1.

Now there was this terrible fratricidal war in Mindanao, deep, deep south, near the tip of the Philippine archipelago. Between the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) and the Philippine Government Forces in the South it was, a very bad war. Filipinos against Filipinos, brother against brother, though one was an infidel Moro and the other a Christian, two poles apart in faith and culture. Prohibited by his faith to eat pork were the Moros, who were Islam believers, while the Christians, believers of Jesus Christ as the Son of God, were voracious pork-eaters, just like the pagan Yakans and the Subanons, the latter the aborigines of the Zamboanga peninsula, with its capital in Zamboanga City, the oldest Christian city of Mindanao. Still, both Moros and Christians were of the same country: the Philippines. And the fratricidal war was worse in Jolo, Tawi-Tawi, and Basilan, three hump-like, forested islands of Mindanao; but not so bad in the Zamboanga peninsula, and yet before this no one had experienced such a bad war, said the Zamboangueños there. Not even in the wars against the Spaniards in 1888, and the yellow-skinned Japanese in 1941. But here was this fratricidal war, which was not given the dignity of being called a "war" by the Tyrant Ferdinand Marcos, who after imposing martial law in 1972 ruled the Philippine Islands with an iron fist from its capital in the north, the city of Manila, over 800 kilometers away from the island of Mindanao, down deep south. Instead, hiding from the Filipino people the reality and truth of the war and its devastation in euphemism, so they would believe there prevailed peace and order in his Mystical Paradise — where he was the Más Macho and his wife, Imelda, the Más Hermosa— the fratricidal war was dubbed by the Dictator as a mere "pocket disturbance."

However, almost every day, killing each other by the hundreds and putting each other’s village to the torch was what the Moro rebels and the Christian Forces were doing. Both were doing it so well and very passionately. Before it would be over not less than 50,000 islanders would be dead, countless wounded, and over 200,000 Moros and Christians would flee their homes, live in evacuation camps all over Mindanao, and some fleeing even to the capital city of Manila in the North, to live with relatives or friends in poverty and destitution.

These factors made the Moslems, a minority tribe, locally called Moros by the Spanish colonials, an affiliation to the Moors, who ruled Spain for nearly eight centuries, the first-class citizens in the Dictator’s so-called Mystical Paradise. The majority of the population of over 14 million in the island of Mindanao, and once the ruling tribe, the Christians now were second-class citizens. From the city of Manila in the North and safe in his artificially elevated throne in Malacañang Palace, on either side of which were giant paintings of him and his wife Imelda as the Más Macho, and the Más Hermosa, respectively, of the Philippine myth of origin, the equivalent of the Ancient Book’s Adam and Eve, the Tyrant, in order to appease the believers of Islam, thus appeasing the Moslem countries, which composed the oil cartel, showered bountiful gifts and privileges on his "brother Moslems."

2.

In the sala of a modest apartment house in Baliwasan Chico, a barrio a stone’s throw from the State College in Zamboanga city, Professor Jose and his two guests were talking excitedly. One was a friend, Farol, an adjuster at the city engineer’s office, and other, an old acquaintance, Manglapat, a correspondent of a daily newspaper, from the capital city of Manila.

"Hò, o, Jose," said Farol. "If a Christian kills a Moro, or even caught in possession of a gun, he is thrown in the stockade at Southcom Headquarters immediately."

"But not a Moro, no-no," said Professor Jose. "Especially, a secessionist-returnee. Instead the Government awards him. They give him, including his last distant relatives, guns, money, and five-star hotel accommodation." Raising his eyebrows toward his hairline, the Professor opened his eyes wide, his face all over was marked with anger and disbelief. "Would you believe, Abdul, an MNLF commander had bills, for food alone for a week, totaling P70,000. Impossible, you say! Well, no, because this rebel-secessionist commander, to show off, and as is their Moro custom, had invited all his relatives from Jolo to stay with him at the Zamboanga Plaza Hotel, which, you know, is a five-star hotel. And who is the sucker? We, the Christians, who pay our taxes faithfully … certainly, not the Moros, who never pay taxes, because, they say, they’re not Filipinos. That is why, in fact, they want to secede. Leche! Eventually, what Marcos gives the Moros, it is the Christians who pay for it; the Enlightened Dictator … as he dubs himself … knows nothing about the real character of the Moros, or what’s happening with us here in Mindanao — nor does he care."

He paused, and eyes even wider, peering out of their sockets, jabbed his hand into the air ardently, and continued: "Still, we the Christians who are joder! Why does not President Marcos order our Army to finish off all those fucking Moros! Have our Air Force bombard Jolo and Tawi-Tawi and Basilan, which are not very big islands, bomb them full of craters, and the Philippine Navy shell those islands, day and night, with cannon shells … until the only thing that rises from those islands are clouds of smoke. If the Moslem countries cut off our oil supply, as they have threatened if we so much as tweak a Moro, their brother Moslem, do you think the great white country of America, the defender of Freedom, our ally, will just stand by and watch without coming to our aid! Let us dare them, and we’ll see! The people from those Moslem countries are just like our Moros — cowards and bluffers! And they don’t respect anything but force, a loaded gun pointing at their head is what they all understand."

Manglapat, who had covered the Peace Talk in the city of Zamboanga that year for his national newspaper, said cynically: "And besides the five-star hotel accommodation, the rebel returnee also gets what you call French benefits: two or three prostitutes a night. Wow! These Moros are like Dionysus. Also, they get to meet the Más Macho himself in Malacañang Palace. And because they’ve raped, murdered, and kidnapped, the Dictator … you know what mean … ignorant of the religious and social implications in Mindanao, and eager only to appease the Moros at all costs, awards them a special, nickel-plated .45 caliber pistol. You know, the special handgun that the government issues only to our PMA (Philippine Military Academy) graduates."

"I think the two of you left out something," said the adjuster Farol.

"What, hah?" said Professor Jose.

"A juicy government post."

Manglapat, the correspondent from Manila, said: "Hò, o. During the Peace Talk, I remember the MNLF commanders demanded, besides the usual guns and money and concessions (and women, too, ha-ha), the directorship of the regional offices. If he was already made a director, then the rebel commander asked it for his brother or cousin or even some distant relative."

To this observation Professor Jose added: "You know, Manglapat, I was a consultant at the Rehabilitation and Integration Center at Southcom. Here the military people and a few civilian employees would process the qualifications of rebel-returnees. It is through his best qualifications, as basis, we were told, that a rebel-returnee is integrated into the army and in government service. We were working with Colonel … what was his name? You know, the one who pocketed the Peace Talk funds for catering and lodging of the rebel-returnees? — ah, yes, this Colonel Bala. Anyway, I found out this was all an exercise in futility, a put-on, a sham. Qualifications did not matter at all, I found out later. Everything depended on General Rigor, the Little President here in Mindanao. He decided everything, ignoring all our recommendations, and favored only those with money to grease his palm.

"For instance, a fish-vendor before he joined the MNLF, this Tagal something was made the assistant director of the regional office of the ministry of fishery; and a rebel-secessionist commander from Tawi-Tawi, who would not qualify even as a janitor in our office, was made the regional director of forestry … a very lucrative position, that in forestry, since he gets a lot of money and ‘gifts’ from the illegal loggers. Another rebel-returnee commander, believe you me, a ‘no-read, no-write’, demanded for his ‘return to the folds of the law’ the position of head of the regional development authority. Would you believe it, Abdul, that nincompoop, that ignoramus, got it! How? Well, two-thirds of his agal-agal concession in Tawi-Tawi Island went to General Rigor, our Southcom chief."

"Shame!" said the adjuster Farol.

"Cabron!"

"Do you remember Damasing, Jose? The one from Lamitan … or is it Candiis municipality? Shit, I covered his surrender," said Manglapat, "or, according to the Military, and that idiot, fat-head minister of information Cardeño: not, but his ‘return to the folds of the law.’ Ha-ha-ha. In this Mythical Paradise never call a spade a spade, hah? Yes, of course you do remember, Jose. We were together on the Recom IX ship."

"Ah, si. Yes, of course, I remember…"

"You know, I cannot really forget this guy, not this Damasing," said Manglapat. "He was without any shoes, you know … bare-footed, wore an old, ragged and patched pants, with no more than a dozen followers. So, you ask yourself, How can this impoverished looking, dirt-poor creature be a real rebel commander with not more than a dozen men? …. Shit, I forgot to mention that Parrel, photographer of Manila Today, was with us.

"In fact, without him there wouldn’t be a story. It is because of him that I cannot forget Damasing. Or, to be precise, Parrel’s boots. Parrel had bought this beautiful pair of imported UK-made boots, ‘K-shoes’ is what they’re called. Bought them from the duty-free shops here in Zamboanga city just before we embarked on the Recom IX ship. Well, to make a story short, while Parrel was taking pictures for his newspaper, Damasing noticed his new imported boots. It was sort of love at first sight, if anyone could fall in love with shoes. But that Damasing I believe could fall in love even with a snail. Well, Damasing demanded that Parrel should give him his new, not a day-old, K-boots.

"So scared was Parrel we could see his lips begin to turn white and tremble above his chin. Of course, all of us were very scared, too, but Parrel more than anyone. What else could he do? He could not refuse Damasing … not while we were there in the rebel’s hideout. That would be most unwise and dangerous for him as well as for all the rest of us. Slowly Parrel took off his boots and gave them to the rebel commander. I swear to God, Jose, I saw a tear, maybe two, actually fall from Parrel’s eyes and down both his cheeks. All the way back from the mountain hideout, Parrel limped and cut his soles on the rough trail. It was an agony for him." He stopped, laughed aloud and held his sides, barely controlling himself from rolling on the sala floor.

"Hò, o," said Professor Jose. "And after that and until now, unfortunate Parrel has been unfairly given the alias, ‘Commander Nuay Sapatos — Commander Without-Shoes.’"

"And yet we have the civil service always boasting about the fairness and security of the Government’s executive career program," said the adjuster Farol. "Which is supposed to look after the welfare of civil service people. Coño su nana! They don’t fool anyone. Look what happened to those who have been in government, 10, even 25 years? They are still were they began … at the bottom. Why? Because they’re Christians, not Moslems, who are given all privileges!"

A pitch in his voice nearly squeaked up his throat, as Professor Jose said: "Don’t those policy-makers in Malacañang Palace, to include President Marcos himself, know that if you give this much to a Moro," showing the cupped shell of his hand; "he will eventually take your whole arm! He will even cut it off if you don’t give the rest to him; that it is not kindness that will convince a Moro to give up his arms, but … a gun! Ah, I don’t understand the rationale and justice behind any of Marcos’s policies: the ‘policy of attraction,’ and the ‘policy of integration.’ They don’t make any sense at all, only increase corruption in all bureaucracies, particularly the military.

"What you have here is a vicious circle, a circle of evil and graft. For instance, ah, a Moro rebel surrenders — ah, no, our government does not want us to call it a ‘surrender’ … but to call it ‘returns to the folds of the law’: the height of hypocrisy. Pues, the Moro is given guns, money, concessions, et cetera, and when the rebel-returnee runs out of money and has sold his guns he goes back to the mountains, where he shoots down some soldiers, kidnaps Christians for ransom (rapes if a victim is young, beautiful woman, or even a grandmother, like the American mestiza from Basilan, Mrs. Smith); afterwards, when he tires of it all he surrenders again, and again is given guns, money, the same concessions, et cetera. Every time the Moro rebel-secessionist comes down the mountains, he, to quote an expression, ironically referring to such activities — ‘makes a killing.’ But the military do not discourage this for obvious reason: the military also ‘makes a killing.’ For every time a rebel surrenders, or what without batting an eye our roly-poly, fat-head information minister Cardeño calls ‘joining the folds of the law,’ the military has its share of guns, money, concessions, et cetera."

Professor Jose shook a hand and jabbed a finger into the air, and went on: "In fact, we know that if a high-ranking Moro rebel ‘surrenders,’ the military officer who negotiated the ‘surrender,’ ooops! ooops! … Somebody might be listening, excuse me, I mean, the MNLF rebel ‘returning to the folds of the law’ is soon seen grinning from ear to ear in the nightspots, an a-go-go dancer in his lap, or dining with his colleagues at the five-star Zamboanga Plaza or Bayot Hotel by the Sea, guzzling imported wines and State-side whiskey. What kind of concessions does our ‘brother Moslem’ get, you asks? No less than a logging concession, fishponds, you know; and, of course, our military officer gets a counterpart, a share of the concessions. Ah, do you remember Colonel Baco? But his is just ‘chicken’ compared to what General Rigor got when the MNLF Vice-chairman of Basilan island ‘came down from the hills.’ The General got two-thirds of whatever the Government gave the MNLF vice-chairman. That, or no peace negotiation would have been made; and the MNLF vice-chairman would have been left to rot in the mountains or bombed by General Rigor’s Southcom airplanes."

A cynical comparison was made with the balikbayan, or literally return-to-the-country, so-called, of Filipinos abroad, mostly from the great white country of the U.S.A., who come home for vacation. As a promotion gimmick of the Mystical Paradise society, showing that the Philippines is peaceful, and for the U.S. currency they bring into the country, the balikbayans are given these privileges: half-fare plane ticket, duty-free goods, and a hero’s welcome and entertainment by no less than our tourism head.

"In comparison, they have a name for those Moro-returnees who become rebels again," said the adjuster Farol from the city engineer’s office. "`Volve-monte’, or ‘back-to-the-mountain’ rebel-returnees."

"Hò, o," said Professor Jose. "And everybody is happy. The rebel-returnee is happy because he has guns, money, concessions for logging and fishponds … and women. And, on the other hand, the military people are also happy because they get guns, money, concessions, and women. Everybody is happy! Everybody but us, the poor civilians, the Christians. Ha-ha-ha."

A muffled voice from one of the three men was heard: "Hellooo, hellooo, hellooo."

A quick glance and knitted brows toward the correspondent Manglapat from the capital city of Manila, who had tweaked one side of his collar and was speaking into it, were directed.

Professor Jose said: "Coño vos nana! Manglapat, what are you doing?"

"I’m talking into a spy microphone, a ‘bug,’ concealed under my collar," the correspondent replied, feigning seriousness. "You both have just been reported for rumor-mongering. In a while, my friends, the Southcom chief himself, General Rigor, accompanied by the MIG’s Colonel Misa, the dreaded MSU, the Enlightened Dictator’s security police, will come to arrest the two of you, rumor-mongers, saboteurs." Unable to stop himself from laughing, onto the floor of the sala rolled the newspaper correspondent from Manila — both hands clasping his belly.

3.

Two days later Professor Jose was in Basilan Island to do research work on the Yakan culture. Since the funds came from General Rigor’s office, he was to submit a confidential report (attitudes, opinions, & beliefs) to Southcom Headquarters. He had no choice: spy for the General or scuttle his research on the Yakans. For funds for this Yakan research program, he would even strike a deal with the devil himself, he swore under his breath.

The mayor of Sumisip, a Yakan native, a rebel-returnee, sent his new official vehicle, a Renegade jeep, and two men to meet the Professor: his municipal administrator, a certain Caluang, and his personal bodyguard, in civilian clothes, Askal.

Being a rebel-returnee and through the "complacent" policy of the Mystical Paradise, the "policy of attraction and integration," the former Yakan rebel was appointed mayor of Sumisip. In the heart of Basilan island lay Sumisip municipality. Just as if in mockery, Sumisip was the selfsame town the mayor as a Moro rebel less than a year ago had struck with impunity and viciousness — murdering the Christian inhabitants and burning their farms and houses.

Since its founding in the late sixties, Professor Jose had been the vice-chairman of the Social Studies Research Center at the Western Mindanao State College in the city of Zamboanga. A native of that old pueblo, he, at 32, married to a woman from one of the old barrios of Zamboanga, and they had two children, both girls. An obscure American university was where he had obtained his doctorate in social science. It was immediately after his graduation that he came home and assumed the vice-chairmanship of the Center.

Accompanying Professor Jose to document Yakan folklore and an authentic Yakan wedding were two members of his staff: one, a photographer from the Center itself, who was called Rimban; and the other, a recorder, Canégra, a Yakan half-breed, in charge of the Center’s branch office in Basilan Island.

About an hour later, with a cloud of dust trailing behind the Renegade jeep on the gravel road, Professor Jose and the other men heard, some hills away, heavy Russian assault rifles, like the AK-47, cracking from the east.

"They are again shooting at angels," joked the photographer, Rimban.

"Ah, hó-o," said Professor Jose. "Pity God’s angels!"

"Those were M-16s and AK-47s," said Canégra, the recorder, knowledgeably. "Must be rebels greeting the military a good morning. You know, sir, that is what the MNLFs do every morning. They wake up the soldiers with gunfire."

"They’re not shooting in the air, Professor," said the municipal administrator of Sumisip, Caluang.

"How do you know?" said Professor Jose.

"It doesn’t have a long-drawn, echoing sound," said Caluang. "Short and quick: crack, crack, crak—like that. Maybe an encounter somewhere in Candiis municipality."

Later, when they rode into a military checkpoint in Candiis, a boyish-looking draftee stopped them. Dry, smooth face, with dark skin over arms and hands, the draftee was perhaps no more than 18. Like a worm the young boy looked in his drab, oversized Army uniform. Cradling an M-16 assault rifle in his arms, he asked: "Where are you going?"

"To Sumisip," answered the municipal administrator. "We have a visitor from the city of Zamboanga … a professor."

"And where’s the professor?" the young draftee squeezed his eyes, peering through the arc-opening of the Renegade jeep and tilting his M-16 toward its canvass-top.

"Professor Jose of the WMSC in the city of Zamboanga," said the municipal administrator Caluang.

"Does he have an ID?" said the boy-draftee.

Professor Jose showed him his State College identification card, smiling at the boy soldier, furrows lining his forehead.

The young draftee did not smile back, not even lifting his eyes from the ID card; he stared down at Jose’s ID, and then looked up to check the veracity of the picture: his unsmiling expressionless face raised suddenly revealed a matured man’s profile. Satisfied by the truthfulness of the ID, he returned it to the Professor. His face boyish again, he told them there had been an ambush; there ahead of the main road, not too long ago, and that they must take another route. Pointing to the other route, a dirt road spliced from the main gravel road, he waved them off without a word.

Faster and faster the Renegade jeep went now. From the jeep’s wheels, like an incessant roll of ribbons of clouds, vigorously unwound the clayey dust in terrific monotony. Soon the new route they had taken became a mere trail. They were always going under giant trees, through thick underbrush and talahib grass patches. Sometimes as far down the bottom of a precipice the jeep plunged; quite often they crossed rivers that luckily for them were shallow, since it was the dry season.

Rarely saying anything now were Professor Jose and the five other men in the Renegade. Each one was mulling in his own thoughts, the fear of being ambushed. Particularly aware and concerned were Professor Jose and the photographer Rimban, for both had been in the islands of Jolo and Tawi-Tawi during the worst time of the MNLF-Philippine Army fighting there. More than once the two had seen women and children, bathed and soaked in their own blood, slime-smelling, with deep, open gashes across face, stomach, arms, and legs. Out of the ashen-colored gash on their stomachs slipped strands of slimy curled intestines and guts. Obscenely from under the women’s waist cotton strings or garters, the slimy intestines and guts had bloated before bursting. Though dead not more than an hour, the wounds were already crawling with flies and gnats; the swarm of insects a dark blanket over the bodies. Hundreds of them, horrible, ugly hairy things. Onto the women’s and children’s slimy, blood-bathed flesh and ashen faces and mops of hair, the flies and gnats attached themselves, firmly: just like parasites.

By noon in a desolate, old settlement there came into view a market-building, and for the first time the clayey dust caught up with them. It swooped over past their Renegade jeep, and as they stopped abruptly the clayey dust overtook Renegade jeep in a lazy, almost arrogant, swirl. In the Yakan land, on the sandy floor and under the tropical summer sun, the old settlement broke bone-white and scab-like. But nowhere could Professor Jose see the mayor who promised to take them to Sumisip.

Then, since they started their trip from the poblacion of Isabela, Basilan Island, in the early hours of the morning, Professor Jose saw his first Yakans, sitting on bamboo-strip benches, about the market-building, or there under shady trees. Red, blue, and yellow-stripped turbans wound fast round their heads. Both the men and the women, he noticed,wore slanting tight trousers, with this difference: the men had bright tassels hanging from their waists down over their crotches and long bladed knives, or piras, by their hips.

From some Yakans in the shade in front of the market building, the municipal administrator Caluang asked in the native tongue if they had seen the mayor of Sumisip. An elderly, toothless Yakan, cheeks sunken, with a parrot’s beak for a mouth, told them that the mayor had gone to the American Rubber Plantation. Had the mayor left any message for them? Caluang asked. Said the elderly Yakan, No; the Mayor had left no message.

Snubbed and feeling belittled, these thoughts raced in Professor Jose’s mind: "I expected something like this before I left the city of Zamboanga a day ago. Haughty and depreciating treatment from you, Mayor. But you may ride in a brand-new P35,000 Renegade jeep bought by Christian money, be appointed mayor of the town by the Dictator Marcos who is ‘selling’ Mindanao to the infidel Moros,’ and yet you’ll always be just un Morito to me. Hò, o, even if you Moros are the first-class citizens of this oppressive, tyrannical government."

Photographer Rimban, weighed down by cameras and their accessories, was looking down an old building in the marketplace, and said, "I don’t know about you, sir, but may I suggest we eat first before proceeding to the plantation."

"Ah, yes, why not?" Professor Jose replied. "Some food in our stomach before we start again. I am sure the Mayor won’t mind, ah, if he is waiting for us. It is noontime already, anyway."

"Then let us eat first," agreed the municipal administrator, Caluang. He walked off toward the old building in the marketplace, which the Rimban’s eyes had not left. Askal, the bodyguard, took up half position some five paces by the old building before saying, "I think we can have some food here."

Built many years ago before the Dictator imposed martial law in the Philippines, the old, galvanized-roofed building had looked like an old wooden church, but now more like an old fortress. To discourage thieves or armed robbers, who roamed the villages before martial law, there were placed narrow and tall windows very high up on the walls, instead of normal height, and now served as rifle-turrets in case of an attack by either Moslem rebels or Christian soldiers.

They all sat at a long bamboo-split table. There were no chairs, but on either side of it stood bamboo benches of long, old bamboo poles bound together with rattan vines. On one end of the table were laid the Armalite assault rifles and .45 cal.- handgun, save for a .45-caliber firearm which never left the side of the bodyguard Askal. The municipal administrator, the Mayor’s bodyguard, and the recorder Canégra tucked a leg under their rumps, while Professor Jose and Rimban sat on the bamboo-pole bench.

Lunch was boiled rice wrapped in coconut-fronds, dried mudfish cooked in coconut milk, and camote-tops in vinegar. A basin of murky river water was on one side of the table for washing hands. (There were no spoons or forks. So, they used their bare hands as natives do.)

Noticing the rifles and pistols on the table, Professor Jose asked Askal, "I assume you have shot quite a few government soldiers with your Armalite? Your rifle looks very much used."

"Hò, o," said the bodyguard. He pointed to the notches in the butt of his M-16 assault rifle. "As many as those notches, Professor." He said he was the Mayor’s lieutenant when the Mayor was a MNLF rebel commander. When they were still "active," he shot many soldiers. Ambushing government soldiers was easy, he said, for they were dumb and stupid. What he and his comrades would do, said Askal, was to lie in wait for hours under coconut fronds, which they had earlier gathered into a pile between coconut trees. When a patrol came along, they would ambush it and kill all the soldiers.

In spite of himself, Professor Jose was awed at the Moro rebel’s ingenious strategy. He said, "That’s very clever, I mean, lying in wait underneath coconut fronds for the military patrol. Who would ever suspect that anyone was hiding underneath those piles of coconut fronds? So that’s why they couldn’t see you, not even if the government soldiers literally were on top of you."

"Hò, o. In some instances government soldiers passed by not a foot away without discovering us," said bodyguard Askal, smiling from ear to ear. "Many, many were draftees. Because the regular soldiers would send ahead the young boys to the front. So, they’d be the first to die, the young draftees."

"The pork-eating Army!" swore municipal administrator Caluang, suddenly.

"Hò, o," said the bodyguard, bitterly. "The pork-eating, unwashed-arsehole soldiers."

Afterwards, they all ate their lunch in silence.

After lunch Professor Jose and the others proceeded to the American Rubber Plantation. There were some men and women, in rugged garments, who stared at the new arrivals; but did not say anything. Behind the men and women were old abandoned buildings and structures, which before the war were storage for rubber bales and rubberstrip-drying. But the Mayor was nowhere in sight, and no one there wished to speak freely with them. "Perhaps the Mayor never came here," thought Professor Jose, gazing about the desolation and waste, and cursing the executive official under his breath. The next moment, he was urging everyone not to waste time there and to proceed to Sumisip without the Mayor to accompany them.

There was no trouble on the way, nor signs of government soldiers or MNLF rebels. They crossed some streams, but no river. The forest began to fade into patches of woods, and the hills rolled back behind them in a sort of somnolent twirling ribbon of dust. The mountain range northward was always in their sight, going parallel to it, and never directly toward it to climb its humpback. Half an hour later, all in the Renegade jeep, si, even the Mayor’s men, Caluang and Askal, inflamed with expectation; coming through the coconut trees, entered the town of Sumisip.

Part Two

1.

Suddenly, the restless and charged mood pervading their travel changed to a festive one. For, dressed in many colors, red, yellow, orange, and even ochre, was the town of Sumisip. Over the footpath hang welcome arcs, of bamboo and coconut fronds; multi-colored buntings were strung between coconut trees; and from trees or poles flew many flags. Very much obsessed were the Yakans about flags during festivities. About a dozen or so Yakan women were out in the yard, smiling and welcoming the visitors to their town. Wearing billowy white bloomers over their slanting tight trousers, they looked like grownups in doll’s dresses. To one who has never seen Yakan women before, the women will appear ludicrous to them, especially when one notices their baggy trouser-seats that are just like the men’s. Maybe they never washed their trousers, for how could anyone take them off without tearing them? Professor Jose suppressed a giggle about to escape his lips. Next, on the yard before a big, rectangular-shaped, thatched house of a shaman, or religious leader, a multitude of bustling children, some naked and others in rags, drew his attention. They were everywhere, running here and there, peeping into the camera box and gawking at the cassette tape-recorder; they were like ants all busy on dead tree-trunks they were. Under the coconut trees in a lot not far off the shaman’s house, the Yakan musicians beat on their brass musical instruments, the agong and the kulintang. From the brass instruments came rhythmical but barbaric sounds, reverberating to the ends and corners of Sumisip. Aside from the documentation of a Yakan wedding on the following day, Professor Jose realized he had everything here: songs, ballads, rituals, and dances. Happy, very happy indeed was Professor Jose.

At this moment, Shaman Gamutang, for that was what the religious leader was called, greeted Professor Jose: "Assalam walaikum."

Recalling quickly the Moro answer to such a greeting, Professor Jose answered:

"Wasalam, religious one."

Professor Jose did not bow and touch his breast, as was the greeting-custom among Islam believers. That would be carrying it too far, he thought. Though Shaman Gamutang noticed the absence of the customary Moslem response, he did not retract his smile. As the Shaman’s thick, bulbous lips parted, there came to the Professor’s sight two rows of darkish red, betel-nut stained teeth.

Soon after they began the documentation. While Professor Jose and the half-breed Canégra recorded ballads and folktales, Rimban took pictures of the shaman, his mascada brass container and beautiful carpets from Moslem countries, the musicians and their agongs and kulintangs, and a war dance in which Yakan warriors shook their spears and rattled wooden shields at imaginary foes. Once, during his documentation, Professor Jose went back to the Shaman’s house to look at the buyugan and the carpets. Exceptionally beautiful and grand, with the softest and smoothest fur picturing dewy meadows and brilliant sunlight, one particular carpet Professor Jose secretly envied and wished he owned. Though he knew it was impossible, how he wished the grand carpet would be given to him, and the old buyugan, too. Such a desire he told the recorder, transmitting it in a tone a child uses when he knows his ever having such beautiful things were beyond even his wildest dreams.

Just as the documentation was going well, maybe for three hours or so, the Yakans silently and mysteriously started to sneak out and leave the site. In minutes the yard was almost empty, save for old women and some children, who seemed to have been left behind. Right away, accompanied by the half-breed Canégra, he sought the Mayor, and when he found him, very much later, he asked, "Why did the Yakans leave? We were still busy documenting, Mayor. I don’t understand why they left. Surely, none of my men had, even unintentionally, offended them."

"No-no, Professor," said the Mayor. "But we received reports that government soldiers are just outside the village. They’re not far from here. On the crest of a hill overlooking Sumisip, four-five soldiers were seen by our people. There are, of course more, more who were not seen."

"But what could be their intention?" asked Professor Jose. "There are no rebel forces here, no MNLFs, only women and children. And old men, like the Shaman."

To this the Mayor replied: "It makes no difference, Professor Jose. The government soldiers want vengeance. From experience, this we know very well. Vengeance for the death of their comrades in the ambush in Candiis early this morning." His voice rose shrill; hatred, old hatred returned to his slit eyes. "These are the special forces of the Presidential Troopers, who have no mercy. In many instances, while I was still in the mountains, I had fought them. They’ll kill women and children and old men; just anyone. To them all Moros are their enemies — even a child suckling its mother’s breast still! … They’ll not rest until they have their vengeance!"

No recording, no picture-taking anymore. Especially the documentation of the Yakan wedding. Why did it have to happen now! First, Professor Jose told himself, it was always difficult and risky to come here to the island of Basilan. But he had suffered the hardships and taken the risk to be here. He wished he were wrong. But never, never could he trust a Moro or a Yakan; the latter whether pagan still or converted to Islam already: it did not make any difference. Deceiving him, lying to him was what the Mayor was doing. Really the Morito of a Mayor had never meant to help him. However, against his judgment, he had placed his trust on the Mayor. That was clearly his mistake, but did he have any choice? Without the Mayor to speak for him, interpret the culture, and assure their security and safety in this primitive Yakan land, Professor Jose was helpless, his research unachievable.

Now with the Ngcomb wedding documentation out, all that was left to do was the recording of a folktale, a good one if he was lucky, that afternoon. Then they would pack up their things and leave the following day. And so, on their way to the Datu’s house, Professor Jose sidled to the recorder and asked, "Canégra, what’s the matter with the Mayor? Did he not promise us assistance for our documentation here, and especially the Yakan wedding in Ngcomb? He wouldn’t even come with us to the Datu’s place. And what happened earlier this afternoon? Suddenly, nobody was cooperating and the Yakans all left, save the old folks and the very young, who were probably abandoned by their mothers … many stealing away."

Narrow and winding, the footpath went along the coconut lot. In places where it went up a slope or through a meadow, the footpath often completely disappeared. The recorder walked a little behind Professor Jose, who, without looking back, continued:

"I don’t believe what he told me, Canégra, that the Presidential Troopers were out for vengeance and had positioned themselves on the hills around Sumisip. He just said that to give himself an alibi, an excuse for not keeping his word and assisting us. Who does he think he is fooling?"

On the footpath he picked his way carefully so as not to stumble or trip. His hands and arms swayed and wrung in the air as he said, "My God, I won’t be here if he had not agreed to help us. Am I crazy, Canégra? Only one who is crazy would come here with a Morito of a Mayor’s promise and assurance of assistance and protection."

Up on the face of a slope and down the arm of a second hill, the two went on. All the time they talked, while a few meters behind Rimban gazed here and there for natural subjects and awe-inspiring landscape, clicking his camera.

"He told you his reason, sir," said the recorder, "but kept the real reason from you to himself. He did not tell you the real reason why he would not come with us to the Datu or to Ngcomb."

"And what, Canégra, is his real reason."

With a tone of volunteerism not unmixed with conspiracy, the half-breed said, The Yakans here, Professor Jose, don’t recognize the Mayor as their real leader. President Marcos appointed the Mayor, which is true. But the real leader of the Yakans must be chosen by Shaman Gamutang and the Council of Elders led by the Datu. You may not believe it, Professor, but the Yakans here still perform ancient rituals." From his chest to his throat rose embarrassed laughter, and he continued, "Offerings are made (before it was a human sacrifice) and festivities observed for many, many days. Without these rituals and festivities, there is no chosen leader. And what is more, Professor, the Yakans here have not forgotten that the Mayor’s appointment is actually a ‘reward’ for his ‘return to the folds of the law.’ That the Mayor became a rebel-returnee in exchange for guns, fishing boats, money, and a brand-new Renegade jeep. O, yes, the same one we rode coming here today. It was General Rigor himself, the Little President, who hand-carried his appointment as Mayor of Sumisip. The Mayor is just tolerated here, Professor, by Shaman Gamutang and the Council of Elders. They do not wish to quarrel with the government."

Agile and quick steps swished on the path on either side of which twigs and grass grew, and half-breed Canégra continued, "Before this MNLF trouble, the Mayor was a converted Christian; even joined the Knight of Columbus. I believe, Professor Jose, I told you about this before … in my report. Like me who am a Yakan but baptized as a Christian, though I’m only half-Yakan, while the Mayor is pure Yakan, both his parents being Yakans."

Now the three entered a clearing. A chicken coop of bamboo slats and nipa-roofing was on their right. Inside the coop, several hens were scratching for worms. Nearby lifting his head and cackling was a grand rooster with regal, and elaborately-serrated, red crest.

Beyond, on a clear lot bordered by coconut trees at the back and with not a blade of grass on the hard dirt floor was the Datu’s nipa-thatched, wooden house. Said Professor Jose, "The Mayor is a Moro again, since it’s more practical and profitable now. What a hypocrite! Changing one’s god only for convenience."

"Not all Yakans are like him, though," said the recorder Canégra. "Like the old ones here. Without the traditional rituals and festivities the Mayor cannot be the accepted leader. There are some Yakans here who told me that the Mayor is just an opportunist."

Having quickened his steps when they came near the Datu’s home, the photographer caught up with Professor Jose and Canégra. Just before the three entered the fringes of the clear lot, and Rimban having overheard the latter part of the conversation said: "Canégra is right, Professor. While I was taking pictures I overheard some Yakans say they wouldn’t just follow whatever the Mayor says but first they would consult either the Shaman or the Datu. It looks as if not all of them have indeed accepted him as their leader, though he has been appointed mayor by the General."

Vexed by the photographer’s unsolicited opinion but without showing it, Professor Jose said: "They are all the same, Rimban. Yakans are opportunists and cannot be trusted. They’re more treacherous than the Tausugs of Jolo. You wait and see. You will find out I’m right. Don’t just take pictures, hah, but also observe them, their custom, di ìla costumbre."

Climbing up the ladder of the house, Rimban and Canégra went ahead of Professor Jose, who, taking care not to slip on the bamboo-pole, placed the insteps of his feet upon the nodes of the bamboo-pole ladder, and made snail-slow progress going up. On entering the house his eyes right away fell upon the Datu sitting in the middle of the room, facing the door.

The Datu was about sixty, bald, and had sharp features. His skin was fair, nose high and slender, and quite noticeable were his eyes, which were as blue as the sea. With legs drawn underneath his haunches, chest wide and hard like an anvil, the Datu sat upright upon a thick carpet. On his left was his wife, of astonishing beauty. Set in front of him on the floor were three pillows, delicately hand-embroidered by Yakan women. Distributed on these pillows, for guests, were a porcelain bowl, two plates of crispy, fried pounded rice, or locot-locot, and pañalam, which are hot cakes to you, and three tiny cups of steaming, native ground coffee. (The story goes that Yakans brew as strong a cup of coffee as the Tausugs, so strong that one’s teaspoon would float in the cup.)

Professor Jose and his companions and those in the house formed a semi-circle on a lowered floor round the Datu. Drawing their legs underneath their haunches, imitating the Datu, Professor Jose and Rimban and Canégra squatted on the floor. After the three had eaten and were full, though Professor Jose’s coffee cup were left half-full still, the Datu, knowing the purpose of the Professor’s visit, began his tale:

ÿ

Abruptly, as a gust of wind that had spent itself, the Datu stopped, his chin proudly jutting out. Squatting on the beautiful carpet, he, on his fat haunches, rocked himself. On either side of Professor Jose, the recorder and photographer nodded their heads; in need to mask their apprehension, Rimban and Canégra jerked their heads ardently, and their movements so exaggerated, their heads seemed about to fall from the end of their neck. Apprehensive and suspicious himself, the Professor, quieting his nerves, told the Datu what he had not in truth felt, that he had enjoyed the tale very much.

"I am happy you like the tale of the ‘footprints without toe-marks’," said the Datu. "I have many, many more tales. But this is my favorite for new guests. But tell me, why did you like my tale?"

Professor Jose was unable to completely hide his surprise at the Datu’s direct question, and shifted his gaze, here and there, saying the first thing that he thought would please the other, "Because the Datu narrated his tale to us so well; you are a master story-teller, Datu."

"l am very thankful to the Professor," replied the Datu. "He has given me too much credit. But, with due respect, sir, I must tell him I don’t agree. Tell me, Professor, does not the beauty of a tale lie in the message it tells? And not in the way it is told?"

More than anytime before, Professor Jose felt frightened. Pressed and cramped under his haunches were his legs, their knees twisted up, feet bent at the ankle, which having stayed immobile for some time had gone to sleep. To relieve the cramps, he stretched his stiff legs on the floor, waking them.

"Of course, Datu," he said.

Aloud for all to hear, the Datu said, "You express two opinions then, a moment ago you had only one. Now you understand, Professor, why it is difficult for us to understand you Christians."

Blushing, ripe tomato-red in the face, Professor Jose said nothing. He did not look look at the Datu, instead sipped at his half-full cup of coffee, which was then quite cold already.

With wide-open eyes mocking, the Datu directed his gaze at Professor Jose. Then, slipping the tip of his tongue along between his lips, he said, "Do you know what is the message?"

A frontal confrontation was what Professor Jose feared most now. Further stretching his stiff legs on the floor, he set the half empty cup of coffee down and, holding himself up, said hesitatingly, "I have an idea of its meaning. But it will be an honor if the Datu, a wise man, tells us himself."

"No-no," said the Datu abruptly, almost grinning. "I won’t tell you." Above his wide chest his chin was raised still, and his head set firmly on the end of his sinewy, stubby neck. "For that will spoil the beauty of the tale. But I will give you a hint, which will depend on how you answer this question. Do you believe in tales?"

"Of course, Datu, I do …"

"I, too, believe in them," said the Datu with a finality and promptness that led Professor Jose to guess that the hint was in the tale itself, and its message.

Thus, Professor Jose, thinking that warning had just been made, did not say anything again, but lifted his saucer, which shook in his hand, rattling noticeably he half-empty cup of coffee. He became aware that the Datu was watching him keenly, his lips tight and bloodless.

Later, on their way back to their host’s house, Professor Jose could no longer suppress his feelings. "The devil of an ignorant savage," he said to his staff. "He was ridiculing me before his wife and household people on purpose!"

Since the Datu was an ignorant Yakan, said Rimban, he probably did not know he was ridiculing the Professor.

"Ooo—no; not that sly, pristine savage! Did you see him sneer, Rimban, at us?"

It was unfortunate he was too scared to notice, said the photographer. But he felt something was wrong.

"Something wrong?" said Professor Jose. In his mind he swore at the photographer, Idiot! Cabeza de cabrito! "You know, Rimban, the Datu did not have to look farther than his own long nose," he went on. "Under them he can see the right people to ridicule. There are himself, Shaman Gamutang, and all the betel-nut chewing, mascada-spitting Yakans. You look at them…. Are they not the ones who are ridiculous, in their tight-fitting trousers but baggy round their behinds, their legs like sausages? To top it all, just as if to call attention to their big testicles, grande cojones, colorful tassles hang from their crotches! You call that your native costume!"

On the gravel road, under the coconut trees, only Professor Jose and Rimban and the recorder were walking. There was no else on the gravel road. At the end of it was the footpath, ahead on the incline of the coconut lot was another footpath, much, much narrower than the first. Guided by half-breed Canégra, they took this footpath leading to the house where they would stay the night.

As they turned to the narrower footpath, the space between coconut trees became wider, and more and more scrubs and thickets along their way.

"And how about their mayor, the ex-rebel commander?" Professor Jose said vehemently. "The Datu should laugh, ridicule him. Because, as we know, for an appointment as mayor, for guns, money, and a Renegade jeep, the Mayor joined the government and betrayed them. And I can now smell something fishy about the funds for the resettlement site, too; I’m not just very sure yet. Coño vos nana!" And aloud to himself, he added: "And this General Rigor will surely know ... in my ‘AOBs’ report."

Just then gunfire and automatic rifles were heard over on the hills, and for some two-three minutes the cracking of guns echoed and reverberated. Quickly, down the narrow footpath and past the scrubs the three of them went, not one looking back. And, finally, through the coconut trees came in sight the their host’s house.

2.

The next morning in the sala, a staccato of laughter, mixed with suppressed voices, and swishing of slippered feet, woke Professor Jose up. As he sat on the mat, wondering what was funny, the recorder Canégra, the Mayor, the municipal administrator Caluang, and the bodyguard Askal, folded their arms across their stomachs then threw their heads back and again roared with laughter. Standing on one side of the charred-wick smelling room, Rimban wore a bemused expression in his face, but no laughter ensued from him. Though still shirtless, Caluang and Askal already had slung their .45 cal-handgun round their waists. By the door, against its jamb, their tall host stood, tall and lean. On his face, as he alternately held back and released his laughter, white and red hue pulsed successively, and thick veins mounted on each temple. Once in a while, both his cheeks bloated and looked as if any time they would burst. Only one in the sala was neither laughing nor bemused. Barefooted, with jet black hair pulled back from her narrow brow and knotted in tresses in the back of her head, moon-faced, the young girl, maybe seventeen, was silent and seemingly unaffected by it all. She was one of the four wives of the host and the youngest, the first wife old enough to be her mother. Wrapped round her very small waist was a printed malong. The smallness of her waist gave her chest the appearance it was all breasts, and her rump more round and shapely. However, all eyes were full on Professor Jose. Why were they laughing at him? he wondered.

A couple of minutes passed before anyone stopped laughing and explained to Professor Jose: when the men went to sleep, they told the Professor, the host’s youngest wife forgot to put out the oil lamp. On the table, in the center of the sala, all night long the lamp had burnt. From its dark, charcoal-crisp wick continuously had risen a black ribbon of smoke, saturating the room with soot. And the more hours went by, the more soot-saturated became the sala. Since all the windows were barred to be safe from rebels or soldiers, the dark smoke could not escape and the closed room became more and more full of soot. So, that whole night to maybe an hour before dawn, when the host’s wives opened the barred windows and made coffee and prepared breakfast, nowhere the dark smoke could go but to settle down on the exposed faces of the men. Onto their hair, brows, eyelids, eyebrows, the soot settled, blackening them; no matter where the men lay, in a far corner or beside the table upon which the lamp was set, the soot entered their nostrils and ears.

An oily soot-smear appearing on his forefinger after Professor Jose had drawn it down one cheek confirmed this. Indeed, his whole face was blackened and smudged with soot. A late-waker, the Professor had not yet washed his face, while the others had already finished their toilet. Earlier, all of the men had sooty, blackened faces, and gleaming white teeth when they spoke or smile, and like Negroes their wide eyes had popped out like golf balls. Several times the youngest wife repeated how she was to be blamed, but no one minded her. So engrossed were the men with laughing at themselves. Satisfied and assured the men were not angry with her, she started rolling the mats on the floor of the sala, and pushed them back against the wall.

Breakfast was boiled rice and dried fish boiled in sotanghon rice noodles. A poor man’s meal. Good only as fodder for animals and pigs! Fried eggs, sausages, strips of crispy bacon, fish fillet, and ham, the Mayor could very well afford to have on the table. If it was his way of showing them he was not pocketing government money for the resettlement area in Sumisip, the Mayor certainly had underestimated Professor Jose. Whom was he trying to fool? The weeks before Professor Jose arrived in Basilan Island General Rigor had released over P200,000 to the Mayor. Three months before, the initial fund, a quarter of a million pesos, for phase I of the resettlement area program here, was released. The hilly left bank of the old village would be bulldozed and leveled down, and from it would rise a town, with uniform houses, a water system, and electricity. Former Moro rebel-secessionists and Yakan natives would live there. Right away after the resettlement fund was released for phase I, a makeshift building was put up by the Yakans near the project site put up. This was the processing office. Since then hundreds of former Moro rebels and Yakans were processed, and a list was made for those qualified to own houses there. Professor Jose knew about this. The recorder was there under the bare, hot, G.I. sheet roof helping process the papers, and he had sent Professor Jose his reports — plus a confidential AOBs ("attitudes, opinions, & beliefs") folder implying malversation. Now, three months later, he asked himself, not daring to ask the Mayor in his own territory: Where are the houses? And the sewer pipes for water? The electric engine and electrical posts for the electricity of the resettlement site? A few felled trees and rolling dirt of a mere hectare out of 10 hectares to be bulldozed were the grim evidence that the funds had surely been pocketed by the Mayor.

"Now he serves us pig’s fodder," thought Professor Jose, "to let us see that he is honest. That he has not taken advantage of his position. He is trying to say this too, that he would eat dried fish where there is abundant fish here in the rivers … rather than touch a single centavo of the money. Does he think we’re ignorant like his Yakans? —Pendejo!" he swore.

If the Mayor was not too busy robbing his own people, thus had their respect, the Shaman’s and the Datu’s, instead of their scoffing, and had not become vain and haughty — Professor Jose and his staff would be leaving for Ngcomb early that morning.

Said Professor Jose: "It’s unfortunate … ah, a big disappointment, Mayor, that we won’t be able to document an authentic pagan Yakan wedding of your own people. And if you think that is, ah, the main reason why my staff and I came here in spite of the risk and danger from both the Moro rebels and the government soldiers … ah, it becomes very, very frustrating."

Both Rimban and the half-breed Canégra nodded in agreement. Riveting his eyes at the Mayor’s face, his voice cold and coarse, for he felt he had been abused, Professor Jose continued:"You know what it means to your people. The preservation of your culture and tradition is very important now, since this senseless war is destroying them. This may be the last time anyone will have the chance to document thoroughly an authentic, pagan Yakan wedding at its original place."

However, unknown to the Professor, since dusk the day before, the Mayor knew they could go to Ngcomb. There was no immediate need, no urgency to tell Professor Jose, the Mayor reasoned — so he kept it to himself. Revealing it as a surprise to the Professor and the others would not only give him satisfaction, he believed it also would raise his stature in their eyes. He needed respect, dignity. But this did not mean there was no danger in the trip. Though the government soldiers were not seen again in the late afternoon, his experience as a foreign-trained rebel commander told him this was when one must be more cautious and careful. The unseen enemy is the most dangerous, and did he not know this, he reminded himself.

At all costs, he must not disappoint Professor Jose, the Mayor was thinking.

As head of the research team of the Southwestern Regional Office for Development, a civilian complement to what could have been an all-military affair, which overseered the processing of rebel-returnees for their rehabilitation and integration into Philippine society and Dictator Marcos’s Mystical Paradise —— Professor Jose could delay the release of the rest of the funds, still forthcoming, for the Sumisip resettlement site. All he had to do was plant suspicion on the resettlement project here, that would be enough.

"Please him as much as it’s possible," the Mayor told himself quietly at the breakfast table. "Never make him angry is what I should do."

To rebuff Professor Jose, not meeting him personally yesterday, was a grievous mistake. Hatred for Christian pigs and distrust of them in which he had been raised and reared, just like other Yakans, or Moros, got the better of his judgment. Indeed, he was pleased yesterday about the presence of the government soldiers on the hills. This had given him an excuse not to go to Ngcomb, covering up his not having previously arranged a schedule for the documentation of the Yakan wedding. But he must correct the bad impression he made yesterday morning, for curiosity and suspicion must never, never be drawn to the project here. Before you knew it, the press people would be swarming all over, poking their noses. More money in envelopes, or what he, with a sneer, accepted cynically was called "developmental envelopes," to shut them up. Very angry and furious the General would be, and he would say to him: "Did I not tell you, whatever you do, never bring attention or suspicion to the rehabilitation and resettlement project? Or I’ll cut you off, and give it to somebody who knows how to keep it quiet." He would have to pretend to be nice and cooperative with the Professor who should have only good words about him when he left Sumisip. Absolutely there must not be any criticism against him that would bring attention to the unaccomplished resettlement for his former men and Yakans.

Kiss the foot of this nuisance of an unwashed arsehole of a Christian! The Mayor would not lose everything because of the distrust, hatred he, as a Yakan, bore even in childhood against the Christians. Swallow it he would, and adapt himself to the Christians’ strange ways. Had the Mayor not done this before the revolution? When the Mayor became a Christian, even joining its secret society, the Knights of Columbus? — Allah is great!

The Mayor told himself that the danger was not really that serious. The Presidential Troopers only suspected that the MNLFs who ambushed them might be hiding in Ngcomb. He had only exaggerated the rumor yesterday for his own purpose, aggravating it to discourage Professor Jose. Moreover, traditionally, the Yakans were cautious in their dealings with the Tausugs, who, once upon a time, enslaved many of them and conducted piracy raids in their villages. And so, on the other hand, the headman there had many firearms, thousands of rounds of ammunition, and M-79 grenade launchers, and two .60-cal. machine guns. So strategically located was Ngcomb, and to enter the sitio at the top of the mountain there was only one way: through a trail seldom trodden along the woods that opened into a savanna, on which intruders become easy targets even by the poorest marksman.

A flicker of outgoing boast, mingled with cynicism, lit the Mayor’s otherwise dull eyes under thick eyebrows. Gorging down his meal with bare hands, sticky with boiled rice grains, and taking into sight the others from one end of the table, he said: "We won’t miss that! I have made new arrangements; the headman of Ngcomb will be waiting for us."

Surprised, almost stunned in disbelief, Professor Jose shook his head and dropped his jaw. "Very good, Mayor," he said, incredible; even before he had completely composed himself. "I’m very happy you have been able to fix it. And the government soldiers? They are gone, are they not? I told you those were just rumors. They were just soldiers passing by, if it’s true the Yakans here or in Ngcomb saw some soldiers."

"I’m sure the Yakans were not mistaken," the Mayor said, rather calmly. He was firm about his new resolution not to ruffle a single hair on the Professor’s head. "But the headman there will protect us. We should then start to get ready for our trip."

Por fin, Professor Jose would be able to document the Yakan wedding. As he gulped down his black coffee fast, its residue rasped his throat, and he coughed to clear it. Aloud, he called his recorder and photographer: "Ah, Canégra, look for the things we’ve to bring. You, too, Rimban. Don’t forget to bring film for slides, too. And the cassette tape-recorder, Canégra. Check if our batteries are all right. And if we have reserved batteries."

Right away, screeching of chairs and clanging of plates filled the room, as Professor Jose and the others stood up to prepare for the long trip to Ngcomb.

PART III

1.

Having abandoned their Renegade jeep along the main road, Professor Jose and the men had taken the trail and gone over four kilometers when, after the fringe of the savanna, Ngcomb sitio on top of a mountain came into sight. It was almost noontime. Hurriedly, they crossed the savanna and its open field; Professor Jose and the Mayor, flanked by Askal and a pair of extra bodyguards, walked in front of three other companions: Caluang, Rimban, and Canégra. Only scrubs and stunted thickets marred the open field, and Ngcomb from the mountaintop glared down at them as fierce as the midday sun; Professor Jose thinking, Indeed, any fool soldiers besieging Ngcomb are easy targets and will be completely stopped before reaching halfway across the open field. Minutes passed in sun-baked space, and harried limbs although moving quickly were drawn into an unending haze. More minutes, quickening of limbs, and sun scorching down upon them; but finally, amid a flurry of activities and air of festiveness, was Ngcomb.

Totally different from Sumisip was the Yakan sitio. Here and there Yakans were all in their colorful native attires, professing neither Islam nor Christian faith but their belief in pagan gods and in the diwata. Everyone was armed: the men with automatic rifles and long-bladed piras as they casually walked about the site of the festivities; the women with M-16 even as they cooked food in big pots, or calderos, in an open, nipa-thatched dirty kitchen; and young boys, too, no more than 14 or 15, lugging World War II-vintage rifles, long and slim, that reached half a foot over their heads. Always, all kinds of traditional bladed weapons, piras, kris, and barungs, were seen hanging even more casually from the Yakan warriors’ waists, while in their hands were clutched their long metal-tipped rattan spears. A thick circular strip of five or six meters long, multi-colored, hand-woven cloth was wrapped around their bellies, looking like lifesaver-tube, called saputangan, indigenous to the Yakan tribe. This was worn to protect the warrior’s vulnerable soft belly from traditional bladed weapons.

Sandbags, two-three feet high, ran straight post to post of the nipa-thatched houses, and deep trenches were dug behind the sandbags. In the sitio on one part of the mountaintop, to the east, and along the edge of the cliff, about a dozen such houses stood. To all appearance, therefore, the sitio of Ngcomb was an impregnable fort.

A little way right of the dirty kitchen, smoke rising, curly, off the center of the clearing, a hurriedly-built unenclosed structure of mainly bamboo sat on a patch of ground, recently cleared. Woven coconut fronds covered as its roof, and for its trusses and posts, saplings and round-woods from the nearby woody forest were used; these latter materials had brought up, by carabao-drawn carts, to the mountaintop just a week before. Some 10 long bamboo-split tables were placed in two rows in the unenclosed structure. On opposite sides were benches made of either small bamboo or wood poles, strips of rattan vines binding them together. Young and elderly women always kept the bamboo-split tables decked with dishes, from lechon (roasted pig), to chicken curry, stewed goats meat, all sorts of dishes, and honey-sweetened biscuits and cookies. Quickly, empty plates were taken away and replaced with steaming-hot dishes, by harried young girls or elderly women. And empty seats of departed guests who had partaken of the food were filled again just as quickly. Bustling and noisy, into and out of the unenclosed structure, the guests came.

Loud talk and laughter reigned after lunch. The Mayor took the opportunity to make up with Professor Jose, he looking happy as a child. Sitting on the long wood pole-bench, a leg drawn underneath his rump, the Mayor began a description of the Yakans of Ngcomb:

"The Yakans here have preserved their culture and tradition. It is true, Professor. Except for those that have retreated to the dark forest, fleeing the Tausugs and the Christian intruders, the Yakan of Ngcomb is the only tribe here still worshipping anitos and diwatas like their forefathers before them. They are neither believers of Allah, as you may have noticed, nor of the Christian God."

Judging from the Mayor’s expression he was enjoying the attention of the others, his pride as a Yakan swelled. A strong bass tone his voice suddenly acquired as he spoke, smooth chin jutting, on his left cheek a birthmark smudge barely distinct and with the right tilt in his voice he continued:

"Do you see those creepers and thick rattan vines, Professor? And down there the undergrowth in the forest around this mountaintop? Well, all of it provides a natural defense from bandits, the Lost Command, and kept away government troops at the height of the MNLF rebellion for secession. Unconquered and untractable, the Yakans here have remained to this day. Those rattan vines that you see are interwoven so thick between giant trees that they create a giant wall, or to be more precise … a net."

The Mayor consciously paused for better effect, and, satisfied that all attention was on him, he continued:

"And so, during the trouble about a year ago, the government, suspecting the MNLFs were hiding here used World War II aeroplanes, locally called Tora-Tora and old Jets the Americans used during the Korean campaign yet, and Navy ships to bombard and shell Ngcomb. This suspicion, in fact, was not true, since at that time all of us had retreated into the ‘triangle’ (these are the municipalities of Candiis, Sumisip, and Tipo-Tipo), so called for drawing a line tangent to each municipality forms a triangle, as you probably know already, Professor. But when the cannon shells and bombs fell they were caught in the naturally woven rattan net, harmlessly, believe it or not. For the creepers and rattan vines are not only giant nets, catching bombs and cannon shells like birds in a net, but they too are like girders. Because when the shells or bombs directly hit a tree and cut it in two, cccrrraaakkk, the tree doesn’t fall or crash to the ground, standing there just as straight and tall as before. It is the rattan vines, strong and sturdy, that hold the tree up. Ay, the forest around us is an impenetrable wall."

Craning his neck to one side of his shoulder, the Mayor gazed down at the forest. When once again he turned to them, a captive audience, with an expression seen only in common folk whose curiosity has been amply satisfied, he said:

"You cannot see from here the thick undergrowth of the forest. Even wild boars, still plentiful there, cannot go through them without making a sound and getting entangled inside. Some boars even die of starvation, when they cannot free themselves. But I’m telling you that the Yakans here can crawl through the undergrowth, bushes, web of vines, without making a ripple and sound. Ha, incredible! Ay, even the fierce Tausugs of Jolo cannot excel this ability. Well, this thick undergrowth is used by the Yakans as hideout, retreat, where they can crawl in as if it were a tunnel, and hide there from their enemies. And so, Professor Jose, because of this impenetrable forest-wall, thick undergrowth, the Yakans of Ngcomb have kept away the Christians, the government soldiers, and even the Moslems."

"Is there, really, no way? Only through the trail and then into the open savanna before it?"

"Treachery," said the Mayor, recalling that while training abroad in Malaysia, a Moslem-dominated country across the sea, his training officer told them, the so-called "Group 120," composed of trainees from Jolo and Basilan, that even the ablest generals had succumbed to treachery. "Except, Professor, by treachery … of course."

Soon after, the documentation of songs, dances, and rituals by the cassette tape-recorder and still camera began. About half past three in the afternoon, the photographer and the recorder, beads of sweat pouring from their brows, their shirts sticking to their backs, finished recording and taking pictures. About half a dozen Yakans were interviewed by Professor Jose, but still the groom had not arrived; he had been expected an hour before.

If the groom came, Professor Jose imagined he would be on horseback, with white dots on the light red mascara on his face, a man or two waving big flags, or pan-ji, and young boys carrying tipas-tipas, or small flags, in front—just like in stories he had heard from old folks. Beside the groom would be a woman, usually a sister, or a close female relative, holding an umbrella over his head or a flat broad-rimmed tray full of fried rice-rolls, bamboo sticks sticking out as in a pin cushion, at the ends of which were differently shaped, colored biscuits and empty red-green-yellow egg shells, blossoming like wild flowers. A little ahead of the flag-waving men and boys, a musician-hawker beating an agong would announce, with much flair, the arrival of the groom.

Meanwhile, in an isolated house, bustling with women of all ages and sizes, coming and going, the bride, face under a white mascara, with her lady-escorts, would be silently waiting under a colorful canopy with fringes and tassels.

Still waiting for the groom were Professor Jose, his staff of two, and the Mayor and his party. For until Professor Jose had recorded the Yakan wedding, in film and tape recorder, his work here was not done. A half hour more was given to wait for the arrival of the groom; otherwise, it would be too dangerous to stay; no one would advise being caught by the night in Ngcomb. After dusk the cool air coming from around the mountains would blow over the sitio, rustling the loose nipa-shingles, and very soon after the dark would come, creeping quickly behind it; then faint light from oil lamps would flicker from windows remaining open but not for long. Then Ngcomb and the other sitios and the "triangle" — Candiis, Tipo-Tipo, and Sumisip, would be thrown in darkness, and they would be in no-man’s land. Outlaws, bandits, and the Lost Command, deserters from the government army, scoured the land, preying on the helpless.

Thus, after the half-hour had passed, the groom still not in sight, Professor Jose, the Mayor, and the others stammered their apologies and good-byes to the headman; then they left Ngcomb the same way they came in.

When they arrived in Sumisip, a blanket of fog was settling over the mountainsides and meadows before the swamp, the nipa-an, behind the municipality. This was a sign, the old folks said, that the coming night would be dark, starless, but the sky would shed no tears. Thirsty and dry the land of the Yakan would remain that night: summer, having just come in, was not eager to leave.

2.

Only one more thing to do before their departure the following day, which was not previously in the Professor’s schedule, the one which had been so meticulously prepared by him in the city of Zamboanga. Thus, the photographer, with his camera and utility box in his lap; the recorder, the cassette tape-recorder slung over a shoulder; the Professor, and others were sitting around, all ready to go, waiting for the Mayor to say they could start now for the Shaman’s place. From the kitchen the youngest wife brought a pair of oil lamps into the sala, placing one on a small table and the other on a receptacle attached to one of the trunk-posts.

But about this time there was a knock on the door, and a voice came after the rapping, identifying itself as one of the Mayor’s followers. The wooden bar of the door was slid off its hook, making a dull, scraping sound, and the Mayor disappeared into the porch. Through the crack in the door, whispers, interposed with a tremulous note, sometimes an accent punctuating it in disbelief, seeped into the sala. Suddenly, the whispers stopped, the voices fell. Then soft-padded footsteps only bare feet make went down the wooden steps. All at once, the footsteps gone, the Mayor reappeared in the sala, in the dim light a sickly pallor frozen in his face, and with a quavering voice, its trembling he could not conceal, he announced:

"I have bad news: there was a massacre in Ngcomb … after we left. The groom, the headman’s three sons, warriors, and many women and children, were shot and killed, or torn to pieces by grenades. Ay, so was the bride, her ladies in-waiting, all raped before they were shot. Then, the Presidential Troopers plundered and burned the sitio. Besides the bride and the ladies in-waiting, other women were also raped, horror; then the Presidential Troopers shot them dead. Everything the Troopers could lay their hands on: chickens, pigs, and goats, they took or slaughtered right there on the mountaintop for their meat. Working animals were all shot …. Luckily, said the messenger, the headman, with two of his wives, several children, were able to escape, crawling underneath the undergrowth of the forest, those ‘tunnels’ I told you about."

Someone slid back the wooden bar through the hooks, and the Mayor stepped up in their midst. His voice more or less steady now, the Mayor continued:

"After the Peace Talk this is the worst thing that has happened. The sitio is still burning, and it’s not known yet how many are dead. Maybe a hundred … hundred fifty, maybe more. No mercy was shown, not even to the poor children or the old folks. The Presidential Troopers murdered and burned the sitio purely for vengeance! Do you know, the Presidential Troopers, in mockery, sat down at the tables and ate all the food of the wedding feast; this even while their hands were still stained with blood. Can you see now, Professor, why the Yakans though they’re peace-loving people, shy and reclusive, pagans still, go to the hills and join the Moro rebels! Where can they go, hah, for help? Hah? … To the government whose soldiers are massacring them! To the Christians who had taken their lands, treat them as inferiors, and driven them deeper, deeper into the forest!"

Before the oil lamps, tongues of flame flickering, a sickly paleness reappeared on the Mayor’s face, smooth and clean shaven, increasing the distinctness of the birthmark smudge on his left cheek. Going over to a bench at the meal-table, he set himself down slowly on it; Professor Jose and the host joined him. Though reluctant to bring up again the subject of the impregnability of the sitio, nevertheless Professor Jose said, "Ah, but that’s impossible; is it not? You yourself, Mayor, said so, if I am not mistaken: that there was no way soldiers could get into Ngcomb without the Yakans discovering their presence first. And did you not say also that the only way to Ngcomb is through the trail, the one we took ourselves, and by which we returned to Sumisip also? That it would be foolish for anyone who wish to attack the sitio, you said, to take the same route, since it ends in an open field just before the sitio. And ahead is the savanna, right at the foot of Ngcom, and intruders will be like sitting ducks under rifle and mortar fire."

The sickly pallor in his face gradually turned to light brown. More or less, the Mayor was again in control of his emotions. "The Yakans were taken by surprise," he said. "No one suspected anything. It was only when the Marcos Presidential Troopers, having surrounded the sitio, started shooting and lobbing grenades ... that was when they realized what was happening."

"How is this possible after what you’d told me," asked Professor Jose, puzzled still. "How could this happen? Ah, like an impregnable wall, that was what you said."

On the bench, already the three men, Professor Jose, the Mayor, and their host, all looked like a men who could not comprehend how they had come to such misfortune. From the oil lamp, in the middle of the table, soared high a plume of black smoke. Briefly was Professor Jose reminded of the scene early that morning, in which he woke up amidst laughter and whispers. Around the oil lamp the men’s faces leaned forward, and strips of flame continually flickered on them, coating them with deep, hideous shadows.

"They were taken by surprise by the Presidential Troopers!" repeated the Mayor, eyes wide and fixed, unblinking behind the flame. "According to the survivors, he said, the headman thought we’d changed our minds, deciding to return to Ngcomb to document the Yakan wedding."

Quite close to the oil lamp, the Mayor leaned his face, until the flame flickered under his breath. In the flickering glare of the flame these visions passed through his mind: machine-gun fire and mortars exploding all around them; Cadil, his right-hand man, dropped like an empty sack, a bullet had entered his right temple, bursting a hole in his head, he not a second before standing beside him, screaming obscenities at the government soldiers. What irony! He, the master of ambushes, getting a dose of his own medicine.

The Mayor said, "No one then minded the Presidential Troopers who were wearing civilian clothes, their guns out of sight, and behaving at first as though they were guests. Right into the sitio walked the civilian-dressed Presidential Troopers, casually, none of their movements arousing suspicion. Even at the first volley of fire, they said, no one became alarmed. You know, gunfire, shooting for fun, is ordinary there, a common thing, as it is anywhere on the island. The opposite, in fact, is true: the absence of gunfire is what makes one wary, nervous. It means something is brewing, evil about to happen."

The Mayor stopped, moving his face away from the oil lamp, his gaze moving from one to the other. But he did not turn his head, and he continued, "Thus it was this afternoon, less than half an hour after we had left. Only when the women and children started screaming with fear did the Yakan warriors realize what was happening. By that time, it was too late; more than twenty warriors had been shot dead at the first volley; the Yakans there were massacred."

As the men listened, they seemed transfixed, immobile; even as in their faces, in light and shadow from the flickering flame, were manifested fear, disbelief, and shock. Utter shock! More than this filled the Professor’s soul; shame and guilt grieved him, tormenting his mind, gnawing at his very soul. Was it not he who had insisted, while others resigned themselves to the inevitable, to document the Yakan wedding? Though it was unintentional, he had shown the way to the sitio. Que horror!

It was all his fault. His scholarly pursuit, stubbornness, pride, had brought havoc and death to the sitio, such as the Yakans there had never known before. He had even soiled his hands and become a hypocrite by accepting the General’s money, just so his research, no matter what, would go on. How much honor and dignity he had paid for it! Leaning away from the oil lamp, shoulders rising and without any attempt to conceal it, he sighed and said, "I believe it’s out of the question now to see Shaman Gamutang tonight. Ah, he will understand, of course; won’t he? Maybe tomorrow, just before we leave, we will see him, ah, to explain why … just in case, if there’s a need. But could we not send somebody now, tonight, to tell him we won’t be able to see him? So he will not be waiting for us, Mayor."

Cupping one had over his brow, and gazing at Professor Jose from the corner of his eyes, the Mayor remarked rather quickly, "No-no; there’s no need to cancel our visit to Shaman Gamutang. He is expecting us, we must not disappoint the religious one. You know, Professor, the Shaman is the most respected priest in Sumisip. Breaking your appointment will insult the Shaman; then his people, all over Sumisip and even beyond, will feel you’ve offended them too. That is what they will think, Professor."

The Mayor took away his hand from his brow, glancing toward the recorder; his look evinced an appeal for support from the half-breed.

All at once, the Yakan half-breed Canégro started pacing back and forth. "The Mayor is right, sir," he said in a shrill tenor. "Here it is another custom, life is paid for insult. Unlike us Christians, to whom forgiving is a great virtue, the Yakan must have his satisfaction, or forever live in disgrace." The recorder Canégro lowered his vice, conspiracy showed its face, and he continued:

"Shaman Gamutang told me that you must not miss your visit. He has gifts for the Enlightened Dictator Marcos, and asks your favor to give them personally to His Excellency. It’s the grand carpet you saw in his house, remember? On the day of our arrival; how you so much wanted to own it, you told me. And his bayugan, a mascada brass container, handed down through generations and generations. If you think that the Shaman is maybe over ninety years old," the recorder said, the conspiratorial tone more evident, distinct, as he halted behind Professor Jose, "just think how old is that buyugan. Shaman Gamutang asks only this in return: the Enlightened Dictator should have the buyugan by his side always, and on the floor of Malacañang Palace the grand carpet should lie, so everyone, visitors from beyond the seas, will see it. He said, that will give honor to him and his people. So he’s waiting, Professor, for us to come and accept those gifts from him for the Enlightened Dictator, as the Shaman calls President Marcos."

All the time, since their arrival in Sumisip the day before, every phase of the documentation was followed by rebuff and embarrassment; until, finally, tragedy, pure, naked tragedy. Very clear in Professor’s mind: the Mayor’s rebuff; his feeling of rejection when the Mayor was neither at the poblacion nor at the old settlement to meet them; the mocking voice and threat, so subtle, oblique, by the Datu, in his tale; and, finally, by God! the massacre of women and children and old folks in Ngcomb, by the Presidential Troopers. What then was in store for Professor Jose this time? In the marrow of his bones something told him, like a sign, a very bad thing was to happen, maybe to all of them! — the messenger of the massacre in Ngcomb was a bearer not only of the tragic news of the massacre but of a terrible thing that was yet to happen. Too many coincidences there were already, he thought. Were they all meant to lead to a bigger one?

But a learned man must look at all this as coincidences, thought Professor Jose. "Because that’s what they are: coincidences, nothing more. As to the signs, and before I forget, our painted faces from the dark soot of the oil lamp, also a sign of mal suerte, bad luck … only a superstitious man should believe in it." He, of all those present, should be the last to give any weight to those signs. However, Professor Jose, in his heart, knew differently; shaken were the fiber of his Christian faith and the staunchness of his belief in science — his continuous exposure to rituals, pagan beliefs, folktales, and myths and epics had made it so. It had un-Christianized him, but had only scraped the surface of his prejudice, Dios mio!

Professor Jose bent his elbows, placed an open palm on either side of his head, and lightly touched his temples with the tips of his fingers — manifesting by such movements the anguish and struggle in his heart.

In a very low voice, more conspiratorial now, the recorder Canégro said:

"Shaman Gamutang saw us documenting the songs and folktales yesterday, with our cassette tape-recorders. He was very impressed, sir, and overwhelmed that these were captured in the ‘box,’" the recorder laughed, rather more like a hiss. "He called it, the tape-recorder: the ‘box-box.’ Now, as we had done yesterday, the Shaman wants us to capture his voice also, and give his message to His Excellency in Malacañang Palace. Peace and order will come to his people, he believes, when the Enlightened Dictator hears his message."

From the urgency and rashness in the recorder’s voice, Professor Jose assumed that the half-breed had committed the Professor to personally deliver Shaman Gamutang’s gifts and message to the Despot, without telling him first. This he had done knowing very well Professor Jose would not be able to accomplish such, being just a minor official; not anybody, when he wished, could go up and see the Dictator Malacañang. The recorder knew this; how could he then make such a promise, and commit him to seeing the Mas Macho, personally? Did Canégra the recorder think that he, Professor Jose, was a Moro rebel? Always condescending, looking down on his own kind, the half-breed Yakan must have been out of his mind. In all his dealings with the Yakans, the coordination of the cultural revival program, the recorder Canégra never manifested any sympathy or loyalty to the Yakans, and yet he was a half-Yakan himself and in daily contact with them, being the representative of the Yakans in Basilan island at the Center. He was always unaffected, as cold as a fresh water fish toward his mother’s … or was it his father’s … tribe.

Both hands had been withdrawn from the sides of the Professor’s head; they lay, open palm, in his lap; their fingers twitched uncontrollably as he, very nervous, sat in his chair. Then his head craned over his shoulder, looking straight at the half-breed recorder.

"Did you really tell the Shaman," he said, "I would present his gifts, and the message as well, to the Enlightened Dictator, ah … personally?" Came to his voice now a perceptible shriek, and his eyes widened, lancing into the recorder’s. "You, Canégra, had not committed me!"

Curses on him! swore the recorder. The Professor did not really care for the Yakans, either; just like him, and yet he was even a half-Yakan. Subjects and objects of his research, at the Center, the Yakans were to Professor Jose. Wait until he told him of his plan, and the Professor would see how clever he was, and congratulate him yet.

The recorder stopped pacing the floor, though still restless and nervous. When in such state, the recorder, as was his habit, raised his shoulder blades up on either side of his head, like peaks of a hill. On top of his neck, his head started to bob and jerk, as he sort of pointed by jerking up one hand toward an isolated part of the room.

Judging from these urgent signals, Professor Jose assumed that the half-breed wished to speak to him: alone. He slowly stood from his chair, but so upset he scraped his legs against the foot of the table; then Professor Jose was out of it: the two of them, the chief and the subordinate, converged in one corner, away from the hearing of others.

Drawn together were their heads, the Professor’s with some streaks of grey hair, the recorder’s all jet black, and whispers quickly exchanged, urgent, and above them, and once or twice, broke out Professor Jose’s raspy voice, the half-breed recorder turning his face away from it.

Ten meters or so from the pair, the Mayor, the municipal administrator, and the photographer waited eagerly, pretending not to listen, though they were burning with curiosity. Each of them would sometimes gaze at his feet, make cracking sounds with his knuckles, cough ostensibly, anything to show disinterest to the pair, when in fact all were straining to hear what was being said.

Meanwhile, the recorder Canégra was explaining, whispering into his chief’s ear, "I had to tell the Shaman they were gifts for the Enlightened Dictator. Otherwise, sir, the Shaman would never part with his buyugan and the grand carpet; believe you me, never! Compared to the grand carpet, all of the Datu’s carpets look worthless, they look like pieces of rags. Now you can own them, imagine. Very clever … and Shaman Gamutang does not suspected anything."

Much lower, conspiratorial, came his voice; it was hardly above a whisper:

"Remember telling me, sir, what the buyugan means as an antique? and the grand carpet, so incredibly beautiful, never had you seen one, yourself, in all your research-travels in the islands—its equal!"

Indeed, Professor Jose had said so. It was right after his eyes had gazed upon them in Shaman Gamutang’s house; his head had swirled and he had become, with its beauty, awed and dazed. And never, in all the world, would Professor Jose believe, even an iota, if someone were to tell him he would own it someday. So, at a certain point, he had stopped thinking of the grand carpet again.

"Nobody knows about this except myself," said the recorder, and he ceased swivelling his upturned face here and there, his elbows lowered. From a sort of an oblique angle, he watched Professor Jose. "And better for you to have them, sir, than others, who don’t know their value, like the General’s wife. I heard that the General has been ‘confiscating’ (a cynical laughter interposed here) antiques and carpets from the Yakans. For his wife, his aide said. The General’s wife is imitating the Más Hermosa in collecting antiques. So, if we don’t go to Shaman Gamutang, the buyugan antique and the grand carpet will be lost to us. It will be ‘confiscated’ by the General for his wife whose aide has been going all over the island, in a mini-cruiser, collecting antiques." Again, cynical laughter followed by a hiss in his throat. "I believe, Professor Jose, the buyugan and the grand carpet are meant for you."

Professor Jose felt he was being maneuvered, that this was a ruse. His conscience was buzzing, like beehive, but his heart was light, taking flight on swift wings. Ah, indeed, to be the possessor of such an antique, and an incomparable, rare, grand carpet!

Generally, he would resist such a bait, which, after one had seen through it revealed the oldest trick: a play on one’s vanity and greed. But once, just once, Professor Jose would succumb to it, making himself believe he was saving antique treasures from the greedy hands of ignorant, unscrupulous collectors for the future generations of Yakans.

Part IV

1.

And thus half an hour later in the center of the porch of the porch of Shaman Gamutang’s house and forming a circle squatted Professor Jose and the Mayor and the photographer Rimban and the recorder Canégra and the municipal administrator Caluang and the original bodyguard Askal and two new others, just as heavily armed with M-16 assault rifles and .45-cal. pistols.

Yakan men and women and children filled the porch.

On the bamboo rungs of the stairs and the rails of the porch most of the children preferred to sit on their rumps which were mostly bare.

While framed against the porch door and the sala’s were men and women and the latter carrying babies in their arms. There were the men with their women who had come either on horseback or walked barefooted many kilometers from their sitios and stood on the porch or rmilled around under the porch or in the vacant yard where a day before Professor Jose and his staff of two had documented tribal folksongs and tales and war dance.

And just a little behind the circle those who had come in earlier stood, necks stretched out looking over the heads of Professor Jose, Shaman Gamutang, the Mayor, the recorder, the photographer, the municipal administrator, and the bodyguards.

By the front door hanging from an abaca rope tied to a pole was an agong, old and dented, layered with decades of dirt and rust. It was this which had called the Yakans and its deep resonant voice had reverberated, and reaching the remotest villages in the island.

Professor Jose faced Shaman Gamutang whose back was toward the door of his room.

In the corner of the circle flickered a small oil lamp which like all the others in Sumisip was crudely made was from an empty can, and from a discarded piece of old cloth came its wick. From this oil lamp a small flame flickered and though sometimes it soared and disembodied itself from its wick the flame would return to its wick—before reaching exposed ridgepole and trusses just as if it were ashamed to violate the roof’s nakedness.

Not always then were the faces of the Shaman and Professor Jose and the others illuminated by the flame. There were moments when their faces sank deep into shadow, boundless, and only the Shaman’s eyes shining among them with an after-glow glitter.

Having been previously instructed by Professor Jose to speak close to the cassette tape-recorder, the "box-box" to the native priest and medicine men, Shaman Gamutang bent forward and thrust his head toward it. Onto his face as it came nearer to the oil lamp tongues of flame leaped with vibrant fierceness and distorting its features.

While he spoke slowly and unhaltingly, over his face a dark reddish glow hovered grimly: a horrid light sparking.

"When martial law was declared some years ago, we were told that the Moros and the non-Moros and like some pagan Yakans would all be massacred and their villages would be burned to the ground," began Shaman Gamutang, gravely and solemnly. "Indeed, those things happened and we lost many of our sons and daughters and women and all of our possessions. And today this thing happened again. Before it became too dark to hide this evil, Presidential Troops massacred the men, women, and children of Ngcomb."

The Shaman paused a while neck stretched and like a giant gnat his face hovered over the tape-recorder.

When again he spoke to recall for his listeners the early part of the Moro-Christian war a heavy pall of grief and sorrow weighted down his shoulders and his brows, dark and profuse, were furrowed and suddenly filled with tiny trenches.

He told them of the Moro National Liberation Front receiving many, many guns and shiploads of ammunition from Moslem countries beyond the Sea. With the guns the Moro rebels and the Yakans fought back killing many government soldiers and ambushing patrols, he told them.

However now he would like to beg His Excellency for forgiveness. In the selfsame serious and solemn voice he said, "I ask for forgiveness, true but not for the killings and destruction nor for the massacre. It is not for these I ask for forgiveness. For have not the government soldiers killed and pillaged and massacred too? What I ask is the forgiveness for having accepted guns and ammunition from our Moslem neighbors beyond the Sea to shoot and kill our Christian brothers."

While his eyes pin-lights in their sockets lifted toward Shaman Gamutang, Professor Jose was puzzled and surprised. Vengeance was what Shaman Gamutang should have sought after this day’s massacre of Yakans in Ngcomb. For such was found in Islam teachings: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!—but not this forgiveness.

If the Shaman were as wily and smart as the Mayor who squatted on his rump beside him and just as surprised as Professor Jose he would seek what he surely could easily get. Easily he could get from the Despot Marcos, the Más Macho or better yet from the First Lady Imelda the Más Hermosa reparations for the massacres and murders and the burning of mosques. Certainly reparations Shaman Gamutang could easily get for the Moslem temples razed during the war in his own village Sumisip and in the villages of Candiis and Lamitan and Tipo-Tipo.

Bending low Shaman Gamutang spat the buyo mascada through a crack in the split-bamboo floor of the porch and his head nearly touched the floor. With a gnarled forefinger slightly curved Shaman Gamutang slide the excess mascada between the bamboo cracks and he leaning forward still, and onto the invisible dark ground below the porch the mascada wad plopped unseen and hissing dust.

Rolling back on his rump but not too far from the tape-recorder and his chest straight the Shaman continued:

"Now however we see that what we were told and heard is not entirely true. We see this in what you’re now doing, Professor, for the Enlightened Dictator in Malacañang Palace. Our songs and legends and traditions as well as our culture are what you’re gathering here to preserve and not to destroy them. We also see this in the building of new Moslem Madresa schools and mosques all over the region. And barangay roads in our villages. After the Peace Talk in the city of Zamboanga high positions were given by his Excellency the Enlightened Dictator to Moros in the autonomous government, and the Moros were integrated in the military."

He paused in order to emphasize the importance of the next part of his message, and his intense look burning before the oil lamp.

"So now we see how wrong we are," he said. "Our eyes even our hearts and souls tell us. They tell us how can His Excellency the Enlightened Dictator who has given us schools and built us mosques and many other development projects ah … is the word ‘development’ correct?…How can he be the same man who ordered the massacres and the burning of our mosques and sitios?" Just as if the tape-recorder were alive Shaman Gamutang to solicit its agreement nodded his head toward it. "Is it not true, my people? You’ve all seen the ‘development’ projects everywhere here in Sumisip, Tipo-Tipo, Sudak, and Candiis. How I wish His excellency could hear me now. As His Excellency the Enlightened Dictator is not here please tell him then to forgive us. For we’re now asking his forgiveness. Please tell His Excellency."

By the main door and in the crowd behind Shaman Gamutan was heard a rustle. Prompting some of the men to open a path. All at once a carpet-carried appeared making his way toward the circle and set the grand carpet down on the split-bamboo floor.

Indeed even in the dim light of the lamp it was a grand and excellent carpet, Professor Jose concluded.

From the floor Shaman Gamutang picked up his brass mascada container the buyugan and lifting his eyes toward Professor Jose he said,

"This buyugan has been handed down in my family from generation to generation and it has been with the family since a very long time ago when neither the Moros nor Christians were seen in Yakan land. It was certainly long before the time your Don Vicente Alvarez the insurrecto general came to Basilan Island to escape from the soldiers of the United States of American. Very, very old is this buyugan, Professor. With my message humbly give this buyugan and this grand carpet to His Excellency the Enlightened Dictator. It is to show my sincerity and my people’s good will."

After accepting the gifts for the Despot, Professor Jose shook Shaman Gamutang’s hand which extended across by the oil lamp. Bluish veins swelled like termites’ trenches on it. Right away he realized that the customary Christian handshake was improper here, for the Shaman in his courage and wisdom had shown he was the equal of any man. Thus should be respected, and the hand withdrew immediately and placing it over his heart Professor Jose said,

"Aasalam Walaíkum"—although yesterday steeped in bias he had refused to greet the Shaman in their traditional Moro way.

Above the oil lamp Shaman Gamutang’s eyes glittered brightly reflecting the light from the oil lamp and the pride and humility in his heart.

Stricken with shame for his old prejudice and distrust of all Moros and Yakans Professor Jose cursed himself. He knew he was a low-echelon official and it was next to impossible for him to fulfill Shaman Gamutang’s request. By now he had conquered his greed, and vanquished his vanity and now really meant to give to the Despot the buyugan and the grand carpet as well as the Shaman’s message of forgiveness. He would cease right then to conspire with the half-breed Canégra!

But how in the name of God could he personally do it? And who was Shaman Gamutang for the Dictator Marcos to listen to his message and even to mind him? If he were a rebel like the Mayor and like the Yakan MNLF vice-chairman Salapuddin of Basilan Island or Matba of Tawi-Tawi…but no Shaman Gamutang was just a peaceful and religious man. Very innocent and naïve he was and his provinciality and trust of all men now stood as his soul’s virtues and strength. But to the greedy and the treacherous, these self-same virtues made the simple-hearted Shaman an easy victim and a fool in the eyes of the corrupt military and in a repressive society.

Deep in his heart Professor Jose now grieved for the old man, and he now loved and trusted the Shaman. As he had never trusted anyone before. This self-same kind of trust for his fellowmen and for the Despot Marcos, Professor Jose wished he had also.

"O, God, the Almighty!" he thought in silence. "It’s the simple-hearted, the innocent, who are the victims of this fratricidal war. Since they put their trust in all men and even in a Christian or the Dictator himself."

Soon after Professor Jose emitting so much gratitude not unmixed with humility this time, said goodbye.

2.

On their way back to their host’s house Professor Jose and the men took the old trail. Which went through the scrubby brush of the western part of the island, while the old trail went for some three hundred meters before it would interminably pass under coconut trees some distance away. On either side of the trail the scrubs choked it and sometimes brushing their flanks or arms.

There was not a star in the sky, an inky blackness covering its dome. Indeed it was pitch dark, and behind what they imagined were clouds the moon hid her face. Ashamed of man’s foibles and trickery.

In front of them in the dark along the way a shrub would suddenly jump out, and a recoiling branch would lash back at their face, and under their feet abruptly falling, the trail would be momentarily lost. Most of the way Professor Jose and his photographer stumbled.

But easily making their way were the half-breed Canégra and the Mayor and his three bodyguards.

Out of nowhere a voice half-laughing but wholly cynical jolted him and sent his heart fluttering. Professor Jose had thought he was alone and well behind all the others. The voice was saying, "Now you’ve an authentic buyugan and the grandest carpet in the entire island of Basilan. Even Zamboanga, sir."

Professor Jose recognized Canégra’s voice, as the recorder’s steps drew close alongside him. He had thought he was with the others ahead in the trail. In the dark the moon hidden behind a mass of dark clouds Professor Jose felt the half-breed’s cynicism and odious contempt for the other half of his being. Since Yakan blood ran in his veins from his mother’s or father’s.

Then full to the brim with disgust and contempt for the recorder was in his heart and his skin shriveled and shrank. Professor Jose said nothing preferring to ignore the half-breed recorder to show he was neither amused nor pleased with his comment.

It was not clear if the recorder Canégra was aware of the Professor’s increasing contempt of him but before the half-breed’s footsteps went on ahead and the dark blob detaching itself alongside Professor Jose, he said, "I knew you would be pleased, sir. We totally fooled the old man Shaman."

Out from the edge of a mass of clouds peered the moon’s face briefly, and in that moment were illumined against the dark outline of the brush and shrubbery the figures of the Mayor’s men.

Over the shoulder of the bodyguard Askal swung the grand carpet, and in a plastic colored traveling bag was the unseen buyugan.

All the night things it seemed shrieked into his ears as deep thoughts of shame and guilt passed in his mind. Professor Jose’s steps lost their briskness and tenacity.

Soon he was lagging much, much behind the line of men, and fearing the dark and the loneliness he quickened his steps. Once or twice his head turned upward to gaze at the half-faced moon from whose beam his heart quivered, and shrinking away.

But before Professor Jose caught up with his companions whose half-moonlit forms seemed to rush forward and flay away from him, and the moon hid behind the mass of dark clouds, and once again it was pitch dark.

All of a sudden the scrubby bushes and shrubbery broke and crushed, and some 20-30 Yakans waving their bolos and jabbing their spears sprang from behind them.

Silently and resolutely the Yakans fell upon the Mayor and the municipal administrator and all those ahead on the old trail such as the photographer Rimban and the recorder Canégra who had caught up with the group and swiftly and completely overcoming them. Not a shout was heard to warn the others and much less a scream from the ambushed men. For first the Yakans before a shot could be fired cut down the bodyguards with their bolos or pierced them with their spears: an arm, leg, or a hand was cut off or pierced through and more than once a head was decapitated and a body pinned to the ground like a butterfly on a board by a spear.

Then much deeper than before silence fell.

At that moment as if to amplify shame and guilt the moon again peered from behind the dark clouds to reveal Professor Jose’s presence as well as the fallen bodies of his companions. All in grotesque positions and sprawled here and there on the old trail, and the Yakans rattling their bolos and spears.

Now a figure detached itself from the rest of the armed Yakans and slashing and striking at invisible and imaginary toe-less footprints on the trail. It rushed up toward Professor Jose and before him the figure started to dance and rattle his lance, and on the figure’s face which was thrown back haughtily over one shoulder the moonbeam fell full. Recognition that was terrible and not unmixed with horror came to Professor Jose: his assassin-to-be was the Datu the story-teller of the tale "strangers who made footprints without toe-marks."

Just before a spear pierced his side there came to Professor Jose the thought how short was his life of being a repentant and enlightened man. For this and among other things his unfeeling and heartlessness and the prejudice he bore against pagan and Moslem tribes Professor Jose grieved and was sorry for. As he fell a deep voice coming up to him the Professor heard the Datu of the Yakan council of elders with his lungs bursting shout, "Death and curses to the strangers without toe-marks!"

High above Professor Jose in the sky and behind the mass of dark clouds, the moon was peering down farther and illuminating the trail on which here and there mangled and decapitated bodies lay, and as well as his own.

Not all the night things now were shrieking but distinct was the cry of the cicadas, which was full and deafening.

This was the last thing Professor Jose heard.

End