“Tell me, Eustaquio,” the Cripple asked. “How is it that you speak Spanish so well?”
“I was an acolyte in the church of Cabugaw, señor. In the Ilokos.”
“Jacinto says you are a healer. How long have you been one?”
“About ten years now, Apo,” Istak said. “I learned a little from an old priest about medicinal plants. And, of course, with prayer and God’s help there is always hope.”
Silence. Then the Cripple spoke again: “I have been suffering for some time now. I have pains here,” he said, pressing his sides. “You cannot see it now because the pan has been emptied, but when I urinate it is very milky. And I perspire so much, as you can see.” He wiped his brow, which was moist even in the cool September evening.
His meal came in — the new rice still steaming and fragrant, salted eggs, a small dish with salted fish and sliced tomatoes, and dried meat which was fried.
Istak shook his head. The Cripple wanted to share the food with him but Istak demurred; he would take his meal with the servants in the kitchen after Don Jacinto and his family had eaten. He stood up; he had confirmed what he suspected. “I will go now, Apo,” he said. “I will come back shortly with your medicine.”
In the dining room, Don Jacinto had already sat down with his family to eat and a servant hovered by the table waving a paper wand to keep the flies away. “I will return in a short while, Apo,” Istak said.
He hurried down the deserted street, disturbing the stray dogs lying there. At the edge of the town, he looked at the saplings, then crossed the creek to the other side until he came to a young banaba tree. He could make out the blossoms; they would be a pretty violet in the sunlight. He reached out to a low branch and plucked a lot of them together with the young leaves. With the bundle under his arm, he returned to Don Jacinto’s house and told the cook to boil some of the flowers and the leaves immediately.
His dinner was ready; Don Jacinto was indeed a good man — the food that his servants ate was the same as his honored guest’s.
He let the concoction cool a little, then took it to the Cripple. He was now propped up by pillows before the table and was writing in his journal, the Aladdin lamp bluish and brilliant above him.
“You must drink this, señor,” Istak told him, placing the pitcher and a glass on the table. “It is slightly bitter, but I hope it will do you good. And don’t drink anything else but this. I ask you not to cat salty food. In fact, it would be best if you had no salt at all.”
“And what is this?” the Cripple asked, raising the glass and examining it in the light.
Istak showed him the flowers and the leaves. The Cripple knew them. “There are many of these here,” Istak said. “And if there aren’t any, I can make another equally good remedy for you.”
As the Cripple took the cup and raised it to his lips, Istak recited, “Dominus Jesus Christus apud te sit, ut te defendat et te curet …”
The Cripple paused, and laid the cup on the table, his eyes wide open in surprise. “Do you know what you just said?”
Istak smiled. “Yes, Apo. The ritual prayer.”
“Translate what you said, word for word.”
Istak made the translation into Spanish. “May the Lord Jesus Christ be with you, that He may defend you and cure you …”
“You surprise me!” the Cripple exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his homely face. Then he took the cup and emptied it with a grimace.
“Now you condemn me to hell as well. Perhaps it is better that I starve. Food without salt! What else did that old priest teach you?”
“What is perhaps taught in a seminary, señor,” Istak said.
The Cripple seemed pensive for a while, as if he were savoring what he drank, as if he could not quite believe what he had heard. “The world is full of surprises,” he finally said. “Here I am, a stranger to this place, to the language, and yet I feel so safe because I know I am among people I can trust.” He glanced around the room, then at the herbolario. “Jacinto and I were classmates in Manila, Eustaquio. I have entrusted my life to him — just as I have done to you.”
“Thank you, Apo,” Istak said. There was nothing for him to do.
“Will you return tomorrow? Early? And have breakfast with me? If your medicine is good, I will wake up healthy!”
Istak fidgeted. He would be imposing on Don Jacinto, at whose table he had never eaten before, and now, with this awesome company. The Cripple seemed to divine his thoughts. “Eustaquio, I come from a poor family in Batangas. We must stop thinking of ourselves as inferior before those who we think have more knowledge than we do, or who are taller or fairer of skin. How many mestizos or Kastilas can speak Latin as well as you? You are very rich, Eustaquio, and your wealth is yours and yours alone. No one can take it from you. I will tell Jacinto that you will come shortly after sunrise.”
Dalin had cooked the new rice and its scent filled the house. She had also fried some dried pork, and the low eating table was already set. She waited for him to tell her how his visit was; she never asked what he did. In the warm glow of the oil lamp that dangled from the rafter, her eyes came alive with curiosity. Even after the birth of the two boys, she still retained her pleasant features, the mouth that was quick to laughter, the eyes that sparkled. Her coarse blouse seemed fine only because she wore it. But her hands were not soft like the hands of Carmencita, and her legs were dark, the soles of her feet as thick as any peasant woman’s. He must banish her unspoken anxiety.
The boys were busy with their food; Antonio, who was older, however, would turn to his father often, as if he shared his mother’s inquisitiveness.
“There is a new lamp in the big house,” Istak said. “It has a large wick and is fed by a different kind of oil. It is very bright, ten times brighter than candles and our own lamp.”
This was not what Dalin wanted to know.
“He is a kindly man,” Istak finally said. With his hand he shaped a ball of rice and then dipped it in a dish with fish sauce and sliced lemon. “He is ill — and I will see him again tomorrow. And yon know, Old Woman, he wants me to have breakfast with him. This farmer Istak, having breakfast with such a noble person. I cannot believe it.”
Dalin smiled, pleased at the honor given her husband.
Istak seldom had Po-on on his mind now; still, there were instances out there in the soggy fields when he remembered. Memories no longer wrenched from him the ancient sorrow. His granary was always full, the bangcag and the guardian that watched over it had been kind, too; the bamboo thrived, the orange trees bore sweet fruit, vegetables grew even during the dry season — all he shared with relatives and neighbors who were too lazy to plant. He was a good provider; he was a better teacher.
Night came swiftly to Cabugawan. After supper, Dalin cleared the low eating table, then leaned it against the palm-leaf wall. She placed the leftovers into a coconut shell which Pedro, the younger boy, took below the house for his dog, Lightning. Dalin drew up the bamboo ladder.
The two boys slept in the kitchen while Dalin and Istak slept in the small sipi which adjoined the living room. Below the house were the plows and the harrow, a couple of hoes, and the loom Dalin used for weaving.
The small window would stay open till they were ready to sleep. Dalin had closed the other windows and slung a pole across them so that they could not be opened from the outside. The two carabaos and a calf were in their corral by the granary; there had been some cattle rustling in Carmay and Sipnget, but none so far in Cabugawan. Any stranger wandering in the neighborhood would be announced by the barking of dogs. One rainy night, a howling roused Dalin from sleep. She gripped the arm of her husband, who was then wide awake, too. He crept to a crack in the buri wall and peered outside to see shadows moving toward the corral. He opened the small window slowly. He kept a basket of stones ready for such a time. He started pitching with all his strength at the forms in the dark. Thuds, a scream of pain, men rushing, and soon the shouts of neighbors who had also been wakened. Not one of the carabaos in the village was taken. How would it be if the rustlers had guns? So much uncertainty and violence threatened them now, and those who plundered the countryside often did so in the name of the revolution.