Why do you falter, why do you hesitate? These few moments are your last, you know that. What does life mean to you now?
NOW, NOW, NOW!
All my life, I have tried to be a man of peace and You have rewarded me amply by entrusting me with Your healing gift. I have served You well, my God, and though at times I wavered, though at times I questioned You, always I was true. Every time I healed, I knew it was not I but You who did this, and having been Your willing and happy instrument, I have given some substance to this empty life.
NOW, NOW, NOW!
I will give up this power, this gift entrusted to me — will I give You up, too, now that I have decided? Tell me, my one true God, assure me I do no wrong if I kill my enemy; it is not the question of my life or his that is impelling enough. It is right against wrong — good against evil — and my God, You are not blind — YOU know!
He was not a healer anymore. He was a destroyer and the gun which he now grasped seemed a part of himself. Feeling its weight, its cold steel, it was indeed a part of his arm, his very flesh. He had seen them take the bullets from their leather canisters and load their rifles — it was not difficult to do the same.
Then, from his right, the general greeted him in Spanish: “Oy, there, Eustaquio! Are you sure you want to die here? I told you to flee but you chose to remain. Oy, there, Ilokano, learn how to shoot, then.”
The soldier at his left lifted his rifle and ejected the spent cartridge then rammed another into it. It was easy — he did not need a lesson on how to load. And it was even easier to aim.
Istak lifted the gun and steadied it on the rock before him. Through the sights, the patches of green on the mountainside below, the dead Americans lying on the grass, blue on green. The soldiers were still far, but they stood out clearly in his sights as they flitted about looking for cover or for a way to charge up the pass. Something moved behind a screen of cogon to the right; he aimed at it and fired, the report ringing in his ears, his shoulder jolted back so hard he thought it would be wrenched away. From behind the sprout of grass, a dash of blue sprang then fell.
Joy coursed through him like lightning. But was it really joy? He did not know; he was sure only of its intensity as it inflamed his whole being. He had finally killed a man.
And the exultation — if it was that — which had lifted him, dashed him back to the earth, saddened him. He had taken a life. This was war, this was righteous. What right have these white men to be here, millions of arm’s lengths away from their own land? He should have done this years ago when they were driven out of Po-on, when his village was burned.
He glanced fitfully upward; the sky — how blue it was, how serene and peaceful, even with the gunfire that rattled around him. The soldier who had taught him how to put a bullet in the belly of the gun now shouted at him to load again. The soldier — he was just a boy! — smiled at him. They were all strangers to him only a while ago. Not anymore; he was now one of them. In death, all men are brothers.
How clear his thoughts were now: here on this mountaintop, there is meaning to all this, bigger than life. None will thank me for this, nor will anyone remember. I have worshipped God. Is my salvation in my suffering? Or will suffering teach me of its necessity? I have become a new man. I have seen what can be seen only on top of a mountain.
He inhaled deeply, and turned to his back, toward the east bathed with luminous, early light.
I have been blinded, as many of us have been blinded by our needs. I had thought only of my family — this was the limit to my responsibility, and therefore, my vision. On this pinnacle I can see much more now. I am no longer Eustaquio Salvador. So then I will pit this tender flesh against the steel of a new master. I can do this because my pulse is quicker, because I am free. Listen to the wind in the grass.
Who are they who come to us promising to teach us what we already know, who will give us a new god to worship? God is in all of us. Who are they to say that we are children, that they should be our teachers? Their defecation is foul, they are flesh who will be ripped apart by bullet or blade. But why are they strong and why are we weak? Can it be that their faith has made them more capable than we, more enduring, more brilliant? And even nearer to God?
There came to mind again old Padre Jose, sweating beneath his black cassock in the April heat, doggedly toiling up these mountains, braving a malignant land and an equally malignant people about whom he knew little yet was willing to meet and risk so much in his desire to learn more, and having learned more, would then convert and conquer. Conquer with what? With knowledge, more than anything, for what are guns? They will rust and fail, but not knowledge, which is strength. This was what Padre Jose had told him, and this was what he had learned to believe. Knowledge was just the instrument — there had to be a will to put spirit into the flesh, and move even old and creaking bones so that the hands may shape new churches and the tongue will utter the words that will touch men’s hearts.
When you know you will die, you accept Death. The thought is no longer fearful. It was thinking about Dalin, and his two sons, that pained him; they did not even know he would be here on this desolate mountaintop haloed with light and churned by the whirlwind. He prayed that they would grow strong, that the land they would inherit would always be theirs, and most of all, that their mother would know no more travail.
They are coming now — more of them, down there below the gorge where they have left their horses; there are so many of them and there are so few of us. I am thirsty — sweat creeps down my back.
Why aren’t you coming up? Are you afraid?
Have we really stopped them? The president — he must be far away now with the time that we have bought for him. This is our gift not to him but to Filipinas. Honorable Cripple, I am not a patriot. But how do you measure the sacrifice this poor man beside me has made? He lies still, his hands no longer feel. He is so young, so very young — what had life promised to hold for him? Who is the woman he would have made happy, who would have borne his children? Honorable Cripple, you know the answers. And God — do I take Your name in vain? I don’t even know why I am here when I could have run away. It must be pride, or stubbornness, of which men of the north have plenty. If it is pride, what, then, can I be proud of? I have nothing to show, nothing which I have built by myself. Why then am I here? I will search the depths and will find nothing there. Nothing but
Duty,
Duty,
Duty.
EPILOGUE
MANILA
APRIL 30, 1900
Dear Jim,
Thank you very much for your comments on my dispatch on the battle at Mount Tirad. It takes such a long time for my letters to get to you, and I cannot send messages by cable unless they are absolutely necessary. You must content yourself with letters, then.
I must tell you that I am not altogether happy about your decision to come here and teach school. I made this obvious, I hope, in my dispatches describing conditions here. But I will not try to dissuade you because I know your mind is made up and, certainly, you can do much in a territory like the Philippine Islands. In a sense, therefore, I am quite pleased that my brother has found a noble motive, to bring our civilization to this bleak corner of the world.
I just want to be sure that you know what is in store for you. Remember that Manila is not Boise, Idaho, and knowing of your adventurous spirit and your earlier desire to go to China, you will probably want to leave Manila for someplace in the mountains that is more interesting and challenging.