EXILIUM REX

Chapter 4

A family of jars waits in the abode of the chief counsel of Panggadong. If the great Batijana river traversing the mountain range of the Suyo islands shall only have its reign, there shall be no more waiting. After all, patience is merely a gift of the gods for the people of this world. What rage, human or divine, shall dare intervene with the power of calling the Virgen dela Monte’s name in prayer?

But the ceremony does have its charm which even the polity of the gods would find quite entertaining.

The first of these so-called pagan rituals which should have been consummated a full moon ago is the buetec. During the buetec, more than a hundred of the Panggadong warriors shall gather in Virgen dela Monte, in a place where the sacred bangwa caves are to be found. A place still very far removed from the town proper of Suyo itself. With the guidance of their chief shaman at dusk, one or two wooden figures shall be carved, and then arrayed in rich fabric and gold jewelry. These handcarved symbols of faith in its most fatal sense shall then be offered trepan, seashells, edible birds’ nests and other morsels which are mostly found in abundance in the Sea of Light. After this part of the ceremony, seven of the bravest and strongest warriors, each holding seven handkerchiefs, shall be chosen to carry these idols; while the chief shaman playing the role of an ancient high minister, along with some of his priests shall dance in a grotesquely spirited manner before these images. The others shall later join in the frenzy. After the celebration, the idols shall be stripped and handed over to the chief shaman for safekeeping.

The more significant ritual is called the pangabas, a ceremony done, too, at dusk, days after the first harvest of the annual Panggadong calendar. During the pangabas, women shall visit a maiden’s house, preferably blood-related to the ancient high minister. Presumably they shall be carrying a basket containing seven fistfuls of cotchiam rice grain. Pinilpil or limbac shall then be cooked from the cotchiam, together with raw eggs. These then shall be offered to the ancestral spirit of the Goddess of the Forest, the Virgen del Monte. Enchantress of the Mountains. The soulkeeper of the Lai Mabinta-Nong.

After the chief shaman and his priests have fully interpreted the signs that the Panggadong Diwata has at last been appeased, the seven fistfuls of grain shall be carefully stored to seven large jars in a granary. These seven holy jars, as large as an average Panggadong warrior in a lotus position, shall then be blessed for its voyage to the heavenly vaults of the gods. A special Panggadong team of boatbuilders shall then prepare a small boat painted with oars and sails. Along with the seven holy jars, the watercraft shall be filled with gifts and provisions for the spirits. After a long pilgrimage to the shore, the ancient high minister and the entire Panggadong tribe shall then prepare to call the name of the Diwata in extreme prayer. Then, before the boat shall be set asea, the people shall sing and the shamans shall sway. The boat shall sail and sail until it has reached the horizon of its symbolism, and all the Panggadong, both the warriors and the freemen, shall then return to the warm fire of their own homes in quiet commemoration of their victory in winning again the good favor of their gods.

Indeed, no rage, human or divine, shall dare intervene with such power of calling the Diwata’s name in prayer.

And the family of jars waiting in the abode of Langalan, chief counsel and shaman of Panggadong, appears to sit in quiet agreement that there shall always be wisdom in waiting. And, hopefully, freedom in waiting for the right timing.

Suddenly, a voice in prayer emanates from the center of the main room of the abode.

More than the fear of flight is the wisdom of waiting. It is that great traveler – dawn – which bemoods, befriends our hearts and maps our views with stars and dreams. And then – more stars. And more dreams.

In between solemn and meditative sighs, chief elder Langalan ties up the final knot of the abacca rope which binds the small sack of cotchiam offering he is about to hang in the center of the bungalow's ceiling. Suddenly, a warm tone from somewhere behind his bejeweled left ear mists through the membrane of his consciousness like a stray fog in the middle of a forest. Like a shield of fumes revealing every part of the beginning ever so carefully so as not to offer even a hint of the ending.

“Ama…” Light droplets of rain begin to level down their dribblets on the thick sawali roof just as the quarenta y sais anyos ancient high minister is starting to recompose a cover story in his own mind. Not for the escape that Oflodor has hatched in the deep and dark caverns of the firebuilder’s imagination, but a cover story called – the truth. The truth of what he is feeling right now, or of what his ancestors, all of great shamanic lineage, must be intoning somewhere in the world of the spirits in order to save Langalan’s own soul seemingly destined for self-destruction. In fact, the old man is currently imagining the iron-red earth from beneath his bare feet seemingly possessed by the anima of a gory, predatory organic cesspool seething sulphuric secrets and lies to stoke his mortality to bare ashes.

“Ama…” The endemic tone of her daughter in retreat resounds to Langalan, but softer now. Much softer.

The spiritual leader of the highlands turns to confront – nay, not confront, but rather to appease – the voice.

“It is an error not for anyone, my daughter. I shall not have answered a question where there is not even one. I am sorry. But,” the elder reluctantly adds, “I shall never let Oflodor make you his dedeng, my child! But…” With head now bowed in submission, Langalan surmises it shall all be muscle memory which shall guard his language from here on in. Oh, to guard his language not only from his people, but also from his gods!

From the corner shadow of this rustic family scene where the luminescence of an oil lamp seemingly fails to yet still hits the flush of a woman’s skin, Lerma ethereally appears with her comb.