A Night in the Hills
HOW Gerardo
Luna came by his dream no one could have told, not even he. He was a salesman
in a jewelry store on Rosario street and had been little else. His job he had
inherited from his father, one might say; for his father before him had leaned
behind the self-same counter, also solicitous, also short-sighted and thin of
hair.
After office
hours, if he was tired, he took the street car to his home in Intramuros. If he
was feeling well, he walked; not frequently, however, for he was frail of
constitution and not unduly thrifty. The stairs of his house were narrow and
dark and rank with characteristic odors from a Chinese sari-sari store which
occupied part of the ground floor.
He would sit
down to a supper which savored strongly of Chinese cooking. He was a fastidious
eater. He liked to have the courses spread out where he could survey them all.
He would sample each and daintily pick out his favorite portions—the wing tips,
the liver, the brains from the chicken course, the tail-end from the fish. He
ate appreciatively, but rarely with much appetite. After supper he spent quite
a time picking his teeth meditatively, thinking of this and that. On the verge
of dozing he would perhaps think of the forest.
For his dream
concerned the forest. He wanted to go to the forest. He had wanted to go ever
since he could remember. The forest was beautiful. Straight-growing trees.
Clear streams. A mountain brook which he might follow back to its source up
among the clouds. Perhaps the thought that most charmed and enslaved him was of
seeing the image of the forest in the water. He would see the infinitely far
blue of the sky in the clear stream, as in his childhood, when playing in his
father’s azotea, he saw in the water-jars an image of the sky and of the pomelo
tree that bent over the railing, also to look at the sky in the jars.
Only once did
he speak of this dream of his. One day, Ambo the gatherer of orchids came up
from the provinces to buy some cheap ear-rings for his wife’s store. He had
proudly told Gerardo that the orchid season had been good and had netted him
over a thousand pesos. Then he talked to him of orchids and where they were to
be found and also of the trees that he knew as he knew the palm of his hand. He
spoke of sleeping in the forest, of living there for weeks at a time. Gerardo
had listened with his prominent eyes staring and with thrills coursing through
his spare body. At home he told his wife about the conversation, and she was
interested in the business aspect of it.
“It would be
nice to go with him once,” he ventured hopefully.
“Yes,” she
agreed, “but I doubt if he would let you in on his business.”
“No,” he
sounded apologetically. “But just to have the experience, to be out.”
“Out?”
doubtfully.
“To be out of
doors, in the hills,” he said precipitately.
“Why? That
would be just courting discomfort and even sickness. And for nothing.”
He was
silent.
He never
mentioned the dream again. It was a sensitive, well-mannered dream which
nevertheless grew in its quiet way. It lived under Gerardo Luna’s pigeon chest
and filled it with something, not warm or sweet, but cool and green and
murmurous with waters.
He was under
forty. One of these days when he least expected it the dream would come true.
How, he did not know. It seemed so unlikely that he would deliberately contrive
things so as to make the dream a fact. That would he very difficult.
Then his wife
died.
And now, at
last, he was to see the forest. For Ambo had come once more, this time with
tales of newly opened public land up on a forest plateau where he had been
gathering orchids. If Gerardo was interested—he seemed to be—they would go out
and locate a good piece. Gerardo was interested—not exactly in land, but Ambo
need not be told.
He had big
false teeth that did not quite fit into his gums. When he was excited, as he
was now, he spluttered and stammered and his teeth got in the way of his words.
“I am leaving
town tomorrow morning.” he informed Sotera. “Will—”
“Leaving
town? Where are you going?”
“S-someone is
inviting me to look at some land in Laguna.”
“Land? What
are you going to do with land?”
That question
had never occurred to him.
“Why,” he
stammered, “Ra-raise something, I-I suppose.”
“How can you
raise anything! You don’t know anything about it. You haven’t even seen a
carabao!”
“Don’t
exaggerate, Ate. You know that is not true.”
“Hitched to a
carreton, yes; but hitched to a plow—”
“Never mind!”
said Gerardo patiently. “I just want to leave you my keys tomorrow and ask you
to look after the house.”
“Who is this
man you are going with?”
“Ambo, who
came to the store to buy some cheap jewelry. His wife has a little business in
jewels. He suggested that I—g-go with him.”
He found
himself then putting the thing as matter-of-factly and plausibly as he could.
He emphasized the immense possibilities of land and waxed eloquently over the
idea that land was the only form of wealth that could not he carried away.
“Why,
whatever happens, your land will be there. Nothing can possibly take it away.
You may lose one crop, two, three. Que importe! The land will still he there.”
Sotera said
coldly, “I do not see any sense in it. How can you think of land when a
pawnshop is so much more profitable? Think! People coming to you to urge you to
accept their business. There’s Peregrina. She would make the right partner for
you, the right wife. Why don’t you decide?”
“If I marry
her, I’ll keep a pawnshop—no, if I keep a pawnshop I’ll marry her,” he said
hurriedly.
He knew quite
without vanity that Peregrina would take him the minute he proposed. But he
could not propose. Not now that he had visions of himself completely made over,
ranging the forest at will, knowing it thoroughly as Ambo knew it, fearless,
free. No, not Peregrina for him! Not even for his own sake, much less Sotera’s.
Sotera was
Ate Tere to him through a devious reckoning of relationship that was not
without ingenuity. For Gerardo Luna was a younger brother to the former
mistress of Sotera’s also younger brother, and it was to Sotera’s credit that
when her brother died after a death-bed marriage she took Gerardo under her
wings and married him off to a poor relation who took good care of him and
submitted his problem as well as her own to Sotera’s competent management. Now
that Gerardo was a widower she intended to repeat the good office and provide
him with another poor relation guaranteed to look after his physical and
economic well-being and, in addition, guaranteed to stay healthy and not die on
him. “Marrying to play nurse to your wife,” was certainly not Sotera’s idea of
a worthwhile marriage.
This time,
however, he was not so tractable. He never openly opposed her plans, but he
would not commit himself. Not that he failed to realize the disadvantages of
widowerhood. How much more comfortable it would be to give up resisting, marry
good, fat Peregrina, and be taken care of until he died for she would surely
outlive him.
But he could
not, he must not. Uncomfortable though he was, he still looked on his
widowerhood as something not fortuitous, but a feat triumphantly achieved. The
thought of another marriage was to shed his wings, was to feel himself in a
small, warm room, while overhead someone shut down on him an opening that gave
him the sky.
So to the
hills he went with the gatherer of orchids.
AMONG the
foothills noon found them. He was weary and wet with sweat.
“Can’t we get
water?” he asked dispiritedly.
“We are
coming to water,” said Ambo. “We shall be there in ten minutes.”
Up a huge
scorched log Ambo clambered, the party following. Along it they edged
precariously to avoid the charred twigs and branches that strewed the ground.
Here and there a wisp of smoke still curled feebly out of the ashes.
“A new
kaingin,” said Ambo. “The owner will be around, I suppose. He will not be going
home before the end of the week. Too far.”
A little
farther they came upon the owner, a young man with a cheerful face streaked and
smudged from his work. He stood looking at them, his two hands resting on the
shaft of his axe.
“Where are
you going?” he asked quietly and casually. All these people were casual and
quiet.
“Looking at
some land,” said Ambo. “Mang Gerardo is from Manila. We are going to sleep up
there.”
He looked at
Gerardo Luna curiously and reviewed the two porters and their load. An
admiring look slowly appeared in his likeable eyes.
“There is a
spring around here, isn’t there? Or is it dried up?”
“No, there is
still water in it. Very little but good.”
They
clambered over logs and stumps down a flight of steps cut into the side of the
hill. At the foot sheltered by an overhanging fern-covered rock was what at
first seemed only a wetness. The young man squatted before it and lifted off a
mat of leaves from a tiny little pool. Taking his tin cup he cleared the
surface by trailing the bottom of the cup on it. Then he scooped up some of the
water. It was cool and clear, with an indescribable tang of leaf and rock. It seemed
the very essence of the hills.
He sat with
the young man on a fallen log and talked with him. The young man said that he
was a high school graduate, that he had taught school for a while and had laid
aside some money with which he had bought this land. Then he had got married,
and as soon as he could manage it he would build a home here near this spring.
His voice was peaceful and even. Gerardo suddenly heard his own voice and was
embarrassed. He lowered his tone and tried to capture the other’s quiet.
That house
would be like those he had seen on the way—brown, and in time flecked with
gray. The surroundings would be stripped bare. There would be san franciscos
around it and probably beer bottles stuck in the ground. In the evening the
burning leaves in the yard would send a pleasant odor of smoke through the two
rooms, driving away the mosquitoes, then wandering out-doors again into the
forest. At night the red fire in the kitchen would glow through the door of the
batalan and would be visible in the forest,
The forest
was there, near enough for his upturned eyes to reach. The way was steep, the
path rising ruthlessly from the clearing in an almost straight course. His eyes
were wistful, and he sighed tremulously. The student followed his gaze upward.
Then he said,
“It must take money to live in Manila. If I had the capital I would have gone
into business in Manila.”
“Why?”
Gerardo was surprised.
“Why—because
the money is there, and if one wishes to fish he must go where the fishes are.
However,” he continued slowly after a silence, “it is not likely that I shall
ever do that. Well, this little place is all right.”
They left the
high school graduate standing on the clearing, his weight resting on one foot,
his eyes following them as they toiled up the perpendicular path. At the top of
the climb Gerardo sat on the ground and looked down on the green fields far
below, the lake in the distance, the clearings on the hill sides, and then on
the diminishing figure of the high school graduate now busily hacking away,
making the most of the remaining hours of day-light. Perched above them all, he
felt an exhilaration in his painfully drumming chest.
Soon they
entered the dim forest.
Here was the
trail that once was followed by the galleon traders when, to outwit those that
lay in wait for them, they landed the treasure on the eastern shores of Luzon,
and, crossing the Cordillera on this secret trail, brought it to Laguna. A
trail centuries old. Stalwart adventurers, imperious and fearless, treasure
coveted by others as imperious and fearless, carriers bent beneath burden
almost too great to bear—stuff of ancient splendors and ancient griefs.
ON his bed of
twigs and small branches, under a roughly contrived roof Gerardo lay down that
evening after automatically crossing himself. He shifted around until at last
he settled into a comfortable hollow. The fire was burning brightly, fed
occasionally with dead branches that the men had collected into a pile. Ambo
and the porters were sitting on the black oilcloth that had served them for a
dining table. They sat with their arms hugging their knees and talked together
in peaceable tones punctuated with brief laughter. From where he lay Gerardo
Luna could feel the warmth of the fire on his face.
He was
drifting into deeply contented slumber, lulled by the even tones of his
companions. Voices out-doors had a strange quality. They blended with the wind,
and, on its waves, flowed gently around and past one who listened. In the haze
of new sleep he thought he was listening not to human voices, but to something
more elemental. A warm sea on level stretches of beach. Or, if he had ever
known such a thing, raindrops on the bamboos.
He awoke
uneasily after an hour or two. The men were still talking, but intermittently.
The fire was not so bright nor so warm.
Ambo was
saying:
“Gather more
firewood. We must keep the fire burning all night. You may sleep. I shall wake
up once in a while to put on more wood.”
Gerardo was
reassured. The thought that he would have to sleep in the dark not knowing
whether snakes were crawling towards him was intolerable. He settled once more
into light slumber.
The men
talked on. They did not sing as boatmen would have done while paddling their
bancas in the dark. Perhaps only sea-folk sang and hill-folk kept silence. For
sea-folk bear no burdens to weigh them down to the earth. Into whatever
wilderness of remote sea their wanderer’s hearts may urge them, they may load
their treasures in sturdy craft, pull at the oar or invoke the wind, and raise
their voices in song. The depths of ocean beneath, the height of sky above, and
between, a song floating out on the darkness. A song in the hills would only
add to the lonesomeness a hundredfold.
He woke up
again feeling that the little twigs underneath him had suddenly acquired
uncomfortable proportions. Surely when he lay down they were almost
unnoticeable. He raised himself on his elbow and carefully scrutinized his mat
for snakes. He shook his blanket out and once more eased himself into a new and
smoother corner. The men were now absolutely quiet, except for their snoring.
The fire was burning low. Ambo evidently had failed to wake up in time to feed
it.
He thought of
getting up to attend to the fire, but hesitated. He lay listening to the forest
and sensing the darkness. How vast that darkness! Mile upon mile of it all
around. Lost somewhere in it, a little flicker, a little warmth.
He got up. He
found his limbs stiff and his muscles sore. He could not straighten his back
without discomfort. He went out of the tent and carefully arranged two small
logs on the fire. The air was chilly. He looked about him at the sleeping men
huddled together and doubled up for warmth. He looked toward his tent, fitfully
lighted by the fire that was now crackling and rising higher. And at last his
gaze lifted to look into the forest. Straight white trunks gleaming dimly in
the darkness. The startling glimmer of a firefly. Outside of the circle of the
fire was the measureless unknown, hostile now, he felt. Or was it he who was
hostile? This fire was the only protection, the only thing that isolated this
little strip of space and made it shelter for defenseless man. Let the fire go
out and the unknown would roll in and engulf them all in darkness. He hastily
placed four more logs on the fire and retreated to his tent.
He could not
sleep. He felt absolutely alone. Aloneness was like hunger in that it drove
away sleep.
He remembered
his wife. He had a fleeting thought of God. Then he remembered his wife again.
Probably not his wife as herself, as a definite personality, but merely as a
companion and a ministerer to his comfort. Not his wife, but a wife. His mind
recreated a scene which had no reason at all for persisting as a memory. There
was very little to it. He had waked one midnight to find his wife sitting up
in the bed they shared. She had on her flannel camisa de chino, always more or
less dingy, and she was telling her beads. “What are you doing?” he had asked.
“I forgot to say my prayers,” she had answered.
He was
oppressed by nostalgia. And because he did not know what it was he wanted his
longing became keener. Not for his wife, nor for his life in the city. Not for
his parents nor even for his lost childhood. What was there in these that could
provoke anything remotely resembling this regret? What was not within the life
span could not be memories. Something more remote even than race memory. His
longing went farther back, to some age in Paradise maybe when the soul of man
was limitless and unshackled: when it embraced the infinite and did not hunger
because it had the inexhaustible at its command.
When he woke
again the fire was smoldering. But there was a light in the forest, an eerie
light. It was diffused and cold. He wondered what it was. There were noises now
where before had seemed only the silence itself. There were a continuous
trilling, strange night-calls and a peculiar, soft clinking which recurred at
regular intervals. Forest noises. There was the noise, too, of nearby waters.
One of the
men woke up and said something to another who was also evidently awake, Gerardo
called out.
“What noise
is that?”
“Which
noise?”
“That queer,
ringing noise.”
“That? That’s
caused by tree worms, I have been told.”
He had a
sudden vision of long, strong worms drumming with their heads on the barks of
trees.
“The other
noise is the worm noise,” corrected Ambo. “That hissing. That noise you are
talking about is made by crickets.”
“What is that
light?” he presently asked.
“That is the
moon,” said Ambo.
“The moon!”
Gerardo exclaimed and fell silent. He would never understand the forest.
Later he
asked, “Where is that water that I hear?”
“A little
farther and lower, I did not wish to camp there because of the leeches. At daylight
we shall stop there, if you wish.”
When he awoke
again it was to find the dawn invading the forest. He knew the feel of the dawn
from the many misas de gallo that he had gone to on December mornings. The
approach of day-light gave him a feeling of relief. And he was saddened.
He sat
quietly on a flat stone with his legs in the water and looked around. He was
still sore all over. His neck ached, his back hurt, his joints troubled him. He
sat there, his wet shirt tightly plastered over his meager form and wondered
confusedly about many things. The sky showed overhead through the rift in the
trees. The sun looked through that opening on the rushing water. The sky was
high and blue. It was as it always had been in his dreams, beautiful as he had
always thought it would be. But he would never come back. This little corner of
the earth hidden in the hills would never again be before his gaze.
He looked up again at the blue sky and thought of God. God for him was always up in the sky. Only the God he thought of now was not the God he had always known. This God he was thinking of was another God. He was wondering if when man died and moved on to another life he would not find there the things he missed and so wished to have. He had a deep certainty that that would be so, that after his mortal life was over and we came against that obstruction called death, our lives, like a stream that runs up against a dam, would still flow on, in courses fuller and smoother. This must be so. He had a feeling, almost an instinct, that he was not wrong. And a Being, all wise and compassionate, would enable us to remedy our frustrations and heartaches.
HE went
straight to Sotera’s to get the key to his house. In the half light of the
stairs he met Peregrina, who in the solicitous expression of her eyes saw the
dust on his face, his hands, and his hair, saw the unkempt air of the whole of
him. He muttered something polite and hurried up stairs, self-consciousness
hampering his feet. Peregrina, quite without embarrassment, turned and climbed
the stairs after him.
On his way
out with the keys in his hand he saw her at the head of the stairs anxiously
lingering. He stopped and considered her thoughtfully.
“Pereg, as
soon as I get these clothes off I shall come to ask you a question that is
very—very important to me.”
As she smiled
eagerly but uncertainly into his face, he heard a jangling in his hand. He
felt, queerly, that something was closing above his hand, and that whoever was
closing it, was rattling the keys.