Foreword
These
series of events happened in a town outside of Manila and most probably in the
provinces where the queer practices of the locales were not yet exposed to the
general public. This account was left to us only by a friar who has heard of
the terrible execution of a man anonymously named Vicente by the locales in
which the motive was not yet known to us this day. The friar remained anonymous
to us for the original draft of the account was written on cheap local paper and
deteriorated in time the signature was lost as well as any record of the friar
who passed on to us the events left in this account. As the friar’s position
was ambivalent, it is recommended that the reader should not trust the account
of the friar as to his very lucid and detailed portrayal of the said events.
The tendency of the friar to side with the locales was yet ambivalent to us.
The version in this paper follows the original format of the friar that is
using dashes in dialogue instead of quotation marks.
I.
The
cold morning after the end of the typhoon weeks ago ushered in the new day. The
farmers of barrio San A-
were ready to till the land and start to rebuild what was lost due to the
destruction of the typhoon. As was the tradition, they had the usual
thanksgiving mass. The town was under a parish of the next town a few days
walk; instead they have a rickety chapel made of bamboo and a crucifix donated
by the priest of the nearest town. The priest said mass. Wearing a red stole
(for it was a martyr’s feast), the priest gave a thirty minute homily on the
perseverance of the townspeople in enduring the typhoon among themselves. The
barrio San A- was founded a hundred years ago and as they say (from locales we
have interviewed so far) it was due to a particular St. A- who made an
apparition with the original founders that inspired the barrio’s name. We
really don’t think it is possible for such an event to take place, for the
accounts of farmers and petty townsfolk are as unreliable as the words of a Sangley.
The priest of the nearest town usually pays this barrio a visit, something
these people want. The end of the typhoon signalled the need to thank the good
Lord for his unending grace upon these people that nevertheless, even if their
being uneducated never was a struggle to grasp the limitless fountain of God’s
grace a gift that can be only achieved through faith. I really wish I could say
mass in that area which would have been the apex of my priestly vocation. Yet
after the said event that shocked my ears, it would have been necessary to
postpone this endeavour. How did that event happen who was Vicente? The man who
was tried, lynched and eventually killed by the townsfolk. The source by which
this has come down to us came from a reliable cart driver of our barrio who was
there to deliver his cartload of firewood to the locales and was able to see
with his own eyes the events of Vicente’s plight into his own death. I have
somehow managed to acquire the few pages of his account and have written down the
things he has told me after the lynching of Vicente.
II.
-from the account of Edgar Lorenzo,
the cart driver
I
came for barrio San A- after the typhoon in order to sell some firewood for the
farmers. I have heard of the priest’s thanksgiving mass and I suppose to expect
him there to ride my cart going back. Unluckily to keep with his practice of
the vow of poverty he walked back to the next town with two guards armed with
rifles to guide him in his way. Along the way, I met this man. He wore a white
shirt with long sleeves folded up to his elbows. The dirty white appearance of
his shirt made him look like a weary traveller so I said:
-Kuya,
I can take you to the next town, hop in if you want.
He
looked at me and that was it. He continued to walk towards the barrio whose
chimneys made of brick pugon stoves were visible making it look like I was a
few meters nearer. I arrived at sun down and began to sell the firewood to the
locales who were very much happy to see my cartload of wood (the wood of their
barrio was still wet because of the typhoon). Then the same man entered the
vicinity of the barrio. Immediately I asked Mang Tasyo.
-Lo,
do you know him?
-Nah!
Never seen his face in me entire life must be a traveller of some sorts looking
for some hot sopas, a cup of rice and a banig to sleep in but I can’t offer him
a thing nor give him a peso I don’t even have a cinco to spend on tuba how can
I even feed a guest.
He
then laughed so hard that the sound of his laughter revealed a man who is into
chewing tobacco and the occasional breaks into cough, his yellowed teeth and
the stench of chewed tobacco reeks that I cannot stand the smell. The man
entered into the town so calm that he never perturbed anyone with his entrance.
The
account of the loyal cart driver gave me the stimulus to prompt myself to
continue his account with what he told during our conversations.
The humble town never had a proper
church or a proper convent to have a priest with them. Instead, they complement
the lack of God’s servant through the wisdom of elder members and the cabeza del barrio who in their efforts
to hold together the whole barrio have made explicit directions on their
livelihood. I need not to enumerate them but the necessary thing to take into
account is the dependence of the people on their elders and the cabeza as if
they were sent by God as a supplement to the lack of his shepherds in his
flock. They act freely yet according to their own laws. They were happy and
their lives possessed order and they never did anything to offend God or their
leaders. The entrance of this man in their town was not a momentous event. He
entered wearing simple garments. He was neither a dandy nor a lackey from a
hacienda. He was simple and anonymous. He never possessed the means to receive
acclaim or blame yet his presence created ambivalence among the people.
He walked further towards the barrio
looking at the produce of the townspeople. Smiling and looking at them with
interest, he said with an interesting grin.
-You
seem to be very merry even at the end of a torrent indeed rare for people who
seldom experience a storm.
Was
there something in his speech to offend the folks? The same question has been
flying over my mind since I saw the faces of the townsfolk looking at this man
with suspicious eyes. Luckily for him, the cabeza saw the new comer.
-Oy,
I guess you’re new in this town eh? Well, I’m Senor Manalo the town’s cabeza.
The
cabeza wore the distinctive black coat, silken shirt and a straw hat. The
regality of his position meant that he possessed something more than the common
townsfolk possessed.
-The
cabeza is a very hospitable person then eh.
He
said with a grin.
-Should
it be possible to stay a few days in your town and feed on your abundant
produce?
-You
can senyor and you can stay at the hut beside my house it has the most perfect
view of the sky.
The
following lines of the conversation sadly was not audible to Edgar’s ears but
as he continued with his account in my presence. The man stayed at the town and
seemed to be welcomed by the cabeza and eventually by the whole town itself.
Silence filled the town as nightfall
came. The darkness ate every possible light for me to be able to return home
safely. Thus, I decided to stay for the night. I enjoyed the privilege of
staying at one of the elder’s house. Here, I started to hear the rustling of
dry leaves on dry ground something unusual at night. Making my way out of the
dark street with a lamp on my left hand and a huge stick on my right, I made my
way into the dark fields and saw a figure dark and solitary walking to and fro
seeming not knowing what to do. I don’t want to cross paths with this unknown
entity. Images of blood filled my head and the idea of being mugged at this
kind of place is beyond all possible ideas perceivable and thinkable. Ha! So
there I was foolishly looking at the darkness. The black profiles of plants and
trees and anything else cast a vague view on my eyes unused to the dark. How
stupid I was that it was the unknown man. The vague light of his lamp was
raised on his face and the look of a person experiencing the same confusion as
I do was right on my face. Then, he smiled at me. Without any form of speech
and other forms of communication, the smile seemed to be a very crucial message
to me. Like saying “don’t worry I won’t kill you” was the assurance that I knew
was certain at that moment. After all, he was sitting at a stone looking at the
dark sky. Indeed, it was starry. On his lap is a large leather portfolio and as
much as my naked eye can see he was writing something on those blank sheets of
paper. I returned home to find myself tired and ashamed at the false fear I
tried to immerse myself into. What foolishness was it to seem that I am to be
killed by a bandit. Who would kill a petty seller of wood who earns only 30
pesos per week on selling wood, 10 pesos as a church sexton and an addition of
25 pesos in reading other people’s letters or writing them. I slept without
being aware of it.
III.
The next day came and the town was
alerted by the wailing of men. Men wailing, it may sound impossible but at the
moment in which a man’s life is at stake he starts to cry at the midst of fate
unfolding before his eyes. The cabeza’s daughter died. Her chemise wet with
sweat and a patch of blood on the part of her thighs reveal a slow and painful
death. Our man woke up in this commotion of small talk and gossiping something
townsfolk are used to do as if they were really the news.
The cabeza was in tears and the
expression on his eyes reveal the hopelessness of life pouring down upon his
eyes nothing can describe his unimaginable suffering. He loved her so much that
he wanted her to be educated and now he finds himself trying to find the proper
garments for her funeral. A priest on the other hand was not available. She
would have to be buried without a Catholic blessing.
What sort of sickness did she die from? These were the questions that flew out of the
crowd who flocked at the cabeza’s house just to witness the spectacle of an
unknown death.
-We
have done nothing to displease God for him to do this unto us. But let us try
to discern and find the answers for this problem.
The
cabeza was systematically in control. His authority does not rest on the
council of elders nor from the people. He was the legal counsel of the town and
anything that he said was taken for literally and without doubt.
Wailing,
those were the only sounds that I can hear. The faint chatter of women in black
veils and rosaries filled the silence of the dark and tranquil night. Still,
the unknown man was in the fields looking at the stars and writing something
unknown to me or the people. I better not disturb him.
The
next day news started to spread into the town.
-Wickedness!
Oh what wickedness! Evil lurks in this town!
Like
wildfire, the people are drawn into gossip and small talk.
-There
is a witch before us.
Edgar
cannot explain the following events. The people were so drawn into the
mysterious death of the cabeza’s daughter that the only solution was to find
something sinister within them. Although they have been together for almost
every moment of their lives and the faces of each other are so tightly embossed
on their minds. They would never distrust other even to the point of death. Yet,
it is still a mystery to me and my friend that the people can immediately
conclude a sinister entity is within them. The gossiping of townsfolk continued
to spread like wildfire over the town. Hut after hut stories started to take
place. The tragedy was too much to bear. The death of such a lovely girl was
the death of a queen. Her lifeless body lay in the casket. Her closed eyelids
and innocent face of death shed an all too much burden to bear. She died
without a word, without a small farewell note. Her sweating body, the wet
chemise and the patch of blood were signs of a torturous end. What could have
happened to summon this event?
Then
I find myself again staring at the dark fields. The faint light of the unknown
man’s lamp was the only spectre of light available within my sights. I decided
to stay. It would be soon important to take whatever news from this town to the
city and maybe just maybe we can shed light into a mysterious disease or event
sprawling about in this town.
Again, the stars, suddenly I
remembered the unknown man looking at them in the middle of the night. What can
he see that I cannot see? How come such a person with little or no distinction
was able to stay that late just to look at the fainting and flickering of dots
on the celestial plate? They were like peas on a gigantic bilao spread out like little bugs. They were like fireflies yet
this man would take hour just to look at them. I decided to abandon any inquiry
on this person. Who am I to judge?
IV
I was awakened by the loud steps and
angry shouts of people. My eyes still blurry from sleep and my mind still not
prepared for what is to come still cannot explain the commotion of people
outside.
Edgar’s
account stops here and the following events were laid down to me through the
mouth of Edgar himself. It was almost four in the morning the usual waking of
farmers but the morning was greeted with loud shouting and the angry voices of
men about to prepare themselves from bandits.
-We
know who killed the cabeza’s daughter.
The
man was very much confident about his words. He held a bolo on his right and a
torch on his left. A few crucifixes were on his neck. Different shapes and sizes,
the cross of this man showed his total reverence for Christ but it was not for
reverence or acclamation rather it was for protection.
-There
is a witch in this town and we now know who that person is.
-Who
could that be? Edgar answered.
-It’s
him.
This
stunned him only a few hours ago he was sitting on a stone looking at the
stars. Last night was his last hours. Was he praying to the stars looking at
the heavens as if God was there to answer his fate? Is there an escape to this
fate? Can God take away the cup of his own death and give him the life he is
supposed to have? Yet, he was a heretic. A witch, wizard, and magician to their
eyes he was. Is there an escape?
They arrived at the cabeza’s hut. He
was writing on a bamboo table and his lamp still burning. He was silent in
front of them. Yet maintaining that air of calm he said.
-What
is this all about?
-You
killed the cabeza’s daughter!
-With
what? I never held a weapon all my life more or less kill a girl.
-You
were seen last night in the fields staring at the stars if you are not doing
something devilish then what is it some form of black magic?
-There
is nothing wrong about looking at the skies. Have you not looked at them when
you want to know whether it is about to rain or not?
-No!
The lord sends rains to make our fields abundant and storms to make us confess
our sins.
-He’s
right we only trust the Lord and his church no one else. You! You are no part
of our church.
-Have
I not taken my supper with you? Have I not eaten bread and rice with you? Have
I not drunk from the same cups you drink with?
-Don’t
listen to him he’s using our minds with that magic!
The
man then hurled a huge rock on his body dropping him down on his knees in pain.
-wait!
He
shouted in pain as human as he can be. The people charged in the hut grasping
his shirt tightly preparing to strangle his neck and snatch away any air that
might be left. He was no more human. He is a mass of flesh walking and wailing
in pain as the people strangled him and pulled his shirt. Beating him with
their clubs and rocks he was brought to the cabeza.
-Here
is the man who killed your daughter.
-Take
him away from me!
-But.......
As
he was about to speak he was beaten in the head silencing whatever he was about
to say. Blood and sweat poured from the brows of his head. Wounds appear to be
like the stars he so endlessly observed. Flickering showing itself and then
hiding itself again yet leaving tainted spots as it leaves. Pulled away from
the cabeza’s house, he was dragged to the streets where the people filled with
an unquenchable desire for blood beat him with sticks and clubs. No one was
there to maintain order midst the chaos. A mere attempt to stop the berserk
crowd by blocking them was a meagre attempt to slow the unfolding breaking of
the man’s body.
-Vicente!
You evil thing!
-Drive
him out!
Shouts
were to be heard from the streets and the low voices of women and children
smirking at the event mocked the person’s last strands of dignity. He was
pulled as far to the town proper. They stood at the entrance. Blood filled his
white shirt and he was unable to stand. Shaking he was made to stand and face
the crowd. His eyes were almost shot his forehead filled with the bluish
remnants of a strike in the head.
-Get
out! Leave at once never return you wretched thing!
He
was kicked by the same persons who welcomed him and distrusted by the cabeza
who with hospitality welcomed him to their town. He turned and slowly walked
away his feet shaking. His pace was staggered. The people made him wear a
placard on his chest written in barbaric Spanish.
V
I returned to the unknown man’s
house and learned that his name was Vicente. I never knew about his surname and
I think it would be necessary enough to stop at that very enigmatic name of
which I cannot fathom anything. His house was neatly arranged and nothing was
of his own except for a few pages lying on the table unfinished and it stops at
the middle of the page. I tried to read the pages but it was written in Latin
something I cannot understand even though I have been going to church all the
time. There were only lines and circles and a few words written on them yet
whether they mean something magnificent or even though they unravel the secrets
of the stars and the heavens I cannot understand the words written on them so I
decided to retrieve them and tell this event to the friars and confess my sins.
I never did anything to stop this rampage instead I kept myself on the side
watching as if everything was a moro-moro
with an ending were the dead stands up and bows to the crowd clapping madly
at the performance. Instead it was a real tragedy someone was banished for real
no one bows to the crowd and everything turns into a joyous celebration of
their own victory at something. What was that something? I started to write
these words when I felt that guilt feeling that I even though an ardent
Catholic cannot even understand. They were fuelled by their own faith and
maddened by their own fears. I hid Vicente’s manuscript in the pile of wood and
prepared my cart for a long journey back to town. It was the time when I heard
two shots from the horizon. I tried not to imagine the inevitable but it cannot
be flushed away. I should bury him when I pass by the road and see the lifeless
body that once marvelled at the heavens and when I reach the town church I
shall have a mass said for him. It was the feast of a martyr.
Anonymously translated
from the original languages
To some, a balanced formation has become more of an ideology than a
guiding principle of formation. The idea of balance has altered the system of
formation, shifting the weight from studies to eclectic activity: sports,
music, cooking, etc. The ideology of balance has tipped away at the
philosophical formation of students, turning them away from intellectual
endeavors to pursue different activities than immersing themselves into the activity of
thought.
