I am enjoying my Christmas holiday. And I am blessed, not only for having a healthy family and another published book, PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG: Haiku Verses, but also for having online friends who did not mind spending precious money and time to personally greet me a happy holiday season.
Worth mentioning here are my online friends in England, UKFox and company. They took time to call me at 7:30 on a chilly Christmas morning for personal holiday greetings and inspiring message about my first published book, KOILAWAN: Letters and Poems of a Jungle Dad-Mom. Being a late-bloomer in creative writing, to hear people telling me that they consider KOILAWAN as their #1 Book of the Year, to the extent that 'I am their Idol', is very humbling and encouraging.
I just hope that you all will find "PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG" a very good inspirational and comforting gift book of verses, especially this time of economic crunch. Price is only $9.99 +s/h and currently available on Comfort Publishing online store. In a few weeks, "Praising..." can be ordered in other online book outlets, and, hopefully, in a bookstore near you.
As a gift to all my online friends, here's the short story that I was working on when I got the call from England. This story is part of my book project, BEDTIME-PASTIME:Collection of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales.
The Shotgun Romance of
Agah and the Stranger
Edmund Melig Industan
He heard the roosters crowed twice already and, without looking his alarm clock on the corner table, he knew it was two in the morning. Still, his eyes were wide-opened staring at the ceiling.
He remembered his first night at the log pond a month ago. He was awakened at midnight, because the domesticated roosters in most homes, some of them cared for cockfights every other Sundays, and those in the wilds were crowing like a three-part round sing-song: one group sings first, the other repeats right after the first group was at their very last note. Then, those in the wild create the echo from afar. The crowing takes around a couple of minutes. As a city guy, born and raised in a gated community in Metro Manila, his night was never bothered of crowing roosters, except by vehicle honks and engines from spoiled kids of wealthy families, who sometimes have fun racing in the street. It took him three weeks before the crowing became a melodic symphony that finally can lull him to sleep after a long day under the tropical heat as he checked logs brought in by the trucks from the forest.
That night, though, he was one of those logs rolling to the river. He often times pulled himself up, sometimes pushed himself down, many times covered his ears with his pillows. The crane were his arms; the skids…his hands. The lady he saw at the river during the day: an oblong-shaped face, dewy-eyes with long curly lashes, and a long nose with a thin nostril was disturbing him. He definitely saw in her some spilled over blood from the Spanish Conquistadores. Simultaneously, he had been bothered with the words of Ligut.
“Be tactful when you interact with the villagers, Pare. Your culture is different from theirs,” Ligut, the host, advised his friend, Mario, during his first night at the log pond.
“They are Filipinos like me, aren’t they?” Mario asked.
“Certainly, they are; however, we are thousands and thousand miles away from Manila, separated by the sea and dense forest,” Ligut answered.
“Does it mean I could not speak to them in Tagalog?” Mario continued.
“You could, but the intelligibility, from the scale of 10, would be from 0 to 1. You might as well talk to them in your household tongue. Anyways, besides me, there is this 20-year old beautiful lady. She lives three villages up. She used to be one of those “tribal scholars” who were taken to Manila, housed in a mansion by their multi-millionaire benefactor, and was sent to an exclusive girl’s school as a second grader at the age of fourteen.”
“I remember you telling me that when we were in college. You told me they were bussed to and from the school with an entourage of security officers. Instead of school bags and lunch boxes, they have shoulder purses with make-up kits. And on the first day of school, their 8-year old classmates stood up right away when they entered their respective rooms and greeted them ‘good morning, ma’am’,” Mario said laughing.
“Yeah…funny; but one thing we did not know until this girl was allowed to come home for a one-week summer vacation. While at the mansion, they were treated like girls in a harem. They have classes in social graces and etiquette. Actors and singers were invited to entertain them every weekend. But the sad thing, Pare, each of them had to keep a strict schedule when to see their millionaire patron in his bedroom,” Ligut said shaking his head.
“And I know this man. His wife left him and she now lives in Madrid. I heard my dad mentioning that to my mom. That was before my dad took you to our house as our ‘tribal scholar’.”
“But I was very lucky, Pare. Your family really treated me as a scholar, not a slave or whatever. And I was very lucky to come from the Bukidnon tribe that has valued the importance of education since I can remember. My mom was even sent by an American missionary to Manila for her ETC, elementary teaching certificate, few years after World War II. Anyways, when this girl came home, she was completely changed…very sophisticated…she felt out of place...other village girls disliked her, and men shunned her for that prima-donna attitude, but one slip of her tongue made her parents angry and ended her Manila days,” Ligut shook his head and a chuckle.
“And what’s that…?” The eyes of Mario stared intently at Ligut anxious to hear it.
“As she was proudly “singing” about her life in Manila, she mentioned that, one night, a fellow scholar came out from the benefactor’s bedroom so tired, famished, and disheveled, and she asked others to get her a glass of water to drink and gargle.”
“And…,” Mario raised both of his hands, more intently with a slight smile on her face, his heart teetering with excitement, and mouth salivating to know what happened.
“Well, no one really knew what happened to that “scholar”.
“Wow, Pare, bitin! You cut me off. I am dying here to know the details,” Mario stood up stumping with a grin of frustration. He turned his back away from Ligut and quickly brushed his hair with his bare hand.
“Just run your imagination wild, Pare, just like the villagers did when they heard it. But let’s go back to the language issue. Look, the lingua franca here in Mindanao is Bisaya. Tagalog or Pilipino is taught in school, but how many elementary schools did you passed by this morning, from the last town to this village?”
“Two!” Mario abruptly answered , still not looking at Ligut.
“Yes, and those are the barrios of the lowlanders. Most of the tribes in the Philippines are denied of education and other government programs. Probably, because of the remoteness of the villages, but I believe it is more on culture and language barriers. Teachers fear of not being understood, so nobody dares to teach the villagers. And for this tribe; the story of this pretty “tribal scholar” has derailed their trust with government programs, including education. So, be careful out there,” Ligut advised his friend.
Mario, a 22-year old guy, was the new assistant operation manager of a logging company operating in the jungle of central Mindanao. It’s his first assignment of hard work. Ligut left Mario’s house after he graduated and was already working full-time as a senior clerk of the logging company. Nevertheless, they hang out together, almost regularly, on weekends. Ligut knew his cockiness and weakness on women.
“But you are right, Pare, I saw beautiful girls passing by the office this morning.”
“Wow, Pare, hinayhinay lang! (Just take it slow.) You don’t want to have a shotgun marriage or be killed for not marrying one, do you?”
“Why so?” Mario asked.
“See, unmarried women here are well-protected. They are not allowed to socialize with men. If they have male guest in the house, the girls would have to stay in a room where the male guest could not see or touch them,” Ligut said.
“What if a guy accidentally touches a girl?”
“That guy has devirginized that girl; hence, he has to marry her,” Ligut answered.
Mario realized that he had to contain his libido.
“However, Pare, like any other society, there are single women here, who go against the norm. If they like somebody, they would do something to get him. I cannot reiterate this enough…be very careful out there, Pare.”
Mario cannot take his mind off that girl. He still can see that long neck on that 6-foot slender body. “He could qualify in a “Miss Universe” pageant. And being a virgin is a triple plus,” Mario sighed and closed his eyes. He tried to sleep, but cannot. He remembered that when the young woman got up, she put the washed clothes in an enameled basin, balanced it on her head, and started to catwalk like a fashion model. He was flabbergasted. He cannot believe that this young village woman can walk with finesse. He had stereotyped tribal women as uneducated and unrefined, who walk either like ducklings or with petulant swaying of their behind. Not anymore. This woman has proven him wrong. As she was walking, she dropped a handkerchief. Mario got scared, so he pretended not to see it.
The following day, Mario saw the woman again walked by the office. He immediately called Ligut to ask for her name.
“Her name is Agah, the daughter of a chieftain, three villages up. She is here visiting her brothers.”
“She is so beautiful. I wanna bef…,” Mario did not finish his sentence, because he saw Agah dropped her handkerchief. He wanted to pick it up and hand it to Agah, but Ligut patted his shoulder; then shook his head.
“Ignore it, Pare,” Ligut advised him.
However, to ignore the sweetest and most appealing girl at this isolated log pond was to ignore her favorite crispy fried chicken drumstick. So, he walked right to that handkerchief, picked it up, and followed Agah to give her the hankie. As if betwitched, he handed the handkerchief to Agah staring at the pair of dimples on her check. He was enamored and nervously touched the fingers of Agah. Suddenly, the Agah’s concave lips turned convex. She covered her face with the handkerchief and run back to her brother’s hut. Mario wanted to follow her, but Ligut hollered to come back to their office, instead.
“Well, Mr. Casanova,” Ligut said as he shook his head, “now you are trapped. It’s either you runaway right now or accept the brunt of her brothers.”
Mario opened his mouth, about to say something.
“Uh-oh,” Ligut wagged his index finger at Mario, who was quiet for a few seconds. The whistling interference in the side-band radio was tearing his emotion apart. “Don’t say anything. Accidental or intentional, you have to face the music, otherwise, you will put the company’s operation here in jeopardy,” Ligut said in his harsh bossy voice, which Mario had’nt heard from him before.
Mario was stunned and did not say anything. He sat in his rattan chair, tucked his arms under his head, and shook his head once. He knew that despite Ligut’s willingness to stick his head out to protect him as he did in Manila, while he got caught by his girlfriend making out with another woman, he cannot do it now. He has the entire logging operation in the region to protect.
“Log Pond Mindanao, this is Manila. Log Pond Mindanao…Over!” the single sideband company’s radio interrupted the silence. Ligut looked at Mario. Just as he was about to pick up the microphone, they heard a commotion outside their office.
“Agah’s two brothers are coming with a spear and a rifle,” one logging worker hollered.
“Stand-by Manila. Log Pond-Mindanao has a serious problem to attend to. …Will call in thirty minutes. Over and out,” Ligut hanged up, went outside the office to meet the brothers.
“Where is that maniakis? Bring him out!” the older brother shouted as he clucked the rifle.
“Calm down, Gali`, let us settle this problem peacefully,” Ligut, the pacifier, responded raising both arms forty-five degrees to stop the two brothers.
“That maniakis must marry our sister, or else…,” he pulled the trigger and off went a loud rifle crack.
“Gali`, there’s nothing to worry. He knows the consequence of his action. Blood does not have to flow. Expect us at eight tonight,” Ligut assured the two brothers.
“I’ll take you on that, Sir Ligut. Better be at my house at eight and Mario on a leash that this log pond won’t turn into a mess,” the older brother yelled as he walked away from Ligut’s office.
Ligut peeped in to check on Mario before he went inside the radio room, “Manila, this is Log Pond-Mindanao; over.”
“Log Pond-Mindanao from Manila, update us what’s going on; over,” a lady’s voice came loud and clear.
Ligut knew who was talking. He heard the voice before, even in early mornings. The voice was from the company’s vice president.
“Roger Manila. It’s one of those cultural nuances, ma’am; over.”
“…Copy on that, Log Pond-Mindanao. Hope it’s not a matter over life and death… elaborate; over.”
“Negative…Manila. Our new assistant operation manager here had blundered by picking up a lady’s handkerchief; over,” Ligut tried to make the report as specific as possible.
“Negative copy, Log Pond-Mindanao…seems not a serious matter…elaborate; over.”
“Roger Manila. Mario helped a lady with her handkerchief. He handed it to her and accidentally or nervously touched the lady’s fingers; over.”
“How could that be a serious problem, Log Pond-Mindanao? Over,” a louder lady’s voice showed a sign of a slight annoyance.
“Touching a lady’s body part by a man is big and serious matter here, Manila. Have to settle this ASAP; otherwise, some of our workers would get killed. Over,” Ligut explained.
“Stand by, Log Pond-Mindanao; over and out!” Then, the main office in Manila was in complete silence. The crackling of the radio took control. Instead of sitting idly with the microphone on hand, Ligut went to the other room to talk to Mario, whom, while talking to Manila, he saw, through the glass partition, sometimes staring blankly at the ceiling and sometimes with a trace of smile.
“So, Mr. Casanova, what’s in your mind? I saw your ambivalent spirit through that glass. C’mon, enlighten me,” Ligut said.
“I’m on a roller coaster ride, Pare.”
“And…?” Ligut looked at Mario with a raised eyebrow and wrinkled forehead.
“I still cannot make up my mind, Pare; …still cannot see myself settling down with this woman…but I also feel something very good right here,” Mario hit his left chest with a fist.
“Ah…a sign of a 22-year old Casanova hit by cupid’s arrow. The arrow just missed the core. Here, allow me to push the arrow a little bit to quell the kinks,” Ligut was about to hurl his fist onto Mario's chest when they vice president's voice.
“Manila to Log Pond-Mindanao, can you copy? …Over.”
Ligut went back to the radio room, pressed the red button on the side of the microphone and replied, “Roger, Manila. Go ahead; over.”
“Is your assistant manager there? …Over,” the lady’s voice asked.
“Roger!” Ligut answered as he signaled Mario to come to the radio room.
“Put him on, please; over.”
“Roger, ma’am,” Ligut handed the microphone to Mario.
“M-m-ma-ma-manila…over,” Mario quivered.
“ Hijo mio... que paso? …Over,” the lady’s voice asked gently.
“Lo siento mucho, Mama`, I got very nervous as I handed her the handkerchief; over,” Mario replied.
“Could we not settle this with grease money? Our public relation officer said that we could, over,” the mother asked.
“I don’t think so, Mama. Ligut told me that we could appease the family’s anger with money if I just shamed them, but my action was like raping this beautiful girl. …Over.”
“Que barbaridad…que desgracia! But did you say, “She’s beautiful?” the mom said.
“Si, mama… muy hermosa, mama…beautiful than the current Miss Philippines-Universe; over,” Mario answered with a spark in his eyes.
“Your voice is insinuating that you like her…Over?”
“Would you like to have a daughter-in-law from the jungle, Mama? …Over!”
“Hijo, it is so risky to run away from it, according to our public relations officer. We cannot give up our logging operation there, either. A daughter-in-law who is una Tarzana? Well, as long as you love her…No problem with that, hijo; over.”
“Copy you loud and clear, Mama. But Mama, she does not act like Tarzan; okay? A village wedding will take place tonight; over.”
“Por QUE, hijo…hijo mio… Por QU’E?” Mom’s voice cracked.
“Si, Mama`, I have been given until eight tonight to marry her; …Over.”
Mario heard her mom’s sob, competing with the squeaks of the radio. He knew that his mom was upset. He knew that she has started worrying how to relate with Agah when Mario takes her to Manila, how her friends would take the news, and how to deal with her pride and prejudice. Like him, the mom seemed awakened from a horrible dream and there’s no way out. It was her plan to send him to Mindanao to learn the rope of their family business.
“Hush, Mama; it’s not your fault. I am love-struck. It’s love at first sight. You’d be surprised when you meet Agah. …Over.”
“Okay, then, tell the family tonight, that a formal wedding will take place in a few weeks. I will be sending a priest and a wedding planner down there this weekend. I am waiting for your dad to come home from his business trip in China. Adios, hijo. …te amo, hijo mio. Por favor, hijo mio…take care; over and out.”
“Love you, Mama. Bye… over.”
Mario hanged up and asked Ligut to look for a pig to butcher for his meeting with Agah’s brother later in the day.
“Everything is taken cared of, Pare. And don’t worry with that pig. If your parents are coming for your formal wedding later this month, then, a chicken and some bottle of San Miguel beer would be sufficient for now,” Ligut said.
Sunset came. The stumping pestles on mortars replaced the sounds of incoming and outgoing logging trucks. There were lots of people already sitting outside the yard of Agah’s house. The village chieftain was seen walking fully dressed with his beaded headgear. One truck came studded with people from Agah’s village. Every lowlander at the log pond knows that a simple tribal wedding is to take place: An augury by prying the liver of a black-feathered chicken, and an exchange of fistful of rice with some white meat between the bride and the groom following a nuptial agreement between Agah’s relative and Ligut and Mario in the presence of the village chief. Everybody would soon know that Mario is an heir of the logging company, that Agah would soon be living again in Manila, and an en grande wedding would soon takes place on a sandy bank of Agusan river, where the shotgun romance had started.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS, everyone.
Showing posts with label Ethnic-themed story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ethnic-themed story. Show all posts
Friday, December 26, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
A Folktale Blog
I would like to thank all those who sent me messages through email and facebook in response to my short story blog. A couple mistook it as an awful folktale, probably because of its title; probably because I mentioned that it was a juvenile. Others commented against too much non-English words and phrases that made it cumbersome to read through. One from Finland politely said that because he's feeling down, he didn't finish reading it. (Bless your heart, my dear friend. LOL) Others considered it as a good or 'very cool' short story, which could still be improved. One thing I appreciated most was the suggestion on how to improve it. The text that I posted was an early draft to encourage my friends and the readers to send in their comments. And promise, the final manuscript have minimal 'vernaculars' (most would still be printed as endnotes), and the story is more cohesive and evocative.
Since some mistook "The Magical Mat" as a folktale, I am posting one of the folktales in my book project, "Bedtime-Pastime: Collections of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales. Again, your comments are appreciated. So, please send them in.
Thanks guys.
THE MAIDEN AND THE SKY
Edmund Melig Industan
(A very common cosmological folktale narrated through the eyes of an observer.)
“Imagine a Laga (maiden). She has a nigu (winnower). She balances it on her head. She is flirting with the wind as she pertly swings her hip left and right, walking briskly toward the wooden mortar,” my mother, who was a grade school teacher, introduced differently the most common cosmological story of our tribe.
The children, who were sitting on the mat, which my mom spread out on the floor in front of her, laughed. They squeezed tightly like a canned sardine, but immediately quieted down, to let my mother go on with the story.
“It was very late in the day. The world would soon to be pitch black. Her family, who went to the river to fish, would soon be coming home. She needed to cook the rice; the soonest, the better,” my mom paused, calmly sat on a chair, glanced outside before she looked at the children.
“See, Laga was not a typical Bukidnon maiden. She was pretty than anybody else and her body was curved as a bottle of coke. She also was the fairest. Even the frogs would crook if they would see her walking. How could she not have a fair skin when she just wanted to stay inside their bark-walled hut, stringing hundreds of colorful beads on a thin silvery twined manila hemp, while her friends and family were out either in the field, in the river, or in the forest to gather food? She also was the tallest that, if she would jump an arm-length off the ground, she could already hit the sky. Why? Because during her time, the sky was still real low, very close to the ground. Another thing with Laga was that…she always wore her ruggedly etched crescent bamboo comb and her heavy colorful necklace made from hundreds of neatly strung beads,” my mother said as she showed a bamboo comb and a bead necklace.
The kids were all ears. A pin would probably be heard by everybody if someone drops it on the school’s cement floor.
“Upon reaching the wooden mortar, she tilted the winnower to pour the dried golden unshelled rice three-quarter of the mortar’s hole. Then, she put the oblong winnower on the ground and picked up the wooden pestle, which was a little bit shorter than her height. But Laga was afraid to break her newly finished necklace from constant body quivers while pounding the rice! So…she took it off. She also took the comb off,” my mother said with hands in animation. “But she also was afraid that the chicken and the pig that always lurk around indiscriminately would pick and snort the comb and the necklace! So…she placed them at the other end of the pestle, hoisted the pestle, and glued the comb and the necklace, one at a time, onto the sky.”
“Hala ka! (Oh, goodness!),” many of the girls exclaimed as they slightly flinched their shoulders and covered their mouths with their hands. The boys laughed at their reaction to the story.
“S-h-h-h-h-h!” my mother pressed her right index finger onto her lips as she looked at all of them. “Listen to this,” she whispered, her hand glided on to her right cheek. Then, when she already has all the children’s attention back, she resumed onto her normal tone. “Laga started pounding the rice: thump……thump……thump… thump……thump……Thump…thump….thump…Thump! The maiden gently pounded the rice to avoid spilling. Then, Thump…thump…THUMP! Thump….thump….THUMP! Thump….thump….THUMP! Laga maintained that regular pestle sound for several minutes, intermittently interrupted by “TOK!” as she tapped the side of the wooden mortar to level off the rice. As more grains were unshelled and not so jumpy anymore, Laga got excited and gradually pounded the rice harder. Thump…Thump…THUMP! Thump…Thump….THUMP! Faster and harder: Thump! Thump! THUMP! TOK! Thump! Thump! THUMP! TOK!” My mother paused for a couple of seconds and she hushed, “The maiden forgot her comb and her necklace. She forgot how low the sky was. Mesmerized with the sing-song of the mortar and the pestle; harder the pestle went. BUT to do that, she had to lift the pestle higher. AND THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! TOK! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Finally, she stopped; wiped her forehead with her knuckles, winced, put her hands on her hip, stretched, and flexed backward. ‘Whoa!’ she exclaimed, eyes wide opened. She saw the sky so high already. She tried to reach for her comb and necklace, with the use of the wooden pestle, but the pestle was not long enough. She jumped high and swung the pestle hard. She hit the comb and the necklace, but…she hit them so hard that the necklace snapped scattering the beads all over the sky.”
“And that’s the reason…” my mom looked at all the children smiling as she prolonged the last sound of the last syllable.
“…why the sky has the moon and the stars at night!” the girls completed my mom’s sentence in chorus.
The boys stood up together and in unison said, "THE END!”
My mom smiled. All the children got up. They were laughing and clapping as they went back to their desks. Two of the girls stayed behind to roll the two mats; each looked like 3-arm length suman (SEW-man), a rolled rice cake wrapped with a strip of banana leaf.
“Now, the two of you must have to show me how Laga tried to reach for her bamboo comb and bead necklace,” my mom told the two girls in order to wrap up the story time.
The girls smiled, held the two rolled mat on one end, and started jumping as high as they can to tap the ceiling all the way to the back corner of their classroom, as the others clapped their hands.
Since some mistook "The Magical Mat" as a folktale, I am posting one of the folktales in my book project, "Bedtime-Pastime: Collections of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales. Again, your comments are appreciated. So, please send them in.
Thanks guys.
THE MAIDEN AND THE SKY
Edmund Melig Industan
(A very common cosmological folktale narrated through the eyes of an observer.)
“Imagine a Laga (maiden). She has a nigu (winnower). She balances it on her head. She is flirting with the wind as she pertly swings her hip left and right, walking briskly toward the wooden mortar,” my mother, who was a grade school teacher, introduced differently the most common cosmological story of our tribe.
The children, who were sitting on the mat, which my mom spread out on the floor in front of her, laughed. They squeezed tightly like a canned sardine, but immediately quieted down, to let my mother go on with the story.
“It was very late in the day. The world would soon to be pitch black. Her family, who went to the river to fish, would soon be coming home. She needed to cook the rice; the soonest, the better,” my mom paused, calmly sat on a chair, glanced outside before she looked at the children.
“See, Laga was not a typical Bukidnon maiden. She was pretty than anybody else and her body was curved as a bottle of coke. She also was the fairest. Even the frogs would crook if they would see her walking. How could she not have a fair skin when she just wanted to stay inside their bark-walled hut, stringing hundreds of colorful beads on a thin silvery twined manila hemp, while her friends and family were out either in the field, in the river, or in the forest to gather food? She also was the tallest that, if she would jump an arm-length off the ground, she could already hit the sky. Why? Because during her time, the sky was still real low, very close to the ground. Another thing with Laga was that…she always wore her ruggedly etched crescent bamboo comb and her heavy colorful necklace made from hundreds of neatly strung beads,” my mother said as she showed a bamboo comb and a bead necklace.
The kids were all ears. A pin would probably be heard by everybody if someone drops it on the school’s cement floor.
“Upon reaching the wooden mortar, she tilted the winnower to pour the dried golden unshelled rice three-quarter of the mortar’s hole. Then, she put the oblong winnower on the ground and picked up the wooden pestle, which was a little bit shorter than her height. But Laga was afraid to break her newly finished necklace from constant body quivers while pounding the rice! So…she took it off. She also took the comb off,” my mother said with hands in animation. “But she also was afraid that the chicken and the pig that always lurk around indiscriminately would pick and snort the comb and the necklace! So…she placed them at the other end of the pestle, hoisted the pestle, and glued the comb and the necklace, one at a time, onto the sky.”
“Hala ka! (Oh, goodness!),” many of the girls exclaimed as they slightly flinched their shoulders and covered their mouths with their hands. The boys laughed at their reaction to the story.
“S-h-h-h-h-h!” my mother pressed her right index finger onto her lips as she looked at all of them. “Listen to this,” she whispered, her hand glided on to her right cheek. Then, when she already has all the children’s attention back, she resumed onto her normal tone. “Laga started pounding the rice: thump……thump……thump… thump……thump……Thump…thump….thump…Thump! The maiden gently pounded the rice to avoid spilling. Then, Thump…thump…THUMP! Thump….thump….THUMP! Thump….thump….THUMP! Laga maintained that regular pestle sound for several minutes, intermittently interrupted by “TOK!” as she tapped the side of the wooden mortar to level off the rice. As more grains were unshelled and not so jumpy anymore, Laga got excited and gradually pounded the rice harder. Thump…Thump…THUMP! Thump…Thump….THUMP! Faster and harder: Thump! Thump! THUMP! TOK! Thump! Thump! THUMP! TOK!” My mother paused for a couple of seconds and she hushed, “The maiden forgot her comb and her necklace. She forgot how low the sky was. Mesmerized with the sing-song of the mortar and the pestle; harder the pestle went. BUT to do that, she had to lift the pestle higher. AND THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! TOK! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Finally, she stopped; wiped her forehead with her knuckles, winced, put her hands on her hip, stretched, and flexed backward. ‘Whoa!’ she exclaimed, eyes wide opened. She saw the sky so high already. She tried to reach for her comb and necklace, with the use of the wooden pestle, but the pestle was not long enough. She jumped high and swung the pestle hard. She hit the comb and the necklace, but…she hit them so hard that the necklace snapped scattering the beads all over the sky.”
“And that’s the reason…” my mom looked at all the children smiling as she prolonged the last sound of the last syllable.
“…why the sky has the moon and the stars at night!” the girls completed my mom’s sentence in chorus.
The boys stood up together and in unison said, "THE END!”
My mom smiled. All the children got up. They were laughing and clapping as they went back to their desks. Two of the girls stayed behind to roll the two mats; each looked like 3-arm length suman (SEW-man), a rolled rice cake wrapped with a strip of banana leaf.
“Now, the two of you must have to show me how Laga tried to reach for her bamboo comb and bead necklace,” my mom told the two girls in order to wrap up the story time.
The girls smiled, held the two rolled mat on one end, and started jumping as high as they can to tap the ceiling all the way to the back corner of their classroom, as the others clapped their hands.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
The Magical Mat: A Short Story Blog
Hi guys,
One of my teacher-friend requested me sometime if I could post one of the short stories that's included in my book project, Bedtime-Pastime: Collection of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales. He would like to share it with his children and his English class. Hence, here is The Magical Mat. Sorry guys, it's juvenile. Reason is, I don't know the age-level of his kids. Anyways, if I could get some comments from you, I would post another one. Probably the short story, Dangerous Proposal, a proposal that could have killed a selfless school teacher should the forces of nature have not interfered.
Please note that all the stories in the book, including those of my co-author, Dr. Genoveva Melendez-Ablanque of Bukidnon State University, have ethnic themes. There are some Bukidnon words and phrases that I included to add realism to the story. I included the closest layman's phonetic equivalence to read them; an English free translation to understand them. Let me know if the inclusion is cumbersome. If possible throw in some suggestions either on how to go about it or to improve the entire story.
Thanks guys.
THE MAGICAL MAT
Edmund Melig Industan
(Exhausted from a long day hike, a teenage boy dreamed and unraveled fiendish Sudsuda (SUED-SUED-DAH), a malevolent spirit making havoc in the once peaceful village.)
“We is very sorry, we only has stewed chicken, rice, and stir-fried bok choy. No one has gone to town to get some canned sardines,” our hostess apologetically said as she put the delicious-smelling, steaming enameled bowls of food right in front of us. Then, she tenderly tapped my head and said, “Don’t worry, your apu (grandmother or an endearment for an old man/woman) is gonna tell you a nanangenen (folktale) right after we cleaned up.”
It was dusk and the deliciously prepared stewed organic chicken was a welcome sight. The simple cooking preparation: a whole knotted stalk of crushed lemon grass, fresh and newly grounded black pepper, salt, garlic, lots of newly picked green onions, tomatoes, and a little squeezed of turmeric juice, just made the chicken meat so gastronomical. The smoke of the firewood also added to its flavor. The village visits allowed me to get away, for a little while, from commercially and chemically raised poultry and canned sardines. Canned sardine was a typical substitute for chicken to many townsfolk. It is available everywhere, even in small grocery stores. The difficulty to raise chicken in a densely populated town and less time to fix a meal from scratch made it more practical to just buy a commercially packed food; hence, rural folks always thought that it was the Bukidnon urbanites’ food preference. Further, the opportunity to listen to folktales from people older than my parents has been an added motivation. That were the reasons; I always look forward going with my dad when he was invited to visit a remote village for an evangelistic meeting. I did not mind walking six hours trekking the mountain and crisscrossing river. The foot blisters and muscle pain seemed nothing when we get there. The folk’s warm and reverent hospitality, the food, and the opportunity to listen to folktales told by old women just relieved me from them all.
However, the long walk today was too much for me, a 12 year-old chap whom father wanted to follow in his footstep as an evangelist. It was only a four-hour walk after we got off from a crowded rickety public transportation jeepney, but the seemingly unending climb of that last dry, grassy mountain under a scorching tropical sun squeezed my heart so tight and took all the juice off me. It was like an eternity walking the rough narrow trail that, when we made our second stop to rest, I still did not see the crest. My father warned me before we left home about this long and arduous 6,000 ft. climb; however, he did not discourage me to come, because he wanted me to learn the rope and know the joy and pain of being an evangelist. He constantly motivated me to keep on moving by telling stories and promising me half of the chicken breast at dinner time if I made the crest in another hour. He further told me that I would have the opportunity to listen to the best story teller in the world, since the mother of our host has been known throughout the Bukidnon province plateau as the best ever.
As promised, dad gave me three portions of stewed chicken, which if glued together would be equal to half of the breast. After a short prayer, he told me to start dipping my spoon onto my bowl of rice drowned with the light yellow soup, embellished with the green bok choy and onions, and thin, red skin of ripe tomatoes. The soup was so delicious that I already was sweating when I finished off my dinner, doing what the host did- yank the bowl onto my mouth and gulp the leftover soup.
I could hardly get up from sitting in a lotus position. Since we arrived, three hours past noon time, I spent most of my time sitting on the bamboo floor beside my dad in the living room as he and other elders of the church talked about anything: the village, the problem of the church, the logging incursion, and the threatened livelihood. Nevertheless, I have to get up anyhow so that somebody can mop the bamboo floor with wet rug to spread the two-arm-length and an arm-and-a-half length ikam (EE-COME), (mat), my dad and I will have to sleep on later. My dad and our host moved to the small verandah to talk some more about some other problems of the church and the community, while I immediately sat back on the mat that was now rolled out. Some village children came and sat on the mat, but a little bit away from me. The soft and cool texture of the mat and the bloated stomach made me sleepy. There was only a scant of red-dyed reeds, which were mixed with its natural color, hence, the dyed spots looked like a pair of eyes and zigzagging mouth to me. It was weaved so tight that I was intrigued to slip my fingernails in between those flattened reeds and tried to loosen them. Sometimes, I flapped my right hand to enjoy its texture; sometimes I strummed the joints of the reeds. I began to yawn and decided to lie on my side. “Na` Ino`! /NA` ee-NO`/ (Come on, Mother!) The boy is tired and sleepy.” I heard our host requesting his 65-year old mother to begin the story.
“Es, dian (dee-yan) ka man ki Utu (uh-TU`), tagnguhugon (TAG-ngu-hoe-GOON) pa piru (PEE-ROE) mapangal (ma-PANG-al) bumulig (boom-UH-league) hu amey (ah-MOI) din.” (Oww, there is this young chap, he still has runny nose, but he is a good helper to his father,” the mother started the story with a typical Bukidnon opener. The other children, who came to listen to the story, and I laughed. She went on with the folktale about Utu`(uh-TU`) and the Kalibarut (KAH-lee-bah-ROOT). I listened, but I also continued to entertain myself strumming the mat. She really was a very good animated story teller. She paused calmly to end a section of the story. She also prolonged the pause for a few more seconds when she started the section with an alliterative “Na….” which always made us to hold our breath and, to some, biting their nails as they waited for her to continue. However, my tired body gave way that I was in and out of the story.
I felt everybody left for church. It was quieter and cooler in the house. The mat was all for me. It seemed that I was dreaming when I heard the first song at the church. I heard clapping of hands and stumping of feet. I heard the song “Hi-ay, hi-ay, katungkay ag’kalipay. Hi-ay, hi-ay pinalangga a kandin. Pinalas din sa sala ku. Makadiya a ta langit. Padayen ag’kalilipay. Hi-ay, hi-ay, hi-ay.” (Oh! Oh! I am very happy. Oh! Oh! He loves me. He washed away my sins. I (now) can go to heaven. Onward on I am happy. Oh! Oh! Oh!)
Few minutes after the singing, I heard sobbing and crying. It was an evangelistic meeting, a time for some villagers to renew their relationship with God and with fellow villagers. It also was the time to exorcise, albeit there were rare cases of this. The sobbing was common, especially when my dad talked about feuds, selfishness, jealousy, and adultery as some of the sins that destroy a village and send some people out of sync with God. However, the early sobbing was so uncommon. I presumed that the villagers, who were mostly members of the church, were experiencing some pressing problems.
Surprisingly, I also heard crying coming from far away. I heard wading in the marsh. I heard the straining and snapping sounds of the sudsud (SUED-SUED), reeds, when pulled off, the ‘gluck-gluck’ of boiling water in a 20-gallon can where the reeds were dyed, the thwacking of the dried reeds when flattened, and the screeching of the reeds when individually flattened by the weavers. Moments later, I heard a shrieking fiendish laugh along a threatening voice, “Hehehehehe…laliman (lah-LEE-man) aldaw (AL-THOU) na-an (nah-AN) do` agbungkagen (AG-boong-KA- gun) kud (code) sa-ini (sah-EE-knee) baryu (BAR-YOU) dan. Hehehehe. ” (Hehehehe… five days more (and) I am going to destroy this village. Hehehehe…) I looked around. Nobody was with me in the house. I looked around again. I still did not see anybody. I tried to go back to sleep by feeling the softness of the mat again…AND…in a little while I felt a prick in my finger. I immediately got up. I checked if it was bleeding, but did not see any. Then, I heard the shrieking laugh again, “Hehehehe….” It was coming from the mat. I looked down. Lo and behold! I saw a red reed wriggling and squealing its way out of that mat. Then, it stood in front of me, a lanky 6-footer, slightly levitating in the air, a little below its top end; its color was profusely dripping like blood. “Your father is busy trying to keep the church and the village together. He is pathetic. The culprit is not in church. He is right here! Sudsuda` (SUED-sued-DAH)! Hehehehe…. Laliman (lah-LEE-man) aldaw (Al-THOU)! Hehehehe… Laliman aldaw (five days)! Hehehehe….,”and he flew away like a slow-moving streaking arrow, out of the house, still laughing, slowly disappearing and fading, heeding towards the swamp. A reddish glow brightened the places that it passed by.
I was known to be a cry baby, while growing up; however, I learned to grow up fast when my mom died 5 years ago. Instead of screaming, I felt standing up, with fisted knuckles and angry voice, I said, “Nobody abuses my dad. GOD, HELP ME!” Immediately, I felt the entire mat, which I was standing on, jerked and glided. I felt a force held my shoulder and slightly pushed me down to sit. Off the ikam (EE-COME) went; off I was out of the house, hovering the village, following the lone lanky fiendish reed.
As I was riding the ikam, the zigzagging red reed, which was left in the mat told me to watch down-under, especially when we get to the marsh. I knew that we were already closed, because the red, lanky sudsuda, swooped down like lightning, turning the area reddish bright. The mat also told me that, besides gathering wild lanut (LAH-NOOT), Manila hemp, mat weaving was the other village commercial product. We finally got to the place. We hovered around like a big kite flying smoothly with the wind. Then, I saw Sudsuda` getting into the mouth of a quiet and aloof woman, who, I saw, talking to herself while plucking the fresh reeds. Suddenly, her face turned red. Her eyes stared like a knife ready for a kill. Then she took her bolo from its sheath, and attacked the other women, who were, at that moment, boisterous and loud. As they saw the quiet woman running amok, they ran away fast, leaving their harvested reeds. A booming fiendish voice chased them, “Sugud (SUE-GOOD) iman (ee-MAN), hari (ha-REE) kew (cow) en on makapanginsudsud (ma-ka-PANG-gain-SUED-SUED)! Mga (mang-AH) ki-at! (kee-AT) (From now on, you cannot gather reeds anymore! Women with no finesse!)
Streak of light still illumined the village when the mat began to take me back. I saw the people in commotion. Women complained about not able to keep up with the town’s mat orders. Every time they tried to go out towards the marsh, the quiet woman would go berserk and wild. She would chase them with anything sharp. I saw that, one time, the men tied her, while sleeping, with a rope on a house post, so that the women could go to the marsh. Nevertheless, when she woke up and found that even her mother was not home, her eyes turned red. She got mad. Her jugular muscle and jawbone tightened, and at one strain, she freed herself. She followed the women and chased them all away from the swamp. Since then, the village life was in chaos. I even saw her going to the school, shooing the school children and the teachers away. She was given malarial medicine by the village chief thinking that she was bitten by an anopheles mosquito when she was in the swamp, but it did not help at all. Many families were frustrated and scared that they have decided to leave the village. That was the main reason why the village chief and the elders of the church decided to request my dad to hold an evangelistic meeting.
I woke up sweating to the hilt. I sat down, looked at the mat, and strummed my index finger through the reeds. I checked the dyed part of the mat. I tried to loosen every reed. It was as tight as before; hence, I learned that it was just a dream. Few moments later, I heard the church singing a postlude, but the whole village left the church with their gas lamps on, so quiet and somber. When our host and my dad arrived, I told them of my dream and the name, Sudsuda. My dad squeezed my head and said, “God has given us the name. Now, we can prepare the hearts of the entire village for the casting out of the evil spirit, before my son and I will leave in five days.”
I looked at the mat again, smiled, and said, “Thank you, God, for this magical mat.”
(copyright applied)
One of my teacher-friend requested me sometime if I could post one of the short stories that's included in my book project, Bedtime-Pastime: Collection of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales. He would like to share it with his children and his English class. Hence, here is The Magical Mat. Sorry guys, it's juvenile. Reason is, I don't know the age-level of his kids. Anyways, if I could get some comments from you, I would post another one. Probably the short story, Dangerous Proposal, a proposal that could have killed a selfless school teacher should the forces of nature have not interfered.
Please note that all the stories in the book, including those of my co-author, Dr. Genoveva Melendez-Ablanque of Bukidnon State University, have ethnic themes. There are some Bukidnon words and phrases that I included to add realism to the story. I included the closest layman's phonetic equivalence to read them; an English free translation to understand them. Let me know if the inclusion is cumbersome. If possible throw in some suggestions either on how to go about it or to improve the entire story.
Thanks guys.
THE MAGICAL MAT
Edmund Melig Industan
(Exhausted from a long day hike, a teenage boy dreamed and unraveled fiendish Sudsuda (SUED-SUED-DAH), a malevolent spirit making havoc in the once peaceful village.)
“We is very sorry, we only has stewed chicken, rice, and stir-fried bok choy. No one has gone to town to get some canned sardines,” our hostess apologetically said as she put the delicious-smelling, steaming enameled bowls of food right in front of us. Then, she tenderly tapped my head and said, “Don’t worry, your apu (grandmother or an endearment for an old man/woman) is gonna tell you a nanangenen (folktale) right after we cleaned up.”
It was dusk and the deliciously prepared stewed organic chicken was a welcome sight. The simple cooking preparation: a whole knotted stalk of crushed lemon grass, fresh and newly grounded black pepper, salt, garlic, lots of newly picked green onions, tomatoes, and a little squeezed of turmeric juice, just made the chicken meat so gastronomical. The smoke of the firewood also added to its flavor. The village visits allowed me to get away, for a little while, from commercially and chemically raised poultry and canned sardines. Canned sardine was a typical substitute for chicken to many townsfolk. It is available everywhere, even in small grocery stores. The difficulty to raise chicken in a densely populated town and less time to fix a meal from scratch made it more practical to just buy a commercially packed food; hence, rural folks always thought that it was the Bukidnon urbanites’ food preference. Further, the opportunity to listen to folktales from people older than my parents has been an added motivation. That were the reasons; I always look forward going with my dad when he was invited to visit a remote village for an evangelistic meeting. I did not mind walking six hours trekking the mountain and crisscrossing river. The foot blisters and muscle pain seemed nothing when we get there. The folk’s warm and reverent hospitality, the food, and the opportunity to listen to folktales told by old women just relieved me from them all.
However, the long walk today was too much for me, a 12 year-old chap whom father wanted to follow in his footstep as an evangelist. It was only a four-hour walk after we got off from a crowded rickety public transportation jeepney, but the seemingly unending climb of that last dry, grassy mountain under a scorching tropical sun squeezed my heart so tight and took all the juice off me. It was like an eternity walking the rough narrow trail that, when we made our second stop to rest, I still did not see the crest. My father warned me before we left home about this long and arduous 6,000 ft. climb; however, he did not discourage me to come, because he wanted me to learn the rope and know the joy and pain of being an evangelist. He constantly motivated me to keep on moving by telling stories and promising me half of the chicken breast at dinner time if I made the crest in another hour. He further told me that I would have the opportunity to listen to the best story teller in the world, since the mother of our host has been known throughout the Bukidnon province plateau as the best ever.
As promised, dad gave me three portions of stewed chicken, which if glued together would be equal to half of the breast. After a short prayer, he told me to start dipping my spoon onto my bowl of rice drowned with the light yellow soup, embellished with the green bok choy and onions, and thin, red skin of ripe tomatoes. The soup was so delicious that I already was sweating when I finished off my dinner, doing what the host did- yank the bowl onto my mouth and gulp the leftover soup.
I could hardly get up from sitting in a lotus position. Since we arrived, three hours past noon time, I spent most of my time sitting on the bamboo floor beside my dad in the living room as he and other elders of the church talked about anything: the village, the problem of the church, the logging incursion, and the threatened livelihood. Nevertheless, I have to get up anyhow so that somebody can mop the bamboo floor with wet rug to spread the two-arm-length and an arm-and-a-half length ikam (EE-COME), (mat), my dad and I will have to sleep on later. My dad and our host moved to the small verandah to talk some more about some other problems of the church and the community, while I immediately sat back on the mat that was now rolled out. Some village children came and sat on the mat, but a little bit away from me. The soft and cool texture of the mat and the bloated stomach made me sleepy. There was only a scant of red-dyed reeds, which were mixed with its natural color, hence, the dyed spots looked like a pair of eyes and zigzagging mouth to me. It was weaved so tight that I was intrigued to slip my fingernails in between those flattened reeds and tried to loosen them. Sometimes, I flapped my right hand to enjoy its texture; sometimes I strummed the joints of the reeds. I began to yawn and decided to lie on my side. “Na` Ino`! /NA` ee-NO`/ (Come on, Mother!) The boy is tired and sleepy.” I heard our host requesting his 65-year old mother to begin the story.
“Es, dian (dee-yan) ka man ki Utu (uh-TU`), tagnguhugon (TAG-ngu-hoe-GOON) pa piru (PEE-ROE) mapangal (ma-PANG-al) bumulig (boom-UH-league) hu amey (ah-MOI) din.” (Oww, there is this young chap, he still has runny nose, but he is a good helper to his father,” the mother started the story with a typical Bukidnon opener. The other children, who came to listen to the story, and I laughed. She went on with the folktale about Utu`(uh-TU`) and the Kalibarut (KAH-lee-bah-ROOT). I listened, but I also continued to entertain myself strumming the mat. She really was a very good animated story teller. She paused calmly to end a section of the story. She also prolonged the pause for a few more seconds when she started the section with an alliterative “Na….” which always made us to hold our breath and, to some, biting their nails as they waited for her to continue. However, my tired body gave way that I was in and out of the story.
I felt everybody left for church. It was quieter and cooler in the house. The mat was all for me. It seemed that I was dreaming when I heard the first song at the church. I heard clapping of hands and stumping of feet. I heard the song “Hi-ay, hi-ay, katungkay ag’kalipay. Hi-ay, hi-ay pinalangga a kandin. Pinalas din sa sala ku. Makadiya a ta langit. Padayen ag’kalilipay. Hi-ay, hi-ay, hi-ay.” (Oh! Oh! I am very happy. Oh! Oh! He loves me. He washed away my sins. I (now) can go to heaven. Onward on I am happy. Oh! Oh! Oh!)
Few minutes after the singing, I heard sobbing and crying. It was an evangelistic meeting, a time for some villagers to renew their relationship with God and with fellow villagers. It also was the time to exorcise, albeit there were rare cases of this. The sobbing was common, especially when my dad talked about feuds, selfishness, jealousy, and adultery as some of the sins that destroy a village and send some people out of sync with God. However, the early sobbing was so uncommon. I presumed that the villagers, who were mostly members of the church, were experiencing some pressing problems.
Surprisingly, I also heard crying coming from far away. I heard wading in the marsh. I heard the straining and snapping sounds of the sudsud (SUED-SUED), reeds, when pulled off, the ‘gluck-gluck’ of boiling water in a 20-gallon can where the reeds were dyed, the thwacking of the dried reeds when flattened, and the screeching of the reeds when individually flattened by the weavers. Moments later, I heard a shrieking fiendish laugh along a threatening voice, “Hehehehehe…laliman (lah-LEE-man) aldaw (AL-THOU) na-an (nah-AN) do` agbungkagen (AG-boong-KA- gun) kud (code) sa-ini (sah-EE-knee) baryu (BAR-YOU) dan. Hehehehe. ” (Hehehehe… five days more (and) I am going to destroy this village. Hehehehe…) I looked around. Nobody was with me in the house. I looked around again. I still did not see anybody. I tried to go back to sleep by feeling the softness of the mat again…AND…in a little while I felt a prick in my finger. I immediately got up. I checked if it was bleeding, but did not see any. Then, I heard the shrieking laugh again, “Hehehehe….” It was coming from the mat. I looked down. Lo and behold! I saw a red reed wriggling and squealing its way out of that mat. Then, it stood in front of me, a lanky 6-footer, slightly levitating in the air, a little below its top end; its color was profusely dripping like blood. “Your father is busy trying to keep the church and the village together. He is pathetic. The culprit is not in church. He is right here! Sudsuda` (SUED-sued-DAH)! Hehehehe…. Laliman (lah-LEE-man) aldaw (Al-THOU)! Hehehehe… Laliman aldaw (five days)! Hehehehe….,”and he flew away like a slow-moving streaking arrow, out of the house, still laughing, slowly disappearing and fading, heeding towards the swamp. A reddish glow brightened the places that it passed by.
I was known to be a cry baby, while growing up; however, I learned to grow up fast when my mom died 5 years ago. Instead of screaming, I felt standing up, with fisted knuckles and angry voice, I said, “Nobody abuses my dad. GOD, HELP ME!” Immediately, I felt the entire mat, which I was standing on, jerked and glided. I felt a force held my shoulder and slightly pushed me down to sit. Off the ikam (EE-COME) went; off I was out of the house, hovering the village, following the lone lanky fiendish reed.
As I was riding the ikam, the zigzagging red reed, which was left in the mat told me to watch down-under, especially when we get to the marsh. I knew that we were already closed, because the red, lanky sudsuda, swooped down like lightning, turning the area reddish bright. The mat also told me that, besides gathering wild lanut (LAH-NOOT), Manila hemp, mat weaving was the other village commercial product. We finally got to the place. We hovered around like a big kite flying smoothly with the wind. Then, I saw Sudsuda` getting into the mouth of a quiet and aloof woman, who, I saw, talking to herself while plucking the fresh reeds. Suddenly, her face turned red. Her eyes stared like a knife ready for a kill. Then she took her bolo from its sheath, and attacked the other women, who were, at that moment, boisterous and loud. As they saw the quiet woman running amok, they ran away fast, leaving their harvested reeds. A booming fiendish voice chased them, “Sugud (SUE-GOOD) iman (ee-MAN), hari (ha-REE) kew (cow) en on makapanginsudsud (ma-ka-PANG-gain-SUED-SUED)! Mga (mang-AH) ki-at! (kee-AT) (From now on, you cannot gather reeds anymore! Women with no finesse!)
Streak of light still illumined the village when the mat began to take me back. I saw the people in commotion. Women complained about not able to keep up with the town’s mat orders. Every time they tried to go out towards the marsh, the quiet woman would go berserk and wild. She would chase them with anything sharp. I saw that, one time, the men tied her, while sleeping, with a rope on a house post, so that the women could go to the marsh. Nevertheless, when she woke up and found that even her mother was not home, her eyes turned red. She got mad. Her jugular muscle and jawbone tightened, and at one strain, she freed herself. She followed the women and chased them all away from the swamp. Since then, the village life was in chaos. I even saw her going to the school, shooing the school children and the teachers away. She was given malarial medicine by the village chief thinking that she was bitten by an anopheles mosquito when she was in the swamp, but it did not help at all. Many families were frustrated and scared that they have decided to leave the village. That was the main reason why the village chief and the elders of the church decided to request my dad to hold an evangelistic meeting.
I woke up sweating to the hilt. I sat down, looked at the mat, and strummed my index finger through the reeds. I checked the dyed part of the mat. I tried to loosen every reed. It was as tight as before; hence, I learned that it was just a dream. Few moments later, I heard the church singing a postlude, but the whole village left the church with their gas lamps on, so quiet and somber. When our host and my dad arrived, I told them of my dream and the name, Sudsuda. My dad squeezed my head and said, “God has given us the name. Now, we can prepare the hearts of the entire village for the casting out of the evil spirit, before my son and I will leave in five days.”
I looked at the mat again, smiled, and said, “Thank you, God, for this magical mat.”
(copyright applied)
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