EXILIUM REX

Chapter 8

Angelo and Gemma: A Love Backstory (Part 3)

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How much would it sell?

Like a professional gemsmith, the Subanon mountain guide carefully took out the relic he had covered with a face towel. With slow deliberation, he uncovered the towel and upon completion of this simple task, he brushed off some of the dirt which blurred the seven symbols on the shaft of the ancient comb. He was wrong, of course. The seven symbols were actually drawings. Crude illustrations of what looked like, on initial discernment, seven grains of rice arrayed horizontally on one face of the shaft. But, as usual, Mang Kanor was more absorbed in evaluating the more precious parts of the relic (albeit the comb itself appeared to be made of pure copper): inlays of pearl, rare jade, exquisite emerald. If only Mang Kanor Manlavi had bothered to turn over the comb, he would have seen the symbol at the other side of the shaft, a simple red triangular flag of a kingdom whose base at the left hand side and vertex angle at the right hand side are horizontally aligned, which would easily set the value of the relic he currently possessed in his hands as utterly and historically priceless.  

But how much would it sell?

This was the only question which kept swirling around and around Mang Kanor’s head at the moment. The hell with the curse of the Lai! This is already sure money! Who cares anymore about leaving everything you see or do here? How much would this old gaddam comb sell?

When Nicanor Segovia Manlavi was maybe as young as his inaanak, Angelo, he had heard and had listened well to the stories about the Lai Mabinta-Nong from his father. Strange stories.

“Ay, kayerëp! Mayad ngani intabangan pa kita dire! Diyaskeng batang ire!”

“What, Kano?”

Mang Kanor pretty well knew already the measure of Angelo’s knowledge with regards to their native language. But, of course, he dared not scare the lad off and compromise his day’s compensation from his inaanak. And with a bonus find to boot. This time, he cleared his throat and lowered his croaked voice, “Nothing. I may be wrong, you know.”

Wrong with what? Wrong with whom? Angelo shook his head and was really considering just taking off to hike down solo back to camp. For all he knew, they dug the decaying entrails of the lobo’s long-deceased prey. Not bones, teeth or skin. And, certainly, not an actual WWII remnant.

The old man repeated his words. “I may be wrong.”

After all, when was the last time Kano’s gut instincts lied to him? And in his face? His ebon-tinted eyes might fail him now and then due to his senior years, but Mang Kanor also knew he could be more than correct if he wanted himself to be. No one would be the wiser. After all, he is a certified forest guide, is he not?

This is exactly the thing tourists, whether local or foreign, paid him for.

It’s a gift.

It’s work.

Is he not from the clan of the Manlavi from Suba who had fought for their rights to live on this part of the Suyo lowlands?

It’s a legacy bequeathed to him by his ancestors. It’s a gift. It’s work.

And, right now, only the old man of the mountains knew it’s perfectly s**t.

“Wait, Kano, don’t move!”

Here he goes again – Mang Kanor mumbled to himself. Just like Angelo’s best friend Alfredo Apostol’s father. Who, in turn, was Mang Kanor’s best friend forever – or so, it seemed.

While the young man tried to adjust the long scope lens of his shooting device, Kano paced the perimeter where the wild grassland ended into the thicket. One moment later, he decided to merely settle down under a large acacia tree’s shade in a lotus position. As he saw Angelo virtually fumble with himself, Kano carefully watched the lad’s familiar spineless posture. It reminded him of a past friendship sealed with so much honor; only to be broken by so much as the love of a good woman.

Alfredo Apostol’s father – Rafael, a sole heir of the Fernandezes who owned vast tracts of Subanon farmland – had been more than a good-bearing person. Two years ago, when Kano learned of his best friend’s tragic death and, later, on a perfectly calm evening as he slept between his own world of dreams and nightmares, his beloved Manengkal had to nudge him, shake him hard to awaken him. How he had lain on her wife’s arms that darkest of night; eyes glazed with a boy’s tears, sobbing. Begging almost for Rafael’s animal-spirit to cast him to the Lai Mabinta-Nong’s own predation, but to spare their good woman Manengkal.

“Hey, kid! Got any cigarette with you?”

“I’m sorry, Kano, I don’t smoke. But if you’d like, I’d buy a pack for you later.”

Kano signaled the young man to forget it, then mumbled to himself again – Figures… Just like his best friend Rafael. Irrepressibly good-bearing. Gullible. And boring. 

But still, not quite like Rafael.

Stubborn, yet not stubborn enough.

Man, yet not man enough.

Mang Kanor sighed – For so much as the love of a good woman.

The Subanon guide thought the swelling afternoon heat and hunger past itself must be unfurling its sway over his old, blunted senses. His recollection of the last few days with Manengkal before he left their place appeared to be blurred by the usual pettiness of his senior moments, sober monologues and other things besides.

“If there really is the Lai in the Suyo islands, Kano, then that would definitely be you!”

His woman never minced her words, especially when it came to how she felt.

“I’ve done nothing to you, Nicanor, except what you have already done to yourself!”

The old man knew what his beloved meant.

And did it hurt.

Not bearing a child for her. Not settling his differences with Rafael, before his friend set sail to Manila in the guise of finding fate and fortune. Not being able to settle his score with the eternal Guardian of the Old Jar the forest, the legendary Virgen dela Monte; the greatest challenge which could’ve meant a substantial reward then. And now? Substantial enough to make Mang Kanor king of the sunset islands.

Yet not king enough.

Worse, not being able to provide for Manengkal’s other basic needs.

And so Kano had to contend with a good woman’s ire, which reasonably and often landed on her empty hands; where such anger might be knotting itself as useful only as bare fists could be.

Kano imagined that Manengkal’s words might have been the better of any choice. He often thought words would never be enough to kill him or m**m him or dislodge him from his throne; even if these shrapnels of the woman’s imagination would want to.

No. Not nasty words.

Not even the cruel ones.

And so Kano fought back.

“Woman, you’ve done nothing to me because you yourself are nothing! Nothing!”

The old man had had his own way with words. Turning phrases; making idioms. After all, this is exactly the thing tourists, whether local or foreign, paid him for.

“Uy, Kano, look what I found!”

The Subanon guide immediately rose and came to look at what the young man had found.

“Where did you get that?”

Angelo pointed somewhere next to the hole they dug around earlier, where they found the comb.

“What is it?”

“A broken-off piece from a lantakan maybe. Maybe Spanish period. Yes, maybe. Akën den dan.”