CAGAYAN VALLEY

cagayan valley

Fernando Maramag was an excellent poet and journalist in English. He had a rich style

and deep understanding of human nature – qualities which made his poetry appealing to all

readers. On the other hand, his editorial writings “exerted great influence on the various phases

of the Filipino way of life, particularly in its government, economics, education and politics,”

according to a critic.

He was born on January 21, 1893 in Ilagan, Isabela, to Rafael Maramag and Victoria

Mamuri, a Spanish mestiza. His parents were wealthy landowners.

The Rural Maid
By Fernando M. Maramag

1.
Thy glance, sweet maid, when first we met,
Had left a heart that aches for thee,
I feel the pain of fond regret—
Thy heart, perchance, is not for me.

2.
We parted: though we met no more,
My dreams are dreams of thee, fair maid;
I think of thee, my thoughts implore
The hours my lips on thine are laid.

3.
Forgive these words that love impart,
And pleading, bare the poet’s breast;
And if a rose with thorns thou art,
Yet on my breast that rose may rest.

4.
I know not what to name thy charms,
Thou art half human, half divine;
And if I could hold thee in my arms,
I know both heaven and earth were mine.

Leona Florentino was a very bright girl. Her mother taught her to read. Leona wrote her first poem before she was ten.

Leona, however, was not allowed to study in higher schools although her parents were rich. In those days it was not necessary for girls to be highly educated. So Leona did not go to college.

       But Leona studied by herself. She learned to speak English from Father Evaristo Abaya, the parish priest of Vigan. Father Abaya encouraged her to go on writing poems.

The poem was written for Emilia, one of Leona’s friends, on her birthday. It expressed Leona’s good wishes.

EMILIA

Essem quen yamanco

Diac mayebcas

No addaca laeng a sicacoes

ti salum-at

Naipangena itoy aldao a

ingret gasat

a pannag casangay mo

cas umis-urayco a

nabay-bayag.

  

Carolina A. Arceo is an assistant professor of English and Filipinoat the Tarlac State University. A former coordinator of the Office of Public Affairs of the same university and a translator of Panrelihiyong Sentro ng Wikang Filipino (PSWF), Region 3.

Frustrated Wish

So happy and trusted
these people in love
for their sorrow they have
somebody to share.

My destiny that's so lonely
am i alone with this?
For i said i won't think twice
because suffering i am now.

If ever i fall in love to a man
there's nothing i could see
that i have my counterpart.

Time i shall forget when i was born
better in a thousand years
If at my birth i was gone.

I should have tried to explain
but tongue-tied i was
for i could clearly see
that i won't be lucky.

And it really pleases me much
that my love for you knows
So i swear and promise you,
that my life is just for you.

The poem Nalpay A Namnama of Leona Florentino was translated in Tagalog by Isagani Cruz and in English by M. Foronda Jr.

 Bigong Pag-asa  

salin ni Isagani R. Cruz

(1) Anong saya at ginhawa
kung may nagmamahal
dahil may makikiramay
sa lahat ng pagdurusa.

(5) Ang masama kong kapalaran
walang kapantay----
wala akong alinlangan----
sa dinaranas sa kasalukuyan.

(9) Kahit ako ay magmahal
sa isang musa
wala namang hinuha
na ako'y pahahalagahan.

(13) Isumpa ko kaya ang panahon
nang ako'y ipinanganak
higit na mas masarap
na mamatay bilang sanggol.

(17) Nais ko mang magpaliwanag
dila ko'y ayaw gumalaw
nakikita kong malinaw
pagtanggi lamang ang matatangap.

(21) Ligaya ko sana'y walang kapantay
sa kaalamang ikaw ay minamahal
isusumpa ko at patutunayan
para sa iyo lamang ako mamamatay.

Blasted Hopes

M.Foronda Jr. 

What gladness and what joy

and endowed to one who is loved

for truly there is one to share

all his sufferings and his pain.

My fate for dim, my stars so low

perhaps nothing to it can compare,

for truly I do not doubt

for presently I suffer so.

For even I did love

the beauty whom I desired

never do I fully realize

that I am worthy of her.

Shall I curse the hour

when first I saw the light of day

would it not have been better a thousand times

I had died when I was born.

Would I want to explain

but my tongue remains powerless

for now do I clearly see

to be spurned is my lot.

But would it be my greatest joy

to know that it is you I love,

for to you do I vow and promise I make

It's you alone for whom I would lay my life.

 Ines Taccad-Tamayo was born in Isabella and became a University scholar during her college days. She took up a degree in A.B Journalism and MA in English Literature. Her selection "People of Consequence" was a first prize winner in the Carlos Memorial Awards for literature in 1969.

People of Consequence

by Ines Taccad Cammayo

Camus and his wife secretly prided themselves in being, of all the residents in their barrio, the only ones who had really known and lived with people of consequence.

When he was a young man, Camus had been the houseboy of a German haciendero. The German who was a bachelor had often told Camus that his punishments were for his own good because he must learn to shed his indolent and clumsy ways if he ever hoped to amount to anything. Unfortunately, before he could learn more from his stern master, his father wrote to say that he must come home right away because his bethrothed was waiting. The German had mouthed unintelligible, guttural curses which Camus listened to with mixed feelings of shame and pleasure because it meant that he was wanted after all, but in the end, the German sent him off with a de hilo cerrada suit, a heavy pair of boots capacious enough to let him wiggle his gnarled toes in, and two months extra pay which came handy fox the wedding celebrations. That was twenty years ago, shortly before the war, and although Camus had all the intentions to see the German off when he left for his country, the expense and the effort turned out to him, at the last minute, discouraging. In the meantime, Camus and his wife were themselves becoming people of consequence.

They now owned the best house in the barrio which, with other lakeside villages, lay at the base of a high chit which the people called Munting Azul because a perpetual haze clung to its summit. To reach the summit, one must climb the step and circuitous steps that many years ago, time men, Camus among them, had hacked out of the thick underbrush that covered the entire face of the cliff, and then cemented in places where the down-rushing water in rainy seasons was wont to wash away.

One could also leave the village by crossing the lake westward. The upward climb was the quicker route but was difficult for the old and the weak. Once the embankment was reached, Munting Azul leveled off into fields, and three kilometers away was the town of Cuenco.

The town was bypass by the National highway but jeepney and a couple of minibuses shuttled to and from the larger towns, including Capitolyo, on the descent. Cuenco was the only large town which Camus really knew although he had been to the Capitolyo occasionally. When he lived with the German, they resided in what was called the White House in the middle of the vast, treeless hacienda rimmed by forests across the lake.

Meding, his wife, had, in her own adolescence, lived in the Capitolyo for almost four years as servant of the Mayor’s family. It was there that she learned the hard-driving manners of townsfolk. It constantly amazed him how she could make idle time yield profit, and even more astonishing, how, having made profit, she held on to it. Camus, a hard worker, was at his fishing long before the dawn, and later in the day, mending his nets on the pier he had built from his hut. It was his father’s life he had learned, and after he came from the German’s household he saw no cause and no way to change.

The first thing that Meding did was to barter over his vehement objections the one male carabao he owned for a puny female. When it began to yield milk, she gathered it to make into a white curd which she molded into banana leaf containers or boiled into sweet candy. Not one frasco found its way to their table. Every Sunday she would climb the steep ascent to sell her white cheese and milk sticks in Cuenco.

She gathered the occasional coconuts and mangoes from the trees behind their house and sold them, together with the harvest of fish Camus hauled in every day. She was so undemanding, she never had to sell at a loss or to mortgage his catch, and the hard – dealing middleman who came with his tempting offers bypassed their house with great aloofness.

Meding even opened a postal saving account and once in a while she showed him figures. As the sum increased he felt he knew her less and less. Long before she began the feverish phase of acquiring possessions, when they sat down to their frugal meal he felt that, perhaps they could afford something more appetizing. A look of Meding’s face bent over her plate, contented in determined self-denial would silence him.

She astounded him most by buying crochet thread and needles. In the mornings, keeping by herself from the village women, she sat at the window of the little hut, thrusting away at her hook and thread, making beautiful patterns of lace that he believed, his heart bursting with pride, no other wife in all the lakeside barrios could make, let alone possess her infinite patience. To his unbelieving ears, she whispered that he wavy laces were so prized that housewives in the town willingly pail for them with sacks of rice.

In time their neighbors ran to them for loans, and although she never charged usurious rate, Meding was as hard as stone when it came to collecting. If the borrower failed to pay or on time she demanded goods in payment. Her laconic and unsmiling manner defeated any jocose attempt at gaining time and even whining plea bought only the unfeeling retort that life was just as hard for her, and that always shamed them into passing for one better than their neighbors knew how Spartan was their life.

The first change in the quiet girl he married came one night: lying, facing each other on the slatted floor of their bedroom in the hut which was now their kitchen, she spoke of her plans, spelled each dream so grimly as to leave no doubt in Camus’ mind that these were already real. Talk of a child had long since been avoided. Now she spoke of bringing in kiln-dried posts from Cuenco, a proposal wildly ostentious and impossible, considering the steep descent from town. She spoke of galvanized roofing, capiz windows and all the accoutrements of town houses, hardware, varnished walls, two big bedrooms, a sala so spacious it could accommodate their old hut, and carved narra furniture. When the house was finally finished – a reality of shining walls and costly gleaming windows – Camus went about apologizing for its size. “We really planned to have it much bigger, but my wife with her usual good sense wanted something more modest.”

The house never wore a coat of paint, growing darker and rain-stained with every passing season. The bedroom was never occupied except when out-of-town officials came. It contained a monstrous, carved and highly varnished bed. Its snaky posts bore aloft a wooden balance that gave it unusual elegance. A three-panel mirrored aparador in the room was used by no one except guests; so, too, a washbowl inlaid with mother-of-pearl which gleamed against the mahogany shadows of the room.

One day, Meding said, “The young men are going up to the Capitolyo next week. It would be a good time for you to go with them.” After a long pause, she added, “they invite you every year but you have gone only once. You could visit with the Superintendent this time.” At an earlier fiesta, when Camus at the inspector’s house, the official was already taken up with his other visitors. The señora did not know him. She must have also been distracted at the never-ending stream of visitors. With an absent-minded wave hand and murmured acknowledgement, she ordered someone to unburden him of his coop of chicken and made him feel at home. “Well, don’t just stand there!” an old crone had cackled at him. “Dress the chickens!” With that she thrust a halo into his hands. Camus was dismayed, but only for a few seconds. He spent the rest of the day cheerfully helping out in the backyard, very much needed and feeling useful as he stirred a huge carajay. He had caught a glimpse of the Inspector but the man was deep in conversation with some important-looking men. In a way, he was glad. He had stripped down to his shorts to save his Americana from stain.

His only regret about that visit, however, was his not having been able to join in talk with the townsmen, When they came to his house, he never felt shy telling his favorite recollections of Señor Lehniann, the German master whom many of them had heard of but never seen, “lie was a man of few words and a great reader. There was this thick book which he always read but would never let me touch. Otherwise he was extremely generous with other things. Advice. His old clothes. Sometimes money.”

As the years passed, his stories of intimacy with the German master grew, and there were times when he ventured saying that he was such the confidant of the aleman that they used to hold long conversations. The aleman had often said that he should aspire to go to Manila to study, and that, he would make good because he would then cultivate further the inclination and the attitude, that he acquired through exposure to better things. Time had a way of making resolutions fade, but the inclination remained, Camus would say, with a complacent shrug.

A few years back, a frequent visitor, the Councilor for their area, offered him a caminero’s job on a section of the municipal road to Cuenco. Camus still remembered the four short weeks of that only employment with an emotion akin to righteousness. He received thirty pesos scrupulously kept their dirt hidden in their backyards. It was the grass and the weeds that continually threatened to overrun the road. Then someone told him that the same Councilor had placed someone else as a checker who had nothing to do but check on the camineros. With polite apologies to Meding and the baffled councilor, he left the job.

In the yard of their neighbor’s house a group of young men began to gather. Laughter broke out often and once in a while, someone slapped a neighbor on the back. Camus could make out nothing; the whirr of the crickets seemed to drown out all their talk. He sat at the window picking with his nails, a veined and hairy leg drawn up on the bench to support his chin. In the dusk, the group looked conspiratorial.

He looked long at Meding clearing the table. “You are right, I think,” he said half-asking.

Meding shrugged her frail shoulders. She crossed the wobbly bamboo bridge that connected their house to the old hut. Camu followed her without a word, wondering what she would do.

She led the way to the smaller of two rooms. “I have prepared your white suit,” she said.

She knelt before the wooden trunk, took a black key from the ring which always hung at her waist and twisted it into the keyhole. The suit lay on top of all the old clothes, like a silent shock that it had been years since he wore it. The fragrance of its being kept in the trunk was wafted to him, redolent of an opulence he had never really enjoyed again after that morning of his wedding. Camus received it with some shyness. It was almost like a ritual and Camus was glad that the soft light hid his emotions.

All their life, sentiment had had very little meaning perhaps because love had never figured in the courtship. Camus married Meding because his father and her father had agreed on the union. She had submitted impassively, although he had heard she was spirited girl. The vaunted spirit was to be known by him only through the regimen with which he had imposed on their lives.

Sometimes when the barrenness of living engulfed him with a misery he could not understand, he felt that this was as it should be, life is hard, why should he complain, she was an ardent example of what hard work and frugality could bring. In this reverie, he began to believe in the gladsome fullness of his life as the German had said it could be. Camus held the coat before him. “It may no longer fit me,” he said.

He felt that he had grown bigger, taller, more expansive in girth, so that when the coat slid easily over his shoulders and the pants hung loosely around his waist, consternation filled him. He realized that he had really, looked at himself for sometime. He turned and lifted the lantern from the hook and walked slowly into the bigger bedroom where the three-paneled aparador stood.

The man in the mirror was someone he scarcely knew. He was stooped-shouldered, his chest caved in, and his silvery hair that stood erect in a close-cropped aguinaldo cut was sparse and revealed his shiny brown scalp.

The face- taut and mask-like – shook him. He began to think that he would never be able to greet his hosts in the capitol like with that boisterous warmth they themselves greeted him when they mounted his stairs. Even if he had never intended to do so, he had long since he learned that humility pleased his visitors.

So the suit did not really matter. All these years he thought he had really grown stout, lie was still strong at the nets. He could lift sacks of rice with ease. Heavy loads never shortened his breath. When his wife’s face appeared from the shadows in the mirror, he felt even more saddened. He wondered did she ever feel the need to look and live well, to experience heady well-being. Her lips drew back unsmiling, and as an answer to his thought, she spoke, her eyes betraying nothing: “You have not changed much. The years do riot tell on you.”

Camus stared at his image like it were stricken adversary. He slowly unbuttoned the coat dropped the pants and handed them back to Meding.

“Perhaps you had better put this back in the trunk.” He looked at his wife in the mirror and in a voice not his, he told her that he could not go.

She listened to him indifferently; already in her mind, she was counting the chickens which she must catch, tie up and cage in stripped baskets. She knew how in the town every leaf of vegetables had its price and these would be her husband’s levy. She had watched him welcome those people with touching sincerity that somehow made the patronizing tones of his guests sound boorish. And she, too, had a acquiesced, having learned from dealing with merchants that sometimes yielding was only way of getting your due.

The young men are starting early in the morning. We must be up before the first cock crows,” she said flatly, refusing to yield to the pleading in his eyes.

The crowd of women converged on Camus the moment he alighted from the bus, screaming and tugging at his two chicken coops. Then as suddenly as a swarm of flies that have found another victim, they dispersed, he wing him with the empty containers and several smelly bills in his hands.

Camus stared at the money, and then quickly pocketed it. He walked towards the church, not minding the crowd, the hawking vendors who thrust bundles of cake at his face. Camus rubbed the back of his hand against his temples. Every step was taking him nearer to the Superintendent’s house and how could he go to him without the chicken’s of his throat was parched, the vendors thrust their wares at him again. Pinipig! Balut! Kropeck! Mais laga! Above the voices, in a tinkling bell now attracted him. He turned around, an ice cream vendor smiled at him: Ice cream, sir! Ice cream! They exchanged a look of understanding.

He watched the vendor pat layers of multi-colored ice cream into the cone, yellow, violet, white. A final, careful pat of chocolate. He waved away the insistent hands and wares of the other peddlers. Slow he drew the money from his pocket, picked the bill most frayed and gave it to the vendor. As he licked the ice cream, savoring the taste, he stretched out his hand for the change. All was quiet in the plaza now, and suddenly he realized that he had almost twenty pesos to spend as he pleased. He squinted craftily about him, seeing for the first time the enticements of the shops, hearing for the first time the loud speakers talking to him alone. Yes, he must tell his wife how pleased the good lady had been, how truly line gentlemen and friend the Superintendent was.

CENTRAL LUZON

cental luzon

1.)ALL OVER THE WORLD

by Vicente Rivera, Jr.

ONE evening in August 1941, I came out of a late movie to a silent, cold night. I shivered a little as I stood for a moment in the narrow street, looking up at the distant sky, alive with stars. I stood there, letting the night wind seep through me, and listening. The street was empty, the houses on the street dim—with the kind of ghostly dimness that seems to embrace sleeping houses. I had always liked empty streets in the night; I had always stopped for a while in these streets listening for something I did not quite know what. Perhaps for low, soft cries that empty streets and sleeping houses seem to share in the night.

I lived in an old, nearly crumbling apartment house just across the street from the moviehouse. From the street, I could see into the open courtyard, around which rooms for the tenants, mostly a whole family to a single room, were ranged.

My room, like all the other rooms on the groundfloor, opened on this court. Three other boys, my cousins, shared the room with me. As I turned into the courtyard from the street, I noticed that the light over our study-table, which stood on the corridor outside our room, was still burning. Earlier in the evening after supper, I had taken out my books to study, but I went to a movie instead. I must have forgotten to turn off the light; apparently, the boys had forgotten, too.

I went around the low screen that partitioned off our “study” and there was a girl reading at the table. We looked at each other, startled. I had never seen her before. She was about eleven years old, and she wore a faded blue dress. She had long, straight hair falling to her shoulders. She was reading my copy of Greek Myths.

The eyes she had turned to me were wide, darkened a little by apprehension. For a long time neither of us said anything. She was a delicately pretty girl with a fine, smooth. pale olive skin that shone richly in the yellow light. Her nose was straight, small and finely molded. Her lips, full and red, were fixed and tense. And there was something else about her. Something lonely? something lost?

“I know,” I said, “I like stories, too. I read anything good I find lying around. Have you been reading long?”
“Yes,” she said. not looking at me now. She got up slowly, closing the book. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you want to read anymore? I asked her, trying to smile, trying to make her feel that everything was all right.
“No.” she said, “thank you.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, picking up the book. “It’s late. You ought to be in bed. But, you can take this along.”
She hesitated, hanging back, then shyly she took the book, brought it to her side. She looked down at her feet uncertain as to where to turn.

“You live here?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“What room?”

She turned her face and nodded towards the far corner, across the courtyard, to a little room near the communal kitchen. It was the room occupied by the janitor: a small square room with no windows except for a transom above the door.
“You live with Mang Lucio?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“How long have you been here? I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

“I’ve always been here. I’ve seen you.”

“Oh. Well, good night—your name?”

“Maria.”

“Good night, Maria.”

She turned quickly, ran across the courtyard, straight to her room, and closed the door without looking back.

I undressed, turned off the light and lay in bed dreaming of far-away things. I was twenty-one and had a job for the first time. The salary was not much and I lived in a house that was slowly coming apart, but life seemed good. And in the evening when the noise of living had died down and you lay safe in bed, you could dream of better times, look back and ahead, and find that life could be gentle—even with the hardness. And afterwards, when the night had grown colder, and suddenly you felt alone in the world, adrift, caught in a current of mystery that came in the hour between sleep and waking, the vaguely frightening loneliness only brought you closer to everything, to the walls and the shadows on the walls, to the other sleeping people in the room, to everything within and beyond this house, this street, this city, everywhere.

I met Maria again one early evening, a week later, as I was coming home from the office. I saw her walking ahead of me, slowly, as if she could not be too careful, and with a kind of grownup poise that was somehow touching. But I did not know it was Maria until she stopped and I overtook her.

She was wearing a white dress that had been old many months ago. She wore a pair of brown sneakers that had been white once. She had stopped to look at the posters of pictures advertised as “Coming” to our neighborhood theater.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She smiled at me and looked away quickly. She did not say anything nor did she step away. I felt her shyness, but there was no self-consciousness, none of the tenseness and restraint of the night we first met. I stood beside her, looked at the pictures tacked to a tilted board, and tried whistling a tune.

She turned to go, hesitated, and looked at me full in the eyes. There was again that wide-eyed—and sad? —stare. I smiled, feeling a remote desire to comfort her, as if it would do any good, as if it was comfort she needed.
“I’ll return your book now,” she said.

“You’ve finished it?”

“Yes.”

We walked down the shadowed street. Magallanes Street in Intramuros, like all the other streets there, was not wide enough, hemmed in by old, mostly unpainted houses, clumsy and unlovely, even in the darkening light of the fading day.
We went into the apartment house and I followed her across the court. I stood outside the door which she closed carefully after her. She came out almost immediately and put in my hands the book of Greek myths. She did not look at me as she stood straight and remote.

“My name is Felix,” I said.

She smiled suddenly. It was a little smile, almost an unfinished smile. But, somehow, it felt special, something given from way deep inside in sincere friendship.

I walked away whistling. At the door of my room, I stopped and looked back. Maria was not in sight. Her door was firmly closed.

August, 1941, was a warm month. The hangover of summer still permeated the air, specially in Intramuros. But, like some of the days of late summer, there were afternoons when the weather was soft and clear, the sky a watery green, with a shell-like quality to it that almost made you see through and beyond, so that, watching it made you lightheaded.

I walked out of the office one day into just such an afternoon. The day had been full of grinding work—like all the other days past. I was tired. I walked slowly, towards the far side of the old city, where traffic was not heavy. On the street there were old trees, as old as the walls that enclosed the city. Half-way towards school, I changed my mind and headed for the gate that led out to Bonifacio Drive. I needed stiffer winds, wider skies. I needed all of the afternoon to myself.
Maria was sitting on the first bench, as you went up the sloping drive that curved away from the western gate. She saw me before I saw her. When I looked her way, she was already smiling that half-smile of hers, which even so told you all the truth she knew, without your asking.

“Hello,” I said. “It’s a small world.”

“What?”

“I said it’s nice running into you. Do you always come here?”

“As often as I can. I go to many places.”

“Doesn’t your uncle disapprove?”

“No. He’s never around. Besides, he doesn’t mind anything.”

“Where do you go?”

“Oh, up on the walls. In the gardens up there, near Victoria gate. D’you know?”

“I think so. What do you do up there?”

“Sit down and—”

“And what?”

“Nothing. Just sit down.”

She fell silent. Something seemed to come between us. She was suddenly far-away. It was like the first night again. I decided to change the subject.

“Look,” I said, carefully, “where are your folks?”

“You mean, my mother and father?”

“Yes. And your brothers and sisters, if any.”

“My mother and father are dead. My elder sister is married. She’s in the province. There isn’t anybody else.”

“Did you grow up with your uncle?”

“I think so.”

We were silent again. Maria had answered my questions without embarrassment. almost without emotion, in a cool light voice that had no tone.
“Are you in school, Maria?”

“Yes.”

“What grade?”

“Six.”

“How d’you like it?”

“Oh, I like it.”

“I know you like reading.”

She had no comment. The afternoon had waned. The breeze from the sea had died down. The last lingering warmth of the sun was now edged with cold. The trees and buildings in the distance seemed to flounder in a red-gold mist. It was a time of day that never failed to carry an enchantment for me. Maria and I sat still together, caught in some spell that made the silence between us right, that made our being together on a bench in the boulevard, man and girl, stranger and stranger, a thing not to be wondered at, as natural and inevitable as the lengthening shadows before the setting sun.

Other days came, and soon it was the season of the rain. The city grew dim and gray at the first onslaught of the monsoon. There were no more walks in the sun. I caught a cold.

Maria and I had become friends now, though we saw each other infrequently. I became engrossed in my studies. You could not do anything else in a city caught in the rains. September came and went.

In November, the sun broke through the now ever present clouds, and for three or four days we had bright clear weather. Then, my mind once again began flitting from my desk, to the walls outside the office, to the gardens on the walls and the benches under the trees in the boulevards. Once, while working on a particularly bad copy on the news desk, my mind scattered, the way it sometimes does and, coming together again, went back to that first meeting with Maria. And the remembrance came clear, coming into sharper focus—the electric light, the shadows around us, the stillness. And Maria, with her wide-eyed stare, the lost look in her eyes…

IN December, I had a little fever. On sick leave, I went home to the province. I stayed three days. I felt restless, as if I had strayed and lost contact with myself. I suppose you got that way from being sick,
A pouring rain followed our train all the way back to Manila. Outside my window, the landscape was a series of dissolved hills and fields. What is it in the click of the wheels of a train that makes you feel gray inside? What is it in being sick, in lying abed that makes you feel you are awake in a dream, and that you are just an occurrence in the crying grief of streets and houses and people?
In December, we had our first air-raid practice.
I came home one night through darkened streets, peopled by shadows. There was a ragged look to everything, as if no one and nothing cared any more for appearances.
I reached my room just as the siren shrilled. I undressed and got into my old clothes. It was dark, darker than the moment after moon-set. I went out on the corridor and sat in a chair. All around me were movements and voices. anonymous and hushed, even when they laughed.
I sat still, afraid and cold.
“Is that you. Felix?”
“Yes. Maria.”
She was standing beside my chair, close to the wall. Her voice was small and disembodied in the darkness. A chill went through me, She said nothing more for a long time.
“I don’t like the darkness,” she said.
“Oh, come now. When you sleep, you turn the lights off, don’t you?”
“It’s not like this darkness,” she said, softly. “It’s all over the world.”
We did not speak again until the lights went on. Then she was gone.
The war happened not long after.
At first, everything was unreal. It was like living on a motion picture screen, with yourself as actor and audience. But the sounds of bombs exploding were real enough, thudding dully against the unready ear.
In Intramuros, the people left their homes the first night of the war. Many of them slept in the niches of the old walls the first time they heard the sirens scream in earnest. That evening, I returned home to find the apartment house empty. The janitor was there. My cousin who worked in the army was there. But the rest of the tenants were gone.
I asked Mang Lucio, “Maria?”
“She’s gone with your aunt to the walls.” he told me. “They will sleep there tonight.”
My cousin told me that in the morning we would transfer to Singalong. There was a house available. The only reason he was staying, he said, was because they were unable to move our things. Tomorrow that would be taken care of immediately.
“And you, Mang Lucio?”
“I don’t know where I could go.”
We ate canned pork and beans and bread. We slept on the floor, with the lights swathed in black cloth. The house creaked in the night and sent off hollow echoes. We slept uneasily.
I woke up early. It was disquieting to wake up to stillness in that house which rang with children’s voices and laughter the whole day everyday. In the kitchen, there were sounds and smells of cooking.
“Hello,” I said.
It was Maria, frying rice. She turned from the stove and looked at me for a long time. Then, without a word, she turned back to her cooking.
“Are you and your uncle going away?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he not tell you?”
“No.”
“We’re moving to Singalong.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, anyway, I’ll come back tonight. Maybe this afternoon. We’ll not have to say goodbye till then.”
She did not say anything. I finished washing and went back to my room. I dressed and went out.
At noon, I went to Singalong to eat. All our things were there already, and the folks were busy putting the house in order. As soon as I finished lunch, I went back to the office. There were few vehicles about. Air-raid alerts were frequent. The brightness of the day seemed glaring. The faces of people were all pale and drawn.
In the evening, I went back down the familiar street. I was stopped many times by air-raid volunteers. The house was dark. I walked back to the street. I stood for a long time before the house. Something did not want me to go away just yet. A light burst in my face. It was a volunteer.

“Do you live here?”

“I used to. Up to yesterday. I’m looking for the janitor.”

“Why, did you leave something behind?”

“Yes, I did. But I think I’ve lost it now.”

“Well, you better get along, son. This place, the whole area. has been ordered evacuated. Nobody lives here anymore.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Nobody.”

2.)I Sing

                                         by Imelda Morales Aznar

I sing because of your heart-shaped hands, I sing
Because of the folds in your skin. They catch
My kisses the way leaves drink sunshine and I sing
Because you’re fragrant as a dream

Of cotton and wisps of foggy air
At dawn. Because it feels as if
I’m holding a cloud when I put your foot
On my palm, I sing.

If I put my cheek near your little lips I’m kissed
By the gentlest, sweetest breath. I sing
Because your laughter is a song whose chords
Play in my heart. Your smile, pure miracle

Blossoming before me, makes me sing.
And I’m warmed to my soul by your gentle eyes
Whose depths cradle sparks of sweet days coming,
And I sing for the perfectness of things.

3.)Juan Manalaksan

   Narrated by Anicio Pascual of Arayat, Pampanga, who heard the story from an old   Pampangan woman.

Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a brave and powerful datu who had only one son. The son was called Pedro. In the same place lived a poor wood-cutter whose name was Juan Manalaksan.

Pedro was rich, and had no work to do. He often diverted himself by hunting deer and wild boars in the forests and mountains. Juan got his living by cutting trees in the forests. One day the datu and his son went to the mountain to hunt. They took with them many dogs and guns. They did not take any food, however, 

for they felt sure of catching something to eat for their dinner. When they reached the mountain, Pedro killed a deer. By noon they had become tired and hungry, so they went to a shady place to cook their game. While he was eating, Pedro choked on a piece of meat.

The father cried out loudly, for he did not know what to do for his dying son. Juan, who was cutting wood near by, heard the shout. He ran quickly to help Pedro, and by pulling the piece of meat out of his throat he saved Pedro’s life. Pedro was grateful, and said to Juan, “To-morrow come to my palace, and I will give you a reward for helping me.” The next morning Juan set out for the palace. On his way he met an old woman, who asked him where he was going. “I am going to Pedro’s house to get my reward,” said Juan. “Do not accept any reward of money or wealth,” said the old woman, “but ask Pedro to give you the glass which he keeps in his right armpit. The glass is magical. It is as large as a peso, and has a small hole in the centre. If you push a small stick through the hole, giants who can give you anything you want will surround you.” Then the old woman left Juan, and went on her way.

As soon as Juan reached the palace, Pedro said to him, “Go to that room and get all the money you want.” But Juan answered, “I do not want you to give me any money. All I want is the glass which you keep in your right armpit.” “Very well,” said Pedro, “here it is.” glass, he hurried back home. When Juan had received the

Juan reached his hut in the woods, and found his mother starving. He quickly thought of his magic glass, and, punching a small stick through the hole in the glass, he found himself surrounded by giants. “Be quick, and get me some food for my mother!” he said to them.

For a few minutes the giants were gone, but soon they came again with their hands full of food. Juan took it and gave it to his mother; but she ate so much, that she became sick, and died. In a neighboring village ruled another powerful datu, who had a beautiful daughter. One day the datu fell very ill. As no doctor could cure him, he sent his soldiers around the country to say that the man who could cure him should have his daughter for a wife. Juan heard the news, and, relying on his charm, went to cure the datu. On his way, he asked the giants for medicine to cure the sick ruler. When he reached the palace, the datu said to him, “If I am not cured, you shall be killed.” Juan agreed to the conditions, and told the datu to swallow the medicine which he gave him. The datu did so, and at once became well again. The next morning Juan was married to the datu’s daughter. Juan took his wife to live with him in his small hut in the woods. One day he went to the forest to cut trees, leaving his wife and magic glass at home. While Juan was away in the forest, Pedro ordered some of his soldiers to go get the wood-cutter’s wife and magic glass. When Juan returned in the evening, he found wife and glass gone. One of his neighbors told him that his wife had been taken away by some soldiers. Juan was very angry, but he could not avenge himself without his magical glass. At last he decided to go to his father-in-law and tell him all that had happened to his wife. On his way there, he met an old mankukulam, who asked him where he was going. Juan did not tell her, but related to her all that had happened to his wife and glass while he was in the forest cutting trees.

The mankukulam said that she could help him. She told him to go to a certain tree and catch the king of the cats. She furthermore advised him, “Always keep the cat with you.” Juan followed her advice. One day Pedro’s father commanded his soldiers to cut off the ears of all the men in the village, and said that if any one refused to have his ears cut off, he should be placed in a room full of rats. The soldiers did as they were ordered, and in time came to Juan’s house; but, as Juan was unwilling to lose his ears, he was seized and placed in a room full of rats. But he had his cat with him all the time. As soon as he was shut up in the room, he turned his cat loose. When the rats saw that they would all be killed, they said to Juan, “If you will tie your cat up there in the corner, we will help you get whatever you want.” Juan tied his cat up, and then said to the rats, “Bring me all the glasses in this village.” The rats immediately scampered away to obey him. Soon each of them returned with a glass in its mouth. One of them was carrying the magical glass. When Juan had his charm in his hands again, he pushed a small stick through the hole in the glass, and ordered the giants to kill Pedro and his father, and bring him his wife again. Thus Juan got his wife back. They lived happily together till they died.

Juan the Poor, Who became Juan the King. Narrated by Amando Clemente, a Tagalog, who heard the story from his aunt. Once upon a time there lived in a small hut at the edge of a forest a father and son. The poverty of that family gave the son his name,–Juan the Poor.

As the father was old and feeble, Juan had to take care of the household affairs; but there were times when he did not want to work. One day, while Juan was lying behind their fireplace, his father called him, and told him to go to the forest and get some fire-wood. “Very well,” said Juan, but he did not move from his place. After a while the father came to see if his son had gone, but he found him still lying on the floor. “When will you go get that fire-wood, Juan?” “Right now, father,” answered the boy. The old man returned to his room. As he wanted to make sure, however, whether his son had gone or not, he again went to see. When he found Juan in the same position as before, he became very angry, and said,-”Juan, if I come out again and find you still here, I shall surely give you a whipping.” Juan knew well that his father would punish him if he did not go; so he rose up suddenly, took his axe, and went to the forest. When he came to the forest, he marked every tree that he thought would be good for fuel, and then he began cutting. While he was chopping at one of the trees, he saw that it had a hole in the trunk, and in the hole he saw something glistening. Thinking that there might be gold inside the hole, he hastened to cut the tree down; but a monster came out of the hole as soon as the tree fell. When Juan saw the unexpected being, he raised his axe to kill the monster. Before giving the blow, he exclaimed, “Aha! Now is the time for you to die.” The monster moved backward when it saw the blow ready to fall, and said,–

“Good sir, forbear, And my life spare, If you wish a happy life And, besides, a pretty wife.”

Juan lowered his axe, and said, “Oho! is that so?” “Yes, I swear,” answered the monster. “But what is it, and where is it?” said Juan, raising his axe, and feigning to be angry, for he was anxious to get what the monster promised him. The monster told Juan to take from the middle of his tongue a white oval stone. From it he could ask for and get whatever he wanted to have. Juan opened the monster’s mouth and took the valuable stone. Immediately the monster disappeared. The young man then tested the virtues of his charm by asking it for some men to help him work. As soon as he had spoken the last word of his command, there appeared many persons, some of whom cut down trees, while others carried the wood to his house. When Juan was sure that his house was surrounded by piles of fire-wood, he dismissed the men, hurried home, and lay down again behind the fireplace.

He had not been there long, when his father came to see if he had done his work. When the old man saw his son stretched out on the floor, he said, “Juan have we fire-wood now?” “Just look out of the window and see, father!” said Juan. Great was the surprise of the old man when he saw the large piles of wood about his house. The next day Juan, remembering the pretty wife of which the monster had spoken, went to the king’s palace, and told the king that he wanted to marry his daughter. The king smiled scornfully when he saw the rustic appearance of the suitor, and said, “If you will do what I shall ask you to do, I will let you marry my daughter.” “What are your Majesty’s commands for me?” said Juan. “Build me a castle in the middle of the bay; but know, that, if it is not finished in three days’ time, you lose your head,” said the king sternly. Juan promised to do the work. Two days had gone by, yet Juan had not yet commenced his work. For that reason the king believed that Juan did not object to losing his life; but at midnight of the third day, Juan bade his stone build a fort in the middle of the bay. The next morning, while the king was taking his bath, cannon-shots were heard. After a while Juan appeared before the palace, dressed like a prince. When he saw the king, he said, “The fort is ready for your inspection.” “If that is true, you shall be my son-in-law,” said the king. After breakfast the king, with his daughter, visited the fort, which pleased them very much.

The following day the ceremonies of Juan’s marriage with the princess Maria were held with much pomp and solemnity. Shortly after Juan’s wedding a war broke out. Juan led the army of the king his father-in-law to the battlefield, and with the help of his magical stone he conquered his mighty enemy. The defeated general went home full of sorrow. As he had never been defeated before, he thought that Juan must possess some supernatural power. When he reached home, therefore, he issued a proclamation which stated that any one who could get Juan’s power for him should have one-half of his property as a reward. A certain witch, who knew of Juan’s secret, heard of the proclamation. She flew to the general, and told him that she could do what he wanted done. On his agreeing, she flew to Juan’s house one hot afternoon, where she found Maria alone, for Juan had gone out hunting. The old woman smiled when she saw Maria, and said, “Do you not recognize me, pretty Maria? I am the one who nursed you when you were a baby.”

The princess was surprised at what the witch said, for she thought that the old woman was a beggar. Nevertheless she believed what the witch told her, treated the repulsive woman kindly, and offered her cake and wine; but the witch told Maria not to go to any trouble, and ordered her to rest. So Maria lay down to take a siesta. With great show of kindness, the witch fanned the princess till she fell asleep. While Maria was sleeping, the old woman took from underneath the pillow the magical stone, which Juan had forgotten to take along with him. Then she flew to the general, and gave the charm to him. He, in turn, rewarded the old woman with one-half his riches. Meanwhile, as Juan was enjoying his hunt in the forest, a huge bird swooped down on him and seized his horse and clothes.

When the bird flew away, his inner garments were changed back again into his old wood-cutter’s clothes. Full of anxiety at this ill omen, and fearing that some misfortune had befallen his wife, he hastened home on foot as best he could. When he reached his house, he found it vacant. Then he went to the king’s palace, but that too he found deserted. For his stone he did not know where to look. After a few minutes of reflection, he came to the conclusion that all his troubles were caused by the general whom he had defeated in battle. He also suspected that the officer had somehow or other got possession of his magical stone. Poor Juan then began walking toward the country where the general lived. Before he could reach that country, he had to cross three mountains. While he was crossing the first mountain, a cat came running after him, and knocked him down. He was so angry at the animal, that he ran after it, seized it, and dashed its life out against a rock. When he was crossing the second mountain, the same cat appeared and knocked him down a second time. Again Juan seized the animal and killed it, as before; but the same cat that he had killed twice before tumbled him down a third time while he was crossing the third mountain. Filled with curiosity, Juan caught the animal again: but, instead of killing it this time, he put it inside the bag he was carrying, and took it along with him. After many hours of tiresome walking, Juan arrived at the castle of the general, and knocked at the door. The general asked him what he wanted. Juan answered, “I am a poor beggar, who will be thankful if I can have only a mouthful of rice.” The general, however, recognized Juan. He called his servants, and said, “Take this wretched fellow to the cell of rats.” The cell in which Juan was imprisoned was very dark; and as soon as the door was closed, the rats began to bite him. But Juan did not suffer much from them; for, remembering his cat, he let it loose. The cat killed all the rats except their king, which came out of the hole last of all. When the cat saw the king of the rats, it spoke thus: “Now you shall die if you do not promise to get for Juan his magical stone, which your master has stolen.” “Spare my life, and you shall have the stone!” said the king of the rats. “Go and get it, then!” said the cat. The king of the rats ran quickly to the room of the general, and took Juan’s magical stone from the table. As soon as Juan had obtained his stone, and after he had thanked the king of the rats, he said to his stone, “Pretty stone, destroy this house with the general and his subjects, and release my father-in-law and wife from their prison.” Suddenly the earth trembled and a big noise was heard. Not long afterwards Juan saw the castle destroyed, the general and his subjects dead, and his wife and his father-in-law free.

Taking with him the cat and the king of the rats, Juan went home happily with Maria his wife and the king his father-in-law. After the death of the king, Juan ascended to the throne, and ruled wisely. He lived long happily with his lovely wife.

“Edmundo.” In Villa Amante there lived a poor widow, Merced by name, who had to work very hard to keep her only son, the infant Edmundo, alive. Her piety and industry were rewarded, however; and by the time the boy was seven years old, she was able to clothe him well and send him to school. Her brother Tonio undertook the instruction of the youth. Edmundo had a good head, and made rapid progress. (7-41) One day Merced fell sick, and, although she recovered in a short time, Edmundo decided to give up studying and to help his mother earn their living. He became a wood-cutter.

At last fortune came to him. In one of his wanderings in the forest in search of dry wood, he happened upon an enormous python. He would have fled in terror had not the snake spoken to him, to his amazement, and
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requested him to pull from its throat the stag which was choking it. He performed the service for the reptile, and in turn was invited to the cave where it lived. Out of gratitude the python gave Edmundo a magic mirror that would furnish the possessor with whatever he wanted. With the help of this charm, mother and son soon had everything they needed to make them happy.

At about this time King Romualdo of France decided to look for a husband for his daughter, the beautiful Leonora. He was unable to pick out a son-in-law from the many suitors who presented themselves; and so he had it proclaimed at a concourse of all the youths of the realm, “Whoever can fill my cellar with money before morning shall have the hand of Leonora.” Edmundo was the only one to accept the challenge, for failure to perform the task meant death. At midnight he took his enchanted mirror and commanded it to fill the king’s cellar with money. In the morning the king was astonished at the sight, but there was no way of avoiding the marriage. So Leonora became the wife of the lowly-born wood-cutter. The young couple went to Villa Amante to live. There, to astonish his wife, Edmundo had a palace built in one night. She was dumfounded to awake in the morning and find herself in a magnificent home; and when she asked him about it, he confided to her the secret of his wonderful charm. Later, to gratify the humor of the king, who visited him, Edmundo ordered his mirror to transport the palace to a seacoast town. There he and his wife lived very happily together.

One day Leonora noticed from her window two vessels sailing towards the town. Her fears and premonitions were so great, that Edmundo, to calm her, sank the ships by means of his magic power. But the sinking of these vessels brought misfortunes. Their owner, the Sultan of Turkey, learned of the magic mirror possessed by Edmundo (how he got this information is not stated), and hired an old woman to go to France in the guise of a beggar and steal the charm. She was successful in getting it, and then returned with it to her master. The Sultan then invaded France, and with the talisman, by which he called to his aid six invincible giants, conquered the country. He took the king, queen, and Leonora as captives back with him to Turkey. Edmundo was left in France to look after the affairs of the country.

Edmundo became melancholy, and at last decided to seek his wife. He left his mother and his servant behind, and took with him only a diamond ring of Leonora’s, his cat, and his dog. While walking along the seashore, wondering how he could cross the ocean, he saw a huge fish washed up on the sand. The fish requested him to drag it to the water. When Edmundo had done so, the fish told him to get on its back, and promised to carry him to Leonora. So done. The fish swam rapidly through the water, Edmundo holding his dog and cat in his breast. The dog was soon washed “overboard,” but the cat clung to him. After a ride of a day and a night, the fish landed him on a strange shore. It happened to be the coast of Turkey. Edmundo stopped at an inn, pretending to be a shipwrecked merchant. There he decided to stay for a while, and there he found
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out the situation of Leonora in this wise. Now, it happened that the Sultan used to send to this inn for choice dishes for Leonora, whom he was keeping close captive. By inquiry Edmundo learned of the close proximity of his wife, and one day he managed to insert her ring into one of the eggs that were to be taken back to her. She guessed that he was near; and, in order to communicate with him, she requested permission of the king to walk with her maid in the garden that was close by the inn. She saw Edmundo, and smiled on him; but the maid noticed the greeting, and reported it to the Sultan. The Sultan ordered the man summoned; and when he recognized Edmundo, he had him imprisoned and put in stocks. (314-350) Edmundo was now in despair, and thought it better to die than live; but his faithful cat, which had followed him unnoticed to the prison, saved him. In the jail there were many rats. That night the cat began to kill these relentlessly, until the captain of the rats, fearing that his whole race would be exterminated, requested Edmundo to tie up his cat and spare them. Edmundo promised to do so on condition that the rat bring him the small gold-rimmed mirror in the possession of the Sultan. At dawn the rat captain arrived with the mirror between its teeth. Out of gratitude Edmundo now had his mirror bring to life all the rats that had been slain. (351-366) Then he ordered before him his wife, the king, the queen, the crown and sceptre of France. All, including the other prisoners of the Sultan, were transported back to France. At the same time the Sultan’s palace and prison were destroyed. Next morning, when the Grand Sultan awoke, he was enraged to find himself outwitted; but what could he do? Even if he were able to jump as high as the sky, he could not bring back Leonora. When the French Court returned to France, Edmundo was crowned successor to the throne: the delight of every one was unbounded. The last six stanzas are occupied with the author’s leave-taking.

Groome summarizes a Roumanian-Gypsy story, “The Stolen Ox,” from Dr. Barbu Constantinescu’s collection (Bucharest, 1878), which, while but a fragment, appears to be connected with this cycle of the “Magic Ring,” and presents a curious parallel to a situation in “Edmundo:”-”… The lad serves the farmer faithfully, and at the end of his term sets off home. On his way he lights on a dragon, and in the snake’s mouth is a stag. Nine years had that snake the stag in its mouth, and been trying to swallow it, but could not because of its horns. Now, that snake was a prince; and seeing the lad, whom God had sent his way, ‘Lad,’ said the snake, ‘relieve me of this stag’s horns, for I’ve been going about nine years with it in my mouth.’ So the lad broke off the horns, and the snake swallowed the stag. ‘My lad, tie me round your neck and carry me to my father, for he doesn’t know where I am.’ So he carried him to his father, and his father rewarded him.” It is curious to see this identical situation of the hero winning his magic reward by saving some person or animal from choking appearing in Roumania and the Philippines, and in connection, too, with incidents from the “Magic Ring” cycle. The resemblance can hardly be fortuitous.

4.)Suan, The Good Guesser

Suan’s Good Luck

Narrated by Macaria Garcia. The story is popular among the Pampangans.

There was once an old woman who had an only son named Suan. Suan was a clever, sharp-witted boy. His mother sent him to school. Instead of going to school, however, Suan climbed up the tree that stood by the roadside. As soon as his mother had passed by from the market, Suan hurried home ahead of her. When she reached home, he cried, “Mother, I know what you bought in the market to-day.” He then told her, article by article. This same thing happened so repeatedly, that his mother began to believe in his skill as a diviner.

One day the ring of the datu’s daughter disappeared. All the people in the locality searched for it, but in vain. The datu called for volunteers to find the lost ring, and he offered his daughter’s hand as a prize to the one who should succeed. Suan’s mother heard of the proclamation. So she went to the palace and presented Suan to the datu. “Well, Suan, tomorrow tell me where the ring is,” said the datu. “Yes, my lord, I will tell you, if you will give your soldiers over to me for tonight,” Suan replied. “You shall have everything you need,” said the datu.

That evening Suan ordered the soldiers to stand around him in a semicircle. When all were ready, Suan pointed at each one of them, and said, “The ring is here, and nowhere else.” It so happened that Suan fixed his eyes on the guilty soldier, who trembled and became pale. “I know who has it,” said Suan. Then he ordered them to retire. Late in the night this soldier came to Suan, and said, “I will get the ring you are in search of, and will give it to you if you will promise me my safety.” “Give it to me, and you shall be safe,” said Suan.

Very early the next morning Suan came to the palace with a turkey in his arms. “Where is the ring?” the datu demanded. “Why, sir, it is in this turkey’s intestines,” Suan replied. The turkey was then killed, and the ring was found inside it. “You have done very well, Suan. Now you shall have my daughter’s hand,” said the datu. So Suan became the princess’s husband.

One day the datu proposed a bet with anyone who wished to prove Suan’s skill. Accordingly another datu came. He offered to bet seven cascos of treasure that Suan could not tell the number of seeds that were in his orange. Suan did not know what to do. At midnight he went secretly to the cascos. Here he heard their conversation, and from it he learned the number of seeds in the orange. In the morning Suan said boastfully, “I tell you, your orange has nine seeds.” Thus Suan won the whole treasure. Hoping to recover his loss, the datu came again. This time he had with him fourteen cascos full of gold. He asked Suan to tell him what was inside his golden ball. Suan did not know what to say. So in the dead of night he went out to the cascos, but he could learn nothing there. The next morning Suan was summoned into the presence of the two datus. He had no idea whatever as to what was in the ball; so he said scornfully, “Nonsense!” “That is right, that is right!” shouted a man. “The ball contains nine cents.” Consequently Suan won the fourteen cascos full of gold. From now on, nobody doubted Suan’s merit.

5.)Youth 

by: Maximo D. Ramos

These have known the tingling freshness
Of the coming forth from God;
The sweetness of mother's breast
The ringing sinewiness of growth,
The feel of the loved one's cheek, the song
Of April suns and showers...

And these will know
The quiet dimming down of age
And the silent wonder
of going back
to God.