Istak did not answer. He tried to recall what was in the medical encyclopedia that Padre Jose had in the library and which he often read.
“I am not optimistic anymore. But then—” A scowl came over the Cripple’s face, his eyes suddenly blazed. “¡Sin vergüenza!” he cursed softly. “And do you know what my enemies spread about mc? Those wealthy mestizos who ingratiated themselves with the president? To destroy mc, who exposed their perfidy and stood in their path, they spread the rumor that I had syphilis. Syphilis — it damages not just the body but the brain! No, they did not say it bluntly, to my face and hearing. They insinuated it, hinted at it. In this, I couldn’t confront them, fight them. The people close to mc, they knew it was a lie. That behind this is nothing more than greed and, perhaps, envy. I never aspired to wealth, Eustaquio. So I can look any man in the eye. Remember this, Eustaquio. Remember this.”
Istak had finished the hard-boiled egg, the fried rice from Don Jacinto’s kitchen much tastier than what he had at home; it was fried with pork fat and had bits of onion and garlic.
“I would have peace of mind if I were you, Apo,” Istak said. “Just use less salt.” He leaned forward and pressed the flesh in the Cripple’s forearm. The indentation left by his thumb lingered.
“You have a little edema,” Istak said. “I really think it is your kidneys.”
The Cripple grinned again — the happiness spreading across his pinched, pallid face. It was the first time Istak had seen him so pleased, the melancholy eyes dancing with laughter.
“What else can you do, Eustaquio? You speak Spanish, Latin — both very well. And you are a healer like no herbolario I have ever seen. What are you really or what do you want to be?”
“I am a poor farmer, Apo,” Istak said.
“No, you are not just a farmer,” the Cripple said. “In the past, surely, you must have wanted to be something else.”
So it was; Cabugaw again, the old church, the stone belfry and the bats that roosted in the eaves, the booming clap of bells in his ears and old Padre Jose telling him to read as much as he could, for the world was open only to those who could read and this skill was the most precious gift that any teacher could give.
“I had a teacher, Apo,” Istak said with a touch of sadness. “I wanted to be a priest, to be like him, knowing so much and imparting it all to others.”
“And why did you not become one?”
Istak turned away. “I am an Indio, Apo,” he said simply.
The Cripple leaned forward, his eyes ablaze. “You can still be one if you want to, Eustaquio. Bishop Aglipay has founded the Filipino Church. It is very strong and it is all ours. No Spanish friars ordering us. And we are not subservient to Rome. We must build this church not only because it is ours but because we must have a continuing faith in God. My mother wanted me to be a priest, too. So you are not really alone.
“Do you really believe in God?” the Cripple asked after some silence. “This was a belief you got from the Spaniards, no matter how kindly they may have looked upon you.”
For some time, Istak could not speak, although it would have been so easy to affirm his faith. He had prayed as a matter of habit when he ministered to the sick, a prayer which those who were healed thought had curative powers in itself. He had not tried to correct the impression, for who really knew what prayer could do? There was this power he held, power which was not really his but Someone else’s. Yet, there were times when he doubted the existence of a just and merciful God, and now that it was put to him bluntly, now that he must open up his own mind to himself, he realized with some sorrow and apprehension that his belief was not as steadfast as it once had been and that if given the chance he would not now want to be a priest. Was it all Dalin’s doing?
“I do what I think is right, Apo,” Istak said.
“You are not answering my question.”
“I doubt, Apo,” he said quickly. “And I am ashamed that I do.”
“No, no, Eustaquio!” The Cripple shook his head emphatically. “You doubt, you think — have you forgotten the old injunction? What did the Spaniards say about us? That we are children, without minds, that we can easily be led. This is what the Americans are saying, too. This is what they are telling the world. That we cannot manage our affairs, that we do not deserve to be free. A nation which has people who can think, that nation already has strength. It is the mind which rules, Eustaquio — not instinct or habit.”
Long after they had parted, the Cripple’s words burned in Istak’s mind. In their next encounter, he would have more reasoned-out replies not only to his inquisitor but — he now realized — to himself. He went to his bangcag, the life-giving well, to the guardian of the earth, to draw from them the knowledge that seemed to have ebbed. It had pleased him, of course, to use Spanish, and a bit of Latin again, to argue in a language that was not his and find that desuetude had not dulled his mind, that he could still express himself fully in it, although, at times, the words shaped slowly. He brought to mind how he once told Padre Jose that he was tormented by doubts and the old priest had tweaked his ears, reminding him that there are questions of faith which have no answers, for the ways of God are immutable and imponderable. Istak had believed; he had wakened in the mornings, smelling real coffee brewing in the kitchen. He had lingered, too, at the belfry when he tolled the Angelus and from that pinnacle, watched the west burn with the dying day, the whole rim of the world ablaze with dazzling reds that turned to purples, voluptuous forms or ogre shapes obscured with the onrushing night. Only God could paint these.
The guava tree had borne fruit and the well was full and flowing ceaselessly into the bamboo conduits that carried the gift of life to the seed. He would bring some of the fruits to his patient and boil some of the young leaves in water from the well. Mushrooms had also sprouted in the pit where he had stacked the dead trunks of bananas and hay, and he filled his fish basket with them. The Cripple would like a tasty meal even if there was no salt in it.
He had never taken care of anyone before with whom he was as involved as he was now. Although it had given him immense satisfaction to hear the Cripple tell of his improvement, Istak was not sure that he was doing right, he was not even sure that the Cripple’s old ailment was completely cured. It was in moments like this that uncertainty badgered him, that the hunger for more knowledge became more acute.
Would he raise his sons, for instance, the way he was — full of questions? This early, the older boy, Antonio, had already shown intelligence and a questioning spirit. He had taught the boy the cartilla and he could read just enough Spanish for a nine-year-old to absorb. Istak regretted most that he had no books here; in Cabugaw, there had been the Augustinian texts, the literature and science of Europe. Now that he had shared the rich man’s food, perhaps, Don Jacinto could lend him some of his books.
All this was in his mind the evening he returned to town with his medications. This time, however, the Cripple did not bother him with questions; he offered Istak a job instead.
In the azotea again. Across the wide expanse of grass the balete tree was ignited by a thousand fireflies, and beyond the old tree, the orange lights of several homes flickered. The evening was cool; it would be December soon and the bracing winds from the mountains would veer down to the plain.
The Cripple had finished his supper. He had also drunk the concoction which Istak had brought in a bamboo tube but that was now in a glass pitcher. The Aladdin lamp was lighted and its luminous glow reached out to them.