Filius Mortis: Book One: The Gift of Limited Sight

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 1
1/17/2010
ArcherBearHunter Ltd.
“For these things I weep;
My eyes flow with tears;
For a comforter is far from me,
One to revive my courage;
My children are desolate,
For the enemy has prevailed.”
Lamentations 1:16
“Black sat down; and after Red tickled him, bubbled with laughter.”
Jose Rizal, “Noli me Tangere” (Translated by: Leon Ma. Guerrero)

1/17/2010
Filius Mortis
A Novel
Ryan Robert Gutierrez Flores

1/17/2010
Dedicated to my Professor;
Iris Lenore Ostrea,
who once said that my writing was great

1/17/2010
A child is dead.
Found floating calmly along the banks of the bay, his clothes sticking to him like many sheets of
dirty seaweed, the body got entangled with the bakawan1 grove growing by the bank. A man was feeding
his chickens when he saw him. Cold, and lifeless, his eyes stared out from open eyelids. From the murky
waters he was hauled from, his body stiff as wood.
It caused such a commotion in San Diego when Tacio the philosopher looked at the boy.
He looked over the mangled remains and he said with a voice that chilled everyone to the bone.
It is Crispin.
No one knew where his mother was, or his elder brother. They search San Diego far and wide for
Sisa. But she was nowhere to be found. They look at Crispin.
His stiff body was contorted to the most dismal shape imaginable, as if clutching the air for some
blessing from heaven. His hair was matted and caked with blood from a huge gaping wound on the crown
of his head. His face was twisted in a horrifying mask of terror.
His youth drained from his tortured eyes, he stared up into the dark foreboding sky.
The people living along the riverbank of the river hurriedly dug a shallow grave, all the while
crossing themselves for fear of a vengeful spirit. Little did they know the horror locked inside the dead
heart that refused to beat within Crispin’s thin, hollow chest.
“All the waters of the river couldn’t drown the hideous memory whitewashed by this demonic
religion.” Tacio warned the citizens of San Diego as he stood over the body, lying on its back in the pit.
Tacio plucked a single leaf from the tall mango tree growing along the banks of the calmly flowing
river.
“For every death, a birth. For every murder, revenge.” He lays it down on the child’s still chest.
Somewhere across the banks of the river, a bell tolls for Sunday mass. Its clear resounding peals
reached Tacio’s ears and he shakes his head sadly.
1
Mangroves: plant species that grow along the banks of rivers
1/17/2010
Part One:
The Gift of Limited Sight

1/17/2010
One
“Crispin! Crispin, where are you?”
A flutter of wings sent a cloud of pigeons racing up towards the sunlit sky. They twirled
and danced away from the bell tower of Santa Maria into the open fields of San Diego. The trees
made a lush green carpet as seen from above the tall dominating tower, stretching as far as the
eye can see. You could see everything from up there, everything, with the eyes of God.
“I’m up here Basilio.”
A child, nimble and handsome, swung down from his perch on the rooftop of the tower,
and hair-raisingly landed softly like a cat on the ancient wooden floorboards of the bell house.
His face was browned by countless days in the sun, kissed by rain and caressed by the wind.
Bursting with a gentle youth that beguiled angels.
“Wait, I’m coming up.”
Crispin dusted off his shirt, and sat on the large window ledge under the arch.
A ruddy faced head poked out of the small trapdoor on the floor leading to the steps.
“Crispin, have you been here long? I have been looking for you everywhere. Most
importantly, the priest asked for you.”
“I’m scared Basilio; you didn’t tell him I was here right?”
Basilio went up and walked over to him.
“No, how could I? I didn’t even know you were here. Why are you afraid?”
Crispin looked outside, the sky seemed brighter to him, and perhaps the sun would rid
him of his nightmares.
“I don’t know Basilio; I don’t like being summoned by the priest.”
Basilio clambered up to his perch up upon the rafters where he put up a small platform
among the cobwebs.
“Come on Crispin, what could he ever do to you? He’s just the priest.”
Crispin dismissed his brother; he just stared at the wall, whose old bricks seemed to be
watching him.
“What did he say? Why was he summoning me?”
His brother shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know really, I suppose he has an errand for
you. I envy you actually, he never asks me to run his errands, you have it easy. You get to run to
the market to buy his knick-knacks, while I get stuck here with the Sacristan Mayor, that cruel old
man, washing statues and cleaning floors.” He pulls out a secret stash of star apples up on his
loft and throws down one to Crispin.
1/17/2010
“I’d take errands any day. My body hurts so much from all that work. And my hands
are all raw from the rod.” Basilio nursed his hands, massaging them. “I believe we’re not getting
our salaries today either.”
“Why? What did we do?”
Basilio just shrugged his shoulders.
“That mean old bag won’t give it to me. He said we could get it later this week.” He
scrambled down to where Crispin was sitting. “I would go to the priest now if I were you,
maybe he’ll just have some small errand for you, I’ll wait for you here and then we could go
home together. Mother would have something really nice to eat by the time we get home.”
Crispin looked at his brother. He held his hands behind his back. He really didn’t like
being summoned by the priest, it made him feel strange. Like a small insect next to the burly
Spaniard.
He fidgeted a little and his brother nudged his head towards the church, a signal that he
must go. Crispin opened the trapdoor and went down the ladder. He walked through the small
vegetable garden where the priest grows gourds and vines. He liked this place of the sacristy,
but was forbidden to stay there. The Sacristan Mayor would give him no less than four strikes if
he was caught in the priest’s garden.
Crispin walked through the garden, into a long marble hall leading to the priest’s study.
He watched the stern and unsmiling portraits that lined the wall on both sides. He felt even
tinier than before, his heart started to beat a lot faster and he hurried, the musty hall started to
choke and stifle him.
He reached a huge ornate door.
Run away Crispin, the wind seemed to whisper.
He turns the knob and steps inside.
The priest’s chambers were illuminated by the early afternoon sunlight streaming in
from the large iron-wrought windows facing the church. Crispin walked cautiously amongst the
statues depicting the gruesome images of saints and demons doing battle. Frozen in their stances
as if suddenly realizing the folly of their struggle, and then forever immortalized; that one
moment of doubt and hesitation.
Crispin walked on, feeling the luxurious brush of the rugs tickling the soles of his bare
feet. He tugged at the tail of his shirt to straighten it out. The priest was not one to insult with
poor appearance.
The priest was kind to Crispin after all; he never scolded Crispin, only at times when he
really made serious mistakes, like spilling wine on the altar cloth. The priest really scolded him

1/17/2010
rather harshly after that incident, and gave him to the Sacristan Mayor to be dealt fifteen lashes
with a small bamboo cane.
He remembered seeing the Cura’s eyes, his eyes that seemed so bright yet so
devastatingly dangerous. He remembered the feel of the priest’s strong Iberian grip around his
collar; the golden-red hairs of the priest’s trunk-like forearms bristling in anger, Crispin cannot
get the thought out of his head.
He passed by stacks of books that were almost as high as he was, the musty smell from
these richly illuminated volumes always made Crispin’s head hurt, like he was slowly drowning
in water that is no lighter than air. It flooded his nostrils and his stomach gave a weak and feeble
churn.
“Crispin.”
He spun around to see the gigantic priest. Looming over him like a small mountain. He
was large at twenty-two stones and a six foot height, and to Crispin, his mere size was
monstrous.
“Yes sir? You sent for me?”
The priest sat down on his desk, his ornate wooden chair creaked under his weight. He
tousled his fiery red hair and started to write. “I need you to deliver this message. This is very
important.” The priest told him in his halting Tagalog.
Crispin stood there and watched him scribble. He continually reached over and dipped
his quill in his inkwell, every time, his ring bearing the seal of the church gleamed in the sunlight
and shone it’s reflection in Crispin’s eyes.
The priest scratched his beard. He took a small can by his side and sprinkled some talc
on his manuscript. He moved to his rubbish bin and he dusted off the excess. Crispin looked at
the image of Saint Peter, gleaming on the far wall. He stared back at Crispin, his glaring eyes and
severe bearded countenance matched that of the irate priest.
“Hijo2, deliver this message to Captain Tiago. This is very important; you need to wait
for a response understand?” The priest handed him the letter in a small envelope that bore the
official wax seal of the church.
“Yes sir.”
“Be very careful with this, and with the response he will give.”
2
Spanish term for endearment, addressed to younger.
(masc; Hijo/fem; Hija)
1/17/2010
Crispin stared at those huge forearms and he shuddered to think of what kind of
punishment awaits him if he is to displease his master. Even Saint Peter on the far wall seemed
to condemn him with those eyes of his.
Crispin turned and walked out of the study, and he felt the bottom of his stomach churn
once more, letting out a groan.
“Are you hungry Crispin?”
He faces the priest once more. “No, sir, I am just fine.”
The priest takes one star apple from his basket of fruits, sent no doubt by one of the
impoverished farmers in exchange for a baptism or some other ecclesiastical ritual he had to
perform.
“Here, eat this while on your way.”
Crispin took the star apple; the smooth green skin of the fruit looked extremely enticing
indeed. He smiled.
The priest looked at him, with the fruit in his hand and that smile on his lips, the priest
smiled as well.
Crispin thanked his profusely and he went out to do his errand.
The priest stood there, and in the company of Saint Peter, he smiled all by himself.
Crispin walked the streets of San Diego, far removed from the stifling silence of the
cloister; he walked with a slight spring in his step. He passed the plaza where the fountain was
surrounded by the usual crowd of children, trading stories of what happened to whom and
when.
He looked at the emerald fruit in the palm of his hand, it was unblemished and of a good
size, almost filling his youthful palm.
He bit into it, as he turned right on Lepanto Street, he knew where the house of Captain
Tiago is located, and it wasn’t that hard to miss. Captain Tiago happens to be one of the most
popular people in San Diego, overshadowed only by the Iberians, the truly eccentric, and the
educated ones.
Crispin felt the sun on his back, the comforting warmth of the mid-afternoon sun felt
good to him after spending the entire day within cold and silent walls. He watched the people of
San Diego rush by in carriages, by horse or by foot. He watched the old matronly women coming
out of the Palacio Municipal wearing their long lace veils hiding their faces like cobwebs of
unsurpassed beauty. Their frantic fanning matched the rhythm of their frenetic pace towards the

1/17/2010
church. He watched them, their graceful dresses blowing in the wind, long Chinese silk dresses
which cost more than a hundred pesos apiece. An amount, to him, that is so foreign and out of
sight, a small part of him scolded himself for dreaming such nonsensical sums. He stops walking
for a moment, he watched the women scuttle off into the shadow of the bell tower. When they
emerged into the sunlight once more, he imagined his mother wearing one of those dresses. She
would like that, he told himself, her lovely ebony hair would be turned up into a neat bun on her
head, held in place by a magnificent silver payneta3, with pearls on it. And upon her shoulders, a
veil, of the whitest, most lavishly embroidered lace would descend from heaven. And her body,
covered with the most magnificent dress of Chinese silk. It would be blue, she likes that color,
from her waist shall hang one of the infamous fans made by Senor Fulgencio from Batangas.
Around her neck would be a scapular, not the two peso kind, but the brightly illuminated twenty
peso type worn by the wealthiest of the Manileño ruling class. Surely it would be beautiful if his
mother would be so finely dressed. But he would never want her to go into the cloister in the
afternoon. He would never want her to go in the church at all.
He went on his way.
He hears things. Things his brother Basilio would rather not hear. High above in the bell
tower, where he stays most of the time, Crispin hears the sound of doors being shut, and bolts
being rammed into place. The small clicks of key-locked doors and the stifled sound of hand
upon mouth were his constant music. The sighs and murmured rosaries of women mixed with
the sounds of the priest’s ring tapping lightly on his desk filled Crispin’s heart with unspeakable
dread.
Women, whose fragile necks are wrought with red welts and scratches, would reveal
themselves in the mirror to a private audience of one. Their shame, their hair thrown about by an
evil wind from the west and the bits of Iberian skin left under their fingernails would all leap out
of the mirrors of scores of bedrooms around the country. They will try to hide their shame, they
would try to cut their hair, and they would try to clean the undersides of their fingernails, but the
stench would still be there. The clean-smelling European stench that clung to their soft, virginal
Indio skin would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Or at least as long as they decide to keep
on living; a few chose to rise above their shame and were found either drowned in the river or
hanging from the tall Narra trees along its banks with ropes fashioned out of their own tear
soaked hair.
Crispin walks on, his mind slowly moving from the magnificence of his mother to the
depravity and the women found along the river. He still clearly remembers how they looked, the
3
A small ornamental comb 2-5in. used to hold women’s hair in a tight bun
1/17/2010
women, their mouths wide open as if trying to vomit out an evil hen’s egg. Crispin went up to
one of the hanged women one day and tried to see if she had something in her mouth, he took a
peek inside. He looked at the marshy ground where her shadow fell, and picked up a pearl of
astounding size. He looked at the woman, whose now decomposing body was silently dancing
to the music of the devil. Her eyes were half-closed, looking at nothing in particular. He threw
the pearl into the river and said a small prayer for the woman whose soul is trapped in
purgatory.
The priest did not come that day, why should he? Did these women not commit a mortal
sin? Why should they be given a proper burial? He started to curse in Spanish, Let the dogs
have their way with them, let their bodies rot and attract the scores of vermin which ruled the
world of the river. Stupid idiots!
And come they did, in droves which looked like a dark, brown sea. They piled on top of
one another, trying to get at the dainty little toes of these delectable creatures. The rats did not
mind that these women committed a mortal sin, they were just happy that they did not have to
hunt for days to come. The rats feasted on their flesh and they sank their teeth into the once
smooth legs now swollen and rotten.
The people living around that area now have particular concerns about the rats and the
stench which now pervaded the area. They approached the priest about a proposal to cut these
women down from the tree and dump their bodies somewhere else. To this the priest pointed his
fat finger in their faces and swore to God that if anybody so much as touches those unclean
demons hanging from the tree, he would make sure that that person would burn in the eternal
fires of hell. He must have fire blowing out of his maw and nostrils when he said that, for no one
ever dared to cut them down indeed.
He went one day to see the women, their half-decomposed bodies still swaying in the
wind that seemed to howl out its will all over San Diego. Not too long after that, their bodies
slowly reduced to their skeletons no longer swayed in the wind, but instead hung down from the
tree as if they were some eccentric fruit that grew out of horror and sadness. The ropes of hair
that held their rotting carcasses up soon gave way, and their bones now littered the base of the
old Narra tree. People avoided that place, and they called it the tree of sorrows. The people of
San Diego believed that these three women still haunt the place where they took their own lives
and swallowed their own shame.
Crispin hears the wind whisper his name whenever he passes by the tree. It whispers
and calls to him.
He hurried on his way.

1/17/2010
Two
He rounds the corner and stands in front of Captain Tiago’s house.
He stared up the grand sweeping façade of the house. He laid his hand on the wrought-
iron gate in front of him. Inside the courtyard, a small carriage just arrived. Crispin liked
looking at fancy carriages, he liked the look of the bright, shiny spokes and the proud stallions
used to pull them. This one seemed to be one of the most stalwart horses he has ever seen, its
dark chocolate pelt gleamed in the sunlight, and its head was held extraordinarily high. The
passenger stepped out, and was no less finer than his steed.
The man looked up at the façade as well, and looked across the clear courtyard. He took
a deep breath and removed his riding gloves, he had long white fingers, like those of beautiful
women, but broader. He wore a fine gray suit with mother of pearl buttons in the European
fashion. He carried himself like nobility, which was quite evident with his clothes in the first
place. He pulled a gleaming pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it open, the
reflection that the sun cast off its smooth surface bounced off Crispin’s eyes and made him blink.
The man looked at him and smiled. He was very handsome, like an angel. Crispin stared at him
and noted that he was quite a confusing character, he was not a Spaniard, he was too dark to be
one. Nor was he an Indio, for he was too light to be one. And strictly speaking, he seemed to be
misplaced, like a stick poking out of the river. He was so smartly dressed and had many
inflections of affluence that only true wealth and confidence can provide. The man shouted out
to the manservant to open the gate and let Crispin in.
The manservant approached the gate with a disapproving look in his eyes. He asked
gruffly what Crispin wanted and Crispin related the instructions of the priest, stressing the part
about the errand being extremely important and that he must not be delayed. The man from the
carriage smiled as he heard Crispin recite his orders in Spanish.
“Muy bien. Very good, little boy.”
The man was now beside the manservant.
“Señor Ibarra!” A short woman was waving to the man. He looked over his shoulder
and started towards the house. The man turned to the manservant and spoke calmly; Vea a lo que
él ve a Capitán Tiago, o el sacerdote lo se cerciorará irá al infierno; see to it that he sees Captain Tiago,
or the priest will make sure you’ll go to hell. He spoke in a florid, melodic Spanish, almost as if
lulling a child to sleep. Crispin took from his pocket the letter signed by the priest and was
sealed using the church’s stamp.
The manservant looked at it fleetingly and opened the gate for him.
1/17/2010
Crispin stepped into the courtyard; the circular road was paved with terra-cotta mosaics,
as befitting a wealthy man’s home. The warm, smooth clay felt good under his feet. He was led
through the greenhouse where Captain Tiago’s wife kept and tended a garden. Flowers of every
type bloomed in the summer afternoon sun. Azaleas, roses and wild orchids perfumed the air
with their scent. He passed rows upon rows of vegetable plots with shiny, expensive gardening
implements still stuck in the ground, starting to yellow with rust.
Captain Tiago was there, by the chicken pens, inspecting one of his game cocks. The bird
was indeed worthy of praise, large and top heavy. It ruffled its feathers as Captain Tiago blew a
small stream of wind onto the birds’ nape.
“Captain Tiago, a message from the priest.”
Captain Tiago seemed not to hear, he continued to blow on his bird.
“Captain?”
Captain Tiago let the bird go back into the pen; it strode around, proud and high-
browed. Pretty much like his master.
The old Captain took his gold headed cane and sat down on one of the patio’s wicker
chairs he secured from the recent eviction of one of his tenant farmers. He motioned for Crispin
to approach.
“What business does the church have with me?”
Crispin handed him the letter.
“The priest said I should wait for a response.” The Captain nodded and took the letter.
He broke the seal and read the contents for a few moments. After reading it, Captain Tiago
reached into his pocket and took out a wad of bills and a pen. Crispin watched in wonder as the
Captain counted out bill after bill, then he scribbled down some figures on the letter. He put all
the bills in the same envelope and it made it look like a fat little pillow.
“This priest, so efficient when it comes to collecting from me, not a day has passed since I
have arrived and already they’re asking for my tribute! He’s more determined than tax
collectors!” The Captain muttered to himself. He handed Crispin the envelope and dismissed
him.
Crispin smelled the odor of chicken droppings on his shirt and he moved on back
towards the front of the courtyard. He looked into one window of the house.
A woman was there, sitting in one of the ornate wooden chairs, looking quite happy. A
twinkle in her eyes belied what her lips cannot reveal in fear of being labeled a harlot. Crispin
watched as her fingers wove in and out of each other continually restraining themselves with
their brothers and liberating themselves just a moment later. She repeats this process and repeats

1/17/2010
it again and again, as if she was deriving some intense carnal pleasure from the tiring muscles of
her dainty mestiza anatomy.
She sat, ever more beautiful as time passed by, Crispin stuck his nose on top of the
banister and watched her unseen. Her hand laid to rest on a hairbrush, and with the most
exquisite gesture, ran it through her long ebony hair. In this manner she relieved the sexual heat
which enveloped her body under the scores of coverings she has chosen to imprison herself in.
She let a small guttural groan escape from her throat as the brush went through her hair. Lucky
is the brush who has tasted paradise far more oft than most young, virile men! How his teeth
happen to comb through the sweet-smelling strands of her hair far before men even started to
need combs and brushes of their own!
She collected her hair into a bun and crowned it with a modest payneta encrusted with
opals. She looked at herself in the mirror, albeit with some girlish desire to smile and admire
herself in the looking-glass. Here eyes, so recently aflame with anticipation now stared out from
her beautiful face as two empty holes which led to the deeper emptiness of her heart. Crispin felt
her feel a twinge of sadness, only for a moment, she turned around and stared into his youthful
eyes.
Crispin stepped back, and continued to walk out into the courtyard and out into the
street.
Inside Maria Clara wondered if she just imagined him, forgot about him, and stood to go
to the parlor to attend to her fiancé.
Crispin walked the way back to the church. The bulge of money in his hands felt so
strange. He pushed out all the thoughts of temptation in his head and he kept on walking.
“Good afternoon Crispin.”
Tacio the philosopher, one of the more colorful characters in San Diego came by with his
ill-fitting suit and taciturn expression.
“What have you got there?”
Crispin liked Tacio; he is a good man, no matter what the priest said in his fiery sermons
about traitors and old senile philosophers being the instrument of the devil.
“A parcel for the priest.”
Tacio looked at the road where Crispin came from; he could still see the shiny gate of
Captain Tiago’s house and snorted.
“Thought as much.” He muttered to himself.
“Sir, have you seen my mother? How is she?”

1/17/2010
Tacio’s demeanor changed, tenderness filled his old, usually spiteful and pessimistic
eyes.
“I met your mother yesterday and she seemed quite well, she asked about you two too.
Tell me; how is your brother?”
“He is all right, but the Sacristan Mayor said we won’t get our salary this week. But
don’t tell mother that. I could only imagine how sad she will be.”
Tacio’s heart felt a small tug of pity, he remembered his own struggles with this society.
He searched deep within; here is a brilliant boy, a perfect example of how circumstance plays
such tricks on the most innocent of God’s children.
“Don’t worry my boy, I think she will be quite glad to have you home soon. I don’t think
she’ll even ask about the money.” Tacio smiled; a rare phenomenon in San Diego, he tipped his
hat and walked away into one of the stores.
Crispin walked all the way back to the church. He knocked at the priest’s door.
He heard a shout from the inside.
He turned the knob and stepped inside.
“Crispin. Do you have the parcel?” The priest was writing again, and didn’t even look
up from his books. He just held out his free hand towards Crispin.
Crispin handed the priest the envelope and only then did he look up. He opened it and
started to count the bills. Crispin stood there, hypnotized by the sight of so much money. The
priest shuffles the bills expertly, far more dexterous are they in handling blood money rather
than the heavenly host, it seemed! He looked like a rotund bearded Caiphas in front of skinny
and starving Judas, whose mind was clouded with thoughts of misguided glory.
“Stingy Indio4! This is fifty pesos less than last year.” The priest cursed under his breath
as he read the writing on the letter.
Crispin pawed the ground as he waited for the priest to dismiss him.
The priest stood and deposited the money in the vault beside his wide bookshelf. He
then sat down once more and resumed his writing. Like so many important people in those
days, they forget that a person happens to be waiting for them.
“Sir?”
The priest looked up from his work.
“What is it?”
“Sir, will that be all you would require?”
4
Spanish noun which means islander or native. Later on became a derogatory title synonymous with
indolente
1/17/2010
The priest did not say anything. He just looked at Crispin.
“Stand there.”
Crispin obeyed.
The priest continued to write, but his mind was already wandering far beyond the
writings of Saint Mark. Things should not be regarded as sanctified as they seem to be, for
within that belief lies all evil. He thought about things. He filled his mind with thoughts of
white doves and virgins. In her white garments and adornments, the virgin looks at him with so
much love and adoration. He prided himself to be quite pious, as did so many of our pompous
Iberian masters did, that only a man with a strong will could hold the reins of these vicious
natives.
A certain Messianic epidemic was rampant.
And it flowed through the priest’s veins like firewater. Every part of his body burned
with a self-righteous flame which condemned every brown-skinned creature to eternal
damnation. His own skin, as white as it was, stood as a covenant between him and God. Not
unlike the way the South American tribes worshipped the Portuguese conquistadores who gave
them not only civilization but syphilis as well.
Indeed it is a sexually transmitted disease this cancer which has infected hundreds of
colonized people around the world. The syphilis of the “White horse of Rome” spread far and
wide. The Horse, from whose loins came the vile and bitter jism that rained on the fertile valleys
of the barbarian lands, impregnating these countries with sorrow and avarice.
The priest was a smart man. A product of a toothless whore living in the most depraved
brothel in the outskirts of Madrid and a traveling sailor who happened to enjoy having his toes
licked while he beat her and kissed the insides of her thigh with the burning tip of a maduro cigar.
After a night of desperate lovemaking, he walked out the door of the brothel and out of her life.
She thanked Saint Michael, her favorite saint. She could only imagine what another night with
the sailor would’ve meant to her body as she gently put iodine on the burns on her legs.
They only met a night and their chance encounter produced a priest.
The priest ran his fingers through the mass of red hair on his head, a feature he inherited
from his mother who sported immense volumes of lice infested hair. After years of drifting in
and out of prison, charged with everything from petty theft, vandalism to disturbing the peace
and manslaughter, the priest finally saw the light. He went into the seminary under the guidance
of a Jesuit, who later invited him to visit the Philippines.
The first time he saw Manila, he crumpled up his nose. He viewed these “monkeys”
with the same derision he held for caca. He could not understand why his Jesuit companion

1/17/2010
enjoyed himself immensely, and was showing him the junk they peddled in the streets with such
enthusiasm. These are the treasures of a barbarian, he muttered to himself after seeing the crude
fishnets and soiled vegetables lying on the dusty ground. The tips of his habit were getting
dusty, he complained to his companion, and they trudged up to the church of Binondo to retire.
What convinced the priest to stay still remained a mystery.
He settled in San Diego after serving in the Archdiocese of Manila for two years. He took
on his job quite seriously and was unbelievably hard on the people of San Diego. All his years as
a bitter young criminal showed their horns en masse, in his desire to purge everybody of the
most hateful sin of all.
The sin of being holier than he was.
The misadventures he had in his past, and the subsequent hatred that stemmed from
them were not remedied by the church. Nor were they lessened or restrained by his ecclesiastical
acrobatics. He looked up to himself, one of the few who do, and praised himself since nobody
else seemed to do so.
All, except the nubile young women who came to him for absolution, were best advised
to keep in line. The women could cross the line at their leisure, provided that they let the priest’s
hand could go up farther into their long Chinese silk skirts.
The priest looks up from his books and looks at Crispin.
The thin sacristan could only fidget as his weak body struggled to keep still. Like a deer
standing rigid and motionless before a great and ferocious tiger, he tried to seem invisible. The
priest sneered at his prey, knowing full well that he could simply swat Crispin into oblivion with
a small flick of his enormous wrist.
No, there are bigger, more challenging heretics out there.
It is this belief, which made the current priest of San Diego even more dangerous than
the last.

1/17/2010
Three
Sisa always considered herself to be quite practical. She sat in her house this fine warm
afternoon trying to concentrate on her work, but she keeps getting distracted by every little noise
that came from the dirt road about a few leagues away from her front door.
She started on the hemming once more after two unsuccessful tries. She slipped the
needle through the expensive silk cloth and was extremely careful not to damage what she held
in her hand. Her eyes are starting to fail her, and she kept on losing her grip on the slippery
fabric.
The birds that stopped to sing to her earlier during lunch have now flown into the forest
to their nests. How Sisa envied those birds! How she envied them for being together with their
fledglings and their industrious husbands.
She sighed, and tried not to think about her two sons who work for the priest. They will
be fine, she told herself, and God does not forsake his children after all. She tried not to think
about the past as well. Sisa was a product of a dream. A dream for a bright and illustrious
future; a tragedy to rival that of King Oedipus. The poor have grander dreams than the rich, for
they have the world to dream about. Sisa was no exception. But she was also a child of poverty,
and she learned how to recognize the glittering world of fantasy and her dull, gray reality.
She pushed her hair behind her ear and she heard some footsteps coming from the road.
She peered out of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the person striding down the
path. Hoping, silently, for the strong, youthful legs of Basilio, or the ring in Crispin’s laugh
which always made her smile even through her most trying times.
A huge straw hat appeared under the shade of her tall mango tree, a stranger.
Sisa sat down once more, and tried to go back to her sewing.
The wind whistled through the slits of her nipa walls and between the slats of her
bamboo floor. She hummed a sweet song with the wind. Sisa put down her work and just stared
at her hands, her one vanity. They used to be soft for a working woman, but now the callous
world finally came upon her, descending upon her pretty hands like a dark storm cloud. They
were misshapen now, bent every which way because of every imaginable type of housework
known to every woman. She turned them over and looked at her palms. She sighed as she
traced the lines of the scratches which turned into dry wounds after only months have passed.
These, she told herself, stretching them in front of her; are the hands of a mother.
Sisa’s delicate black eyes moved around her modest house. This is my home, she tells
herself, and this is my nest.
1/17/2010
She went back to her sewing. She hummed to herself as she went on with her task, a
sweet kundiman her mother taught her when she was still very young. Her lips, parched, but
still pursed together, gently humming the melody. She felt the vibrations tickling her nose, and
she chuckled softly to herself.
Looking in the mirror, hanging from one of her walls for a moment, she saw what she
was too busy to notice. She saw a tear running down her cheek.
Sisa watched the sun go down through the windows of her house. She loved watching
the sky burst into flame as the bright yellow orb of the sun touches the water on the bay. As if for
a moment, fleeting and irrevocable, the home of God is enveloped in flame. She rested her chin
on her thin, fragile arms and sighed.
She remembered the time when Crispin first saw the sunset; he sat there, in Sisa’s arms
and bosom. Transfixed at the sight of the magnificent light show, he clutched at his mother’s
sleeve and refused to let go.
Sisa stood up and went out to the back of her hut. He lifted the lid of her clay rice pot,
the aromatic grains looked very white with a sprig of pandan peeking out of its pristine soil. She
checked her salted fish cooling under a cover of banana leaves.
She went back into the house and sat by the ledge once more. Collecting her dress under
her, she sat on her haunches and looked up the quickly darkening sky. The moon shined down
upon her, his gentle rays touched Sisa’s cheeks and kissed her full breasts.
Her eyes trained to the darkness, Sisa stared at the lovely moon. The bright shape of a
man appeared to her on the moon. She was taken aback by this apparition.
He smiled at her, and was riding a silver chariot. He was handsome, a tall man with long
flowing hair and had powerful work-honed muscles.
Sisa reached out her left hand, her fingers slowly moving towards the moon, her new
fascinating suitor.
He reached down and opened his mouth. She did not know why, but she heard a sound.
A sound so beautiful it made her heart bleed with longing. He was singing to her.
Sisa reached behind her and undid the knot which held her dress together. She felt the
longing rise from her chest to her throat.
She wanted to fly away; she wanted to be swept up and away by her lunar warrior. She
wanted to shed her clothes and be a star, one of those lucky beings which shine out far above
everybody, free from all the worries of the world.

1/17/2010
“Sisa!”
She spun around, and hugged herself tightly to keep herself covered. She faced the man
she has sworn to serve until the day she died.
“What are you doing?”
“Uh, I was watching for Basilio and Crispin, and my dress came loose by accident.”
He snorted and spat on the floor, thankfully slipping through a gap between the bamboo
slats.
“Stupid woman. Where’s my dinner?”
Sisa got up and hurriedly went out into the yard to retrieve the food. She went back
inside and saw her husband sitting down at the table with his fighting cock in his hand. He held
it close to his chest and he fondled it gently. Sisa tried to remember the last time she held her
head close to her husband’s barrel chest and she tried to remember when her husband lovingly
ran his hands over her naked body in the twilight.
She set down the bowl of rice in front of him, and the plate of salted fish. He snorted and
dug his hands into the rice, soiling it with dirt.
Sisa sat down beside him, her hands on her lap and she watched her husband wolf down
the rice she had so carefully prepared. The game cock looked at her sideways haughtily. As if to
say; I can give him pleasure, you can only provide the food!
Sisa heard the smacking noises he made as he ate voraciously. The sound made her heart
calm. At least he likes the food, she thought. She smiled and started to speak to her husband.
“So, Crispin and Basilio will come home soon.”
Her husband grunted a reply.
“They have been working at the sacristy for quite some time now; they’re learning the
alphabet at the same time.”
Another grunt.
Sisa kept still.
Her husband pushed his plate away and belched in front of her face. A sign that he was
moderately pleased with his meal. He sat back, picking his teeth.
Sisa cleared up and started washing the dishes.
Sisa strove to keep back the tears. But as the water from the jug continued to flow over
the dirty dishes, her tears refused to be kept within the two large reservoirs Sisa kept behind her
beautiful black eyes. They flowed, bitter and hard, streaming across her cheeks, noiselessly but
present, they flowed down her neck onto her breasts which now subscribed to the forces of
gravity and of exhaustion like a cow.

1/17/2010
Truly, a cow, with its naturally caring form can Sisa be compared with.
Sisa brushed the back of her hand across her face. There is no use shedding tears for
something that is essentially constant. They cease to comfort the tortured soul; they only serve as
a nuisance.
But with Sisa, that was never the case.
He used to be caring, and romantic. He brought her flowers and sang her songs in that
deep, melodic baritone. He was a prince in her eyes, with his burly manhood when they first lay
down together in their matrimonial bed. He held her gently, like a small crystal vase, and made
love to her almost as if in a dream. Sisa savored each moment, and swore to God that she would
never leave his side.
She never really quite understood why it all changed. Was it her fault? As so many
women ask themselves when things change around them. As if they feel inherently responsible
for everything. Sisa hung up her conscience a long time ago; she listened to the wind instead.
What did she do wrong?
She continued to wash the dishes, stacking them to dry. She peered into one and she saw
the warped reflection of her face on it. She felt the knot behind her dress being forcibly torn out.
Her chemise fell to her waist, exposing her breasts to the chilly wind.
Her eyes on the plate revealed her sorrow.
She felt her skirt being ripped apart by strong hands. She felt the heat of his breath on
her neck. In the darkness of their kitchen, Sisa let out a small sigh.
She placed the plate down and faced him.
His eyes glowed in the twilight, not unlike cat’s eyes as they stare out malevolently into
the night.
She felt his hands grip her slight wrists, cutting off the circulation to her broken
fingertips.
He forced himself inside her, his manhood pistoning itself in her vulva. She felt the girth
of his genital writhing within her, trying to find its second meal. She closed her eyes and tuned
everything out as her husband continued to use her as he did day after day, year after year.
Sisa woke up.

Her house in shambles, and her clothes in a heap beside her. She rubbed the sleep from
her eyes and stood up. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. She traced her finger on the welts
which her husband raised at the height of passion with his broad fingered hand on her rotund
and full buttocks.

1/17/2010
Sisa went out into the yard and discovered that the ants have now taken over what was
left of the food for herself and her sons.
Sisa kneeled in front of her small clay pot teeming with red ants. She let them crawl over
her naked body, biting her brown skin, her face and her nipples. The acid in their saliva stung
her but she did not feel it.
She took the blackened pot in her hands and she stood, the night clothed her with
darkness. She stepped on the moist, black earth and she went back into her small house and
closed the door behind her.

1/17/2010
Four
Crispin sat up.
He woke up in the middle of the night down in the dank servant’s quarters at the
sacristy.
It was dark all around him, the windows were open and the cool evening breeze was
flowing in like a thick fog that crept on the floor tickling his toes.
He looked over his side and saw Basilio, sleeping soundly on the floorboards which
served as their bed. His eyes trained to the darkness and he saw Basilio clutching his scapular in
his hand.
He was thirsty.
Crispin stood up and silently walked towards the kitchen to get a sip of water from the
water jar. He passed through the door into the long hallway leading to the mess hall. He
yawned and walked on, strangely confident it might seem, but the darkness held no mystery for
Crispin, it is the time when he felt safe, since the priest was most probably asleep. It is the time
for Crispin to smile and be careless.
He pushed open the door into the kitchen and he went over to the water jar.
He dipped the ladle in and drank, the cool liquid filling his belly with its freshness,
perhaps one of the few things that Crispin seems to have in abundance. Water to him, is his
escape. He wondered once how one can have too much water. He only needed to look towards
the direction of the river, and there, he could see those who discovered that they had a well
within them that could never be filled. Such were their thirst that they found themselves in the
river, trying to quench their insane thirst with the murky waters until their last breath leaves
their resentful bodies. Crispin needn’t have tried to do so; he was little enough to drown in the
priest’s water jar.
Crispin replaced the lid and started to walk back where he and Basilio slept, his dull
sounding barefoot steps echoed around the silent sacristy.
Someone else was awake during Crispin sojourn towards the kitchen.
The priest sat in his study, carefully reviewing one of Saint Paul’s illuminated letters. His
eye shifted from one letter to the next, the beautiful calligraphy shimmered under the dim glow
of the gaslight lamp standing on the priest’s desk.

1/17/2010
He rubbed his eyes; they seemed to fail him now more often than before. He checks the
knob and intensifies the light of his gasera5, the sudden burst of light made everything around the
room explode with life; he had to shield his eyes from its burning sight.
He sat behind his desk once more, his red hair still so very unruly because of the cool
wind which blew in from his windows. The priest sat there with not a thought in his head. He
has just received word that there were insurrections brewing in the capital. Filthy monkeys! He
muttered under his breath, they don’t know what’s good for them. Truly, with a mouth and a
vocabulary not unlike that of a Portuguese sailor, the priest was not one to understate his disgust
for these little, brown islanders and their primitive civilization.
Perhaps, he thought to himself, as times change here in this puny little island, there will
be a time when these indios would finally realize that there is very little that they could do about
Spanish rule. He had witnessed how his people have successfully meted and carried out their
colonies. Was it not they, after all, who have perfected the way of the cross and the rifle? Was it
not the illustrious king Phillip himself who single-handedly made their country the most
powerful force ever known in Europe? The priest smiles contentedly. The fiesta6 is also coming
up, and after that, the most glorious day of Christ’s birth, those two holidays apart from lent
which bring him the most pleasure.
He celebrates these holidays to the nines as they say, and it brings him a kind of rabid joy
to see all the decorations going up in the plaza and in the church. How the gloomy and somber
halls of the parish come alive with the carols which he adores listening to. Like a small boy, he
waits for Christmas like a half-crazed water buffalo.
He scratches his beard.
The priest leans over and fetches a fresh quill for his writing. He dipped it in his inkwell
and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. He loves the smell of freshly pressed parchment, and
through the wee hours of the night, spends his time leafing through packages of paper from the
renowned Libris de Manila press. He loves feeling the veins of the paper under his rough
fingertips and he breathes in the slightly acrid smell that emanates from the newly opened
envelope.
He dips his quill in his inkwell once more, he placed the tip slightly on his paper and he
starts to write.
Brother Germain,
5
A small gas or kerosene powered lamp
6
A local celebration, usually held during the feast day of a town’s patron saint
1/17/2010
Salud! I write to you now in response to your correspondence
sent to me three days ago. It saddens the sacred heart of Mary that we
hear of such atrocities against the authority of our Church. Truly,
something must be done to convince these heretics to listen to our
reason. Something must be done in order to restore the peace in this
colony.
I ask you now for your prayers that this unspeakable horror will
not permeate the sacred subservience of our outer provinces; already
the embers of discontent are being fanned by the incessant efforts of
our enemies. It saddens my heart as well that we, after everything
that we have given these unfortunates, are now under attack against
false words and terrible mistruths.
The son of the fallen Don Rafael Ibarra has returned from Spain.
We are told to watch him closely; he was unaware of the unfortunate end
of his once illustrious father.
It is with the most hopeful of expectations that I ask you now
how you are faring there in Manila. It must be warm there. So far
removed from the sublime climate of home, I must confess that I dream
about it everyday. But I know that there is a mission to be
accomplished here and that is exactly what I intend to do. I am
inclined to ask for your prayers in this matter, pray that I may
continue to do God’s holy work here and not to lose my spirit.
This is truly a magnificent place, touched and molded by God, but
the creatures that crawl upon it are lawless and crude, it is with a
heavy heart and conscience that I shake my head at this sorry sight.
I pray that we will prevail after everything that the devil has
laid out in front of us.
In Gods name.
The priest signed his name and stamped it with the seal of the parish. He carefully
dusted the letter with some talc.
The priest laid back, his aching back against the plush seat of his chair. He loosened his
collar.
It is a melancholic truth that the colony was in fact extremely beautiful. He could not
stop gazing at the emerald fields and pastures of San Diego. He marveled at the natural beauty
of the tall grasslands which spotted the landscape.
1/17/2010
He dusted off the excess powder on the letter into the trash bin. He carefully folded it up
and slipped it into an envelope. He took out a candle, a stump of wax and his box of matches.
He lit the candle and heated the tip of the wax in its flame.
It is a shame that God created such a wonderful place, only to be infested by the vilest
creatures he has ever laid eyes on. He recalled their flat noses, dark skin and small, weak bodies.
Dumb as hell, he muttered to himself the first time he saw the natives, befitting only as slaves.
He remembered how one of them had the gumption of looking him in the eye. He wanted to
strike that man dead at that particular moment, and he would have, if only there were no other
people present.
The people of the colony filled him with such rage and he felt the disgust rising from the
pit of his stomach into his throat, tasting as bitter as his own blackened soul.
He pressed the melted wax on the tongue of the envelope sealing it shut. And he took
his ring off his finger and impressed the seal with his signet. He tosses it aside, along with his
daily correspondence to be mailed and delivered in the morning.
The night was deep and he looked into the fire burning brightly within his fireplace.
He remembered how the devil played tricks on him once, how his flames reached out of
the fiery pit and wound themselves around his lonely heart, when the soft and supple body of a
native fell into his arms. Her skin was of the most pleasing shade of chestnut and she smelled of
freshly harvested grain, aromatic and with the intriguing touch of dew. She kept her eyes closed
as he ran his hands over her body. She did not utter a single word as he pressed his lips upon the
smooth skin on her back.
His eyes glowed under the lost sensations in his groin, pulling his hips forward as if
retracing the steps of his lost masculinity. His hands instinctively finding the source of man and
the source of his pleasure, his fingers slowly, intrusively exploring her; she moved naught.
Cold lips meet hot, passionate breath as his holy mouth closed in on her. Descending
upon her body like a swarm of locusts. His shadow fell upon her face, her round breasts and the
solemn swell of her womanhood, and she laid there, a victim of her own choosing.
The priest’s voluminous effulgence and his rapidly softening manhood lay on top of her
like a spent snake which vomited its own young. His labored breath coming out like puffs of
steam from a spent engine, matching her silent cries into the silken pillows of his huge four-
poster bed. He ran his hands over her skin and forcibly pulls her closer to face him.
Her eyes met his, and they were like balls of dark fire reaching out from the depths of
those beautiful dark brown eyes under her bushy eyebrows. The devil took his staff and ignited
a small flame which spread inside him like a freezing maelstrom of terror.

1/17/2010
The sun peeks in from the horizon, streaming in through his windows. The priest looks
out into the open courtyard framed by small trees.
The bells toll for morning prayers.
The priest stands up. He collects his robes around him and walks out into the chapel at
the end of another tormented, sleepless night since the devil looked at him and laughed at his
small, drooping resolve, that night in the arms of his washerwoman.

1/17/2010
Five
Basilio looked up from the floor he was scrubbing. His arms felt so sore they seemed to
be attached to his sides only through sheer will of mind. He looked at his hands, his tired, sore
hands and sighed. He looked like his mother more than Crispin did. He inherited her straight
dark hair and the same almond-shaped eyes. They had the same laugh, a small melancholic
sound which seemed itself an apology for intruding the empty space between individuals. He
kept on rubbing out the stains left by muddy shoes along the length of the main church.
He didn’t have to do this, he thought to himself.
If only I were big enough to work in the fields, he muttered under his breath. Just a few
more years perhaps, maybe then, the time would come when he could take his mother and
Crispin to the faraway farms away from the infernal noise of the bells.
He gritted his teeth and he continued to scrub the clay tiles which lined the aisles.
“Basilio, after you’re done with that, scrub the halls of the sacristy, it’s filthy.” A voice
croaked out from behind the shadow of the confessional. He emerged, a tall, gaunt man, with
long arms like an orangutan.
“Yes sir.” Basilio could only sigh and cast his eyes down on the ground.
“Good.” The sacristan mayor went over and looked down at Basilio. He spat, a dark
green glob of snot laced with the sickly-sweet aroma of betel nut shot out of his pursed lips and
on to the very spot where Basilio was cleaning a moment earlier. He sneered as he walked out of
the door with a painful kick to Basilio’s backside as he swept past him. His footsteps soon faded
away, giving way to the silence which made Basilio’s head ring with rage.
Basilio wrung out his rag with such force it basically was dry when he released his grip.
I will be free of this place and its stench, I promise I will, he spitefully thought to himself.
He continued scrubbing the floor. He massaged his hindquarters where the head sacristan
kicked him and he sat down, leaning on one of the wooden pews which lined the great hall.
“Basilio?”
An apparition of unearthly beauty walked in through the towering wooden doors of the
church. Silhouetted in the bright sunlight streaming in from the courtyard, the delicate lace
draped around her young shoulders, the angel turned up the corners of her young lips into a
kind smile.
Basilio hurriedly stood and dusted off his grimy shirtfront.
“Juli, have you come for your confession?”

1/17/2010
She nodded modestly, her delicate features framed with her curly black hair tied up into
a conservative bun on top of her head. She folded up the umbrella she used to ward off the harsh
rays of the sun. She was only a child, a mere two years older than Basilio, but made up to look
like the most ridiculous ladies in Manila. Woe to the child forced to look older than they really
are. They spend their young lives locked in such atrocious wardrobes and their later years trying
to stay as long as they can, bound with layers of silk and nonsense in vain.
Juli was no exception to this foolish practice. Her mother, a coquettish lady with badly
misshapen eyes is no stranger to the most exclusive of gossip circles in San Diego and the
Church. Juli, like the dutiful daughter she is, permits her to have her way as they put on layer
after layer of the most uncomfortable garments known to self-respecting women everywhere.
Years after this, the eminent anarchist Emma Goldman would have balked at our
apparent disregard for women’s comfort. Likewise, she would have struck down each and every
tradition we have held dear to our hearts involving the supposed beauty of our fair maidens.
Women at this age, same as before, continue to subject themselves to the same petty ministrations
and the same absurd ritualistic magic to make themselves walking displays of superficial
elegance and femininity.
And yet, to young Basilio’s eyes, the constricting layers of fabric which clothed Juli’s
body served their purpose. The way the folds of lace and satin only served to fuel his
unconscious desires for the flesh. In the sanctity of the church, his mind and body slowly
churned out adolescent hormones which were the devil’s own. She looked at him, a grimy little
altar boy, and she remembered how they used to play among the tall branches of the old mango
tree in old Tacio’s backyard.
She remembered those long, sweet afternoons where they spent their time in the bright
sunshine. They traded stories, and sampled the sour mangoes which grew in the topmost
branches. She remembered her young self, watching the long, sinewy muscles of Basilio’s arms
and legs as he swung from one branch to another with the agility of a monkey. How his brown
handsome face smiled at her while hanging upside down from a branch in front of her. Once,
she stole a glance at his penis as he relieved himself on the roots of the tree.
She wondered at the mystery of his sex. At first she was nervous that God might strike
her down high upon the tree. After the initial apprehension, she gazed at it in wonder. Malice
hath no place in the innermost corners of a child’s mind; Juli watched him urinate a long thick
stream. She imagined herself having one of those cylindrical pieces of flesh and urinating the
same way.

1/17/2010
Standing in front of her, with his work-honed muscles gleaming with sweet-scented
sweat, she feels a curious tingling in the center of her body. A certain mystical sensation creeping
all over her back. A small diamond-like bead of sweat rolls down her cheek.
“Is the priest indisposed?” she asks plainly, gripping her umbrella even tighter as if
choking it to death.
“No, I shall call him for you.” Basilio quickly turned and started to leave, successful in
his attempt to hide an offending bulge in his groin.
Juli gazed at him as he left, and quickly re-wrote her confession in her head to
accommodate the new sins she had just committed in the last five minutes.
Juli left the church and she looked for Basilio. She walked along the halls of the sacristy,
among the stern portraits of the former parish priests of San Diego.
He spied her roaming the empty corridors, but he dared not approach her. Her clothes
made a slight muffled rustling noise which made his heart race with whatever reason it implied
in his pubescent brain.
He held on tightly to the balustrade of the loft, his small grubby fingers encircling the
posts which held up the sky. He watched her as she walked past him, and into the sanctuary of
Mary, disappearing in a cloud of fine, embroidered loveliness.
He stood, his knees slightly wobbly from kneeling out of sight for too long, and slowly
walked towards the bell tower with a light heart. Basilio could not fully understand why he felt
that way. All throughout his life, perhaps, he will wonder what it was that made him love Juli.
He clambers up to the top of the bell tower. He felt the breeze blow through the large
gaping window. He rushed out of the north window and swung himself onto the ledge. He
climbed upon the roof and stared over the plaza. He spotted her, walking across to the grocer in
front of the church. He watched her keenly, his eyes following her every move. He saw the soft
lines which defined her body, the smooth, almost surrealistic way her hair was piled on top of
her head. Her light olive skin holding on to a fan. Basilio daydreamed of the time when he will
have the strength to hold that pretty hand in his own and fill those empty dreams of his with her
full and passionate kisses.
He picks up a small shingle which has come loose on the roof by his feet. He held it in
his hand; it was warm after the sun has shined on San Diego all morning. He held it close to his
side as if imagining that it was her warm palm pressed against his.

1/17/2010
The sun started to set, casting its bright orange rays across everything you could see. In
town, the people opened their gaslight lamps and in the streets people carried the long poles
used to light the streetlights. Their flames flickered in the darkness.
Down in their kitchens, the women started to cook dinner, their fresh fishes, boar’s meat
and vegetables are sacrificed under the knife to please the palate of their lords. Steam rose from
the kettles and clay pots in their kitchens, even in the scullery of the sacristy, the pots and pans
jangled as the servants and the nuns scurry about preparing the priest’s elaborate meal.
Basilio went down from his perch and started down the stairs towards the kitchen, where
a fresh load of rubbish is sure to be waiting for him to take out into the street.
He rounds the corner of the great hall passes by the door of the Priest’s study. He stops
for a moment and peeks inside the dimly lit room.
Crispin was within, silently crying as he assumed the position of Jesus Christ, crucified
not by nails but with the volumes of the Old Testament on the left hand and the volumes of the
New Testament on the other. The priest was there, reading, behind his desk.
In the darkness of the hall, he watched as his brother kept his small, frail body as rigid as
he could. Basilio knew that it was a wise strategy when punished that way. Shifting one’s
weight from side to side only worsens the pain that one feels. The key is to keep one’s back as
straight as possible. He watched as Crispin’s head slightly bowed. The pain was too much to
bear.
Like a medieval portrait of Christ he knelt, head bowed as if a crown of thorns were
pushed upon his young, unblemished forehead.
Basilio watched, unmoving. Unmoved by this cruel sight. As if his mind no longer
recognized the cruelty meted out by the priest as something out of the ordinary. He stood there,
like a faithful shadow to his fallen brother.
A shaft of light illuminated the dark, lonely hall where he watched.
Then something happened, something he could not explain. The priest looked at
Crispin.
Basilio watched as the priest stared at Crispin struggling with the weight on his arms.
He watched as the priest stood and took two more books from his bookshelf. He walked over to
where Crispin knelt, and the saintly priest placed one book on each arm of Crispin.
Crispin could not restrain himself. He let out a small whimper of protest. He felt as if his
shoulders were aflame in the firelight.

1/17/2010
And for the first time in such a long time, Basilio felt something when he saw the
sneering face of the priest. The people around San Diego knelt down to pray, but he did not. For
the first time, he felt something.
Basilio felt angry.

1/17/2010
Six
The priest has always viewed his actions as relatively moderate. After all, weren’t the
brewing insurrections in Europe so efficiently crushed by the church in the most horrifying
ways? By the way of the rack, the bellows and the gallows, the most Holy See has trundled
underfoot even the most persistent of heretics.
He always believed that the only way to correct malign behaviour, especially among little
children, is by the way of the rod. As with most of the parish priests in San Diego’s history, this
idiocy was quite a statute taught not only by the rotund friars themselves but by the grand hand
of God. Or so the friars say.
In his own order, he justifies, they use straps of hide treated with a solution, whereas the
reaction produced caused a curious result in the texture of the leather. When first steeped in the
solution, it would be considerably stiff. After eight to ten more immersions, the strip of animal
skin would be as hard as iron. Punishments were meted out as strokes of this Russian invention.
This ingenious contraption, the black rod, was called a “knout” and was greatly feared as children
flee from the mere sight of its plumed head. Like a black, bulbous buffalo’s organ. The priest
was able to procure for himself one, and he kept it in one of his desk’s many drawers.
Cruelty, after all, is merely the foolish man’s view of holy work.
The priest, with his infinite wisdom and righteousness had no more room for patience.
Crispin sat huddled in one corner.

His shoulders felt as if they were beaten by a stick. His slight muscles tingled and
involuntarily twitched as he hugged them closer to his body.
Crispin looked up the bright night sky. The moon has come out, round and full, almost
outshining all the stars around it. They stared down at him, at Crispin’s face. How he wished
that they would be so kind as to swoop down into the dark bell tower and carry him away to the
small hut outside town; where a mother sat by the window, wishing for the exact same thing.
Sisa could not understand it, but she felt as if the moon deserted her. Her lover during
the long lonely nights without her husband and her dearest children, he refused to smile tonight,
and she felt extremely lonely. Crispin, she thought, when will I hear your sweet voice laughing
around me as I make and mend other people’s clothes?
She looked down at her own clothes; her blouse was dirty and quite tattered. She felt the
yellowing fabric between her thumb and forefinger.

1/17/2010
She looked out the window once more. Wishing with all of her might for the moon to
turn around and smile at her once more. She longed to hear his song, the song no one else seems
to hear except for her. She missed his silver kisses and his cool breath upon her shoulders. Her
nipples got hard under the rough cloth of her blouse as she thought of the sensual liberties
offered by her celestial lover in the absence of the men in her life. Her husband, her children,
they are all so very far away, the moon whispers in her ear, let me take you with me, and you will
be my queen.
In her dreams, he repeats this invitation to her as he lay down beside her, stroking her
thighs with his gentle fingers. In her dreams, she always shuddered under his touch; every
moment with him seemed an eternity of carnal pleasure.
But she always said no.
Night after night, she would push away his shining arms away from her, she would
surrender only when her children no longer needed her, she tells his handsome, shining face.
He always nodded and laughs. He will never grow old, he says, and if she comes with
him, neither will she. Sisa traced the lines on her prematurely aged face. Little lines which
camouflaged her true age. She sighed her little sigh, and dreamed of her once radiant beauty.
She turns to him in her dreams, his smile illuminating everything around her with his bluish-
gray glow.
Sisa looks at him now from the window of her hut. He is full and bright tonight, she
thought to herself. She brushes her hair behind her ear and starts to hum a lullaby to herself.
Far away, in the bell tower, Crispin gazes wistfully at the moon and hums the same song.
Basilio called out from the darkness of the stairwell up into the rafters where Crispin fell
asleep, leaning on one of the posts which held up the massive pyramidal roof.
Crispin didn’t hear him at first. He cried himself to sleep, swimming in a sea of his own
tears. He faintly heard the wind call to him; he heard it calling his name. He turns around,
keeping his head above the water.
“Crispin!”
He wakes, steadying himself he looks down to the bell platform. Basilio stood there with
a small bundle of food for him. He climbed down and faced his brother.
“How are you? Does your arm still hurt?”
Crispin just nodded and calmly took the stale bread Basilio snuck out the kitchen. The
priest wasn’t content to punish Crispin with the books; he wanted him to really learn his lesson
by depriving him of his dinner as well. Filthy monkey, he muttered afterwards.

1/17/2010
Crispin bit into the bread, and he chewed slowly. In the dimness of the tower, he could
barely make out Basilio’s features. He sat down in one corner and continued to eat.
“What did you do this time?”
Crispin just looked out blankly as he chewed on the bread.
“If only we were home with mother. We wouldn’t live like this.” Crispin’s eyes started
to fill with tears as he remembered his mother.
Basilio just put a hand on his shoulder as he fought back the tears. “Crispin, you know
why we should do this.”
“But what is the good of staying here if they won’t give us our salaries in the first place?”
Basilio sat down in front of Crispin.
“I know, but what can we do? They’re bound to give us our salaries sooner or later.
Cheer up, you want to help mother out right?”
Crispin just nodded his head. He took another bite out of the bun. He looked at his
brother with pleading eyes.
“Mother would have something good for us to eat if we were home; maybe some fish
and some boar meat. And she will sing to us and tell us stories until we fall asleep.”
For the first time, Basilio decided to let himself be carried over to that wonderful place
outside San Diego; the merry hearth, his mother and Crispin. In Technicolor dreams he retreated
into.
“Yes, and we will sell that hen mother has been fattening, and then buy more hens to
make more eggs. Then we will sell them in the market and we’d never have to think about
money anymore.”
Crispin laid his head down on the hardwood floor and closed his eyes. Basilio looked at
him; he sat there in the darkness watching over Crispin.
Crispin dreamed very different dreams.

His were always very difficult to understand, like decoding passages with extreme
difficulty as if by hurtling down an ancient corridor of hieroglyphs, being able only to catch
glimpses of their strange forms and symbols.
Crispin found himself in a dark wood, like the ones by the far edge of the town.
He felt the dark brush of the carabao grass under his feet and he gazed into the gaping
maw of the trail before him. A child was standing there, a little shorter than he was. He looked
at the child in front of him.

1/17/2010
The child turned her head and faced him with a sidelong look and smiled. Crispin
smiled; she was a pretty little girl, with eyes that shone like pearls under the eerie gloom of the
forest before her. She gave a small giggle and ran headlong into the woods.
Crispin bolted in after her, feeling as if there was nothing he would rather do than follow
his new playmate down into the dark and foreboding jungle. He ran as fast as his two legs could
carry him and he sailed past the tall gnarled trees at both sides of the path.
Crispin still heard the ringing laughter of the small girl inside his head. The bright and
sunny sound, it turned around and around in his mind as he pushed past vines and bushes.
He saw her, still running towards the deepest, darkest part of the woods, he still ran after
her.
The moon shone high above them, round and full, watching them run through the maze
of hedges and groves and wild undergrowth.
She stopped in front of a stone wall overgrown with ivies.
Crispin stopped too, right behind her. She turned and looked at him. Her eyes no longer
shone but now were dulled and sorrowful.
Crispin’s smile faded away as she opened her mouth to speak.
Hideous creatures spewed out of her mouth in waves resembling that of vomit. The
vilest of God’s creations crawled out of the corners of her mouth as tears of blood rolled down
her cheeks.
Crispin screamed out, but no sound came from his lips. He scrambled to get away but as
soon as he turned on his heel, he fell.
He felt himself falling, surprisingly calmly, and he felt the air rushing past his ears as if
falling from a great height.
It is a blessing to Crispin, how the darkness faded in on him, how the black of the earth
embraced him and made him hers. The night has claimed his body and soul as he swam in its
never changing pit.
He felt the bottom of the pit under him.
He sat up, his back arched towards the mouth of the well. He looked at the single shaft
of moonlight which poured in from the hole and he was bathed in its radiance. Crispin closed his
eyes and he felt the safest he has ever been in a very long time.
He opened his eyes and before him sat the girl.
He jumped at the sight of her bloodstained face, her drooling mouth and the ripped and
dirty pinafore she wore. He scrambled into one corner and tried to climb up the walls out into
the wood. The girl laughed and pointed upwards into the night sky.

1/17/2010
Crispin looked up and saw his mother, in a black veil, weeping softly into her left hand.
He watched in horror as shovelfuls of dirt came raining down, choking him and forcing
him back into the arms of the girl.

1/17/2010
Seven
Everybody knows who old Tacio was.
He was well-known around the town, with the sort of fame that only true eccentricity
could bring. He always wore the same taciturn expression, and always full of cryptic wisdom.
The funny thing about it though, is the fact that the priests of San Diego were unable to fully
silence him. He secretly prided himself for outliving no less than five parish priests who were
unable to quell him even after everything they have tried.
Old Tacio never considered himself a philosopher, though he was widely known as one.
Every time they refer to him in that manner he would wrinkle his nose and retort “I’m not a
priest.”
This bit of pasteboard inflamed the priests even more.
He lived far away from the town square, in one of the very few houses away from the
shadow of the church.
People can’t seem to figure out what he actually does for a living. Much like most of his
life, it remains a mystery.
He would be seen walking around, his chin up but his lips moving continuously, as if a
bee was perpetually trapped in his sallow-tongued mouth.
Tacio was the last in long illustrious line of noblemen in San Diego; one of the richest
families in the region in fact. It is reflected in his gentlemanly attitude and his wisdom after
having studied in Madrid during his youth. People still gossiped about his past, continually, as
the seasons pass before their eyes, answers still eluded their incessant questions until they give
up and gossip about somebody else.
As moths are drawn to a flame, they secretly admire Tacio, whose supreme intellect
allows him to tap into vast reserves of cheek and courage not to attend mass during Sundays,
when the women folk would rather gossip among themselves and the men folk prefer to sleep
the morning away dreaming of their riches or their prospective fortunes.
The current priest of San Diego once visited his hut. The sun’s rays were beating down
upon the dirt road leading to his cottage and the priest’s forehead was sweating profusely. Sweat
marks appeared on the priest’s habit as he briskly walked past banana trees and coconut palms
swaying in the gentle breeze.
The priest extracted his handkerchief from a pocket and mopped his face up with it. He
finally saw a small column of smoke rising from around the road bend. He never usually goes
beyond the town limits of San Diego; he shakes his head as he feels his breathing become labored.
1/17/2010
He was a strong man, but years of comfortable living in enclosed and musty halls turned those
great, thick muscles of his into indolent strips of meat which even when being utilized are half
asleep under a truly impressive layer of fat.
Ravens circled around him overhead, their mocking voices shrill in his ears as he rounds
the corner and finds himself in front of Tacio’s small bamboo hut. He knocks impetuously on the
threshold, making a loud hollow sound.
Tacio pokes his head out of his window and smiles at the priest.
“You must be lost Señor; the church is thirty leagues north.”
The priest frowned at him.
“May I go in? It is extremely hot out here in the sun.”
Tacio just crinkled his nose.
“Indeed, your Excellency, you are of immense intelligence, it is hot out there. Please do
not let a gentile bar your Excellency entrance.” He motions in an exaggerated manner and the
priest does not even remove his shoes as he went into Tacio’s house.
“Why am I honored with your Radiance’s time?” He went into the kitchen and put out
two teacups and some hot salabat7. They sit on the floor by the window where the breeze was a
welcome third person in the room.
“I have been told that you are a philosopher, I am glad to find a kindred spirit in this
place.”
Tacio shook his head apologetically.
“I’m sorry Señor, you are mistaken. I’m not a priest.”
The priest opens his mouth to retort, but just closed it again. He clears his throat.
“Indeed, I have studied Philosophy in Madrid, perhaps where you studied as well?”
Tacio smiled modestly.
“No you Excellency, I did not study philosophy in Madrid. I studied it in the fields, in
this town; everything around me is my academy.”
“That’s absurd; one cannot understand the intricacies of Philosophy without going
through the proper process.”
“With all due respect your Eminence, since when was that true?”
The priest tousled his hair.
“The classical school of philosophy declares it to be true. True wisdom could only be
derived through the systematic analysis of every thought and every sensation man goes
through.”
7
A hot tea, prepared by boiling water and ginger root
1/17/2010
The old man shook his head once more.
“I beg to differ sir, the classical school that you refer to is dead and buried under the
ashes of its ancient civilization. It no longer exists, nor will it rise from beyond the grave.”
His predecessor was right; the priest thought to himself, the man is also a poet. He
steeled himself; that makes this old man twice as dangerous. He sips gingerly at his tea.
“This is extremely good tea Señor, would you mind telling me what is in it?”
Tacio sipped from his own cup.
“Is it not enough to enjoy a good cup of tea? Why must you ask, your Eminence? If I
happen to tell you that I have put honey in it, will that make it sweeter? If I happen to say that I
have infused it with poison, will it diminish your appetite for it? It is a good cup of tea, it is best
enjoyed ignorantly.”
The priest felt the blood rush to his cheeks.
“I just wanted to know. But since you are most disinclined to tell me, then I shall not
insist. A gracious guest does not intrude upon the host’s good tea after all.”
Tacio watched the priest through heavy-lidded eyes.
“A gracious guest you are, your Graciousness. Nothing more.”
The hairs on the priest’s nape bristled in offense.
“What does that mean, old man?”
Tacio placed his teacup on its saucer and laid it aside.
“Does your Eminence take offense with that statement?”
“Yes.” Growled the priest.
“Then let me tell you this. Gracious guests, as you claim to be one… do not say yes to
that question. So, are you now a gracious guest Monsignor?”
The priest put down his teacup down beside him with a loud clatter.
“Be careful Tacio, I might be new to this parish, but I will not stand for you insulting my
person, sir.”
“I insult you not sir.” Tacio looked at him calmly. “I only speak and parrot the truth you
say yourself.”
The priest sat down once more.
“Why do you refuse to go to church?”
Tacio let out a small laugh.
“What for?”
The priest puffed himself up. “For forgiveness.”
“For forgiveness which you will give? Is that what I should go to church for?”

1/17/2010
“I act only as the mouthpiece of the Lord.”
Tacio motioned for him to come closer. The priest leaned in and the old man softly
whispered in his ear.
“How can a God, as all powerful as he is, have any possible need for a man like you?”
The priest pulled back, his ears as if burned by a red hot poker. Only one thought ran
around his head.
“You are a heretic.” He said softly.
Tacio smiled at him, his bright eyes focused on the priest’s own nervous pupils.
“No sir, just a man.”
The priest was no longer seen walking the long lonely path towards old Tacio’s house.
He never did take any civil action against the old man; after all, he had other plans. He would
never speak of the old philosopher. Not even with the Archbishop of Manila, with whom he
shares a very close bond with.
Tacio was left alone most of the time, his neighbor, Sisa and her children looked to him
with respect, and were perhaps the only ones he bothered to actually talk to. He notices the
dreamy expression in Sisa’s eyes when they pass each other on the dirt road.
Sisa with her sewing, and Tacio with his books, they would meet. She would nod
modestly, like a shy young lily, and Tacio would bow like a true gentleman. The dust they raise
the only mute witness to this age old practice of chivalry so rare in the world.
Tacio’s trained eyes noticed something in the glazed look of Sisa which intrigued him.
The priest was right on one thing though; he did study in the same academy that the
priest attended in Madrid. He would walk along the wet and warm streets of the Spanish capital,
a cigar between his bony fingers, and books in his other hand. He would walk past shops with
dirty windows, reflecting back the depressing depravity of a city’s forgotten streets.
Peddlers, beggars and nightwalkers are plentiful in the Spanish heaven. It amused him,
and subsequently disgusted him; that Spain had its fair share of unfortunates as well. They had
their own half-crazed prostitutes running after men instead of the other way around.
He would sit in his room above a bookshop and he would stare at the open window into
the darkening sky over the Iberian homeland. Even the clouds that form here are the same as
those which bring rain in Manila, he noted in his journal. He wrote well, and read voraciously.
He watched people scurry about and he laughed gently to himself. Chiding himself all the time,
it is funny, he remarks, how we are all running the same race. And no one seems to be winning.
Sometimes, through the foreign darkness, he would laugh and laugh for no reason at all.

1/17/2010
Tacio returned home, and he settled in San Diego. He immersed himself in the
philosophy of the people. The work of the field, and the wisdom he seeks which only the truest
form of human experience teaches.
He looks back and sees the slim figure of Sisa walking away into the horizon.
He has seen those looks before, somewhere in Madrid, where they incarcerate those
whom society declared unfit to move among the citizenry.
The old man, as far as he was concerned, felt sorry for her children.
For their mother is now the beautiful wife of the moon.

1/17/2010
Eight
The sunlight which streamed into the bell house scattered itself all over Crispin’s tired
and dirty face. He opens his eyes and watched with awe as the clouds above him moved quick
enough to spy.
He sat up, stretched his cold limbs and looked out the window. The sun was high and
the people down at the town were hurriedly going about their normal business. He watched
them move about, weaving in and out of stores and shops, and then taking their time among
others in the plaza. The Palacio Municipal seemed busier than ever, with the arrests and the
garrison seemed to teem with life. Bursting with inmates, soldiers, harlots and so many others
that it was quite difficult to know which was which.
He looked around the dusty interior of the bell house, and he wondered here Basilio was.
He stood up and yawned.
He walked down the spiral staircase leading down to the sacristy carefully. He
straightened his dirty shirt and his dusty, unruly hair and walked into the grand corridor. He
walked straight through that dark musty place where not even the sun, with its illuminating rays,
could penetrate and liberate from the dark grip of gloominess. It was as if it was steeped in
perpetual twilight.
Crispin reached the end of that long dark corridor and he walked into the kitchen, where
the glorious smells of the priest’s lunch came wafting through all the cracks around the door and
into Crispin’s nostrils.
He opened the door and walked in. The cook was busy with the lunch and so were the
servants in preparing the elaborate rituals performed whenever the priest was to dine.
They took especial care when preparing the priest’s meals. He only ate in the special
bone china brought in from Spain, only the finest silverware was acceptable, and polished to an
absurd extent that one can vainly mirror oneself on its concave face. He always took his meals in
his study while he worked and studied. He does not eat boar’s meat, or any fish when cooked in
a sour-based soup. Once, the previous cook made the fatal mistake of serving him “Paksiw”8.
The result was that the bowl of scalding hot soup miraculously found its way on the cook’s face.
He is not one to anger with food; after all, if the food is not prepared right, it is wasting it,
and an insult not only to God, but most importantly to his mouthpiece.
8
A dish made of fish, vinegar, peppercorns and aubergines
1/17/2010
Crispin looked at the steaming plateful of ham and mutton glittering under the bright
noontime sunlight filtering in from the kitchen’s grease-stained windows. His stomach grumbled
as most stomachs do when tempted by cooked animal flesh.
Basilio went in through the back door and hurriedly came over to Crispin’s side.
“How’s your arm? Does it feel better now?”
Crispin moved it. The pain has lessened now.
“Yes, it’s better.”
Basilio led him away from the kitchen and they move back into the church where a long
row of idols needed to be polished. The Head sacristan said that when we finish with all of them
we could get our salaries, he told his brother excitedly.
Crispin immediately took a rag; nothing seemed a more cheerful task than to clean a
dozen wooden idols bigger than himself at that time. Getting their salaries means they could go
home, and going home means they get to see mother again after such a long time.
With short skinny arms, they carefully cleaned the statues. The faces on them rarely
resembled Indios. Most of them were sharp nosed, fair-skinned Europeans with eyes that
seemed to be so hollow. Their clothes, tunics and togas of unsurpassed finery were strangely and
disturbingly proper and familiar. It is hard to believe the irony of it all, had these tunics and
togas actually existed during the time of our Lord Jesus Christ, the apostles would have spent
their long, ancient and holy hours admiring each other’s outlandish fashion sense. Only through
beatification can this miracle be explained, and the abstract, distorted concept of heaven that was
so popular during those times offered the wealth of heaven in vanity.
There is therefore no doubt that the Filipinos took so kindly to the Spanish friars who
sought to build a new Rome in Asia. It is quite apparent that the indigenous people whom the
Spaniards discovered were already, in their most primitive of social circles, suffered a certain
illness of the brain.
The Church saw to it that this nonsense would never be removed from the brains of these
“mindless” (note the irony, once more) monkeys; for it is a sad truth that they themselves suffer
from it.
The Spanish friar’s mind was the most infested of this fearful sort of disease.
They preached in shorelines, later in huts, and even later still in churches made of stone
and mortar. The venue was changed after years of constant, deliberate ravishing, but the
message remained the same. The priests talked of heaven and hell, emphasizing and appealing
to the natives, as well as their own visions of vanity.

1/17/2010
Truly it is this deadly and terrible sin which was passed on from generation to
generation.
The handsome idols lining the church of San Diego were more than just statues to the
people who hear mass there. It is a valid point; as some of them assert that these cock-eyed,
sometimes subliminally profane and violent carvings of wood and plaster are tributes to a holy
life lived according to the tenets of the Church, which we should emulate and respect.
As murmured prayers are said to these inanimate gods and goddesses, and rosaries are
said in honor of their very name, it brings to mind the fantastic festivals of old involving women
impaling themselves on the blunt, stubby penises of fertility gods.
Basilio wiped the head of the virgin mother very carefully. The last in the long line of
statues they had to clean, he wiped the sweat off his forehead. He took off the heavy golden halo
of the image and placed it on a small wooden table next to it. He looked at the size of the
diamond, set in pure gold, on the breast of the virgin mother. It was so shiny, he thought, like
the morning star. He took some soapy water and started to wash the idol’s wooden head.
Crispin was finished with Saint Peter and sat down beside him.
“That’s the last of them. I wonder how much we’ll get this time?”
Basilio just shrugged his shoulders. “Fifteen coppers maybe, I don’t know.”
Crispin felt the cold stone floor under him and he looked towards the open door where
the sunlight was making everything outside seem twice as brightly painted. He wiggled his toes,
those small, gnarled toes.
“Are you big enough to work in the farms?” He asked his brother, who is stubbornly
scrubbing away at some offending stain with great concentration.
“Not yet, maybe in a year or two.”
The wind blew through the huge, gaping doors of the church.
“I can’t wait for that time. I promise I’ll be better behaved than I am now when that day
comes.”
Basilio kept on cleaning. “Yes, you’ll go to school by then. You better be good in school.
I will work, and mother will cook good, warm meals for us when we get home.”
Upon the word “school” Crispin felt a small twinge of apprehension.
“Can’t I just stay with mother all the day?”
His brother wrung out his rag in the small tin tub beside the statue. He tightened his
lips. “No, you have to go to school.”
He twiddled his toes once more.

1/17/2010
“But why?”
Basilio resumed cleaning the idol’s hair. “Because I want you to go to Manila so you
could be a great scholar.”
Crispin thought for a moment.
“Why don’t you do it? I’m not really smart and I don’t know how to read yet.”
“Who will send me to school Crispin? Father? He couldn’t even spare us a single peso for
our food.”
He stared at the floor; Basilio was looking at him steadily.
“Crispin listen to me, listen to me very carefully. I want you to wait a little while longer.
When I finally get a job in the fields you should go to school and study. So that mother could
finally have everything she ever wanted. I will send you to school, and later, when you finish
your studies, you’ll work and then we could all live as comfortably as we please. That’s the plan,
I want you to swear that you’ll do your best.”
Basilio spoke of the fire living and burning within his feeble chest. A dream that refused
to die even as the harsh realities of the world slowly tore apart all of his other fantastic dreams
and left them out in the heat of the sun to dry up into shriveled shadows of what they once were.
His eyes burned brightly, as the sun which passes behind a dark cloud bursts into a full,
pure light when the storm passes over. His eyes spoke of a better future he doggedly pursued.
Crispin looked at his brother and nodded solemnly.
Basilio wiped the head of the Virgin dry and replaced the crown on her head.
“Basilio.”
The two boys spun around and faced the dark shadow which crept up behind them.
“Are you done with the statues?”
Basilio nodded "Yes, sir.”
The head sacristan examined the rows of wooden images and surveyed the relief on the
walls. He walked with a slight limp, his left foot being dragged behind him.
A sullen man, he walked from statue to statue, inspecting every minute detail. He had a
lazy eye as well, which made Crispin sick to his stomach. He looked at the boys standing
extremely still. The jangle of his pockets made Basilio’s heart sing; that only means one thing! If
he was pleased with their work, they would get paid this very moment.
The old man went on and said nothing. He reached the immense statue of the Virgin
Mary, his eyes wandering all over her elaborate clothes.
“You’ve done satisfactory work. But you were still too slow.” He reached into his
pocket and counted out twenty coppers and handed them to Basilio.

1/17/2010
Crispin was overjoyed, twenty coppers for both of them! Mother would be very happy!
The head sacristan looked at Crispin and smirked. He put all the coins he had in his
hands back into his pocket which jingled as they hit each other.
Crispin looked up at him confused, his hands cupped up in anticipation of the
heartwarming weight of his salary.
“The priest will be the one to give you your salary.”

1/17/2010
Nine
“Come in.”
Crispin walked into the priest’s study. His knees trembling as he went up to him behind
his desk.
“Sir?”
The priest looked up from his papers and fixed a cold stare on Crispin behind his half-
moon spectacles.
“What is it?” He asked gruffly.
“My salary sir? The head sacristan said that you will be the one to give it to me sir?”
The priest motioned for Crispin to come closer. He looked the boy in the eye. He smiled
a small, evil smile.
“Did you hear that from me?”
Crispin looked at the priest’s set of pearly white teeth and he immediately felt afraid. As
if those teeth could crush all his bones in one mighty bite.
“No sir.”
“Then why are you here?”
The boy said nothing.
The priest resumed his writing, he was unabashedly giggling within. He looked at
Crispin from the corner of his eye and spied him looking down at the floor. He lifted his pen and
placed the nib inside the inkwell. He sat upright and folded his arms in front of him. “Why are
you still here?”
“Sir I was not given orders to leave.”
The priest smiled. He opened his drawer and took out a small coin purse. He took out
two gold pieces and he placed it on his desk. He took off his slippers under his table.
“My feet hurt; I will give you these as your salary after you finish massaging my feet.”
Crispin could not believe his good fortune. The priest ordered him to retrieve a small
footstool from one musty corner of his study and after placing it under the priest’s feet, knelt
down and started to rub them.
The priest felt the small hands of the boy sensually rubbing his feet. The fading sunlight
drew strange reddish patterns on the Oriental rug in his study, casting its eerie glow on the
seemingly innocent act.
The priest’s heart must’ve been located in his feet. With every single stroke of Crispin’s
gentle hands brushing across every patch of skin, every strand of hair on his feet sent small,
1/17/2010
interesting jolts of electricity through his heart. Everything seemed to be so sublime and
wonderful; the priest in his selfishness wanted more.
His feet were large, too large for Crispin’s hands; he felt the rough patches on the
priest’s heel. He gently rubbed them, the veins burned blue and they stood out in stark contrast
to the priest’s extremely fair skin. He caressed them, and worked his fingers like small pincers to
relieve the tensions on the arch of each foot. Crispin’s fingers ached, but he kept on working the
priest’s stiff flesh between his fingers and his palms. A small droplet of sweat rolled down his
forehead. He smelt the slight odor of the priest’s feet and it reminded him of the roasted mutton
the cook prepared for the priest that morning. Crispin felt the fingers of his hands slowly and
curiously crack and pop as he struggled to apply more pressure. He thought of the money,
sitting on the priest’s desk, he imagined how much food that could buy for the three of them. He
wondered what delicious food mother would prepare with such a fortune.
The priest on the other hand, had other things on his mind.
Before every medic in the world started to appreciate the healing qualities of touch, the
priest experienced it all and was in awe with it. The life force which transcends the limits and
borders of skin; he was not a stranger to the pleasures of the senses, and to him, there is no other
sin so exquisitely contrived as the sensation of another human laying his warm hands upon his
cold skin.
The small golden hairs inside the priest’s nostrils quivered as he moaned in ecstasy.
Sweat poured forth from his forehead and across every inch of his hairy chest. His hands
gripped the arms of his throne. His eyes, heavy-lidded and lazy rolled upwards in their sockets
as his feet were subjected to the most excruciating torture a man of the cloth ever had to endure.
He swallows hard, every passing moment a joy and an unbearable temptation. Hellfire, it
seemed, took the form of an altar boy.
Something inside the priest seemed to hatch from an evil hen’s egg. The black, leathery
skin of the basilisk’s egg was ruptured from within. A small beak, like a raven’s own black tip
burst forth and felt the priest’s bitter blood flow into its gullet.
“Enough.”
Crispin stopped massaging the priest’s feet and stood up. He looked at the priest, still in
a slow, lazy bliss. His hands felt extremely tired, they twitched as they hung from two weak
arms. The priest opens his eyes and he looks at Crispin, eyeing him like a hawk. He smiles, and
looks at his desk strewn with papers.
The two gold pieces were nowhere in sight.

1/17/2010
Basilio was upstairs, looking at the rapidly darkening sky; the rains seemed to be early
this year, he thought to himself.
He rested his chin on his arms as he leaned on the north windowsill of the belfry. The
pigeons from the fields scattered and flew upwards into the sky, bringing with them, in their
beaks some sprigs of rice which they harvested in the shadow of the terrifying, but ultimately
impotent scarecrow. For such is the law of the fields, he mused, survival is the first in a short list
of priorities.
It is with this thought when he had his first vision.
He watched the birds circle high overhead, he watched as they fly off, leaving everybody
else to their own. He watched as the sky grew heavy with rain, the dark clouds forming and
small, faraway sounds of thunder could be heard. He watched as the horizon grew dark as the
sun set swiftly, casting him and the rest of San Diego in utter and total darkness. His bright black
eyes trained slowly to the instantaneous twilight, and he watched with wonder as San Diego
slowly grew into monstrous proportions around him, the houses which lined the streets growing
in number and merging like some unknown organism, melting and melding together like sewer
water. He watched as the black patch of the church’s shadow grew larger and larger. It stretched
out and covered more and more of the town, casting everything in its path into an even darker
abyss.
Basilio gripped the concrete sill with both hands and he gazed at San Diego, or what it
has become, a tangled mass of structures, meaningless in its ominous silence.
He looked down at his dirty hands; he turned them over and over in front of him. A
man’s hands, he mused, marveling at them with the vanity people are seldom punished for. He
looked out into the fields.
There, he muttered to himself, lay the salvation for me and my family. He looked past
the dark and blasphemous Babylon in front of him into the bright and golden fields of the
Garden of Eden. He watched the ears of corn and the sheaves of grain swaying softly to the
gentle music of the southern wind. How lovely they seemed! How beautiful they were, in his
eyes, the vast lands which seemed to have no end, where God’s bounty promised a world of
opportunity even for the least of his children.
Yes, if only he were big enough to enter through the gates of heaven. If time would only
look back and reflect on his behalf, perhaps he could hasten his ageing and then emerge as a
strong and sensible man after a second’s deliberation. Yea, if only it were possible, to sleep under
a banana tree and wait for its silver jewel to drop from the tip of its heart into Basilio’s waiting

1/17/2010
lips. It would give him immeasurable strength. Then the Kapre9 guarding it shall only tremble in
his presence. Then perhaps, even as a child, they will let him work in the fields. Truly, he could
lift five hundred cavans10 of rice easily with one hand if the legends were true!
Basilio leaned on the sill once more. The birds high above him were gone now; they left
him to wonder the night away as they flew to their nests to care for their young. He watched the
now empty sky, filled with dark clouds. He felt the first drops of rain break upon his forehead.
It felt cool and refreshing. His eyes watched as a wall of water came thundering down upon the
town moving like a ghostly curtain, sweeping across the landscape towards the church.
He looked at the town, seeing the people scurry about, everybody trying to find some
shelter. The darkness which descended upon the town conquered everything. The thunder that
rumbled in the distance filled his young heart with an unspeakable thrill which made every
muscle in his body quiver with excitement.
Tacio looked up into the sky and then to the road ahead of him. He quickened his pace,
the rumbling in the sky threatened to drench him to the bone. As eccentric as he was, he
admitted, he still preferred to be dry before he reached the safety of his hut.
He was walking a lot quicker now, his cane making sharp clipping noises against the
pavement as he scrambled to get home. Another rumble of thunder and the undeniable drizzle
which he felt on his head forced him to go into the nearest shop he could find.
“Hello Tacio, terrible weather ain’t it?”
He looked behind him and saw the scraggly, bearded face of Manong11 Domenico; the
town’s master mason.
“Good day Menico. Would you mind if I take shelter here in your workshop for a
while?”
The old mason just waved his thick, muscular arms in a dismissive gesture and started a
fire. “Not at all Tacio; I was just preparing for my evening prayers, why don’t you join me?” He
went to one of his huge wooden cupboards and produced two glasses and a gallon of clear tuba12.
“How about it Tacio? It’s a sin to pray alone.”
9
A hairy, mythical creature, giant in stature and unworldly strong, rumored to be found guarding the jewels
of banana hearts
10
A unit of measurement, one cavan is equal to one sack of rice; approximately fifty kilos is to one cavan
11
A filial term of respect, synonymous to “elder”
12
A native wine made of fermented coconut nectar
1/17/2010
The old philosopher just smiled and shook his head. It wasn’t a secret to the citizens of
San Diego that their master mason without his wine was not their master mason at all. He sat
down in front of his friend’s gaping furnace and he warmed himself.
Menico poured himself a drink, and filled Tacio’s glass as well. The crystalline liquid
sloshed around the glasses and it sparkled in the firelight.
He sat down across Tacio.
“So, old man, what should we toast to?” He lifted his glass to eye level.
The philosopher thought for a moment.
“Let’s toast to the rain’s long life and health.”
Menico raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“May it cleanse San Diego of its sins; God knows San Diego needs it.” He tilts his head
back and drank the bitter liquid in one gulp.
The mason’s eyes just twinkled and he smiled and drank as well.

1/17/2010
Ten
Sisa heard the onrushing howling of the wind even before it actually reached her hut.
The moon, despite its weakness during the day, whispered in her ear that the rain was coming.
She was prepared; she collected her clothes from the bamboo poles in her yard already, even
before the sun was covered by the dark clouds. Her neighbors looked at her with wonder as they
saw her quickly gathering the clothes even while the sun shone so high in the sky. They looked
at each other and just shrugged their shoulders.
Now it was Sisa who laughed at her neighbors. She giggled inside as she watched them
scrambling after their clothes as the wind grew stronger and stronger like freshly beheaded
chickens.
She pushed her hair back behind her ears.
She sat by her windowsill, looking out at the dirt road leading to town. She had a very
good feeling about today, even if the weather doesn’t seem to agree. Perhaps, today will be the
day she will be able to see her little princes. She adjusted the flat cushion she sat on, her heart
was light and she felt like an expecting mother all over again.
She cooked their dinner earlier than usual as well. She made sure to use the plumpest
tomatoes from her garden, and they reminded her of Crispin’s own rosy cheeks. She fried some
fishes and she roasted some boar’s meat and a wild duck’s leg. She took such especial care in
preparing this meal. It defined, for her, her ever growing loneliness for the company of her boys.
She leaned her cheek upon her arms, and she felt her own warm breath upon her own
arm.
Its going to be Christmas soon, she thought to herself. She looked up into the heavens
and wondered what this year’s Christmas would be like. Like a little girl, she always loved the
feeling she gets when the cold wind blows through her flimsy clothes and her fine hair. The
glorious smells of the fields as the rice grains burst forth with unnatural fragrance. How she
loved the strange melody which fills her head and heart whenever she sees the great star being
placed on the tree in the church.
Oh, the church, with its lively decorations!
Those great walls lined with colorful tapestries trimmed with gold, Sisa could only hope
to conjure these images up in her memory. This Christmas will be a difficult one, she could tell.
Something about the air, she smelled something different. It was heavier, sadder, than
she has ever smelled before. She sighed; slowly she turned her eyes westward, where the sun

1/17/2010
slowly set unseen behind the curtain of clouds which pulled the moist stink out of the ground in
great drafts of invisible phantoms.
But maybe Christmas would change this evil wind which threatened her and her family.
The wind carried the voice of her suitor, her beautiful, haunting suitor.
He called out to her, softly like a child cooing to his mother. She turned her ear towards
the sweet sound of his voice. Amidst the noise of the night, she listened for his call. It was low
and powerful, like the growling of the tiger, the throaty and somewhat threatening sound which
chased around the innermost corners of her simple mind.
She undid her blouse and she let it fall around her shoulders, exposing her copious
breasts to the caress of the wind.
Sisa felt the first drops of rain upon her bare body like the small, bright bonfire fireflies
which left black soot marks on her skin and blinded her eyes with tears as she squatted over
thousands upon thousands of steaming pots and she stoked the roaring fires underneath them.
She felt the coolness soothe the fire she had within her. She felt her own heat escape her body in
radiant waves which warmed everything around her.
The magic of the forest held plenty of pleasures in store for this daughter of superstition,
trapped within the body of a crucian. The dwarves who lived inside the deep burrows at the
roots of the old Narra trees smacked their lips at the thought of her voluptuous form under their
thick dirt-encrusted fingers. The horse-man and the beautiful elves call her cousin, and smile at
her as they watched her brush her long fair hair, so similar to their own. The moon was not a
stingy suitor; for he has lavished her with a special light, bestowed only to those he truly loves,
and it made her glow with an eerie, iridescent light which made all the mythfolks’ eyes water
with admiration.
The cicadas and the crickets sang under the moonlight, under the leaves, safe from the
onslaught of the soft rain, they felt their small jelly like brains fill with the intoxicating influence
of the moon’s drunken gaze upon the land. Sisa felt her heart beat inside her thin, hollow chest.
She felt her body shudder as the rain dappled her body with small cool kisses.
Her skin was drawn tight over her bony frame, smooth and aglow with lust. The drops
of rain which fell on her barely touched her, before disappearing in a small cloud of mist. A
warm, sensual mist which seemed to grow into an entity all its own; it filled her small, dark hut.
It blinded her as every sigh which escaped her lips fogged her vision and clouded her mind. Her
hands were thrown out, as if to embrace a long gone lover, she gripped the frame of her small
window, her breasts hung low, and her nipples erect and quivering. She felt something warm
between her legs. A small smile crossed her face as she closed her eyes. A whiff of sex was

1/17/2010
evidently in the air, her face upturned towards the bright full moon. She almost ripped the
window completely off the wall as the warmth in her womanhood became warmer and warmer
in increasing degrees. She opened her mouth in a silent scream. The rain embraced her, mixing
his tears with her sweet-scented sweat. Her juices ran all over her light brown thighs, mixed with
her sweat.
Outside the storm raged, her neighbors crossed themselves and closed their windows.
They huddled together, mothers and their children, praying for the safe return of their husbands,
fathers and brothers from the fields and the shore. They did not see her standing, her windows
thrown wide open, her nakedness mocking the eyes of God. Bathing in the rain, her own sweat
and her own ejaculate, Sisa sang of her pain and her ecstasy.
“Let me tell you a story Menico. I hope you won’t fall asleep, it really is quite good.”
Tacio flinched as lightning zigzagged the sky, illuminating everything outside the small window
he faced in a momentary burst of brilliance.
Menico nodded as he poured another glass of tuba for himself.
“You have a man, who had ten gold pieces in his house. He kept them in a small box
buried under a pile of clothes in his clothes chest. And three leagues away, you have a widow,
with two gold pieces she kept in a small jewelry box on her dresser.”
He looked at the old mason, who was calmly smoking on his pipe.
“Then one day, two thieves went into the town where these two people lived. One thief
went into the house of the man and found the box with the ten gold pieces inside, the other went
into the house of the widow and stole her jewelry box with the two gold pieces inside.” Tacio
smoked his own pipe, sending a billowing cloud of smoke up towards the ceiling.
“Now, both thieves were apprehended, and brought to trial. You are the judge, you
should decide on the fate of the two criminals before you. You have three options, one is to flog
them, the other is to put them to the death, and the other is to hand them over to the church. You
cannot impose the same amount of punishment for both men, for one sinned more than the
other.”
The mason thought for a moment.
“Tacio, you old trickster, only you could make such wild stories. But to humor you, this
is what I would do. I would send the man who robbed the widow to the barracks where he shall
be flogged and I will send the other to the gallows.”
Tacio smiled coyly.
“Why?” he asked the mason.

1/17/2010
“Well, I judged them according to what they stole. Two pieces of gold isn’t really that
much compared to what the other thief stole.”
“Then you’re wrong.”
“Why so?”
“The man could easily recover his lost fortune, just a few weeks’ worth of work would
yield him the same amount, the widow on the other hand, could never possibly recover her
money as easily as the man can.”
“So, they should both be killed? But you said they can’t have the same punishment.”
“The man who stole from the woman deserves something worse than death. He
deserves to be a priest…” Tacio took a puff from his pipe.
“Because that’s what he is.”
“Sisa!”
She spun around, drenched from head to foot, her long hair was matted and dripping
with rainwater.
“What are you doing there? Son-of-a-bitch! You dirty whore!”
Sisa just stood there and collected her blouse around her, covering her shivering torso as
best as she could.
“Stupid girl, who’s out there?”
“Nobody, I swear.”
Her husband emerged from the shadows. Large and menacing, his bushy eyebrows
were contorted into the most horrifying frown. He strode over to where she stood and pushed
her roughly aside, throwing her into the wall. She hit the wall, making the reliquaries fall from a
high shelf, shattering themselves at her feet.
Her husband looked out into the night, beady eyes scanned the area, he called out horrid
obscenities at the moon, but the moon refused to answer back. The darkness closed in upon his
eyes and he turned and faced Sisa.
She cringed as he bent down and reached for her neck.
“Your lover can run very fast, but I will catch him one day. As for you, my dear beloved
wife.”
Sisa heard a dull thud, she wondered for a moment where the sound came from, and
then she felt a numbness grow from where she felt the moon’s warm caress just a few moments
earlier. The numbness spindled its way up from her womanhood into her belly where it
exploded into a blinding ball of pain.

1/17/2010
She felt for her vagina and her hands came up coated with her blood.
Another dull thud as her husband planted his huge foot in between her legs once more.
She screamed out and howled like a half-crazed animal as he continued kicking her as he held on
to her neck. She felt his grip tighten around her neck as she struggled to breathe. Her hut
seemed to shrink, the darkness closed in on her. She stopped screaming as the blows to her body
seemed to never end.
Panting, her husband pulled her face up to his, Sisa could no longer focus her eyes, her
mouth drawn tight into a mask of frozen pain.
And he kissed her.

1/17/2010
Eleven
The storm continued into the night. Small hands pulling on thick, rough rope made a
curious accompaniment to the harmony of the rain splattering on tile shingles. The bells of Santa
Maria vainly tried to be heard above the din of the thunder jumping from cloud to cloud in
terrifying arcs of light.
Basilio was alone in the dark bell tower.
The silent stones which held up Christ’s cross now caged a child pulling on a three ton
bell, trying desperately to sound it as hard as he could. Pity the storm could not try to help him
in his time of need, for the strength of the storm lies not in its power but in its noise.
He pulled harder, feeling the strain upon his arms, his diseased lungs trying to feed his
cells with oxygen, he bit his lower lip as he threw himself to the mercy of the heavy cast iron bell.
He barely felt the cold, creaking floorboards under him, his hands slipping on the wet, moldy
rope.
Pull, he told himself, willing his own weak muscles to do the humanly impossible. He
dug in his heels, his eyes burning with tears, and they were there, those bitter tears, for no reason
at all.
His thoughts wandered, meandering through dim images of his mother, lovely but
indistinct. He felt her gaze upon him, felt her soft loving embrace, holding him tightly, refusing
to let him go. In times when he was alone, he lost himself in her memory. Pity the child who,
after only a few weeks, now started to forget his mother.
Where shall he go, now that his mother was a disappearing phantom, no longer a real
and endearing human? But a ghost is far more convenient to conjure up in your mind’s secret
eye than its mortal counterpart. His mother looked resplendent in her ambiguity; surely the ideal
warms the heart more than an image from the real world.
He would not have felt comfort at all when faced with the sight of Sisa’s pale skin
bruised by loving hands and a mouthful of her own rancid blood, which was her dismal dinner
at that particular moment. How it would not have only saddened his reluctant Christian heart,
but filled it with the devil’s cup as well. How his anger would only inflame the parasite living
within the fertile imagination of his young, impetuous mind.
No, surely it would never do. It would have prompted him, with his whole heart and
soul to conjure up Mephistopheles and sell himself to the service of hell right then and there in
the blessed eyes of the unholy just to quench his mother’s thirst for happiness.
She smiled at him, his beacon of hope. She brushed her hair back behind her ears.
1/17/2010
Basilio felt the small stray droplets of rain hit his face tauntingly. He cursed under his
breath as each tug on the rope binding him to the darkness of the church let out a pitiful toll
which was promptly swallowed up by the roar of the storm outside.
“Brother…”
Basilio turned around and looked behind him, his hands still firmly gripping the rope,
his eyes slowly moved from one part of the room to the other. The wind howled in his ears.
“Brother…help me…”
He couldn’t see. He called out amidst the noise of the rain hitting the broad side of the
tower.
“Crispin? Where are you?”
Basilio peered into the semi-darkness of the room, the flame of a single candle flickered
in a far corner, far away from the window. It danced erratically as puffs of wind blew in from a
hole in the roof. Basilio looked up at the delicate curve of the rope as it soared towards the great
and scary mouth of the bell. He blinked, slowly trying to decide.
“Brother…”
Basilio let go, the bells tongue hit the side with weak, sad peal. He walked towards the
trapdoor and opened it up. He climbed down the ladder, his bare feet slippery from the waves of
rainwater which found its way on to the floor of the room above through the large open
windows.
He walked the lonely corridors, his feet, those small tired feet, walked the berth of God’s
ship twenty times twenty thousand times, enough to merit paradise twenty times over.
Suffering, long suffering, small child hands cheerily bearing the cross dealt. He felt in those
hands, this child of earth, the shame of serving god, he dares not say so out loud for fear of Saint
Michael and his legion of angels swooping down from heaven and slicing his head off. Secretly,
his young mind, burning with thoughts of heresy against God’s work, but still innocently bearing
the pain of obedience continued to turn its eyes away from the dismal darkness of his life.
Sisa woke up, sore and sprawled on her bamboo floor. She opened her eyes and noticed
that there was water splashing on her feet. She got up, as if in a daze.
The rain was still continuously harassing her small nipa hut with all its might. The floors
were wet and slippery; her husband did not even have the good sense to close the windows.
Neither was she immediately inclined to do so.
The dining table was littered with her husband’s accouterments of feeding. A small
coconut shell was overturned in one side, the ants swarming all over the spilled rice which now

1/17/2010
adorned the tabletop like small, brilliant beads. The rice, which she has so lovingly prepared for
her sons, was now food for the ants. How cruel nature was to the suffering mother!
She started to clean the table mechanically, her mouth drawn tight into one flat line
across her dirty face. Her eyes no longer shone with the light she held in her hand so very
recently. The life was drained from her body, the youth. She felt the presence of water on her
cheeks, and she wiped them away, they soon reappeared, those wet reminders of a better life, she
wiped them away once more.
There was a lump in her throat she did not want to spit out. A bitterness; a sore and
disturbing bitterness which she swallowed. The chick inside of her bosom, with ink black
feathers opened its beak and swallowed her tears. It felt the sadness swirl in its gut. It unleashes
a small cry and promptly went back to sleep between Sisa’s warm breasts.
She moved briskly, clearing the table and washing the small coconut bowls which only
about a moment ago was filled with the jewels of her day, now happily bouncing around in the
stomach of one she loves. Her husband, the man who swore to be loyal now burps contentedly
forty leagues away.
The water on her cheeks fell still.
She stood at the small sink, her hands methodically washing everything she grabbed
from around her, she scrubbed everything. She took her hands, turning them over and over
before her eyes. She stood, watching the sheets of rain drop from the heavens in large, noisy
blankets. The air around her seemed to vibrate like a bee was buzzing close to her ears.
She couldn’t take the wetness away from her eyes. They stung like hornets and the more
she tried to dry them, the more they hurt.
She ran her fingers through her hair, that lovely bunch of hair which now was matted
and caked with blood from her husbands’ loving caress.
The moon was nowhere to be seen. She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling it as
she dreamed of his kiss once more. The air was as heavy as the clouds which hid his beautiful
face from hers. She stood by the sink, for what seemed for hours, just running and twirling her
ebony hair around her fingers coquettishly.
What happened to her lover?
The moon was asleep, tucked away behind the soft moistened clouds of Jove. His
brilliance dimmed almost to blackness. He slept, momentarily forgetting his tortured concubine.
The stars laughed as they watched Sisa unfurl her long hair vainly trying to catch the moon’s
attention. The stars, the numerous wives of the moon looked down upon the filthy, bloody
mortal with disdain in their beautiful hearts and they refused to shine for Sisa’s searching eyes.

1/17/2010
The night sky grew dark as they all collected their astonishing coats and left her in a sad and
lonely twilight.
She stepped away from her kitchen, into her parlor. The wind and rain refused to let up,
yet she sat in her usual place by the windowsill, the rain splashing on her cold face, drawn into a
mask of sheer apathy. She watched as the rain bathed the landscape with its sweet smelling
sweat.
She breathed in the night air.
She looked out into the fields.
She sniffed, the air was filled with a faint stench; she tried to find it.
Sisa smelled it. An awful, rancid smell which turned her stomach like nothing else did.
Her nose crinkled up into two small holes as she felt dizzy at the mere presence of the stench.
She smelled her hands, her clothes, the stench stuck there, but it came from somewhere else. She
looked around her frantically like a caged animal, trying to find the source of the smell which
made her stomach turn ever so slightly.
She went to her backyard, the storm was raging now, but that did not bother her, she
went to the well behind her house, her wet clothes clung to her like a second skin, the dirty fabric
made a dismal nakedness against the wrath of God.
In the darkness, she pulled water from the well.
She smelled the stench on her body; a strange wild smell, like a cat in heat. She took a
jug and started to pour water all over her clothed body in the rain.
The lightning flashed all around her, the creatures of the night playfully watched as the
nymphet frenetically tried to cleanse her body of the moon’s spunk.
Yes, a strange master the moon does make.
His touch leaves people blabbering into their death. He sends men who love him across
thousands of miles of traveling just to find a blade of grass which he fancies. He sends women
who love him into forests to be coupled with wild animals for his own carnal amusement.
But to the men and women he loves dearly, a different fate awaits them. His touch gives
them the gift of magic.
Her gnarled fingers tore apart her blouse, her arms straining to rid her body of those evil-
smelling clothes. The stench grew, not only in intensity but in evil. She gasped for breath, she
screamed out into the night.
Through a chink in the clouds above her, the moon did wake; his eyes spied the lovely,
naked form of his beloved wife. His eyes ran all over her body like a mortal man would, he
reached out from behind his screen of clouds and touches her lightly on the forehead.

1/17/2010
She felt scared; the smell invaded every fiber of her being. But she looked up and saw his
handsome, round face.
A drop of rain entered her mouth.
She tasted it, salty, but comforting.
She stopped writhing in the rain. She stood still; bathed in moonlight and she felt the
soft mire between her toes.
She walked slowly into her house. A beatific smile graced her face, making her eyes
shine like opals.
A smile. She heard the sound of bells in the distance. She slowly walked into the hut.
The smell was gone.

1/17/2010
Twelve
There were ghosts within the church. They roamed the lonely deserted halls during the
night, bemoaning their fate to wander the world aimlessly for all eternity. They wore their finest
clothes, the finest of silk and lace, most were women. These ghosts never seem to be aware that
they are ghosts, walking in and out of each other, like the serpent eating its own tail; they never
realize that they consume their own gray, drab death, until death himself refuses to consort with
them and shies away from them.
These troubled souls, who thirst for the sweet touch of water walk around looking for it.
Like Tantalus whose feet rest under crystal waters, a buxom bright-skinned fruit hung heavily
above his head and a thirst in his soul which longs for both. When bending down to touch his
lips upon the joyful river, the waters recede into the fiery sands of the underworld. When he
tries to reach towards the fruit, the wind takes it away from his tortured reach. Forever must he
suffer his thirst; forever must restless spirits endure their insane thirst as well.
These ghosts came to see him. The child, who stood in the darkness of the closet, hiding
from the light. The only indication that he was of living flesh in blood was the small cut on his
cheek where the servant of God struck him. A small trickle of blood intrigued the ghosts; they
tried to run their dry tongues over it, hoping to feel the moisture condense on their parched lips.
But they floated away sadly when they found their mouths as dry as they once were.
Crispin shivered in the darkness. His limbs were shaking as he felt the cold drafts which
blew all around him.
He ran when the priest first struck him, grazing his cheek with his ring, drawing blood.
He felt for his arms, and hugged them close.
He looked around, there was no place to hide. Such was his certain fear. He knew it
would only be a matter of time before the priest found him. That monstrous Spaniard whose
eyes now strangely bore the mark of the devil.
The musty smell of old rusting metal invaded his nostrils and prevented him from
thinking anything else. Beside him were old muskets, he knew the priest wouldn’t check here in
the old armory anytime soon. He sank down to his haunches and started to cry.
He tried to cry noiselessly, but the sound of weeping in the darkness sounds far louder
than one might suspect. Small sniffling noises amplified by the sheer loneliness of the underbelly
of the church filled the space with a language only ghosts understand.
He wiped the tears away from his face as his grubby hands tried to dry the moisture they
left on his chin. He stood.
1/17/2010
He could hear the rain still raging outside, and he thought about his mother.
She must be worried sick, Crispin thought. He was not sure what time it was, but
somehow he knew it was late. He heard the weak clanging of the bell. Basilio must still be up
there!
He crept out of his hiding place, on his hands and knees. Careful not to make any sound.
He felt the muddy waters which fell from a large hole in the roof, and he sloshed his way
through it. He tried to concentrate, but he found himself distracted by the heap of maimed and
murdered statues which stared at him with cold lifeless eyes.
He looked up the lonely stairwell, the light of the fires above illuminated the halls with
their flickering brilliance. He looked back into his dark hiding place, the safety of the dark
seemed to be so tempting. He stared into the light and his heart beat faster in fear of what it
might bring.
He heard the ringing of the bells and thought of the clean sweet smell of his mother’s rice
and he silently clambered up the steps with a small prayer in his heart.
“You summoned me sir?”

The priest sat at his desk with his back against the door, facing the large windows
washed with rain.
“Yes. Come in. A crime has been committed.”
The head sacristan walked up towards the desk, his face; a gaunt and pallid pallor which
betrayed no emotion. His hair cut close to his head and his strong brow which resembled the
mighty horns of a wilder beast.
The priest stood and turned around to face him. His embroidered vestments shining in
the firelight. His hands behind him and a heaving chest matched the rabid look in his eyes.
“The creature stole from me.” The priest motioned for the head sacristan to have a seat
impetuously. He did not like this Philippine ox more than the rest of the lot after all, but at least
this one is obedient. He found in him the same obsession that plagued his own half-blessed
existence.
He sat, and looked at the priest with a contemplative look in his eyes.
“Which creature stole from you your eminence? Was it the older? I knew that boy is up
to no good…”
“Hold your tongue you impudent piece of garbage, do not presume to know everything!
You have only proven yourself to be more stupid than you already are. That is the problem with
your people, you always assume to know everything. From the very first time I set foot in this

1/17/2010
godforsaken island I have encountered your especial brand of moronic twaddle.” The priest spat
out at the head sacristan. He puffed himself out to his full height and looked disdainfully at the
insignificant cretin before him. He tried to control himself, the effort proving almost too great to
endure. The priest thought for a moment, he must not shift his anger from one monkey to the
next, he needs this monkey after all. “Well, to answer your question at any rate, it wasn’t the
elder who stole, it was the younger one, Crispin.”
The head sacristan was silenced…for the meantime. It was of no use to argue with the
priest. He regarded this particular Cura with aloofness, he did not like this one master out of all
the priests in San Diego who he has rendered loyal and unfaltering service to.
“So, what do you intend to do sir?”
The priest turned his chair around and sat facing him. He formed his hands into a tight
steeple. He thought of all the wonderful tortures he contrived while praying to the Holy Mother.
The Knout in his drawer started to rattle violently within the deepest corners of his mind.
“Detain him and his brother. Until the little one confesses.”
“Pardon my query your eminence, but what article was stolen from your person?”
The priest hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second.
“The little thief stole two whole gold pieces from me. I am certain he still has them with
him. Do not let them leave the church. I want those gold pieces found and that little creature
taught a lesson. I will not tolerate thievery in my parish understood?”
The head sacristan nodded his head curtly.
“That is all. You are dismissed.”
“Basilio.”
Basilio woke up, he was still standing in the bell tower, leaning against the pull of the
wet rope in his hands. Crispin melted out of the shadows to where his brother stood.
“Crispin, where have you been, I have been waiting for you for hours!”
Crispin said nothing, he rushed forward and wrapped his arms around his brother’s
chest.
“Protect me brother, please don’t leave me here in this place. I want to go home, I want
to go home to mother, she will not stand for this…” Crispin was speaking frantically,
mechanically, as if knowing the futility of his own words. Saying them with eyes blank and
expressionless, the child driven mad by his fear of the inevitable unknown end. His grip
tightened around the only refuge and comfort he could find.

1/17/2010
“I did not steal anything, it’s all lies, don’t believe them brother. Mother will not stand
for this. She will not. Nobody calls me a thief at home. She will never call me a thief.”
Basilio could barely make out what his frightened brother was saying amidst the roar of
the storm outside and his own drowsy stupor. Youth’s strength has its limitations, he sank down
and cradled Crispin gently in his arms.
“What? What did you do?”
Crispin looked up into his eyes, openmouthed in his defense.
“I did not steal anything, the priest has gone insane, he accused me of stealing two gold
coins from him, but I did not, I really did not. I want to go home to mother.”
His brother just looked at his face, searching it for honesty and he found plenty of it. He
tore himself away to be able to speak to Crispin eye to eye.
“Calm down, help me ring the bells, then we will talk to the priest about this. It is merely
a misunderstanding.”
Crispin’s eyes dilated in fear.
“NO! He’s insane, he’ll kill me!”
Crispin pushed his brother away and he tried to crawl away to the safety of the corner.
“Crispin, listen to me, he won’t kill you, he’s a man of God, and he won’t. He might
punish but never to kill. Trust me, we have to clear this thing up without letting mother know.
What do you think she’ll say when we come home without resolving this and they go to our
house? She will be very angry with you.”
His brother just huddled in the corner. Mumbling to himself.
“He will kill me…he will kill me…he will kill me…”
Basilio felt a ball of fear swell inside him. Something within him, in the darkness of the
bell tower whispered the same thing Crispin was muttering as if under a trance.
Maybe it was the wind rushing through the windows, maybe it was the rumbling of his
own gut or maybe it was the horrible premonitions of his own mind.
It echoed Crispin’s words.
He will kill me…he will kill me…he will kill me…
“That was a lot of money that got lost, how will we be able to pay for that large a sum…”
He said to himself aloud. The darkness seemed to double in intensity as he sat down looking at
the floor.
“I did not steal…I did not steal…I did not steal…” Crispin was whispering incoherently,
his horrified face illuminated briefly by a huge bolt of lightning which hit just outside the bell
tower.

1/17/2010
“No!”
Crispin stood and ran towards the steps leading to the trapdoor. He wanted to leave the
church, out those heavy wooden doors, into the rain, away from the shadow of its immense
façade, out of San Diego and into the waiting arms of his mother.
“Crispin! No!”
Crispin only got as far as a few meters from the stairs when a large hand held him fast,
he looked into the eyes of his fate and almost fainted in fear.
And in the candlelight they burned golden.

1/17/2010
Thirteen
“And where do you think you’re going?”
Lightning flashed outside the church, making everything inside the small belfry bright.
Every ominous detail could be seen for a moment.
The head sacristan emerged from the darkness like a menacing cat, his large hand firmly
holding on to Crispin’s arm, dragging him along as he walked towards Basilio.
“You were not thinking of running away now were you? The priest will be quite
distressed if you were able to escape.” He continued to walk towards the other altar boy, frozen
in his spot.
“The two gold pieces you stole should’ve been given to a charity, it would have fed five
children for a week, if you hand it over now, I’m sure the priest could devise a punishment far
better than what he’s going to contrive for you should you choose to continue lying.”
Basilio looked around him, the only way he could escape is perhaps through the
trapdoor in the far end of the room, but the head sacristan is moving closer and closer. Crispin
was now wailing.
“Shut up you piece of filth! Now I’m going to ask you again, where is the money?”
“I don’t have it… I didn’t steal anything.”
“Liar! But I give you this word of warning boy, you better confess to me. You don’t
want to confess to the priest, I’m sure of that.”
The child was reduced to a sobbing, babbling piece of meat dangling from the pincer-like
grip of the head sacristan.
“I didn’t steal anything…please let me go…”
The head sacristan snorted and threw Crispin down on the floor next to Basilio.
“Now you listen to me. I will be held responsible for your indiscretion. Now, produce
what you stole!” He drew back and slapped Crispin with the back of his curled fist. Basilio heard
a crack, followed by the dull sound of his younger brother’s bony limbs hitting the wooden floor.
Crispin lay still.
Basilio could not tell what happened next, after a few moments of fearful silence, Crispin
stood up. His silhouette made against the soft glow of the candlelight was what Basilio would
never forget.
“Child, I ask you once more, confess to me your sin and you shall be allowed to go
home.”
Crispin still babbled.
1/17/2010
“I did not steal…”
Another lightning flash made Basilio blink.
Crispin was once again on the floor, the head sacristan looking down on him with an
expression of pleasure on his face. He turned his head and looked at Basilio. He looked straight
into his eyes.
“You, you will stay here until the stroke of the tenth hour.”
Strangely, Basilio found his voice; it quivered as he forced the words out of his mouth.
“But sir…That would be past curfew, the gendarmes would catch me.”
The head sacristan just smiled. His awful lips turned up at the corners and his eyes
burned into his skull.
“The thief will stay here, until those two gold pieces appear.” He turned aside and
looked at the boy, crumpled at his feet. “We shall teach him a lesson he will never forget.”
“Sir, please, our mother will be waiting for the both of us. She will ask me where Crispin
is.”
“Then tell her he’s here. But not before ten or else I’ll have you beaten with a stick until
you lose your legs.” With that he picked up Crispin by the hair, jerking him up sharply. Crispin
squealed like a pig being slaughtered as he felt the insane pain at the crown of his head.
“Now, I have given you your chance to speak. The priest will deal with you. You will be
sorry.” He cast a dismissive glance at the other boy standing before him.
“And you, demerits for not ringing the bells in time.”
“Sir, please, we don’t have the money to pay for what was lost…please don’t hurt him.”
“Basilio, don’t let them take me away…”
He tried, valiantly, like a tired and wounded knight. His thin legs would have had the
strength of ten men within them, but the will is stronger than the body. The head sacristan only
had to move aside as Basilio tried to secure a grip on Crispin’s hand and deliver a blow to the
back of his head. Basilio fell, and when his brother saw it happen, he roared out at the top of his
young voice.
“BROTHER, HELP ME!”
The head sacristan dragged him down the stairs by the hair, and after being dazed,
Basilio heard the sounds of his brother being hit over and over again. Dull, lifeless blows
coupled with the sound of shrieks and sobs. At one point, downstairs, Basilio heard just the dull
blows which never seemed to end, from Filipino fists and feet, but no longer the pleading sounds
of a child.

1/17/2010
The ghosts wondered what the racket was all about and they emerged from the darkness
drawn by the sound of suffering like moths to a flickering flame. They rose out of the burial
mounds and the parapets; they clambered up the steps into the bell tower where they found
Basilio, covering his ears.
He covered his ears, he did not wish to hear any more, and his eyes were wide open, like
he has just witnessed the most horrifying thing in the world. He was rocking back and forth,
trying to console himself, trying to stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks.
So much money, he thought to himself, so much money.
Then he heard a snap.
A guttural scream.
A door slams in the distance and he heard no more.
Basilio stood up and he brought his hands to his sides. He watches the storm ebb
outside, slowly the rain lets up and the rumble of thunder receded into the distance. He walked
over to where the limp rope of the bell hung like a dead snake. He looked at it strangely like an
infant looking at the bright face of the moon. It swung slowly, like a heavy pendulum, swaying
from side to side.
Crispin will be here soon, and then they could go home to mother, he thought cheerily to
himself.
He wrapped his fingers around the moldy rope stained with his tears and pulled with all
the joy in his heart.
Far away, in the outskirts of town, a mother cried for no reason at all.
The priest stared into the flame of his lamp. His bright hazel eyes flickered bronze in the
soft amber light. His brazen beard glowed. He ran his hands through the coarse brush on his
jaw. His thick, strong fingers pulling at tufts of red fur.
The darkness seemed a strange companion to him now. The light from a single candle
seemed to be a fitting fixture for him at this moment. The shadows which danced on the far wall
became his friends and he watched them, their movements wild and erratic, his eyes darted from
one phantom to the other. He wiped the sweat from his brow. He knew the boy was near…he
could smell the salt of his youthful sweat.
He cracked his knuckles.
“Sir, the boy is in the sanctuary.”
He doesn’t even bother to turn around to face Cerberus, his three headed dog. He
dismisses his hound with an impatient flick of the wrist.
The door closes behind him.

1/17/2010
He felt it rise deep within him. A clean, holy feeling which crept up from his gut, where
the infant basilisk lay sleeping, making him smile.
He folded his hands and started to pray.
Crispin lay on the dirty floor. His eyes wide open, his mouth as well…
His eyes watched with interest as clouds of dusty vapor floated around him. His temple
pressed against the cold floor. He tried to roll over on his back, but he seemed to be nailed on the
ceiling, he wondered which way was up. He notices a small patch of light from the corner of his
eye, he grunted as he moved a little to see where the light came from, permeating the darkness.
He recognized by the beatific smile of the Holy Mother clothed in blue that he must be in the
sanctuary of Mary.
He struggled to get a close look at the Holy Mother. Her eyes a soft powder blue, it
reminded him of the sky. That broad expanse of emptiness that filled his mind with wonder, he
stared into those eyes. The face seemed to be so familiar. He tried to focus his gaze upon her
face, but it proved to be quite impossible.
With every gasp for breath, he slowly sees Mary take off her cloak, lifting it above her
radiant crown of stars. The small light which reached out to him before now illuminated her
face. Her light permeating the darkness, parting it like a glorious torch upon entering a tomb, it
grew until he could see the soft line of her smiling lips. Crispin watched as she opened her arms
and reached out to him, her resplendent clothing beaming in the sheer holy light. She looks at
him with kindness in her eyes, her skin turned into living, breathing membrane. He watches her,
transfixed by her glory and majesty. Her crown of gold and the royal diadem shining on her
breast, that enormous diamond, now mystically showering him with facets of God’s light. She
opened her mouth as if to speak…
“Shhh… everything will be all right…”
Crispin’s heart stopped.
He felt himself being lifted up and violently pushed into a chair in the corner. It was the
strange chair he saw once before. With the huge solid wood seat, a high backrest and two arms
stretched out on both sides like Christ’s cross. He looked at the man who bore the voice and he
saw the dark shadow of the priest standing over him.
“…please sir…I did not steal anything…” he wheezed out between short drafts of air.
The priest just stayed silent.
Crispin felt his arms being stretched out on both sides, his wrists being tied down with
rough leather straps which burned his skin. His head flopped to and fro as he felt dizzy. The

1/17/2010
room spun as he felt his ankles being tied to the legs of the chair. His back sticking to the plank
as he sweat in fear, its splinters piercing his skin, drawing first blood.
The priest started to pace in front of him.
“Where is the money you stole from me?”
The boy tried to speak, his voice sounding hoarse. “I did not steal anything sir…I swear I
did not.”
The priest shook his head and produced from somewhere in his robes a long dark stick
which had an evil stench to it. Crispin recognized what it was and he recoiled in horror upon
seeing it.
Sisa was sitting in her living room when she realized something was terribly wrong. The
stench she has recently forgotten now returned.
She looked around her, a moment of unspeakable fear crossed her mind, and she
frantically tore open her clothes chest. She dug through her clothes, panicking, she threw them
out and they flew, like lace ribbed birds. She felt around at the bottom, and her hands came out
with a small silver icon in her hands, the icon of Mary the heavenly mother, in her shining blue
dress.
She went to the window, and she looked up at the now clearing sky, the smell of the rain
still hung low and heavy in the air.
She looked at the face of the Madonna; her lovely, oval face, the bright glint of the silver
found its way into her own eyes, she shielded them with her hand and she looked at her once
more. She saw her own image, strangely familiar, but still not her own. Her eyes moved
downwards to the child she held so near to her bosom, and she saw the unmistakable innocence
of Crispin.
Basilio sat down on the floor, the rope of the bell swinging above him. He sits, his hands
folded on his lap. The rain has stopped; his ears now only hear the whisper of the night wind
whistling through the shingles even higher above him. And beyond that, the moon shines down,
touching his forehead, making him forget for a short while, the sounds which haunted the rooms
in his mind.
That fragile glass attic, shining with an unnaturally bright light, held up the child’s mind.
He looks up towards his adoptive father; he gazes at his luminous face. His smile
descended upon the boy, filling his head with the peace he has rarely known, truly, the lack of an
emotion forces one to deny its existence.

1/17/2010
He stood up and looked outside the window. The town looked wet and fresh; every
speck of dust now was washed away. The town looked so clean, he thought to himself with a
small laugh of delight; it gleamed under the light of the stars.
He dared to look down.
And he jumped.

1/17/2010
Fourteen
The priest lit a few more candles in the sanctuary of the blessed virgin. He stopped
momentarily in front of her idol, looking down at him with the same face she wore, day after
day, for all her years on that pedestal. She will continue to wear the same tired smile until she
would find herself falling so unceremoniously to the floor of the church one day, and then
shattering her face beyond all salvation unto the cold stone tiles.
He smiled as he passed her, his hand slowly stroking his knout sensuously, like he was
stroking his own organ.
“Please sir, let me go…I did not steal anything.”
Pleading words falling on deaf ears, Crispin tried to focus on the priest’s lumbering
silhouette, but he found that he could not. His eyes were not cooperating.
The priest raised his hand, and the head sacristan unlatched two switches at the base of
the backrest. Crispin felt those two sharp clicks and he felt the chair he sat on give a little shake.
He screamed out loud as the rest was suddenly pulled up from the frame, scratching his back
and driving in innumerable splinters into the small of his back.
The priest smiled to himself in the semi-darkness, he stole a sideward glance at the boy,
now sitting, crucified like Christ. His back now bared.
“Child, confess your sins and you shall go free, I offer you this chance to save yourself
from the punishments awaiting you if you don’t tell me the truth.” The priest spoke low and
floridly, stepping closer and closer to where the boy sat. His eyes retaining the infernal glow of
the candles he so recently lit. They shone like fiery diamonds, his eyes, and they spoke of his evil.
He stopped walking towards the boy and he looked at his demonic familiar.
The head sacristan was staring at him, matching him gaze for gaze.
He looked on as he watched his manservant twist his shirt between his hands. Those
sharp and beady eyes, blackened by years of painful and hard living looked into the anointed
one’s clear hazel eyes with the same rabid look. The priest turned his attention back to Crispin.
“Your silence troubles me and the most sacred heart of Mary, boy. Confess and you shall
be spared the fate which awaits thieves.”
With unbelievable strength, the priest grabs hold of the chair and he lifted it, dragging
two legs of it across the floor and he spun it around so that Crispin now faced the sacred icon of
the blessed virgin mother.
“Swear! On the most holy seal of God, Crispin, swear!”

1/17/2010
Crispin choked on his own spit as he sputtered and coughed. His head flopped from
side to side as he looked at the painting.
“I swear…I did not steal…”
The wind whistled as he heard a small slapping sound. Almost instantly, each and every
cell in his body screamed out in agony. His back was set ablaze with pain.
The priest looked at the knout he held in his hand, it was moist. He felt it in his palms,
and when he let it go, his hand came up scarlet. He chuckled to himself, these monkeys are so
fragile and soft; it only took one blow to draw blood!
“S-S-Sir…P-Please, I didn’t do anything!”
“Once more Crispin, Where is the money you stole?”
Crispin looked up into the fiery eyes of the priest.
“I did not steal sir…”
Another deafening crack as Crispin howled out in pain, his voice now louder than he has
ever heard himself cry, it echoed and chased around the small dank room.
The sacristan mayor could not contain himself by now; he felt the madness rise within
him. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The anger one so rarely feels is now forcing its
way out of his embittered heart. His breathing has grown increasingly erratic since he first got
hold of the boy high in the dark bell tower, and now it has left him wanting for more. His mouth,
which was usually dry, was now filled with the insane froth of saliva.
“Speak heathen, and the Lord shall save you! Do you want this? Do you want to extend
your suffering?” The priest whispered in Crispin’s ear.
He just sobbed in response; but only had the sound left to prove it. His tears by now
have all been shed, and their comfort no longer available. His back ached as two wounds now
throbbed in the cold air. His shirt clung to him, torn where the unfortunate hide has struck him.
His arm felt as if it was broken, it hurt so much, but it did not compare with the fear he held,
locked inside his mind, and he did not notice that it was indeed broken, his fractured bone
sticking out at a horrific angle.
The Spaniard looked at his handiwork, two long wounds, forming a grotesque X across
Crispin’s small back, blood slowly oozing out of them, his clothes stained with it. He looked at
the head sacristan and he saw the evil glint in his eyes not unlike his own.
“Leave us. I will extract his confession in private.”
The head sacristan at first looked quite surprised and disappointed, he opened his
drooling mouth a moment before deciding against it, and he stepped out.

1/17/2010
The room seemed to shrink around Crispin as the door closed behind him. His sobbing
continued on as the priest silently stood in front of him, his broad chest heaving up and down, he
heard his breathing come out in long, uneven wheezes.
“Why do you lie to me?”
Crispin bit his lip as he tried to steady himself to respond. “I am not lying sir, please
believe me.”
For a while, the priest did, and those were some of the last few moments of peace the
lonely Crispin would know before the end. The man before him felt a twinge of sadness as he
watched the small boy crucified in front of him. He looked at those arms, stretched out, that
back, riddled with the marks he himself branded upon his young supple skin. He reached up to
his collar and he undid the stiff binding which held his collar in place. He knelt down in front of
the boy and he looked into those red, puffed-up eyes. The blow of the head sacristan left such a
ghastly mark. But his face was still so very handsome even with its bruises and its lesions.
The priest lifted his chin up with his fingers. He looked his face over. He felt the lust
grow inside; his basilisk is feeding off the semen in his loins and turning it into a pool of boiling
carnality. Steam rose from his crotch and it inflamed his heart; he stroked the boy’s cheek, feeling
the soft brush of his smooth skin.
Crispin could barely feel what was going on, he felt as if there was a hole somewhere in
his head and all of his blood was being drained out. He fought, with every last once of his will to
keep awake, even when he found it such an exhausting exercise. He kept his eyes on the priest’s
face, focusing on the bright red of his beard to keep himself from simply passing out in
exhaustion and shock.
The priest looked at his small face.
The sweat from his brow began to trickle down his face gently. He felt their moist trails
down into his beard and he felt a droplet of sweat collect at the corner of his mouth. He darted
out his tongue and tasted the saltiness of his own body. He looked at his hands, the boy’s blood
still smeared all over it. He brought his hands closer to his face; he looked at the grooves and
wrinkles his hands were riddled with. And he slowly breathed in the metallic smell of Crispin’s
blood. He opens his mouth and licks the palm of his hand.
It tasted bitter, at first.
It filled his mind with such great longing. It filled his mind with such unspeakable acts,
of such terrible, unnatural images.
But it all proved to be music for the monster growing deep within. It stretched its wings
and cackled as the blood of the innocent slid down its throat into its dark belly, filling him up like

1/17/2010
a leech. He claws his way up, up out of his stomach, he claws his way through his throat and
into his mind. The creature shed its skin; its black, leathery crust wrapped itself around his heart,
strangling it. The basilisk wound its way into his brain where it met its twin, the cancer.
The priest now understood, as his eyes flashed the same gorgonic gaze of the basilisk.
He looked at the boy.
He grabbed the collar of Crispin’s shirt and with one powerful jerk, tore it from one end
to the other. He looked at the young sweet body before him with an insane, irrational lust.
He ran his hands over the boy’s shoulders, his fingertips feeling the weak bones under
the taut, drum-like skin drawn tight over his starving frame. The priest’s eyes shone with a
different light, a darker, more sickening shade than the one before. As if the devil himself held
the seat of power in his mind, where it was usually empty; Satan, the power over all powers sat,
his behind softly resting on the seat of his throne. His bony fingers tapping lightly against the
dark, bleeding wooden hand rests. His eyes; those mystically attractive eyes shining through the
fog of smoke and brimstone, Satan knew it all along that it would only be a matter of time before
the priest would hand over the reins to him. He held them now, in his fiery grip, and he smiled
as he looked at the boy sitting helplessly in front of him.
The priest ran his hands over Crispin’s back, his hands carefully avoiding the spot where
his knout met his skin. He whispered into his ear, strange musings in Spanish which Crispin did
not understand as one strong arm slowly found its way around his abdomen; the priest’s hand
securely cupped his young genitals.
Crispin struggled to get free but the bonds were strong.
The basilisk crept up to its master as they share a singular laugh which set the priest’s
mind aflame with lust. His mouth watered as he thought of what pleasures await beyond the
horizon of Crispin’s trousers. Crispin found his voice just as the priest started to undo his bonds.
He uttered a small cry of protest.
“Be quiet!” The priest gripped Crispin’s testicles like an iron vise.
Crispin felt himself faint.
It was a strange sensation, falling over backwards and flipping over and over in a bizarre
speed. Not so fast and not so quick, he felt himself taking a step onto solid ground once more
and he found himself back where he started, the priest was slapping his cheeks to wake him.
“Wake up! Filthy piece of shit! Wake up!”
The last slap woke him up and he looked at the priest, he was in front of him now, his
habit hiked up to his waist, he looked at those strong legs covered with hair, up to his crotch
where a truly commanding erection stood waiting, long and thick. It pulsed with each gale of

1/17/2010
laughter from the devil inside his mind. The priest continued to stroke his throbbing member as
sweat rolled down his face. The unbearable inferno in his head seemed to spread to the rest of
his body, filling him up with anger, hatred and carnality.
The grunts and groans filled the emptiness of the sanctuary. The Virgin turned away
from the sight.
But Crispin could no longer hear anything but the soft cooing of the doves; unseen over
his head. He looks up, the darkness started to turn light.

1/17/2010
Fifteen
Basilio felt the ground under his feet as he walked home; it hurt him quite a lot when he
first threw himself out the window into the grassy courtyard at the foot of the belfry.
The stars have all come out now. The air still faintly smelled of fresh loam. It hurt his
nostrils and his head throbbed. He continued to limp along the small road leading out of town in
the pitch black of the evening.
Lovely lights bounced far above him, the streetlamps were low on kerosene and their
lack of which made the flames within the blown glass lamps dance erratically, he watched as he
limped away the shadows which wove inside each other on the dirt road before him.
He passed a large house, its wrought-iron gate loomed over him like a giant, he
approached it, and the house behind it had a strange magnetic effect upon him. He touched the
black bars and he pressed his face against the gap between them, leaving sharp impressions on
his grimy cheeks.
The lamps were lit inside, making the inside of the mansion glow with a golden-yellow
radiance.
He felt his heart slowly break within him. He wondered what was to become of him.
Remnants of a lost youth now struggling to be heard; Christmas was coming up quite quickly, he
wanted so much to give his mother something nice this year.
“You! Boy! What are you doing there?”
Basilio spun around and was faced by the most horrifying sight which gripped his heart
with fear.
Two gendarmes were standing side by side, patrolling the streets. One of them was
pointing towards his direction. His mind reeled with vicious, angry pictures of what happens
behind the heavy oak doors of the garrison. He turned around on his heel and he bolted for the
safety of the dark.
He heard a shout from behind him and the sharp clicking noises of booted heels hitting
paved streets. He ran as fast as his limping leg could carry him, somewhere behind him he heard
shots being fired into the clear night sky. He felt something brush against his temple and he
found himself stumbling into a dark ditch by the side of the road. He tumbled over and under,
the grass, mud and sky alternating places in rhythm with his bulk being thrown about down the
ravine. His arms and legs scraped every which way as he fell. He finally reached the bottom of
the gutter with a small thud.

1/17/2010
He lay there. The dark night was selfish and hid his descent well. The voices far away
faded into the night. He felt the mud on his face as he held his breath, the sounds of the forest
filled him with a feeling of fear and surprising calm. He felt the cuts and scratches on his limbs
tingle and itch. But he restrained himself from standing and attending to them, he lay there, so
close to the earth, covered with grime and loose, sticky soil. He felt the icy grasp of his earthy
mother as he lay close to her copious bosom.
When at last, the moon shone upon him slightly skewed to the right, he dared to stand,
his foot, the injured one drew a heavy footed track in the soft soil and he trudged along, wisely
keeping to the dirt path instead of the actual and usual route to his mother’s house. He hugged
his body with his arms as he sloshed through the forest to keep himself warm.
He saw the small light of their window ahead of him. He looked at it with a heavy heart,
his eyes blurred by unwelcome tears. He trudged up out of the screen of tall banana palms and
he walked to their hut.
The head sacristan did not look at the stars, no matter how lovely they shone. He
stopped looking a long time ago.
He took a drag from his European cigarette, not the cheap local cigars they hand-roll
down at the tobacco plantations a few miles from town; one of the more sublime perks, no doubt,
of being a servant of God.
But for some strange reason, he looked up the night sky and he saw God’s departed
children, shining down on him. Their bright happy faces smiled down on him. He sneered,
never had much use for God, he thought to himself.
He was a practical man, and securing his job in the cloister is his obvious first priority. If
you live close to God, you distinguish yourself above that of pithy mortals feeding on the scraps
of grace which fall from your table like maggots. Such is the sad and almost humorous truth
behind the Philippines socially twisted sense of power. He mused, smoke coming out of his
blackened nostrils, where was God when he was a child? He looked at the stub of his burning
cigarette between his fingers. It sent a trail of smoke, spiraling upwards into the night sky, he
breathed in the sticky, moist air which circulated around the church’s front. He leaned against
the cold stone statue of Saint Michael, using his haloed head as an armrest. He took another drag
from his cigarette.
It is interesting to note at this time, the identity and the origin of this child of earth, but it
was all but too sad. There were no palaces of gold, no beautiful christening clothes of the finest

1/17/2010
lace. Only the deep stink of wine, the bitter taste of blood and the constant fear of being struck by
the hand which fed him filled his days as a young boy.
Coupled with this dire fate, his God would not hold a candle to his face as well; his mere
presence brought him more and more suffering. He remembers this slightly, but brushes his
mind clean with a single sweep of his mind’s eye.
Gods are for Gods, men are for men.
He chuckles at his simple, almost Confucian sensibility. He throws the butt of his
cigarette at his feet and he promptly snuffs the life out of it, driving and crushing it into the
ground with such force it became like the fine dust at eventide.
He walked through the courtyard, his beady eyes slowly scanning the area, and he saw a
small pile of leaves he had the orderly rake that morning, now in total disarray. He looked up
and he saw the towering height of the belfry. He heard the soft cooing of the gentle breeze run
through the branches of the tall trees in the garden. It was dark up there, and slowly a sneer
crossed his face.
He walked into the hall and woke up the messenger. The poor boy was forcibly shaken
and told to go to the garrison. He had a message to deliver for the Alferes13.
Sisa was peacefully dreaming, gazing at the moon, when Basilio knocked at their door.
“Mother, please let me in.”
She walked over and undid the small wooden slat which held the door closed. She opens
the door and her poor simple heart broke in two.
Basilio looked worse than how he felt, and Sisa immediately showered him with kisses.
The poor boy’s dirty, bloodstained face suddenly enveloped in the soft caress of his mother’s lips,
her arms went around his young, brown body and held him close.
Basilio breathed in the familiar smells of their home. The smell of the cooked dinner still
lingering, hanging from the rotting rafters of their ceiling like many strings of smoked memories,
he nuzzled close to the dirty lace which clothes the most beautiful women in the world. The
familiar smell of sweet dried sweat on his mother’s chest, it all came to him so strongly after
being so far away for so very long.
Sisa felt her son’s warmth against her own warm body. And she felt a sadness rise
within her gut up to her throat. For a moment she was filled with unspeakable dread.
“Where is Crispin?”
13
The chief of police
1/17/2010
Basilio felt a pang of anger shoot through his heart from Ares’ shafts of fury. He pulled
away from his mother’s apparent half-hearted embrace.
“Crispin is still in the church, I had to jump through the belfry window to get
home…then a couple of soldiers shot me.”
Sisa’s eyes were unfocused for a moment, filling him with even more resentment.
“So he is all right?” She finally ventured out.
Basilio shook his head.
“They say he stole money from the priest…two gold pieces.”
Sisa’s face turned ashen.
“What?” she croaked out.
Basilio turned his back on her and sat down by the windowsill. Sisa followed him there
and she sank down beside him. She tried to place her arms over his shoulders but he pulled
away, he did not need her pity.
“The priest says that he stole…I don’t know the truth as of yet. Crispin denies it.”
“Of course he is speaking truthfully, he is a good boy. He would never do such a thing!”
The boy could just let a tear fall unseen.
“How could they accuse him of stealing, we have always been faithful servants for the
priest. We are so poor…” she started to blabber.
Basilio could just gaze out into the twinkling night sky outside the window. Empty, as
empty as his own soul; lovely Crispin and his laugh, his mother’s favorite. He stretched his tired
limbs and he rubbed his hurt foot with his hands.
Sisa was sitting beside him, but not really. In the dull glow of the one candle burning on
their dining table she was lost in herself. One of the many times she found herself swimming in a
pool of her own making, she unconsciously weaved her fingers into each other.
A few moments of silence, just the singing of the crickets outside, the muffled sound of
leaves brushing against each other, blown about by the gentle breeze, they sat.
“Your father came home.”
Basilio momentarily forgot his thoughts and they flew out the window as the mention of
his father sparked a deeper anger hidden in the innermost pocket of fetid bile in his gut.
“Are you all right? He did not hurt you again did he?” he frantically looked at her face
and her limbs.
“No, he didn’t.” she nodded shyly.

1/17/2010
As she nodded, Basilio caught a glimpse of her dishonesty and he kept his mouth shut.
His lips drawn tight, fearing an improper word to pass through those lips. His eyes burned with
fury.
“Oh, have you had dinner already?”
Basilio felt his lungs fill with angry, smoky air. “No mother, I suddenly lost my appetite.
Maybe just a glass of water…”
She went to the water jug and drew a glass of water for her son.
“He asked about you two though…He was so happy to be home and he ate dinner here.
It was a shame you weren’t here earlier. He would have been very happy to see you.” She
handed him the glass of water.
At that, Basilio could only think of one word to say to his smiling mother.
Liar.

1/17/2010
Sixteen
Tacio looked out the night sky and he reaches out a palm to check for rain from the
Mason’s hut.
“Rain’s up Tacio?” He hears above the soft din of dishes being washed in the kitchen.
Slowly, Tacio looks towards the bell tower of Santa Maria. He sees a small light. It was growing
brighter in spurts and looked ready to explode. He goes back inside.
“Thank you for the fire-water Menico, but I must be on my way.” He collects his hat and
cane, and nods courteously to his friend.
“Be careful out there Tacio, you need a lantern to light your way?”
He shakes his head with a wry smile. “No thank you, my feet need no light when faced
with the prospect of sleep and rest in my bed. They find their own way back and have no need
for enlightenment.”
The Mason breathed out a laugh and nodded.
The old philosopher went out into the muddy, damp streets of San Diego and he walked
on home. The night held no secrets from him, and it held no fear for his old, tired heart. He
passed the empty stores along Plaza Mayor, their windows staring back at him like hollow
sockets of pitch black darkness. He went on walking. The town seemed to shrink inwards. He
wondered why this was so. He watched families pitch the houses closer and closer to the church,
the town hall and the barracks with astonishment. These places, places of suffering, are the
origins of the very same cancer which plagued the hearts and minds of men up and down this
country, why do they insist on living so close to these places? Tacio still could not understand,
even after coming from an illustrious institution abroad, and the years he has spent quietly
observing the people of San Diego.
He walks out into the dirt road leading to his house. The loose stones on the muddy
ground are the only things which served Tacio as footholds in the slippery path. There was
suddenly no wind, even after the storm has passed.
The creatures of the night cringed as he passed by, his ominous, black barong tagalog14
and the slight clipping of his cane against the stones sent a wave of fear for all those borne out of
pagan belief and superstition. They scamper off and they hide within the static bodies of trees, or
they fly to the face of the moon for refuge, where they can watch the philosopher, and his
dangerous enlightened mind walk past them as if blind to their presence. They watch him walk

1/17/2010
past them. His eyes never moving from side to side, his hands remaining firmly grasping the
head of his cane, his step never faltering, he keeps on going until he is out of their sight.
But Tacio knows they are there, he knows they exist. Those cruel, blood-sucking
monsters of the superstitious world, who feed upon all people who come upon their madness, he
has seen them fly high beyond the height of the moon, trailing behind them a train of misery and
avarice. Those creatures who hide in the darkness and in their slumber mating with the dreams
of noble men and turns their gentle dreams into horrifying nightmares of power, lust and
inequity. He knows them all, for in his sleep he has met three of the most powerful demons; he
calls them Ignorance, Greed, and Faith.
Basilio felt a hand brush against his small, tired shoulders. He felt a soft face nuzzle
against the back of his neck, brushing the short black hairs aside. He leans back slightly, just
letting the face press against his nape. He felt its warm breath against the small budding hairs on
his skin. He shivered momentarily; his arms cradled his legs in the fetal position. Indeed he felt
like he was floating in his mother’s living juices once more, swimming against still waters in a
dark, warm cave. His eyes were shut, though still able to see through the translucent film over
his pupils.
“Your brother will be all right.” Sisa went over and rolled over to her side, her arms still
encircling his young body. Her breath coming out in short forceful gusts, running all over his
skin, raising goose pimples. Her arms, those limbs which suffered months of frost now melted
against the warm touch of her son. She nuzzled close as the night enveloped her. Her son stared
out the window; his small mind was alive with the incessant sounds of his brother’s screams and
pleadings. The sound of fists hitting bone, breaking them up; his ribs, his breastbone, his
kneecaps, all violently and unmercifully being ground up, like fine cornmeal. His blood running
thick as the fine powder from his bones mixed with his bile and juices.
“He won’t be all right mother. He won’t be.”
Sisa woke from her near sleep.
“What? What did you say?” She asked him drowsily.
“Nothing, Just go back to sleep.” He tried to breathe normally, his stomach grumbling
silently, slowly filling up on sorrow.
He slept that night, in the arms of his mother, his slumber plagued by the sounds of
suffering he conjured up in his mind. And in the chaos, he took such great pleasure in it.
14
A traditional Filipino long-sleeved shirt, spun out of plant fibers, most of the time out of the pineapple
plant
1/17/2010
The Alferes sat behind his neat, hand scrubbed desk. His papers were all in order and
somehow, he found his filthy wife in a relatively pleasant mood. Doña Consolacion, his wife,
was in such a good mood, she prepared a cup of hot coffee for her stalwart husband with only
two curses under her breath after he ascribed her inability to mix a proper Hispanic cup of coffee
to her indigenous ignorance. He shot her a look, but he mentally reminded himself that striking
her only meant more exposure to his wife’s stupidity, not to mention her sharp nails. He wisely
just continued sifting through the warrants lying in a small basket next to his seal.
He drummed his stout fingers on his table, a nervous habit ever since he came to the
Philippines…A single gentleman, full of ideals, morals and a distempered libido, thinking that he
would ride into Manila on his white steed, pass by some large estate, catch the gaze of some
budding señorita and elope with her. He was, after all, only thirty-five, and still looked quite
young and handsome. He was a strapping gent, with his handlebar moustache and his sad eyes.
The beauty of a colony, he chuckled softly to himself, is that there weren’t many mustached, sad-
eyed men like him. Not like in his native town of Cordoba, where there were more than enough
moustaches and sad eyes to go around.
He taps his fingers on his desk.
From the corner of his eye he sees his wife, sitting, her legs far apart, as if inviting a train
to come swooping up her genitals, looking out the window. There she sat, the wife of the great
and powerful chief of police, her cheeks stretched beyond capacity as she engulfed wad after
sweet-smelling wad of betel nut chew, spitting the putrid black remains of her dignity out the
window, much to the dismay of everybody passing by the barracks down street level.
“Stop that.” He doesn’t even look up from his paperwork.
“Go to hell, I’ll do whatever I want.” Her eagle sharp eye catches sight of a vendor
passing by. She grips the balustrade tightly as she hawks back and lets loose a thick globule of
black muck which hits the woman clear on the forehead, dripping slop all over her old, wrinkled
face. Doña Consolacion squeals with laughter, not even bothering to hide her guffaw behind her
huge anahaw15 fan.
“Stop that Consola.” He puts his pen down.
“Did you see that? Did you see how perfect my aim was? You should have seen it!” She
rushed over to the sofa and collapsed on it, laughing horridly.
“Stop doing that, it upsets me.”
She sits up, a small dark string of dribble gathered at the corners of her mouth. She lifted
her fan and started to move it to and fro. “Does it really bother you?”
15
A native plant whose expansive leaves are dried and turned into summer fans, used primarily indoors.
1/17/2010
“Yes. It does.” He maintains a slightly commanding stare on her ugly face.
She just simpers and coquettishly continues to fan herself. “Since when did I do things
for your sake? I will continue to chew and spit at people if I wanted to.” With that, she turns her
back on him and walks over to the window once more, scanning the street, she sees no sign of the
woman she so recently defiled with her saliva.
“See?” She spoke with great pride, “She does not even speak up to complain. That’s
what’s hilarious about this place. Don’t you think it’s funny?”
“Just because they don’t complain, it doesn’t mean you have the right to spit on them,
you stupid wench.”
“But they should be spat upon. These were the very people who spat on me. They think I
don’t know what they are whispering about when they escape my sight…these stupid idiots.
They don’t know that I am aware that it is me they talk about. You only say those things because
you don’t love me.”
He stood up and walked over to where she was standing. He picked up the ornate box
which held her betel nuts and hurled it out the window.
“Hey, you can’t do that! That’s mine!”
He looked at her coldly. The box hit the street with a high pitched crash and her precious
betel nuts rolled in every which way, and then scooped up by the enthusiastic mid-morning
traffic.
“I bought you that, therefore, it is mine to take.”
She reeled back and slapped him clear across the side of his face. The slap produced a
sound akin to that of a silent whistle. He alone heard it, and he grabbed her arms and threw her
halfway across the room. She hit the big chair which stood next to his desk, an inch to the right
and her head would have been cracked open like a duck’s egg. She picked herself up and took
hold of a candlestick, which she started to wave to and fro, daring her husband to try and come
closer.
The Alferes knew better than to try and restrain her at close range, he knew that as far as
his wife is concerned, anything remotely hard in her hands meant a deadly weapon. She has
been around enough soldiers to know how to defend herself; and in that respect, she was far
from ignorant.
He took his pistol from his holster.
She smirked; he wouldn’t dare use it against her, not in broad daylight at least. She
laughed outright as he took aim and she twirled the candlestick she held even faster.
A deafening bang.

1/17/2010
She felt her right arm convulsing, then her hand suddenly felt as if stuck with a thousand
needles. She lets go of the candlestick with a yelp and it fell to the rug with a dull thud, a bullet
lodged in its silver body.
She then found herself swept off her feet and being forcefully driven into a lying
position, her head hitting the floor and making her pass out filled her mind with nothingness.
She stopped moving, she just lay down on the floor, her wavy black hair framing her
peaceful face. He felt for a pulse and after a few moments found it, still going strong, but with a
hint of a calm tempo. He brushes the stray locks of hair from her face and silently, to his own
horror, found her beautiful beyond words.

1/17/2010
Seventeen
As far as the Alferes was concerned, matters pertaining to the comings and goings in the
church were strictly confidential. Not just to keep prying eyes from Spain’s business but also out
of patriotic shame.
He would read them in the privacy of his office, and messengers from the priest were
received only in the confines of the barracks. This, among other reasons, made him a vague sort
of clerical guardian. He, after all, tries to be a good Catholic, and as much as he detested the
clandestine affairs of the church, he felt it was his duty to keep it as clandestine as possible, away
from public scrutiny.
Thus was how it came to be in San Diego, where one hand washes the other, as the
saying goes. An unspoken rule existed between the barracks and the church, where one tries to
protect the other, as well as try to cover up each other’s ill-founded exploits.
Though they share a singular train of thought, perhaps one difference gives the chief of
police some small ray of sunshine; “At least I don’t think like a priest” he mumbles softly to
himself as he hears rumors about women and skirts and rosaries. Consolacion was taking her
late morning nap in their bedroom, giving him some time to think without the usual distractions.
These priests, he chuckled to himself, they just don’t understand these natives. You put
all these men of God together and you can’t squeeze an ounce’s worth of good sense out of them.
They go around trying to proselytize and subjugate these poor unfortunate creatures, showing
everyone with their big words and lofty philosophies that they are bigger than life itself. Lovely
way to alienate and further irritate those who outnumber them in this rapidly sinking cesspool
one hundred to one, he kept thinking to himself as he finishes signing one warrant with a
flourish, lovely way indeed. Now he, this smart and charismatic captain, he had it all figured
out. He was also a pupil of history, like the parish priest, but he reveled not in the glittering
conquests and victories of the church and its popes and principalities. He was a learned man, not
just a soldier; he attended university for some time after all. He read voraciously about the
thinkers, not just the martial writers. He procured the writings of Plato, Aristotle and
Machiavelli. He amused himself with the writings of Plutarch, of Aristophanes and of Sophocles.
He read, by candlelight, the forbidden book of the Rosicrucians, of the Templars and the
Merovingians, behind the closed doors of his bunker, he pored over those moldy pages of
forbidden text, older than the empire itself which banned them. He consorted with the Hasid,
those mysterious people who always travel by twos, with their secret rituals, worshipping the
same God he worshipped yet so different in many ways. He stood by, deep in the shadows of
1/17/2010
the catacombs, unmoving like one of the many statues which adorned the house of the dead.
They started to bend forward, these ominous black-cloaked men, and one of them started to sing.
It filled his mind with such noise, it nauseated him. He remembers seeing it all as if it was
illuminated by the brightest spot of sunlight, and hearing it too, pervading his consciousness, as
if it was a call from a garish trumpet. A single note, carried over and over, above the din of
silence. He never moved from where he stood, a deep velvet cloak hung over his head, masking
his close-cropped hair and his neatly trimmed moustache, but his eyes burned with a fire which
matched that of the pyre burning malevolently before him. He heard their inhuman cries carry
beyond the physical world into that world which even shadows fear to wander into. It all
seemed to be so esoteric to him, so deliciously forbidden. He stood there, transfixed by the sight.
He has always shunned the writings of Augustine and of the holy orders, blasphemy to
the highest degree. He rarely spoke to the priests who came before the current parish priest,
somehow, this one seems to be far more troublesome than the others put together. But to his
somewhat ironic and sardonic delight, this priest provided him with the most amusement.
The sun shone high noon. It made the air heavy and muggy, even for a crisp December
morning. He mopped up his brow with a small handkerchief tucked neatly in his pocket. He
withdrew it and purposefully dabbed his face, he then folded it once more and carefully slid it
back in his chest pocket. He checked the time; it was almost time for lunch.
The familiar sound of footsteps down the cellar up to the other side of his office door was
met with a poker-natured emotion; perhaps lunch was prepared earlier than usual. He stood and
went to his humidor, he felt no immediate need to wake his ugly wife, he fostered a sort of
indecision whether or not to let her starve to death. He took out a cigar; he felt the thickness of it
between his fingertips.
A sharp series of raps on his door.
“Who is it? Come in.”
The door slowly opened. A sergeant poked his head through the gap.
“I am terribly sorry sir, but an emissary from the priest.”
The Alferes took his guillotine16 and trimmed his cigar. He turned his back on his squire,
and he looked out the window towards the church.
What has that hairy, fat pig done now?
“Shall I send him away sir?”
He turned around.
16
A small version of the infamous method of decapitation; an instrument used to trim the smoking end of
cigars, it consists of a metal ballast and an extremely sharp metal blade.
1/17/2010
“And risk the wrath of the priest? Are you prepared to face his holiness sergeant? Send
him in.” He grinned, extremely pleased with himself. His sergeant shook his head and
disappeared.
A few moments later, a young servant appeared in the doorway of his office. The chief of
police politely nodded towards him and bade him enter. The boy fidgeted a little, and then
walked in. He had a small note in his hands, bearing the seal of the priest and he stretched it out
towards the Alferes.
He took it and broke the wax seal between his fingers. He unfolded it and started
reading.
Salud,
I am notifying you that two of my altar boys have done something
abominable; they have stolen something from our holy mother’s offering
box, we have one of them in our custody but the other one got away. We
trust that this most atrocious deed will not go unpunished. It is by
the mandate of God that these ruffians should suffer and repent for
this dire and terrible act. They live in the outskirts of town, the
boy who got away is named Basilio, and I trust that you will fulfill
your office. Arrest this boy; he has to be taught a lesson. Please
send your reply speedily.
The Alferes simply went over to his desk, where he sat down and rummaged through his
desk. He took out a pen and started to sign. He looked at the messenger, obviously quite
uncomfortable inside the office of the most powerful political figure in the town next to the
priest, and besides, rumors of what went on downstairs did not help. Rumors of tortured bodies
hanging limply from the lintels, of crucified beggars and thieves. He noted that when he passed
by the threshold of the office, something resembling a whip caught his eye. That whip, it would
amuse him perhaps, if he knew that it was Doña Consolacion’s plaything, cast aside carelessly
and not a plaything of the chief’s as he thought it was.
He sealed the envelope, securing the small slip of paper within, he then signed his name
and handed it to the aide. The boy nodded and left his office in a hurry, his imagination running
amuck with all the pictures he had conjured up while standing in the presence of the captain. He
was left sitting there. It isn’t for anything else but for the fulfillment of a duty he swore by. He
sits, looking down on the street.

1/17/2010
A sharp bang revealed his wife, festooned with the most garish array of colorful cloths.
Their hues and shades so hopelessly clashing with each other, making her look darker than she
really is. Her husband couldn’t help but flinch at her outlandish fashion sense. She wore a surly
frown, her lips pressed together, lines are traced on her sun-embittered skin, and a thin, dried
trail of spittle could be faintly seen from a corner of her deformed lips. Her eyes were full of
irritated fire.
“Who was that? Who did you see?”
“No one, just a messenger from the priest, seems to me he’s up to something again.”
He looks at her awful visage once more. A strange and monstrous gorgon Perseus failed
to kill. Her hair, like small fledgling snakes, curled around her head.
“Seriously woman, have you ever used that brush you forced me to buy?”
Doña Consolacion strutted to her carved wooden sofa and she reclined there, her eyes
fixed steely on her husband.
“You must think I’m dirt.”
“Yes, I do.”
She rolled her eyes at him and laughed.
“Well, he who sleeps with dirt, gets dirtier than dirt itself.”
He stopped. He looks at the gaping maw of his wife and he felt his insides turn into jelly.
It was a pitiful sight; the bastion of Spanish non-ecclesiastical power was silenced by the
foul mouth of a native washerwoman. Woman; perhaps that fact more than her race was cause
for the captain’s tortured life. Between her spindly, crooked legs, she held the manhood of the
soldier. Bearing down on his member with the full, inhuman passion of a dirt caked native. She
held him there, frozen in time and ecstasy, and she took his head between her breasts, pushing
his face roughly between her sweating valley; filling his mind with her putrid sexuality. His eyes
glazed over as she bit into his neck, as every thrust sent his pulsating sex deeper and deeper into
her dark, warm crevice. In the darkness of the barracks, where his sacred texts lay hidden, his
striking graying hair shone silver in the moonlight, anointing him with the blessed insanity
which he read so many volumes about.
She struggled against him, almost as if detesting the lamb-like stink emanating from his
most intimate places, but silently milking his manhood with deep contractions of the most
diabolical kind. She locked her eyes into his. His sad eyes which now shone with a strange
mystical glow; as if mesmerized by the carnal prowess of this cunning witch, the moon laughed
himself silly as he watched them mate.
The fine hairs on his body began to shine golden, her nails digging deep into his skin.

1/17/2010
He howled into the clear sky, the last traces of alcohol sent arc after arc of his seed into
the quivering membrane encircling his penis. The fire subsided and he felt it; the stickiness, he
smelt the stink. Of dried fish and rotting eggs, he smelt them on his body.
He looked at her, his wife, grinning from ear to ear, as if enjoying the turmoil within his
mind.
And he turned away, the stink is still there.

1/17/2010
Eighteen
Sisa woke up bright and early that day. The sun was barely over the horizon when she
went down to her little garden. She surveyed her yard, there were the eggplants she was
planning to cook for her children, but she took all the best ones and laid them on her cleanest
bilao17. She then took some of the plumpest tomatoes and some bitter gourds. She looked at her
offering and she felt ashamed of it. She looked around, and she took her tray and placed it on top
of her head. She left her yard and went down to the riverbank.
She set her tray down on the foot of a tall gnarled tree, and she scanned the banks for the
telltale signs of watercress. She gathered a considerable amount and she washed them in the
clear stream.
She placed it on her tray and covered it with some banana leaves and she made a garland
of fresh flowers and she put it on top of her gift. She then put her tray on her head and she
walked slowly towards the parish house.
The town smelled clean and fresh after the deluge last night, Sisa inhaled the rich, heavy
scent of the earth as she quickly made it through the streets already filling up with the usual early
morning traffic. She hummed to herself, a small tune, as she weaved through the crowd.
As if by some strange, mysterious reason, she turned around.
There stood a monster of a woman.
Her eyes, as they met with Sisa’s gaze, spat fire. Sisa wanted to shield her eyes from the
most horrific face she has ever seen; festooned with garlands of the biggest pearls one could ever
hope to amass. Her face was one leathery tent, propped up by her protruding cheekbones. Her
eyes bore traces of dried tears, shed during the merciless night in the confines of her magnificent
four-poster bed. Her gaze was that of steel, she looked at Sisa disdainfully, and she turned her
nose at her. She looked from side to side, then spat a thick glob of sputum onto the sidewalk.
Sisa spun around and she looked ahead towards the cross of the church. She felt
something different rushing into her heart. True, she was quite shocked and repulsed upon
seeing that creature of sorrow and bitterness. Her malice and avarice consumed her soul until
there was nothing left but itself to consume. Sisa felt it, brewing inside her, the unmistakable
feeling of compassion. She felt so sorry for the woman whose life resembled that of a hollowed
out hull of corn, the taste is still there, but there is nothing to chew on.
17
A round, native, utilitarian tray made out of wood strips woven together.
1/17/2010
She continued to walk towards the church while Doña Consolacion went upstairs to her
quarters, ready to scream at her husband anew.
“Good morning, where can I put these?”

The kitchen of the parish house was bustling with activity. Steam rose from numerous
pots and pans where the servants slaved over them, sweating profusely. The head cook looked
up from the capon18 he was plucking and he frowned upon her.
“Anywhere, just put it anywhere.”
Sisa moved towards the huge table laden with spices and dried fish, as well as other
tributes from other people seeking the absolution of the priest. She took the contents of her tray
and arranged them on the table, next to the other tributes. She put the tray under her arm and
turned to the cook.
“I wish to speak to the priest.”
The cook irritably shooed her away. “The priest is sick.”
“But, have you seen my son?”
“Eh? He should be with you.”
Sisa bowed her head shyly, a nervous habit.
“Basilio came home, he’s there right now. Crispin was left here upon the order of the
priest. Please, where is he?”
A servant looked up from his chopped shallots upon hearing their conversation above
the din of the kitchen. “Ah! Crispin is not here, last night, he escaped and took with him a lot of
things on top of the two gold pieces he stole from the priest himself.”
Sisa’s blood ran cold.
“The priest was furious. He actually woke me up very early today and told me to report
your children to the gendarmes. I bet they’re there at your house as we speak.”
Sisa’s world suddenly started to shrink. She couldn’t breathe, and she clasped her hands
over here ears.
That sound, that hideous crowing filled her mind with unbearable noise. She struggled
to scream, but not a sound escaped from her lips.
“You should really teach those children of yours a lesson. Especially the younger one, he
might turn out to be worse than his father.”
Sisa sank onto a small stool.
18
A chicken; castrated and fattened up. At least fifty percent fatter than normal chickens, fed with chestnut
mix during their last week before slaughter
1/17/2010
“Everybody knows you are a faithful wife and mother. They must take after their father,
good for nothings.”
Sisa suddenly found the strength within her to cry. There were three diamond-like tears
that flowed from her large expressive eyes, then a molten river of glass began to pour from both
pools of light, trailing a wet and painful streak. She opened her mouth, and a sound much like a
dying animal reverberated around the room, shaking the rafters, letting the dust fall like fine
rainfall on he heads of the servants.
“Hey! None of that in here, did I not tell you that the priest is not feeling well? Stupid
woman, go out and cry in the streets if you want!”
Two servants picked Sisa up by her arms and flung her out into the streets where she
continued to howl; her face full of dust.
Sisa stood up, wiped the tears from her eyes and looked around her. The people looked
at her with wonder in their eyes. She collected her tray and she smoothed down her hair. She
felt it, their deep penetrating stares made her feel as if she was losing her clothes piece by piece,
uncovering her nakedness.
She looked up and saw one set of eyes which did not try to undress her. Those eyes
which were full of another sort of wonder, they looked at her. Sisa could not help but stare back
at a face of the finest porcelain, of eyes which shone of a youthful fire which were once hers as
well. She looked into those eyes and somehow understood that the emotion locked within them
was not of disdain or hatred, but of sympathy and tenderness. The young woman took off her
veil and revealed herself as the goddess of beauty. She looked at Sisa and shed a tear. A single
tear, glistening on her perfect alabaster cheek.
Sisa looked towards the east, where the sun now hung high above the clouds and she
went on her way home as fast as her legs could carry her.
The sun’s rays poked through the needle-like holes in the walls of Sisa’s home. They
traced they’re lines across Basilio’s face. He slept and dreamt for the first time in a long while.
The rustling of the leaves on the trees, swaying along to a pagan music, unheard for a
thousand years ushered in Basilio into the real world of the spirits. He had his mother’s blood in
him, and within that filial tie lies the key to the fairy gates of enchantment. His eyes twitched
under their warm lidded blankets as they darted from one sight to the next.
He found himself in a vast and dark forest, where the only source of light seemed to
emanate from hundreds of pools radiating with a blinding white glow. He neared one, his feet

1/17/2010
carefully gripping the rich, black earth between his toes, balancing on them, he peeped into the
pool. The water rippled a little and opened up before him, bathing his face with light.
He saw a world unfold before his very eyes, he looked away for one moment, to see the
canopy above him. They seemed to shrink and close in all around him.
Two arms shot out of the pool, grasping him by the neck and pulling him headfirst into
the water. Basilio tried to scream, but the wet and clammy hands held his throat firmly, letting
no sound fall from his lips. His face hits the surface of the water and still the hands pulled him
deeper and deeper into darker waters.
Basilio couldn’t breathe, the grip was too tight, and he struggled and struggled as the
hands pulled him deeper. He kicked and squirmed but the hands held on fast.
Wake up.
Basilio could no longer struggle. He stopped moving and kicking.
Wake up.
The hands stopped pulling. He found himself in pitch-black darkness. He held on to the
wrists which held on to his neck and they loosened their grip. He moved his hands onto the
arms of the body which choked him, and on to its shoulders.
Breathe.
He took a breath and he instantly felt the water flow into his lungs, immediately
paralyzing him. A face shone out of the dark, murky waters at the bottom of the pool. Basilio
only had a moment to recognize the horrible, mangled face of Crispin. He closed his eyes and
screamed silently, unheard, under the ocean of his own guilt.
Basilio woke up, sweating and shivering, he noticed the sun gleaming high, nearing its
zenith. He sat up and breathed heavily. The sound of the trees above him continued to rustle
and sing their hypnotic hymn. The boy looked out of the window and watched the clouds roll by
against a clear blue sky.
He heard footsteps along the path and he looked outside towards them, a few moments
later, he realized that they were heavy footsteps and he saw above the bushes the plumed
helmets of the police. He quickly hid under the windowsill, he thought quickly, they were
coming to get him, he instinctively knew. He crawled to their back door and slipped silently into
the woods.
He heard shouting, and some cursing behind him, but he kept on, he went farther and
farther. Far away from the home he loved and cherished, deep into the jungle he went, dodging
low branches, and pushing through thorny bushes which left scars and scratches on his youthful

1/17/2010
forehead. He went higher and higher into the enchanted mountains as if mysteriously knowing
where exactly he was supposed to go.
And forty leagues later, he collapsed by the feet of a nymph.

1/17/2010
1/17/2010
Nineteen
Sisa briskly walked through the town, clutching her tray under her arm. Swiftly running
along the dirt road which led to her house. The birds sang high above her, but she dared not
open her ears to their music lest she be swayed from her ever-growing fear that her son is no
more. Crispin is still alive, she said to herself, but Basilio…
She continued on the path, until the rows of houses melted away to reveal wide, open
fields of golden grain. She dared not stop to greet the sun with her smile. The woods opened up
before her like a great creature whose teeth were of trees and the darkness closed in on itself
within his grin on her side. She stole but a glance at that endless hole of darkness, and kept on
walking. Her mind was aflame with worry, a vein throbbed on her forehead, while her eyes
sprung uncertain tears.
She saw their house, just beyond the horizon, and everything within her body seemed to
swell because of uncertainty. She hardly felt the ground under the soles of her bare feet, it was if
she was slowly gliding towards her house, her feet only treading air. She passed the slender
bamboo fences of her neighbors, her vision shifting in time with her movements. Her perspective
fixed on two things that made her want to fall down and beat her head against the dirt path
before her.
She could see the plumed helmets of the gendarmes above her own bamboo fence. They
were moving towards the gate, and true enough, Sisa saw them emerge, clothed in blue with
shining black boots. Their golden buttons gleamed fiercely in the midday sun and glanced off
her eyes, making her squint. They were tall and formidable, but to her relief, they were alone.
A wave of unbelievable coolness seemed to wash over her like a river would wash away
a boulder. A heavy, lead weight dropped instantly into the pool of her stomach and quickly
vanished. Sisa smiled, and she laughed her sweet, melodic laugh that the sun so wanted to hear.
She stepped a little livelier as the men approached, chattering amongst themselves about the little
insect who ran away. Sisa did not hear this, and she couldn’t have even if she wanted to. Her
head was filled with the divine music of Saint Cecilia. Her eyes shone with joy as the soldiers
passed her.
Sisa walked on, not even turning to see that the eyes of one of the soldiers followed the
line of her ankle to the swell of her buttocks. She did not see them turning around and smiling
maliciously as they face the lithe creature walking gracefully past them.

1/17/2010
The Priest, of course, was not sick. Way up above the grip of human illness, he was not
sick in the strictest sense of the word.
But he was afflicted with a different flame. It deformed his mind more than it affected
his body. To the common man, his eyes looked bloodshot from lack of sleep, which was quite
common for the priest. But his eyes were not bloodshot because of lost sleep.
His soul was growing within his chest. His body now experienced a strange and
liberating high that he could not explain. The priest tasted Crispin's blood still lingering in his
mouth, his eyes seeing shapes moving in and out of confusing shadows. His body felt a
heightened level of awareness.
He sat in his study; the light filtering through the windows cast sharp shadows on his
floor. He sat behind his desk, feeling a wretched desire running through his veins. A satanic
desire for that which consumed his entire person.
He looked at the portrait of Saint Michael the Archangel, that awesome, powerful figure
that loomed over him, his sword poised to strike. He stood and moved closer to the painting. He
looked into the Saint’s eyes. He saw his judgement reflected in thousands of glittering flames
within. He heard a small whimper of fear, not knowing that it came from his own lips.
But no, he thought quickly to himself. He was above sin. A humble servant of the most
holy host had no cause to be afraid of the eternal fire. His vocation has insured his salvation. His
simple mind reeled with glorified thoughts of grandeur. He, after all, has served the master well
throughout the many years of sacrifice. His appetite for the flesh curbed by his bigger appetite
for self-flagellation and self-righteousness. His feelings towards other people held no deviation
from his insatiable hunger for sin. It consumed him with avarice, and he reveled in condemning
himself for it.
He continued to stare at the portrait of the mighty archangel. The mighty anti-angel
stared down at him, beautiful, strong and terrible. His eyes spat fire which the priest could not
bear. He looks away and sits once more behind his desk.
A knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Death walks in, a sallow, thin and ashen faced man, his eyes trained on the figure
silhouetted by the fierce noontime sun.
“It is done.”
The priest looks up from his papers. “What is?”
“The boy.”
The priest looks at the man blankly.

1/17/2010
“I have performed my duty sir, and the boy is no more.”
The priests blood ran cold as those words fell from the head sacristans pursed lips.
“What have you done?”
“I have done what you told me to do. I did not realize it would take such a short time,
but he just…”
“Be silent!” hissed the priest as he got up and shut the door to his office. He faced Death
and stared straight into his eyes.
“I never instructed you to kill the boy. What did you do?”
“With all due respect Father, what difference does it make now? I have seen your desire
to be rid of this accursed obsession of yours and I merely provided you a means to forever
destroy this demon that sits on your shoulders. Must we bargain for your own soul’s salvation?”
The priest sat down once more. “It is not my soul you should worry about. I know I will
be forgiven, men of the cloth always are, and it is God’s will. However, your unfortunate kind
may be a different story altogether. You have his blood on your hands.”
The specter smirked.
“And you have his on your loins.”
The priest fell silent.
“Seriously Father, did you really think the church’s walls have no eyes nor ears? Your
sin is known not to the world, but it is known within the hallowed walls of this church as well as
in every mind of every condemned soul in the bottomless pit.”
“Silence, I will hear no more of this.”
“And I will no longer hear of your accusations. I only killed his body, you took care of
the soul.”
“Leave me demon!”
The priest woke up, his brow was sweaty and his shirtfront was damp from the
noontime heat. He must have nodded off and dreamed his most extraordinary dream.
And seven leagues above him, in the heat of the bell tower, a flock of ravens sang.
Sisa could not understand why Basilio was nowhere to be found, she came to the door to
find her home ransacked of anything that may be of value. She ran to her yard to find her
precious hen missing as well. She sat by a small stump beside the spot where she washed her
clothes and she looked up towards the mountains. The soldiers have obviously been here she
thought, and they took everything. She gazed into the woods, where she thought her beautiful,
mysterious suitor was calling for her.

1/17/2010
“Hey you! Are you the mother of the thieves?”
She felt her entire body grow numb all of a sudden, her muscles tensed as she stared
hard and disbelievingly into the dark embrace of the forest.
“Woman, is it you who bore such evil children? Come here!”
She slowly turned around and faced the owners of the voice, which came from behind
her.
The two soldiers approached her with menacing looks.
“Where is the money your children gave to you last night?”
Sisa could not speak because of her trembling body.
“Speak woman!”
“Sirs, my children did not give me any money last night, I haven’t actually seen my
children for quite a period of time. I was at the church early this morning, hoping that my son
Crispin was there, but they told me he was not. Please, I know nothing else.”
The two soldiers looked at each other, their form so intimidating that Sisa felt as if she
stood in the presence of the sun, his bright light exposing her nakedness.
“Very well then, just hand over the money your children stole and we will not file a
complaint against you.” The soldiers pulled her hand sharply.
“Please sirs, I do not have any money. My children are used to not having enough food,
and they will never steal just because of that. Search the whole house once more, you will find
we have no money. Basilio didn’t even give me one peso last night, but if you find anything of
value, please take it by all means, just don’t arrest me.”
The soldiers started to lose their patience, “That will not do woman! Come with us, you
are under arrest until your children return what they stole from the curate.”
“Please, mercy sirs! I am merely a poor mother. Please don’t arrest me, I did nothing
wrong.”
But the soldiers dragged her onto the dirt road that was baked by the sun. Each footstep
sent cloud after cloud of orange earth that covered Sisa’s vision with blood.
And farther up the sky, behind the flimsy clouds, outshone by the mighty sun, the moon
watched her with lovely pity in his eyes.

1/17/2010
Twenty
Sisa walked out into the dirt road leading to the town, her eyes trained towards the
unattainable horizon. She collected her skirt around her, and her bare feet felt the warmth of the
ground as she was nudged to walk towards the sound of the bells.
“Don’t you start thinking of escaping you wench, we’ll kill you if you even try to get off
the path.” The soldiers sneered as they pushed her to start walking.
“Sirs, please let me keep my dignity, it’s all I have.”
“What do you wish then woman?”
“Could I please walk before you?”
The two soldiers looked at each other and surveyed the area. Wide expenses of rice
fields and dark woodland flanked the road. They were quite unfamiliar with this area, and this
woman might have some advantage should she try to bolt in between the shrubs. They were
given such specific instructions to apprehend the son, but the mother would invariably be of
some assistance in ascertaining the location of the brood. She, the woman whose appearance
betrayed the innocence they so wanted to maintain subdued, would be as good as the son, they
can’t afford to turn up at the barracks empty-handed. They shrugged.
“Not here, but when we reach the town, we will allow you to do so.”
Sisa bowed, it was better than what was hoped. They took their places beside her on
each side and they started to march towards the town. Sisa looked far above where the sun
shone its fiercest and she saw the birds circling far above her, calling to her, weeping because of
her misfortune. She saw in the corner of her eyes, the meaningful stares of her neighbors, their
mouths moving slowly amongst themselves. She felt each word sting her breast like a poisoned
dart. Her shame consumed her like the flames from the mason’s fiery hearth.
She trod on. The path seemed to burn with an acid white that hurt her eyes. In the heat
of this particularly humid Sunday morning, Sisa felt like she was about to faint from sheer fear
and humiliation. The heady feeling of shame filled her head until it felt like it was ready to
explode, her eyelids drooped as her tears refused to flow. She looked around her, the fields
burned golden under the harsh heat of the midday sun.
Her reverie was shattered by one of the gendarmes.
“Woman, would you care to rest?”
She shook her head, she continued to walk, as if in a deep trance.
“Woman? Did you not hear?”
“I heard and I thank you. I do not wish to rest.”
1/17/2010
The soldiers looked at her strangely. But since she did not wish to sit even for a short
while, they continued to walk.
Sisa took a small ragged handkerchief from her bodice and dabbed her forehead with it,
feeling it dampen under her touch, it shielded the glare of the sun above and the baking ground
below. It felt good to screen out the offensive heat as well as the stares coming from her
neighbors. Her ears started to ring.
“…Shame on the mother…”
She looked up.
She swore she heard somebody say shame on her. In the heat of the path, she swore she
heard somebody speak. She looked at the soldiers, they were happily chattering about
something else. And besides, the voice belonged to a girl.
“…Shame on the mother…”
She looked at both sides of the road. They passed her neighborhood and was now
walking across the broad expanse of rice fields leading to the town, no houses stood on either
side, only the golden sea of grain stretched out before her. Nobody was in sight.
She blocked out everything in her mind. She looked at the road that lay ahead. In the
distance she heard the faint tolling of the bells signaling the end of the mass.
The bells! Her heart almost leapt out of her chest with joy! If the bells still toll, it must
mean that her child Crispin is still well enough to pull on the massive rope that binds heaven to
earth! She felt a small ray of light burst through the darkness of uncertainty. Crispin is alive, that
is all that matters.
She felt like somebody else was walking beside her, her hand brushed against somebody
else’s.
She turned and looked at his face.
He was handsome, with a high forehead, a perfectly formed nose and deep emerald lips.
His hair was the most lustrous shade of mahogany, burning brightly against the glare of the sun.
Leaves of the most fragrant unknown foliage crowned his head more appropriately than any
other crown.
“Who are you?” she asked, but somehow, she felt silly for asking, she knew who he was.
“I am every man. I am no man. I am he who kissed you when you first came into this
world for I have fallen in love with your beauty, and my kiss has been the light that made you
blossom into a beautiful woman." He said this so gently, so soothingly that Sisa wanted to lie
down and sleep.

1/17/2010
“Why are you here? I am in a most indecent situation. Surely you find me ugly in such
dire circumstances.” She tried to hide her face with her handkerchief.
“Nay, fair maiden, I find you far more lovely that the stars themselves.” He lifted her
chin. And gazed lovingly into her eyes. His deep aquamarine eyes shone like precious gems.
“Help me.” She muttered pleadingly under her breath. “Help me be free.”
His smile grew brighter.
“I cannot change how mortal men choose to live their lives, or govern their state, but I
will join you in your journey.” He continued to walk with her. His footsteps echoed hers as they
neared the town.
“What is to become of me?”
He looked forward towards the town.
“You will enter the glittering city of Babylon. With all of their splendor and their riches,
they will scorn your poverty. She will consume you, welcome you in her demonic embrace and
swallow you along with the countless serpents that thrive within her vile belly. Judges shall
condemn you to madness and you shall be the sacrificial lamb offered to the whims of voracious
birds of prey. They will rise up and swoop down to devour your soul until there is nothing left.
No more body, no more soul, no more sorrow.”
Sisa walked on, tears finally welled up in her eyes. “Is there no more hope for me?”
The king of fairies touched her shoulders, tendrils of greens stroked her lovingly. “Do
not be afraid, for I shall be with you in this time of tribulation. Soon, you will understand why
this must all come to pass. Our love cannot meet in the mortal realm, but this time of sadness
shall bring us together as the rustling of the ancient acacia once foretold. When our love is
consummated, I shall crown you my queen and we shall rule over the world of the fair folk until
the end of time.”
“But my children? What will become of them?”
“He shall answer to his own destiny. As the younger already had.”
“What do you mean sir?”
“The younger has been embraced by his destiny. His circle is complete.”
Sisa was not sure about what that meant, but strangely, a light, almost relieved feeling
swept over her.
“Will I survive this?”
He leaned in and breathed gently into her ear, “Child of nature, your spirit is strong.
You shall prevail over the petty exertions of these pitiful creatures. You shall be torn down,
stripped and cut down like the rice you see before you. But once they throw you to the fire, you

1/17/2010
shall be like gold. You shall be purified and glorified beyond your imagination. It is this time,
when your transformation is complete, that I will finally be able to lift you high and exalt you as
my most holy consort, the fairest of the fair folk, and my wife above all my wives. You shall be
the queen of my kingdom and of my heart. So fear not, lovely Sisa, for I shall always be with
you.”
“Woman, stop!”
She looked beside her and the king of fairies was gone, the two soldiers stood a little off
the distance behind her.
“We have arrived. Walk ahead, but no more than twenty paces or we will kill you.” One
of the guards trained a cold hard stare on her.
She turned around and started walking towards the gates of the town. The mass has just
about ended and people started to filter out of the church towards their homes to eat lunch. She
saw them off in the distance, their faces no longer recognizable to her. Little did she know that it
was a gift from her lover, the gift of limited sight, which he bestowed upon her. Her irises were
tinted with a slight shade of emerald, banishing from her vision all those questioning, judging
stares from every face before her.
She paused before stepping into the paved road leading to the barracks and she took a
deep breath.
With a small prayer as her armor, she stepped into the condemned city of Babylon.

1/17/2010

Filius Mortis: Book One: The Gift of Limited Sight

Загружено:

Сведения о документе

Авторское право

Доступные форматы

Поделиться этим документом

Поделиться или встроить документ

Параметры публикации

Этот документ был вам полезен?

Это неприемлемый материал?

Авторское право:

Доступные форматы

Filius Mortis: Book One: The Gift of Limited Sight

Загружено:

Авторское право:

Доступные форматы

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 1

Jose Rizal, “Noli me Tangere” (Translated by: Leon Ma. Guerrero)

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 2

Ryan Robert Gutierrez Flores

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 3

who once said that my writing was great

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 4

The Gift of Limited Sight

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 6

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 8

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 10

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 12

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 14

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 15

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 17

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 18

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 20

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 21

Sisa woke up.

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 22

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 23

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 24

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 27

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 28

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 29

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 30

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 31

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 32

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 33

Crispin sat huddled in one corner.

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 34

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 35

Crispin dreamed very different dreams.

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 36

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 37

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 38

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 41

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 42

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 43

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 45

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 46

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 47

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 48

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 50

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 51

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 53

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 54

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 55

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 56

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 57

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 58

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 60

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 61

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 62

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 63

“You summoned me sir?”

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 65

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 66

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 67

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 68

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 70

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 71

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 72

“Filius Mortis” ©Flores, Ryan Robert Gutierrez Page 73