“He is not here, he is far from here,” the general said curtly. “Continue.”
“Don Apolinario said that we should continue to fight, that the president must be safe always, for he is not just a leader but the symbol of our nation …”
Silence, and a slow nodding of the head.
“Don Jacinto and Don Apolinario — they think that since I know these mountains well, I should be your guide to wherever you want to go. They did not tell me where — all that I know, my general, is that I should guide you through these ranges.”
Istak did not expect the next question: “Where did you say Don Apolinario is now?”
“I already told you, Apo. In Rosales, where I came from.”
“And who is taking care of him there?”
“His former classmate and friend, Don Jacinto. I also told you this. Don Apolinario was ill. His secretary, Cayo Alzona, and his servant were also ill. Don Apolinario’s kidneys weren’t functioning properly, so I gave him medicine to drink — boiled flowers and young leaves of banaba. He is better now.”
“You speak good Spanish,” the general said. “Where did you learn it?”
“In Cabugaw — here in Sur, Señor General. I was born here. I was an acolyte for many years. I know this part of the country very well. Padre Jose, the priest in Cabugaw — we used to go this way and beyond, to the land of the Bagos, where he preached.”
The general was silent, as if he were measuring carefully everything he was told.
“And how is Don Apolinario now? And what is he doing?”
“Writing, Señor General,” Istak said. “Always writing. I copied his drafts because he gets tired and he wants to write so much, to send them all to Hong Kong, and from there, to the world.”
More questions, some of them repetitive. Then it occurred to Istak — like a bludgeon it struck him, filled him with sadness and a dismal sense of futility — that for all the distance he had traversed, the hardships that he had undergone, the general did not believe him. The general was waiting for one mistake with which he could be trapped and then declared a spy.
He remembered what Don Apolinario had said, and it came to him in gleaming clarity. “We must learn to trust our own people, their judgment, if we are to build a nation. There will always be traitors, for it is the wretched who are often the most ambitious, but for every traitor there are a dozen who are true. We are going to build a nation — not of Tagalogs, Batangueños, or Caviteños — we are going to build a nation which includes all our brothers and sisters from the far south to the far north. Do you understand, Eustaquio, why I am here? I could hide much easier in the villages or in the mountains of my own province, among my people, and I would probably be safer there.”
“My general,” Istak said sadly, softly. “You have not really heard any of what I have told you. What do I have to do so that you will believe me?”
Del Pilar stepped back; perhaps he did not expect this farmer to talk like this. He raised his right hand, but the hand did not cut across Istak’s face — it just loomed there, then dropped slowly. In the soft dark, he could see the young face, the earnest but mocking eyes.
“Eustaquio,” he said finally, “no one speaks to me like this.” Then he turned and marched toward the house.
In a while, everyone was stirring, and the yard was soon alive with men, their voices harried and tense. The general finally believed him, but how much he would never know.
They marched out in single file, the horses in the rear and the general himself in the lead, and headed toward the mountain — an endless curtain of darkness across the length of the land.
Although they did not tie him up or hinder his movements, two soldiers never left him. Soon, they entered a fold of land neither cultivated nor inhabited. They seemed to know where they were going. Certainly, the general had a map, a compass. At this time of the year, the mountain streams were shallow and could be crossed on foot.
Once there was a commotion in the middle of the column, for a boar had charged out of the darkness. Though it did not hurt anyone, it had caused some excitement and it was just as well, for they had, perhaps, become sleepy; Istak himself had started to drowse.
It was close to midnight when the column paused. Someone from the front came down the line. Istak thought his guards were to be relieved, for he could not understand their Tagalog. It became clear to him when the men beside him moved on, and he was told in Spanish not to move. It was here where he should stop and he was not to follow them.
He watched them plod on, swallowed by the night, the sound of their marching muffled till it was quiet again. Frustration, massive and overwhelming, swept over him; anger, too, beyond words. His chest tightened and only when he broke down and cried silently, the tears streaming down his face, was he able to breathe easily again.
He wanted to shout, but no one would hear, no one would care. It was all wasted then — the days of racing against the final hour, and it came in one, swift blur — the lowland dangers that he had passed, the patrol which almost trampled him. He knew the way, but he was not trusted, so they left him to go back. At least he was not shot. Did he not convince the general with all he knew about the Cripple? Or was it difficult for the general to believe that a peasant like him, speaking Spanish, could be just a peasant?
He wanted desperately to rationalize, to absolve the general. He was young, and because of his youth he was a poor judge of men.
He woke up in the chill dawn, the grass at his feet wet with dew. The trail was near the river. The sharp rise of hillside was studded with butterfly trees in bloom. Quickly, he remembered again with some relief that the general did not order him shot — just left behind to find his way back. He rose and turned around — the cool majesty of the mountains before him and below, more of the low hills which they had passed in the night. In a while, sunrise — the mountains were blue, the peaks covered with mist and beyond the haze, the pointed ridge below which the pass cut through.
They must be over the pass, the soldiers who emerged faceless out of the darkness. A new day, perhaps a new life. Why should an impetuous young man and this fleeing president of a country riven by jealousies and personal hatreds matter to him?
Yes, just as he had told the Cripple, why should I care for others who are not members of my family, who have not done anything for me? I have this piece of land which I have cleared. My duty is not to this nameless mass you call Filipinas. No country can claim my time, my loyalty. And as for God — I served Him well by doing my fellowmen no harm, but instead brought them health when they came to me with their bodies racked with pain. And for all these, my father was punished, I was punished. I am not going to test fate again.
The Cripple had looked sadly at him, then spoke, the words taking shape like jewels shining, glittering, impinging into his consciousness how easily he had been seduced by self-preservation: “If there is no country as such or as you know and recognize, then in your mind you must give it its boundaries. Do this because without this country you are nothing. This land where you stand, from which you draw sustenance, is the mother you deny. It’s to her where your thoughts will go even if you refuse to think so, for it is here where you were born, where your loved ones live, and where in all probability you will all die. We will love her, protect her, all of us — Bisaya, Tagalog, Ilokano, so many islands, so many tribes — because if we act as one, we will be strong and so will she be. Alone, you will fall prey to every marauder that passes by. I am not asking that you love Filipinas. I am asking that you do what is right, what is duty …”