EXILIUM REX

Chapter 1

A Time for Care, a Time for Imagination

In a time when gods were mountains and mountains were gods, Yno, third child of the firebuilder, Oflodor, and the keeper of the comb, Lerma, was worded into origin. It was time for truth, but it was also time for imagination.

To Oflodor, truth was first evoked in the seaside hills of Virgen dela Monte by the ancestors of his highland tribe, the Panggadong. It took a volcanic mountain of imagination for Oflodor to set that truth aside and hide it from the pearl-beaded eyes of his betrothed from the Suyonon lowlands, Lerma.

Lerma had already bore Oflodor two of Panggadong’s finest maroon warriors, a male and a female, who had gone on to lead the tribe’s many campaigns against their supposed enemies from within and without; and who, according to the customs and rituals of both their tribes, grew up to be of equal bearing in each of their respective personages as both the welcome and respected son and daughter of Panggadong and Suyonon. Then came Yno, whom the mountain gods favored more for whatever reason and whom the lowland chiefs of Suyonon regarded, in no lesser degree, as an unwanted outsider.

For peace to reign, therefore, no matter how fragile between the two tribes, Oflodor well understood that while it was time for truth, it was also time for great imagination.

From here on in, the gifted highlander well understood that he, Lerma, their newborn Yno and his siblings Gonnam and Immi, would have to muster the strength and creativity for everything a family had to do and for everyone a family had to be to orchestrate their escape. For Oflodor, the days of searching his own heart and soul must now surcease.

Within a few moments past midnight, and with the spirit of slumber still ever evasive from the firebuilder, he vaguely heard and saw from outside the small peering gaps between the bamboo wall cladding of the nipa hut, an odd-numbered rain to end the season unexpectedly played: the siyam-siyam.

For the coming days, he calculated most of the marauders south of the Sea of Light would be preparing for their next incursion. It would be the perfect cover. The other freemen as well as their dedengs would all be away well into the week’s cessation of the Lai Mabinta-Nong. The ground would be exceedingly muddy and piled because of the down- and upslides from the awkwardly angled ridges of the highlands. Indeed, this time, time would be his excuse. His reprieve from the inclusive Langalan! Within this chrysalis, Oflodor was sure he should be able to bring his newborn son, worded into origin by the gods of the mountains, the builder of fire was sure he should be able to bring his newborn to – metamorphosis.

Amid the soft light of the old gas lamp placed in the center of a dulang, Oflodor stared at Lerma asleep in their bed, with Yno warmly nested in a mother’s wrapped arms. Awhile ago, the baby’s freshly written cry reverbed, which made the weary motherling shudder while bending a bit to tenderly roll Yno back to a nodding sleep.

There is no other choice – Oflodor kept whispering and staring at Yno’s halfclosed eyes – it has to be done.

In the ensuing silence before a storm, the mountains surrounding the bangwas wept with so much fear as they knelt before the so much anger of the gods.

Then, in one resolute action, Oflodor turned to his fire-stoker, Anggulyo, who had been sitting quietly in a dark corner of the hut all this time, successfully eluding the soft light of the old gas lamp. The firebuilder nodded his head and, at once, a shadow quickly rose from the corner darkness and niftily climbed down the ladder of the dwelling, paving the way for the motherling of Yno to return to the house of the babaylan Langalan.

*

A phalanx of star-apple trees flex their branches out into the bare path on both sides of the street, to seemingly secure the passage of a late morning visitor of the old house at number twenty-one Escadilla Street. There is a considerable latency between the stranger’s noiseless march onto a concrete doorstep and a prized shollie’s growling against any nearby intrusion at the other grilled façade of the gate. Minutes later, the heavy steel door cranks open and swallows up the entire furtivenss of this character.

Then, almost by intuition, the street returns to its unremarkable, mortal silence.

Once inside the main reception area of the unusually massive bungalow (the pentameter of its dome appears to occupy most of the five hundred square meters parcel of land it is situated in, leaving only a sparse space for a miniature garden exterior filled with local grass and some sickly shrubs), the outsider notices the white high walls seem to subdue the intermittent bubbles of words fuzzing out of a peculiarly excited monotone within hearing range yet still invisible. Suddenly, a noise slams the quietude.

The visitor momentarily freezes.

“Please, Mr. Apostol…” The frail but clearly unperturbed speech of the keeper of the gate and the house, Inang Maya, signals the gentleman to follow her to the lone room at the extremity of a narrow corridor adjunct to the right of the reception area. Most of the capiz windows of the venue are terribly bleached with a dark tint, while a few which are left agape attempt yet fail to draw some revealing pencils of light in. The air, too, feels very limited. There is a slight disorientation coming from the visitor with the way he walks on the wooden floor behind the old woman. The man Inang Maya summons as Mr. Apostol coughs twice, then gently coaxes himself to turn the knob, to push it wide open, and to finally walk in to meet his mysterious host.

Mr. Apostol is all but certain on how to address the aging man standing in the middle of the room to welcome him. If only he has a name to go along with the old brute’s face.

Virgen dela Monte by the ancestors of his highland tribe, the Amianan. It took a volcanic mountain of imagination for Oflodor to set that truth aside and hide it from the pearl-beaded eyes of his beloved from the lowlands of Suba, Lerma.

Lerma had already bore Oflodor two of Amianan’s finest maroon warriors, a male and a female, who had gone on to lead the tribe’s many campaigns against their supposed enemies from within and without; and who, according to the customs and rituals of both their tribes, grew up to be of equal bearing in each of their respective personages as both the welcome and respected son and daughter of Amianan and Suba. Then came Yno, however, whom the mountain gods favored more for whatever reason and whom the lowland chiefs of Suba regarded, in no lesser degree, as a new, unwanted danger.

For peace to reign, therefore, no matter how fragile it would be between the two tribes, Oflodor well understood that while it was time for truth, it was also time for great imagination.

From here on in, the gifted highlander well understood that he, Lerma, their newborn Yno and his siblings Amngon and Immi, would have to muster the strength and creativity for everything a family had to do and for everyone a family had to be to orchestrate their escape. For Oflodor, the days of searching his own heart and soul must now surcease.

Within a few moments past midnight, and with the spirit of slumber still ever evasive from the firebuilder, he vaguely heard and saw from outside the small peering gaps between the bamboo wall cladding of the nipa hut, an odd-numbered rain to end the season unexpectedly played: the siyam-siyam.

For the coming days, he calculated most of the marauders south of the Sea of Light would be preparing for their next incursion. It would be the perfect cover. The other freemen as well as their dedengs would all be away well into the week’s cessation of the Lai Mabinta-Nong, the feast of the Goddess of the Forest. The ground would be exceedingly muddy and piled because of the down- and upslides from the awkwardly angled ridges of the highlands. Indeed, this time, time would be his excuse. His reprieve from the inclusive Langalan! Within this chrysalis, Oflodor was sure he should be able to bring his newborn son, worded into origin by the gods of the mountains, the builder of fire was sure he should be able to bring his newborn to – metamorphosis.

Amid the soft light of the old oil lamp placed in the center of a dulang, Oflodor stared at Lerma asleep in their bed, with Yno warmly nested in a mother’s wrapped arms. A while ago, the baby’s freshly written cry reverbed, which made the weary motherling shudder while bending a bit to tenderly roll Yno back to a nodding sleep.

There is no other choice – Oflodor kept whispering and staring at Yno’s half-closed eyes – it has to be done.

In the ensuing silence before a storm, the mountains surrounding the bangwas wept with so much fear as he knelt before the so much anger of the gods.

Then, in one resolute action, Oflodor turned to his fire-stoker, Anggulyo, who had been sitting quietly in a dark corner of the hut all this time, successfully eluding the soft light of the old oil lamp. The firebuilder nodded his head and, at once, a shadow quickly rose from the darkness in the corner and niftily climbed down the ladder of the native dwelling.

*

A phalanx of star-apple trees flex their branches out into the bare path on both sides of the street, to seemingly secure the passage of a late morning visitor of the old house at Number 21 Escadilla Street. There is a considerable latency between the stranger’s noiseless march onto a concrete doorstep and a prized shollie’s growling against any nearby intrusion at the other grilled façade of the gate. Minutes later, the heavy steel door cranks open and swallows up the entire furtiveness of this character.

Then, almost by intuition, the street returns to its unremarkable, mortal silence.

Once inside the main reception area of the unusually massive bungalow (the pentameter of its dome appears to occupy most of the five hundred square meters parcel of land it is situated in, leaving only a sparse space for a miniature garden exterior filled with local grass and some sickly shrubs), the outsider notices the white high walls seem to subdue the intermittent bubbles of words fuzzing out of a peculiarly excited monotone within hearing range yet still invisible. Suddenly, a noise slams the quietude.

The visitor momentarily freezes.

“Please, Mr. Apostol…” The frail but clearly unperturbed speech of the keeper of the gate and the house, Inang Maya, signals the gentleman to follow her to the lone room at the extremity of a narrow corridor adjunct to the right of the reception area. The visitor obeys. Most of the capiz windows of the venue are terribly bleached with a dark tint, while the few which are left agape attempted yet failed to draw some revealing pencils of light in. The air, too, feels very limited. There is a slight disorientation coming from the visitor with the way he walked on the wooden floor behind the old woman. The man Inang Maya summoned as Mr. Apostol coughs twice, then gently coaxes himself to turn the knob, to push it wide open, and finally to walk in to meet his mysterious host.

Mr. Apostol is less than certain on how to address the aging man standing in the middle of the room to welcome him. If only he had a name to go along with the old brute’s face.