Orang’s father declaimed, his rich, loud voice drowning the babble of children and women, and they paused to listen to his exultation:
I have raised this tender plant, lavished it with care
Now, the plant is as beautiful as the morning,
Now, it is in bloom, and someday will bear fruit
This is the rich reward of parenthood—
To see the young plants grow, then give them away
When the time comes, just as I give you away,
Fair Leonora, to a man worthy of you
Strong provider and brave protector. May you, Mariano,
Remember we love her more than you ever will
And someday, soon, may we see the fruits of your love
May they grow into beautiful plants … our grandchildren.
The women wept.
More land waited for those who were willing to go to the east toward Balungaw mountain, but that land belonged to the Asperris, who had come to Rosales way back when most of it was wilderness still. The family lived in Manila, although at the eastern end of the town they maintained a massive stone house that was more of a bodega than a residence. Spanish friars and officers visited the house sometimes, but no one was known to stay there permanently. When the Manila landlord came, bright lights bloomed from within, raucous laughter rang out, and at the landing stood a line of black carriages drawn by handsome Abra ponies. When Istak passed it, he was reminded of Capitán Berong, his tremendous wealth and his three daughters, and yes, Carmencita — she must have children by now, maybe a dozen handsome bastards, and again the ancient feelings were recalled.
How fortunate that they came upon the free land Don Jacinto had shown to them. Istak had studied it before they started clearing — the limits to what was flat, a slow rise of ground with three huge mounds overgrown with grass. He must be generous to his brothers, his cousins, his uncles. When they parceled out the land the lots with mounds went to him.
“This portion I could make into a bangcag,” he explained. “Plant vegetables, fruit trees. Bit-tik and An-no are tired of working on such land; with level fields they could grow rice.”
Dalin helped in the clearing. By the second year, the bamboo which Istak had planted as boundary to his bangcag had taken root and soon there would be shoots to harvest for food. He had planted three species — kiling for fences; siitan, which was thorny, for size and strength; and bayog, which when cut into strips while still tender would make good twine, but once mature it made good house posts, so thick and sturdy bugs could not destroy it.
Silvestre, otherwise known as Bit-tik, was taller and handsomer than his two brothers. His brow was wide, his shoulders broad, and he walked straight. He seemed strong enough to lift a water buffalo, but with all his attributes he was not really interested in farming. He worked his plot of rice land poorly, letting weeds grow and the water escape from gaps in the dikes he did not repair, so that his harvest was often the poorest in all Cabugawan. He was fond of traveling and had gone beyond the nearby villages and well into the other towns — Alcala, Villasis, Balungaw — not so much in search of adventure or opportunities as simply because the spell of new places, new people, attracted him. It was logical for his relatives to assume that he would be paired off with Sabel, Orang’s younger sister, and Istak and his uncle Blas had talked all too often of this possibility in the near future. But Bit-tik seldom paid attention to the young woman, who had now blossomed as handsomely as Orang.
There was enough to eat in Cabugawan and Bit-tik had no family, so they let him wander where he pleased and be their eyes to the strange new dimension beyond Rosales. After three or four days he would return with a few things, dried fish or dried meat, a basket, and most important for Istak, news about their neighboring towns and villages, if the Guardia was on the prowl, and if there were better places where they could flee.
Dalin and Orang often cooked his ration, usually gelatinous rice boiled in coconut milk — it would keep for three days — dried meat already roasted, and a cake of cane sugar.
On this trip, Bit-tik started in the deep, deep dawn. By late afternoon he was in Tayug, a town as decrepit as Rosales but much closer to the Caraballo mountains, which were a high green wall to the east. It was his first visit to the place. It was Sunday, a market day, but this late in the day, all the people from the nearby villages had gone, and the merchants had already loaded their bolts of cloth, mosquito netting, salted fish, soap, and other goods into their carts.
A few shops near the plaza were open, selling sugar cane, vinegar, basi, salted fish, cigarettes, and galletas. He met the two young men in one of the shops. They were looking for matches but it was one of those times when the supply had run out. As it often was in the villages, the farmers had to have a log in their stoves smoldering the whole day if there were no matches. The two men were poorly garbed, their carzoncillos brown with dirt, their hair in need of trimming. Both carried spears, which were their walking sticks. Obviously, they came from the mountain. Though neither could have been more than twenty, their faces looked old, disfigured by smallpox craters that seemed to merge into one another. Even their lips were pocked.
Having heard them, Bit-tik gladly offered the extra box of matches he always carried. They had little money; they had come to Tayug to sell dried meat and mountain fish preserved in fermented rice, and the big jars which they carried slung by a rattan net on their shoulders were filled with salt which they would bring back to their village.
“You don’t have to pay me for this,” Bit-tik said as they walked out of the store. Bit-tik was planning to sleep that evening in one of the sheds by the church.
“Where do you come from?” he asked. “I have no place for the night, and I have to heat roasted meat for supper.”
The two men looked at each other. Their Ilokano was accented — they could be from the big valley, Bit-tik surmised. He had heard that accent before from the people in the valley who had gone down to buy salt in Pangasinan.
“Come with us and share our humble home,” the taller of the two said with downcast eyes. He seemed shy facing people; with that kind of face, Bit-tik understood.
The afternoon was now cool, the plaza where the merchants had finished packing their goods was empty but for the scraps of trash they had left. “It is a long walk, but perhaps you will want to visit with us …”
And why not? Bit-tik had never been apprehensive about going with strangers; there was in his manner a disarming friendliness. Besides, what did he have to lose? Pieces of dried meat, suman, and the shabby clothes on his back? He was not a profitable prey for any bandido.
“I will go with you,” Bit-tik said quickly.
He was not rested yet after the long hike from Rosales and he was going on another long walk. They headed toward the Caraballo range — the mountains loomed so near but they were still a distance away. “There, there.” One of the newfound friends pointed his spear to a foothill; behind it the mountains burned with the gold of the setting sun. “Beyond that is where we live. Are you really sure you would like to come? We want you to come — and know this, not many have visited us, even the people in Tayug. You must have noticed how they regarded us as Bagos. We are not …”
“Forgive those who are ignorant,” Bit-tik said.