It was as if Capitán Berong, who had asked him to teach his daughters, had never known him. “He is the son,” the capitán said to the Spaniard, his voice rimmed with derision. “Evil is in him as well.” Was this the same man who had said he, Eustaquio Salvador, was needed in Cabugaw?
Capitán Gualberto drew the revolver from his holster. “And where are they? And your father with one arm?”
He did not want to lie, but God forgive me, I must protect them, I must be worthy of the blood that flows in me, and it came out quickly, the words carefully chosen, “Apo, when Capitán Berong said that we must leave Po-on where we were all born, we followed what we were ordered to do. Except for me, they all left yesterday, Apo. I chose to remain, to watch over this village in the hope that I–I may be allowed to stay”—he glanced at Capitán Berong—“perhaps to teach … but if by leaving they have committed a crime, then take me in their stead …”
“That is easy,” Capitán Gualberto said, taking aim with his revolver. “Spanish justice triumphs again.”
How Does Death come? Dalin, Ave Maria, purísima—a rod of black catching a glint of sun, the hole — the big, black hole, Dalin, Ama mi adda ca sadi langit, the spark of fire, the thunder and the massive hammer, oh, the black, black pain, the blackness, Dalin, Dalin …
The light came first as a ruddy glimmer which grew larger, brighter, then took shape, hazy but real, an are of sunlight and above the are, what seemed like a roof, yes, a roof of matted palm leaves. I am alive, I am seeing something real. I am alive, I can feel the throbbing in my head.
He stirred and a sudden pain exploded in his chest, scared his entire being, so sharp, so intense he screamed, the sound erupting from the depths, confirming that, indeed, he was alive. It all came back, the gun pointed at him, the burst of orange flame, the massive hammer that struck him. Now he tried to raise his right hand, but there was no right hand at all. Have I lost it? Have I become a man with just one arm like my father? He tried to turn to his side; the arm was there but it no longer followed his command.
It was not the voice of an angel which he heard, although it might just as well have been. No sound was more sweet, more well remembered afterward, than “I am here,” she said. “Don’t move, else you will start bleeding again …”
He turned to the voice; Dalin was silhouetted against the are of light and though he could not see her distinctly, her presence touched him with its promise, her hand upon his left arm, like some magic balm that cased all the fears that possessed him. I can go to sleep now. This is not true, this is not true; this is some blissful dream and I don’t want to wake up!
The pain crept back but no longer as sharp as when he moved for the first time, a dull weight against his shoulder and his chest. Though the air smelled clean, he had difficulty sucking it. Were his lungs punctured? He listened to his breathing — there was no whistling, no rasping, but the ache was there, deep and permanent.
“Be still,” Dalin again, oh that beautiful, soothing voice; “You have lost a lot of blood. It is a miracle that you are alive. A miracle. There is a hole below your shoulder and behind your back where the bullet went through …”
His lung must be punctured and he must be bleeding inside. He was so weak, it seemed he had no body anymore and he was just a hollow man, his bones and innards taken out. He was dying, he was now sure of that. Our Father Who Art in Heaven … oh, dear God! Dalin, don’t leave me, don’t leave me … Above him, the design of bamboo slats which held the woven fronds in place — was this the last thing he would sec? Dalin, Holy Mary, Mother of God … then darkness again …
And again, too, the are of light, brighter now. It was no illusion, he was alive, his lungs were intact, he was breathing. He could even bring his head up a little, and in doing so, he realized that his chest was bandaged with strips of cloth.
“Dalin … Dalin …”
“I am here,” she said behind him. He could hear her move toward him, then her hand rested on his arm. Her calm, lovely face, a finger pressed to her lips. “Do not talk,” she said, squatting beside him so that he could see her, feel her leg pressed against his side, her whole wonderful presence banishing the lie of his passing. “I will tell you everything. Your father, your family — they are all in the delta waiting for us. We will not leave till it is dark so that we will not be followed …”
“And where are we?” His voice sounded weak.
“We are within a ring of bamboo at the foot of a hill, away from Po-on. It is no more. They burned it all. Nothing there but ashes and posts still smoldering. They left you in the yard. Thank God, after they shot you, they did not drag you into the fire. Perhaps they thought you were dead. And why not? We were in the delta when we heard the shot, we saw the fire, and after they had left, I came after you …”
Sweet, beautiful stranger.
“I thought you were dead, but I looked closer. You were breathing. The blood had clotted and stopped the flow. I unhitched the bull cart, tilted it, and lifted you into the back.”
Sweet, beautiful stranger.
“My bull is tethered and grazing. If you are hungry, or if you are thirsty?”
Sweet, beautiful stranger, my guardian angel, may you be always near.
“It will be dark soon, we will join them …”
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the joy of being alive waned and a great, formless weariness dropped over him, the weariness not of the wound throbbing in his chest. Another wound festered deeper than the laceration in his flesh, the thought that they showed no mercy to him, ever loyal servant of the Church, of Mother Spain. He closed his eyes as the tiredness suffused him and now he really wanted release, the comfort of sleep, anything to dull the mind, to keep him from thinking. They were only men, doing what would prove them stronger, more powerful, and therefore, fit to rule. There is still a just God who will pass judgment. Or could this be but part of that suffering he must endure, condemned as he was to believe in a God who decreed that salvation lay in suffering?
Bit-tik’s voice woke him, “Will he live?” The rustling of people, heavy breathing, murmurs indistinct and incessant, and blackness heavy and portentous all around.
“Let us pray,” Dalin said.
Now he could feel the cart lurch a bit. They were moving, moving away from Po-on. A still, moonless night, the dark mass of the range their only guide; they would follow the foothills all the way down to La Union, then to Pangasinan.
They had onions and garlic; the two pigs that had squealed when they were still in the riverbed were quickly butchered, their meat salted. Not all the meat could be salted, however, so they feasted in the evening and for a moment forgot that they were fugitives. The chickens were quiet in their bamboo cages under the carts — it was the roosters and their crowing that could give them away, but there were roosters all over the land, many of them wild, their crowing everywhere.
There was room in Dalin’s cart, so he stayed there, in her care. She had really joined them.
That night, Mayang gave him a piece of roasted pork. It should have given him pleasure; it had been a long time since he had had pork, not since he left Cabugaw. But it tasted bitter and he had no appetite. He was weak, he could hardly move, and his right arm was without feeling still. He touched his fingers with his left hand but could feel nothing. He was really like his father now.
Soft footsteps alongside the cart, the carabaos straining at their yoke. Moving along on uneven ground, the cart sometimes dipped or yawed, and each fall brought a bolt of pain. He felt the bandage again and again to make sure that he was not bleeding, and was relieved to find it was not wet.