Again, the thought came swiftly — if only he and his family could flee to some deeper forest where they could clear and work the land without being badgered by other men. This was what so many had done — the fugitives from Spanish forced labor and the lash, the mal vivir, who had challenged the wilderness or sought community with the mountain peoples — the Aetas, the Balogas, the Bagos — and became one with them. He could do this with confidence born out of the sweat, the agony of having tried. He knew how to pit his intelligence against animals, even against some of nature’s whims. In fact, nature was no enemy but a friend. There was tight kinship here, all his neighbors shared with him this beginning. Would they all be driven away again and be estranged from one another? Everywhere there was no peace such as he might have found had he become a priest. And again, old Padre Jose came to mind.
Time had dulled Istak’s earlier enthusiasms, and even his preoccupation with faith and liturgy now seemed a precious memory. How was it ever possible for him to believe in the seeming omnipotence of prayer? Of Padre Jose’s missionary courage? Did he delude himself in believing completely what he had learned in the sacristy? It was what he learned from there, after all, which had made him what he was. Would it have been better if he had had the open mind to accept all there was to accept, even the unexplainable such as those things which he witnessed? There were those aspects of living that need not be questioned anymore, the futility of it all, the dying, this night that covered the land, those distant stars that Galileo was troubled about.
In the kitchen, one of the boys was already snoring. Beside Istak, the softness of Dalin. Lifting the rough blanket which covered her, his hand slid up from her smooth, flat belly to her breasts. They were firm still in spite of two breastfed babies. She turned onto her side, breathing on his face, and laid an arm around his chest. Outside, in the corral the calf was mooing and a night breeze stirred in the bamboo grove beyond the house. The air smelled of harvest, of the good earth.
“I wonder what he wants,” Istak said softly.
“It is an honor,” Dalin said, “when someone like him needs you. It could be dangerous, too.”
“He told me that.” He quickly remembered.
“And we are small people, Old Man,” she reminded him.
Istak did not speak. Long ago he had learned how to live with his smallness. This woman beside him made him strong, his fate more bearable.
In the morning, at her urging, he had a breakfast of coffee, fried rice, and roasted dried venison. Dalin told him he would be uncomfortable before the Cripple; he would be so self-conscious of his manners that he would not be able to take two mouthfuls.
Don Jacinto met him in the wide sala. The sun was already up, yet the house seemed dark but for the shine of the hardwood floor and the mirrors on the walls.
“Apolinario is really impressed, Eustaquio,” the cabeza said, beaming. “And I did not know you could speak Latin.” He slapped Istak affectionately on the shoulder.
He was ushered into the room of the guest. The Cripple was not there; he had been transported to the nearby azotea, which was now flooded with the morning sun, brilliant on the potted palmettos, on the red tile floor.
The Cripple was still pale. Beads of perspiration clung to his brow. The cook came with their breakfast in trays and Don Jacinto left them. The Cripple’s food — upon Istak’s order — was now almost without salt, and he grimaced as he ate the broiled fish and fried rice.
“As you can see, Eustaquio,” he said, “I am a very good patient.” He took the glass of light brown liquid and drank all of it.
“I feel better,” he continued. “And my urine, it was clearer this morning. I drank four glasses last night.”
The Cripple turned and picked up two lead pencils and a beautiful new notebook beside the food tray. “I hear you don’t accept payment — so take these. You are a teacher. You need them.”
As Dalin had said, Istak had difficulty eating even with the Cripple’s continued urging. He had never used table napkins before or the silver that the Cripple was using, although he had seen them in the sacristy.
“It is your kidneys, I suspect, Apo,” Istak said. “They are probably not working well and what you are drinking merely helps clean them. I am not sure it can do everything if the damage is serious. I am not a doctor, Apo.”
“In the absence of one, you are heaven-sent,” the Cripple said. “And since you are my doctor now, I will tell you frankly what I fear.” The Cripple beckoned to him to come close so that he could listen better. Now his voice became softer, as if revealing a horrendous secret. “You must keep this to yourself. Will you promise that, Eustaquio?”
“Yes, Apo.” He had emptied his cup and felt invigorated; the coffee was real.
“When I was young”—the Cripple’s face was now dark with gloom—“I had this terrible fever. I was so weak, I could hardly move. It lasted but a few days and when it left, I thought I was finally well, except for my legs. They felt numb. I tried to rise but couldn’t. After I had eaten, I thought I would be stronger. When I finally had sufficient strength, my legs could not support me. I was so surprised and sad — I cried when I fully realized that I had become a cripple. But not here!” He laid a hand on his breast. “And here”—he gestured to his head. “I had medical care, of course, but I think I went to the doctor too late and so I am like this. Which is just as well. You see, the Spaniards found it too much of a bother to imprison a cripple. They thought that I would not be able to do them any harm. They let me live, but my friends — well, they were all shot at the Luneta.”
Istak listened intently. He had heard so many of these stories in the past, he bore witness to what was done to him and his father. Then they took his brother, too, as if his brother’s life were forfeit and his more important, reserved for some design that was not for him to know, just as the Cripple was saved from the firing squad.
“I am happy that you are here with us, Apo,” Istak said.
“But you pity me because I cannot walk,” the Cripple said, his face brightening. “Let me tell you a secret — while these two legs are useless, the third leg is still sturdy but unused!” Istak looked at the thin wasted legs. Yes, it would be a miracle if the Cripple could walk again. Istak grinned; the Cripple was not made of stone; he knew how to laugh. But then, the Cripple suddenly raised his hand and brought it down hard on the table, rattling the silver and the plates. “Oh, that I were not like this, imprisoned in this damaged body. If only I could use my legs!”
The sudden irruption vanished quickly. “It would be a miracle, Eustaquio, if I walked again?”