MAHARLIKA and the Cursed Descendants of the Orient

Blades and Bruises

I flinch while lying on the floor when I hear my mother’s voice.

“Wake up! Your father and brother already left and they’re waiting for you in the safehouse.”

Rubbing my swollen eyes and yawning at the same time, I drag myself to stand up and put away the scattered books and paintings then return them back to the box. I tip my toe as I lay my belongings on top of the cabinet.

It’s not a surprise that I didn’t hear the reverberating sound of the gong, it happens all the time. It’s not that I’m lazy but I just want to make the most out of my little time breaking away from my reality - dreaming. Dreaming, to me, is like fortune and wealth to others.

Technically, it’s still evening. The moon, although not in its full form, is still visible and gleaming. It will take a little while before the sun takes over.

After rinsing my face, I put on my boots but don’t bother changing my clothes from last night, an oversized gray shirt and a loose-fitting pants.

“Take this,” mother says while holding an average size bag made out of weaved dried leaves. “Make sure you eat every last bit of the food I make.”

I take the bag from her hand then snuffle the delicious aroma from the inside. “I don’t remember a time anyone of us wasted food before.”

Mother laughs in a light manner then leans her face closer and kisses my cheeks. “Oh, my boy…You’re already late, you must go now.”

I nod with a smile before leaving.

Sauntering the uneven dusty ground while holding a lit torch in one hand and the bag mother gave me on the other, a sudden idle breeze smudges on my face. As I walk closer to my destination, I hear the bubbling soup inside the clay pots which are placed above fire as some of my neighbors cook their first meal of the day and the pattering of feet in different directions as others do their usual chores.

What’s exceptional today is that there are a couple of my fellow Haribons, mostly men in their 20’s and 30’s, building platforms from wood planks. The platforms are low and arrange enclosing the rocks that are laid on the ground in circular pattern. Others are removing ashes and stacking newly chopped oak woods, each layer is perpendicular to the next. Even though it’s quite far from where I stand, I still see exactly what they’re doing. There are not so many houses that could possibly block the view of the center of the island. It is designed that way since that area also serves as our training grounds.

I tread until I reach a small dark cave located in the most dangerous part of the forest where the castle guards don’t dare go due to some poisonous insects like spiders. Stretching my hand that is clutching the torch, I enter the cave. There’s a hole in the ground which is the passageway to the safehouse. This safehouse is created by our ancestors by manually digging the ground using improvised tools. It’s not easy to go there, one slip can cause a bone fracture or two. Apart from the area is unlit, I have to traverse over fifty steps down and each step is unevenly carved right from the surface below ground. The towering steels attached to the sides function as support in preventing the collapse of the land above.

One final hop and I’m in the safehouse. The ambiance is contrary to that of above. Its ceiling is decorated with gold ornaments and painted with different images of Apolaki. The long and broad hallway has oil lamps hang across the two adjacent walls to light up the space.

On its east is a door, behind it is our library where all the written rules and techniques about combatting, with or without weapons, can be found. These are the things that have been taught to us since I was 8. There are also books that discuss how to manipulate the sun’s power. Now this is the one thing I’m interested to know more about, however, this knowledge will only be shared to us at the right time. At least that’s what the elders say, nobody can tell when is that ‘right time’ going to be.

On the west side of the hallway is the most sacred part of the hideout, that is where father works as one of the swordsmiths. My eyes wander appreciating all the hardwork and efforts of these people who spend most of their days manufacturing all these blades, even though these blades will most likely go to waste. I approach my father and Sinag who offers to help him so that he could finish early and they could prepare for the ceremony.

Father heats the iron sand until it’s bendable, forges it into a block before hammering it to become thinner then fold it to make it thick again. He repeats this process for over ten times before Sinag quenches the block in the water to harden it.

I put the torch on one of the sconces, come closer and help to polish and sharpen the blocks as I promise my father. On an oiled grit sharpening stone, I run the blade back and forth switching sides after a few strokes. I’m very meticulous in applying the same amount of pressure and the same number of strokes to both edges. When the blade is sharpened to the desired standard, I carefully wipe it with a wet cloth to remove the oil residues. I stare at my reflection on the blade and feeling proud only to realize that there are twelve more to go. The good thing about it is half of these are single-edge blades, that means I don’t have to spend as much time in six other blades as I did in the first one.

It takes less time than I expect to finish my job. I pin my fingers on my upper back while rotating my arm after laying the final blade alongside hundreds of others on top of a long table. The blades vary in styles and sizes, but what stood out to me are the folding pocketknives. As I attempt to touch one of the knives, someone taps my hand.

“It’s not done yet. They still have to change the handles of these blades,” Sinag says while pointing his fingers to the far corner where the final phase of creating the knives and swords is being done.

“I know. I just wanna take a look.”

Sinag shakes his head from side to side as a sign of objection.

“Alright, I’ll do as you say,” I say, rolling my eyes.

When father finishes his work, he bids his co-workers goodbye then we head out of the safehouse to eat. It takes a bit of a walk before we reach the forefront of the forest. I put out the fire from the torch I’m holding since it’s already dawn, there’s enough light to see the surroundings.

Father takes out a blanket inside the bag mother gave earlier then lays it down on the ground. Sinag unwraps the banana leaves that serve as the container of our food and there lies six hard boiled eggs and fried tofu cut in cubes. I give each one a bowl made out of coconut shell then pour a now not-so-hot chicken porridge on it.

Father and Sinag sit on the blanket while me on an untrimmed log lounging near from where they are. Before I could even take my first sip of the porridge, father starts talking about the ceremony.

“You two must conditioned yourselves for the big event later.”

“I’m always prepared, father,” Sinag answers while chewing his food.

I don’t mind joining their conversation since I already knew I don’t have the qualities the sun’s chi is looking for. So why waste effort?

“Liyab,” father says with a monotonous tone.

I swallow my food first before I could reply. “Yes, father?”

“You’ll train with me too,” he says.

The thought of laughing crosses my mind to brush off my father’s idea but that will be awkward since he says those words with his unusual deadpan expression.

Not wanting to embarrass my father by refusing or worse not answering at all, I bob my head then veer my gaze to Sinag who gives me a thumbs up before he continues enjoying his meal.

We take a short break after eating. I am slouching on the ground while resting my back on the log I was sitting on earlier and Sinag is stretching his arms up, trying to burn all the foods he ate.

A few moments later, father stands up. “It’s time. Let’s go.”

We occupy a vacant part of the island, near from where we took our meals, since we’re not allowed to use the training ground for the time being. Some of our neighbors start their trainings earlier than we do as the clashing of blades and howling of pains cloak everything around us.

Father stands in front us then pulls out the red cloth he’s been carrying since we left the smithy. Two leathered scabbard belts and two swords c***k as he tosses the cloth to the ground. One sword has wavy sections called kalis and the other has a narrow base and protruding spikelet on its tip called kampilan.

“Choose,” father commands.

Sinag and I come closer but neither of us dare to pick a sword first.

“Go on. I’ll use whatever you don’t take,” Sinag says.

His words make any hesitation I have to subside. I pick up the kalis for the reason that it looks cooler than the kampilan. Its hilt is covered in rattan which helps improve its wielder’s grip. Its blade has some patches of rusts and both of its edges are dull. It is made this way for the sole purpose of training and avoid killing each other. Although it can’t make you bleed, it can still hurt depending on whom you’re sparring with.

“As always, you two against me,” father says.

“Understood,” Sinag and I reply.

I tie the scabbard belt around my waist, close my eyes and take a deep breath. The very moment I hear father yells ‘attack!’, I charge towards him. He blocks my punch with his palm then squeezes my hand. It hurts, but knowing father, he wouldn’t go far in fracturing me…until I hear a snap.

‘No!’

I notice nothing but seriousness in my father’s gaze. He hurls my hand then strikes my face with his forearm. My body plunges to the ground so strong that I have to gasp for air for a minute before I could move.

Forcing myself to get back up, I watch as Sinag dodges the daggers father keeps throwing at him. However, those daggers are just bait to mitigate Sinag’s attention. Father lunges forward and kicks Sinag’s abdomen. Sinag rolls on the ground, his mid-section embeds in his arms as he grits his teeth in pain.

Father has always hold back whenever he trains us but today is different. Never have I ever imagined that father would hurt the two of us.

‘Could it be?’

I try to ignore the thought that’s running to my head.

Father strides towards Sinag then grasps his shirt's collar and before father could do something else, I attack him from behind. I wallop his back with my kalis until he releases his grip on Sinag. He pulls his sword and easily halts my strike.

A sudden panic crawls up in my spine prompting me to unconsciously flip backward away from him. I step back everytime he steps forward. Sweat gush through my skin as my hands clasp the hilt of my sword so hard.

“Do you think you can take me down alone?” he asks with sharpness in his tone. “Your skills might not be enough if you’re up against someone who has more experience than you.”

I know what he means. I’ve only been training for seven years compared to him who has been training way before I was born. But we have the same thing in common, both us have never experienced a real battle – a life and death situation. What we’ve been doing all this time is to prepare for a war that no one knows when will happen.

Both father and I pause when Sinag screams. “Gyaaaaahhhh!!”

He jumps and swings his kampilan from the top of his head down to father’s shoulder. I take this chance to attack too.

The whistle of the colliding metals, the jagged breathing and the cuts and bruises all over our bodies engulf our senses. This keeps on going until my knees give up on their own, my face on the rough ground and eyes watch the two still fighting. It is only a matter of seconds when Sinag falls down too. He’s trying to stand up using his sword as a support but he’s unsuccessful.

When father realizes that he wins, he stretches both his arms to the air and thrusts them with a grin on his face. I smile thinking, despite also being worn out and in pain, father still manages to show the jolly side of him.

The three of us lie down, exhausted.

‘What now? We both lost. Does that mean we’re not oblige to be a part of the ceremony?’

Bang! Bang! Bang!

That sound makes me shut my eyes. My body still glues to the ground. This is it, the time has come.