"They shed innocent blood, the blood of their sons and daughters, whom they sacrificed to the idols of Canaan, and the land was desecrated with their blood"
Psalm 106:38
Far from the piercing silence of the sultry summer night in the pueblo; where the townsmen are in the midst of their slumber; inlands. It is where only few people have gone to; away from the womb of a land which has long surrendered to its captor. There gathers a group of people hidden from the inquisition.
In front of a big fire they settle; sitting still facing the Jalaur river. Old men, women and children; all humming an incantation which sounds more like a hissing; but louder and longer; blankly staring at the group of women dancing on the other side of the fire.
Three women in white dresses with red cloth draping on the side of their skirts are dancing hysterically not in harmony with each other. Dancing against the music a group of young lads create from beating dabakan, a type of drum; two lads blowing trumpets made out of carabao horns; two children hitting babandil gongs; collectively making queasy tune along with hissing sounds the chanting audience make.
The center of the spectacle is an old woman dressed in white with crimson overskirt draping on the dusty ground. Her disheveled hair throwing in the damp air as she dances convulsively her way through the crowd from behind; reciting a different incantation louder than the rest. On her hands she holds a live kid goat by its neck on her left; and a crescent-shaped blade with carabao horns as its handle on her right. As she makes her way along the dancing women, the invocation only gets wilder. The Babaylan makes her final stop at the center of the show now facing the crowd; lifts her hands, looks up to the moon, releases a distinct whimper which signals silence from the others.
The cackling of the dry woods consumed by the big fire overcomes the silence. Then the Babaylan stabs the goat's neck with the crescent – shaped blade as the animal cries frantically. Blood flows from the cadaver to the ground; the crowd resumes their chanting along with the sound of the band
"Come unto me!" she says pointing to a man seated in front of the audience; her voice is deep, her eyes glaring
From the pack rises a man with an intrepid stance in burgundy trousers. He holds a bolo on his right hand; unsheathes it and reveals a crescent – shaped blade with carabao horns for its handle; same as the Babaylan's; as he makes his way to her leaving behind him the chanting crowd
Before the Babaylan he kneels; raises his bolo which glistens as the moon light hits its blade. The old woman bows her head; still holding the goat's corpse with blood flowing from its wound; spits on the man's bolo and laces its blade with her saliva. The music and incantations continue but brassier, rougher and the dances more delirious. The children are cheering, the old women join the babaylans dancing in circle throwing their shawls away, and the men are waving their bolos in the air howling like fervent vagrant dogs at the moon which silently watches over them in the night sky. They seem to be lost in their own realm detached from the mother land that sleeps with her enemy in that humid summer night.