From Rosales, if they pushed onward to the south, it was to the towns of Nueva Ecija — Cuyapo, Gapan — most of them still surrounded by forests; and to the north, Santa Maria, Tayug; and onward to the Caraballo range, the new settlements of San Nicolas and Natividad. And to the east, Umingan, Lupao, then San José, the big town that was also a gateway to the valley, for beyond San José, up to the first mountain range that was a barrier to the valley, was the narrow trough of Santa Fe.
Like most of the new towns, Rosales had no municipal building except a ramshackle shed near the open market, where, sometimes, the health inspector conducted what little official duties he had. There was no telegraph as yet in this part of the country, no Spanish official. The priest in the new church was Indio, for the Spanish friars usually stayed in the bigger communities where their quarters were more comfortable and their meals more nourishing. Civic order was imposed traditionally by a member of the principalia, and in Rosales, this authority was vested in Don Jacinto, who was not only rich but also educated.
His house stood prominently in the middle of the town, and from there he dispensed patronage, and like the Indio priest, was revered for his many acts of kindness to his tenants and those wayfaring strangers passing through. It was a big house roofed with tile, and its wide yard was dominated by a balete tree, massive and brooding, a perpetual abode of spirits and endowed with an awesome talisman. Its trunk was three, even four times the size of a cartwheel, larger than any of the forest trees they had passed. The thick veins coiled around it, fat as pythons, thrust upward and merged with each other, forming a mantle, a pall, of vivid green.
Across the plaza was the small wooden church with a grass roof. Istak could put on the soutane and say Mass now for Ba-ac, for Mayang, but he was not a priest, he was not going to be a priest. It was getting on toward evening and the Angelus should soon be tolled. The Indio priest who was pacing the churchyard walked to where the carts were unhitched in the shade of the balete tree and asked where they had come from. The Ilokos, An-no replied politely.
They were Ilokanos; they did not have to be told about the balete tree. In the evening before eating, they would make an offering of food to the spirits. In the old country and here, there were many things that could not be explained. One had to accept them without question, just as one welcomed the morning and recognized God.
Istak would go to Don Jacinto in the morning, tell him what had happened. The work animals were their most precious possessions; he would leave one of the carabaos if necessary so that they would not starve.
In the onrushing dusk, he glanced at his arms; they were sunburned. His palms were no longer soft — the few days’ work in Po-on, gathering firewood, feeding the carabaos, all that had callused his hands. And there would be harder work now that he would really be the farmer he was not meant to be.
No one but he could talk to Don Jacinto. There was not much that the Carmay farmers could tell him except that Don Jacinto had studied in Manila, and that he was rich — as all the few educated people were. He wondered how it would be when he would finally ask for help. Else they would have to eat banana pith and all those weeds meant for pigs.
He pitied Dalin most. She had known only tragedy, and she would be hungry, too. And only because she had elected to cast her lot with them. What more could a man want from a woman but this loyalty?
Morning stole into Rosales during the rainy season with little sun, but there was the pleasant odor of cooking fires, and the stirring of work animals. The farmers had to go to the sodden fields early to plow, to plant, to watch the seedlings. Then the sun rose, and the grass in the plaza shone; beyond the edge of the plaza were green hedges of rosal in bloom. Dalin had risen earlier and she had again gathered a few of the white blossoms and now, with the flowers in an empty pot, Istak drank the fragrance. She had taken a piece of black cloth, cut it into strips, and pinned it on the sleeves of the menfolk and on the blouses of the women. They could not afford black dresses to wear as emblems of their grief. They would wear these ribbons for a year, after which there would be a bakas, the ritual end of mourning.
Istak put on his best trousers and the white shirt that Mayang had woven. His clothes were now tight, but they were all he had.
He was asked by a servant to go up the staircase, so polished that the reddish narra grains shone. The house, though made of stone, was not as big as the houses in Vigan, nor as old; the brick sidings were new and no weeds sprouted from the tile roof as yet. The walls were painted with a lime wash, but with the oncoming rains, the wash had turned a dirty brown.
Inside the house, all the sash windows were wide open, and the waxed floors were solid, thick, and wide, as they were cut from huge tree trunks. The furniture had probably been made in Manila, for the pieces were sturdy but not as well made as some of the furniture in the kumbento in Cabugaw, which had come from Europe and was finely crafted, resplendent with gold and silver paint.
He stood in the middle of the sala, waiting. Then the rich man came out from one of the rooms.
He was about forty, with patrician features — a thin nose and a wade forehead. He was fair, like most mestizos. It could have been his grandfather — perhaps a Dominican friar? perhaps a Spanish officer? But there was nothing haughty about him. Warmth, welcome lit his eyes, and at once he asked Istak to sit on the wooden chair by the window which opened to the plaza where the carts waited.
“Good morning, Apo,” Istak began in greeting. “I am Eustaquio Sal—” He hastily corrected himself. “Eustaquio Samson, Apo. We arrived yesterday and those are our carts.”
“Yes,” Don Jacinto said. “I saw you when you arrived.” He did not waste words. “What is it that you want?”
“We are from Cabugaw, Apo.” Istak paused. Did the rich man know? There was no question in his face. “We are planning to go to the valley. But the other day—” He paused again. His lips trembled and his eyes misted. “The other day, when we were crossing the Agno, one of our carts overturned — then it got carried away by a tree that rushed down with the current. My mother — she drowned, Apo.”
The rich man’s face softened, and immediately Istak saw sympathy in his eyes.
“We also lost all our seed rice in that cart and some of our provisions. It is the rainy season now but we have nothing to plant. And we will be hungry, Apo.”
Don Jacinto had listened attentively, then quickly asked, “What do you want now?”
“We would like to borrow grain from you, Don Jacinto. And pay for it with a carabao or some of the tobacco that we have.”
Don Jacinto stared out of the window at a plaza washed with morning sun and glinting on the new grass. “It is a still a long way to the valley, you know. Rotten trails all the way now that the rains have come. And I am sure, the pass across the mountains in San Jose would be impassable in parts, very muddy, if not washed away. You can stay here, you know …”
Istak looked at the handsome profile. There was kindness and compassion in the man, and Istak knew at once that he could be trusted, mestizo though he was.