of the trees will fall at your feet.” Then he wheeled and headed toward the line of carts being readied.
Alone, covered by the night which he sometimes wished was permanent, Istak cried softly. He was not going to be a martyr, he was not going to be heroic. It was they who were leaving who would be more than brave; the tulisanes preyed along the coast and the roads that led out of the Ilokos. If they went by sea, they would probably be safer, and if bad weather came, they could always head for some cove. But by sea, they could also be easily tracked and caught by the Spanish steamboats. If only Padre Jose were here to plead for him, for them.
In the house, Mayang had finished putting everything of value into the trunk. She had also gathered the woven bamboo crowns for the pots to sit on, the pine splinters for kindling wood, and lengths of rope. From a peg that stuck out of the bamboo wall, she took her most precious possession, a tortoiseshell comb inlaid with a thin veneer of gold. In the flicker of the oil lamp, Ba-ac recognized its gleam. “You are not wearing that,” he said.
“If I will die running,” Mayang said, “I might just as well die with this on my head.”
Their most precious possession, however, was not their good clothes or, for the women, their tortoiseshell combs. It was the carabao which they treasured most, because without this docile animal, they would not be able to farm; they would go hungry. Its skin had no pores and had to be cooled with a daily bath in the creek or with water from the well.
From under the house, Ba-ac gathered the golden sheaves of tobacco hung to dry. They had been harvested two weeks before and some of the leaves were still greenish and not ready for smoking. The municipio was going to buy it all, but he would not give them that privilege now; he would need a lot to smoke, to chew, and to barter.
Then they were ready; a big pot of rice had been cooked and coffee had been brewed from roasted corn and flavored with thick molasses. Toward the cast, still no glimmer of sunrise. They would not wait for daylight.
Why should we be rooted here, in a land which is not ours? All over the north, in the past, men had fled to the forest. Free men, they cleared the land and started anew, well beyond the claws of the Guardia Civil, the friars and their fawning acolytes. No less a man than old Padre Jose had spoken about them when they had pressed beyond Tirad, down the fertile valley of Nueva Segovia. They were everywhere, with new names, new lives. They could start anew, too.
Not me, Istak told himself. If he stayed he could perhaps explain — hold back the storm that would descend and engulf them all. Explain he would, not with words but with his faith in the justness of God.
“I will be safe, Mother,” he assured Mayang, standing by the lead cart which An-no would drive. Behind them, tethered with maguey twine, were the work animals, a carabao with a calf and two cows. In Po-on, they had the most, but where they were going they would all be equal. Six carts altogether, with children wrapped in coarse blankets, for it was cool. Underneath the carts and behind them stoves and cooking pots were carefully tied. Six carts, six families — how could they travel without being seen? If they went singly, they would fall prey to robbers who ambushed in the foothills and isolated distances. If they went together, they could easily be tracked, questioned, found out; now, more than ever, they needed cunning, which, perhaps, Istak would be able to give them.
“I will follow, Mother,” he reiterated. “It will not be difficult to trace you. I just want to be sure, to know what will happen to Po-on.”
“Don’t look back, then,” Mayang said, her voice sad. “Keep us in your mind.”
Istak walked with them to the edge of the village, well beyond the bamboo grove, down the gully to the open fields, the carts in single file, their solid wooden wheels creaking. They must be oiled, Istak reminded his brother. In the darkness, he could make out the familiar faces, the nephews and nieces, the cousins he had grown up with. And as Dalin’s cart passed — the seventh and last, she reached out and held his hand briefly. A dull ache coursed through him, the warmth of her hand filling him with warmth as well; so young and already a widow. Would she be able to show them the way? And what would happen to her? To them?
CHAPTER 4
The road to Vigan was well traveled. Ba-ac and his brothers had gone to the capital when they were conscripted to work on the governor’s mansion and on the road to the south. They would not take that road — in every town they would be stopped by the Guardia, who would have been warned by telegraph. If they were not detained, their chickens, even their work animals would be taken.
But time was in their favor. The rivers were dry and the trails would no longer be rivulets of mud. They would skirt the foothills of the Cordilleras through land which they were familiar with. In the day, they would rest while the men scouted what lay ahead and when night came, they would be on their way again. There were enough hollows, folds in the hills and bamboo groves to hide them. They had bows and arrows tipped with iron, and their bolos were sharp. If they were lucky, they could even have wild boar or deer meat.
Daylight now. The sun rode the heavens and banished the dew that had covered the grass, glistening like many jewels. They were near the Cabugaw foothills, where the tall grass still grew lush and green on the dikes. They had traveled slowly on trails not often used. The carabao hooves had also dug a rhythm of hollows on the ground, and in places where the runners of sleds had cut, the ridges were high and it was difficult for the carts to roll smoothly and straight.
Ba-ac in the lead cart saw it behind, the cloud of dust in the first flush of morning far down to the horizon — the Guardia finally coming to Po-on.
The bend of the river was to their left — actually an expanse of sandy loam, boulders, and more scraggly growths of grass and stunted camachile trees no taller than a man. It was an act of God, Istak would have said, that they were there at that very moment. “Hurry! Hurry!” the old man shouted at the carts behind him. “Down the gully, all of you. Behind the grass, hide where you cannot be seen. And the animals — keep them quiet. Unhitch the carts!”
He was a leader, the repository of wisdom, though he had but one arm. They were all afraid even if they had done nothing. They would protect Ba-ac, too, because they were together, related by blood. Now, the morning sun poured on them. They waited, the mothers shushing their children, the men silently looking at one another. The dust cloud raised by the horses drew nearer and though they could not hear them, they could see the cloud disappear; they were crossing farther up the river and in a while, the dust cloud appeared again, a wraith on the horizon.