Chapter Text
Isagani did not write poems anymore.
The fact worried his uncle. His nephew was a poet, and were not poets at the prime of inspiration when they were at the peak of emotion? The past’s events on Isagani had been harsh—too harsh, certainly; it pained Padre Florentino to watch his nephew suffer so, and it pained him more to watch Isagani abandon his beloved art.
He approached the young man one morning, in the gentlest manner he could. “Isagani,” said Padre Florentino, laying a frail hand on his nephew’s shoulder. Isagani sat motionless at his desk, staring out his open window, at the sea. “Why don’t you pick up your pen again, iho?”
Isagani did not answer. His eyes, staring out into the sea, were empty like lifeless glass. After a while of silence, he shook himself and ripped his gaze away from the water. “Forgive me, Tiyo,” he said. Nowadays his voice was much quieter, softer. “I have so much work to do.”
“Isagani—“
But Isagani had already stood and taken his hat from his desk, making his way to the door without saying goodbye, leaving the house to start the day at his work as a tribunal clerk.
It was only half past six in the morning, too early for his work to start. Every day it was like this.
For Padre Florentino was wrong; Isagani was not at the peak of his emotion. To put it bluntly, Isagani felt no emotion at all—it was absent from his mind and his heart, absent from every bone in his body. His heart beat mechanically, with no drive, no passion, no purpose except to function; it was worse than his first vacation at home without Paulita, for Isagani had lost his love, his studies, his friends, and above all, he had lost all hope that things would return to the way they were. And so the words did not flow.
The door shut behind Isagani. Padre Florentino was left alone in the bare room, with no one for company but the song of the waves crashing against the cliffs.
—
As Isagani walked to the law office where he worked, a familiar face fell into step with him.
“Good morning, Isagani,” said Romina.
“Good morning, Ming,” said Isagani. “Where is Dolores?”
“You know it’s too early for her,” said Romina. “She is not like us, morning birds.”
Romina was one of Isagani’s dear friends. They had known each other since they were five years of age and had often played with each other in childhood. Dolores, the woman mentioned, was Isagani’s other friend, and completed their trifecta. Romina was the kinder of the two women, and worked in her family’s bakeshop, known to be friendly and giving to all; however, Romina did not let people abuse her, and knew when to put her foot down. For that Isagani loved his friend.
“You have my nature mistaken,” said Isagani. “I wake early because I wake early. I move early because there is nothing else for me to do.”
“Whatever you tell yourself, Aning,” said Romina. “Did you know that the town doctor passed away last night?”
“Truly? A shame.”
“An irony, if you ask me! Couldn’t he cure himself?” asked Romina. “Terrible timing, too. My little brother has a nasty cold.”
"Ming, where are you going?” asked Isagani.
“Can a lady not walk with her friend?” said Romina. “Oh, don’t start about rumors. You and I—and Dolores—used to play in the river without our clothes. Those rumors have long come and gone.”
“I do not care about rumors,” said Isagani simply.
They walked in silence. The sky was starting to get brighter, and yet Isagani’s mood had not been lifted. “My friend, I worry about you,” said Romina.
“What is there to worry about?” said Isagani.
Romina stopped in front of Isagani, stopping him as well. Isagani gave her a look. Romina sighed. “Ever since you came back from Manila, you have been different. You have been sad. Dolores and I are concerned. You know you can always talk to us, Aning.”
Isagani stared at her. He moved past her and continued walking. “I have to go, Ming, I have work.”
Behind him, he heard Romina sigh again. “Always, Aning,” she said, so quietly that he almost did not hear.
—
The sun was sinking down the horizon when Isagani walked home that day. It was another monotonous day at work, another reminder of how instead of being the brilliant lawyer Isagani once dreamed he would be, he was instead working for one, keeping his files and documents—not even for an interesting lawyer, at that; it was for a senyor boring as the dullest textbook.
But no matter how frustrating and tedious and uninteresting his occupation was, Isagani was grateful for it. It wasn’t the money he needed—he could leech off his uncle if he wanted to—it was the distraction. Something to do, something to think about.
(Because the worst parts were always the nights. Hours after dark spent in bed but with eyes wide open, unable to sleep. When he was alone, lying still, there was nothing to keep his mind from going to dark places, dark thoughts, dark memories. On some nights tears of frustration prickled at the corner of his eyes—he just wanted to sleep.)
On his way home Isagani did not stop to admire the sunset; he did not stop to contemplate how it painted the sky a beautiful rose color, how the shining blue-green of the sea contrasted perfectly with the orange sun. He walked on.
That was when it happened.
“Psst… Senyor,” said a voice from the shadows, coming from the trees lining the dirt path. “Senyor Isagani.”
Isagani halted.
“May I speak to you, Senyor?” hissed the man. Half of his face was hidden under the shadows of his salakot.
“What do you need from me?” Isagani said coldly. “And how do you know my name?”
“You are Senyor Isagani Florentino, the very same one who was jailed along with the other students about a year ago, yes?”
Isagani turned his head left and right to see if anyone was in the vicinity. There was no one except for him and the mysterious man; Isagani always took the road less people traveled. He stepped a few hesitant steps closer to the man amongst the trees. “Yes, I am him,” he said.
“I have some information that may interest you, Senyor,” said the man. “But you must come here first.”
Isagani narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the man. He could have ill intentions. Then, he thought, what did I have to lose? I live my life meaninglessly and here comes, out of the blue, something interesting. After a while Isagani joined the man in the shadows.
The man spoke softly and hurriedly, with his salakot pulled over by his hand to conceal his face. His words were quick and Isagani did not catch much of what he said, only certain parts. It poured ice down his spine nonetheless. Uprising, heard Isagani. Nearby town. In a month. Here are the directions…
A piece of paper was pushed into his hands. Isagani unfolded it and found, written in small yet disorderly penmanship, a date and an address.
“If you know of anyone else who would be willing to join the cause—“ Isagani’s head snapped up to the man’s, his hands still shaking— “please spread the word, Senyor.”
Isagani did not know what to say. He was remembering, remembering—fury hotter than the May sun; a dank, grimy cell; Juanito’s hand on Paulita’s shoulder—a lamp, a bomb—
“—We know that you will not betray us,” the man continued. He had been talking. “Until then, Senyor.”
The man backed away and gave Isagani one last nod. With the raise of his head Isagani finally got a glimpse of his face: a ragged deep scar set across his left eye.
“Wait—what is your name?” asked Isagani. “Who do I look for?”
“Look for Sebastian,” said the man. He turned and disappeared into the thicket.
The sun had already set by then. Isagani hurried home. It was not wise to stroll around while it was dark, he reasoned with himself, but could not stop the way his heart rattled so wildly in his chest. He arrived at the house sweaty and rigid, the piece of paper clenched around his tight, shaking fist.
“Welcome back, Isagani,” his uncle greeted with a kind smile. “Are you well?”
Isagani did not reply. He went straight to his room without a word.
With a sigh, Padre Florentino withdrew into his own quarters. That night, Isagani fell asleep to the soft and subdued songs of his uncle’s harmonium, playing from another part of the house.
—
Down the hill where the house of Padre Florentino rested, through the side of the town and beyond some thickets and trees one would reach a secluded place that showed the sea.
This was the clearing Isagani had once found as a child, wandering the forest. This was his place, and it was not to the knowledge of Padre Florentino or their house-help Nenang and Tonying. His two friends knew about the place, but they also knew that it belonged to Isagani. Here was where he went when he needed to be truly alone, to think. Someplace that was his.
The mysterious man’s—Sebastian’s—words rang throughout Isagani’s head day and night. It drove him nearly mad. With shaking breath he unfolded the paper given to him, and wondered if he should chuck it into the sea and forget about everything. But no, he couldn’t—because all this time, he had been waiting for something, hadn’t he? He had been going through the motions of life without passion nor drive, waiting for something to happen. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this would finally set his life on the path to somewhere.
Perhaps it would end his life.
Was Isagani ready for that?
A shuffle from the trees. Isagani quickly folded the paper. A woman came out.
Dolores was a stern woman, who always had her hair in a tight bun behind her head. She was always serious and straight-faced, and the first to point out the wrongdoings of other people. She was right and just. Dolores was well-read; even more than Isagani, and had read all of the books in Padre Florentino’s library at least twice, especially the forbidden ones, about freedom and revolution. It was she who instilled these principles in Isagani, telling him grand stories about the French and American revolutions. For that Isagani loved his friend.
“You do not usually come here,” said Isagani.
“I saw you go in,” said Dolores. “I became worried.”
Isagani followed her line of thought, a thought which ran through the clearing’s cliffs and flew into the ocean. “Dear God,” he said, shaking his head. “I would never do that, my friend.”
“Truly, Aning?” Dolores took a step closer. “Because with the way you have been acting—keeping to yourself, not talking with anyone, having an aura of melancholy—we are extremely concerned.”
“So I have heard,” said Isagani.
“What is that in your hand?” said Dolores, pointing.
Isagani hid the paper in his hand, and put it behind his back. “There is nothing.”
Dolores raised a brow. She lunged and snatched the paper from Isagani’s hand, and unfolded it. “Directions,” she said. “A girl?”
“No,” said Isagani.
“Then what?” asked Dolores.
“I cannot say,” said Isagani.
“Aning,” said Dolores. She was speaking in her serious tone. “Tell me what this is, or I shall show it to Padre Florentino.”
“You cannot!” said Isagani. “He must not know.”
“Then tell me,” said Dolores.
Isagani sighed. The wind rushed in their ears, shaking the leaves and bringing the waves crashing to the cliffs below. He told her of Sebastian.
Dolores listened with wide eyes, missing no details. “Then we must go!” she said. “The people need us!”
“No,” said Isagani. “I cannot allow you to go.”
“Why not?” said Dolores with a quirked brow. She was challenging him to say it was because she was a woman. Isagani had his tongue tied.
“You’re my friend,” he said finally. “I cannot allow you to be in any sort of danger.”
“If we are together, then we will be safe,” said Dolores. “We will protect each other.”
Isagani shook his head. “It is not that simple.”
“Isagani,” said Dolores. “If you must go, then you must take me with you.”
“I have not even decided!” cried Isagani. “This is why I came here. To think.”
Dolores pursed her lips, and nodded. “Very well,” she said. “I shall leave you. But do not forget my words. Do not leave without me, or I shall never forgive you. When is this to happen?”
Isagani gave her a sullen look. “Tonight.”
“Then I will be waiting for you here, at nine,” said Dolores.
Isagani nodded. He knew there was no changing her mind.
—
That night, Isagani could not rest.
He paced back and forth in his room, arms rigid at his sides, remembering the friar’s sneers, their crushed dreams of the Academy of Castilian, how his life had turned entirely around after his arrest. He laid still in his bed, unable to sleep, remembering the gossip of the family he had stayed with in Manila, finding out the truth, then regretting. Here was an opportunity to do what he was unable to do before: extract revenge. He would get arrested, definitely, ex-communicated or killed, even, but did it matter? Isagani had lost nearly everything; the only thing that remained was his country. All his life he’d dreamed of a noble death, of spilling his blood for these islands and her people. Here was an opportunity. Here was his chance to make his life worth something.
A million years ago, Isagani spoke of water. Water was calm, water was peaceful, water could drown out wine and beer and bring death to fire. Heated, agitated, it becomes steam, suffocating and boiling.
Isagani looked out the window and found the moon hanging in the dark sky.
The clock struck nine.
That night he did not pack many things. A candle would draw attention; the stars and moonlight would have to do. And he did not have any weapons to bring, anyway—where would you find a revolver in a priest’s house?
He met Dolores in the clearing. They give each other a knowing stare. The young man and woman run off into the woods, away from the town and towards the next one, hand holding hand, afraid to lose another.
The next morning, the house-boy found a note folded on the desk in Isagani’s room. He presented it to the priest. Padre Florentino read the note, dismissed the house-boy, and spent the rest of the day sitting on the cliffs looking out to the sea.
—
The uprising was already in motion when they got to the town.
“All right. Listen,” said Isagani. They were hiding behind a house, still a ways from the center of the uprising. He had accepted the idea of him getting hurt, killed, even, but the thought of it coming to Dolores was unbearable. “We lay low, try not to get into much trouble—“
Dolores ran past him, towards the throng of people shouting. “Long live the Revolution! Long live Filipinas!”
“Dolores!” Isagani hissed. He looked behind him, and groaned. Seeing no other choice, he ran after her.
Dolores was lost in the multitude of people, rebels and guardia civil alike. They both had fire in their eyes, but they were different types of fire. In the rebels’ eyes were fire of hope and freedom. In the guardia civil’s eyes were fire of anger and hate. Isagani still could not find Dolores.
“Dolores!” he shouted. “Dolores!”
Someone grabbed his shoulder, and Isagani cried out. It was Sebastian.
“Senyor Isagani,” he said. “You came!”
“Yes,” said Isagani, “but my friend—“
“Come,” said Sebastian, steering him. “Shout with us.” He put a rock in Isagani’s hands. “Throw this. Aim for the bastards. Long live the Revolution!”
Isagani held the rock with a shaking hand. He did not shout.
Then came the gunshots.
Sebastian pushed him away. “Go! Run for shelter!” They both ran. Gunshots were popping around them, and as they ran many fell to the ground. “Go! Go!”
“Argh!” Isagani stumbled over. He collapsed behind an overturned cart, clenching his wounded side. The rock he held fell from his weak grasp and onto the dirt. More gunshots boomed through the air, and Isagani grew more afraid for Dolores. He drew back his palm holding his side. It was red with blood.
This uprising was going to be a failure. It was a godforsaken shame, a tragedy, even, but Isagani knew from revolutions of past that it would be all right. The rebels, wounded and bleeding, assured one another that this was a necessary step forward. Unsuccessful, but got the point across—the indios were angry.
Dolores would be proud.
“Dolores,” said Isagani. His vision was blurring. He realized his spectacles must have been knocked off.
Most have admitted the people’s anger to themselves a long time. After all, it was a minor uprising, in a sleepy provincial town. What were their bolos compared to the Guardia Civil’s arms? Only the most idealistic hearts believed in their victory.
(Isagani used to be called idealistic. It wasn’t a compliment. Isagani used to be called naive, foolish, sheltered. He used to wonder why other opposed it so much—why settle when their futures could be so much brighter?
Now he understood.)
There was a coughing sound.
Isagani looked to his side. There was somebody there, lying flat on his back, his clothes so dirty and muddy that it was difficult to distinguish him from the ground at first glance. He was coughing up horribly and bleeding all over. Isagani crawled over to him, wincing.
“Senyor… Isagani.” The man’s voice was mangled and gurgling.
How do you know my name, Isagani was about to ask, then noticed the ragged scar running down his left eye. It was Sebastian, looking so different from moments prior.
“I’m glad you came,” Sebastian said. “You did not report… anything. I knew we could… trust in you.”
Isagani nodded. He wanted to speak but it was getting harder and harder to do so. Pain flared in his side and he hissed between gritted teeth. Never in his life had he felt such physical pain.
“The… end,” the man said. “It is near. Our end…”
Isagani was going to die here. For a split second the thought of his uncle ran through his mind—his poor kind soul would be heartbroken. Guilt coursed through his bones. How ignorant he had been! To think that all had been taken from him, ignoring the man who had always been kind to him and had always cared for him. Forgive me, Isagani though. My love for my homeland requires sacrifice. I die with no apology expressed to you…
Isagani cried out in pain. It hurt, it hurt too much.
And what of Dolores? Where was she? Isagani cried out her name again, and again. She did not come.
Basilio, he thought, and surprised himself. He had not allowed himself to think about Basilio in a long time. Basilio. He would know how to save this man, and heal my own wounds. If he were here…
Isagani felt strong arms pull him up. Perhaps it was one of the Guardia Civil, taking him as dead.
Everything faded to black in the middle of his third Hail Mary.