an upcoming sci-fi flick from Finland has been giving me shivers of anticipation... the movie, Iron Sky, is about one of the lost sci-fi topics ever to become circulated rumors, Nazis in Space... the trailers were so impressive that my friends and i were thinking of demanding to see it in our country... support Iron Sky, and the nazis-in-space would be revived...

living on the edge poem collection...

i have recently been collecting my poems to make it into a cohesive and together group... i have been thinking about branching out to other collections, but this really took priority... i don't know why... and since the Trese komix have been creating a huge hype, and because i like them, my stories have been leaning towards that kind of genre...  i was happy to learn that i was making progress with writing my stories, until i read karen's book... i found that i was really way, way out of my league yet... i need to get better in writing... and until next time, see you all later...

new story

Black

As Salvador Mortiz alighted from the tricycle, he could feel eyes watching his every move. An old woman was staring at him from behind the rusty gate, a hand-held broomstick in her hand; after paying the driver, he turned to face her. As the tricycle’s sound faded downhill, he felt a certain dread from the old woman’s hard gaze. He asked for Don Santino de Angeles, and then introduced himself.

“Ah, ikaw yung anak ni Myrna,” the old woman said as she unlocked the gate, a toothless smile replaced the reproachful scowl.

She pointed towards the three-storey Spanish colonial house, and he also saw a huge balete tree beside it. Salvador swallowed a lump of saliva, and then he went inside.

The interior was a passageway composed of wood, with a few touches of ceramic vases, bouquets of flowers, and some paintings. Five doors stood around a staircase that dominated the end of the corridor, they were all closed. One door opened to his immediate right, an elderly lady with a cane walked out. She smiled when she saw him.

“Ay, Andoy,” she exclaimed, enclosing him in a hug.

Doña Inez de Angeles ushered her grandson towards the room she came from. The living room was still how he had remembered it, his grandmother’s collection of wooden iconography complemented the narra chair-set. He saw an old man sitting on one of the chairs, he was shrouded in bluish smoke. His bleached clothes were styled like those of a haciendero, his Hispanic features still evident even in old age. His skin was burnt by the sun, and his grey hair was cut close to his scalp. A fat stick of cigar was between his lips, his moustache and beard peppered with grey ash. The old man stared at Salvador with cold steel-grey eyes.

Taking the cigar out, Don Santino de Angeles asked, “Bakit ka pumunta dito?”

Doña Inez looked at her husband with reproach, the old man just loudly cleared his throat and looked away. She turned to her grandson and fussed over him, much to the discomfort of the other. After chatting through the afternoon and eating their dinner, Salvador was ushered in to his room. It was located on the third floor, between two other rooms. As he prepared to sleep, he thought about the other rooms beside him, and what might they contain. With the thought of investigating them the following day, he fell asleep.

***

Salvador woke up in the middle of the night; there were no sounds except for the whisper of the wind outside his closed windows. He did not know what woke him up, until he could make out someone standing beside his door. All he could see was the outline of a person, he does not know if it was a man or woman. He felt he was being watched, and he could see two red dots from where its head should be. He shivered, despite having the blanket over his whole body. He waited for it to move, but it did not. Eventually, he fell asleep.

The next day, he asked his grandmother what the other rooms were used for. “Yung unang pinto library,” she answered without looking at him. “Nipisan mo yung mga hiwa,” she said.

They were in the kitchen, and his grandmother was supervising the two house-help. One was the old woman he had met at the gate, the other was a young girl of about fourteen or fifteen.  She greatly resembled the other helper, she kept on glancing at him from behind her curtain of hair.

He excused himself, saying that he wanted to go to the library, and then went upstairs. As his grandmother had said, the first door as he came up the stairs opened to a modest library. The crisp, musty smell of old books wafted towards him, when he looked around he saw that there was only one window. Beside it was a small, circular table, and two chairs. Upon inspection of the books available, he saw a copy of his short story collection that he had sent to his grandmother. He smiled.

He selected another book to read, and then sat on one of the chairs. After a while, he chanced a glance outside, and saw the young girl sweeping underneath the balete tree. He watched her for a bit, until he noticed the woman in black. She was standing near the girl, staring at him with cold, angry eyes. He shivered despite the heat of the day, how he could see her eyes from a third-floor window he does not know. He tried to read, but he could not shake the feeling of her hostile eyes. It unnerved him enough for him to give up reading, and since it was almost lunch time, he went downstairs.

***

All afternoon, he thought of the woman beneath the balete tree. He remembered her unruly hair, her long dress, and the cold, angry stare.  He shivered again, he thought he would never meet her again. When he asked his grandmother about it, she just stared at her husband, who was quietly smoking and looking out the window. He followed the old man’s gaze with his eyes, and saw the balete tree in the garden.

After dinner, Salvador went upstairs to the third floor, and tried to open the farthest door. It was locked. He wondered what might be behind it, and then he heard someone hissed, “Psssst.” He looked around, but he was alone in the corridor. He thought maybe it was the wind, when he heard it again, “Pssssst.” He saw a woman in the end of the corridor, dressed in black. Her face wore an angry scowl, her eyes were red with hostility. She was staring at him with such intensity that he ran inside his room, afraid that she would harm him in some way. He locked the door behind him, and uttered a silent prayer.

As he sat on the bed, he tried to remember everything about black ladies that he had read about. He thought of calling his friend who knew more about spirits and ghosts, but he remembered that that friend was off on a mountaineering activity. He thought of the woman, and her eyes that blazed with hatred. He felt that the encounter has just begun.

He awoke tired the next day. The woman in black haunted his dreams, her eyes were really burning red. In his nightmare, the woman stood beneath the balete tree bathed in moonlight. Her face contorted in a mask of hatred, and he felt that it was all because of him. Her long hair stuck out in different directions, each strand drier than the other. He shivered, and then he woke up.

He decided to read in his room, he might see the woman in black again. He skipped two meals, so engrossed was he in reading the book. The young helper had called him to breakfast and lunch, but he said he was not hungry to both encounters. He finished the book by early afternoon, and he went to the library to return it. Upon returning it, he chanced a look outside. There was no one outside, except for his grandfather who was walking about. He was a bit relieved, until he heard the hiss again, “Psssst.”

It had come from behind the shelves, and he knew that he was alone so he ignored it. It was repeated three more times. When he went to check it, he saw the woman in black from behind the open-backed bookshelves. He uttered a curse, headed towards the door, and ran out of the library.

***

During the rest of the afternoon and dinner, Salvador remained quiet. Doña Inez was concerned, but he said that he was alright.

“Para kang nakakita ng multo,” she said.

He visibly shuddered, as he remembered the encounter earlier. After finishing his food, he quickly went upstairs to sleep, hoping that he would not dream of the woman again.

He woke up while it was still dark, and immediately felt that he was not alone anymore in the room. He dared not open his eyes; he drew the blanket nearer to his body. He could feel waves of anger and hatred, the woman was back. He shivered again, he could feel sweat forming on his body and face. He decided to leave the following morning, cutting his visit short. He was supposed to research for another book he was to write, but his experience was numbing him to leave. Since he does not know why the spirit would always follow him, but he does not want to stay in the house any longer.

The next morning, he was packed to go back to Manila. He found his grandfather smoking by a second floor window, so he said goodbye. Don Santino, wrapped in his cloud of smoke, just grunted and waved him away, “Sige, sige.”

His grandmother escorted him out, as well as the two helpers. “Kelan ka babalik ng Laguna?” Doña Inez asked, as she hobbled beside him towards the gate. Salvador answered that he would probably spend the New Year there, but he was not sure. He kissed his grandmother, and then walked out of the gate. When he looked back, he saw five figures watching him go, until the one in black faded in to the morning light. 

~intermission~

i just saw maya's work of a story about a girl and a tikbalang... and i was like, they are coming alive... the character samantha was created as an alter ego to maya's original character... kudos, collaborations rock!

new poem

Hooked

It was always the same

with us, always ending as

strangers even within each other’s arms.

When I hold you

tighter, you slip away; when I dream

of nightmares, you always

disappear. I tried to seek you out,

for my own benefit, and even then

you cannot be found;

I cannot find you, always

dissipating from my hands, always

staying just at the edge of my fingertips.

Often, I think of just giving up, but

the memory of our days together

end up making me stay.

alimuom

it's raining very hard today, thinking that i was just about to step out of the house... it's like, come on... but, i really would like to attend the workshop later, and see all my friends again... i have been writing new poems and new fictions lately, and i am hoping to post it here in a bit... see you all again...

stark raving annotation...

just yesterday, a very dear friend of mine added me in her list of friends... honestly, at first i did not know what to do, there were many things that were running around my head... questions were left unanswered in the constellations of scenarios... thinking back, i think it occurred to me to click that 'yes' button, and leave with an apology for something that i had done to her all those long years...

~intermission~

it has been a while since i last posted a personal note here... i have been trying to get a job while it is still summer, and so far no one has bitten on my lure... since today is so hot, i opted to stay in and get a lot more writing... however, there has been some technical difficulties with regards to writing... hindi ako marunong mag-kwento sa tagalog... if there is someone out there who could help me with regards to my problem, your help is deeply appreciated...

Part 10: Home

Balete

the old people say

that it served as a doorway

into the supernatural,

to others it served as

a secret meeting place, a spot

for trysts,

but for me, in the heart

of the metro, it serves

as a make-shift shelter,

a home against time.

Part 9: Caress

Nature’s Way

Amidst the waving blossoms

and blooming branches,

you stood erect, watching

the sun set, the orange rays

danced on the mountain

tops, as did the wisp of clouds.

You smiled then, unseen by all

but me and the retreating sun,

a smile that had caught my heart.

Part 8: Peace

Serenity

Standing on a corner

on a busy street in Mandaluyong,

I saw in the beauty salon

amidst the flurry

of manicures and pedicures,

of foot spas and scrubs,

of hair cuts and treatments,

a woman sleeping on the couch.

Part 7: Feelings

Touch

As the trees waved

goodbye, we kissed,

and promised to be

with each other until

the end of time.

Brown leaves

turned green, the very air

I breathe filled me

with ecstasy and anticipation.

My fingers itched

to be closer to yours,

and as the days flew by

on their dark horses

and things began to blur

together, I wondered

to touch you again.

Part 6: Fringe

Margin

she sits alone,
wrapped in a cocoon

of silence, watching
from the corner,

(pretty girls and beautiful boys
mingling, conversing, flirting).

"Why can't I have that?",
her lips quivering with

the taste of enchantment,
longing and desire

to join the fray. she is weak,
hands shaking, palms sweating,

she tries to stand, but
fails. unable to grasp

the fleeting moment, the minutes
slipping by, watching

a movie about life, made 
by life. she cries cruel tears,

falling down her cheeks, shoulders
calling for comfort. life weaves

solitude, torturing her
existence, she sighs

as she sat alone.

~intermission~

i have been gone a while, working and doing things... i have been posting my works here, and so far it has been very fulfilling whenever i got one out... i would really like to post more of my works here, and i hope you might enjoy reading...

Part 5: Surrender

Waiting

I.

The rain is not letting

up, the staccato rhythm of water

on the glass and the blowing

winds lull me to sleep.

I open my eyes

to a different landscape, branches

clawing at the glass and screeching

winds fought with lightning

strikes. Ah, the swirling

leaves keep in time

of the whirling fan blades,

as the warmth of

the room causes the frosted

glass, and the vacant space

recently vacated.

When can we talk

face to face, exchanging views

and pleasantries, of what-if’s

and why-not’s, and maybe

then we can truly say

what we feel like saying.

II.

i played right into

your hand, the moments

like trickling sand in an hourglass.

i have seen with my eye

naked tricks, and yet,

the stage is properly set.

my freaking mind reels,

as you silently leer;

your greatest performance

on celluloid film, involves

me getting skimmed. i lie

waiting, the pit of my stomach

sinking, my hoarse voice

echoing across the sea raging.

Part 4: Sadness

misery

alone

in a crowded pew, he stared

at the crying people.

the priest droning on,

pounding his ears and temples.

he

sat thinking of her, his eyes glistening

with tears. wiping it away

before it started, the inevitable

torrential rain of the heart. with his knuckles

between

his teeth, he stopped the floodgates

from opening. he tasted

metallic bitterness as he

saw the bleeding of his hands. the

sobbing

continued, as the priest murmured

prayers and requests

and the non-existent virtues

of departed souls, he suddenly stood

up.

Part 3: Sunflower

Clytie

It has always been the same,

My eyes have never wandered

Nor wavered in looking

At your face beaming with joy,

And beauty, and charm.

Part 2: Stranded

<stranded>

I always felt stranded

In the middle of Dapitan,

Amidst the pouring rain

And floods of umbrellaed people,

Always trying to find

Your face, with wet hair

Plastered on your forehead,

And futilely looking for me.

I cannot help but notice

That whenever that happens

You were not around,

And I got stuck by myself.

Part 1: Living on the Edge

I

As I watch the falling

Of leaves, the wind lifts

And reveals my desires.

The fading day

And the brightening night

Give fruit to a hungry soul,

Of hunger unquenched

By covered flesh.

~intermission~

so, i have just passed my entry for the 4th Rogelio Sikat Workshop (ikaapat na Palihan Rogelio Sikat) which is going to be held in Cavite... i passed five poems (limang tula) which i hope that would pass the screening tests and be part of the workshop... i would be posting them here one by one in the following days...

~intermission~

i have just finished attending the 2nd Thomasian Writers Workshop held at UST this past week... the grueling hours of examining page upon page of literature had literally left me with back pain... but, it was all worth it... when i entered into this workshop, i thought that everything i had learned at that point was already sufficient for me to be a competent writer... when i got my certificate a week later, the knowledge that i had was refilled with interesting insights and inputs by the respected writers of modern day philippines... i cannot wait for the other workshops to give their reply if i passed or not... i have become a writer with a fresher outlook on literature...

~intermission~

hi! my name is lazaro cruz... and i'm writing a blog for my literary pieces... i hope that when you read my blog, you would see how hard it took for me to master the courage to really let the world see my pieces... i am proud to be a writer, but it may not be as secure as any jobs... i like writing, especially short stories... well, please read and enjoy...

Part 3: The Third World

Backyard

The ticking of the wall clock sounded alongside the staccato rhythm of the keyboards. It was a little late, a few minutes after three in the morning. The monitor light illuminated the face of a young man, in his late-twenties and lean. He stopped for a while, staring at the computer and eating cookies. When the pack was empty, he crumpled it and threw it somewhere in the dark room. It plopped on top of a stack of books. All the while, he was still reading something on the monitor, occasionally scrolling down on the mouse.

He would sometimes put a cigarette in his mouth, but he never lit it. He would return the stick in its place tucked behind his ear, and he would sometimes glance at the papers by his side. A dog howled outside, and he momentarily tore his gaze away from the screen. He scanned his room, mountainous piles of papers, books and hard drives littered the small expanse of it. A phone rang, and he searched for it beneath some papers.

“Hello?” his voice went out cracked. He cleared his throat and tried it again, “Hello?”

“Are you done?” a female voice asked him.

“What? Who is this?”

“It’s Pam,” the female voice continued, “I’m coming over to see your progress, and maybe catch some sleep. It sounds like you’re still working on it. Oh, and I have news.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and hung up.

Pamela ‘Pam’ Balani, a book editor, drove her white Sentra slowly along a silent street in suburban Mandaluyong. She was looking for a particular gate, number 626 A-C, while bats flew overhead. The street was lined with various trees, acacia, mango, and even umbrella trees.

She found the crimson pedestrian gate tucked between two large ones, and she parked her car on the next street corner. Walking back towards the gate, she hugged herself as a cold breeze blew past.

She unlocked the gate by swinging a top lock. Opening it, she walked the entire length of the adjacent houses in a faux alleyway that can only accommodate one person. At the end were three houses, the one in the middle was the one she was looking for, number 626B. She pressed the doorbell, a shrill bird-like song that filled the quiet house, and waited.

“Yes?” a voice whispered. She was startled for a moment, and then said, “It’s me, Pam. Let me in.”

The door opened to reveal a young man of average height, with his long black hair untied and wore corrective glasses. This was Salvador ‘Andoy’ Mortiz, a writer. He writes Philippine Gothic stories, and Pam was his editor. He beckoned her to come in, which she did.

“What is it?” he asked her when she had sat down on the wooden chair in the dimly-lit living room. He gave her a glass of cold orange juice, and then sat down opposite her.

“Someone called me, something about a kapre,” she said, sipping her juice as she watched his reactions. His eyes grew bright, and a flicker of delight crossed his face.

“Huh,” he grunted, “and what did the caller said?”

“She claimed to be haunted. It might be a good idea to investigate.”

“Sure. When are we going?”

“Anytime you want.”

“How about you sleep here today, we’ll go tomorrow?”

She smiled, “Sounds good.”

He beckoned her upstairs, where light from an open monitor came from a room. She carefully went up the stairs, her host right behind her. The room they came in to was filled with bric-a-brac of things. The walls were lined with shelves containing various books, papers, figurines, masks, and hard drives. The floor was covered with other books and hard drives, and in the middle of it was a table on top of which was an open laptop, connected to two more hard drives. A cushion used as a seat was right in front of it. An open book, a half-empty glass of juice and an empty carton of cookies were beside the cushion. Andoy cleared a space beside the cushion, moved it, and then sat Pam there.

“Is this new work?” she asked, pointing at the monitor. She arranged herself on the pudgy cushion, thinking that it was always used.

“No, just keeping up with my research. Did you know that the White Lady in the Philippines was a fairly recent phenomenon?”

“Really?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Yep,” he said, sitting down on floor in front of the computer. “What is this kapre business about?”

“Why not rest first; we’ll just tackle it tomorrow, ok?”

He grunted. He continued to type, scroll, and read. Pam looked on, reading as well just behind him. Later, she struggled to prevent yawning, but failed.

“Do you want to sleep?” he asked, his eyes still glued to the monitor. Pam just nodded slightly. He stood up and led Pam to the other bedroom across from his, and then closed the door. As she prepared to sleep, she heard the clacking of the keyboard coming from the other room. She smiled.

They went to the house of Zoraya, a good-looking girl who claims to be haunted by the kapre. She lives with her mother in a single-storey home, with a vegetable garden at the back. There was also an old mango tree growing there as well, shading parts of the house from sunlight. They were escorted into the modest living room, and were given beverages. After drinking and resting a while, Andoy began his questions.

“So,” he said quietly, “would you like to tell us what has been happening to you?”

“Alright,” the girl answered slowly, “It all began when we still lived in Montalban. We used to have a big mango tree growing in our little backyard. It was planted there by my father before I was born, and it had blessed us with its sweet fruits.

“It first happened when I was about sixteen. There would be heavy footsteps on our roof, and there would be that smell of tobacco and body odor. I was so scared I would always sleep with my parents. My father would get mad because of the nightly noises and the bad odor that seems to seep in to our home.

“One night, it occurred again. This time, we heard someone speaking in a deep voice, but we could not understand the words. My father became so angry, that he got his bolo and went out to confront the monster. He never came back alive.” She was sobbing as she said the last part. Andoy and Pam let her compose herself, silently observing her as she was comforted by her mother.

After a while, she continued, “That was three years ago. After burying my father, we moved from place to place, which was easy because it was just me and my mother. We finally found this place; it was cozy like our little house in Montalban. It even has a mango tree growing in the back, and because of it we felt we could call this place home.

“After about two months, we experienced the same happenings. There were the heavy footsteps, the tobacco and bad odor, and also the whispers. When I heard about you and your written works, I called to petition our predicament,” she finished.

Andoy looked at her as she finished her story. He was unconsciously stroking his week-old facial hair, looking as if he was uninterested. And yet, his eyes were sparkling like a little boy’s upon seeing a new toy.

“Have you ever made out what the words are?” he asked.

“Um, no,” she answered. “I can’t make out the words, sorry.”

“I’m not really anything but a writer,” Andoy began, “so I−”

Zoraya looked surprised for a bit and then desperately said, “But, they say that you know everything about supernatural events. Maybe there is something that you know of that would ward off this− monster.”

The mother and daughter clung together, their eyes screaming for help. He turned to Pam, who was twirling the empty glass in her hands. She looked at him, gave one of those almost nods, and then went back to the dancing glass. He turned back to the hapless people, and then he sighed.

“We’ll help you,” he said.

He sat quietly behind some thick bushes of santan, waiting. It was about ten-thirty pm, his legs was already cramping, when he saw someone on the mango tree. It looked like some large wildman, dark-skinned accompanied by an over-powering stench of tobacco among other things. He watched as it shambled along, climbing on the mango tree. The breeze picked up, the stench wafted towards his direction. He almost gagged from it, even through the cover of his handkerchief. This was the kapre.

The kapre lifted its nose, sniffing the night air. Then it growled softly, shuffling in its position on the tree. Andoy cautiously crept towards the kapre, fearing he might alert the mythical beast. He tied his handkerchief over his nose, and crawled on his hands and feet. Slowly, ever slowly, he neared the kapre.

The kapre went down the tree, and slowly walked towards the house. It used its hands to hoist itself on the roof, causing dents on the roof gutter. It treaded on the roof, its footsteps causing a ruckus on the tin roof, and kicking away the stone- and tire-weights. Andoy made it towards a window and stole a peek, he saw the mother and daughter huddled together, shaking with fear.

The kapre was whispering to himself as he walked back and forth on the roof. Andoy strained his ears, and his eyes went wide when he made out what it was saying. He got out his phone and dialed a number, whispering briefly to someone, and then putting it away.

He looked around for something to use as a weapon, and espied a small pile of hefty rocks. He went towards it, and waited. He watched the creature as it continued its babbling. He chose a rock and threw it. It cluttered on the roof, not even coming close to hitting the kapre. He cursed, then chose another one.

The kapre heard the falling rock on the roof, and he turned to face it. It saw Andoy looking for another and it growled. As Andoy turned towards the roof, with a rock in both hands, he saw the kapre staring at him. He threw a rock towards it, it just glanced off of it without so much as a scratch. He had read that the kapre has a belt that rendered it almost invincible, but he could not see if this is true.

He threw the other one, and it hit the kapre’s chest. The kapre roared, a savage roar, and it jumped down and ran towards him. As it neared him, he heard sirens in the distance, and he smiled. He ran towards the road, the kapre ran after him and tried to catch him. He ran on towards the sirens, his labored breathing sounds foreign to his ears. He often tripped on the uneven asphalt, but it never caught him. Waving wildly at the police cars, he stopped them. The kapre behind him was roaring and foaming a bit at the mouth, it was bent on catching him.

The police got out of their squad cars, and pointed their weapons on the kapre. Instinctly, Andoy dropped down to avoid getting in the line of fire. The police ordered for the creature to stop, and when it did not, fired at its leg. It dropped down on its face, but struggled to get back up. The police surrounded the wounded creature.

The kapre was no mythical creature, it was just one of those wandering people on the street. His name was Mahmoud, and he had been diagnosed with serious mental illness. He had been wandering the streets near Zoraya’s house even before the mother and daughter had moved there, and he was tolerated by the neighborhood. After returning to Zoraya’s house and making sure the family was alright and safe, Andoy went outside under the old mango tree. He got out his cigarette pack, and lit one stick. He stared at the stars for a while, finished his cigarette, and stepping on it.

He sighed and said aloud, “I am so glad it was over with.”

“Me too,” a voice said from the mango tree’s branches, “I absolutely hate copycats.”

Part 2: The Second Barrage

Creed

The night sky sparkled with stars, and the crescent moon shown unhindered. It was already a little past one in the morning, lights coming from inside houses were rare and people outside even rarer. A dog howled, an answering bark came a little further away. A bat flew overhead, and a rat scampered out of its hiding place to scavenge amongst the pile of garbage in a street corner. The nearby shopping mall had been closed for hours, and the last kuligligs and tricycles in the vicinity have sleeping people in them.

The place was asleep, except for a few drunks who were almost all have fallen asleep. Heavy footsteps were heard, as if a horse went hurriedly by, accompanied by a loud sniffing. A lone drunk who saw the tall, equine-like man, thought he saw an illusion. He drank the beer dregs in the bottle in his hand, and promptly collapsed face-down on the table. It was met with guffaws and shouts from his companions.

The apparition, a creature of myth, stopped in his tracks. His ears pricked up, eyes bright and searching. He sniffed again, and smiled. He slowly made its way towards an alley-like street. His crimson eyes shone brightly in the dark, his hooves making no noise on the cemented road.

“What do you want?” Samantha Marasigan asked. She was sitting on a round-backed monobloc chair outside, clutching her knees and looking up towards the night sky. She had her back to the creature, and yet she had sensed his arrival. She wore knee-length shorts, and a baggy t-shirt with a comical cartoon on it. Her black hair was untied, it was dancing to the rhythm of the cool night breeze. The right sleeve of her shirt also waved to the breeze, revealing tattoos on the middle of her upper arm.

“What do you want?” she asked again, not facing the creature.

“I have come to take you back,” he said, his voice like deep drums, yet soft as a caress.

Sam sighed, she stretched her body and stifled a yawn. “It’s getting late, you need to go home,” she said. She stood up and was about to go when the creature spoke.

“I cannot go back home,” he said.

She faced the creature for the first time, sweat making trails along his steaming shanks. They stood face to face, the creature’s breath smelled strongly of tobacco. She stared at his equine face; a scar on his left eye glowed faintly bluish in the shadows. He was carrying the standard weaponry of his kind: a bow, with various feathers tied to it; a quiver full of arrows; and a small dagger stuck in his belt. In addition, two kali sticks were on his back, red ribbons tied on their ends.

“I like it when you are angry,” he said, wiping sweat from his shank with his tail. She ignored him, continuing to stare at him.

“What do you want from me, Mailap?” Sam asked, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Your mother misses you, she had been asking me to fetch you.”

At the mention of her mother, memories both good and bad immediately invaded her mind. Sam turned around, her eyes brimming and her nose runny. She sniffed, which the creature heard and caused a whinny. She wiped her eyes with her arm and faced him again.

“Tell my mother, I would come back as soon as possible,” she said, and then turned away.

“She wants you back now,” Mailap said, his face still hidden in the shadows. A lamp post flickered behind it, and the creature shifted from hoof to hoof. “I told you, I cannot go back unless you come with me.”

“You need to go back now,” Sam said firmly. “My roommate might come out and ask questions. I do not want that to happen to her.”

Mailap watched her open the gate of one of the houses lining the dead end street. He snorted, white breath floating around it. “Your mother had ordered me to take you now. I even have your kali sticks with me, your mother said they will convince you to come back.” Sam ignored the creature, and went inside the house.

Mailap was anything but emotional. Growing up in the herds of Tandang Birit, he was considered to be malas, unlucky. They often shunned him, because of the circumstances when he was born. He almost did not make it, but the goddess of far-off Makiling had breathed life into his inactive lungs. His mother, the last of Tandang Birit’s wives, died giving birth to him, and he bore it all the days of his existence. He was her only child. He grew to be analytical, meticulous, and alone, often reading the annals of the herd and the exploits of his father and brothers. He was the greatest hunter in their herd next to Tandang Birit, but he could never brag about this.

Tandang Birit would say, “All you did was doing as I told, and you were successful.”

It would go on like this for many moons, and he would be teased by his siblings for being always shy and not joining in the community. When Mailap was already thirteen moons old, he was sent by Tandang Birit to serve Dian Masalanta. “Go to Makiling, and do whatever Dian Masalanta bids you to do.”

“Why, Tatang?” he had asked.

His father hit him with the back of his large hand. “Do not question me, Mailap. Just go to Makiling. And never come back here.”

Mailap had left the herd’s lands with a heavy heart, although leaving all the prosecutions and ostracism behind put a spring to his steps. He was on an adventure, crossing many mountains, valleys, rivers, plains, and even other herdlands. He encountered the mischievous encanto, the lovely diwata, and even the annoying nuno. He hunted in the lush jungles for food, and drank from the clear waters of springs and brooks. Once, he encountered a race alien to him. They looked like diwata, but for the lack of glowing aura about them. They were mostly wearing stripped bark as loincloths, and carried stone weapons. They also used fire, something the gods had given the inhabitants of the land. He made sure he was not seen by them, and silently slipped away in the middle of the night.

He made it to Makiling within the fifth night since he left his father’s domains. He cautiously climbed the mountain, his gear and weapons close at hand. He felt someone watching him, it was annoying him to no end. It was especially irritating, because whenever he stumbled over wet stones and upturned roots, he felt that the presence was laughing even if he never heard anything but the rustling wind and birdcalls.

He came to a small nipa hut in a clearing three days after coming to the mountain, and he approached it cautiously. Its windows were covered, and it did not sit well with Mailap that the presence was still watching him. He drew his dagger out with his right hand, his bow held tightly in his left. He sniffed the air, it smelled of tree-saps, wet earth, and of sweet rain. His ears were alert, hearing nothing but birdcalls and the whistling wind. With his body hunched over, he carefully went near the hut. It just stood there, as if defying him to enter the dwelling. He entered the hut, his hooves slightly making a creak on the wooden steps. What he saw inside was unbelievable.

Mailap is not easily surprised, and whenever that happened it was caused by something incredible. When he entered the hut, his jaw fell open and his eyes went wide. The inside was majestic, everything gleamed inside. The inside was illuminated by some kind of light, from where Mailap does not know. A hall stretched before him with a high ceiling, at its end was a raised dais with a wooden divan swathed in purple. It was empty, the occupant nowhere to be seen. The wooden walls were decorated with purple cloths with a silvery sigil that was unknown to Mailap, its ends almost touching the wooden floors. On the wall posts were hung golden shields with purple circles and the same silver sigil. At either side of him were staircases towards the second floor, the banisters were carved with small images of diwata, nuno, and encanto. He shook himself from his daze and walked inside, his dagger gripped tightly.

He turned his back and saw for the first time the elaborate tikbalang carvings on the doorposts; on top of the door was a purple circle with the silver sigil. He turned back to the dais, there was a young girl standing beside the divan. She seems to be about fourteen years old, with brown skin, long dark hair, wide and intelligent eyes, and a large earring on her left ear. She was wearing an opened sleeveless baro, a malong, and two kali sticks tied with red ribbons were at her back. Her hair was kept from her face by a purple cloth, on which was the silver sigil. Her feet were bare but clean, and tattoos occupied half of her right upper arm. He narrowed his eyes when he heard her laugh, a tinkling of tiny bells. He had heard this laughter before.

“Who are you?” he asked, his dagger poised in front of him.

The girl laughed again, and said, “It is I that should be asking that question.”

He moved in carefully, his eyes never leaving the girl.

“Be careful where you tread, tikbalang, you are dirtying my mother’s floor,” the girl said calmly.

Mailap stopped, his eyes scanning around his surroundings. The girl laughed again, and she watched him from her place beside the divan. Mailap was aware of someone watching him other than the girl, and it was unnerving. Suddenly, a voice boomed inside the hall.

“Who are you?” it asked.

“She is asking you, tikbalang,” the girl said, a smile on her face.

Mailap hesitated, he looked around the hall.

“Go on,” the girl encouraged. “Make yourself known, tikbalang.”

“I am Mailap, youngest of Tandang Birit’s children. I was sent here to serve the Lady of the mountain, Dian Masalanta,” he answered the voice.

“Sit down,” a woman said to him, the voice like a soft breeze.

Mailap looked up and saw for the first time the goddess, Dian Masalanta. She was reclining on the divan, wearing purple and silver malong and tapis, with a closed baro and many bangles on her wrists and ankles. Her hair was untied, and it fell like cascading waterfalls. On her ears were large earrings, and Mailap knew that the goddess was the child’s mother. He wondered how his life would be after that encounter.

She motioned for him to come near, which was really awkward for him since she had said to him to sit down. He came nearer, his dagger now safely tucked in its small scabbard in his belt, his bow now strung on his back. He bowed low when he came at the foot of the raised dais, his nose touching the wooden floor. The floor was smooth, like the surface of a still pond.

“Why have you come, son of Birit?” she asked, her daughter eyeing him.

“I have come to serve you, my lady. My father had no use for me in our herdlands, and since my brothers had all proved themselves to be worthy of staying with our father, I was sent here.”

“I have one task alone to give to you, Mailap,” the goddess said. “It is to protect my daughter from the human tribes living at the foot of the mountain.”

She gestured for the girl to come forward. “I see that you have amused yourself with the young colt, Maya. He shall be your guardian from now, and he will be doing my bidding to protect you always.”

“I have no use for him, Mother,” the girl said, twirling a lock of her hair between her fingers.

“Well, I do. Your father had just died from fighting the Datu of Maynila; let his soul be assured of your safety.”

“But, Mother I―”

“Maya Alapaap, that is enough,” the goddess said, her voice became rumbling thunder. The light inside the hall seem to dim, and the young tikbalang shivered. “Mailap would always be by your side, no matter what happens. If ever you would venture out into the world of men, he would always be by your side.”

Maya eyed him, watching his reactions to what her mother was saying. It was the will of the goddess, and even if she was the daughter, she may not break it. Mailap stood in front of the girl, every muscle tense. Maya clicked her tongue, bowed to her mother, and then went outside. The goddess nodded at him, so he followed her out. And it was raining.

As he crouched above the roof of the adjacent building, Mailap watched as Sam turned on the desk lamp in her room. Her face was buried in a handkerchief, her shoulders shaking. The wind rustled the leaves of the nearby trees, above, the stars twinkled and the moon shone. Mailap watched her for a while, until she stood up and turned off the lamp.

“You will come back with me, Maya,” he whispered, before running off. The faint sounds of hooves on asphalt, the waning cheers of drunkards, and the distant howling of dogs broke the silent night.

Part 1: The Opening Salvo

Kilometer 3

He waited still, even though he knew in his heart that she would not be coming. The cool night breeze brought goosebumps on his exposed skin and a shudder through his frame. His hair was wet from the dripping underside of the road above; the vehicular underpass where he was standing was quiet. He looked at his watch, it was already past midnight. He waited.

They were always together, until the time he stood her up. They were in the university library, reading for the quiz that they would be taking that day.

“Let’s go out tonight,” he said, closing the book he was perusing.

“Ok, where?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the book.

“Let’s meet at the Kilometer 3 marker at the vehicular underpass on Quezon Boulevard, the one going to Central Market,” he suggested, looking at her.

“Hmm, why there?” she asked, giving him a puzzled look.

“Change of pace?”

“I don’t know. Quiapo is dangerous at that time of night, and−”

“I’ll be there,” he said, cutting her off. “Don’t worry, at midnight we’ll see each other there.”

That night, due to the annual awards show that he had won in, he went out with his friends to celebrate, and got drunk. He awoke with a terrible headache, the throbbing in his temples never stopped from pounding. A Kitty Barracuda song was playing over and over in his mind, as he tried to remember what he was supposed to have done last night. And then, he remembered.

At first, he tried calling her. She never answered her phone, or whenever her family answered, they would immediately hang up the phone. He got worked up that he tried to go to her house, pleading to see her. He was never welcome there; the cold reception of her family towards him was understandable. He knew it was his fault; he never should have stood her up.

He tried to text her apologies, love messages, and other what-not to let him see her, but she never texted back. He thought of other ways to woo her again, but to no avail. After a week, he was about to give up when she texted him to meet her again at the marker that night.

Here he was, a week of waiting for her to take him back, still waiting. Each tick of his watch, each passing second became a lifetime. He shivered as the wind blew again. He looked in front of him, the dirty column supporting a length of Recto seem to him dark as the night, even with the glare of the orange lamps illuminating the underpass. The dirt clung to it, angry black fingers that seem to choke it like it was his neck. He swallowed his spit, and hugged himself.

He looked at his watched for the nth time; it was five minutes after one, when he saw a movement in his peripherals. He looked up and saw her, standing in the middle of the road and looking at him. She beckoned him to come to her, which he did. He heard her chuckle as a speeding jeepney slammed in to him.