Noli 2.5 An End, and a Beginning


I had a house burn down once, and everything in life burned, except my family, and it was so liberating. I didn’t have a bad moment about it. It sort of reinvigorated my interest in a lot of things.

– Sean Penn

This has been a ridiculous day, what the hell. It is the day before All-Saint’s Day, I was not expecting anything much to change. Damnation, Rizal. All that has changed is that I arrived one day earlier than he had written! Can I no longer trust his words as prophetic over my own fate? Perhaps I was foolish to do so in the first place.

I have been in Europe seven years, I no longer know all these people. The most I felt I could trust was his portraits of their personality. But in the short few hours after my return to my hometown, a man is dead. I did not even have to lift a finger.

This is not the sort of thing Walt Disney ever had to worry about. The only bright spot is seeing the two boys yell out happily and rush into their mother’s arms. Sisa is crying as she embraces them tightly, as if she would never let go.

A boy’s life has been saved, but did fate seek to balance the cost? I shake my head. No, the scales are still too far balanced in our favor. One death rather than three – for had things gone unchanged, Crispin would be dead, Sisa would become mad and then die in her son’s arms, and Pedro would be implicated in a plot to frame me as a subversive, thence to be executed as a rebel.

I look past the sobbing family and towards the old men waiting at the far end of my sala. They stand up in respect to the owner of the home. I have no more energy to smile. The only thing I can do is to present a façade of confidence.

“Don Ibarra!” Old Doroy exclaims worriedly.

“Don Crisostomo,” Don Anastacio Quesada responds more properly.

I bow at them. “I thank you for your patience, gentlemen.” Then I turn to the house caretaker, an old farmhand named Sendong, and instructed him “Inside the calesa is a box. Inside the box is a block of pure ice. Take it, chop it up, and prepare drinks. For us men, some wine with the ice. Same to the Guardia Civil waiting below, do not water the wine. For the family, the good chocolate. No questions. Go.”

With a dubious glance, he leaps to it. Like most manorial houses of this time, the Ibarra house has a live-in servant family. I can hear him yelling for his sons to move their lazy backsides.

I slump to a chair, and all but flow into its contours as the exhaustion finally grips me. Tasio and Old Doroy return to their seats in front of me, while more hesitantly Sisa and her children take the long sofa off to the side.

I turn to Old Tasio. “Thank you again for accepting my invitation so quickly, Don Anastacio. Ginang Narcisa. I believe you are all neighbors of a sort?”

“I could not refuse, when your invitation is so… strongly delivered… by the Guardia Civil. I did not realize you and the alferez were friends so quickly, Don Crisostomo.” He then turns to Sisa and gently says “Good woman, you have my condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you, Don Tasio. But… Don Crisostomo – thank you!” Sisa begins to say in between relieved hiccups “You saved my life! We cannot repay you enough…”

“Mother? What happened?” Basilio asks.

“… father… father is dead? Is that true?” Crispin follows.

Sisa only sobs. If her sons were her world, then her husband was the sun. But even with that light gone, she is only thankful that her children were still with her. Their loss is the one she cannot bear.

I sigh. “It has been an exhausting journey here to San Diego, but before I can sleep I believe I owe you all some answers?”

I tell them a sanitized version. I reported to them about what we had found at the empty church. It was, of course, the Sacristan Mayor that had taken the two coins he was accusing Crispin of stealing. After the boys had left, he ordered a servant to report the theft of one hundred pesos.

“A hundred pesos…?” Basilio gasps. “But I heard the cura say… make it a hundred pesos, someone will pay it.”

“Really now.” I smirk slightly. Crispin cringes away from me and hides his face in his mother’s hair. Basilio still has that disturbingly intense stare. Children, you are not as Rizal has written you, why? It is as if the boy is expecting… that I would… lie.

Oh. Interesting.

At no point did I ever consider that this smart boy would consider me an enemy. Fair enough. Evil begins when you begin to treat people as tools.

I exhale and sag back into my seat, leaning with my fingers propping up the sides of my forehead. “That explains a few things- if the Sacristan Mayor had sent out that notice to the Guardia Civil, it is not because he got greedy thinking of this chance to excuse an even larger theft as you boys bearing a grudge. No, it is because he mistakenly thought it was an order.

Either way, that was his mistake, setting everything on this day into motion.”

Because after the 9 o’clock mass when Padre Salvi heard the Sacristan Mayor reporting about what he had done, realized that a man willing to blame the thefts onto a boy again would likely also be willing to blame the boy for theft the first time.

Sisa’s face is swollen and purpling. With her words earlier, that I had saved her life, it looks like Basilio is putting together just how his or why father died. Pedro was chosen by the sacristan as the new scapegoat. Unfortunately, the man had also believed that the boys did steal the money, and that Sisa was hiding it from him.

“To understand why this happened, you must understand why you were sent away. For… reasons…” here I match Basilio’s intent gaze with my own “Yes, reasons, your family is under the protection of myself as patriarch of the Ibarra, or that of de Los Santos, Capitan Tiago’s family. Any attack upon you now is considered an attack upon ourselves.”

“Reasons?” Tasio asks owlishly.


“How irrational.”

“Oh look a distraction, I mean, our drinks have arrived.”

On the table in front of us, the servants brought out a tray of ice in a crystal bowl, small wine glasses, several bone china cups, and a bottle of wine in a bucket filled with ice.

“Like this,” I instruct the children. “Fill your cup with ice, and then pour the chocolate over it.”

Crispin marvels at the floating chunks of ice in his drink. “It is cold. Mother, it is cold!” he squeals out. “It is sweet! I didn’t know you could drink tsokolate like this!”

“So this is ice…?” Basilio whispers.

“Children, thank Don Crisostomo for his generosity! We don’t deserve this indulgence!” Such deep, rich chocolate was the daily drink only of the wealthy. Guests were served weak chocolate if they were considered unimportant, not to offer any refreshment at all was considered an insult.

The two boys bow their heads. “Thank you Don Crisostomo!”

“It is nothing. Ice is just frozen water. I know how to cheaply make ice, and soon enough we will be able to sell ice here in San Diego.” Old Doroy looks up sharply at that.

I sigh. “I truly did not expect this chaos to happen on the day I returned. The least I can do now is to offer you shelter after your house burned down.”

“Don Crisostomo, as much as I do not myself care for the opinions of the townsfolk, it might be best if… I offered shelter instead. We are neighbors, after all.” People already called him mad, it would be much less scandalous.

“That is fine too. Thank you, sir.” I look up from my drink and raise my goblet as if in salute. “But please at least stay for dinner.”


I am so tired. But I cannot let what happened today leave me paralyzed with fear. I bow to Basilio and Crispin, and I cannot explain why I feel the need to apologize.

“You two – take care of yourself, and your mother. You will be very important to the future of this country.”


Three days have passed since then.

“Crisostomo.” Maria Clara’s eyes are, for the first time, clouded. Her tone drips with disapproval.

“Maria Clara?”

“Crisostomo, I have been hearing strange things about you.”

“Maria Clara, I am not sure – what things?”

“Crisostomo, have you been cruel? They say you beat an old gravekeeper near to death, and that you had sent the Guardia Civil to shoot a man dead.”

I put my face into my palms. Oh the humanity.

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Interlude – The Philosopher 01

In the town of San Diego lived an old man who loved books, named Don Anastasio Manuel Marcao y Quesada. In his youth his mother had feared his studies of philosophy would lead to impiety and thus imperil his immortal soul. Seeing as he had no small ability in this pursuit nor lack of courage in expressing his view, there was indeed a strong danger of insulting the priests or veering into outright heresy.

Therefore she gave him an ultimatum; either he would take his talents to the priesthood, or quit his studies in college. He chose to abandon his studies for he wished to get married.

Yet it came to pass that in the same year he lost his mother and then his wife to illness. He then could only turn to books for solace, and thus freed from all obligations began to pursue his studies to the exclusion of all else; including his business. His obsession eventually ruined what wealth was left to him by his Chinese ancestors, leaving him with what was enough to maintain his lifestyle.

In town he was called Philosopher Tasio, Pilosopo Tasio by those who recognized the volume of information trapped within his mind. More called him Tasio the Mad, Tasiong Sinto-sinto, for his manners and ideas were peculiar and sacrilegious to the townsfolk.

He was, of course, a close friend to the late Don Rafael Ibarra.

So when the Guardia Civil approached him, he felt a touch of both fear and disdain. For these men exemplified the adage ‘give an inch and take a mile’, with a base cunning to exploit any display of weakness. The old man grit his teeth and stopped in the middle of the road as they approached. Even with the state of his financial affairs, he was still a part of the town aristocracy.

“Don Anastasio? The Alferez sent us to ask you for a small favor.”

“A good man will obtain favor from the Lord; but He will condemn a man who devises evil,” he replied. “Favors are the most weakest of currency among men; friends do not owe it to each other, and cannot be forced to action should the promise prove unwilling. If you have already done one favor, why not another? But the favors owed to men are not like the favor that God grants, they are heavy, and can too many granted puts the one giving them under the power of the one who asks. In this way kings have ruined many of their more annoying courtiers.

So tell me, for what reason does the Alferez want to put me in his debt?”

The Guardia Civil sergeant curled up his lips, and his bushy mustache drooped low over his chin. “We are simple soldiers, we do not understand nor care for these things. We have only our orders. Our orders are to find you, and ask your assistance leading us where the sabungero Pedro and his wife named Sisa live. They are not under arrest or to be harmed, so you might be able to calm them down and allow us to bring them to Don Crisostomo Ibarra’s house.”

The words ‘and why should I do this?’ died on Old Tasio’s lips. “Don Crisostomo? Not the barracks?”

“The Sacristan Mayor has accused the boys of Pedro and Sisa as thieves, but Don Crisostomo has shown that it was the Sacristan that was stealing all along. He has now fled from the church, but not before sending out the servants to find Pedro, implicating him as the thief.”

Old Tasio understood then, that it was not the Alferez behind this scheme.


Sisa’s house was a typical bahay kubo, a nipa house on stilts with walls and floors made out of split bamboo. Raising the house was clever in terms of sanitation, for rats cannot get up to the house and find places to hide, while dust and grime would fall through the slats in the floor to the shadowed area beneath. This area could be used to shelter animals, and ensured the home would be comfortably dry even during the worst floods. That the house is so lightly built meant it had little to fear from earthquakes, but of course more from being blown over by a typhoon. Fire was a rare danger, since homes such as these were rarely built side to side, but like Sisa’s with a fenced-in vegetable garden around it.

And from within issued a woman’s fearful wail.

“Do you think I should be thankful for whatever scraps you show me? I know what they say about me, that I do not care about this family, but I didn’t raise my children to be thieves! You did!”

“Please, it’s a lie! They would never!”

“Where is it, woman?! Where did you hide the money?!”

“Please… I haven’t seen them. For a week now, I haven’t seen my sons!”

“Those little pesos they give, do you think I give a damn? I care more for my fighting cock because a good bird can earn thirty, fifty pesos in a day! He’s worth more than a hundred pesos! He’s worth more than all of you! You scrabble for a couple of pesos, stupid! So many stupid people all around me, who know nothing, but still think themselves better than a mere gambler! Timid and useless!

And that stupidity you have given to your sons! They see something shiny and like stupid monkeys they pick it up!”

There was another loud smack, and the sound of cracking clay pots, and then only sobbing.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Old Tasio cried out. “We must help.”

“… why?”

For while it the neighbors might cross themselves and mutter about how wicked it is to beat a virtuous inoffensive woman as Sisa, even if she was your wife, none would bother to get up and interfere in the matters of another family. Much less the Guardia Civil. Beating your wife was not actually a crime, for if so then the Alferez would not

“You still have to bring them in, yes? Come on, let us at least interrupt!”

“… I suppose, but we are not under your command, Don Anastasio.”

Old Tasio shouted “Pedro! Enough! It is I, Tasio, and I have the Guardia Civil with me!”

Putang ina!” was the panicked cry from inside.

“If something happens to your wife now, it will be on your head! Show your face and come with us, we will sort this out! Your boys have been falsely accused!”

“No! You – you’re just like them, Old Tasio, the Lunatic! You lie! I won’t be fooled – you want to kill me!”

“He is not going to show his face, because of course if we can see him we can shoot him,” the sergeant opined with a dismissive snort.

“If we charge in there, he could attack us with his bolo…” the soldier beside him said quietly.

“Well, he cannot stay in there forever!” the old man retorted.

The group stared up at the poor house. Only Old Tasio really cared about Sisa’s life.

“Maybe we could smoke him out?” said the young soldier from earlier.

It sounded crazy, but it could work. With such large windows, it would be easy enough to escape such a fire even if it spread quickly. Some of the walls were even woven sawali, split bamboo mats often used as bedding by the poor.

But the fire, kindled by gunpowder, spread alarmingly quickly.

There was a crashing noise, and a scream.


Pedro fled into the forests from the back window of his house. Old Tasio braved to enter the burning hut, and forced the two Guardia Civil to drag out the battered Sisa.

“Well, they do say the hen is more valuable than the chicks,” said the sargeant.

Old Tasio agreed. “Let us take her to safety, if you want to draw the boys out, then this might help.”

The hut burned merrily behind them, but the old man was relieved that it least the Guardia Civil did not need to shot anyone that day.


Yet less than thirty minutes later, blood spattered across the road.

“Is this your first time seeing someone be killed, senor?” asked the sergeant with a faintly scornful tone. “Fool rushed at us with his bolo, this a good kill. A good kill!”

Old Tasio stared from the body to Sisa, kneeling insensate on the ground. In the end, he wondered, had Pedro found again the will to care at seeing his wife being taken away, or had he merely been mad at rage at having his merry world upended so easily? He had followed them to ambush the group by the roadside, rather than flee into the next town as the trio had assumed.

His first swing could have killed the younger Guardia Civil had he not  managed to bring his rifle up to block in time; the damage sure to get him scolded later. The officer shot Pedro in the chest with his pistol.

To rescue, or to revenge himself upon his tormentors – no one could say anymore. A Filipino’s blood can boil hot, and when running amok there is no sin.

“No such thing… no such thing at all…” Old Tasio whispered.


The Ibarra home was at the other end of town. Sisa was spared any more humiliation from being carried like an invalid into town by the arrival of Don Crisostomo’s personal calesa.

The Ibarra home, unlike the De Los Santos home of Capitan Tiago, was much less ostentatious. It was, however, a fair bit larger as befits the heart of a hacienda. The family of Ibarra did not own any other real estate beyond the town of San Diego.

Crisostomo Ibarra was aghast at seeing the Guardia Civil drag an unconscious woman into his house. “What happened?!”

Similarly ignoring the rituals of politeness, Old Tasio asked the young man “Don Crisostomo. What have you done? How did you know when to send the calesa as we needed?”

“I have just arrived from Manila less than an hour ago. I returned from Europe just yesterday! I have no idea why whatever is happening!” He pointed towards Sisa, now sitting bonelessly upon his sofa. He sent out the calesa as soon as the third member of the troop detached from the sergeant’s group had arrived at his home. “What led to this?!”

Old Tasio reported to him what happened. He was disturbed by the company the young man kept, but was calmed by how he still meant well.

“Wait, that is all it takes? Everything falls apart for a man’s vice? I had asked the Alferez for a favor, to send his troops out to find you that you might help to lower the tension.”

“… and I have failed at it,” the old man added feebly.

Ibarra sighed. “Don Anastasio, forgive me, it is my fault. I had meddled in things beyond my grasp.” The young man looked off to the distance. “Which is better – to know what is happening, but have no control; or not to know anything but still able to act? Ahh, this is the terror of the human condition.”

“What do you mean?” asked Old Tasio.

“The blood at the floor was chicken blood,” Ibarra said in a pained non-sequitur. “And it was Padre Salvi that broke the offering box, after his Sacristan Mayor had already fled.”

Old Tasio blinked, in dismayed realization that it was probably the loss of his prized cock that maddened Pedro so. Ah, to run amok over a cock. Only in the Philippines.

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Interlude: The Brothers 01

Basilio, the son of Sisa and Pedro, was ten years old. Crispin was seven. They earned a peso every week while working as young sacristan for the church of San Diego. This was not just some spare spending cash to teach little children about responsibility, but fairly good income for the family.
The mother of the family was Narcisa, who unlike what her name implied knew only how to love others and despair. She endured well, and it is a strength of a sort.
She works as a washerwoman and sewing, because her husband labors not. What few pesos he earns from being hired as temporary labor for construction and hauling he keeps to himself. The more she dotes on her sons and shows nothing but unfailing respect to her husband, the less regard he gives for her fawning adoration. He is unto her the small god, and the more of her care he received the more it seems he better loved his fighting cocks. The more of her life she gave to him asking nothing in return, the more the beauty that had earlier captivated him faded into this bony mask; a face that still carried some shadow of his ambitious words of so long ago, she had trusted him then, and now feels no betrayal.
Now he lavished on his fighting cocks care and attention he would not give to his own family. It was enough to overjoy Sisa to hear him mention his own sons. Even if it was only to tell her to reserve a peso from their earnings for him later.
Basilio was ten years old, but could already firmly say “Wouldn’t we be better off without father?”

Being a sacristan or altar boy was by most standards a cushy job for a child. Their duties involved cleaning the grounds, laying out the priest’s garments and helping him put it on before and after mass, and taking care of the church’s goats. Only those sanctified or the innocent children may handle the implements of the holy mass. The washing, the cooking, the heavy housework – all of these were done by other servants.

The Guardia Civil would sometimes seize Padre Salvi’s sacristan when they happen to meet, bring him to station and force him to clean the barracks, and then Padre Salvi would fine the sacristan for missing his duties. So sometimes the sacristan would have to run, and then if the Guardia Civil have to chase him they will have to beat him up before bringing him in. In return, Padre Salvi would vastly overcharge them for church services and tell the townsfolk about their vices.

This rivalry was an inconvenience suffered mainly by the underlings of the two powers in town.

Children however, were more easily missed. They were not beaten up as badly by the soldiers, but instead hassled by the other sacristan and the cooks. They too could be fined for missing work, or something as small as not ringing the bells in perfect unison.

Thus why even when Crispin is accused of stealing, he was instead forced to stay on and work until he revealed where he took the money. Because his father was such a sinful man, they believed such a young boy could steal so shamelessly – and they refused to feed him until he confessed.

Thus the boys could not leave no matter what. Basilio could scarcely leave his brother alone. Without this work, what would become of their family?

Thus why when being told he was being dismissed, Basilio’s first instinct was to cry out “Please, no!”

Padre Salvi sneered. His eyes were bloodshot, his pallor even more sickly than the usual. The carriage bringing him home had its horses nearly dead from being driven to exhaustion. “Children, you are not wanted! To Capitan Tiago’s house with you! I no longer have the energy to spare for your stupidity.”

“But what about the two gold pieces, padre?” asked the Sacristan Mayor.

Padre Salvi turned about and began hitting him with his rattan cane. There was not much force behind it, for though his temper was viler than the usual he was tired and wanted to sleep. “Someone else has decided to make it their concern. Just get these grubby children out of my sight!”

As he shuffled off to his bed, he angrily muttered “Thirty two pesos are trifling sum? Hah! Then make it a hundred! I care not! Let him pay it, then!”


They arrived at the church with nothing but the clothes on their back and left with nothing but the clothes on their back. Without even the week’s pay they were owed.

“What do we do now, Basilio?” Crispin said as they trundled along barefoot towards the de Los Santos residence.

“I don’t know…” the older boy replied. When his little brother had been accused of stealing, he knew that was impossible. Just as impossible to convince anyone otherwise, specially when it was the Sacristan Mayor doing the accusing. They had only small voices.

“What will mother think?” Crispin continued to wail. “What will mother eat?

“Maybe there will be something at Capitan Tiago’s place.”

“You should have paid them, brother,” Crispin said after a while. “I have not even a cuatro on me, they have taken even that away. If you had paid, then they would not us thieves, and we would not have been sent away.”

Basilio bit back the obvious retort, for it was not his brother’s fault. “I have only two pesos for the month, I have been fined three times. The sacristan mayor said you stole two onzas, which are worth thirty-two pesos. There will still be nothing for mother to eat.”

Mexican gold doubloons, which were still valid currency in the Philippines. The pieces of eight, one might say. The Philippines had only been introduced into the decimal system of coinage by Isabela II, or about thirty years ago.

Slowly the younger boy tried to count out thirty-two, “Six hands and two fingers, and each finger a peso – and each finger, how many cuartos, brother?”

“One hundred and sixty.”

Crispin’s eyes widened. “One hundred sixty!” He looked bewildered at his open palms. “How many hands is that?”

Basilio stopped for a while and thought. It was not division going through his mind, but adding ten over ten. Two hands are ten, ten hands are fifty, therefore twenty hands are a hundred. So there are sixty left, how many hands is that? Two thirties, and each thirty is six hands! That sixty is twelve, so twenty added to twelve- “Thirty-two hands,” he said.

He relished the sheer awe his younger sibling gave him. Crispin then looked at his fingers again. “Each finger thirty two hands, and each finger of that a cuartro. So many cuatros! Now I wish I had stolen the money!”

Basilio cuffed at the side of the head. “Never say that! Do not even think of being a thief!”

“B-but if I had, then I could produce it when they ask for it…” he sniffled “And, and – mother – so much money we cannot even count them, we could buy slippers and an umbrella for mother, and, and – so much money, now I understand. They would be right to beat me to death for it, but at least for you and mother – you would have food and clothes! Now we have none at all! What will we tell mother?”

Basilio could only sigh.

“What will father do to us?” Crispin continues to cry.

“Most likely nothing,” Basilio could only say. “He will just hit mother again as she tries to protect us.”

A hundred centavos to a peso. Eight cuartos make five centavos. Five thousand one hundred twenty cuartos – this number floated just beyond the edge of Basilio’s consciousness. And someone would just drop this into the offering box! The world of the rich was so mysterious and so far away.


There was, of course, nothing for them at Capitan Tiago’s place.“Get away from here!” one of the house servants shouted at them. “Filthy beggars! Lazy little bloodsuckers! Begone!”

“B-but, the cura told us to come here. He wouldn’t lie… I think?”

“Maybe he wouldn’t, but you would. Shoo! There is no work for you here!”

“But, sir!”

The caretaker closed the heavy wooden door in their faces. Even thumping at it with all their strength, their small fists would barely make a sound.

“What do we do now?” Crispin asked in a voice beyond whimpering.

Basilio pressed his forehead to the door and he wanted to scream. They were just being shoved around by adults. Is it fun? He wanted to cry, but if he cried then Crispin would cry, and they would both never stop.

“Are we going to starve?” Crispin asked. “Should we go home now? I think… to die, if it we are at least with Mother, then it is better.”

Basilio began to thump his head against the door. For a moment he almost gave in, but hurting himself to make the rage go away would do nothing. His brother would have to drag his bloody-faced carcass back home, and he was so small. He would not make it. And now for some reason the thought of it made him chuckle darkly.

“No. No, Crispin,” he said after a while. “We stay.”

It was still early in the morning and so the brothers sat down by the door.


“Away, you smelly brats!“ The house servant from before now brandished a horse whip.

The two brothers moved away, but still sat down resting their backs on the outer wall. They had a full view of the road leading to town.


It was noon. Visitors and workers had come and left.

“What are you still doing here?” asked the house caretaker. “We will not feed you. Go away or I’ll set the dogs on you!”

“If we are to die here being torn apart by dogs, then that’s that. But the priest told us to come here, and until we know better we will stay.”

The old man clacked his tongue and turned away.


“Brother, I am hungry…” Crispin said. It was well past noon.

As the day passed and the sun grew hotter, the younger boy was tempted to go off into the shade. Basilio even said it was fine; he would wait and keep and eye out. So, excepting only the need to piss, he chose to stay and sit. Who knew doing nothing could be so painful! And to think he had hated being made to do chores before.

Basilio sat there with his knees up to his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs, exposing only his eyes peering with eagle intensity towards the road.

“Be patient, Crispin. Something will happen. We just have to endure.”

“Do you really think the padre had something for us to do? I no longer think he sent us here to help us at all. I don’t think he helps anyone at all.”

Basilio licked his dry lips and said “That doesn’t matter anymore.”


After even more time, the brothers saw a dust cloud in the distance, and shortly the thundering of horse’s hooves. A carriage approached, and as it drew closer Crispin qualid and clung to his brother’s shirt sleeves upon seeing the hat and blue uniform of the Guardia Civil. They were clinging to its sides.

The two brothers were set coughing helplessly by the dust kicked up by the horses as the calesa stopped right in front of them. The two Guardia Civil skipped off the calesa’s side and hauled up the two boys, caked over with dust mixed with sweat.

“Come on, you little pigs!”

“Now, now, there will be none of that. Gently, I said.” The third person and sole occupant of the calesa stepped out. “Ah, all that running around and it turns out no one has come here to Capitan Tiago’s house? It is as expected. The Sacristan Mayor would not send them out to where they would find you, after all.”

Basilio stared dully up at him. The young mestizo did not wear a hat even on such a bright day. He worse black clothes; black as sin itself, a part of Basilio’s mind commented, black as if in mourning; and he had such a strangely exultant smile. What could make this rich man smile with such relief?

“You boys were smart enough to stay in one place. Excellently sensible. To run implies guilt.”

“… wh-…” Basilio coughed to clear his dry throat, “…who are you, Señor?”

“I am Don Crisostomo Ibarra. And until Capitan Tiago’s family arrives in San Diego, you will be staying with me. Do not mind the Guardia Civil, they are here for your protection.”

Basilio felt light-headed with so many questions, so many burdensome emotions, but in the end settled with one flat word:

“… why.”

“Your house is on fire, your mother is fine – she is perfectly safe, do not worry – but your father is dead. Any questions? No time to explain.” He pointed to the carriage. It was painted black. The horses were also black. “Now get into the calesa.”

Crispin reached fearfully for his brother.

Basilio could not help but to laugh, and then say again in a completely flat voice “You are a suspicious fellow.”

Ibarra rubbed at his temples as if he had a headache. “Ex ore innocentium,” he muttered tiredly.

Basilio stared at him until Ibarra admitted: “Yes, there is candy in the calesa.”

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Noli 2.4 An Unexpected Case

As a rule, said Holmes, the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify.

– Arthur Conan Doyle

This is not supposed to happen.

If was there anything I could count on, it should have been my people’s lethargy. They are slow to move to action, suddenly to burn with nearly explosive force and then to burn out again quickly. We can go insane with rage – mag-amok – the word from which ‘to run amuck’ is taken. The frenzied Malay. In the heat of murderous passion, there is no guilt, no hesitation, a man is gloriously free.

But until that moment, they will endure. They will bottle it up, they will trust that in the end God will account for all in all balance.

What happened?!

“He looks scared, Berto.”

The other, taller Guardia furrows his brows to look at my face, then grips his rifle with both hands. “How do we know you are not the thief?”

 “If I were the thief, why would I be waiting here?” I reply.

“It is much easier for a well-dressed man to be a thief. No one would suspect him,” Juan adds. His face is broad, dark, and thuggish. “If he runs, we should chase him.”

I nod. “Wise.” That was surprisingly insightful, I did not expect it from someone with such a thug-like face. Have I actually met that rarity, a competent man of the Guardia Civil?

Damn it, now I cannot even go off to look for the boys. Them… I do not even know what they look like. [Googol] why are you so useless right when you are most needed?! I need your knowledge less than a dog’s nose!

All right, fine, so I have been too arrogant throwing money around! Boasting as if it were my own, the knowledge others have earned with their own hard work! There are some things that I cannot solve by myself! Just because it is my dream to see this nation strong does not mean I have the power or the right to treat people as mere tools to my goal. Of course there are things beyond my control!

Now please! You have made me care, I am afraid – please, help me!

You do not live here, spirit of the twenty-first century! But if I cannot save even just these two boys… if this little thing fails, then how can I hope to succeed in the greater trials? I do not know what happened, what has changed in the inexhorable march of history? Do not do this to me!

You do not need to teach me humility.



I can hear it.

What is that? I recall that in Rizal’s work, Basilio learns of his brother’s death through a dream. In this time, we believe that premonitions come to those who need them. The skepticism for psychic phenomena you have shared with me, but hardly can I discount such a possibility when I am a living a persistent psychic phenomenon.

Basilio… has a very open mind, strong and resolute even in its youth. There – a distant whisper – I can feel it. He is alive, and he is afraid. What of Crispin, the younger? Is it still his fate to die early? No… Basilio is concerned, not grief-stricken.

I exhale in relief.

So I see. My mission, therefore, is to find them and place them under my… under Maria Clara’s  protection, before someone causes them harm. But I cannot do that without first finding out what has happened.

“So be it.” I nod my head. I slap at my thighs and pick up my cane. “Well then, I suppose I should go with you! But it would be pointless to come here and not go inside, so take me with you to make sure I do not run away.”

While Juan has that odd sensibility that could only be self-destructive in these times, Berto is more practical. He knows there is little he can do to stop my intrusion into their investigation because they are not here to investigate. They are here as proxies for the unspoken war between the alferez and the curate as masters of this town.

I smile thinly. And just because I might find them interesting, does not mean they are not actually horribly abusive people in their own time.

Better if I have these people at my back than in front of me.


This is not possible.

It is the late afternoon, there should always be something going on in the rectory. Someone should at least be waiting in case there is a visitor looking for the parish priest. Someone should be looking to tend the church’s goats.

There is blood in the dining hall.

Damnation! If I make a prayer “Please let not that boy die”, what sort of useless angel would think brain damage is good enough?! This had better be not that boy’s blood.

The offering box is here, and it is empty.

“Should we start asking you to turn out your pockets, señor?” Berto quips.

I let out an amused ‘heh’. “My pockets are not big enough for this.” I rub at my chin. “This is strange.”

“Murder usually is,” Juan comments dully.

“Nobody is here, this makes no sense!” I hiss through my teeth. The boys are safe, but they are not here. I can feel it in my bones, this is my mission. How glorious it is, to live a life with meaning – how annoying it is when said meaning is locked behind compulsory stages!

“Why do you think that, señor?”

“From what I have heard of Padre Salvi, he is a very constientous person, you know? From the outside he looks like a frail man suffering from self-inflicted starvation, but inside those sunken eyes you can almost hear his mind going click-click, everything in its proper place, click-click, you  might think a man like that has no strong feelings, but you can’t try to be a saint without strong feelings.”

“Surely!” Berto haws, “what a fine thing it would be for San Diego to have its own saint!”

“Everyone in their proper place under heaven. But a saint isn’t afraid to suffer the ills and the contempt of temporal powers. No wonder the alferez and the cura butt heads. I do not think it was the same during Padre Damaso’s time. It would be a pain to live with a saint, don’t you think? They always expect the most out of people.”

Juan the Guard squats and runs his finger down the floorboards. “The alferez would catch a sacristan sometimes, and order him to clean our barracks. It’s the only time the place gets clean, really-” He looks up and says still in that bland voice that unintentionally sounds impudently judgmental to the ear, “then the cura would fine him for abandoning his duties.”

I chuckle. “Saints sure a troublesome existence, yes?”

“Señor? Should you be saying that in this place? That sounds like…” Heresy, he mouths out. Ibarra, now he remembers, was I not the son of the man cast out for being a heretic?

“Oh please, like the alferez himself sees it is only convenient to pay to have a saint pray more efficaciously for his sins. Him, and I, and you, we are men comfortable in our skins. Do not worry about it. I do not mind you hearing it from me, because only women delight in gossip. Are we not men able to speak freely to each other?”

For a change, Juan says “I have nothing to say.”

“Heh.” I lean against the wall and put my hands in my pockets. This would be a fine time for a cigar, specially since tobacco is one of the Philippines’ main exports. It is a manly habit in these times. Unfortunately I know better, it is a filthy habit, and I will not approach Maria Clara stinking of fumes.

 “… why would they all be away? Someone should have remained behind.” I begin pacing around the bloodstained ground. “With this table disturbed here, it looks like someone was injured hitting their head against it. If there was a body here, it would have been moved. So why would there be no one behind to answer or at least delay questions?”

Berto points out “You were here.”

I wave that aside. “There are plenty of people who can witness that I have just arrived from the cemetery. Whatever happened here… this blood, it is dark. It happened hours ago.”

The dining hall is a simple one, with wooden tables and benches. It is lit by large windows with grilled wood shutters, and hanging from its ceiling is a candelabra. Sunlight is streaming and rebounding off the whitewashed walls. Damn it, Rizal, this is a far too positive an atmosphere for a murder mystery.

“It could be tulisanes!” Berto suddenly cries out in alarm and raises his rifle. “They are all gone because they are being held hostage!”

“In the middle of the day? How?” Juan blandly objects.

Berto starts pointing at the exits with his rifle. “Or… maybe they are all stabbed to death, and locked in a room somewhere. Maybe the bandits are still here.”

Juan points at me at me again. Berto follows, aiming at me with his rifle.

I groan but carefully keep my cane pointed away. “If you must accuse me, know that in a crime, the one who fits the three Ms is most likely the culprit. The Means, the Motive, and the Money.

The means – how could I have done this, when I have only just come from the cemetery on the carriage? The motive – what reason have I for doing this? I am wealthy enough that the offerings after mass are nothing to me. The money – where is it?” I pat my sides. “Offerings are mostly coins, I have a billfold of my own money. I am your ally here, not your enemy.”

 “Maaaybe…” Berto lowers his gun. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing. Who told you that a robbery has happened? When were you notified?”

“Should you be so asking so many questions here?”

“Why not? It is no crime to ask. Let us truly be frank with each other here, as uninvolved observers. I will owe you both each a bottle of good wine after this.”

Berto purses his lips, and then gives up to the shameless bribe, saying “One of the sacristan, early in the morning. But the alferez was asleep, so we waited. And then it is only now that he sent us off.”

Ah. It is a calculated insult, then. The alferez was trying to tell Padre Salvi; you who preach from the pulpit denouncing me as a person of degenerate ways, cut down your pride before you dare ask me for help. You have no power over me.

“I see. But this does not look like two hundred pesos missing from the offertory box. If this is a murder, then it I believe it happened in between that complaint, and now.” I look up. “Shall we look at all the rooms to see if there is a person conveniently tied up somewhere that could tell us what happened?”

Of course such a convenient solution would not happen.

After going around opening doors, we have returned to the dining room. I sigh as I slump on a bench. I am getting nothing from this place. This is a bit bullhockey. I have knowledge of what happens a continent away, but I have no post-cognition for something only a few hours past? Why is it that magic should have rules. Why do miracles allow for the possibility of failure? This is crowbites, [Googol]. This is blankshoots. Why are you so inadequate in moments of crisis?

Rizal wrote of my life as a tragedy, please do not change genres on me so suddenly.

“Something so close to a church should be holy, right?” Juan asks. Belatedly I realize he is asking me. “If the priest goes to sleep here, it should be blessed?”

“… no? The church is sanctified because saying the mass invites the Holy Spirit, but just any room isn’t made holy because a priest lives there. If it were that simple, saints wotuld not be a special existence.”

“We are not safe here. We should leave.”

Berto agrees. “The walls are eating people.”

I tilt my head. “Really? Really, gentlemen?” This is the conclusion you have reached on this bright sunny day?

“We should go,” Juan insists with rare force.

Berto shrugs, turns to me and says “I must ask you to come with us, señor.”

“Of course, of course, but someone should stay. If people knew there is no one in the church, would they not start stealing its treasures?” Aaand I can just see their eyes light up with opportunity. I narrow my eyes.

It really should be an unacceptable risk for this place to be so empty. There must be a non-supernatural explanation.

“Look, one of you has to stay behind and the other should accompany me back to your barracks to let the Alferez know about this, because of course I cannot clear myself as a suspect.”

The two guardia look at each other. Though they are cousins and old friends, they know that the one left behind would be blamed for anything missing. It is, in fact, inevitable. No one would believe their honesty.

On the other hand, it is well known that Juan was a person who rarely spoke to the point of being called dumb, better that than open his mouth and start offending everybody.  It is always Berto who was expected to deal with people, he provided the muscle.

Juan, who is called Juan Bolok, depending on intonation meaning either ‘bull’ or ‘rotten’, nods. He is prepared to take the blame, his body is strong and his face already ugly. He has no fear of beatings or being made to pay fines. His is not a nature bent to cruelty, but expecting no mercy from others he is just an unwilling to give it to anyone under his hand.

He volunteers to stay behind.

In this place with the walls that are eating people.

This insight you offer me, spirit of knowledge, it is not just about technology and history, is it not? The soul is timeless, and it is through that connection that my mind is awash with extrasensory information.

I see. Small as it is, as unformed and mundane as it may be, even this young man with a face more like a boulder than a human being has a dream. Even though he may have committed more heinous acts than that poor gravedigger, for some mysterious reason it spurs from me more empathy.


The Dream is different from ambition. It certainly is not a desire or a craving for more things. It has nothing to do with greed or lust.

Who is the Alferez? The Alferez is a Spaniard, born in Spain, and sent to the Philippines through no virtue of his own. Broad and bellicose, and from him I do not detect the dream. This is a man who does not wish to break through into tomorrow.

Unlike Tiniente Guevarra, he knows how to play the game. Only a pure-blooded Spaniard can hold command higher than Lieutenant, and this is why Guevarra for his honor and long service is seen as a shame upon Spanish dignity. The alferez is a rank equivalent to sub-lieutenant or chevalier, and he rose through the ranks simply by being… accessible.

 There are nearly seven million souls in this country, and only about eleven thousand soldiers to keep the peace. Forget police work. If the Guardia Civil were actually required to make the effort, they would die from overwork.

He is satisfied here in this town, for as town chief of the Guardia Civil is rulership is supreme; people plied him with gifts and flattery so that he does not feel any need to flex his authority. All except Padre Salvi; who has spurned all his gestures of friendship, and instead levies litanies about his sins. He detests this immunity like a little king of Italy grousing at the Pope’s lack of willingness to play nicely.

Even more than that; Bernardo Salvi is young tree, strongly rustling in the wind. Insuffrable. The Alferez, though also a peninsular, is like one tree already claimed by the tropical jungle, choked with vines and eaten hollow from the inside by termites. Yet if it falls, there will be no sound.

He married, while still but a corporal, a washer-woman of the Guardia Civil – a decision that he now deeply regrets. Though she is perhaps more conscientious in reading the reports sent to him than even he. For this, she is called the ‘muse of the guardia civil’, despite her nasty temper, able to command the men with all the authority of her husband who beats her. His life, once so conveniently at ease when not broken by the bitter haranguing of his wife, now sees as his only ambition to inflict upon Padre Salvi whatever small inconveniences he could ply. In this, the torment of their social betters, at least this sinister pair finds temporary conciliation. So goes the dreamless life of the Alferez Luis Gaspar Espina.

 “A murder in the church?! Tell me more!” his aquiline visage lights up with interest.

Berto and I glance at each other. “Sir -“ he begins to say.

“I will hear Don Crisostomo-,“ he waves away the report of his own soldier.

Wow, really? I spend a few moments thinking about it, then it occurs to me that it is probably as much about institutional racism as that his men, deliberately trained to lack initiative lest there be another uprising, are appallingly inept at giving reports. Even a civilian could phrase things more easily for his ears. This is a man who does not disguise how he despises the men under his command, and it is well returned.

I cough into my fist.  “Then with your permission, let me briefly lay out the known facts of the case –

To speak of my involvement in this case: I had recently arrived in San Diego from Manila, little more than an hour ago. After a brief visit at the cemetery, I had the carriage bring me to the church. There I had hoped to pay my respects to Padre Salvi. But seeing no one in the church, I had decided to wait outside in the breeze and watch the scenery of my hometown I had long missed. It was there that I met your two men, who had come to respond to the report of two hundred pesos missing from the church.

Fact one. The report was given in the early morning, while I was still en route. Therefore this case of the empty church and the broken offertory box is separate from the case of the missing two hundred pesos.

Fact two. I accompanied Guardia Berto and Juan inside the rectory because while I can prove that I was at the cemetery during the time this case might have happened, it is not something that can be proven in situ. Thus, I commend their shrewdness in not letting a suspect out of sight.

There we verified that there is no one inside the church or the rectory; not in the kitchens, not in the yards, not in any of the rooms. It was completely deserted.

Fact three. This makes no sense. Padre Salvi would not leave the church completely unattended. There are too many things to steal in the place, far more than just the offering box.

Fact four. The blood on the floor was dark and dry. It is several hours old. But if so, why was it not ordered to be cleaned?

Fact five. The broken offering box. Though it is conceivable that two hundred pesos could be stolen from the offering box after mass, the box is rarely left unattended. I have said that there are many more valuable things that can be stolen from the church – but offerings have one advantage. They are mainly coins and some small paper bills, much easier to dispose of than having to sell off gold and silver wares. So why only break open the results of the morning mass?

The breaking of the offering box could not have occurred at the same time as the blood on the floor, for the same reason as before – Padre Salvi or anyone of course should have picked it up and put it away.

Fact six. In a crime, the one who has the Means, the Motive, and the Money is most likely the one to have committed the deed.

From here on, I will speaking of my conclusions – they are not fact, but merely what I believe to be the most likely explanations for the case. Would you care to hear them?”

“Ha! Interesting!” He studies my face as he rests his face on his knuckles. Padre Damaso and this man are still good friends, if San Diego be a miniature of Rome in effect, then theirs was a rule of both earthly and heavenly authorities in perfect accord. This happy balance was cracked by my father’s arrest and death. The plague that is Padre Salvi; it is Ibarra’s fault. “Is this the sort of study you had done in Europe?”

He wonders now if I would become to him another painful annoyance. He does not have the energy anymore to deal with two precocious brats.

“I can say that I acquired these skills sometime before I returned to the Philippines.” Surprisingly, the distillation of all those detective stories and videos you have crammed into my skull has nothing to do with it. All mystery cases are completely arbitrary for the sake of tantalizing the reader. The Guardia Civil is nothing like . “May I sit down?”

“Go on,” he says with another wave of his hand. “Do not be coy about this, Don Crisostomo. With only having seen some blood on the floor, a broken offering box, and an empty church… without having spoken to any of the people involved… tell me, how do you find the culprit?”

I sit on the padded chair set next to the wall, lace my fingers together and lean forward, the cane head of the cane just under my nose. All you might see of my face are my eyes, glowering at you with the Kubrick Stare.

“We have several facts, but some of them can actually be discarded as part of the first event which forced the second to happen. The important thing is that we have completely empty building where a crime has occurred. Theft, murder, it matters not.

Padre Bernardo Salvi would not leave this place unattended.

Therefore someone should have remained behind.”

I raise and slam my cane against the floor. Berto, still standing in attention in front of the Alferez, flinches back in surprise. For this place is not the barracks; of course the chief would not stay with the common soldiers unless he needs to order them about. This is his home and I am attacking his floor.

“Who is that man that is trusted to man the fort in the cura’s absence? The suspect.

Who would break open the offering box? Someone who is left alone. The means.

Why would he do this? Because he is desperate to run and needs to be able to pay for things. The motive.

Why the offering box instead of the gold furnishings or anything else? Because it is easier to carry and spend. The money!

The only person who fulfills all these criteria is – “

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Noli 2.3 Ibarra in Town

“… the very appearance of the word ‘‘oriental’’ as a serious geographic or cultural term triggers alarm bells for any American academic. The late Edward Said’s Orientalism argued that the word ‘‘oriental’’ is a fundamentally pejorative term for certain parts of the non-Western world, not only indicating that they are inferior but also justifying Western colonization or domination of them.”
Peter A. Lorge, The Asian Military Revolution: From Gunpowder to the Bomb

The carriage hired from Manila is still by the roadside. The driver gives us a mildly baleful gaze as we approached. A short rest only gives the horses enough time for their muscles to cramp up. He is rubbing at their sides while they drink a soggy mixture of water and oats from buckets. They whinny in complaint as he takes away the buckets and tosses the contents over the bushes. The buckets return to the hooks under the carriage.

Philippine work horses are more exactly work ponies, a relatively small but hardy breed. Do not mock Asian horses too much though; for contrary to what you might expect, the Mongols did not conquer the largest land empire the world had ever seen on fearsome destriers. Mongolian cavalry were a smaller breed made for endurance than carrying a man in full armor.

Gentle, patient, long-suffering horses like these. “Back to town, kapatid na cuchero”, brother driver “then after that you are free to do as you desire. You will have a bonus for waiting, worry not.” I say to him as we enter the carriage.

Old Doroy reaches over to offer him the cigar he’d offered earlier to the gravekeeper. With an obliged nod, he takes it and put it into his pocket.

“Do you think I have been unfair?” I ask Old Doroy once the carriage has started moving. It should not take more than a few minutes to get back to town. Were it not for the conditions of the roads, human-powered pedal bicycles could do it faster. “After all, he was but a poor man that suffered enough for having to deal with my father’s remains.”

The old servant shakes his head. His eyes are unexpectedly clear. “The choice to disrespect such a good man by throwing his corpse into the waters was his alone. As you said, Sir Ibarra, he could have done anything else just as easy that would have allowed us to recover his bones. He lied about having it done anyway to the friar that ordered him to do it. So in the end it did not even matter! Such a shiftless man!”

But even such a man might break through into tomorrow. We shall see. “I regret it now, because that is a very poor order – that the man tried to carry out anyway. An order born of mindless spite. I would hope that, if I were to make such an inconvenient command,  you would at least tell me of the difficulty in having it done.”

“It is not my place to ask why, only to do all I can to make it so, Don Ibarra.”

“Well I would still rather have you raise and objection, than to have you make a promise, try, and give up halfway.”

“I would never!”

“You would not, but what about your employees?”

“I will make sure they will fear the punishment for any failure.”

“I would rather not have wasted my time – punishments will not bring it back. Do not bother me with inconsequential problems, Señor Doroy, but soon enough I will ask of you to carry out orders that will seem to make no sense. Orders that require secrecy. Orders that I do not actually care how you carry them out, only that they are done.

The first among this is to build a cadre of intelligent, determined people – people unlike that gravedigger, who works only under threat of pain. As we have seen, if you are already in pain, the power of the command diminishes. You will find for me such men that will work on retainer, who will not make trouble even if they are paid to sit around in for weeks in between moments of high activity, men who will not be missed should they… disappear.”

“Don Crisostomo. It…” he pauses. “No, I cannot say I can do this so easily. I am a merchant. While I do know how employ workers, I do not know how select such people as you want. I am old, forgive me, I am already an old man who cannot learn new things, and such strange work is beyond me. I could however, assign my own children to this task, if you would allow.”

“And then you would be responsible for their results. I see nothing wrong with nepotism when the parent can control the actions of their child, and thus feel secure in their competence for the task. How likely do you think this chance would be used to put up people they know for easy money? There are also consequences for carelessness, are you sure you would have your own blood be subject to them?”

He slumps. “My children are good honest men and I have sent them to study in good schools. They have been great help in the business. But I do not know, Don Ibarra, what punishment would you give? It is… impossible, I think, to succeed in choosing good workers all the time. What kind of work do you mean? Men who would be so happy to face death for money… I do not know if they can be trusted.”

And that is why no one trusts the Guardia Civil.

“Good, good, your continued unwillingness to simply make a promise and trusting it to work out by itself continues to impress me, Señor Doroy.” I lean out the carriage window to see that we have arrived near the town center.

“I will amend my orders, then. First, take this.” I reach behind my back and toss him another pouch of money. “Pay the cuchero double the payment that is expected. Have this carriage bring you to the Ibarra domicile and tell its caretaker of my arrival.

Second, take this,” and I hand over to him a ruby signet ring, showing an emblem () “This is the new symbol of the Ibarra company. Show this to the caretaker and others as a symbol of my trust. Tell them to break out the wine, and have the cooks butcher a pig for lechon kawali and adobo sa asin. May you be served in that house as if it is your own. Please, be at ease and rest for a while before your trip back to the city.

In Manila, only show this to the desk of Fonda de Lala, and be served with all the comforts as if due to myself. I have with them reserved a room for an entire year, and their parlor will be open at no personal expense to all those who carry this symbol of my trust.

And third,” I say as I place my hand on the side of the carriage, “Consider your salary doubled. We will discuss what you must do to advance my father’s business later.”

“Don Ibarra!” the custodian cries out in alarm.

I speak past him “Right here, driver. This is fine.”


The carriage stops by the doors to the church. Such are towns in the Philippines that the church, plaza, and government hall, often face each other, forming the town center. The market is often a good distance away.

I step off, for this carriage is not an enclosed carriage with doors and walls. We would have been out of luck were it raining and windy. I bid Old Doroy and the coach-driver a good day, and they clatter off further down the road, kicking up dust in their wake. Doggol peers mounfully at me from the back, but little dog your little legs are not meant for these poor dirt roads.

I chuckle. And so you see why everything all but stops when in rains here in the Philippines. Dusty when sunny, muddy when rainy, those who take paved roads for granted do not understand how taxes buy civilization. When it is too damn hot half the year and too damn rainy in the other, why be so surprised when the natives feel unenthused to go out and work?

Horse carriages simply cannot be made to keep going as a car would, when the rains are strong.

Boats… boats can, as long as it is close to shore. Horses can get sick, motor engines cannot. Of this moment, the Philippines is a maritime economy – in that other world, it would take much assistance from the Americans, blasting through mountains and pouring mountain-loads of tar and asphalt to start with a national highway. In this one – even my own miraculous wealth would be a drop in the bucket to the effort required. Thirty pesos, three hundred, three thousand pesos, all insignificant sums! No longer am I allowed to think of mere silver and gold as wealth – to me, the only true wealth is access to strategic resources.

Of this moment, because sea transport is still the most reliable way of moving people and goods from place to place, the Philippines exists as a collection of loosely connected local economies. Each province is known for only a certain type of export good, and must produce most of their own food.

No good roads for it. Ships? Refrigeration? Of this moment, refrigerated ships already allow for massive hauls of beef from South America to the American and European larders. We have none, though there are good pastural highlands in North Luzon. The Philippines now and then gets an ice ship to Manila for luxury dining, nothing in the order of industrial solutions. Provinces do little to feed each other. Provinces ask little from each other. We have more trade with outside nations than each other. The only exception being the flatlands of Luzon, and its tiny little railway with its tiny little steam locomotive.

In this time we are fully a hundred years backwards everyone else.

In this time, each province distrusts each other, each island a fief unto itself. We are not a nation.

Only one thing unites us.

I look up at the stone walls and the bell tower of the church.


The San Diego church is small, but it is not humble. Its high vaulted ceilings are painted white, but pleasingly offset by crossed wooden beams. Bats and swallows nest in its recesses. The floor is made of colored tiles in repeating patten that draws the eye, like an Escher illusion yearning to break free.

Four rows of hard uncomfortable pews sit its nave, while to the left and right await closed-off confessional booths. Closer to the main altar space, the church branches off into a cross as is the norm for churches in this country; here are alcoves for the saints and a wooden body of Christ sealed in a glass coffin. Here too are the more comfortable pews for the town elite, and a padded chair for the alcalde and other dignitaries. Look there, the altar beyond three raised steps, its slab draped over with a red cloth. The cross is silver, the effigy of cunningly carved white wood being even more luminous unpainted. It is ensconced within a cunningly carved reredo, with overlapping archs and pillars in a neo-classical style, a temple within a temple. Above the crucifix, dominating the tabernacle, is a painting of souls being tormented and burning in Hell, with the saints watching with pitiless equanimity from above.

Its high windows are too small for stained glass illumination, here casting thin ribbons of sunlight into a nearly soundless citadel. One could almost believe the outside world has no power over the sanctity of this space. The cares and pains of the outside world stop; here you shall find peace.

It is also peculiarly empty.

There should at least be an altar boy or two around somewhere, cleaning and preparing for All-Saint’s Day. Through the silent church I walk, I do not raise my voice to ask hello. With no one to see, I cross even the normally forbidden sanctuary, the altar area, and past it to the two doors on either side.

These lead to the rectory, where the parish priest should actually live, though in practice he would partake of meals cooked enthusiastically at the nearby convent. In contrast to the church just a few short steps away, it is much humbler, lived-in structure. Its floors sag, its stone walls are rough and cold. Here amidst smaller rooms for the live-in sacristan personnel and visiting lay brothers rule the sacristan mayor as a petty chief, and less it be said that upon his hands the offertory box holds no security.

Hola!” I now call out, “Is anyone here?”

No answer.

Such an eerie silence.

Seeing no point to hanging about like a thief, I leave the place.


I squint at the sky past the wooden cross topping the tower.

God, it is hot.

Another thing I regret is wearing a black suit while in the Philippines. No wonder dark clothes are a fashion statement for the wealthy; only an idiot would go out in the day in this outfit. Even Capitan Tiago wears white, and the papers call him the Rothschild of the Philippines.

I sit on a stone bench under the shade of a tree and watch the passers-by. They glance at me, but quickly move past where I rest, as if I am a magical dwarf looking for someone to cast a spell upon. Only a tied-up carabao nearby dares to meet my gaze, it does so with the calm dignity of emperors.

One thing that can be said for the main streets of this time, is that they are wide. On either side of the plaza San Diego, which is little more than an expanse of cobblestones and grass, are townhouses with thick stone walls for the first floor and a second floor made out of wood, with shingled roofs. These homes are quite earthquake-proof, resistant to storms, though to fire they are helpless. They are like small castles, though their fence walls for their gardens are bamboo.

Like most things in the Philippines the development of these architectural styles is born of lessons usually best learned through calamity. Stone houses, as in Europe, became the choice of the resident Spanish because of how Manila in 1583, without houses and churches main primarily of wood, were devoured by fire.

The walled city of Manila then grew to boast hundreds of stone houses, until a series of earthquakes then reduced much of it to rubble. It was thence mandated the buildings be limited to two storeys, with wooden posts that better were better adaptive to shaking ground than stone pillars, and walls always at least one-fifth thick compared to its height. Roofing may be made high, but primarily of light construction.

Thus – and here I spread open my arms as if stretching out and look from side to side – we have this scene, lacking the heights and graces of cities in Europe, nor the slender elegance of other wooden structures in Asia. A brute but practicable style well suited to withstanding calamity.

Some distance away are the tiendas, the shops, owned mainly by the Chinese. Dealers in rice and sugar, retailers in hot bowls of ginger-infused arroz caldo and candies and alcohol, and loudly shouting broken Tagalog when they speak. They have patterned their homes upon the elite of the town, though made of wood and brick rather than ponderous cut stone. The lower floor mainly serve as shopfronts and warehouses, not for servant living quarters and the calesa. San Diego also has a Chinese village, it is closer to the docks, where laborers constantly move bags and parcels onto boats for shipping across Laguna de Bay and up the Pasig River.

The wealthy of this town are landowners, and for them such petty mercantile pursuits below their concern. The Filipino natives prefer the predictable exchange of labor and raw goods for money, not the small bit by bit toil of merchants who have to haul and measure and in their attempts to eke out the best profit appear as cheats and misers.

Those Chinese who have married Filipinos and become mestizo de sangley, and embraced the Catholic faith in its totality live as their half-Spanish neighbors do, and rarely show any sympathy for the people from whom they sprung.

Laguna knows of this tragedy. A visit by Chinese mandarins on May 23, 1603 led the local Spanish authorities to believe that it was an attempt to check their defenses in preparation for an invasion; for at this time the Chinese outnumbered the Spanish ten-to-one. The Archbishop and priests of Manila fanned distrust of the Chinese residents in the parian area of Manila, which later erupted into the Sangley Uprising.

The Governor General of that time, a certain Luis Pérez Dasmariñas, famously stated that the Chinese were cowards, and the twenty-five Spaniards were enough to conquer all of China. He led failed invasions of Cambodia and Mindanao, and during this rebellion his head and the heads of his men were cut off by the rebels and mounted on poles in Manila.

A combined force of Spanish, Filipino and Japanese troops eventually suppressed the rebellion, with about twenty thousand Chinese massacred in the aftermath. The Administrative Commissioner of Fujian, Xu Xue-ju, petitioned the Emperor for a punitive invasion several times. He received only a letter that stated among other reasons of not going to war to such a distant place as Luzon, that merchants were “common folk not worth waging a battle for”, and that “these merchants by going to Luzon had abandoned their families and familial ties”.

A second massacre happened in 1639, as relations with the mainland normalized and soon Chinese workers again flooded the shores to pick up the labor shortage created by the previous massacre. The abuses of the Spanish overlords ignited the workers to rise up, and it is somewhere around here – not in Calamba, which does not exist as much as Rizal does not – that the uprising began and soon grow to consume all of Laguna. The alcalde mayor and several priests were murdered, churches and municipal buildings were burned, and twenty-two towns through Laguna were either raided or set afire by the Chinese rebels. They were harried over the course of a year into the mountains, and over twenty thousand of them were slain.

And so these peaceful roads have been washed by torrents of rain and blood. Yes, two hundred years have passed, but the memory is long. Many intermarried and assimilated, like those of Rizal’s own ancestors, to finally be safe and be mostly free from the extortionate taxation and duties levied upon pure-blooded Chinese.

In this era, everything is decided by blood.

Ah, it is damned hot day.

Across the main street is the town hall, a structure far less cared for by the townsfolk. A long hall roughly fifteen meters long and eight wide, its whitewashed sides scribbed with charcoal graffiti, and inside a pitiful armory of old flintlock guns, narrow bolos and sabers, the weapons of the cuadrecillos. Equivalent to the town police, they go around barefoot. Their function has more or less been replaced by the military Guardia Civil, of which the alferez commands from his barracks closer to the edge of town.

And since we know that Laguna is perpetually distrustful of its Chinese workers and merchants, the garrison here is no surprise.

What strikes me most about this scene is what is missing.

Almost uniformly across the nation in the future that is your Philippines, the multipurpose concrete plaza in front of the town hall which doubles as a basketball court. If lacking anything to do, the youths may at least spend their time in harmless sports instead of gambling and drinking. If not dribbling a ball, then kicking it, or slapping it around, or to wheel about with skateboards.

Since I have not the authority nor public goodwill to have that paved over, I will have to pour concrete for a utility park elsewhere. It is but limestone, gravel, and sand, how difficult could it be?

Basketball has yet to be invented. Mothers will perhaps decry playing on hard concrete, here falling down while playing football will hurt more; leave deeper, bloodier gashes on their skin. Yet this is a time when children are fearless, those puckered scars would be badges of pride.

Perhaps instead of dirt football.. street hockey, with the proper padding?

No, as interesting it would be to have to re-invent rollerskates, I doubt it would be in the common folk’s price range.

Volleyball? Tennis? American Football? Oh. Sepak Takraw. Only replaced with arnis as the national sport in 2009. Woven balls of rattan would be cheap and easy to distribute.

I glance back towards the road leading into the Chinese area. With a paved area over there, it would be much easier to set up bleacher seats and food stalls all around. The cockfighting ring is too narrow for general purpose activities. I could sponsor a martial arts competition, maybe?

After harvest season, people will seek to spread over their rice onto my pavement for drying – for this also, I can charge them some small sum.

Maybe it is not too late to put aside being a media mogul and become the Concrete King? Instead of submarines, let me be obsessed with roads. Roads and dynamite…

No, it is too late. Sad.


Oh, what is this?

Approaching the church are two young men in the blue garb of the Guardia Civil. They are armed. Their skin is dark, and only a little disgruntled at being sent out under this mid-afternoon sun.

“Hello there, you men!” I call out in Tagalog as they approach. “What moves you in such a hurry on this fine day?”

“How is it any business of yours, señor?” one replies.

The other jabs him with an elbow for being so stupid as to disrespect a wealthy-looking fellow. “Before we answer, might I ask – who are you señor, and if you have business here at the church?”

“I am Don Crisostomo Ibarra, freshly returned from Europe. I am here waiting to pay my respects to Padre Salvi. And you-?”

They hesitate. If you were identifiable, you were accountable. Like the Spartans and their face-covering helmets of old, it was this that allowed them to act with impunity among their Helots. After a while, comes the reply “I am Berto, this is Juan.”

Excellent to meet you, gentlemen. Now, if you would indulge my curiousity?”

“A robbery has been reported.”

“Yes, I have heard gossip about that. Two children, two missing doubloons, it hardly sounds worth your time.”

“No, Señor Ibarra,” Berto replies. “A new robbery. Now they say nearly two hundred pesos are missing from the offering box, and the children are none to be found.”

Oh for fuchs’ sake.

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Interlude 1

Interlude 1

There were shadows that gathered upon the rough shores of that land when I came to it. Those shadows were shaped like men and women, yet they weren’t such things. To call them human would be a disservice to their savagery; to call them human would be to taint those of us who still call ourselves civilized, with their same darkness.

These shapes I saw as I looked up through the misty rocks and into the star-lit sky above, were those of the Rudavangians. They gathered there upon those rocks, staring hatred and malice down upon myself and my men. They remained there like silent spectres, watching us as we watched them. Dogs, the lot of them. Brutal warriors with no sense of justice. Spawn of the darkness that lies inside every human heart, and that those of us with custom, with knowledge, and with the light of truth dare not give in to.

They were waiting for us as they had somehow divined which shore we would arrive upon. Mangy dogs they were, but clever dogs, nonetheless. Smart like a starving animal, and keen like a desperate rogue. The mists seemed to fall back to the waters, exposing more and more of their number with every moment of silence. It was in those haunting moments that I heard a single sound, a dull and metallic thing as a sword was drawn from their number. My eyes traced the length of their horde, seeing the movement above and to my right. A rough and scarred-looking thing wearing red armors. No doubt their chosen champion.

With that creature’s blade drawn above their number a single call came out of the darkness. A whooping-like cry followed by the beating of fists upon chests. The dogs had decided we were weaker than them. They decided they would draw our blood at last. As one they ran down those rocks to meet their blades with ours. Blood stained the shore that darkened eve and many men died, being seized in the depraved hands of their savagery.

– From the journals of Heserod Jhallum, published posthumously as ‘The Red Dogs of Vangal’


It had been several hours since Canmore had fished the almost life-less and entirely exhausted body of Brachillio out of the shipwreck and corpse-filled waters of the Apia. Several of Anker’s men had tended to his wounds. They had done so roughly, and although their dressings and painfully tight bandages served well, each exhausted movement Brachillio took wrenched him back and forth with pain.

The awful thumping and hammering in Brachillio’s head made him dizzy with every step. He was slowly gathering his energy back, but every push or movement forward seemed to jar him into a haze. He pinched at the bridge of his nose for a moment, batting his eye lids and then looking around him.

Ahead, he could see the tousled hair and scar-covered, revealed back of Canmore as he struggled up a narrow sandy pathway between inclined rocks. The young man was lean and wiry, yet clutched at the bags he carried with a determination that made Brachillio fond of him for a moment. He hadn’t shirked his duties since he had replaced Kawir as his bagman.

In the distance, the waves of the Apia battered the sandy beaches near Corrundum. The sounds of shouts rang out at random intervals as well as the groaning of wood from the ships moored along its banks. Planks could be heard hitting the rocks of the shore as debris gathered. Farther off, the sounds of cawing crows could be heard, no doubt summoned by all the carnage and bloodshed of war.

‘Just over this fucking ridge.’ The voice of Anker broke through the haze from behind Brachillio. ‘Then a few hundred more strides and we should be at the encampment.’

Brachillio gave an uncertain nod, hoping that Anker could see him from behind. He could see Canmore falter ahead so he gave the boy a push to his back haunches. The strain and effort tore through his mind, sending him reeling with pain once again. He clutched at some nearby rocks to steady himself and groaned a few curses under his breath.

‘The Thunderer is beating quite the dance in your noggin, there.’ Anker’s voice had a twinge of concern to it. ‘Well, suck it up and keep moving. We’re almost there. This is your lot after all, being the Wielder. Great power, great responsibility, and apparently the whining of a damsel along with it.” The older man gave a long and groaning chuckle.

Brachillio used the anger at his friend’s words to push himself up the incline with greater focus. The haze seemed to abate for the moment, but the damned thumping in his head wouldn’t cease. He gave one more push to the inside of Canmore’s leg to get the weighted-down boy over the crest of the rocks.

Once over the mount and onto the scraggly grass beyond, Brachillio took a few steps off to the side to catch his breath. He rolled his arms and felt the sharp pain still needling away at his shoulder and the dull, yet still jarring ache of his broken ribs. He felt his arms and the tenderness of his hand. His wounds were healing with a preternatural efficiency, yet not as quickly as he would be satisfied with. The fight with the Red Champion had really done a number on him.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Brachillio heard an immense crash on the rocky shores below the incline. At first it sounded like a siege weapon had gone off, and in his shocked state he crouched low to the scrag on the cliff. It only took a moment for his eyes to train on the source of the noise. His eyes took in a large chunk of hull from the ship he had previously been on rising from the waters to hit upon the rocks below. Scorched wood and bloody debris seemed to explode from it as it impacted once and again. A reminder of what he had endured just a few scant hours earlier.

‘Admiring your handiwork?’ The hushed voice of Canmore came from over Brachillio’s shoulder.

Brachillio gave a sarcastic snort. ‘I suppose you could say so.’ He turned his head away from the event and back to the rough-shod face of the boy.

‘If a former slave of Holam can pull off the things you can, this gives me hope.’ Canmore gave a crooked smile and waited for Brachillio to furrow his brow. ‘Maybe you can teach me some of those tricks, so I can put the boots to the damned bastards and monsters of this world, as well.’

Canmore grabbed up the bags and ran off as quickly as the words lodged themselves into Brachillio’s ears. Brachillio stumbled on his breath for a moment and began to retort with a ‘…But, it doesn’t work that way.’ He gave a shake of his head and started a slow walk after the boy.

Brachillio made a few dozen steps and then needed to clutch a nearby rock, half the size of a man, to catch his breath. His cracked ribs sent seering pain throughout his body with each jostle or deep breath. He was a walking collection of sores and aches, feeling half-alive and half-dead. He had narrowly gotten out of that reckless situation on the barge. He had remarkable abilities as Wielder, yet he was still relatively mortal, all things considered.

He leaned with a spot of his abdomen that didn’t feel like it was ripped open and torn to shreds on the cool stone of the rock. He took a moment to survey his surroundings in full, just in case he needed to know this area in a further battle or skirmish. Behind him was the shore he had crawled his way up, to his left were a gathered amount of ruined stone walls that must have served as some sort of lookout or warehouse for the nearby city of Corrundum. Further left, in a haze of fire, smoke, and debris he could see the first walls of the city. Ahead of him, he could see the men that Anker brought with him finding their way through the scrag-grass and uneven, rocky land that separated them from a series of tents far off near a tree-line.

Brachillio turned slightly with a groan to survey the rest of the area, to see down the shores of the Apia the way he had come with Canmore. That is when he saw him, peeking out from a larger rock. A tall figure stood there, dumbfounded and oblivious with a cup of tea in his right hand and a saucer balanced below it in his left.

That man was Kawir, that pretty-faced bastard.

‘What the-‘ Brachillio’s words trailed off.

Kawir made eye contact, then tried to step behind the large rock beside him. He spilled some of his hot tea down the front of his coat. His mouth moved as if he cursed to himself silently as he did so.

‘You aren’t supposed to be here, yet! You daft bastard!’ Brachillio moved forward past the rock and began shaking his arms out at Kawir.

‘No! No! This won’t do. Cut! Cut!’ A raspy, stressed, and oddly accented male voice came from behind Brachillio.

He turned on his feet to look back at the source of the interloping voice. It was a gray-haired and bearded man wearing spectacles on his head with multiple lenses attached. The man emerged from behind a large back box, and a small wooden enclosure barely perched on the edge of the cliff that ringed the shore-line.

‘Kawir, you dolt! You’re supposed to be at the encampment dressed as an extra.’ The man pulled some crumpled papers out of his robes and gave a flick through them in his hand. ‘Soldier #43! This isn’t your god-damn break! Go see Dherran to get in costume.’

‘The casting director said I could…’ Kawir gave a sheepish reply from behind the rock.

Brachillio slumped onto the rock and then straightened up, cracking his back and being heedless of his previous wounds. He gave a long yawn and rolled his eyes at the scene now being completely ruined. Today was going to be a very long day.

‘Thunderer damn the lot of you!’ The gray-haired man walked back to his enclosure and hammered one of his fists on his little black box. He yelled at three very small people hiding behind equipment and a glowing tome. ‘Fine! We’ll get the scene rewritten! Go fetch Mister Wanderer and fire this new guy. What’s his name? Something-of-ashes?’

‘You couldn’t have taken your break in the make-up trailer? Seems fitting for someone as pompous and good on the eyes as you, Kawir. Thanks for ruining my scene.’ Brachillio gave a shout at the figure squirming behind the nearby rock.

The voice replied, ‘I couldn’t. Narsheel kicked me out. I just wanted to see how your scene was going. It totally wasn’t fair about how you abandoned me back in that Holam scene.’ There was a long slurp of tea and the sounds of jittering porcelain. ‘You replaced me with an ugly slave boy. I was supposed to be second billing!’

Brachillio gave a hard snort. ‘This part of the story is about me. I don’t need you hogging all the scenes with your face and posh accent. Canmore keeps the reader’s eyes on me, and besides, the boy is better at carrying my bags.’

‘Enough banter!’ The gray-haired man stomped along the scrag-grass and got right into Brachillio’s personal space. He began to beat a sheaf of papers on the nearby rock in an impotent fury. ‘I’m going to need a few minutes to get this scene back up and on track. Since I have the two of you here, you might as well head over to the encampment and get some work done. You and Kawir have been dodging your interviews for Karavanir Entertainment. Go get those done. I’ll call you back when I need you for the rewritten scene.’

‘Me, too? I get to be in the next scene?’ Kawir stuck his head from around the rock. He was still holding his small cup of tea in between his thumb and pinky.

‘No you shit-head! Just Brachillio! Next time I see you, you better be non-descript as a damned soldier! Otherwise, I’ll pay some other slob to do it and cut your wages!’



It had only been a few minutes walk behind the false tents of the encampment and further behind that into the trailers and storage spaces beyond. In that time, Brachillio and Kawir walked silently. Brachillio had managed to pull off most of his bandages as they were cutting into his skin. He’d gladly just wait an hour or two over in special effects to get that done up, again. Kawir was in a snit and yelled at some poor, wide-eyed intern to take his empty tea cup and saucer.

The place set up for the interview already had two fold out chairs and a wooden stool set out. Several black boxes were set up around the area to capture multiple scriptoria-oculum views of the space. The place was well within the shade with a few partitions up to keep the river breezes from messing with anything. Some catering had been placed on some tables nearby, which was constantly buzzing with extras or grips grabbing their fill. The interviewer wasn’t there yet.

‘Do you think they have Pharanese pastries?’ Kawir leaned into Brachillio, moving his brow up and down, then pointing at the catering table with his sharp chin. ‘I’d kill for a pastry.’

Brachillio lifted his wrist towards his old bagman’s face. Kawir remained perplexed for a moment, watching the younger man’s hand. With a light flick, he lifted his hand up and backhanded Kawir in the face.

‘Does it look like I give a fuck? I just want to get this interview over with and get back to my scene. We’re losing day-light.’

‘Fine, if I find any pastries, you’re not getting any.’

Kawir shuffled off to the catering table and began to fill up a small plate with piles of food. Brachillio took up the folded chair nearest the stool and crossed his arms in a huff. He always hated these kinds of PR gigs. Some idiot who barely knew anything about the story would soon show up and begin to ask a mess of stupid questions with a bunch of peppered in personal questions that he’d have to keep dodging.

The tall figure and pretty face of Kawir returned from the table and sat down across from Brachillio on the wooden stool. He wanted to remind the blue-blooded toad that he was sitting in the wrong seat, but he soon decided not to mention it. He’d let the pompous jack-ass make a fool of himself when the interviewer finally arrived after making them wait.

‘No Pharanese pastries left. I think Anker took them all. Bastard.’ Kawir scrunched up his pretty looks and much to Brachillio’s chagrin, it didn’t do much to mar his features at all. ‘I grabbed some Rudavangian blood pie though, and some Corrundish sugar cakes. You should try one.’ Kawir proffered the teetering plate out to the young man.

‘Ah! So here we are, the stars of the show, I take it?’ The voice belonged to a man with a painfully rehearsed accent. He sounded like one of those fainting nobles from some far off kingdom. ‘Brachillio and Kawir? Where is the young one, Canmore? He couldn’t make it?’

‘He had better things to do.’ Brachillio broke in flatly.

The interviewer looked the part of a fainting nobleman or courtier. Long skirts and coats, a brightly dyed silk scarf with gold embroidery in some obtuse and eye-piercing colors. He even had a faint, waxed, smudge of a mustache and the lop-sided suede hat of a troubadour that tried to hard to be seen as one. He gave a hard glare over his hawkish nose down to Kawir who let his jaw slackly open for a moment. A piece of some sort of cake fell from pretty-man’s lips as he quickly got up, pointed to the stool in amazement, and then moved over to the folding chair next to Brachillio.

‘I won’t take up too much of your time. Just a few questions about the story and your characters. I heard that your director, Stantzl Kubroki is having a bad day. I overheard near the refreshment kegs that he might have to hire a new writer?’ The man-tart took a seat on the stool and began to flip through some pages clipped to a board. His question seemed more like a polite attempt at rhetorical interest than anything he expected anyone to answer.

‘Stantzl…’ Kawir shoved another cake into his face. ‘…Can be a bit…’ He dabbed at his face with a section of his loosened shirt-tail to get rid of some jam across his perfectly chiseled cheek. ‘…Demanding.’

Brachillio spent a few moments wiping some grit out of his eye.

‘Okay, well, let’s get started, then.’ The interviewer snapped his fingers and activated three of the nearby black scriptoria-oculum boxes. ‘My name is Jhanni-jul and I’m from Karavanir Entertainment. Here I am on the set of the epic fantasy tale, The Open Road, with two of the stars.’ Jhanni gave a dramatic pause and lifted one of his arms out to point at Kawir. ‘We have one of the support characters, here, Kawir.’

Kawir quickly looked up with his eyes wide. He dropped the plate of remaining food down to the floor by his side. He quickly began to groom himself and fluff his hair. After a single moment of preening, he gave a sparkling smile and somehow managed to look gentlemanly despite his earlier dishevelment.

‘And we have the protagonist of our tale. The last Wielder,


Brachillio gave a slight nod and rolled his eyes.

‘So, tell me Brachillio, what is it like to be the star of this story?’

Brachillio narrowed his eyes for a moment and seemed to size up Jhanni for his apparently broad and stupid question. ‘Well, it’s work. It’s hard, honestly. I’m the last Wielder, I have voices in my head. I had to kill the Autarch. There’s a lot going on.’

Jhanni kept nodding, yet his eyes were blank. He waited a moment far too long after Brachillio finished talking.

‘Um, so… Yeah. I have a lot to do, but that doesn’t really stop me from getting some personal stuff done in the story as well-‘

‘Like murdering Holam of Solvay?’ Jhanni cut in.

‘Yeah, like that. I’d been waiting a long time to do that bastard in. He had it coming to him.’

‘Will there be any more murders and roguish intrigue, do you think? It all adds a lot of tortured hero elements to the story. I know the audience will eat that up.’ Jhanni gave a chuckle that seemed more at home from a maiden than a man with a mustache.

‘I certainly hope so. I have a lot of sins to atone for, after all. I lived a pretty hard life.’

‘But you’re so young…’ Jhanni let his right hand stroke the leg of Brachillio for a moment. The gesture was met with Brachillio looking down to the other man’s hand and half snarling. ‘Surely you don’t have that much to atone for. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.’ That same laugh came out of the interviewer making Brachillio cringe and squint with discomfort.

‘I guess it’s all relative. I’ve had a hard life. I grew up as slave. I had to make my way, where others…’ Brachillio used his left thumb to point at Kawir who remained staring off into space and smiling like a dolt. ‘…Had it pretty easy.’

‘Oh yes! Kawir, how was it during that scene with Holam and the slave children?’

‘Heh. Well, it was a great start to the story, after all.’ Kawir seemed to beam under the lights of the black boxes. He almost seemed to grit his words through his perfect smile. ‘I really enjoyed my introduction at the start of the story. Although, Brachillio didn’t need to be so rough with me.’

‘I had personal business to attend to. You were screwing everything up.’ Brachillio let the words fall out.

‘I think I proved myself rather important to the plot when we confronted that scurvy-dog in the ruins. If it wasn’t for me distracting the gangers, Brachi here couldn’t free the slave-children. It was all thanks to this sword-arm, here.’ Kawir flexed his right arm out for the oculums.

‘My, my, my, such dashing heroics.’ Jhanni mused and began to tug at one side of his mustache.

‘You didn’t do a damned thing. Your sword got stuck. That’s what happens with you bring a large sword to a small hallway.’ Brachillio raised one of his hands to stroke his forehead.

‘Sadly, I became wounded in the heat of battle. Old war wounds and such. You know how it is. Yet I sacrificed myself for the betterment of the story. I told Brachillio to go on without me, to get to Corrundum and save the city from the Rudavangian dogs! I offered to stay behind and take care of the slave-children.’ Kawir put both of his hands on his hips and seemed to well up all the available light to beam out of his ass.

‘Oh my, my, my. So valiant.’ Jhanni continued to tweak at that his scant hairs until they were like a twisted needle on his face.

‘I replaced him with Canmore. He’s the one who should be here with me. Not this dingleberry.’ Brachillio cocked his head to the side and gave Kawir a scathing sideways glance. Kawir continued to beam and returned the same glare through his eyes.

‘Okay… Okay…’ Jhanni began to shuffle his pages on his lap. ‘Well, young Brachillio, what are your thoughts about your travels down the Apia river? For one as mighty as yourself, you don’t seem to be able to handle the waves to well.’

Of course he would have to bring that up. ‘I get sea-sick. It happens to the best of us.’

Kawir blurted in, ‘I don’t get sea-sick. I come from a long line of naval fighting men. Why, back home the used to all us the Cresting Wolves-‘

‘The question was for me. You weren’t there. You were too busy nursing your bruised ankle.’

‘It’s a war wound. I earned that on the fields of battle, fighting alongside great generals-‘

‘No, I’m pretty sure you twisted one one of your men’s corpses as you ran away.’

‘I say! I won’t stand for you discrediting my honor like that!’

‘Whoa! Whoa, you two. Heh. It seems like there’s a lot of strong chemistry between you two, on the set and off.’ Jhanni started rapping his knuckles against the back of his clipboard nervously. ‘Sea-sickness or not, your courage rallied forth when the captain of your vessel took you right into the thick of the battle, right?’

‘Yes. I guess you could say that. As soon as I heard the arrows, I protected young Canmore.’

‘More than that, you jumped headlong into the waves to perform a stealthy assault on the Rudavangian barge. How recklessly wonderful!’

‘Something had to be done. I didn’t expect them to be so, uh…’ Brachillio tapped a single finger on his head. ‘Thick. I was able to get the drop on them pretty easily.’

‘But then things went sour, did they not?’

‘They always do. I think I’m cursed like that. Between the voice in my head and everyone’s stupidity around me, it’s a wonder I end up surviving at all.’ Brachillio glared back to Kawir one more time.

‘I taught him how to handle his blade.’ Kawir shot in.

‘No you did not, you liar!’ Brachillio shouted back.

‘Whoa! Whoa, there you two. So, Brachillio, how was it fighting the infamous Red Champion of the Rudavangians?’

‘Meh, I blew her up. No sweat.’

‘Your wounds were pretty grievous. It’s a wonder you didn’t die.’ Jhanni accentuated the faux-shocked look on his face. He as trying for empathy but he utterly failed at it.

‘I got a bit drunk on my powers. It happens when I call upon them. I kind of lose control a little bit. I still had enough energy for that fire enchant. That did the trick.’

‘…And boy did it! You blew that barge right into kindling!’ Jhanni slapped both of his hands on his knees and almost lost his clipboard on the floor. ‘Do you think the Red Champion survived the blast? Perhaps she’s going to make another appearance, seeking vengeance?’

‘She better not. Fire enchants don’t come easily. The Rudavangian hordes are hard enough to deal with. I almost died.’

‘I could have saved you, if I was there.’ Kawir got up from his chair to take a bow.

‘No, Canmore was there, he got me out of the water.’ Brachillio turned fully away from the pretty-faced fool.

‘So what do you think is in store for the story? Some more epic battles? A return of Kawir? More sins to atone for? Perhaps Protector Anker might get killed off?’ Jhanni got more and more excited with every question he let drop from his mouth.

‘Well, you’ll just have to keep reading to find out. Our head writer, he’s pretty secretive…’ Brachillio continued but was cut short.

‘Yes, yes! Mister Wanderer, I hear.’ Jhanni beamed with knowing.

‘I thought that Sovereign-of-whatsis was doing the next-‘ Kawir blurted in. Brachillio gave him a hard elbow to the ribs to shut him up.

‘Yes, Mister Wanderer will be returning for the remaining chapters. He’s quite the writer.’ Brachillio turned back to smile at the oculums.

‘Great to hear! Great to hear! I can’t wait.’ Jhanni took a breath and Kawir tried to mumble something but was cut off abruptly as the mustachioed man continued. ‘Well, this is Jhanni-jul from Karavanir Entertainment, on the set of The Open Road. Stay tuned for more great chapters and epic tales!’

The scriptoria-oculum boxes turned off. Kawir looked around himself in a daze wondering where the attention he so craved would come from next. Brachillio got up out of his seat as fast as he could.

‘Is that it?” Kawir crossed his legs and looked over to Brachillio and then to Jhanni.

‘Yep. That’s it. Great to know you. I’m out.’ Jhanni picked up his clipboard in hand and scuffled off in a hurry. He didn’t even say good bye or offer a moment of thanks for the interview. All that could be seen was his figure stomping away and a flourish of his gaudy scarf trailing behind him.


‘Corrundish sugar cakes, you said?’ Brachillio quickly made is way toward the picked-over table of food.


Kawir looked down dejectedly to his abandoned plate of food on the floor. He gave a moment of pause and the switched back to merriment as he headed over to the table to get more. ‘Yes, and blood pie, too.’

‘There you two are!’ The voice that cut in was female and nasally. ‘I’ve been looking all over for your Kawir. You were supposed to report to Alsmir in costumes an hour ago. What the hell were you up to?’ The woman locked on to the pretty man with her green eyes. She quickly snapped over to Brachillio. ‘Brachi, you’re due on the new set. Stantzl got the old writer back and they’re getting set up there. You need to get your new lines and set your markers.’

Brachillio gave an exaggerated nod and stuffed his face full of sugar cake.

‘Kawir!’ The woman barked and stomped one of her feet. ‘Don’t you run off and start screwing up scenes, again. Stantzl almost had my ass in a sling for that. I didn’t tell you to go on break. Now move!’

Kawir finished stuffing a bunch of food into the crook of his arm and gave a nod. He slinked backward around the table, taking a few backward steps and then ran off towards the tents.

‘So, it’s going to be a completely new scene?’ Brachillio managed to free enough room in his mouth to get the words out.

‘Yes. New scene. That King-of-Dust guy is getting the sack.’ The woman adjusted the front of her blouse and then pulled some papers from her belt. ‘Hopefully Stantzl won’t let anyone but Mister Wanderer handle the story from now on.’

‘Good.’ Brachillio gave a nod and walked past the casting director. ‘Ollana, you know I need fight scenes to keep me going. That’s what I agreed to in my contract. Less exposition, more action. I’m the bloody Wielder after all.’

‘Yes, I know.’ The two of them continued over the scrag towards the new set that the grips were setting up nearby. ‘Just remember that there is a clause in that contract for romance scenes, though. Just be ready. I know Wanderer and Stantzl will probably spring that on you when you least expect it.’

Brachillio gave a nod and passed through some curtains onto the next set. He shoved a few of his remaining cakes into his pockets. He was ready to get back on track.

‘You’re here!’ Stantzl screamed through his fogged up glasses. ‘Good! Now ready… Set… On your damned marks you bastards… And… Scene!’


April Fools!

I hoped that you enjoyed this chapter. This chapter was done in an April Fools Day swap on webfictionguide. I hope you all enjoyed a different take on the world and characters of this story.

This chapter was written by SovereignofAshes who writes the web serial Vorrgistadt Saga. If you enjoyed this chapter and are interested in reading more by SovereignofAshes, please check out their work here or here.

The next chapter will be up next week. Please stay tuned and thanks for your support.



Noli 2.2 A Noisome Grave

No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new.
– Steve Jobs

But I did not return to San Diego alone. Doggol is always afoot, except when he is not, so should no longer be counted.

Accompanying me was an old, withered servant of the family. My father owned many properties in San Diego, but of course cash crops were useless without the buyers to receive and process its harvest. Therefore there must be a steward that must remain in the city.

He behaves towards me with the cringing servility I knew better to mistake for honest loyalty. Why? Because he is old enough to have known my grandfather.

Don Rafael was a kind man worthy of respect, but he does not know how much of Saturnino Ibarra’s temper would rule in my blood.

In another life, the answer would be simple. Plenty. My father’s temperance would have nurtured in me the long, simmering hatred I would express as Simoun, the filibustero.

“My own failing health and my own occupations have prevented me from returning, Señor. Capitan Tiago said he would have a tomb built, but… in the end, he did not. I had seen to your father’s grave, I have planted flowers over it and had a large cross erected.”

“And after that, it was no longer your problem to mind. I do not blame you for this. You have served my family’s finances well, your task in Manila is well enough to consume all your attention.”

“Señor Ibarra, I apologize again- I could have done more…“

“Señor Doroy, you have nothing to fear. You have graciously offered to accompany me to San Diego to show me my father’s grave, even with your health as it is.”

Yet I cannot act so kindly and grateful to this old man, for managing my father’s deals and properties while I was away. It must have been hard trying to prevent my father’s enemies from chipping away at the inert wealth of the Ibarras, while I lounged about in Europe. I have said my thanks, but I cannot be so impulsive.

‘I wish you would not be so kind’ his eyes seem to beg. ‘Not too cruel, but not too trusting.’ Not too much like my father. I must present an image of strength and certainty – because I am now responsible for the livelihoods of many.

He is called Tandang Doroy, a name with two meanings. The first meaning Old Doroy, for Cristiano Doroy had ever felt an old wary soul even as a young man. The second, meaning Rooster, for like a bantam in his youth he strutted around proudly in fine clothes that his service to a Spaniard afforded.

I am running through the strategies in my mind. I may need to have Old Doroy replaced, rewarded with a generous retirement package, or the things I will be doing will drive him into a stress-fueled heart attack. By Christmas I will be gifting everyone with too much ham. In  both the literal and the Reb Brown sense.

Or maybe he would be strong enough to take it? To not be bribed or intimidated? If he but knew his family would be made safe, one should never underestimate the raw stubbornness of an old man.

The carriage rolls into San Diego, then past it. Some ways out of town and nestled among the rice fields is the cemetery, fenced in partly by stones and partly by bamboo. This separates this barrio of the dead from the world of men, but not venturesome pigs and goats from the neighborhood that occasionally feed and gambol among the graves.

It is no restful country for the dead.

We step off the dusty carriage, and bid its driver to remain and let the panting horses rest. My mind flashes to the spectacles of the for-profit graveyards of the future, with their manicured grass lawns and apartment tombs and their amazing lack of consecration and before I know it the words leak through my mouth – “We can do better than this.”


I squint at the sky and then exhale. This country. This whole damn century. God! “We pay for masses in service to our departed in Purgatory, but who takes service for the living? Do the dead even care where their bones lie? Cemeteries are not for the dead, but for the living.”

“I am not sure what you mean, Señor Ibarra. Good Christians should be buried properly, not like a heathen! We all owe it to our dead, for surely when we go to join them they will know if we treated their remains with respect or not!”

“And so in their memory we also light candles on their graves and pray over them. Graveyards are places so that the living can find their departed, and where laid down into the ground all men are finally equal,” I gesture towards the cemetery as we walk. “On All Souls Day we give offerings and pay for masses that our families may have temporary respite from Purgatory. I am simply saying this lack of organization is… irritating to me,”

I begin to move my palms in the air in tandem as if chopping up blocks. “Everyone in their proper place under heaven, but at least we could give everyone a lapida to make it easier for those who still live to find their graves.”

Sadly the Day of the Dead in the Philippines is not completely awesome as Mexico’s Day of the Dead, but more a sombre and desperate affair. It is said that a mass said on All-Saint’s Day and All-Soul’s Day is worth five or six any other times of the year.

“There are those who think that named gravestones and large tombs are merely for bragging’s sake. God already knows their names.” Then he adds in a small voice “It is the Tsino who make too much about the splendor of their ancestor’s graves. The prayers for their soul… each mass shortening the time they spend in Purgatory, I would think that would be more important to them.” To me; he does not say. He worries for his own sake, for he knows he is not long til the grave.

“Mmm. You would be fine with this for your own resting place? You were born here, in San Diego, but you work in Manila, and your children live in Malate. A much more orderly cemetery than this probably awaits.”

“I-if you mean that I should have sought better for Don Rafael, I accept this rebuke. But San Diego is his town, I cannot think he would wish to be buried anywhere else!”

“No, merely allow me to ask you this clearly – by this, do you mean to say that all Christians deserve a minimum of respect in their burial, but to ask for more decorations on their grave than a good sturdy cross is but useless egoism?”

“I am not sure…”

“It is not such a bad thing, you know. It is a very reasonable stance to take. There is no wrong answer here – it is just as well for a poor farmer to bury his wife and mother of the family, dead of cholera, in the corner of their farm to sanctify it in their eyes; as it is for a rich man to prepare a grand tomb while he yet lives, like the pharaohs of old. As you said, it is the prayers that are important.”

“Then I guess that is somewhat like what I mean. Forgive me, Señor, for I truly could not do more for your father’s sake.“

I nod benignly. Filipinos hate being pressured, and most of all they hate Socratic questioning. Many have written about the inscrutable Oriental mind, when often it is a simple as wanting but unable to say ‘get out of my face already’.

It all sounds as if you are trying to shame them with a ‘gotcha!’ moment, and so in such circumstances they would rather lie than commit, which unfortunately only adds to the frustration of the questioner. Leading questions are stupid questions, better not to waste time and ask straight out.

Except that simpler more forceful questions can add even more pressure, because the wrong answer might have even more immediate and painful consequences. ‘Who are you, a Spaniard?’ a gravedigger annoyed at his co-worker would say ‘Asking so many questions. Who commanded me to dig up a grave only twenty days old, in the dead of night, even while it is raining? To the devil with you! If I did know you to be a man like me, I would think you were a Spanish civilian.’

“No, it is fine. You have as much as you could have under the circumstances. I now owe you a favor, Señor Doroy.”

I glance aside towards Mount Makiling in the distance, the home of an immortal, and then enter this garden of the dead.


In the center of the cemetery stands a tall wooden cross set upon a pedestal of fitted stone blocks, held together by mortar made out of sand, lime, egg whites, and cane sugar. Odd as this recipe may be, the churches that still stand in your century attest to its efficacy.

But this shrine is one battered by wind and sun; the tin plate nailed upon the cross had long faded the letters INRI – Iesu Nazarenum Rex Iudareum, Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews – and below the cross are piled a heap of nameless skulls and bones that the gravedigger had indifferently thrown away from the graves he had dug. These are the poor forgotten remains of those dead whose families no longer could pay the fee for remaining interred in this cemetery. In their place lie new caskets; the old ones chopped up and burned for firewood.

“There, just behind that big cross, Señor!” Old Doroy points.

We step gingerly past the cross and the shallow burial mounds, and Old Doroy looks around confounded for the cross that marks my father’s grave. “Is it here, is it here, or there? I remember – there was a stone nearby. It is that one- but the earth has been disturbed!”

The old man notices the gravedigger regarding us with bland curiousity, who upon our approach doffs his salakot in respectful greeting. “Can you tell me, where is the grave that had the big cross?” Old Doroy asks him.

The gravedigger looks placidly towards the spot. “A big cross?”

“Yes, like this,” with his bamboo cane he traces out a Byzantine cross on the ground.

“The one with the flowers growing on it?”

“Yes, with adelfas, and sampagas and pensamientos, that is it!” Pink, white, and purple flowers; here none to be found. He offers the gravekeeper a cigar as incentive. “Now, man, tell us where is the grave and the cross.”

The gravedigger yaws and rubs at his ears. Then he says “Well… the cross, I have already burnt it.”

“What? Why?!”

“Because the head priest ordered me to.”

Old Doroy’s eyes bulge out. He is at a loss for words. He looks to me helplessly.

‘Did you really not know about this?’ I wanted to ask. Perhaps Old Doroy was acting out some sort of face, trying to deflect blame in pretending he did not know that my father’s remains have been so shamed. But looking at him, the dismay in his face is real. It is plausible for him not to know if he spent all this time in the city, dealing in the indigo and sugar trade. I raise my hand, with my face still carefully expressionless, and gesture for him to continue.

“Then where is the grave? Surely you must remember, you can at least tell us where it is.”

The gravedigger shrugs. “The body is no longer there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, in its place I have interred a woman there just last week,” he adds with a faintly rascally tone. “That one there.”

“You madman! Why have you done this! It has not been a year since we buried him! The fees for staying in this cemetery, we have paid for five years!”

He yawns. “I had to, you see, for the priest ordered it. Even though it was raining, even though I was sick, he had me dig it up to take it to the cemetery of the Chinese –“

For the first time here, I speak “And you did this, I trust?”

He quivers, for in the tone iofmy voice he has realized he is treading into dangerous waters. “Do not be angry, Señor. I did not bury him among those weak-kneed foreigners. It is better to drown than to be buried with the Chinamen, I said to myself, and so I threw the dead body into the wate-“

The world stops.

This right here is why Filipinos do not care to volunteer information.

This right here is why the Filipinos of this age do not care to rise up about abuses piled high on themselves.

This right here is emblematic of the ills of the nation as a whole. It is not that the Indio is indolent, but that he cannot look beyond his present inconvenience to the consequences of his decision to quit early. What lies in the future is in the future, it is not today; and today can be the same as tomorrow. As you can abide today, there is no temptation to seek for greater wealth and pleasures.

This man, beaten savagely by Padre Damaso for burying Don Rafael, had to dig up the grave and carry the still bloody, stinking bones all the way to the Chinese cemetery; there amid the flaming pain and the icy needle-like touch of the rain, could only look forward to even more painful labor digging a new grave. No; he must have thought; I cannot bear it. I cannot survive to go there, so let me cut this labor short and call it done.

He was sick afterwards, and survived after a week or so of agony tended only by charitable neighbors, since no one was willing to be the wife of a filthy gravedigger – and back to a mean life, where no one still respected him. He shows no respect for the dead nor to anyone, for he has never felt it, nor have any in him to give. Only by fear of pain is he motivated.

He is the nation unwilling to move or be moved, because he has nothing and in remaining nothing his only protection is being too pathetic to be bothered with. He is beaten for minding his duty, so he does not care to exert more in the sake of propriety or justice. As bad as his life, it could be worse; no tulisanes thinks he is worth robbing, no religious harpy orders him to do more for sake of appearances, and of his fate in Heaven he gives no mind. What little power he has, he lords over those under him, for it is the only thing in this life that gives him real pleasure.

I can empathize, truly.

And yet almost agonizingly slowly, yet faster than I can think, I see my cane rise up to smash him aside in the head. While Old Doroy’s cane is of light bamboo, mine is one of heavy polished hardwood, bought in the shops for its possible utility in self-defense.

Time resumes. Gasps erupt from the few townpersons already visiting and saying prayers in the graveyard, all of them struck just as numb by this sudden scandalous violence.

The gravekeeper drops, and lets out a keening wail. Surprised, Old Doroy steps fearfully away from me.

“Ibarra…” he whispers.

The rage passes, and there is only shame. But this man. This country. Right now, so much waste. So blind! Unable to see beyond the next moment, the next day!

And I…

There does not seem to be blood from the strike to his head from earlier, I hit mostly the cheek. It bruises, perhaps cut the inside of his mouth from his teeth, but not as dangerous as a hit straight to the temples might have been.

I am a hypocrite. I am indulging over what petty power I have over the defenseless. Are some behaviors too ingrained? Must a man first be broken before he can be rebuilt?

“I am Juan Crisostomo Ibarra,” I speak through clenched teeth. “Here once rested my father’s bones. In ordering them dug up, this is the reason why Padre Damaso is no longer the kura paroko of San Diego. Though it is said that he was transferred to a wealthier parish, his removal was ordered by the Gobernador-Heneral of the Philippines himself. That old Tiniente of the Guardia Civil had the attention of powerful people well beyond his station.”

I point away from the grave towards the gravedigger’s face. “Do you understand what this means?” Amazingly I can still see some hints of defiance and doubt in his face. In this time, beatings are still considered a form of punishment; men beat their children, teachers beat their students, women their maids, and few thought much of it. He has already been caned half to death before, this is not something new to fear anymore. And a man such as this, has very little left to lose. “Now so do you.”

I jab forwards lightly, right under his ribcage, and that was enough to send him coughing over and wheezing. A harmless blow to the diapraghm, but it looks and feels worse than that.

“You son of a whore! You shameless wastrel!” Old Doroy shouts at the gravedigger. “We should call for the Guardia!”

“It is not a crime to dig up a grave on a priest’s orders,” I respond. “Though I suppose the Guardia Civil would not even care, if anything should happen to such a careless gravekeeper.” I look around me, staring squarely at each scandalized face in turn.“Even in such a day as this. Such a fine day, is it not – good people of San Diego? How I have missed your faces!

If you have any problems come to me, for I will hear you. Or come at me, if you prefer, and I will receive you.”

“Señor Ibarra…”

“I apologize, Tandang Doroy, for letting this farce go for so long. I was so hoping that what I was told wrong, that after Padre Damaso’s passed, my father’s remains could at least be brought back. I would not have minded him being buried among the Chinese… if anything, my father would have thought it amusing.

In my life, he would have said, the Chinese would come to me begging for deals, but now in death I must beg for shelter under the overhangs of their home- tombs.”

Truly, he would! If he could but see what I know of the future’s Filipino-Chinese, he would laugh long and loud. Their tombs do merely look like miniature houses, but almost complete houses in their own right. You could look at them from the outside and think ‘I would rent this place’. Not such a terrible fate, is it? I would have been able to find and rebury him then! “

I jab at the gravekeeper again. He does not offer any defense. He could grab at my cane, he could run, but he does not. He merely cowers in place. Learned helplessness, this equanimity to suffering is what the Filipino has learned. Bahala na. What will be, will be. Acting out to defend oneself could only make it worse.

“What is your name, gravedigger?” Another light jab to his thighs. I feel like such a bully right now, but there is a point to all this.

“Bentong, Bentong Manghukay, I am!” Bentong who digs, such even appeared on his cedula personal; Roberto Manghukay. No family, no background, just this.

“You have done my family a… grave disservice. If you had simply done all as the Padre had asked of you, I would be rewarding you very greatly right now. All you had to do was to throw the corpse somewhere more easily found – buried in a shallow grave somewhere, into a hollow between the trees or some boulders! Anywhere except the rushing waters! Never did you think someone would care about the thing you carried, you resented it only for causing you pain!

Anything you want, I would have owed you a great favor, but in your laziness you have thrown away the chance for anything… anything, from a pension of ten pesos a month for the rest of your life, to a hectare or so of your own land! You are like the graves you dig! Empty and caring for nothing! ”

“Forgive me Señor!” he cries out. “I did not mean to insult you! I was ignorant, just tell me what to do and I will do it!”

He is cowering and covering his face. I jab at his armpits, causing him to recoil.

“Enough. Look at me.”

Slowly he lowers his arms. His eyes are wide with fright, despair, and not just a little bit of hate. Yes. I am everything you hate about this world, Bentong. Young, powerful, wealthy, self-assured, handsome – everything that is not you. This is the unfairness of everything.

I shift the hold of my cane from my right to my left hand. Then I reach behind my back and toss towards the gravedigger a leather bag.

“You are a man without dreams, Bentong. So I can only give you only the little that you think you deserve.” The pouch drops to the ground with a clink.

He freezes in place.

“There are all these people here who can witness that I have given you these thirty pesos,” more exactly, sixty pieces of Manila Mint 1885 King Alfonso XII 50-centavo silver coinage, “You have not stolen from me.” I tap at the ground with my cane. “Pick it up.”

“Señor, please, do not do this to me! I beg you!”

“There are consequences to all actions, including failing to act. Even people such as you, must feel this.”

“Have pity!”

Tittering and murmurs rise up from behind me, at this strange display. How odd that a man should be afraid of being offered money. How ludicrous a sight, a man on the ground begging away from being given money. But they also knew, deep in their heart, sometimes a gift can be poison. Perhaps it is an excuse, for a robber can be beaten to death by someone with the right social standing? No – I have said it is a gift, but then of course if a man is robbed later, that has nothing to do with the one who gave away the money. Such things just happen to those who carry around silver.

They stand and watch with horrid fascination. No one will come to help. The bystander effect in full strength. If there would be murder here, they would all be complicit in the sin. These are my Filipinos, they have not yet the idea of collective social responsibility.

“No tricks. No traps. You are going to lose your job anyway, so take this money and get out of my sight. Get out of my town. You are exiled, Bentong, and after I speak to the alferez should the Guardia Civil see your face in town again they will not merely beat you half to death. Whatever else you do, I do not care, as long as you do it elsewhere. May your pockets always find silver, but San Diego is forbidden to you.”

And how so suddenly he relaxes! A gift he is so suspicious of, but a punishment, now that fits his world-view! It is expected, and he can live with this.

This is a man without dreams.

“Thank you! Thank you Señor! Thank you for your mercy!” He swiftly grabs at the pouch and runs.

The sun is getting higher in the sky. I raise my face and close my eyes, and the warmth of the sun feels to me as if it is melting away my face as a wax mask, an oddly comfortable sensation. Rizal, tell me, which is my true self? The kind Ibarra that forgives even this indignity to his father’s memory? Or the hot-headed Ibarra that would pull a knife at an insult by Padre Damaso?

The task before me is huge and daunting, but I can feel it – it is the little things would destroy me. Father, forgive me for this cruelty, but we have all only just begun to be tested. Ah, if this cup could but pass me by…

“Señor Ibarra…” Old Doroy hesitates to ask. Even without looking I can feel it, he is furtive and uncertain. Was this not too public? A reputation of being an arrogant, vicious young man with a propensity for literally throwing money away could not be any good.



“My father is dead. I am the Don Ibarra now.”

He pauses, and then sighs. “… as you say, Don Ibarra.” In proper Spanish, Don is to be used only with the first name, or in full, never the last. With surnames is the Italian style.

An arrogant vicious young man exactly described Don Saturnino Ibarra, and the people all lived with him just fine. “I… no longer have any objection.”

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Noli 2.1 Hometown

The Philippines is a terrible name, coming from Spain. Phillip II was the father of the inquisition, who I believe died of syphilis. It is my great regret that we didn’t change the name of our country.

Imelda Marcos

You are laughing at me. I can feel it, a tingling in the back of my brain. And it just so happens this is the sort of question that [Googol] cannot answer. No, that is wrong. I can feel it. Will not answer.

I  give Doggol a flat glare. He lolls his tongue out at me.

Fine then. So I shall keep secrets from all of you too!

I have plans, but there is no hurry yet – I have arrived before All-Saint’s Day, the day before the boy’s death as prophesized by Rizal, and the head sacristan will not trouble me over merely two gold pieces.

Well, a mere sum to us, but at this point in time the peso actually trades slightly higher than the dollar, and so thirty-two pesos is a mighty sum to many. It is enough money to provoke murder.

There is something about knowing what troubles lie ahead that makes all the pains I would have suffered in another life seem so… trivial? Self-inflicted? All I had to do was to keep a lid on my temper. This explosive anger we Filipinos have, when we allow our feelings to run hot heedless of the consequences – and afterwards not to feel guilty about it, because a man insane with rage can do anything.  

So many things resolved before they even become problems if you understood what really motivated people instead of trying to apply your own values onto theirs. It is like cheating in a way.

This amuses you greatly. Why?

Ah, it does not matter. I have arrived back at San Diego. At long last, I am home!


Do not compare San Diego to Calamba! This is the world where Rizal never existed. I am created by God, born of my mother, not by Rizal!

San Diego, cradle of my youth, innocence and joy!

But  I cannot speak of San Diego without first speaking of the lake upon whose banks it sits.

San Diego is a town along Laguna de Bay, that lake shaped somewhat like a three-toed dinosaur’s footprint or a misshaped ‘W’; from whence the province Laguna derives its name. You know how Luzon has a funny shape like a man’s head, correct? If the province of Pangasinan is his pointy noise, and Manila Bay is his mouth, then Laguna de Bay is perfectly positioned to be its tongue or voice box. How apt.

Laguna is a Spanish word that encompasses not just lagoons but even inland lakes. So it is amusing to me to hear foreigners refer to it as the Laguna Lake… the Lake Lake. Even more so when the Americans would confuse the issue of Laguna de Bay as Laguna Bay… as if it wasn’t a fully enclosed freshwater body. Laguna de Bay, Laguna of Bay, for there is a township there named Bay or Ba-i, which was once the provincial capital.

Look, north of Laguna there used to be the Encomiendas of Moron and Taytay, and somewhere in Sorsogon in Bicol is a town called Bacon. These odd linguistic accidents just happen.

Let us return – to San Diego! If in Manila was struck numb by how little it had changed through the past seven years, as if I were still a little boy running across the street to buy sweets from a Chinaman’s store, San Diego seems effectively frozen in time. The road here was long and rocky, and now that I have entered the town’s main street I am struck both with such fondness – and despondency, at the impossible weight of the task ahead.

Look at this road. It is an unpaved dirt road, and then when it rains it becomes mud. All the other roads in the country are like this, if they even have one. Trade and transport all over the whole country all slows to a trickle a few months every year just because.

I look towards the lake. During rainy season the lake waters swell and the rivers flood. Sometimes there are tornado-waterspouts. They appear during extreme thunderstorms, and thus rarely a danger since no one would be out in the lake anyway. Those dark mysterious forests and swamps are also prime breeding grounds for malaria-carrying mosquitoes, which in this time many believed to come from ‘miasma’ seeping out from the jungle. Foreigners are often confused why in this time Filipinos rarely wax poetic about their picturesque environs.

Oh Mother Nature, she is pretty but she is also somewhat of a pain in the ass most of the time.

Look at that mountain straight south of Laguna de Bay. That is Mount Makiling. There are legends that Mariang Makiling, a diwata or nature forest spirit lives there. Certainly Rizal waxed eloquent about her kindness.

She is a fae, I wish to say to Rizal. If she existed in your world her benevolence would be different from the moral axis of mortals. Staying away is probably the kindest thing she could do.

I stare at Makiling’s irregular skyline for moment. I will certainly avoid visiting Mount Makiling.

I can feel your indignation in the back of my skull, but eh.

Wait, [Googol], make a note.

Know then that Laguna-Bai is a spirit of the lake and Makiling is the fairy that has Mount Makiling as her domain. Though they are on friendly terms, their personalities also conflict. Laguna is a undine, and while gracious most of the time, sometimes she is fickle and prone to pranking  those who disrespect and pollute her waters; but also gifting with bounty those who draw her interest. Makiling is a much more reserved sort, constant as her mountain, and while there are many tales of spirits loving mortals, she is one who would rather reject any confession, preferring to watch from a distance and see them happy with their own kind.

There was once a young man who could not decide between two loves – a comely young lass named Bonita Blanco, and a wealthy heiress named Valentina Volares. Both were mestiza, and while he was also a young Filipino of some means, his family did not own land. Bonita’s family owned land, and Valentina’s family owned a factory. The former is charming, neighborly, and with her heart open to all much beloved by the common folk. Valentina is pricklier, but her features much more strongly Spanish, and her family much wealthier. Though she often seems arrogant and disdainful, she sometimes shows moments of kindness and charity as long as no one is there to notice.

The young man’s name is Alejandro Amadeo.

His troubles were bad enough, but then Laguna and Makiling decided favor each girl. Inspired by her humility and friendliness, Makiling supported Bonita. Enjoying her brashness and wit, Laguna favored Valentina.

How will poor Alejandro survive, when supernatural powers now machinate with no full understanding of human life, to drive him to wed their favored girl!

I can feel your sheer outrage in the back of my skull. It is delicious.

Back to San Diego. There are so many memories bound here that I… I cannot! I cannot! I do not have the words. Pull as you might, the words escape me.

Go find Rizal’s lifework for the description of this town and its political situation. All I can think of right now is how these are the roads and spaces between houses that Maria Clara and I would run through as children. She had always been faster than me. And look there, the stone church, wherein while my mother was alive we would unfailingly attend mass every day at six in the early evening to listen to Padre Damaso.

It pains me.

But there is more to the town of San Diego than just its farmlands, its scrupulously religious folk, and the petty power struggle between its curate and the alferez who heads the Guardia Civil.

Perhaps what quickly draws attention, to set this apart from all other pastoral towns in the country, is that tangled forest which sits like an island upon a green sea of cultivated earth. In there are trees centuries old, woven together by wild vines and draped with moss, dark and moist, a Stygian otherworld. It is a dreaded forest and most of it is owned by my family.

The history of San Diego is the history of the Ibarra family. I shall recount to you the tale.

When San Diego was little more than a heap of miserable thatch huts around a foot-beaten street, one day arrived an old Spaniard with deeply sunken eyes who spoke uncannily proficient Tagalog. He acquired lands with the trade of clothing, jewelry, and some cash.  This Don Pedro Ebarramendia of Basque origin disturbed the locals with his deep, booming voice and the deathlike cast of his face and that when he laughed, only a deathly wheeze would come out from his mouth. None dared to challenge him.

And then, one day, he simply disappeared. It was only when a fetid odor emanating from the forest called the attention of some sheperds that he was discovered.  He hung, rotting, from a noose upon the branches of an ancient balete tree. Such a tree never stops growing, some still survive to your present, estimated by botanists to be thousands of years old. Their misshapen grasping branches, growing off the trunks like clawlike fingers, festooned with ragged veins that one might expect to spurt blood rather than sap, have ever held a paranormal impression upon the townsfolk.

Why such a man, powerful and having outlived or suppressed his enemies, should choose to die by hanging himself was a mystery never to be solved.

In his life, he was feared – but in his death by suicide, his sins perhaps in the end forcing his hand, the people threw his gifts of jewelry into the river and burned his clothing lest his blaspemous death left in them a curse. He was buried under that evil-looking tree, and from then on few had the nerve to enter the forest.

Those who entered reported eerie happenings, like a shepherd in search of his goats who spoke of strange lights; a young man who mentioned hearing an odd keening lament; and a young man wishing to prove his bravery and attract the attention of a disdainful young lady promised to spend the night under the tree, tied to it by a weave of reeds. He died mere days later from a high fever caught in the night he spent there for his bet. And much more are the fearful legends told about these dismal woods.

Soon after a young mestizo arrived in San Diego, professing himself the son of the deceased. He built a wall around his father’s grave, shortened the family name in the census papers from Ebarramendia to Ibarra, and settled firmly in the town. He dedicated himself to agriculture, primarily the cultivation of indigo. This Don Saturnino was a man of hard and violent and sometimes even cruel nature, but he was a hard worker and encouraged the development of the town. He gave out loans, and had no pity in collecting or seizing lands from those who faltered in their dues.

Though getting on in age, he married a young woman from the district of Santa Cruz in Manila, and she bore him a son; Don Rafael Ibarra, my father. He was well-loved by the peasants, and under his hand the development encouraged by his grandfather grew rapidly. The town of San Diego blossomed, more inhabitants poured in, and Chinese laborers and merchants followed them.

Eventually, it merited the establishment of its own stone church with a native priest, but then he too died and Padre Damaso arrived. Enticed by the prospects, Capitan Tiago and Doña Pia bought properties in San Diego and thus begun their friendship with its wealthiest landowner and its curate.

In those dark woods the twisted balite tree still stands, and a blackened rope still hangs in its branches, pulled to and fro by the wind.

I am Juan Crisostomo Ibarra y Igsalin. San Diego! Doom of my family! I have returned!

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Noli Interlude: The Maiden 01

 It would not be fair to speak of Maria Clara without first mentioning her mother, Doña Pia Alba. Capitan Tiago hailed from Pampanga, the province north of Manila. Santa Cruz was the affluent district that contained Binondo, where still the de Los Santos family maintained their primary residence. He met her there at some point, and after a brief courtship their marriage was arranged.

It was the marriage to this beautiful woman from Santa Cruz that gave Capitan Tiago his social status and much of his new fortune. He was the son of a wealthy sugar merchant, but Doña Pia was not content with merely buying and selling sugar and coffee. With their conjugal properties they bought land in San Diego, south of Manila, where they branched out to indigo and ranching. There also began their long friendship with Don Rafael Ibarra and Padre Damaso.

Their first six years of marriage failed to produce an heir, almost putting in vain their pursuit of wealth. All their efforts and affluence turned to ostentatious displays of piety, but it was not until Padre Damaso advised her to come with him to Obando and dance during the feast of Saint Pascual Baylon that her womb quickened with life.

And yet, like a person who had longed for treasure so long that once claimed had lost the joy of it, she ceased to smile and became melancholy during her pregnancy. She was often to be found weeping before the statues of saints. A puerperal fever took her after childbirth, leaving her beautiful baby in the care of her humorless Aunt Isabel.

From her mother did Maria Clara take her brightness, her gaiety, her keen mind and perhaps undue willingness to sacrifice herself in silence.

Though it was the expected in those times that women were best suited to manage the home, it was not as if managing a household did not require a good deal of intellect and stubbornness. Maria Clara had been shut up in a convent for several years as well, where she was taught the virtues of patience, of obedience, and trust in that God shall in the end settle all accounts. And that the confession was the balm to all sins.

“Padre Damaso, godfather, thank you for your time and allowing me to speak with you.”

“It is of little trouble, dear child. You said – if I had any business with your father, if I could take some time to offer you my counsel as well? So it turns out that I had things to speak to your father.” His blithe tone briefly turned aggressive, but if Maria Clara noticed, she gave no sign. “So speak, my child, what troubles you?”

“I must confessed I am vexed, Padre. Something Crisostomo said to me –“

“That cad! I will have him in chains by the morn!”

“No, no, nothing of the sort! He was ever the proper gentleman, nothing untoward happened or was said,” Maria Clara hurriedly clarified, “but… do I… do I have the power to place anyone under my protection?”

Padre Damaso leaned back on his chair and rested his chin upon one fingertip. He nodded at her to proceed.

“I know what would be my duties as a wife, and a Christian woman to the Church, but right now… I have no properties, I have no authority. All my life I have been the one protected, not the one who protects. If I were to wish something to be done, I have to borrow someone else’s power – my father’s wealth; your protection, godfather; my safety in the streets from the invisible hand of the law.

If someone calls out to me for succor, how can I grant them food and shelter? If charity be a virtue, how may I help? I am vexed, padre, I am vexed with this question. I have none by myself to give.”

“Has Ibarra asked for your help?” Padre Damaso scowled. “If he thinks to hide behind you for any misdeeds…! I will not forgive such a coward!”

“No, padre, it is not that. Though I worry about Crisostomo in another way too. What has he been doing in Europe that he can say ‘the amount of thirty-two pesos, for those such as us, is trifling’? I know that my father’s business or your own administration moves thousands of pesos without a worry.

But I have never owned or spent for myself anything of the sort. Someday I shall manage such funds without blinking, but now the thought of such sums as a trifle frightens me.”

“Has Ibarra really sunk so low as to ask you for money?!

“No, Padre, in the church of San Diego, there is a debt worth that amount. If possible, I would like to pay it in their stead. In San Diego, there are two little boys who need my help. If it would be possible, I wish for them to be protected as I am protected.”

“Then why does he not pay it himself?! He is off to San Diego, and good riddance!”

“So too, I understand, is Padre Salvi. Padre, my Padre, I must confess – him I fear to approach. I cannot bear the thought of someone else occupying the place in our community you have graced for so many years.”

“I see. Padre Salvi is… young, and for his training still needs seasoning. I can speak to him before he leaves. But why should I, Maria Clara? What do you actually want, Maria Clara? You would ask me hurry – but for whom? What did Ibarra ask of you?”

“Their names as Basilio and Crispin. They are young sacristan. They are ten and seven years old. The youngest is accused of stealing from the offering box two gold pieces… I have few belongings, but if possible, I would pay for it myself. I would grant them shelter and protection until the truth is out.”

“Do not shelter thieves, Maria Clara!”

“Maybe they are, maybe they are not. But is thirty-two pesos really the worth of a life? I am vexed, father. Does Crisostomo mean to test me as well?

I would like to see these boys for myself. I would like to know if I can tell a liar from an innocent. I would like to know if kindness in the right moment can change a life. I would like to know what Crisostomo means – if I cannot protect anyone, does that mean I am adrift? Does he mean to test how much regard others have upon my judgment? I am protected, but am I owned? Does my voice matter? Does… does anyone care… if I beg?

I am protected, but am I owned?! He vexes me, padre!”

“He means to have you thinking of him constantly. He means to keep you intrigued. This is a callow influence of a womanizer. Beware, Maria Clara!”

“… Padre Damaso, I must ask this of you, please protect these two boys as you would protect me.”

“I must refuse this, it is dancing to that Ibarra’s ruse. His plan shall not move me!”

“Please, Padre Damaso. Do this not for his sake, but for me. Please lend me your power, that I might learn the truth of his heart.”

“If you welcome thieves into your household, Maria Clara, you will ever regret it.”

“Please, Padre Damaso. Else I will have to find out what meager power I have to place others under my own protection.”

“I will tell your father not to accommodate this silly notion of yours.”

“If they suffer, then their protector suffers with them. I should say, even now they are under my protection. I have already decided, now only it is a matter of carrying it out. Please, Padre Damaso, allow me to take in these two boys that I must learn what it means to be responsible for others.”

“Girl, cease this silliness.”

“Please, Padre Damaso.”


“Can you not do this for me? I do not ask for much.”

“I refuse to entertain Ibarra’s whims.”

“If I do not, then he certainly must have something ready in place. I fear he would mock me. Mock you, knowing that you could not do this simple charitable thing for me.” Maria Clara hid her face behind her fan and frowned faintly. “Ah. Perhaps this is his intent. To drive a wedge between us…? How unkind, Crisostomo.”

Padre Damaso’s grip on the armrest of the narra-wood chair froze. That sounded much too plausible.

“Maria Clara-“

“Padre Damaso?”

“Maria Clara, this is nonsense.”

“Please be my ally in this, Padre. I can depend on no one more.”

“Not even your father?”

“My father obeys you, for good reason.”

“Not even Ibarra?”

“He is not God’s representative on Earth. Christ extended his forgiveness to sinners, if they would but repent. Mercy, Padre Damaso. Please show me mercy. May they not come into harm, may any injury on them be the same as laid upon my body.”

Padre Damaso sat motionless on the chair, brooding as if an ailing king on his throne already contested even as he still drew breath. “Fine,” he spat. “We shall see what happens.”

“Thank you! Oh thank you padre! You are gracious beyond words.”

Padre Damaso raised his hand and Maria Clara reached out to kiss his fingers in obeisance.

“I am the one who is your protector, Maria Clara. Do not forget this.”

“Of course, my Padre. I am forever grateful.”

Padre Damaso sniffed. “Yes. Do not make a habit of this, Maria Clara. My tolerance for your whimsies can only go so far. That Ibarra is not good for you, best that you not think of seeing him again.”

Maria Clara smiled. “I shall keep your counsel in mind, Padre Damaso. If he should test me, then I should test him too.”

“A good Christian woman must be demure and not scheming; Maria Clara, I rebuke you. But in this matter, I also forgive you in the same breath. I am your ally, and your mother’s confessor, and in this I command you – be testful. He is not worthy of you, best you see that early.”

It was the custom in those days to put the groom through trials, in imitation of the trials of Jacob. Padre Damaso’s lips quirked at the thought of what tortures he might advise Ibarra should undergo – trials that were beneath a true-blooded Spanish man’s dignity, but the indio in the mestizo cannot refuse lest he appear cowardly.

“Thank you, Padre.”

Padre Damaso stood up and went off to find Capitan Tiago. The priest continued from before his reprimand that Capitan Tiago had engaged Maria Clara to Crisostomo Ibarra without consulting him. Against said threat of withdrawing support, Capitan Tiago began to falter. Sensing this, Padre Damaso demanded the servants bring out a fast pony-drawn carriage, for he had better places to be.

Maria Clara heard none of this.

She sat by the balcony, staring off into nowhere, and behind her restful expression her thoughts was a maelstrom. Her heart still thundered as with the fear and anxiety of battle. She was not a guileful woman, she had meant every word.

But it was left unsaid whether or not she had enjoyed being tested; being seen more than a pretty face and a wife to be. No one before had laid such a burden to her mind and expected her to solve it by the morn. The sisters of the convent had always said – duty, deference, humility, service, a woman’s lot in life –

“I am protected,” she whispered again. “But am I owned?”

She knew her mother had been called an unusually intelligent and faithfulwoman. Long and in vain had she sought guidance in the lifeless eyes of her mother’s painting. She now wondered only what her mother would have done.

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Noli Interlude: The Governor-General 01


The Governor-General in this time was Emilio Terrero y Perinat.

Mexico had ever been the jewel of Spain’s crown, but an appointment to the Philippines had its own virtues. Usually Governor-Generals went from Cuba, to a much more restful post in the Philippines, before retiring to Spain.

The Philippines was Spain’s fortress of Catholicism in Asia, and from Manila the Governor-General ruled the entirely of the Spanish East Indies. These comprise the Islas Filipinas, the Carolinas, and the Marianas, and Palau, parts of Sulawesi, and outposts in Taiwan. With them Spain can look at the British in the eyes and claim that the sun likewise never sets on the Spanish Empire!

Damnable tea-drinkers.

Terrero stared out the window and the placid blue waters of the Pasig River, its water lilies and rickety wooden boats floating. Manila’s Thames. Manila was hardly a restful posting.

Emilio Terrero had also participated in the dispute between Spain and Germany of the ownership of The Carolines, which set Manila scrambling thinking that an invasion of the Philippines was imminent. This was not a completely unfounded fear, for the British had conquered the Philippines once before, and occupied the city of Manila for two years from 1762-1764.  The prestige of Spain was no protection anymore.

In Madrid however, the fear and outrage were stronger, and even Bismarck was taken aback by the reaction and put it to the Pope to arbitrate the dispute. It was settled in both their favors, for though Leo XIII decided ownership in favor of  Spain, Germany was also granted free trading rights through all the Carolines and the right to establish a naval station.

Emilio Terrero remembered it more as a farce. The cruiser Velasco showed up at Yap, the largest island in that scattered little archipelago. They prepared a landing party to raise the Spanish flag in the morn, but woke up to find that a German gunboat, the Itlis, had snuck in through the night and then at break of dawn had already raised their flag. In this manner, claiming Yap and most of the Carolines for Germany!

Their reasoning was that the Spain had already abandoned its claim over the past hundred years, only returning because someone else had decided to see valuable what they had long discarded.

The captain, under orders to withdraw if anything untoward happened, withdrew back to Manila and the Governor-General awarded them medals for avoiding battle.

In Spain, even as the Liberal party called for King Alfonso XII to declare war, the monarch refused to take the step further into Spain’s suicide. Meanwhile, Bismarck himself hardly called a collection of coral reefs worth any losses.

Statesmanship prevailed. Both countries had saved face, and when he received word Terrero had to sigh in relief.

He came to the Philippines of a Carlist mind, but seeing the ways of its priests and their resistance to progress, he found himself becoming more and more liberal and in favor of the natives. Spain’s power dwindled day by day, dallying in the colonies instead of working together to strengthen the Empire was not helping.

Though the Lieutenant Guevarra had made good on the promise not to tell, the rumor of Padre Damaso’s insult still Governor-General’s ears. That Carlist sentiment, which he would have not minded but several years ago, now only left him bone-weary.

“How do you know of this?” he asked his aide that morning.

“From Laruja, who mentioned it at the newspaper office.”

The Governor-General merely smiled. “Women, and men who wear skirts, do not cause offense. I intend to live in peace in the time allotted to me. I know he has been making fun of my orders, and when I asked for that friar’s transfer as punishment he was instead given a much better town. Such is friar business!”

“But it is not just that which so excited Laruja. He has stated, it was ‘the most interesting dinner I have had in these islands in years’ and intends to write about it. That wealthy Capitan Tiago hosted that dinner to welcome a young man coming home from Europe, whom has just finished his studies. Laruja was most impressed with the youth, and said – Spain would be most blessed to have him at her service.

He made it even clearer that, even with his little influence, he hopes that even Your Excellency would meet this young man, for his conversation would be most enlightening. He has left this letter, to which he admits having penned in a hurry before sleeping, such was his excitement.”

“Is this young man a Mestizo or a Criollo?”

“A mestizo, Your Excellency.”

“Laruja is a notorious writer who has traveled through much of Asia, it is unexpectedly high praise. Do you have the letter?”

The aide bowed slightly and took out the folded paper from his breast pocket. Terrerro held it in his hands and weighed if he had the time to indulge. Reading the letter, he skipped past the usual honorifics and read what had driven Laruja to dare presume upon his goodwill –

“Why submarines, of all things?”

“Because it is the confluence of disciplines. Metallurgy, electrics, training and resolve! Also, it is a refutation of the idea that math is useless. If you fire off a torpedo, of course you do not aim at where the enemy is, but where it could be. And for this you need to know trigonometry! Let them scoff at mathematicians no more. Knowledge that builds upon other knowledge is just the best. The best!”

To which I asked “But if as you said, if Battleships are a man’s romance!, then why do you want to sink them?”

“Because battleships are the dragons of the waves!” he replied. “Why would I not want to claim the glory of lancing one?

When warships slug out against each other with shot and trust in their armor, so fight they with sword and board. But the torpedo is the long lance – timing, precision, and devastating destruction!”

Governor-General Terrero could not help but to smile, more honestly this time. “’Battleships are a man’s romance?’ What a foolish child, but I cannot fault his enthusiasm.” He looked out towards the sea again. ”It is a pity he is not full-blooded, what this child could have done if born in the Peninsula.”

Tererro y Perinat thought of the Pacific Squadron, which were a collection of obsolescent cruisers and gunboats; half stationed in Subic Bay to the north and the other in Jolo far to the south. If the Germans had decided to attack in 1885, there was little resistance the fleet could muster against the more modern ships of its rivals. Most likely, they would have been forced to cower in the bays, behind mines and adding the weight of shore guns.

They would have been completely inutile in preventing the enemy from making landings anywhere on the islands.

Yet –

“The torpedo boat can be shot, the mine does not move and is a hazard to your own shipping besides, but the mere threat of a submarine in the shallows forces a whole fleet to think twice!”

I have heard somewhat of Issac Peral, though I do not know him. This notion does have the ring of plausibility to me. We already have torpedo tubes in many cruisers and gunboats. There is no need to convince anyone about the usefulness of the torpedo. To say that it is more cost-effective to build a submarine than a battleship for defense is one thing, but a submarine cannot threaten another nation and its interests as well as warships.

In a time of war, sneaking into an enemy’s port is a slow and difficult enough action for surface ships, that if a submarine captain is so adept at avoiding mines he deserves to have that shot.

Yet that idea… that it is only useful for defense… for deterrence against attack from a wealthier power… does not inflame tensions as much.

He rubbed at his chin. “I agree with Laruja. This is very unexpected insight. I can tell he has taken pains to remember this Ibarra’s words. It is perhaps too insightful.”

We played a little game, using overturned wine glasses, which he called ‘Sink the Battleship’.

“Ping. Ping,” he motions “you are moving here at eight knots, your target is moving at cruise speed of fifteen. But you are here because this inlet is predictable. This could be Gibraltar, this could be the Gulf of Mexico or the Red Sea, it does not matter.

What is most important is that you can fire a torpedo submerged. You have four torpedoes. Now the question – do you choose to maneuver in front of the ship, wait for it to pass you by, or slowly but stealthily attempt to strike it asides for maximum damage?”

“Understand the terror –“ he said to us who stood around the table. “If they see you first, you cannot escape; if you miss, they will run you down. You could dive underwater and be safe, but at four knots for however long your battery and air lasts, it might just be a slower and more torturous death.

A torpedo boat commander has speed on his side, he rushes forth without armor in hopes of striking a mortal blow before fleeing. But a submarine captain, though you might think him dishonorable in not fighting in bare sight, can only be the bravest of men. In the cold and in the dark, there is only the purest expression of trust. In God, in your fellows, in the engineers and the technological expertise of your nation, and in your own instincts. Against him there is no defense.

With one perfect moment, he is the slayer of dragons.

Ping. Ping. Slowly you stalk the beast.”

“Why do you make that sound? Ping, ping, like the ringing of a bell?”

“Have you ever heard a whale sing? Why do they make that bassy groan? Why do the dolphins chitter? It is not just because they are happy.” Here he tapped the side of filled wine glass and showed us the spreading wave. “Because sound travels as a wave. The Swiss Jean-Daniel Colladon, 1841, Lake Geneva, sound travels over four times faster in water than it does in air.

And it bounces.  

If you hear a return echo, you will know you are about to run into something. You will know you are about to run aground. I have tested this. In a month, you may seek me out in Laguna, where I will demonstrate this for you with a most cunning device for underwater navigation.”

The Governor-General lifted the letter closer to his eyes. Lowering it, he glared at his aide. “Where is this Ibarra now?”

“With forgiveness, Your Excellency, it is said he is bound to San Diego for All Saints Day. There may be time to stop him, if it is your wish.”

“No… no, that would be too unmannerly. Let him be, until after the fiesta days. My curiosity is piqued, but to meet with myself as the representative of the Crown is meant to be a rare honor. This youth, if he is a charlatan or a spy, I will never forgive him.”

Tererro furrowed his brows. Who should he send in his place? If he were to send a representative of the Navy, already he could foresee that they might find Ibarra an insult – but if Ibarra could convince such a man of his good intentions, then there would be little to fear of his loyalty and usefulness to Spain.

On the other hand, a personal supporter would mean an invitation to prove himself worthy of the government’s favor, an approach likely to garner much more enthusiasm.

He thought back to those crewmen on the San Quentin and the Manila, who in their dallying for the formal ceremony allowed Germany to steal the moment from Spain. These islands bred sloth.

He scowled. His time was short. The priests all made noises here and in Spain about his liberal rule of the islands. He was a Mason, thus they would always be intractable to his reforms. He considered the letter in his hands again. He too could over-reach to his detriment.  Ah, if only he could be so tyrannical as they complained, if he were allowed to make this land as productive for Spain as he believed it could be… if only he could be sure his successor would not so easily overturn whatever reforms he cared to make.

After the dispute in the Carolines had been resolved peaceably, Spain had appointed Señor Posadillo over the Carolines island of Ponapé, or Isla Ascension in her maps. Capuchin friars were sent there to compete with the American Protestants for the native souls. How in July would he find that Posadillo had sent to him in Manila the chief American missionary, a Mr. E. T. Doane, as a prisoner!

Governor-General Terrero’s dull disbelieving gaze could not get any more jaded. This was not something that would ever make him happy, what had Posadillo expected? Terrero had to abase himself and apologize, and sent the American missionary back to Ponapé. There only to find that Posadillo had gone and compelled the chiefs to serve him as menials, for the natives to be formed into gangs and work as convicts, teachers were forbidden, and the priests all attempting to coerce the natives to accept their religion.

So much for trying to advance the glory of Spain.

In this life, he had nothing but to meet haughty idiots one after the other. He was in the end proud have to served Alfonso XII, but the king died tragically early just before the age of 28, soon after the Carolines affair. Now the king in Spain was officially Alfonso XIII, a one-year-old boy, with his mother Maria Christina of Austria serving as regent. The vultures circled. There would be no relief for him in the motherland.

He stared out past the waters, to the opposite bank, the only view to soothe his eyes but a thin park framed by a lightly wooded area. Malacañang was supposed to be only the governor-general’s summer home, when the heat became oppressive in Intramuros during the summer. Yet not since the earthquake of 1863 had the Government House been rebuilt, forcing Governor-Generals to perform official functions within this summer palace.

He closed his eyes and imagined looking past districts of Paco, and Malate, and into Manila Bay, past the ships at anchor to the empty horizon.

And from a distance, he could almost hear –

Behold you, the field upon which I grow all the… f—s… I may give. As you can see, it has become barren.

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