1. SELECTED WRITINGS
CONSTANTINO T. QUIBOLOY
Sta. Catalina, Lubao, Pampanga
June 25, 1967

2. CONTENTS:
Short Stories
The Clock
The Sowing
Sixteen
Carabao Meat
The Chicken God Sent
The Lost Coin
Dark Night
Maria
She Is Coming Back
A Christmas Remembered
Feature Articles
Death In A Quagmire
The President And I
The Invisible Hand
Half An Hour With The Leader
Poems
Postludes
This Fever That Rises
Love - - - What Love
Love Is What Makes Me
Hymn To The Wind
Water Lilies
Stars On The Water
Manila At Dawn

3. To my Father,
himself a common man
1872-1944

4. A U T H O R‘S N O T E S
I have always wanted to have certain of my works
collected, and it would not make any difference to me in
what form they were to be bound together. The important
thing was to have them put together. This, I did with the
typewriter, and I am pleased. I have no pretensions to
literary recognition and I do not intend to commercialize my
writings – say, in book form. Fact is, the effort was
motivated by reason purely sentimental. It just feels good
for the impulse remaining that way.
“Selected” should not be taken for “best”. I have no
best work. The word merely designates, or it is used here to
designate, those of my writings that I would like to be
presented together. They are the ones very close to my
heart; which is about the whole truth about the venture. I
also intend the works read only by people close to me,
particularly those who feel they have the flair for writing but
who somehow have no workable way of making good use of
their literary persuasions.
Ten stories, six feature articles, and eight little
poems make up the collection. All have been published,
excepting the short story, “The Soldier, The Boy, And The
Planes” and the true experience, “A Christmas
Remembered”, which until now I have kept to myself in
reverent remembrance of my mother. One way or the other,
each work has some special attachment to a specific period
or moment in my life. The poems particularly, though
written in my literary nonage and therefore are by no means
“mature” from the literary point of view, are here included
for the images they evoke that are reminiscent of my
youthful dreams, frustrations, and temperament.

5. Once, at a time when I was suffering from a literary
slump, Manila Times Editor Jose Luna Castro advised,
“Write pot-boilers then, just to keep on writing”. I did, and
“Death In A Quagmire”, “The Invisible Hand”, and “The
President And I” cashed in and make up for that lag on short
story writing. I wrote the pieces following the principle of
the short story and succeeded. That did me some good,
naturally, because the articles turned out no less literary than
journalistic in their handling.
But it is my short stories I should really like to pass
a word about.
“She Is Coming Back” was originally published in
the defunct Manila Daily News magazine – as fiction.
Which it is, insofar the elements of the short story is
concerned. Technically a short story, I would, however, like
to pass it this time as non-fiction, the fact that it is actually
the true experience of a friend. The unpublished, “The
Soldier, The Boy And the Planes”, wanting as it is
craftsmanship and purpose, is a hold-over from my exercises
in short story writing. It is here included for the oppressing
memory of the Japanese Occupation, of those ruthlessness
the Japanese soldiers were not all willing tools. There were
among them who had genuine human compassion, like the
principal character in the story.
Editorial comments on certain of my stories were
almost unanimous on one point. They have endings, as
Teodoro M. Locsin of the Philippine Free Press said, “quite
depressing.” Examples: “The Lost Coin” and “Carabao
Meat”. But Carmen Guerrero-Nakpil and Luis Mauricio,
perhaps more perceptive of the sensibilities about the

6. emotional and social implications of the stories, accepted the
pieces without a qualm and published them in their
respective magazines. For one who himself has been
exposed to fear and want most of his life could do no less
than to identify himself in the characters of his stories – the
little men they are, who he is. I suppose that when one has
done his best and done it sincerely, when one as come as
close as he can to saying exactly what he wants to say
according to the truth of his experience, it is nonsense to
wish he had written otherwise, just to conform with the
smiling standards of certain editors.
Significantly, “The Sowing” and “Carabao Meat”
are quite studied reflections of the social truth about the
peasantry in Central Luzon. Exploitive tenancy, abetted by
the post-war erosion of moral values, has gone so far as to
continue impoverishing the peasant class. And this,
ironically, despite the land reform code and such other
movements aimed at lifting the little man of the soil from the
throes of poverty and ignorance. No wonder dissent and
discontent among our dispossessed become ever more
engrained.
For these stories alone, I find myself compensatedly
moored to some spiritual satisfaction, knowing I have done
my bit, however little, in projecting the truth about the plight
of the Central Luzon peasant.
And now to the friend who desired to write for
publication:
I believe the writer – any writer – should write as he
pleases, as long as he tries his best in reflecting the truth of

7. his individual experiences. But he must write as he knows
best – if he is to succeed.
There is no short cut to writing. The only way to
write is to write – extensively, intensively. Except for the
gifted – and there are a few of them – apprenticeship in
writing is a long and painful process. It takes years – many
years, in fact –before one “arrives”, if at all. Many have
gone abroad just to learned the trade, and they have come
disillusioned.
Technical books and writing courses are helpful, but
only at the beginning. From there on one must learn to be on
his own, to gain perspective, style, and effectiveness as a
writer. That’s just how I have tried to do.
Finally, I am dedicating this collection to DIONISIO
M. QUIBOLOY, a little man who knew well enough of his
kind, and whose son I am.
C. T. QUIBOLOY

8. THE CLOCK
AS USUAL Mr. Jeremias Pascual was busy preparing his
lesson plans in his makeshift study that Saturday morning.
In his chair he looked smaller, and his flat-chested frame
accentuated by his thin, graying hair and shrunken face told
of the strain that long years of school work had brought.
Now and then he coughed, and it was dry and laborious
coughing. He never despaired about his health, though, nor
seemed to notice how irritable he had become. Yet, even in
his moments of unreason, his heart remained big for the
people of Pulu with whom he had lived in the past twenty
one years.
While he was writing, holding an Arithmetic book as
he wrote, Vicenta, his only child, showed at his door and
said, "Kang Mento is asking for you, Father."
Mento?" His high-pitched voice carried a tone of
unbelief. "What does he want?"
“I don't know," the girl said. "He just asks for you."
For a moment Mr. Pascual remained in his chair,
wondering what the neighbor had come to see him for. He
could not quite know why the man Mento, who had been
elusive for weeks would have the temerity to see him now.
So he went out the sala, from where he saw the man
still before the tiny porch, rubbing his bare feet on a jute rug
rather unnecessarily. "Good morning, Mr. Pascual!" the man
said, smiling nervously.

9. The old teacher received the man warmly, led him
into the sala, to the old rattan chairs by the side window, and
had him seated. He had the reputation of being especially
fond of people who had been his pupils.
“What is it, son?"
“I hope,” the man said, biding his time, "I hope I've
not made you wait too long for the money I borrowed." He
knew no better way to start off his mission.
Mr. Pascual was quick. He said, "I've forgotten it.
Is that what you have come for?"
The other was tongue-tied, as if everything else he
could say had lost importance. When he finally spoke his
words were broken. "No, sir -er, I mean my child is sick
and---"
“Is he again, the youngest?“
“Yes, sir. I've been around but couldn't find a clock
with which to time the doctor's prescription."
“I see," Mr. Pascual said. He rubbed his chin and
began passing his finger tips over his two-day beard, his eyes
on the rafters for nothing at all. "I see," he said again.
He remembered how once, the year before, the
man's wife borrowed a thermometer, which her children
broke. Now he had grown sentimental about the family
things since most of their belongings had been looted in the
first evacuation. He realized, more than ever before, how

10. hard it was to replace what had been lost, now that his salary
was hardly enough for even their daily marketing.
“But this clock here," he said, turning to the ancient
Westclox on the bookcase. "This clock stops oftentimes. It
must be full of rust inside. I never have time to clean it."
That was not true. He had a special attachment to
the clock, which had been given to him on Christmas before
the war by a cousin in the U.S. Navy. If he could help it, he
would not lend it to anyone, anyway.
When finally he gave in to a force more powerful
than his sentiment, he asked his former pupil just to keep the
clock away from his children. "There's no clock to buy
around here this time, Mamerto," he said, "even if you had
the money. Not for several months more, at the earliest."
The man's face brightened, even as he made a polite
acknowledgement of this. Secretly he was grateful as
though Mr. Pascual had given him a verdict of acquittal for a
wrong thing done. And when he rose to go, the old teacher
reminded him: "The matter with you Mamerto is you think
of the doctor only when things have passed from bad to
worse."
In the afternoon Mr. Pascual was squatting in his
vegetable garden when he heard the clock ring. Intuitively
he sat upright, pausing from his work, rather annoyed by the
ringing at this time of the day. But soon he had caught up
with his sense of direction and was reminded that the ringing
was not coming from his house but from the third house
across the road. He could hear then the muffled happy

11. voices of children mingled in the ringing of the clock. And
he thought of the sick child, his time to take medicine.
Once the clock had stop ringing, it started to ring
again ---and again and again at irregular intervals. At length
Mr. Pascual, his face sharp with suspicion, stood up with a
taut back that hurt from long squatting. The glare of the
afternoon sun was strong and only by putting his hands over
his eyes could he see clearly across the road. He could hear
then the muffled happy voices of children mingled in the
ringing of the clock. They must be playing with it, he
thought, and hurried out of the garden.
The house became suddenly silent as Mr. Pascual
shouted “Mamerto” again and again from the road. By and
by the head of the man's elder daughter bobbed up the
window sill and looked down at him on the road with
innocent curiosity as she worked at the tip of a sour-looking
green mango.
“Where is your father?" Mr. Pascual demanded.
“I don't know," the girl said carelessly between
swallows. "My mother has gone to wash.“ And she
continued to eat her mango.
“You keep quiet for your sick brother and put that
clock back on the aparador. "Can't you see he is crying
now?"
“Yes," said the girl, and she smiled and broke into a
giggle as she receded from the window. But Mr. Pascual did
not leave until he was sure the child had done what she was
told.

12. Back in the garden Mr. Pascual's annoyance grew
into rage as he reached a hen cackling comfortably in a
cavity it had made in the loose corner of a pechay plot where
two plants had been. He picked up a big hard clod and
surreptitiously aimed it at the bird. When the missile had
been released he saw one more plant destroyed ---thoroughly
crushed--- as the hen flew over the fence noisily but unhurt.
"Psuh!” Mr. Pascual spat disgustedly and cursed whoever
owned the hen.
Mr. Pascual had developed the habit of thinking,
planning for the years ahead which, at his age, he knew there
could not be many of. He had thought of retiring, long
before he began to cough, or seeking transfer to his native
place. But now, busy at work, he had no time of anything but
race with the fast lowering sun. There were many bugs on
the plants and it was all he could do to pick them off and
crush them on the ground with a stick. Now and then he
would stretch his back and fill his lungs with the
invigorating air of the afternoon coming from the fields
beyond the line of bamboos. He had found tending plants a
healthful diversion and, year after year, after the rains, he
had dug up the earth and planted a new crop.
Before long his occupation was interrupted by the
long shadow of Old Asiang. The old woman had been
mending by her window facing the teacher's garden and all
along had been aware of what was happening in the house
across the road. But she was reluctant to call Mr. Pascual's
attention, lest the children whose parents were not on
speaking terms with her, should hear. Finally, unable to hold
her tongue any longer, she had come down through the
backyard to tell Mr. Pascual in a whisper: "Maybe, that's

13. your clock Mento's child is playing with, Mang Jeremias.
You better hurry before she destroys it."
Mr. Pascual received the words like one frightened.
“What? The clock again? I just told them not to
play it."
He stood up quickly without an apparent difficulty
and looked intently--tensely- -toward Mento's house. He
could see then the man's younger daughter running around
the house, playing cart with the clock. He could hear the
clock rasping and clanging on the rough ground. Beholding
the outrage, he held his breath and bit his lips as if he
himself was being tortured. "This good-for-nothing child of
Mamerto's," he roared. “I could kill her."
When the little girl saw him he was too near for her
to escape. All she could do was cry out in fright and clasped
her buttocks protectingly. The old man grabbed both her
hands, twisted them up, and began to spank her soundly.
"You'll never be any good, like your father," he kept
repeating as he vainly tried to catch the little girl fully on the
buttocks while she was tilted away from him every time his
hand came down. "You'll never learn to care. Who told you
to play with the clock, ha?
Mr. Pascual was soon exhausted, and as he stopped
beating the child he began to cough intermittently. He had
never before felt so tired and weak. Between coughs he
called to the other girl to explain.
“Ha, you!" he shouted, raising an accusing hand
toward the house. "What have you been doing all this time?"

14. The girl in the house did not come down but stayed
securely in the corner where she had been listening. In a
troubled voice she said, "I was sleeping, sir."
“That's it. You were sleeping. But from now on, you
won't have any of my things. Tell that to your father. Tell
him not to borrow anything from me, do you hear?"
He picked up the clock and looked long at it before
he severed the strip of dry banana stalk tied to it. He wiped
its dusty face with his palm. There seemed nothing the
matter with it, except that its protruding parts which had
rubbed against sand and rock had been cleaned of rust and
become white and rough. Otherwise it was all right, ticking
regularly. “My goodness,” Mr. Pascual sighed. Even then he
already felt relieved.
Before leaving he gave the little girl, who had run
under the house, a contemptuous look. He did not mean to
be cruel; just the same he wanted the children to learn and
remember. “Tell your father to get the clock from me when
he comes. I can't leave it with you anymore."
As Mr. Pascual had expected Mento came for the
clock that evening. The man pulled himself awkwardly up
the steps as one heavily burdened with shame. He did not
announce his presence-- he just did not have the nerve to--
but decided to stay in the porch anyway. Here, he thought,
he would wait until he was discovered and asked to come in.
He would not need to talk; the old teacher should know what
he was there for. He did not know that the other had seen
him even before he set foot on the stairs, had been thinking

15. of him all evening and had become hardened with feeling
helpless.
Seeing him remain in the porch, in a patch of
moonlight from an opening in the lanes, the old teacher
remained quiet in his chair by the window, as if nobody was
inside. For once he felt amused at being able to be cruel.
Yes, the thought, it should be this way with the man until he
would have enough of it, until repentance overcame him and
he would knock at the door of his own volition. By that time
Mr. Pascual should have stood up to receive him, to speak
his mind more frankly, authoritatively; while the other,
shamefacedly enough, would listen in meek submission.
Afterwards he would give the clock back gladly, while
hoping his words had sunk into the man's conscience
forever.
But as Mr. Pascual waited, as the man Mento looked
about, waiting, the sudden hysterical crying of a woman
pierced through the silence, breaking the train of thought of
the two silent men. The crying was soon followed by the no
less aggrieved voices of children. As one electrified, the
man in the porch involuntarily drew back his hand that was
raised towards the door and forthwith flew down, taking two
steps at a time. He had gone out of sight before the old man
inside had time to do anything.
Alone now and greatly shaken, he remained
immobile in his chair, pondering uncertainly whether the
event had not come to Mento to teach him to be wide awake,
making him a responsible family man.
The next instant he was thinking differently. So
powerful and compelling was it that crept into his mind that

16. it lifted him from his chair. "Dead!" he exclaimed under his
breath. "Dead!"
And as he hobbled toward his bed, he suddenly
became inexplicably sad.

17. THE SOWING
BALDO WAS THINKING again when the open six-by-six
that was parked on his side of the road, before the big house,
loomed suddenly before his eyes. He pulled his rope hard
and the wheels of the bullcart spewed a cloud of dust.
Slowly, he came down. With his free hand he took
off his well-worn buri hat and began slapping the dirt of his
faded denims. Then he was tugging at the rope again, now
gently, to make the carabao back out away. The space
before the iron gate, he knew, should remain unobstructed.
He tied the rope around a shrub he found at the base of the
stone fence. Then he approached the gate.
The ancient house stood deep in the big yard, and
before the gate immersed in the sharp summer light. Baldo
strained his eyes through the wide open door of the familiar
basement. It was there where Mang Pepe lived and worked,
looking after the house and the grain stored in it. It was dark
there inside, too dark for him to see through. Yet, like his
father before him, he would not enter; not on his own. He
could only wish someone came out, from whom he could
inquire about the overseer, though he knew the man was
there all day. It felt easy for him getting in that way.
At length he sought a hump of ground by the
parched road ditch, and there sat to wait, waving the truck
now heavy with palay. He was divining the content of the
sacks when a shadow shot past him, and he was shaken from
dreaming. He saw two more sacks of palay straddled across
the shoulder of a half-jogging man whose back, sculpted fan-
like by long years of hard work, shone in the sun and dripped

18. with sweat. He stood up and waited for the man to unload
and then climb down the short ladder on the side of the
truck.
“Vicente," he said, meeting the man halfway.
"Whatever makes you work on a Sunday?"
Vicente mopped his forehead with his hand and blew
a loose ball of buyo out of a corner of his mouth before he
spoke. “Mang Pepe says Don Ramon needs money. We are
taking the palay to the mill right away.“
Is Mang Pepe in?" Baldo had no other purpose in
asking that except for the other to have the incentive to lead
him in.
The truck driver was coming out as the two entered
the basement. He slapped the mill-hand on the back to
remind him to hurry up with his last load. Once alone,
Baldo stood by a big basket of grain near the door and
waited till his eyes could see in the damp half-dark. The
overseer was seated at a table lighted only through a square,
iron-barred opening in the side stonewall. In a while Baldo
stepped quietly forward and greeted the man.
Sit down," Mang Pepe demanded, without looking
up. "Sit down a moment, will you?"
The lone chair in front was at right angle with the
table and Baldo sat, not knowing where to rest his hands.
Finally they settled down between his thighs. The overseer
kept on working. Baldo waited, fanning himself with his
hat. Then he heard the man cursing as he crumpled the piece

19. of paper he had been writing on. He threw his great bulk
backward; his swivel chair creaked.
“What made you come at this time of the day,
Baldo?" he said, staring at the tenant through thick glasses
that made him all the more fierce-looking.
Baldo tried hard to face the man across with a smile
that really was not there. "I've just passed the fields," he
said, rubbing his palms together. "You might like to see how
tall and robust the stalks of my crop are." And trying hard to
convince the overseer, he added: "I'd say I will have a much
bigger harvest this time."
“Good for you," said the other. "Is that all you have
come to say?"
“I mean, sir, since I'll have more than I need-- and
we can live on twenty-four cavans between the seasons, I
think perhaps you can give me some cash in advance. Say,
one hundred pesos. That's much less than I'll have in excess,
I'm almost sure."
Mang Pepe shoved himself forward. He looked as
though he had heard something he barely understood.
“I said, sir," Baldo said again, "I said, I need one
hundred pesos that I know you can give me now."
“I see. But we don't give that much money to a new
tenant. As a matter of fact, I can't give an old hand any
small amount now. Don Ramon needs all the cash there is.
He's building another house in the city, you know."

20. Baldo felt immobilized. All he had had in mind, the
clear details of his mission he had seen himself do many
times on the way, were suddenly dull and irrelevant. Now
he doubted whether after all he could convince Mang Pepe
of the necessity of his coming. Once more the thought of his
child crept in to his mind.
The night before, long after the oil lamp had been
put out, and Baldo and his wife were on the common mat
about to sleep, the child, without warning, became restless
and started crying long and hard. In her effort to pacify her
child, the mother gave her breast; but the infant would not
feed. Alarmed, Baldo’s mother-in-law on another mat with
her husband in the far corner of the one-room house, lighted
the lamp and crawled toward the child.
The old woman took the infant and as she began
rocking it in her arms, she said: "I told you already--your
child must be baptized if you want it to get well fast. The
trouble with you is you never seem to want to do anything
about it. That's why."
Baldo felt guilty, hearing those words; but, too, he
knew the rice in the jar was all about they had. He had gone
around, earlier in the day, but everyone he turned to was as
much in need as he. And so he said: "But what could I do,
'Nay?"
Baldo!" the woman's voice was high and broken.
"Nobody was born clothed. Besides you did not talk like
that when you were courting Desta."
The old man in the corner, sitting up on his haunches, butted
in: "You don't have to be harsh, Selma. You can't get things

21. done that way." Then to the young father: "Baldo, it is only
your mother talking. Do not mind her. But you may go to
the big house tomorrow. Have faith in the good Lord; He
will find you a way out of this yet. Think of your child,
anak."
Desta had pulled a pillow to her face to sob in. That
was enough for Baldo; he decided to see Mang Pepe the
following morning.
But now that he had come, and had heard the man
say that he could not lend him any amount, he was lost.
What could he do? What should he do? He could not return
home only to see his wife suffer more; he loved her so.
But I need money," he was saying at last. "My child
was sick three weeks, and last night, only last night, it was
restless again.
The overseer took a book out of a drawer, opened it,
leaf after leaf. Then he placed a forefinger on a page.
“Here," he said. "It says here you shared thirty-seven cavans
in the last harvest. That was in January, and April has just
begun. Do you mean to say you have spent the rest of your
share for your child?"
“No, sir. Of course, not. I have seven cavans more
that Justo and Dimas borrowed. Besides, Desta's parents had
to be with us to help her look after the child."
“So you want your cross heavier, indeed?“ The
overseer nodded repeatedly as he talked, and his smile was
loaded with sarcasm. "And now you want me to advance for
you?"

22. ‘But I'll pay you back. I can pay you back. You
have to see my crop to believe me."
I believe you. I also believe Dimas and that good-
for-nothing Justo can return your palay--after doomsday, I
mean," Mang Pepe let go a big laugh that sounded like a
dam. "Why?" he went on, "they are neck-deep in debt with
us."
“Desta is thrifty, and we can live on very little. Just
as I told you."
“That's what they all said when they started. Surely,
you don't see what you are up to in the end. Look at Kulas.
Look at Pasiong Kabag--Basilio, and the rest of them.
Where are they now? Their carabaos and houses have been
confiscated and their fields turned over to new tenants.
Because they had to clear up with the house." Mang Pepe
paused, then added: "This is only your second season with us
and I might as well warn you."
‘I know these people. They deserve it, of course.
But my child, it must be baptized. It has to get well. And
this morning Desta did not eat. Can't you see? For God’s
sake, please…”
“But your child can well be christened with?--say,
five pesos. I can give you that much now, and forget
returning it."
“You don't understand, sir," Baldo said, his mouth
now was twitching at the corners. "You really don't
understand. You don't know how it is with Desta. I told you

23. she did not eat this morning. She said to me, “Baldo, it is
my first child, and it is sick. If it has to be baptized at all, all
I want is for the event to be real--even if I have to enslave
myself in the big house for it! She was crying then.”
And this morning, before I left, her mother had gone to Pulu
to look for a pig and to inform Mang Calixto, the capitan, of
our decision to have his son Mamerto, the maestro, and his
daughter, Lucila, the one who runs a dress shop in town, to
stand as sponsors at the baptism. I would want that your
daughter be the female sponsor instead, but she is away, and
Desta thought it would give you much trouble to have her
come from the city. Besides, she is a colegiala, and we are
but poor country folk."
Once more the overseer smiled, this time for being
amused with the farmer's rustic sentiment. He had lighted a
cigar and was blowing the smoke upward as he swayed in
his chair, thinking. The other waited as one for his sentence.
“I pity you, of course," Mang Pepe said. "But there's
no money for you."
“It is all set, can't you see?"
“You can explain to those people why you have to
postpone it till the coming harvest, can't you? Now you may
go home and call a doctor and have everything on me."
“Tell me," Baldo said boldly. "Tell me, do you
know someone else who has money? I will mortgage my
carabaos."

24. “Son of a devil," shouted Mang Pepe, throwing his
cigar hard onto the concrete floor and crushing it with the
sole of his shoe. "Do you realize how much your carabaos
mean to you? Would you have the nerve to come here if you
had no carabaos? Think!"
“But, sir---my child is sick…We tried the doctor and
it would not get well. God is what it needs. I know…I
know…”
Mang Pepe fell low in his chair, breathing deeply.
He ran his fingers on his thinning hair. After sometime he
straightened up; seriously, compassionately, he regarded the
tenant, who then had his head bowed down. "All right," he
said, almost in a whisper. "All right." Then his voice once
more was big and rising: "Since you ask for it, I'll give it to
you. But do you know much this house deals on money
borrowed?"
“Yes, sir."
“How?"
“Two pesos less than the current price per cavan."
“Good. And what is ‘current price'?"
“The market price at the time the palay is sold."
“You are wrong there. With this house, the current
price remains at nine pesos. Unless of course, the price
outside shoots down to less. In which case the price outside
becomes the price of the house. Do you get that?"

25. “Yes, sir."
“Now I won't give you one-hundred pesos. It's
either ninety-eight or a hundred and five. Which?"
“Hundred and five."
“That means fourteen cavans for you to return after
this harvest. "No," the overseer corrected himself, again
bringing down his pencil. "It's fifteen. That is if the price
outside keeps up with our price. And if you fail to pay back
this coming harvest, the fifteen cavans will have amounted
to nineteen and a half, by the January harvest next year. Can
you figure it out?"
‘That’s how it is, I suppose.”
Based on the nine-pesos per-cavan, yes. But we
figure the price wil1.rise to thirteen, fourteen pesos this time,
because of the drought. If so, how much will you lose, do
you know? Five pesos. That's what you are going to lose
per cavan. It should be seven, based on the two-pesos-per-
cavan. But five pesos is the most we can have you lose, see?
Now, are you willing to take on this arrangement?
“Yes , sir.”
“Then come back tomorrow and get out of here
quick."
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much."
Baldo stood up to go. His face was bright with an
immense happiness.

26. S I X T E E N
THE GIRL DOTTY had never bothered to think about it. It
was nothing, simply nothing. But now, faced with the reality
of home, having to stay home again, she was afraid.
Before the familiar bamboo ladder she hesitated.
Something ran through the length of her, cold and
portentuous as the lull before a storm. She decided to step
aside.
“No, you go up first," the woman from behind her
commanded making good use of a hand.
She was an enormous woman. In the half-light of
early evening she cut a grotesque, disproportionate figure
against the dark outline of the one-room nipa house that
stood lonely and alone on a hump of ground just off the end
of the barrio road. The girl remained still, holding her small
bundle tight to her breast. From somewhere in the yard, a
prowling dog whimpered away. In a little while a lamp
came out the window.
“It is I, Tomasa," the big woman said.
The girl's mother was unable to say a word, but
hastened to the doorway, the tin kerosene lamp in her
anxious hand.
She led the big woman to the only fixture in the
house, an old wooden bench that lay indistinct by the front
window. Dotty sought refuge in a place beside the middle

27. bamboo post, and she faced the thatch wall. The mother laid
the lamp on the creaky floor, against the protestation of two
little boys who were before the stoves that sat buddha-like in
the rear corner. The boys were partaking of their evening
meal from a common plate.
“You better give the lamp to your children and have
them finish first," the big woman said, holding her palm
before her eyes. "It hurts my eyes."
The woman Tomasa instead placed the lamp on the
improvised altar that hung suspended by abaca twine on the
wall. She leaned her back on the window sill as she turned
an oily, bony face to the woman on the bench. "Whatever
made you come, Mrs. Santos?" she said, as if she had not
sensed anything yet.
Mrs. Santos lifted her poppy eyes at the mother in a
regret sort of way--perhaps piteously--now shifting her gaze
down, slowly and almost fiercely, at the girl slumped by the
post, staying there a while, then back to the mother: as
though by then she had found the words, the precise words,
and given the other woman sufficient time to catch on the
situation and made her prepared for it.
“Your daughter should stay where she wants to,"
the big woman said, a bit guarded in her manners. "I
suppose she does not like me any more."
“Why---Of course, she likes you, Mrs. Santos," the
little woman atoned quickly. "She always says you treat her
like your own daughter.“

28. “That's it. That's my mistake, indeed. Now I resent
having been so kind. If I've acted right, I'd not be abused."
The big matron paused, then added: "And I don't want to see
that good-for-nothing daughter of Lucia come to my house
again. Bah! I don't pay your daughter just to waste her time
with that young gossip."
The mother grew apprenhensive. "Has Dotty with
Carmen again? I've warned her many times not to associate
with that girl. But if it is the last thing you'd believe me say,
Mrs. Santos, that won't happen again. I swear. And Dotty is
going to stay right in the house and do things as usual at your
command."
“It's too late, Tomasa. I've come to return your
daughter. I suppose I'll still do without her."
If there was determination in the big woman's words,
the mother did not take heed of it. Necessity could be
unreasonable; she just could not give up without a struggle.
"Dotty," she said,”is old enough to understand, Mrs. Santos.
Surely, she will take a lesson from this."
The growing impatience of the big woman produced
a grin over her fat face that stretched involuntarily inward,
receding into a pout, finally exploding in utterance that the
little woman least expected.
“I told you there's no use," the big woman was firm.
“She should have learned in time. “Now...? But I can't
tolerate losing things any longer."
The mother recoiled perceptively, unable to
comprehend the strange words. How could the big woman

29. lie? She could not reconcile herself with the accusation
without first condemning the accuser for taking advantage of
her littleness.
“Tell me whatever you please," she said, "but I can't
for the life of me believe my daughter is capable of stealing."
The big woman stood up, perturbed. "I don't have to
lie to get rid of your daughter, Tomasa," she said, her face
shining alive in the lamplight with a cynical smile. "If you
must know, I just had to pull out of her bundle a lipstick
tucked in two of Mr. Santos‘ handkerchiefs before we left
for here.” She waited, expecting to put an end to the other's
insistence. "Ask her."
This time the woman Tomasa, used though she was
to humiliating defeat, could hold no more as the shocking
violence of the other woman's disclosure fell upon her as
bricks, weighing her down. A contemptuous revolt surged
within her that, however, demanded control; for it was not
contempt really but the nervous workings of a desperate
attempt at self-pity. For then, as the mist of bewilderment
gradually cleared away, as the hard facts of existence began
to unreel intensely before her mind's eye, it was not her
daughter - not the present, surely - that mattered but the days
that lay ahead.
Six months before Tomasa had lost her husband,
after a long illness, and in the end had incurred a bill at the
town drug store that was to take her daughter at least a year
to work for as a housemaid. She had taken five pesos from
her child's pay every month and tried to stretch the amount
by buying things that she sold at however little a profit.
Today it would be fish, tomorrow vegetables and fruit, or

30. milk; and occasionally discarded bottles that an old stranger
who came periodically collected and bought.
When the big woman had left, the mother felt free to
release a mad desire to castigate her daughter; yes, to pound
on her till she would have had enough, for her to realize and
long remember what she had done. She grabbed the girl by
the shoulder and forced her to turn to her. “What will you
do now?" the mother shouted at the girl. "Answer me...
What will you do?”
But she was talking as though to a dead log. Dotty
would not answer; she kept her head down, upon a knee.
How could she? All along she had been an unwilling
participant of an uninteresting show of the external world, a
temporary disturbance that, in the natural process of her
powerful mind, was overcome just as naturally - like a
bullcart was on level ground again, gliding smoothly again,
because the bull by instinct, had pulled and kept going.
“What will you do, I say," again the mother
demanded. "Speak up. Do you hear?"
The girl's stubborn silence netted her several blows
with a tingting broom that landed indiscriminately. But
Dotty would not be conquered. She remained unmoving,
immune to pain.
“All right," the mother cried at last, her voice now
tired and hysterical. “All right. From now on chew your
fingers. That's what you deserve.” And as she backed away,
standing up, she cursed under her breath, "Would that you
have not been born at all."

31. AS SHE SAT BEFORE the basin the following day, Dotty
realized she never had as much to do before--even in the big
house. Already she had done a round of chores in the house
since sunup, still there was this washing, then the rice yet to
clean and cook before noon when her mother would be
coming from Guagua. But that was exactly how the mother
wanted her daughter to realize--for staying home. For only in
this way might the mother have brought forth her point
unprotested and been justified in seeing Bee Chuan who, she
knew, was willing to take the girl any day in the coming
month.
“All you have to do is to help him in his store," the
mother had said before she left early that morning. "Easy and
yet you are to have the twenty pesos every end of the month
and a new dress, besides not every girl is that lucky
nowadays."
Dotty had not spoken, but allowed herself to ponder
over the proposition once her mother had gone. The prospect
was one she needed to have the things she yearned for, the
very things that somehow would raise her to the level of any
girl in Pulu, more especially her former classmates who now
were in high school.
But no sooner had she imagined herself with the
precious things she needed and would have than the things
suddenly lost their beauty and meaning. Something held her
back from dreaming. Suppose he would not approve of her
going? Or might not distance blot away all that she held
dearly for him?
By now the sun was well up above the line of
bamboos along the road and had began licking that part of

32. the yard where she sat at her wash. It was too warm for May
and the young green in the trees looked withered. She
paused in her squat position, her soapy tired hands clutched
limply on a boy's pants in the basin. Once more she
regarded the heap of clothes beside her. An hour more,
perhaps, she thought. An hour more....
With both hands she dragged her work into the cool
shadow of the house, near the upturned mortar by the ladder.
There she could work for hours without having to be
disturbed. She grabbed another piece. This time it was her
dress, her cream dress with the flower patchwork. Her
number one. She would be careful with it. Was it not the
same dress she had on that night of their graduation from the
elementary school when first he said he loved her? How her
friend Carmen wished she had a dress like it!
As she thought, something unbidden flashed in her
mind and at once she was enjoying the pleasure of
discovery. Why had not she thought of her friend earlier!
She stood up quickly and ran down the low ground
to the field feeling and acting for some reason, like the red
pullet in the big house that ran ticklishly away everytime the
gallant of a big cock made a pass over it. She skidded
lightly down toward the camanchile by the dry brook that cut
the field in the rear in two. There her little bothers were
busy picking the fruit of the tree with a long bamboo pole.
Midway she stopped abruptly.
“Dad-o-o-o...Come here, quick. I'll give you five
centavos."

33. The boy hearing the promise of so much money
impelled him to renounce the stick. He rushed to his sister;
the clods he ran on were no longer big and hard and hurting.
Aggrieved of his sudden aloneness the little boy left behind
dropped himself stiff onto the grass. He began crying and
kicking, even holding the fruit stuffed in his faded T-shirt.
The older boy slackened his pace and looked back.
“No," Dotty cried. “Come here. I'll take care of
him." She extended her eager hand to reach at her
brother as he came nearer. There was no time to waste.
“Run to Carmen and tell her to see me right away." She
shoved the boy off as she thrust a five-centavo coin in his
palm. "Quick now," she said. "Right away, do you hear?"
The little boy left under the tree continued to cry
and kick in desperation. When he saw his sister coming for
him, he threw the fruit away. She picked them up, held them
in one hand and, with the other, she gathered the boy and
lifted him astride her hip. She ran to the house.
At last the boy had spent himself and the staccato
sobs that follow intense crying had grown fainter. Dotty
patted him gently at the side to hasten sleep. By and by the
familiar voice of her friend rang clear from without.
‘Dot......! Here I am."
She got up fast, giddy with excitement. She met her
friend at the base of the ladder and led Carmen where they
could not waken her brother. The two friends got to
pinching each other, joyous of their meeting in an
atmosphere of absolute freedom. They sat on the second

34. rung, their feet propped on the first, like they did in the town
cockpit, which was a moviehouse by night.
“I'm no longer with the big house," Dotty announced
proudly. "I don't like it there."
“I know, I know," her friend said, very pleased. “But
what have sent me for, ha? At this time of work, ha?
“Have you bought it yet?
“What would you want me do that I wouldn't? I've
just given it to him."
“My student!" Dotty felt thoroughly possessive.
"And does he invite?" She said that for no reason other than
to entertain herself some more.
“Yes, of course," Carmen assured her friend. "As a
matter of fact, he said he would be greatly disappointed if we
should not be with him then."
“What will you wear?"
“What will you wear yourself?"
“Come, help me with the wash.“
WHEN THEY FINALLY got there, the literary-musical
program was already on, and the brightly-lighted basketball
court across the barrio church looked too small for so many
people. Dotty realized how late they were, but that was
because she had stayed too long before the mirror at
Carmen's. They decided to stay at a place on the elevated

35. road between the church and the playground , away from the
few others there, from where anyone could easily be drawn
to the cream dress and the white dress.
There on the elevated road, for some time, Dotty's
heart waited--- expecting him all the glorious anticipations
of the past few days a fulfillment. Her eyes swept at all
heads about the vendors‘ tables bright with carbide lamps
that lined the outer fringes of the basketball court, that she
might chance upon him. But he was nowhere. Could it be
that he had been all around, earlier, and now had gone
through inside the crowd searching, still searching?
“Where do you think he is?" she said, as she took
her friend's hand and led her down the slight decline, down
to the thick of the crowd. "Where do you think he is?" she
said again.
“I really don't know."
“Has he gotten bored waiting, do you think?"
“I really don't know," her friend said. Carmen could
have said, "Sure," but that might have taken some risk.
Soon they were worming their way through, as their
eyes covered all directions. Once Carmen paused to point at
someone in a white shirt a few feet from them, but before
they could call him an elderly face turned to give them a
baffled smile. They hid their disappointment in laughter.
Now there was no more place to go and they hung
on to rest behind the enclosure immediately in front of the
stage. Here they had a good look at the handful of honored

36. barrio graduates who sat on batibot chairs in their special
place, proudly absorbed in the impassioned exhortations of
the be-spectacled chairman of the affair. They were
counting the honorees, by name, when a voice from behind
came nearer, to whisper: "Don't tell me you are enjoying the
night alone."
It was George, Bert's engineering-student cousin
who was on vacation. He was with his sisters, who smiled at
the two friends understandingly.
“Where is Bert?" Carmen spoke for Dotty.
“I'll be dumb if he doesn't see you from where he
is”, George said quite teasingly. He then waved his thumb in
the direction of the displaced basketball goal over to the left
side of the stage. "This way you'll find him," he said,
shaking with mischief.
Dotty's relief was great. But it was her friend who
led this time. It was the proper thing. Hurriedly, like rope
walkers performing sideways, they extricated themselves out
of the throng. They detoured alongside the barbed-wire
fence further to the right of the court. Once straight with
their objective, they swerved inward and, surreptitiously,
posted themselves beside the goal. Before the goal they
found several school desks on which stood young people,
their heads floating well above the level of the stage's floor.
From her vantage place, Dotty surveyed the rows of heads
with care.
And then her eyes caught him. In a fleeting instant
she felt the reassuring reward of her search, only to be blown
to bits before the whirlwind of further discovery. Flanked by

37. two pretty girls in the blue and white uniform of the local
high school, the bigger one with a familiar man's
handkerchief on her head, Bert stood on the front desk. It
was something Dotty would never have wanted to see, nor
even think of. The sensation was a sharp, tugging ache at
her heart.
“Let's get out of here," her friend said, divining the
frigid silence of Dotty.
Dotty tried hard to keep her pride. She said, "If only
I like, my uncle Berong in Sta. Catalina would send me to
high school. But what is the use? You only learn not to
work."
On the stage the curtain had been lifted and the
crowd greeted a folk-dance team with a thunderous applause.
Instinctively, the two girls joined in and clapped louder. As
the noise subsided, a singular laughter, like a stray note,
burst and permeated the air. Her timing was perfect. All
eyes turned toward the two friends.
“Oh you, Dot!" Bert feigned in happy surprise.
“Carmen! Come here, you two."
Dotty pulled down at her friend’s side. "No!" she
whispered defiantly. “No....!"
They stood still, eyes away, as though they had not
heard.
The young man climbed down and edged toward
them.

38. The two girls in uniform brought their heads
together, looked down, then giggled and laughed.
“Let's go from here," Dotty said aloud.
“Dot!" Bert called. "Dot….!
Somehow she felt good that now she had to go and
he after her and people knowing he was following – unwan
ted. But as she moved away with her friend, further and
further from him, gently she was pressing peso bills in the
ball of her hand, wishing even then it had not gotten into
this, really like this.

39. CARABAO MEAT
BALDO FELT ALMOST ready to play. He had just arrived
home, after being out the whole day, bringing a piece of
carabao meat. Before the crude bamboo ladder of his
makeshift house he lingered, visibly pleased for not knowing
what to do. Finally, he called, "Desta," his voice was a song.
“Baldo. Have you come? You might as well have
come at twilight. Or stayed there in Akli overnight. Who
cares?" The voice from inside had a tone of impatience and
dependence.
The man did not need to talk back. He understood.
In reckless abandon he flew up the flight of rickety steps,
made a long step forward, and posted his bronzen bulk
before the doorway. "See what I've got," he announced
happily, as he raised his hand before him, for the woman on
the mat to behold what hung on it.
To Desta fresh meat was something hardly possible.
As a matter of fact, she had had no soup when she needed it
most. That was a week ago, the tenth day after the first child
came, when the hilot gave her the first warm bath. She
looked at the big slice of meat suspended in the air, unbelief
in her eyes. By and by she smiled and, looking at her
husband, asked: “Where did you get it Baldo?"
He felt even better with the inquiry. He had
expected it and hoped to tell much else, but now his pleasure
was such as to outgrow the importance of what he had to
say. Eagerly he hung his precious load on a nail in the

40. corner post and stooped down , on his knees, to get at his
wife. He kissed her affectionately, then bent lower and
softly brushed with the tip of his nose the temple of the
infant that was then busy at its mother's breast. For the
second time he sang the tender word in her ears: "Desta."
Life could always have been like this with them, as
perhaps with the rest of their kind, but the peace and order
situation had worsened and people were forced to leave their
peaceful rustic surroundings, like herds disorganized and
driven from the sustaining grass. For they had come from
Pulu, a secluded woody sitio some twelve kilometers inland,
which had been the scene of a savage battle between
goverment forces and dissidents a year before. The place
had become a favorite hide-out since the Japanese.
Homeless and fearful, the people of Pulu---or what
remained of them--- had come and built their one-room
shacks along the railroad tracks at the edge of the town
proper where the poblacion led off to the open fields. Here,
in their now hostile environment, they had to learn new
trades to eke out a living.
But now, when the countryside seemed all quiet
again, many, like Baldo, began to feel the urge of going back
to the farm to clean the fields that had grown thick with
grasses. They had starved long enough in the alien place, so
that they yearned to grow green things again and be in peace
with the soil once more.
Baldo stood up at length, full with understanding.
The last shafts of crimson rays already filtered horizontally
through the slits in the loosed thatched walls. He knew by
then the night was not long in coming. He got his bolo that

41. was inserted in the thatches and began working at the meat,
right before the doorway, which part was also the kitchen.
“If you cook it all," the wife admonished, "be sure
to have half of it left for tomorrow."
DUSK EELL TOO SOON over the squat shacks that
huddled carelessly like dishevelled beggars at prayer on the
low strip of ground along the railway. Soon, too, the
evening meal was over. For an hour the place was alive with
voices, and the lamplights flickered through slits and
windows like giant red fireflies defying the darkness of
night. After a time, they begun to disappear one by one. By
eight o'clock the place, like any other evacuation place, was
as silent and still as a cemetery.
“Did you put the lid on the pot?" The wife wanted
to make sure, as Baldo blew out the tin kerosene lamp and
groped for his place on the mat.
“Sure," he said. "Sure."
In the silence that followed the woman had time to
think of what lay before them. She remembered what she
ought to have learned from her husband upon his return from
Akli in the afternoon. The place was the barrio between the
poblacion and Pulu, where Mang Julio, the landlord lived.
Could he have back the parcel he used to till, after a year?
Could he begin cleaning the fields? But then she could not
ask what she had in mind without pitying the man who,
though without much luck, had tried to be worthy as a
provider. On similar occasions in the past, much though she
wanted to talk with him, always she had given allowance
for his feelings, especially when he was tired like tonight.

42. Instead, therefore, she repeated: "Who gave you the meat,
Baldo?"
“Pare Mundo had his remaining carabao butchered.”
He could have said that several khaki-clad young
men got around having the animal for a target on their way
back from a patrol routine in Pulu that morning; that they
rained lead on it until it fell flat on the mud by the roadside.
But Baldo knew what was good for his wife. She had
had a weak heart since the trouble in Pulu. The doctor had
advised her not to worry much or get excited.
“Why?"
“He has no need for it, anymore."
“Not anymore? Why?"
“Pare Mundo is going to Manila. To work. His
brother, Pare Kasio has come to fetch him and his family.
Pare Kasio said his brother should not have waited so long
without any paddy to till. He said there in the city one does
not have to wait a year for a job. One may create his own
work and still make more than enough. He himself sends
two boys in high school besides having saved enough for a
lot in a place he calls Grace Park. Imagine that." He waited,
then added: “What, Pare Kasio said, am I waiting for? It's
time I got thoughtful, too, he said."
“You mean you just stayed there at Pare Kasio's and
did not see----”
There was a crackling sound from the direction of

43. the stoves. Baldo thundered and rose up to investigate. He
felt the place with both hands. The pot of meat had tipped
over and the lid broken.
“Struck be he whoever owns that bitch," he cursed.
“Has all of it spilled?" Desta asked, as she thought
of breakfast in the morrow.
“No. Just a portion. Very little, in fact," the man
said in an effort to dissuade his wife from giving too much
thought to the incident.
“You never did anything about that doorway."
Baldo's shame held him back somehow; and he said
nothing. Instead he felt for his bolo in the thatches and slid
back to his pillow.
The child had begun to cry. Desta made a clipping
sound with her lips as she shoved her beast and reached for
the infant's head, to tilt it gently toward her. Even then
things persisted in her mind, things she could not dismiss.
Their querulous nature disturbed her and she could almost
blame the man for the torture. In fact, she became more
inclined to talk.
“Did you see Mang Julio?"
The man lay erect, his right arm astride his pillow,
within easy reach of the bolo that was beyond his head. “Of
course I did, Desta. But he was not at home. His wife said
he had gone with the mayor and some policemen. She could
not be sure where."

44. “What are you going to do now?"
Baldo hoped it would not be amiss for him now to
give a hint of his change of mind. After all, he thought, she
would know---sooner or later. He said: "If I were to earn
five pesos a day, could you keep two of it?" He propounded
his practical, if strange arithmetic with calculated reason,
anticipating an affirmative answer.
“What do you mean?" she said, as if she had not
caught on.
Baldo was silent for a long moment. Then he was
talking seriously. "Look at the thing straight, Desta. Look
even at the others. Is there a man from Pulu who has risen
above a tenant? From grandfather to father....to son? My
own father lived to be seventy. He was with a carabao as
early as he could remember. But what has he left us?
Nothing. I can barely write my name."
Desta spoke with her simple heart. "Faith is all
that matters, Baldo. Anywhere in the world. Anywhere you
and I may be."
“Can't I at least try for some luck? Here we have
eaten our share long before the rice is mellow. Always. Why
don't we do something?"
‘How could you be so easily persuaded and
stubborn?"
“But it is not we anymore, Desta. I think of the
child and the others yet to come."

45. “And you are determined?"
“Does it matter to you?"
In her, something stuck fast, was rooted in the soil
of her heart and somehow---anyhow---could not pull loose.
She had been born in the country and had grown up with the
smell of field and grain. No. Here, she thought, I must live.
Here I die. And when she could no longer hold back her
sentiment, she broke into sobbing.
Baldo felt torn between love and reason, hearing the
wife cry. But before he could say anything, he sensed a
prowling sound sneak into the open doorway. He lay tense
and made ready. Here it is again---the devil, he thought.
And when he was sure it was inside enough, he rose with the
cautiousness and agility of a sniper.
He struck once but hard. The thing toppled down
onto the ground below with a long agonizing cry.
“There," he cursed in a heavy, vengeful tone.
"There you are."
Back on the mat he thought---long and impatiently,
undecided whether to get angry with his wife, or cajole her
in her sobbing. He could not reproach her. He loved her
still in spite of herself. But neither was there any need for
him to salve her feelings. That would enbolden her more
unreasonably, and things might yet come to worse. So,
finally, he closed his eyes and decided not to think about
her---about anything at all.

46. THE FOLLOWING MORNING BALDO was up while
while yet the lines of his palms could hardly be discerned.
He remembered he had to see Mang Julio before his wife
woke up, or at least before she could again have a chance to
talk and cry as she had done the previous night. No longer
could he afford to have such a thing repeated.
In his large denim clothes and weather-beaten buri
hat he looked small and old. He hoped that this time Mang
Julio on whom everything of the future seemed to depend,
would give him three or five more paddies, since the old
man's former hands had scattered to faraway places and
might not come back anymore. Five more paddies would be
about enough for him to have both ends meet. Somehow he
feared he had lost his work. He could not be sure; he only
knew things had an unprecedented way of happening
nowadays.
He took to what was the common backyard of the
evacuation shacks. To get back early, he had decided not to
take the railway that detoured along the periphery of the
poblacion but walked through the empty parched fields,
straight to the barrio church of Akli, a dull white speck that
protruded out to a green line of bamboos from across the
wide span of fields before him. From where he was, he
could perceive Mang Julio's house, an old brick affair of
Spanish design, in front of the church to the west.
Before the fields, a high ground stretched along the
length of the low ground whereon the shacks stood. The low
and the high grounds were separated by a barbed-wire fence
that clung tenaciously on the trunks of newly pruned
kakawate trees, which were the posts. He stopped before the

47. fence, looking where to get through. To his right he saw an
opening between the fence and a lone clamp of bamboos.
Over the place, under the fence, was a narrow, hallowed
piece of ground, unmistakably a passageway of stray animals
to and from the fields. He walked toward it.
As he bent down to crawl into the fields, through the
passageway, his eyes fell upon the thing. It was lying under
a bushy plant that was beside the bamboo clamp.
Instinctively, he pulled himself up, then began to back out
cautiously, as one before a mortal enemy. Not once did he
cast his eyes off it. He felt widely amused that now he had
an opportunity to settle a score with it.
For a moment he looked resolutely both sides of
him, then back of him, after something he could use. He
found a kakawate branch in the fence, that tightened a part
that used to be loose. With both hands he pulled it upward.
It's the size of his wrist. He waved the branch in the air to
test its strength. Yes, he thought, this will do.
Surreptitiously, he lunged forward step by step.
Once near enough, he stopped to survey the situation. It was
well under the plant, his head lazily pillowed upon his paws,
facing the opposite direction. He surmised an effective blow
must come straight from above, but now he had to strike at
an angle to avoid hitting the leafy branches of the plant.
Just as he aimed, the dog, with great difficulty, made
an effort to face toward him. It was then that he had an
unobstracted view of it. He discovered that it was disabled;
an ugly, deep gush showed and widened as it moved its
head. It was a sick looking skeleton with coarse, spotted-
brown hair and wide spiritless eyes. It showed no pugnacity

48. nor fear whatsoever. And when it looked at him, it was as if
it was still alone.
Baldo looked rather long at the animal, his hands
slowly lowering, as though getting out of control. A
powerful force had begun to take place in him, and he
trembled. As his concerned deepened, everything became
gradually familiar and life-long. In his benumbed mind he
saw himself---vaguely, indefinitely, in an unimpressive
world he alone knew.
Maybe I should have not done it at all, he thought
afterward, when he had recovered from the stupor.
By this time the sun was already on the heads of
bamboos and the carabaos were in the fields for the scarse
summer grass. The children, too, were already there with
their tin cans for frogs and moles. Above the shacks, on the
elevated railway, a freight train was crawling toward the
east, heavy with its load of rice.
Baldo looked once more at the animal. His face,
still, was long and rigid, his frame loose and shaky. Then he
turned to go back toward the shacks that his eyes now
refused to see. As he hobbled on, in his mind he called to
God - the first in long time.

49. THE CHICKEN GOD SENT
THE LOW, OUTLYING FARMLAND of barrio Pulu
looked distorted. For once, like a rustic dalaga with hair
dishevelled and dress smeared with splotches of mire here
and there, it had lost its beauty. It was the morning after the
big September flood. The first sunshine in almost two weeks
was on the drooping heads of trees and on the housetops that
were still dark and moist with rain. Breakfast was still over
the stoves, but already many people were about the road,
eager with their stories of the recent inundation.
Over at Yeng's, the store of the puppy-eyed
Chinaman in front of the church where most of the village
gossip originates, a small group had began to gather around
Mang Tonio, the barrio head, and Diro, the farmer. The two
had come to the store, apparently with a business of their
own. They were conversing in rather subdued tones.
“I‘d not mind it so much, capitan,” the farmer said,
“but you see, I have lost nearly everything I had.“ Even as
he spoke, he kept scraping with a twig the sticky clay that
clung in between his wide-set toes.
The barrio sage regarded Diro with interest, but
would not comment.
By and by all eyes were drawn southward from the
direction of small houses huddled by the narrow foot-bridge.
Apung Selma came hobbling up the road. She was aided by
a crude bamboo cane. Behind her was her great grandson,
tugging stubbornly at her faded red skirt.

50. Apung Selma, she would tell you, was the last
original settler of Pulu, and was as old as the moss-eaten
brick walls of the church itself. Until her hands and knees
began to fail her--until progress caught up with her--she had
dominated in the village’s social wants. As a hilot, she had
had no rival, and mothers sought her to name their children.
She arranged marriage contracts, led in the prayers at wakes,
told young as well as the old she counseled, with the
devotion and zeal of a mother.
“What, Antonio?" she said, as she held a creaky
and lifted her ancient bulk onto the elevated concrete
floor in front of the store. "What is it you have sent an
old woman for, with this kind of weather, ha? Ha?" Her
empty mouth worked hard to formulate her protest.
The capitan held his bald head, suddenly forgetting
what he had to say. He offered the old woman the low
bench the Chinese had given him and Diro. He sat on an
upturned kerosene box, facing the hilot. "Really, there's
nothing much about it, lola ," he began rather politely. "I
just want to know whether you raise chicken."
“Chicken! Por Dios, por santo! Did I come here
and catch rheumatism again just to answer your silly
questions? What if I raise chickens, hijo? What if don't?
Does it matter to you?" Then as in retrospection, the old
woman added: "Yes. Yes, all our chickens died in the last
animal pestilence. The good chickens they were, though.
They died that we would be saved from the scourge."
“That's it," Mang Tonio said. "You have no
chickens any more. But I wonder how come that you have

51. this in your backyard? He turned about and reached for what
Diro, who was standing behind, held that was wrapped in
banana leaf.
He opened the bundle before the old hilot. "What
can you say, lola?"
The crowd began to get noisy with curiosity.
The old woman stoop laboriously down. For a
moment she could not make anything out of the feathers,
until she touched them and brought up a handful to one eye,
then to the other. Dropping the feathers, she pulled back her
antique trunk and, forthwith, her dull eyes jerked up under
soft-hanging lids to fasten a suspicious gaze at the farmer
across. She shook her white head, unbelief in her eyes.
"No," she exclaimed firmly. "No. This was my hen. Why do
you show the feathers of my hen to me for?"
Mang Tonio faced the people like the clairvoyant
who had just convinced his audience with his mystic power.
Then he returned to the old woman and said, "Lola, you have
just said all your chickens died in the last pestilence. That
was in May last year, I remember. And now you tell me this
was your hen. How's that?
The people held their hands to their mouths; all the
same, their amusement gave way to spontaneous laughter.
Apung Selma recoiled perceptively. She pinned
down the capitan with a reprimanding look, as though he had
committed a sacrilege. " For heaven's sake, Antonio, don't
ask me that. You will only repent for what you are doing to
me now." To the crowd she threw a sharp, sweeping glance,

52. shifting her eyes from one to another, saying...."how people
these days have grown---" completing the sentence to
herself. "Yes, since the Americano. You, too will repent for
laughing at an old woman."
In the long silence that followed, Mang Tonio had
time to reflect on the issue at hand. Numberless times he
had mediated in barrio disputes and no one had ever
questioned his wisdom. He wondered why, before the old
hilot, he was reluctant to discharge his duty as on authority.
But then he could not shirk, and though the old woman
might well have been his own mother, he had to arrive at a
conclusion.
“Lola," he said at length. Lola, I‘m here to help
you. But here is Diro, claiming the hen was his. It was also
yours, as you say. How I want to know between the two of
you who really owned the fowl."
The farmer who had been silent all the while, edged
slowly forward. He pushed back an unruly hair with a paw
and, with unsteady hands, face pale and tense, he scooped up
the feathers lying on the concrete floor between the box and
the bench. Somehow he could not control the rasp sound in
his throat. "I swear to you, capitan," he stuttered, "this was
my hen. Never have I seen a hen around with similar black
spots and such color of scales. Besides---" He ran a
bronzed hand through the feathers and produce a chicken
leg.
“Look at this, capitan.” he demanded. "This hind
claw. Is it not clipped? I always clip the hind claws of my
chicks the day they are hatched." He then turning to the
growing crowd and singled out a half-naked man whose

53. baby girl was astride his broad shoulders and playing with
his hair. "Don't I Kulas? Don't I mark them like that?”
The man named Kulas smiled wryly and his eyes
blinked uncertainly. He looked at the old woman but would
not say anything.
The farmer denied of strength and support, shrieked:
“As sure as my mother gave birth to me, it was my hen."
The barrio head fondled his unshaven chin with eyes
half-closed, his head furrowing in concentration. "You talked
of clipping the hind claws of your chickens, Diro, but don't
you think some other may have been doing the same thing
with his? Don't you think it possible some other hen looks
exactly like yours?
“Maybe so, capitan, but I can't, for the life of me,
see why my hen is no longer around, and the feathers and
claws that were my hen's I found in the backyard of Apung
Selma who, as she herself said a moment ago, is not raising
chicken any more.”
The face of the old woman shone alive with a
numberless swarming wrinkles, incongruous in the early
morning sun. You speak unkindly, hijo," she said to the
farmer. "Nor should you get at things with your practice.
Things behind your experience have happened, son. Things
more strange and wonderful.”
“Why, in my youth there was distinction between
the old and the young. I would not raise a voice before my
parents-- if I had to mention them without a prayer. In those
days there were no troubles such as we have now.

54. Everybody went to church. Why, today your own brother
may be as distant as a stranger. Look at what you do to me
now....."
The capitan wrung his fingers. He had not expected
things to develop into this, nor intended the old hilot long.
He moved closer to her ears and admonished: "Lola, just one
thing and you may go home. Supposed you just tell me how
those feathers happened to be in your backyard?"
“I threw the feathers there, just there, from the
batalan. You remember how big the flood had grown? I
could not go down to the bridge."
“I see. But where did you get the feathers?"
“You talk like a child, Antonio, I told you it was
my hen."
“And where did you get the hen, lola? Had someone
given it to you?"
Apung Selma's mouth twitched uncontrollably, as
her eyes blinked hard to suppress what was choking her.
Then, as though revealing a sacred thing, she confided: "God
sent it to me. For Nardo, here." A slow, fossil hand sought
the boy's hair and stroked it tenderly, as she feared her great
grandson to prod him to talk. "Did He not, son? Did not
Providence send the hen to you?"
The boy beside her nodded, accentuating his
unconcern with his feet that dangled from the bench and
which continued to sway like two alternating pendulum.

55. “God is merciful, Antonio," the old woman
continued, “if only you call to Him. I always call to Him in
my helplessness. Like when my husband Isiong---blessed be
his soul---when I were just married. Isiong was long been
wanted by the Castila for being a revolucionario. One dark
night they broke into the house and, without a word, began
thrusting their scimitars into every nook and corner.
Frightful men those bemoustached soldados were. I pleaded
to them but they would not listen. What could I do? So I
turned to God, “0 Lord,” I said, ”have mercy on my Isiong.
Take care of him, save him from the Castila.”
“And He heard, and my husband was saved." The
old woman held her breath. "How blind indeed the Castila
had become. For Isiong had been there all the time, right
there in the rolled-up mat in the silid."'
Sebia, the barrio gossip, confirmed the story of the
old hilot. Her voice flung above the noise of the crowd.
"My father who was still a boy in those days used to tell us
of such happenings. He would say...."
The barrio head interrupted the gossip and asked
her to reserve her own stories. He faced the old woman
once more, saying: "But the hen, lola. How was it sent to
you? How?
“What was I saying before...? Apung Selma tried to
recall. "Ah, the hen. Yes, that hen. You remember how
September set in---cool and dark. By the thick low-hanging
clouds from the southwest I know how wet it was going to
be. Sure enough, it happened, the rains came even before
the animals could even get ready. I said to the mother of this
boy, Macaria, our rice is nearly gone. If you get that corn at

56. all you better be gone this morning. The rains will be long
and hard, I can see!”
“And so Macaria hurried to Pamalatan with some
bagoong for her cousin Lucia who had promised the corn.
But I never thought this pilyo of a son of hers would be
trailing behind her, all the way, in the hard rain. He was
already at Sapang Bayu when her mother discovered him
and have him get back with a long stick.”
There was a twinkle in old woman's eyes as she
turned her back to the boy and faced the crowd, to say
secretly, "He is afraid of Nano, you know."
“Naturally, he came home all wet and shivering, this
boy. And that night, the night the flood came--that was
Tuesday, wasn't it?--he lay down early, wrapped himself up
in my woolen Army blanket. He refused to eat, even just a
little. I knew then the cold had seeped into him. He had no
spirit whatever. I said to him, You are pilyo. Why don't
you go out now and get in the rain?"
“By the first cockcrow that night, I rose up to find
the boy restless with high fever. He was talking in his
delirium. I know a piece of cloth soaked in strong vinegar
and applied on his forehead would somehow alleviate the
fever and the headache; but not a single drop of vinegar was
in the house. I called to Desta in the next house, but she was
too sound asleep perhaps, or the noise of the rain and the
wind and the flood below drowned my call.”
“The child continued to toss his head about, talking
ever in his affliction. Hungry, son? I asked him. But
would not eat. I had given the left-over rice to the cat,

57. knowing it would have spoiled by morning.
“Then by midnight he clamored for soup.
“Soup,1ola. I want soup.”
“Yes, son, I said. I knew hot soup would shake the
fever off once he perspired. But what could I do at such
time of and nothing to make soup with?
“All through the night I kept awake, calling to
God. I could hardly bear watching the child suffer. What
if he get worse in the night? What could I do without Maca-
ria?”
“Somehow I felt relieved as light came at last. I
went to the kitchen. Before the stove I sat, thinking of
anything I could cook for the child. Porridge, I thought,
might do him good. I remembered there was still little
rice in the bakiong in the corner behind the stove.
“So I stood up and reached for the bakiong. Just as
I lifted it, grains began to spill off a hole I had altogether
forgotten. But it was the Lord's will, I realized afterwards.
The good Lord willed it so. For what do you think would
flap down from nowhere and begin pecking at the fallen
grains but a hen all drenched and shivering!”
“God is merciful! He's wonderful!" the old woman
chanted, looking not yet at the people around her but toward
them all the same. And her lips moved long after she had
spoken, making no sound. She fingered the thin cross that
hung before her breast, her head shaking a little. She
was crying then, and she reached down for the for the tail
of her skirt and brought it up to her eyes.

58. There was profound silence.
“This hen," she went on, "it came to me as would a
child step into her mother's arms. I held it up and then took
inside for Nardo to see. You should have seen the child
as I held the hen before him.”
“This boy-- yes, you would think he had not eaten
for a week the way he gulped three bowlfuls of hot chicken
soup that morning. But it was all the better for him, because
in a little while he began to perspire.”
“I laid him down afterwards and covered him well
with my blanket. He slept the rest of the morning. By noon
he was well, this child...."
The capitan smiled. It was the smile you would try
anyhow to conceal, there was nothing more you could do but
you were left disturbed just the same.
“Diro," the barrio head finally said. “Diro, how
much would that hen of yours fetch?"
“Do you mean the hen given to Nardo?" Apung
Selma eyed Tonio cynically.
“No. Of course not, lola."
“From another hen of the same brood I sold to Yeng
the other week," the farmer said, "he gave me five small
cans of sardines and two carabana bottles of kerosene."
“How much is that in cash, Diro?"

59. The chinaman who had finished arranging things
inside his store, butted in. He elucidated his business
arithmetic with the help of his fingers.
“One carabana of kerosene," he said, "I sell for
only thirty centavos. Until last week, a can of sardines
cost forty centavos. Now I can't sell it for as much any
more. Five cans of sardines and two carabana bottles of
kerosene---that's two-sixty. No more."
The capitan pulled himself from the box. By now
the bright sun was well above the trees and houses and had
began licking the damp patch in front of the store. The
crowd, too, was fast thinning out.
At last the barrio head, stooping a little and reverent-
ly before Apung Selma, said: "Lola, I want you to excuse me
for having disturbed you. I really hope Macaria will be
coming from Pamalatan this morning." He then reached for
the shoulder of the farmer and, face glowing, led him toward
home.

60. THE LOST COIN
THE BOY PULLED himself up at last and sat on his
haunches rubbing his salty eyes back and forth with the
length of his forefingers. Then he shook his head of its
heaviness and looked across the common buri mat. His
mother lay prostrate, one of her outstetched arms resting
comfortably on the mouth of his snoring father. His little
sister on the far end had just emitted the long-drawn yawn
between sleep and waking up.
It was the morning after the barrio fiesta. The
November sun had long risen and was now well up above
the line of bamboos. The boy looked once more at the
figures on the mat. They have overslept, he thought, and
was rather resentful. As he stood up, the long arm of
sunlight that pierced through a hole in the thatch-wall every
morning caught him full in the face. Now the arm of light
retrieved itself, now it shot through, very long inside the
house, as the cool northwest blew a head of bamboo outside,
to and fro. But he was in no mood to play with the light
now. He went to the kitchen instead, as usual expecting to
smell something good there, but found the stove lying squat,
stubbornly cold and indifferent, without smoke.
For sometime he stood by the kitchen door, confused
as to what to do, or what to want. He slid down the ladder
without purpose, and as purposelessly, went under the house,
to the big ancient basket where his father used to keep green
bananas for ripening. He knew there were no bananas there,
but no matter. He regarded the basket as though it held some
promise. Tenderly he felt its bulging side, then tried to

61. embrace it with his little bony arms.
There was a creaking sound coming up the road and
the creaking became more and more interesting as it became
louder. The boy galloped out from under the house and on
to the road. At the middle of the road he stood, hands held
up high and clasp against the nape of his neck, as he waited
the on coming carretela to pass by.
The rickety vehicle came on clumsily and zigzagged
everytime the driver raise his whip and the horse spurted
ahead. As it drew nearer, the boy moved to the side. There
was a beto-beto table tied upside down on top of the rig, and
the two people inside had their heads drooping loosely
forward, their hands knotted tight on their bellies. The
boy began to laugh, laughed louder as the driver thumped
his feet repeatedly on the floorboard to get the little
horse go faster.
“Hai-iii..." shouted the boy, trying to help the man
with his animal. “Hai-iii!.." He wanted to catch the
attention of the man, but the other was too much in a hurry
and too sleepy to acknowledge the help of the boy.
The boy was walking back toward the house when
something came up in his mind and prodded him to instant
action. Quickly, he retraced his steps, then broke into a run.
For the moment nothing was so important but his running at
full speed. He thought he was not moving fast enough. For
once he thought: why couldn't he fly?
Midway between home and the barrio church a shrill
little voice called out for him to wait. He kept on running.
The third time the voice called out, it carried a tone of

62. impatient protest, as though it was going to break into
crying. But as the boy turned his head back to look at his
sister, he tripped over a stone and fell. "Struck be you by
lightning," he shouted to his sister. "You."
He picked himself up and started running again. The
basketball court was in front of the barrio church, across the
road. Once by the church he swerved to the right and
swooped down the grassy incline in the reckless abandon of
a child coasting on thick hay at harvest-time.
“This is it," he said aloud, as he stopped before the
southwestern corner of the court. "This is the place,
certainly." For he remembered the clamp of bamboos
nearby and the approximate distance from where he had
fallen the night before.
It was difficult turning up every piece of rubbish
with his toes. The rain in the night had made things stick
to the ground. So he stooped low and worked with his
fingers instead, all the while expecting to chance upon his
lost coin.
“I don't think it is there," said his sister, who
had followed him.
“Get out of here!" growled the boy. "Who told you
to come around?"
“I tell you it did not drop there," the other repeated.
“You '11 see."
“Get out of here before I lay hands on you. Go
away.” One, two…”

63. Not until the little girl had backed away did the
boy resume his work. He wanted to be alone--to work alone
---and was so irritable and possessive as a hen sitting.
On the same spot during the zarsuela the previous
night the boy had asked to be taken home to sleep. His
protest did not make his mother budge an inch from the stool
on which she stood. She had not seen the play for a long
time and that night was her chance to verify whether she or
her Kumare Sencia was correct about the key to the problem
in the play. The two women had been debating about it for
days before the fiesta and neither would yield to the other.
Could not the boy wait until the particular scene came up?
She had told him.
But at last the lad could no longer hold from falling
asleep and he began to tug at his mother's skirt. The constant
pulling irritated the woman so much that she climbed down
from her stool and pinched him on the sides repeatedly. He
cried suddenly and loudly and the people about looked to see
what was taking place. Because she felt very ashamed of his
behavior, his mother fell upon him. It was then that the
boy's five centavo piece fell out of his hand.
There had been many unusual and beautiful things to
buy in the last two days , but not once had the boy been
tempted to part with his wealth. It had comforted him just
feeling it secure in his trousers pocket. Above all, it had
raised him to a level with any child in the barrio. But
now it was gone for nothing, and he felt a terrible sense of
loss.
“I told you it did not fall there," his sister repeated.

64. “Maybe, you've found it. Let me see your hands."
The little girl obliged and opened up her hands to
him. "See?" she said mockingly.
The boy searched over the place once more. A
peppermint wrapper interested him and he picked it up. He
held it to his nose and inhaled the aroma hungrily. It were
better had I spent it for a peppermint, he thought. He
crumpled the aromatic paper into a ball and threw it to his
sister. The girl caught it and smelled it. She dropped the
ball and stamp on it with the sole of a foot.
“I think it did not drop here," the boy said, at last
giving up hope.
“I told you so," the little girl said, triumph in her
voice.
“Where do you think it is?"
“Where do you think you lost it?"
“Come, help me."
The boy turned from the corner of the court and
began to walk the length and width of the playground in
measured steps. The little girl trailed behind. "Somewhere
within this court my money lies," he kept repeating.
“I'll give you a centavo if you find it," he said
without looking back.

65. “Two," the girl bargained.
“All right, two, keep on looking."
The boy was completely absorbed in his search
when the little girl cried out her brother's name. The boy
looked back quickly to see what was the matter. The girl
had drawn away and was now running toward the enteblado,
trying to catch a little bird. Immediately, the boy detoured in
a wide arc, passing the girl and the bird. Fairly ahead he
stopped, turned about and got ready. The two children
facing each other, began to walk slowly, carefully. But
before they could get close enough, the little bird hopped,
skipped and flew out of their reach. It scampered away as
fast as it could, screeching in fright. When it reached the
bottom strand of the wire-fence, it crawled under and into
the yard of the barrio school teacher.
‘I'll catch it yet," the boy said jubilantly. "See
if I don't.”
He climbed on one of the fence supports and
stealthily jumped into the yard of the teacher. Inside, he
stood a while and watched the little thing take refuge behind
the base of a big fallen mango tree. There it stopped and
held its brown little head high, looking about restlessly. The
boy ran and took cover among the branches and thick foliage
of the tree. As the birdie hopped onto an upturned root, the
boy knelt down the great trunk to the opposite side.
Noiselessly, he worked with his elbows and knees through
the opening between the trunk and the ground at the base.
Head out, he waited a moment to catch his breath and then
lifted his head cautiously to see and make sure. The bird
was well within range. It was perched cozily on the root,

66. picking its downy sides, oblivious of the world about. The
lad held his breath, and in a second shot his hand outward
and caught the bird before it could escape.
“Here I have it, Menang," he cried, dancing wildly.
He held up his captive for the little girl to see. "Did not
I tell you?"
“Tie it," his sister said, clapping her hands in
delight.
“No need," he said. He looked down at the bird.
"You can't escape me now even if I let you loose. Go on and
fly, I'll catch you still. Much bigger ones couldn't get away
from my sling shot."
No sooner had he relaxed his grip then the birdie
made a desperate kick for freedom. But he had been ready
for this, and he dove after it and caught it before it could get
far.
He held his prisoner tighter, "Rascal," he said.
“You think you're smart, don't you?"
“P----p, peep p-e-e-p." cried the little bird. It
peeked the thumb of his captor repeatedly and rapidly. But
the boy only laughed and urged his prey to go on pecking
him as hard as it could.
“You think you can fool me? Ha, ha..! I tell you
you're much too little . Or are you a Huk? Ha, ha..! I'm not
afraid of a Huk."

67. The use of the word Huk gave way to a thought,
through some strange association. In the mind of the boy,
his coin had turned into a bird.
He remembered his father's story about a strange red
bird that flew about the neighborhood in his grandfather's
time. There were few houses then. The bird would come at
twilight and descend upon the road and walk about singing
its dirge of song. People would encircle it, and when they
thought they had caught it, it turned into a fish. Or into a
stone, deadwood, butterfly or even a boy. Misfortune befell
those who were cruel to it. But to those who let it free to
roam about, it brought abundant rice harvest.
The boy stroke the little bird with kind fingers,
expecting to see it change any moment into a coin. But it
would not.
“You are not my coin," he said impatiently,
disgustedly. “You can't even be my pet. You are false."
He held the bird tight, tighter. The bird cried in
pain. "Why do you cry?" he said. "I've not held you tight
enough. Not yet."
His mouth became a savage twist as he looked at the
little thing in his hand. And then---and then his hands
closed. "Now."
“Wait!" the girl cried.
She ran and picked up the unmoving thing. It was
still warm. She cupped it in her palm affectionately and

68. blew long and repeatedly inside. But the bird moved no
more.
“Come on," the boy said.
The little girl laid the bird on the same spot it had
fallen and crudely heaped some dry bamboo leaves upon it.
“Come....''
He led her away.
“Would you give five centavos for a bird?" he said.
The little girl thought but did not answer.
“I'd not give two centavos for that one," he said.
“It could not sing," she said.
As one, the boy and the girl crawled out of the yard
and headed once more to the basketball court.

69. DARK NIGHT
SELANG TOOK HOLD of her basket and stepped
toward the stairs, Apung Juana, having told her regret,
remained standing, her large figure filling the half-
opened porch door. For a time neither of them spoke
until Selang, finally giving up hope, started to go.
“Yes,” Apung Juana said. "Your Apo Tiago
may be coming now from San Nicolas. If he brings
some rice I'll lend you what you need, why not?"
Apung Juana was the last person Selang knew
she could turn to. She had gone around the barrio early
in the day and found every one as much in need of rice
as she. Here, she had thought, at Apung Juana's, she
might yet succeed. She had seen the old couple
pounding a cavan of palay only the other day. How
could the old woman lie to her now?
Selang nodded as if believing.
“Go now," the old woman said, rather
thoughtfully, before the rain overtakes you. It looks as
if these rains will be longer than last year's. Don't you
think so, Selang?"
Looking up at the sky, the old woman looked
even older than her years, deep furrows punctuating

70. her forehead. "Go now," she repeated, closing the
door. "I'll let you know for sure."
Selang could have reproached the old woman
for being so mean, but she controlled herself. She
shuffled heavily down the stairs; not once did she look
back. At the gate she hesitated, as though something
was holding her back.
But her pride was strong. She held the gate
roughly, and, as roughly, pushed it shut after her.
Why should people be so cruel, she thought.
Why would not they understand?
The rain began to fall as she got on the road. It
was only four in the afternoon, but already it was dark
all around. Instinctively, she looked up at the sky and
felt the rain with her palms. The rain was falling in big
drops. She placed her basket on her head and looked
ahead. Now she detested having to trudge again the
thick clayey sediment left on the road by the flood two
days before.
All the way home she thought of many things
and became ever apprehensive. She knew that
continual rain meant either delay for the rice to ripen ,
or rot; moreover, the rain had caused the sea water to
become brown with mud from the land, and brown
water was not good for fishing.

71. And she thought of her husband at sea, of her
children---of everything, until she could not bear to
think of it anymore.
Her youngest child had wakened when Selang
reached home. The boy cried complainingly to his
mother as he saw her bob up the ladder. And the
woman, seeing the stamp of want and disappointment
in the face of her child, felt a sense of guilt.
“Hush, child," she said. “You will only waken
your sisters. Wait till your father comes. He's bringing
crabs for you. Fat and big crabs."
But the child would not be fooled by promises
any more. He had been promised many things that did
not come about. He had taken a half-bowlful of rice
crust with his sisters three hours ago and now he was
hungry again. He felt hungrier now that his mother had
returned.
He tugged at his mother's shirt and followed her
about the house, all the while demanding food. His
crying mingled with the sound of the rain, and to the
tired Selang it sounded monotonous and annoying.
“Don't be so hard-headed, child," Selang said.
"If I could get you something, wouldn't I bring it?
Hale, tear my shirt, and see what you get."

72. The boy did not care what the mother had to
say. He continued to be ungovernable. At length
Selang, growing impatient, snapped his hold from her
rather briskly, shoving the child as she threatened to
beat him with her palm. He backed away but looked
belligerently at her. By her threat, that to him was
unreasonable, the boy felt shamefully hurt; so that
before long he began to cry louder and louder. Then he
dropped himself onto the bamboo floor and kicking
protestingly.
“She said she would buy me something," he
said, “and now there's nothing. I'll break the pot, eh! I'll
break the bowl eh!"
“Child……"
“Ha, I'll break everything."
“Sigue. Break eveything. Break even your
neck, stubborn."
Before Selang could lay hands on the child, he
had run to the kitchen where the drinking jar was and
smashed the only glass against the jar.
“There!" he said challengingly. There! I said
I'd break it."
Selang stood perplexed, unable to account for
what had happened, because her mind refused to

73. believe that such thing was possible.
All too suddenly, a wild lush to punish took
possession of her. She grabbed the child by the hand
and dragged him to a corner where a buri broom hung.
She snatched the broom and began beating the child.
“You'll never understand," she said, trying to
subdue the child. "You'll never be good."
The head of the broom left large welts on the
arms and buttocks of the child. But not until he could
no longer writhe and cry in pain, not until the crying
ended in difficult intakes of breath, did the mother put
the broom off her hand.
She remained bent before the boy, waving a
hand menacingly, even as she was cursing him soundly.
There was nothing more she could do, and she sat down
against the middle post---exhausted and nervous. Even
then she continued to eye the boy angrily.
But then she was weeping, weeping bitterly. In
an instant she was full of remorse. She gathered her
child to her lap and, as if to atone for everything,
tenderly kissed him again and again.
SELANG DID NOT care how long she had to
wait that night. All evening she had been awake---
thinking. She imagined her husband coming past
midnight with an empty stomach, bringing a poor

74. catch, if at all. The wind and the rain had been quite
strong.
In the dark she stretched her hand to feel once
more her children in sleep, only to be reminded again
and again of Apung Juana. How she could almost
blame her for everything.
She finally rose up from the mat with resolve
that defied her conscience. She lit the oil lamp and
passed it over to her children to see that no one was out
of the common blanket. She had succeeded in patting
the boy to sleep but now he was wriggling again. She
tried but could not hold her eyes from welling tears
again. At length she blew the lamp out and crawled
toward the ladder.
Outside, she stood a while to look at the houses
huddled along the road bend. The rain had let up. Now
and then a sharp flash cut across the sky, piercing the
blackness in one swift moment of light. Looking thus,
she could perceive the house under the clumps of
bamboo dead still in the night. The darkness
stimulated her resolve, and she felt relieved and
reassured.
It was difficult going on the muddy path that led
to the road. She slipped several times and each time
felt her joints crack under the impact. A few days ago
she could have run on so slippery a path without much

75. difficulty; but now it pained her even when she was
careful. And yet she went on toward the group of
houses---with one thought in mind.
As she came nearer the bamboo clumps, Selang
slackened her pace. Once in front of the house she
stopped. She was tired for having dragged her feet in
mud. She breathed vigorously to relax herself.
The stillness somehow made her suspect that
someone was prowling in the dark for her. She looked
around watchfully, uncertainly. Nothing. She listened
for sound inside the house, taut with apprehension.
There was a crisp sound from inside. Could the old
couple be awake? No. The sound must be a house
lizard pounding its prey against a rafter. Stealthily, she
moved forward.
There was a flash of lightning as she approached
the gate. A frightened dog howled ominously from
somewhere. Instinctively, Selang backed out, shivering.
She had never been as fearful before. She felt her feet
glued to the ground. Something kept ringing in her
ears, as though a voice was calling for her to stop.
You can't do this, she seemed to hear. But it's
only her mind working.
For a while she fought hard to ward off fear.
She knew the house very well; the back door, the corner
where the jar of rice was. Now she felt imprisoned

76. between two forces that rendered her immobile and
helpless. Must she do it at all?
But then she thought of her children...her
husband. And the other force gave in, and felt
powerful---courageous.
For once she was brave and defiant. She
stepped forward, and with one thought in mind, pushed
the gate open.