It finally came during their fourth year in the new land. First, it was just some rumor brought by Blas, who went to town on Sundays — the market day — to look at farm implements, gossip, and get a little drunk in the tienda there. They were idling in the village yard — the evening was young and a full moon adorned the sky. The children were playing, and their shouts and laughter decorated the vast stillness of the night.
They were talking softly; the planting season would soon be upon them. Though there were still wilds to clear, life already had a distinct, well-ordered pattern that could be rent only by nature’s vagaries.
“In the market this morning,” Blas said, pausing to spit out the wad of tobacco he had been chewing since after supper, “I heard this salted-fish merchant from Dagupan say there is a plague in the south — and it is spreading to the north. Some towns in Cavite already have it. People die in just two days — they vomit and defecate continuously until there is no more body to them.”
Istak tensed; it was the dreaded cholera, for which there was no cure, just as it had been with the pox which infected all Cabugaw when he was still a boy just starting out as an acolyte. His family had survived it; would they survive cholera? Always, like some thorn embedded in the flesh that hurt when memory stirred, he would remember the weeping of people, the bodies with ripe, red sores, the pus oozing out of them. At first it was just three or four deaths in a day, then it was ten or twenty, then fifty — and all had to be buried hastily. “The cholera is worse,” Padre Jose had said, tears streaming down his craggy face. “Perhaps we have not been Christian enough.” And again and again, he heard the old priest intone sadly, dully: “It is the hand of God.”
The very night Blas told them about the plague, Istak had a dream.
He was harvesting the grain, but every time he stooped with the scythe, the stalks in his hands turned to ash and the whole field became an expanse of black.
He was now running away from it, and someone was chasing him, the footfalls behind him growing louder and louder although he was already faster than the deer. Then, on his head a huge hand rested. He stopped and turned to look at what he knew was a giant behind him, but there was no one there and no matter how quickly he turned around, he could not see who was behind him, although he could hear the gusty breathing and feel the great hand clamped on his head.
He ran again, his limbs racing the wind, but still the hand rested on his head, and behind him, the laughing, mocking voice: You cannot run away from destiny.
His legs began to feel like logs. You are not destiny, Istak shouted.
Then who am I?
The devil!
And if I am the devil, what am I trying to do?
You know that I have wavered in my faith, you want me on your side.
Istak slowed into a wearied walk. More derisive laughter behind him, and again he turned abruptly to confront his tormentor, but whoever he was, he was quicker and was behind Istak again.
I am not the devil, the booming voice said. And I will prove to you I am not. Tomorrow, when you waken, there will be a guava branch in your yard. Boil its leaves — the broth can heal the sick. Its fruits though sour can fill the stomach. Plant it in your bangcag. You have three mounds there. You will know which mound to select — dig a hole before it. There will be a treasure there and the guardian of this treasure will test your courage. I do not know if you will pass. If you do, plant the twig close by. It will prove to you that I am neither the devil nor his disciple. I am God’s messenger and you will use all His gifts when the time comes.
Liar! Istak screamed, and again he twisted around. The hand was no longer on his head but there was no one behind him either. The voice!
He remembered it then; it was old Padre Jose’s.
Morning came to Cabugawan with the splendor of May; mayas chirping on the grass roof, and beyond the open window, the bamboo bending to a breeze, the chicken cackling in the yard. It all came back with the urgency of birth or death or whatever could shake the world, for there on the ground was the guava twig that he had seen in his dream, only it seemed bigger, its leaves fuller and greener.
He rushed down and picked it up with trembling hands, raised it to the sun, bent it. Yes, it was real, and to Bit-tik, who was then starting out, he asked if there was anyone who had come that morning to the village to visit, any of the children …
The children? But they were all still asleep; they had not breakfasted yet.
This cannot be, this cannot be; this is reality and what I saw was a dream.
He hurried back to the house and to Dalin, who stirred from their mat, he said, “I must do some digging in the bangcag.” He wanted to explain to her what had happened, but anxiety prodded him. He wanted to know the verity of what lurked in the depths of his mind, what sorcery it was that placed the twig in his yard, for surely it would now reveal itself in the hole he would dig.
The farm was but a short distance from the village. The saplings he had planted here — catuday, marunggay, sineguelas, pomelo — they were bigger now. The mound to which instinct guided him relentlessly was the farthest of the three; twice as tall as he, and crowned with tough ledda grass.
He had brought a spade and a crowbar to loosen the tough earth. He was so intent with his digging he was unconscious to all the world until a sharp hissing shocked him to attention. He breathed deeply, stood erect, and looked for the source of the sound. Then he saw it, close to the base of the mound, but almost as tall as he, this cobra, its shining body almost as big as his leg, its hood now spread — so big, remembering it afterward convinced him it was as wide as a winnowing basket, its eyes glaring at him, its fangs bared.
The guardian of the treasure! And briefly he felt that instant of emptiness within him when he faced the gun of the Spanish officer. It was not quite the same feeling, though, and knowing that he was defenseless, that the doom which stared at him with beady eyes could strike before he could move, he remembered the dream, the courage that he must show. He stood motionless. The liturgy! Padre Jose repeating solemnly, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison—his heart thumping wildly now, his arms nerveless now. Christe eleison again, this time the words taking shape, a hoarse whisper. Christe eleison—this time loud enough for him to hear himself. Then, it happened. The hood which had expanded to the breadth of a winnowing basket started to contract, the head started to sway sideways, the fangs withdrew and the huge snake sank to the earth then slithered into the hole from whence it had come.
Istak breathed deeply, drawing in huge drafts of the good, sweet air; he started to sweat, and his legs felt watery. He wanted to run but could not move, his whole body was numb. The air that had rushed to his lungs reminded him that he was alive, with no venom clotting his arteries, stopping his heart.
The guardian had tested him and he had passed.
In a while, his strength and command of his senses returned. But doubts tugged at him, told him he should leave immediately, forget the dream, the treasure, and even his farm itself. What if there was gold beneath his feet? Or some talisman which was reserved for him alone? Think of your wife, your relatives, and how their lives could be made better. Think.
He grabbed the crowbar and started to dig, scooping up the hard crust of earth which he had loosened. Already, he had dug up to his knees and still there was nothing solid to stop him. The earth began to get soft, then wet, and it was soon muddy. Still, he persisted; he was down to his waist when the mud erupted into a bubbling spring. He had cracked the casement open and water gushed upward so that the hole started to fill.