A Book Buried Yesterday

Jim, a newly minted grandfather, rose before dawn. The house was dark and still, but old habits die hard—he was a fisherman, after all, and his body was used to waking up before the sun. Today’s journey was different, though. He wasn’t headed out to sea. He was going inland to their bukid (farm) to check on the harvest. He wouldn’t be making the trek alone; his longtime friend Archie was coming along, a welcome companion for the long, winding walk ahead. They packed light. A plastic jug filled with cold water, some bread for the walk, and their lunch: rice wrapped tightly in banana leaves, pork steak cooked with plenty of onions, and a small container of fish sauce, and some fresh calamansi. Jim tucked everything carefully into his canvas body bag, zipped it tight, and slung it across his shoulder. At daybreak, they boarded a tricycle, riding to the far end of town where the paved road gave up and the dirt trail began. From there, it was hours of walking on rough, rocky paths with no vehicles in sight. Jim’s plan was straightforward: reach the farm, inspect the crops, and bring a strong carabao back to help carry fruits and produce back down. Their journey started lighthearted, filled with laughter, old memories, and stories from their childhood. But as noon approached, the sun climbed higher, turning the air hot and thick. When the heat became too much to bear, they found refuge under a canopy of trees. There, sitting on the grass, they opened their banana-leaf packages and shared lunch, letting the comfortable silence between bites speak for the years they’d known each other. After a quick nap in the shade, they wiped the sweat from their faces and onward they went. But as they walked deeper into the woods, something felt... off. Jim stopped dead in his tracks, looking around. “This is a nice tree,” Jim said, pointing to a trunk ahead. “...But didn’t we pass this exact tree before?” It was an odd tree—tall, gnarled, almost perfectly shaped. Jim was sure he had seen it earlier on the trail. They pushed on, but ten minutes later, the exact same tree appeared again. A strange déjà vu crawled right up Jim’s spine. Old superstitions whispered in his ear—stories about being led in circles by things hiding in the forest. Archie brushed it off with a laugh, saying there were plenty of trees like that around here, so they kept walking. But when the trail seemed to lead nowhere, Jim stopped again. “Let’s turn our shirts inside out,” Jim said. “Maybe we’re lost.” There was no harm in honoring old beliefs . Archie shrugged, pulled off his shirt, and put it back on backward and inside out. Jim did the same. As soon as they stepped forward, the forest seemed to shift—subtle at first, like a dream slipping into place. The dense trees seemed to open up, and far in the distance, a soft, flickering light danced between the trunks. They followed it. Nestled in a small clearing was a kubo—a charming little hut made of smooth bamboo walls and a nipa roof that glowed golden in the lantern’s warm light. Gentle smoke rose from the back, carrying the mouthwatering scent of something stewing. Clean curtains hung at the open windows, a woven hammock swayed lazily between two posts, and bundles of herbs hung drying nearby. It looked peaceful—almost like a memory . Outside, an old woman knelt by a patch of herbs near the bamboo steps, her movements graceful and oddly fluid for someone her age. Her silver hair was long and loose, cascading down her back like moonlight on river water. She wore a faded but elegant house dress, the hem completely clean despite the damp soil beneath her. As she sensed their presence, she looked up—not startled, but as if she'd been expecting them all along . With a gentle smile that reached her luminous eyes, she stood and brushed her hands over her skirt, not a speck of dirt clinging to her. There was something delicate about her, timeless even, as though she belonged to the forest more than the village. She lifted a hand and waved—warmly, invitingly—like a mother calling her sons in from the cold. “Do you know her?” Jim asked quietly, leaning toward Archie. Archie squinted, his brows knitting together. “No… I work at the municipal hall—I know just about everyone in this area. I don’t recognize her. I didn’t even know there was a hut out here.” By now, their legs ached with every step, muscles sore from the endless trek. Sweat clung to their backs and soaked their collars, their shirts sticking uncomfortably to their skin. Their throats were parched, lips dry and cracked from the heat, and their stomachs had long since begun to grumble. The warm, golden glow from the hut shimmered through the trees like a beacon. It seemed to offer everything they needed in that moment—shade, rest, a glass of water, and the comforting scent of something home-cooked. The old woman smiled again, this time wider. And it felt, for a moment, like they were being welcomed home. “Good evening!” Jim greeted, taking a step forward. “Good evening. Come in,” she replied, her voice gentle, like a mother welcoming long-lost sons. Inside, the kubo was simple but unusually pristine—too pristine. A wooden table sat at the center, its surface smooth and gleaming despite its age. Two long benches stood on either side, polished by time or something else entirely. At the back, a thin curtain of embroidered fabric swayed gently, though there was no wind. The aroma that filled the air was rich and intoxicating—savory, warm, but laced with something unfamiliar. It clung to their senses, stirring both hunger and unease. Without a word, the old woman moved gracefully around the space, setting tin bowls and spoons on the wooden table with practiced care. There was no hesitation in her actions, no sign of surprise. It was as if she had known they would come all along. “I didn’t plan on guests,” she said softly, “but something told me to cook today.” They sat down on the bench. Archie grabbed a glass and gulped down two full glasses of water before lifting his spoon. Jim looked down at his bowl. He eyed the stew, puzzled by the meat. It was dark and thick—was it carabao? Horse? Monitor lizard? He couldn't tell. Archie leaned over, half-jokingly whispering in a low voice, “What if it’s human meat? They say if you squeeze calamansi on it, it moves. Like a beating heart.” Jim’s stomach turned. But then he remembered—he still had one calamansi in his body bag from their lunch. Hesitating, he unzipped the bag and pulled it out. “Look out for the old lady,” he whispered. Archie nodded, keeping his eyes glued on the doorway where she had stepped out. Jim squeezed a drop of calamansi juice onto a chunk of stew in his bowl. They both held their breath, watching closely. Nothing. The meat sat perfectly still. They both let out a sigh and chuckled quietly in relief, feeling foolish for getting scared. Then Archie, grinning, took the rest of the calamansi and squeezed every last drop onto his own plate. The laughter stopped. The piece of meat on Archie's plate twitched. Then it pulsed. Once. Twice. It moved like something alive. A terror-filled scream tore from their lungs. Bolting out the door without looking back, they ran blindly into the thickening dusk. They tore through branches, mud, and brush until a swinging lantern’s light appeared ahead. “Jim! Archie!” called a voice. It was Adyong, the bukid caretaker, who had been waiting for them for hours. Safe inside Adyong's hut, breathless and shaking, they told him everything. Adyong went pale. “They say some people from the Visayas came here a long time ago. But they weren’t like us. Strange folks. Not real people. They lure travelers by offering exactly what they crave—water, food, rest, things they wish for. And once you accept… you never leave. Not really.” A heavy, suffocating silence settled in the room. Jim and Archie didn’t sleep that night. Not a blink. When the rooster crowed, they stepped outside, shaken but alive—though neither could say for certain if they’d truly made it back. And from that day on, no matter how hungry they were…neither of them ever touched stew again. Not even when it was offered. Not even when it smelled just like hers.