Chapter 1: The Storm That Came, and Went

Chapter 1: The Storm That Came, and Went

On the day that Mang Berto Timbreza was to depart, God did not allow him. He was awoken by the loud cooing of a silver owl that was hiding from the bagyo that came before the break of dawn; still beating heavily against the roof of his humble yet strong wooden kubo. It was this that told him that his un-welcomed guest was flustered. As Mang Berto slowly lifted his sore back from the banig that he had been sleeping in all these years of seclusion, the owl turned its head and showed off its huge piercing yellow eyes towards him. Mang Berto recognized that look; that familiar and common look that every creature had when it was hungry. Before anything binding between them could happen, the owl turned away and reluctantly flew into the punishing shower.

“Bading,” he uttered towards the direction of the bird's flight, although somehow he suspected that it was because of his terrible morning disposition that frightened the bird and forced it into submission and its inevitable retreat.

Berto had always been a heavy sleeper, ever since he had been alone in this mountain town. Maybe because of what the town had demanded from him day after day, tending to the sugar cane fields day in and day out, hacking and slashing, eating, and hacking and slashing again. Long hours under the hot sun can make any man into a heavy sleeper, especially in a town such as this, the secret town of Alonso.

He rubbed morning pebbles off the inner corners of his eyes with his dark and calloused hands and stood to face the window. Walking towards it he noticed that a multitude of raindrops had escaped the threshold and had dampened the old bamboo-stripped floor. The winds outside that was beating wildly against the forest beyond his house were strong, but the fact that the neighbor's cows were still well planted on their hooves offered little room for the fear that his humble abode might be blown away. Across the cows, just left from the rumored haunted 256 year old Acacia tree that stood in that very spot even before the town was founded, he could see the once gentle river rear its violent rage, and so he understood that today, he was bound to stay. Maybe a day more for the paths to be safe from the forest demons that linger after every storm.

It was because of this same fear that Pelagio Tuvera instructed her son to stay inside.

“There is something evil in this storm,” she said while stirring the pot of hot brown champurado over her ingenious imitation of a stove. Her son simply sat facing the open wooden door, staring at what seemed to be an owl lost in its flight being bullied by the strong rain. He had a look of concern in his innocent eyes. He wanted to dash into the watery chaos to rescue the poor thing. Fly here! Here where it's safe. He thought.

Pelagio Tuvera had always believed that her son Antonio, who was a thoughtful yet callow boy who enjoyed rolling in the mud with pigs, was an angel sent by God. But the rest of the town knew that Antonio was no short of a pig himself.

She recounts how she got pregnant with Antonio during a full moon while she was strolling underneath a star-strewn sky. She said she had met a man who was “glowing gold” during her walk, claiming to be an angel, God-sent to earth to bear fruit. Being foolishly and feverishly in-love with God, she asked no questions. Why not? Why not with an Angel? She thought. She closed her eyes and took off her clothes, presenting to the angel the glorious, young and lovely medium by which the fruit is to be bared. Her dark hair barely reaching the pink tips of her bosom; smooth and milk skin as if it were not real. She glowed even brighter than the moon itself, her eyes penetrating even the darkest expanse or crevasse the world had to hide, looking as if she tasted far sweeter than any other honey, or sugar. The Angel looked at her and could not help but proclaim to the heavens: "it is good."

So would any other man, I reckon.

Her firm and round breasts pointed towards the stars as the angel repeatedly penetrated her with his Holy penis. She just held on to whatever she could all the while the angel was on top of her, breathing heavily; she could almost swear that she heard the Angel moan, the Angel's warm and salty sweat tinkled down from his face to her bare, milk like skin. Others think she just got too whacked out from her secluded life to a point that she let a crazy mountain man have his way with her. In fact, the story got so out of hand that her neighbors would later use Antonio as a warning to their daughters never to conceive without marriage, and to never, ever, under any circumstances, God or no God, to let a glowing mountain man mount them.

But their hearts could not be darkened, especially not little Antonio. Not even when the notorious sons of the barrio would often torment him every time they passed by their little, wooden fenced house.

Once upon a very hot Tuesday afternoon, after the fiesta of Santo Miguel, four boys stole eleven boxes of small nails from the local carpenter's desk and forced poor Antonio into the forest. Deep into it; somewhere where no one can hear a pig's scream.

“Spread your arms.” The fattest boy told Antonio with an authoritative voice, uncommon from a 14 year old. “Spread it like Jesu Cristo.”

A few minutes later Antonio found himself suspended against a large narra tree that stood ever so proudly inside the forest. The boys had nailed the loose parts of his shirt, and tied a large, commanding rope around him, pinning poor Antonio helpless against the tree for all the forest creatures to see.

“Behold! The son of a bitch!” one boy proclaimed laughingly when he saw a deer curiously peeking through the vast collection of trees and herbs. Antonio could not determine who had made such a gruesome remark to his mother and be able to laugh about it, too. Their voices faded away slowly.

He stayed motionless for hours. His arms began to ache, and his two feet who had been supporting all his weight was beginning to show signs of a cramp. He had given up screaming for help, for he could not even hear the local church bell tolling from the town when he realized that it was well passed 3PM. The painful rays of the sun were slowly eating away at his face. He was alone. Nobody there to save him. Perhaps it was fitting that he was to be tested this much, this early in his life. He started to pray.

Before night fall, one boy went back for little Antonio. Over-struck by guilt and fear he walked back the path that they treaded only hours before. He could not bear to leave anybody in the forest after the sun had gone down, he was far too scared that the sacrifice to the demons would awaken evils that had long before been recounted through the many bonfires and get-togethers where Lola Chiong's ghost stories were the main event.

The youngest boy went back to where Antonio was pseudo-crucified, and as he walked towards that familiar tree he saw a figure with outstretched arms and he was filled with remorse. He walked gently, eyes ready to look away when Antonio would say something evil to him, or curse him, or even spit at him! But as the boy looked at Antonio and his motionless body, he noticed that Antonio was looking below at his feet.What is he doing? The boy thought as he walked close enough to see Antonio's face clearly.

The boy was shocked to see Antonio to be smiling, looking as if he had been at peace. The boy let loose a heavy sigh of relief. At least no cursing will occur, at least not today, he though to himself. Using the hammer that he had borrowed without permission from his Tata, he let loose Antonio.

With weary and cramping legs unable to support sudden weight of his body as it came crashing down towards the forest floor, Antonio let himself fall to the forest floor as if falling towards a body of water. The boy could not see any signs of fear, frustration, or even pain from Antonio's eyes. Antonio motioned for the boy's hand, looking him in the eye with the aura of a father and managed a weak yet unexpected question: “What is your name?”

“Alfonso...” the boy replied, “Alfonso Avilla.” Thoughts immediately ran though his head... Why would I say that? He's going to get me in a -

“Thank you, Alfonso Avilla.” Antonio said, interrupting, clinching tighter to the boy's hand, staring reflectively at the thin rays of light escaping the expanse of the forest's canopy above them.

“Now I understand why the forest has her demons...” He whispered.

Silently they walked towards their respective homes.

Antonio was still smiling.

The little boy will never be the same again.