Above, the January sky was swept clean and a breeze that careened by brought to them the scent of harvest. A time for rejoicing, and because he loved Don Jacinto, he must now show that one man’s passing had touched him, too, although he did not really know who Rizal was.
“Tell me, Apo, about him.”
“He was a good man, Eustaquio. I think it is about time that I showed you some of the things he wrote — I have them, you know. His novels, copies of La Solidaridad …” Don Jacinto spoke softly. “I am telling you this because I know you are an educated man. But more than this, I know that I can trust you.”
“I hope I deserve that trust, Apo,” Eustaquio said humbly.
“Promise me — do not show them to anyone, and don’t tell anyone they came from me. And when you are through, give them back to me.”
“As you will it, Apo,” Istak said. They took a drink from the bottle. The basi was sweet — it had not fermented long enough and was fit for women only.
“Come,” Don Jacinto said, motioning to Istak to follow him to his house.
Istak had, of course, been in the house a few times but had never been in the bedroom of his benefactor. The house was not as old as the house of the Spanish landlord, but it was of immense proportions, and the bedroom with its giant four-poster bed was bigger than Istak’s whole house. It was not just a bedroom — it was a library as well, and Istak immediately felt comfortable in it. The books lined one wall, but the novels of Rizal were not there. From a wooden trunk under the bed Don Jacinto took two books and a thick envelope with folded newspapers within. He carefully bundled them, then placed them in a sack.
“Be careful,” Don Jacinto said. “And when you are through, let us discuss them all. Maybe it is time we went to Manila together.”
Manila — Royal City, was another world, unreachable, although once upon a time he had dreamed of walking its splendid streets and watching those big boats set sail for distant and exotic ports. Most of all, he would have loved visiting the university, listening to all those venerable men who had amassed wisdom from different lands and who, possessed with goodwill, would impart their knowledge to him.
Now the dream beckoned again. All the way back to Cabugawan, Istak thought of Don Jacinto, why he would talk of bringing a farmer like him to the city.
The trip to Manila, however, was never made. In a few weeks the country was in turmoil. It was then, too, that Istak fully realized what Don Jacinto was.
There was little confusion in Rosales. Life continued on its even course. Even the Spanish landlord, who had all the while stayed in Manila, was not harmed. It had seemed that he was one of the few of his countrymen who had sided with the Indios.
How strange it all was that even when Don Jacinto had revealed himself, Istak still felt nothing but affection for old Padre Jose, who must be dead by now. If not, they must have spared him physical pain. Did not everyone know how good he was? Istak had read Rizal’s novels by then. Though he was profoundly touched by them, he could not damn Padre Jose. There was in the language he learned from the old priest a nobility that affirmed man’s worth. Spain was the personification of granite pride, for how else could the Spaniards, coming as they did from an arid peninsula, build such an empire and still spread the faith? Surely, it was more than gold, exploitation, or superior arms which had moved them. Why did they lose their bearings? Why did they weaken?
CHAPTER 13
In another year, a new ruler — and a new enemy — had come. The Americans had defeated the Spaniards and were now battling the republic’s poorly equipped army. General Aguinaldo had none of the giant horses and the big guns that enabled the Americans to move with speed and overwhelm the puny units that faced them. They were also a ruthless enemy who defiled women and bayoneted children. In a few months, they had taken most of Luzon and were soon advancing to the north. Rosales was not on the main road. In Cabugawan, Istak and his kinfolk waited, wondering if they should flee to the forest.
Well ahead of the Americans, together with the monsoon in July, there came to Rosales in secret a man whom they all held in awe. Only a few saw him, but everyone knew he was in the safest, most comfortable place in Rosales — the house of Don Jacinto. Apolinario Mabini, the famous thinker and ideologue of the revolution, was a cripple. He arrived in the night in a hammock carried by bearers who left as quickly as they had come. As a leader of the new republic, he was a hunted man and surely the Americans would soon track him there.
Istak was faintly curious. The revolution had never really mattered much to him. He had gone over the copies of La Solidaridad and returned them; when his benefactor had asked him what he had found in them that impressed him, he had said quickly that there was great truth in what the ilustrados wrote about being rooted in the land. This truth was self-evident to those who worked the land themselves.
Don Jacinto did not reply; perhaps he understood that there was no measure for love of country except in sacrifice, and why ask the poor for more sacrifices? It was the comfortable, the rich like himself — although Istak did not put it this way — who should express it with their wealth. The poor had only their lives to give.
On this day, Istak had gone to the delta, to Sipnget, to attend to a sick boy whose father had come to him begging with an offering of two live chickens. Istak always helped even if there was no gift. More than a decade had passed since they had crossed the Agno for the first time and always, upon reaching the river, he prayed for the soul of his mother.
It was late in the afternoon when he returned to Cabugawan. The rains had paused and the sky was clear. As he entered the arbor of bamboo which shaded the village lane, he saw Kimat, Don Jacinto’s horse, tethered to the gatepost.
The rich man was waiting in the yard, talking with Dalin. Soon it would be dark; the leaves of the acacia had closed and cicadas announced themselves in the trees. From the distance that was Rosales, the Angelus was tolling, and after Istak had greeted Don Jacinto, they stood still in silent prayer.
The rich man did not come often to Cabugawan, not even during the harvesttime; he had entrusted his share to the honesty of men like Istak, and the settlers had not failed him. He was burdened with having to run the town at a time when chaos and lawlessness prevailed. He had done this well, relying not on force but on the respect that the people had given him. He was, after all, the only one from Rosales who had gone to Manila to study.
“I have been waiting for some time now, Eustaquio,” he said, smiling. In the dimming light, his face was drawn and pale, even stern. “Your Dalin and your two boys have been very good company. I even had a taste of suman and a cup of your new basi. I say it is ready, although Dalin says it is not.”
“You are a better judge of that than I, Apo,” Istak said.
“I came here to take you to town,” he said. “Now — if you have nothing else to do. I have a guest … you know that, don’t you?”
Istak nodded. “It cannot be hidden, Apo. Not in the way he arrived. Most of all, because he is with you.”
Dalin wanted them to eat supper first. She had broiled a big mudfish and the pot of rice on the stove was already bubbling. Don Jacinto demurred; they must hurry and they could very well eat in his house.
On both sides of the darkening trail, the fields spread out, deep green in the fading light. Soon they would turn yellow and golden with harvest. Istak walked beside Don Jacinto, who was astride his horse, mosquitoes and moths around them, the frogs tuning up in the shallow paddies.