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—harrowing and cruel, even. It pained Padre Florentino to watch his nephew suffer so, and it pained him more to watch Isagani abandon his beloved art.
“Isagani,” said Padre Florentino, laying a frail, gentle hand on his nephew’s shoulder. Isagani sat motionless at his desk, staring out his open window, the sea before him. “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. Then 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 the desk, making his way to the door without saying goodbye, undoubtedly leaving the house to start the day at his work as a tribunal clerk.
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 room, with no one for company but the song of waves crashing against the cliffs.
The sun was sinking down the horizon while Isagani walked home later that day. It was another monotonous day at work, another reminder of how instead of being the brilliant lawyer he once dreamed he would be, he was instead working for one, keeping his files and documents—not even for an interesting lawyer, at that, 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 was not the money he needed—he could depend on 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 Isagani’s 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 side of the dirt path. “Senyor Florentino.”
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, 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 else 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,” 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. Then, he thought, what did I have to lose? I live my life meaninglessly and here comes, out of the blue, something interesting. He took a step forward into the shadows.
The man spoke very softly and hurriedly, with his salakot pulled over by his hand to conceal his face. His words were quick and Isagani did not catch most 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—” said the man, and Isagani’s head snapped up to his, his own hands still shaking, “—please spread the word.”
Isagani had no words. 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 continues. He had been talking. “Until then, Senyor.”
The man backed away and gave Isagani one last nod before he turned and disappeared into the deep thicket.
The sun had already set by then. Isagani hurried home. He reasoned with himself that it was not wise to stroll around while it was dark, but he 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, floating through the walls of the old house.
The man’s words rang throughout Isagani’s head day and night.
He paced back and forth in his room, his arms rigid at his sides, remembering the friars’ 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, and 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 what did it matter? Isagani had lost nearly everything; the only thing that remained was his country. All his life he had 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, it becomes steam, suffocating and boiling.
Isagani looked out the window. There was the moon and its stars, beating brightly against the dark sky.
That night he did not pack many things. A candle would draw attention, the heavens' starlight would have to do. There were no weapons for him to bring, anyway; where would you find a revolver in a priest’s house?
The next morning, a servant 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 did not go well. It was a goddamn shame, a tragedy, even, but it would be all right. Isagani’s fellow rebels, wounded and bleeding, assured one another this was a necessary step forward. Unsuccessful, but got the point across—the Indios were angry.
Most have admitted this to themselves a long time. After all, it was a minor uprising, in a sleepy provincial town. What were their bolo knives 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. He used to be called naive, foolish, sheltered. He used to wonder why others opposed it so much—why settle when their future could be so much brighter?)
(Now he understood.)
Isagani collapsed behind an overturned cart, clenching his wounded side. His borrowed itak fell from his weak grasp and onto the ground. Gunshots boomed through the air, but Isagani was not afraid. His palm holding his side, when drawn back, was red with blood.
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... Florentino.” The man’s voice was mangled and gurgling.
How do you know my name? Isagani was about to ask, but Isagani was smart, a quick thinker. He blinked at the man in realization. “You… you gave me the note. A month ago,” he said.
“Yes. Yes.” The man coughed again. “You came. 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…”
He 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 has been! To think that all has been taken from him, ignoring the man who has always been kind to him and has always cared for him. Forgive me, Isagani thought. 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.
Basilio, he thought, and almost surprised himself. He has 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…
Everything faded to black.
Isagani woke up.
He was lying in a clean bed instead of dying out on the streets—had it all been a dream? But no, this bed was not his and so was this room; it was smaller and musty and outside the window was not the sea. Isagani brought his hand to the place where he had been wounded, and instead of drawing back blood his palm was met with gauze. There was still some pain, yes, but he did not feel like he was about to die anymore. He had been bandaged. Even the minor cuts around his body had been attended to.
Somebody had saved him.
He heard a snore. Isagani rolled on his side, careful to mind his wound. Beside the other side of the bed, sleeping on a chair and laying his head on his folded arm on the side table, was Basilio.
Isagani held his breath. It was definitely him. Isagani did not have his spectacles and his sight was blurred, and Basilio had changed a bit, with less tidy hair and cheeks more sunken than before, but it was him. Isagani and Basilio had been best friends, and he would know him anywhere.
What was he supposed to do? He had not seen Basilio ever since… Isagani shook himself. Now was not the time to think about that.
Gingerly, he reached out and shook Basilio gently by the shoulder. “Basilio,” he said softly. “Basilio, wake up.”
Basilio’s eyes blearily opened. He sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. “Isagani,” he murmured. “I fell asleep. I was supposed to be taking care of you. I’m sorry.”
Isagani blinked at him. He really did not know what to do. Part of him wanted to attack Basilio in a hug, part of him wanted to break down and cry. Instead he blurted out, “You have drool on your face.”
“Wha—” Basilio brought his hand up to his chin, and felt the dried-up trail of saliva. He groaned and wiped his face with his sleeve.
It brought a smile to Isagani’s face. A faint one, but a smile nonetheless.
Basilio’s features wrinkled. “Do not tease me,” he said.
“I’m not teasing you,” said Isagani. After a while, he added, “Where are we?”
“An inn. In the neighboring town,” Basilio said, and handed Isagani his spectacles from the side table. Isagani thanked him and put them on. The lenses were cracked. “I tried to do what I could to repair your glasses. At least they’re clean, now. Last night they had a lot of… well.”
Blood, he meant to say. Isagani knew he did. “The man,” he said, remembering last night. How dark it was… “The man who laid on the ground beside me. Where is he?”
Basilio closed his eyes, his brows knitted in what looked like remorse. “I could only carry one person,” he said. “Was he your friend?”
Isagani thought about this. With guilt he admitted to himself he did not even know the man’s name. “I knew him.”
A short silence.
“The inn, you said?” Isagani asked. “I would have thought this was your house. Where do you live, then?”
Basilio turned away, and started organizing his bottles of medicine. “Nowhere,” he said. “I… travel around.”
“Really?” said Isagani. “And you are still a doctor?”
“I’m not a doctor,” Basilio said, with some bitterness. “I did not finish, remember?”
“But you help people,” said Isagani. He motioned his head towards Basilio’s bottles. “You have your medicines. And bandages.”
“Fine, maybe I do,” Basilio huffed. “I have to do something for a living.”
“All right,” said Isagani, deciding not to push it. Clearly, Basilio was bothered. He shouldn’t have mentioned the doctor thing. “How did you find me?”
“Well,” Basilio said. “Like I’ve told you, I go around. I was passing through this town. I was just leaving, when the uprising broke out… I thought I saw your face among the rebels.”
He stopped talking. He took up a worn, beat-up briefcase and started setting his equipment inside. Isagani pursed his lips. “And then?” he prompted.
Basilio continued putting away his things, not looking at Isagani. “I looked for you,” he said.
All this time Isagani had assumed Basilio did not care for him, anymore. Basilio never visited him after what had happened, even if he knew where his town was. Basilio never wrote. Hearing those words… Isagani forced his eyes shut. He could not cry now.
“How come you never came to me? Never even tried to contact me?” Isagani asked. “How come it’s only now you are…”
“Gani,” said Basilio. He ducked his head, as if he were ashamed. “I was afraid.”
“Of what?” Isagani said, his voice breaking at the last syllable.
Basilio lifted his head and finally looked Isagani in the eye. Isagani noticed his hands were shaking. “I do not know,” said Basilio. “I… I do not know. Perhaps it was myself. Perhaps it was you. Perhaps I feared you would hate me.”
“Basilio!” said Isagani. He was wounded; for him to hate this man, who had been a brother to him, who had shared laughs and stories with him and brightened his days as a student! “I would never!”
Basilio turned away again. “I could not help being afraid.”
“Then why did you help me now?” said Isagani. “What made you suddenly lose your fears?”
Basilio whipped his head to face him, a look of indignation on his face. “Because you were dying, Isagani!”
“And so you should have let me died!” Isagani countered. In a quieter voice, he added, “I came here to die.”
Basilio let out a breath of disbelief, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “That’s foolishness.”
“It is not—“
“An act of stupidity, man! Do you even hear what you are saying?”
“It was for my country!” Isagani cried. “How could you call that stupidity? To give one’s life for his motherland is the greatest, most noble honor!”
“Greatest! Most noble!” Basilio repeated. “It achieves nothing! What will you do, once you have gone and gotten yourself killed? Will you continue fighting against the friars? Will you continue the struggle? No! You will not accomplish anything because you are dead!”
Isagani stared after him with a slack jaw. The Basilio he had known was always calm and composed, never quarrelsome. He was the one who always tried to restrain Isagani from arguing with others. Now here he was, passionately—no, aggressively defending his own opinion.
“That is not how it works,” Isagani tried to say. “Our deaths would inspire others…”
“To come to the same demise?” Basilio challenged.
Isagani narrowed his eyes in incredulity. “Would you say the same things to those who have already given up their lives in the past? Would you say these things to the martyred priests?”
“No, that is not what I mean! I respect those brave men. I strive to honor them, for their sacrifices not to be in vain. What I’m trying to say here is that I think your overly-Romantic notions of actively seeking death for the sake of the country is preposterous!” said Basilio. He shook his head. “I do not want to fight with you, Isagani. But the Inang Bayan does not need your blood.” He took Isagani’s hands and brought them to his chest. “She needs your mind, and your heart. She needs your words. She needs you alive.” He paused. “And so do I.”
“Basilio…”
“I have nothing,” Basilio said. “Everyone—everyone in my life has left me. My mother is dead, and so is my brother… Juli, my beloved Juli, her kind family… even Kapitan Tiago, who gave me my education and a roof to sleep under, is gone. And you, my friend, will you abandon me as well? Will you leave me lonely and friendless?”
“No,” Isagani croaked. “No, Basilio, I’m here.”
But Basilio had crouched forward, his head bent down and his hands over his eyes. The sight of his shaking shoulders terrified Isagani. Carefully, he reached out and put his hand around Basilio’s frame, wanting and trying to soothe him. He feared Basilio did not hear what he had said.
“Basilio, I’m here,” he repeated, willing his voice to be stronger despite his pain. “I’m staying with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Basilio lifted his head, and stared into Isagani’s eyes.
“I’m not,” Isagani assured him.
Basilio stared at him longer, and after a while he finally let out a deep sigh, his shoulders loosening. Isagani drew him closer into an embrace, holding him tightly. Basilio wrapped his arms around Isagani’s waist.
“Thank God,” Basilio whispered into his shoulder. Isagani stroked his hair, remembering how he used to do the same to the Paulita he once knew, when comforting her.
“You will get in trouble for helping me, you know,” said Isagani, after a while.
For a few seconds, Basilio did not answer. Then, quietly, “Maybe.”
“Basilio…”
“We’ll just have to leave town as soon as you can walk,” said Basilio. He sighed into the crook of Isagani’s neck. “May God protect us on our journey…”
“You don’t have to do this for me,” said Isagani.
Basilio shook his head. “I couldn’t do that.”
“You shouldn’t endanger yourself for me.”
“I cannot do that.”
“Basilio, you cannot—“
Basilio held tightly onto the front of Isagani’s battered shirt. “You are the only one I have left,” he said. “And I know I would not be the only one to mourn you.”
Isagani drew in a sharp breath. “My uncle,” he said with dreadful regret. “I had only left him a note… I did not write anything except to tell him not to wait for me any longer. His poor soul! He thinks I am dead!”
Basilio shushed him gently, putting a hand on his heart. “Not for long,” he said. “I shall bring you back, remember? Do not fret. It will be all right.”
Isagani breathed in deeply, then exhaled, trying to calm down. He continued stroking Basilio’s hair. He could not stop thinking about the hurt Basilio’s words throughout their conversation had betrayed. In him Isagani recognized something familiar: emptiness, loneliness. The way he had lived his own life for the past year.
Except Basilio had lost more than he had—Basilio had lost completely everything. Isagani, at the very least, had his uncle, and his sea. In that moment there was only one thought in Isagani’s mind: I want to see him smiling, always.
After all, Basilio, to him, had always been an ocean.
Isagani supposed that was why he was always been drawn to him, because Basilio gave him a sense of home, of warmth. But Basilio’s ocean was not the same as the one Isagani described to the jeweller Simoun, on that day aboard the boat a lifetime ago—no, Basilio’s ocean was the morning’s ocean, when the breeze was still cool and the waves lapped gently at the shore, as if greeting an old friend. When the seabirds sang their own strange little songs, and the early sun shone light on serene rolling hills of blue.
“There’s a town that I know of,” Isagani whispered. “With lush forests and a beautiful sea… to swim through its waters is to be blessed. As if God himself is smiling down upon you.”
Basilio parted from Isagani, and looked at him with a faded smile. “I think I’ve heard of this town,” he said. “You always speak of it.”
Isagani met his smile with his own. “The town’s old physician has just passed away,” he said. “They are in need of a doctor.”
Basilio was silent.
“One who is kind, and compassionate,” Isagani continued, “who would love and treat every patient like a brother or sister.”
Isagani held out his palms to Basilio. It was a question.
Basilio took hold of his hands, squeezed them, and nodded.