Translated from Iloko by Dr. Rosalina T. Bumatay-Cruz

TATA Ibong’s karomata has left but Jorge Sanchez hasn’t budged from where he alighted.  His eyes are directed to the narrow grove which tonight is like a long grotto leading him to his Grandfather’s house. Always, the end of the path reminds him of the past which gave rise to and molded his being. To which even in these days, his wisdom and strength and dreams return — the past which will guide him so that he may pave the way for his children’s future. At the end of the path, the door of his natal home is always open, and he remembers his young body waiting at the stairs for his Father to alight from the karomata when he arrived from Carmen where he taught. It is still the same world, he thought: like in that dawn when he was born, so is he as young again in this his visit, as when he ran, barefoot, in shorts. He is here again so that he may luxuriate in all things associated with this place, so that he may strengthen the grip of the primal root that sprung in him: for aren’t all creatures such that in one chapter of their lives, they need to touch once more their roots and sources and then continue their wanderings in the world?

On both sides of the path, the starry sky cut through the torn and pointed and bladed banana leaves, and the seeming turkey’s tail of the bamboo tops and the seeming goosefeet leaves of the breadfruit tree, so that with the gust of the wind, the trail gathered the rustling and creaking of the orchard. And from each side, windows lighted in succession, eastward and westward, as if they were hanging in the darkness. From the village depths, two roosters replied to one another’s crowing.
 
So sweet a feeling crept in Jorge Sanchez’s being. Here I am again, he said.

In the east, like roots, were the lightning flashes among the gathering clouds followed by thunder. Jorge saw the end of the path: the house, the stairs! And the skillful bat suddenly caught in the light, like a soul that went ahead into that house to which he was going!

A suddenness gripped his feet. So cool was the wind that refreshed the path, and starting to vanish were the stars. In a little while, it would rain.

On his right, he carried the folder which contained the twelve chapters of his novel, which he would sell to Bannawag in Manila, while his other hand held his overnight bag.
     
Dark was the path but he didn’t have to grope his way: no matter if he was in the cities of Manila and Dagupan, no matter if he was studying in the University of the Philippines, no matter if he worked in the mountains of Sierra Madre and the Visayas — here were his soul, his dreams, his vision walking along this path, running on this path. This was the only path on which he walked; there was no other that would lead him to his roots, the only way to wisdom and strength and the future which links him to his children, him to his Father, his Father to his lelong.    

He likes the pervasive aroma of the palay chaffs spread on the path supple like rubber foam that gives when he steps upon them, scattering when he trips on them, molded by the hardened and moist dung of carabao, cow, horse, and goat. From the nearest house, he hears an old man teaching the dallang to his grandson. He hardly understands the utterance from the old man’s lips but round and lively is that from the child’s. Jorge Sanchez smiled: that hasn’t been written yet but it will never be lost, he thought.

It was still one of the biggest houses in Tomana. His Grandfather built it then with his own sweat out of the rich soil of Rosales earth. In the sala of that house, the Ilokano leaders of the two wars held their meetings. And as Jorge stands now before it, he hears again the march of history through the words of his Grandfather. He was born in this house, almost as old as time, a house that merely laughed at the well-known typhoons and smiled at the eroding floods of the Agno River. Firm as the universal faith, priceless as eternal wisdom, it tells a beautiful past and has witnessed the passing of generations.

The big dalipawen is still at the east side of the house and the baliti is on the left. Beside the firefly-laden damortis, he saw three bats flying among the blooming China cotton trees. Etched again were the lightning flashes like roots. Ah, at such a time, expect the inhabitants in those trees to come out! That is the voice of his Grandmother. Ha! Ha! laughed Jorge Sanchez inside him.

“Lelang! Lelong! Lelong! Lelang!”

Small feet pattered in the house and a young face appeared in the big window. It’s Kisikisi, the youngest child of Tata Paniong, his uncle.

“Inang Baket! Manong Jorge is here! It’s Manong Jorge!”

In the halo of the lamp she carried, the wrinkles on the old woman’s cheeks lengthened and formed a deeper crescent when she recognized Jorge, and the small irises winked that swam beneath her whitish brows.  Jorge remembered the fair ledda flowers of the Sierra Madre in September now that he glanced at his Grandmother’s hair.

When the lamp was placed before the bosom on which his Father used to suck, immediately her shadow left and bent over the wall and ceiling of the house; it was so large you’d think it would encompass all parts where they stood while Jorge’s shadow was thrown outdoors and landed on the branches and leaves of the tree near the stairs. Greater than his Apong Baket’s shadow was his reverence like the destiny and strength of his native house — eternal.

And before the old woman could utter a word, he had held the bony and shrunken hand and kissed it. He smiled when he wafted the flavor of dried fish with tomatoes from the old woman’s palm.

“Where did you come from?”

“From home, Lelang. I’m going to Manila. Where’s Lelong?”

“He’s in the kitchen, eating.”

“Are you through?”

“Not yet. Join us.” She took the folder and gave it to Kisikisi. “Bring it to his room.”
 
Kisikisi took the folder and the overnight bag to Jorge’s room.

Jorge held the lamp, placed his arm on the old woman’s shoulder, and they went to the kitchen. Their big shadows merged on the wall and ceiling and only their tall and low heads parted. They caught up with the old man eating still. His left foot was raised on the chair but he quickly lowered it when he saw his grandson. His ancient eyes sparkled and he gave his left hand to Jorge. Again Jorge wafted from his Lelong’s hand their evening meal. He sat beside the old man who set before him their evening meal.

“How are the children?”

“They are all right, Lelong.”

“Your adi likes to read your stories. He only waits for Bannawag.”

Jorge winked at Kisikisi who was smiling as he chewed.

The plants surrounding the kitchen rustled and their tops whipped the wall. The flame of the lamp was bent but the wick wasn’t torn off. Jorge’s big palm encircled the flame till it recovered again.

Suddenly the yard brightened and thunder exploded. Next followed a southward roar in the firmament, and more strongly, the wind whipped the treetops against the wall. Kisikisi closed the dining room window.

“A strong rain will come,” said his Grandmother.

“Doesn’t it drip in my bedroom?”

“No. Kisikisi sleeps there.”

In yet another slashing of the wind, they heard a million patterings on the corrugated iron roof. Lightning and thunder took revenge on each other.

“The windows, Kisi, close awhile,” said his Grandmother.

Jorge and his Grandfather had stood up. They went to the sala. How the windows clashed when Kisikisi closed them.

His Grandfather produced his rolled tobacco, then lighted it from the lamp on the table. Jorge watched the hollows form on his Grandfather’s cheeks as he sucked and his big fingers quivered. The lamp light brightened the creases on his face that little by little drained all signs of the well-known manliness and handsomeness. But in him — in Jorge — is all the youthfulness of the old man although it is no longer like the manliness that subdues the enemy but rather the manliness in the field of Iloko Literature.

He lighted a cigarette, then entered his room in order to change into bedclothes.  He wore his old slippers which he used every time he visited.
The thunder that roared seemed to fall on the roof of the house but Jorge couldn’t feel frightened. The countless patterings of rain on the roof were deafening and such did the rain hit the windows. As he stood by the rattan bed, all at once shown the room and a pale face appeared on the post. The mirror, he had said: how pale the face that appeared there, a paleness brought by many nights of searching for the truth and their destiny as a clan.

He approached the big shelf containing manuscripts and one by one he opened and scanned them. He has read all the books on the shelf: the printed experiences of many generations of the swarthy race written by the great who sprang from their clan, from the late Sabas Sanchez to Jaime Sanchez Castro. As he turned through the thick writings, his throat uttered the words: I’ll surpass them all!

He heard his Grandmother and Kisikisi enter the room. An anglem was on a plate Kisikisi placed in the corner of the room as his Grandmother shrouded the mirror on the post.

“Doesn’t the rain splatter?”

“No, Lelang.”

The old woman brought out a blanket and pillow from the adjoining room. “Kisi will sleep with his Grandfather,” said the old woman. “He might keep you up all night if he lies with you.”

Jorge smiled. The last time he visited, he told stories to Kisikisi the whole night.

After fixing his bed, the old woman left. The smoke of the anglem turned along the corner of the wall and ascended like a snake, but all at once the wind came in, pushing and dispersing it from its top down through its source. The wind pressed against the walls. Afterwards, the smoke was again turning towards the ceiling. Jorge smiled, looked at the shrouded mirror and then at Kisikisi who was reading the first chapter of his novel.

“Kisi, do you believe that a house cannot be struck by lightning if there is an anglem and if the mirror is shrouded?”

The child smiled: his eyes sparkled like the sparkling he saw earlier in his Grandfather’s eyes. “….and if it has no gecko,” added Kisikisi.

“Do you believe it?” pursued Jorge.

The child only smiled. “Lelang said so. Do you believe it, Manong?”

He smiled in turn. “I did then,” he said. “But not anymore. Though it’s beautiful when you think of it. Even if you don’t believe it. That’s the reason I placed a lightning rod up there.”

“The wire?”

He nodded.

“Manong, this is nice….” He pointed to the manuscript he was reading.

“Read carefully, okay?”

He left the room. His Grandfather was still sitting on the kalumpio by the closed window, quietly sucking his rolled tobacco, serene in the brightness of the lamp, and not unlike the ancient statues carved by the early geniuses, imbued with deep mystery and meaning, indestructable and eternal.  The lighted end of the rolled tobacco blazed and the ancient eyes sparkled again.

His Grandmother was reading the last chapter of the Bible. How the marble-like eyes swam above the durable spectacles that sat on her small nose. On the sill of the closed window coiled the smoke of the anglem with its tip lighted and dangling.

Jorge sat on the other kalumpio facing the old man. He leaned back and placed his feet on the window sill. His tired muscles relaxed, his sanctuary now was delightfully refreshing and open, and he was again in the phase of his youth under the usual protection of the old house.

“Your younger brothers and sisters, your Father, they haven’t visited,” said his Grandfather in a mild voice.

“In summer, Lelong. They said they would all come for a vacation here.”

“The children have probably grown now. We long so much to see them,” said his Grandfather. “Especially Ponso…it’s been a long time since he last came here.”

They were grounded in different places of the country — his brothers and sisters also born in this house, who up to now race against time gathering treasures that will keep them up with the Joneses; who up to now are like wandering creatures in the seeming wilderness of the city, who breathe not in the fast pace of time, who have not enough time to reflect on the deepest and sweetest spring and meaning of life. Instead their strength gradually wanes in their desire to be powerful, and neither can the place where they shall bury their roots strengthen their feelings and thoughts in whatever society, and the unknown future. Perhaps they could not even picture clearly now the countenance of these old folks and the contents of their house or they could even have forgotten about the baliti that has killed the tree that gave it life or about the dalipawen they feared when they wore short pants, or about the anglem and the shrouded mirror in the madness of lightning. Jorge sighed: they are lost, he said. They ought to come in summer.   

He saw the anglem on the window sill falling. The small sparks splattered but it wasn’t extinguished; it was like a big, whitish and motionless centiped where it fell. So beautifully coiled up its thin smoke.

“Let me, Lelang,” he went ahead of the old woman. He picked up the anglem and nicely put it back on the window sill.

The windowpanes shuddered with the punch of the branch-breaking wind and the grooves of the window sill filled with water.  They heard the rustling of the branches in the yard outside, the sala shone and thunder roared like the rage and cruelty and thunder in the creation of a world. Beautiful was the look of his Grandmother at the anglem, at the shrouded mirror, and calm was his Grandfather sucking his rolled tobacco, when Jorge looked at that part of the house where he placed the lightning rod that would ward off the destructive lightning.

“How many books have you written?” his Grandfather addressed him.

“Ten, Lelong,” he smiled.

“You’re well-known then. You’ll be better known then your late Tata Jaime. You all know so much now. Unlike us then….”

“But your stories were what I wrote, Lelong. The readers love them.”

“They believe them?”

“They do, Lelong. They say your experiences were beautiful.”

The old man smiled. “I’m grateful. But, Jorge, better write the book that will show the true portrait of the Ilokanos, the past, the present, and the future.”

“Perhaps that will be my last book, Lelong.” Suddenly, he smiled. “Ah, but then I shall be too old.”

“Start now while you are still young. Look at your Tata Jaime. He died without starting his last book. Yes, truly, he had conceptualized it. But it wasn’t written on paper to be read. He brought the most beautiful book to his grave!” The old man shook his head.
     

JORGE opened the window of his bedroom. He did not remove his gaze from the two tall trees in the yard, which rose heavenwards in the darkness as fierce lightnings descend, black and mighty and majestic in the silvery rain pouring from heaven.

Suddenly, lightning struck the heaven and in a wink, all parts of the yard and his bedroom glinted, and he saw everything in front of him: brighter than the sun. And a numbing power descended, bent at the lightning rod as if charmed by it, clasped it, then sucked by the ground, and then a profound darkness returned.  The house shook at the resounding thunder. As if that was the climax of a terrible creation, as if that ended nature’s rage. He couldn’t see anything outside. He knew it was darker after the dazzlement of lightning than the darkness of night. But everything around him was alive.     

He closed the window. Again, he inhaled the anglem in the corner. He saw a small amber in the corner and only the billow of smoke reached by its light could be seen. These are all a part of them, he thought. He knew that it wasn’t the anglem that protected the house but the lightning rod. But he could never disregard that anglem because it aroused his intellect into giving it a new meaning in his own time and the succeeding generations.

He groped for his bed, blanket, and pillow, then slowly lay down. -30-

 
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Philippine Humanities Review, Rebyu ng Arte at Literatura ng Pilipinas, Volume 4, c. 2000, College of Arts and Letters, University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City. Pp. 116-133. With the original Iloko text.

Anglem was first published in Iloko in Bannawag, December 25, 1961 issue, p.3, later included in Hidalgo’s collection of short stories, Bituen Ti Rosales Ken Dadduma Pay a Sarita (Star of Rosales And Other Stories), Ilokano Publishing House, c. 1969, pp, 47-55.
NOTE: Anglem, in this story, is a piece of clothe torn, usually, from an old clothe used in the kitchen, about three inches long and two inches wide, gently twisted round and lighted at one end then put on a plate and placed strategically in different parts of the house. When the thunderstorm is over, the anglem is disposed.

Posted with permission from the author.

 Read more about the author HERE.

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