Ronoele's Tree

Bad News

Amidst that rollercoaster of emotions and stomach-turning mishap, only one person rejoiced, smiling, with no one noticing. An impish smile showed in the heartless life taker's face while reliving the macabre end of the victim’s life.

“Good morning!” a familiar voice greeted Rissa, not too distant from where she lay.

“PLEASE. Let me go!” the poor lass pled in her head.

With her mouth covered, yelling had been but a great effort. Her stomach contracted while her jugular vein bulged in the effort to shout to no avail.

“Don’t fight so hard. Because the moment my patience was cut short, this butcher knife might find its way to your throat.”

Subtle footsteps strode on the wet grass, twigs cracked beneath the captor’s feet. Squelching, splatting mud-filled Rissa’s ear as steps landed on the dew-kissed lawn. Though her vision failed her, her mind’s eyes visualized the “friend” kneeling by her side moments later.

“I don’t want to do this. But seeing you grow up to be such a weakling made me decide you don’t deserve to live.” A sly smile painted the predator’s lips as if she could see it. “It’s such a pain that you won’t be given a chance to even have a glimpse of how lovely the weather is today.”

With those words, the heartless human slashed the life out of the bounded victim.

The touch of the cold metal slowly cutting her arm made the poor girl wriggle in excruciating pain. The sound of her own flesh being torn echoed in her ears as she squealed. Her unheard agony made her deaf. The soft crack of joints being separated by a swift cut stopped her heart from beating for a second.

“That is for always hitting me when I was a child. We used to be playmates then. Do you remember that I almost broke my neck when you slapped me across the face for not picking your shoe? You should’ve used this arm to do good things and not hurt someone.”

Blood spurted from the detached arm that was still tied to the pole so as the elbow that was attached to her body. Like a wounded earthworm sprinkled with salt, she writhed in anguish as her abductor moved to do the same to her left arm.

Brief silence filled the air. Only the melody of the crickets and birds made the atmosphere lively in a nature song chorus. Then the captor spoke again. “Oh! And by the way, Felix—your father—owed me a life.”

After cutting off both her upper limbs, Rissa was abandoned as she sluggishly bled and surrender to death.

Her last words were only for her mind to listen to. Words she couldn’t utter because she was gagged. Words her murderer will never hear.

“I’m sorry. If only you have given me a chance…”

“This is horrible! It’s the first time that someone met a gruesome death here in our village,” said Olga. Her curly hair covered half of her face as she spoke to Edna, village chief Renato’s daughter. They were acquainted with Rissa, but they didn’t really get along because of the victim’s attitude. “Are those tamawo really capable of killing that way?”

“Who cares?” Edna said. “I’m not saying she deserves to die in a gruesome way, but she’s not a nice person, either. You know what I’m saying.” She shrugged her shoulders to show disinterest. She was a typical witch-look-alike with the high-bridged nose, tantalizing eyes with long lashes, and a powerful aura of boldness.

“After what she did to me, hell yeah! She left me alone in this secluded area!” Olga said.

“You don’t believe Iryang, do you?” Edna asked.

“Why would I? I mean, she looks like a con artist to me. I don’t even know if the tamawo she’s talking about really exists. Have you seen one?”

“It’s obviously not a supernatural being’s doing,” said Nana Celia, an elderly in her early seventies. “They don’t kill that way.”

She looked at the girls with foggy eyes, then looked in the tree’s direction before speaking again. “A young woman also died there at the oak tree, a long time ago,” she paused. “Her name is Ronoele.”

Nana Celia’s words made the killer clench a fist. The sound of Ronoele’s name sent pain to the crevices in the culprit’s heart, devoured by hatred while trying to hold back the tears.

“That girl,” Nana Celia continued, “was only your age when some villagers buried her in that same spot.”

“Why?” Olga asked.

“According to the stories, she’s a witch who took children to be used for her rituals, but they had no evidence.”

The girls gasped in disbelief. Edna then asked, “How did she die?”

“They buried her alive,” said Nana Celia. “That poor girl. She looked so innocent when they made her jump to the pit of her death. My heart tells me she’s not what they thought she was. I was only watching from afar, so I couldn’t really hear what she was saying then. However, according to some folks, she was cursing the village, saying she would return to claim lives.”

***

Natalie and Manolo walked away from the sea of people nosing at the oak tree.

Hand in hand, with Manolo carrying Natalie’s bag, they walked on the rough road to Natalie’s house, where her father waited.

They passed by several small houses that clustered like mushrooms in one place with mostly relatives living together. There were a few homes built in seclusion some meters away from the others. And Natalie’s house was one of those; they lived where street lights stretched, so it was still a safe distance, unlike some houses constructed near rivers and brooks.

Small clouds of dust formed under their feet as they strode.

They chatted happily while walking when a bystander whistled at Natalie, followed by a ‘hey beautiful’ as if oblivious of Manolo’s presence. Or rather, he simply ignored him. His wide lustful eyes fixed on the indigestible meal.

It was Oscar. A drunken man with a reputation of being a s****l offender. The villagers even say he would make his way to a post if he would see one with a skirt. His eyes resembled infinite lust.

He was in the middle of a drinking session, a stigma in villages in a yet- striving- for- civilization province, with his cahoots. Unemployed men like them preferred wasting their time in unproductive activity.

“Hey, sexy. Do you mind sitting with me?” Oscar deliberately asked.

“Don’t catcall my girlfriend,” Manolo lunged at him, landing a fist on his already unsightly face.

***

Natalie’s unfocused gaze searched every inch of the lawn where a house made with nipa and bamboo stood. The air smelled of freshly cut grass. Her eyes queried, ‘Father can’t do this, then who?’

Manolo gave a cough, tapped his chest as if saying ‘I did this.’

Natalie smiled and gave him a hug.

“You’re welcome,” he said as he returned her sweet embrace.

“The ants on the lawn might stir and besiege you,” the old man at the window said. “Come here, you two. I’ve been expecting you.”

Damian’s jovial tone made him look exuberant, not fragile despite the loose, wrinkled skin on his face and body. His gray hair sat on his head like pure ash scattered evenly. He was sixty-three, but way too far from getting bald. He may be in the twilight of his years, but his muscular physique left traces of his youth. His biceps and chest bulged beneath the shirt he was wearing. He still had the strength of a laborer who could till the soil in the farm manually—at least his upper torso could. He had been on crutches for several months, after accidentally walking on the wrong steps on the bamboo ladder.

The bamboo floor creaked as the young couple stepped in.

“I miss you, father,” Natalie said. She raised his hand to her forehead and hugged him tightly. Manolo did the same, too. “How have you been doing? Where’s Teddy?”

“Oh, I missed you too. Well, Teddy left for work last week. He didn’t even cut the lawn. Good thing I have Manolo to the rescue,” he said as he patted Manolo’s shoulder, making the young man even prouder.

“I haven’t really seen that brother of yours, Nat,” Manolo said, getting comfortable on the foam on top of the rattan bench.

“Forget it. You’ll probably have a hard time with him around. You might not be even given a chance to step on our lawn,” she said, laughing, handing Manolo a cup of coffee.

“You know, I could get used to it,” he said and winked at her. “How’s college?”

“It’s great, but pretty exhausting,” she said. “I’ve got tons to study, but it’s fun. I’m excited about solving crimes and—” she cut her sentence midway when Rissa’s misfortune came into view. She looked at Manolo with concern and changed the topic.

***

On his way back home, Manolo went to the oak tree. It was already cleared. Rissa’s body was brought to a funeral home. The curious crowd was back at their homes. The police officers head out of their village and back to the town to continue their investigation.

He just stood there, hearing the name Ronoele in his head. Because of what happened to his cousin, some people remembered Ronoele. The girl, who the villagers buried in the same spot Rissa was found.

“It’s been a while since they talked about you. And they probably won’t stop talking about you now,” he said to the tree.

***

Days passed, and Rissa was brought to her last resting place. Despite that, the speculations about her death were far from being forgotten just yet. After attending his cousin’s burial ceremony, Manolo sat on the porch in their house. He had been there for almost an hour when two sophisticated old ladies paid his mother a visit.

One of them wore some eloquent jewelry, a glistening pair of earrings, and a necklace, intentionally flashing them for the entire village to see. She wore make-up as if she was a city dweller. She was a walking pot of gold amidst the green space of the farmland. She was Aling Pasing.

The other old lady was just a trying-hard chaperone, who was clinging to the well of oozing pride and ego—not to mention money. She was Aling Sisa.

Lowella, Manolo’s mother, grimaced at the sight of them. They were the most uninviting feature to be seen in her lovely flower garden. But being a cordial stay-at-home parent, she welcomed their visitors. Manolo paid no attention to them as they walked into their humble abode.

“Your brother-in-law must’ve been devastated about his only daughter’s sudden, not to mention, brutal passing,” Aling Sisa started speaking upon taking a seat. Lowella nodded. She seemed uninterested in the topic. ‘Don’t these two get tired of poking their noses at other people’s business?’ she asked herself.

“Can I get you coffee? Mango juice? We have a few ripe mangoes,” Lowella asked, trying to be hospitable, avoiding the conversation.

“Either will do,” said Aling Pasing. “We won’t take long.”

Lowella walked her way to the kitchen, breathing a deep sigh of relief, being able to evade a conversation with no certain ending.

“Do you think it’s Ronoele’s ghost that killed the poor girl?” asked Aling Pasing.

“It might be. Seeing the anger in her eyes while the villagers were burying her made my skin crawl,” Aling Sisa replied.

Their murmurs rang Manolo’s ears who was outside, sitting behind them. The only division between him and them was a thin wall of weaved bamboo that can penetrate any sound coming from either side.

“The dead can’t harm the living! You don’t know the actual story, so don’t blame Ronoele,” Manolo butt in. The old ladies gasped at his sudden outburst. He couldn’t take it anymore, so he stomped his way out and went for a walk.

Lowella rushed when Manolo’s voice boomed.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know either,” Aling Pasing answered with a half-hearted smile and a raised eyebrow. Her hand grasped her chest. “Isn’t him your son? You should know better. How could I let my granddaughter marry such a disrespectful man?”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Did you just get deaf? Do you think I’ll waste my precious time dropping by to be in this—” she rolled her eyes and pointed at every corner of the house. “This poor place?” Her insulting gaze covered all parts of the humble abode. “My beloved Olga wants your son all to herself. I hope you get the message.” She smirked and turned to Sisa. “Let’s go.”

They strutted out without even taking a sip of the juice, and Lowella was left behind, stunned at the news.

“That’s a hellish nightmare,” she muttered.