The western sky was dappled in crimson by the time Father opened the door to her hut prison.
"Come with me," he beckoned in his usually sturdy tone, one hand firmly clutching the kris* knife at his wrist.
He eyed the trace of caked blood on Ilunin's chin. "Here." He wiped the gecko's remains off her face with his knuckles. "Mother better be right. If this is nothing but a farce born from your insolence, being exiled is the least of your worries, I warn you."
Even as he said that, the domineering complexion Lakan naturally exuded dwindled like fire in the wind. Ilunin smelled something from him now that she hadn't smelled before. A tinge of fear. Despair. And most evidently, the cloud of confusion.
Suddenly he clutched her wrist, not ungently, as though searching for something there. She felt her pulse beneath his grip. And he did too.
Tugging at her, he led her out of the village.
It seemed Ilunin was being dragged along again. She was always looking at the back of their heads, wondering what this girl was to them. She realized that indeed the boy and his father were very much alike. Of all Lakan's children, it was the youngest that most resembled him. Even the backs of their hair were similar.
Curls that draped past his shoulder, shoulders that could lift probably three of her. He looks so strong. Will I be able to kill him?
It was natural to protect the weak and fear the strong. It was natural to fight or run away. This time, Ilunin's mind raced to surmise her best shot at survival.
Coming to this place was the first mistake. No, letting the boy take her was.
When the dread threatened to overwhelm her heart, a wind blew from the direction of the old towering acacias, rustling with a whisper that seemed to resonate within her. "...become..."
Her Creator's voice calmed her down at least. Although Ilunin was still at a loss for what She wanted from her.
The place Father took her was a dome-roofed thatched hut that had no walls. It only had huge pillars hewn from the oldest and sturdiest apitongs. Straight as an arrow, they point from the cold earth to the roof, the very center of which was an empty window to the red-lit sky. And directly beneath it burned a hearth made of stones, studded with a couple of incense sticks of oil-dipped bamboo. The scent that wafted from there seemed to calm a leaf-blood's mind. But to Ilunin, it was a pungent repugnant odor, akin to the smell of the dead.
If the shadow in front of her did not move to bow to Lakan, Ilunin would have mistaken it for a massive anito*.
"Lakan, please take a seat," the babaylan* muttered in a deep voice. She looked feminine but she had a man's timber. Ilunin remembered her to be Dalang, the most blessed in her village in the art of spirits.
Her ornaments dangled and clattered as she moved, her long abaca skirt shuffling and flowing in the still air as though there was a mysterious force disturbing them.
Dalang seemed to float as she glided towards Ilunin on light soundless feet. Strikingly, she did not smell of anything. It was as though she was a young fawn, scentless to avoid the attention of predators.
The babaylan sniffed her, albeit inconspicuously. Her touch was soft yet her glare was piercing. It was different from her Creator but warmth radiated from her very eyes the same way the fire in the hearth warmed the wall-less shelter. Fervently. And Growing.
Mother arrived carrying a wrap of banana. Blood was dripping from it, drenching the soil dark. She gave Ilunin a wary glance as she knelt on the altar and laid it on the offering stone before the flame. The leaves unrolled as she did so, unveiling a freshly deplumed fowl. A duck by the look of its bill.
They were far away from the village walls, and closer to the woods. The night was almost upon them. And with it crawled its own type of creatures. Words of caution bobbed up to the surface of Ilunin's borrowed memory. The dark brought perils and mysteries that a human like her should not touch. Ilunin found herself cowering, more by instinct than intention.
"Do not be afraid Ilunin, this shrine is respected by villagers and the spirits alike. As long as the price is paid, they will not hurt us," the babaylan assured her, gliding to her spot on the other side of the flame.
Inside the shrine, yes. But the way back to the village was another matter. Will one duck be enough for all the entities hiding in the darkness? Not that it mattered to Ilunin.
The babaylan continued, "The twilight is nearly over. This is the most potent time to tap on the thread that connects us to our ancestors, and the spirits that look over Ibalon. Thus we must hurry."
Apo came last, together with Ilunin's eldest brother Iwangil. A dark tinge adorned the length of his nose where Ilunin's fist had struck. Covered in thick ointment, it glistened in the faint light of the shrine. Iwangil regarded her with a new look - one that consisted of ire and worry. "Sit close to Dalang," he shoved Ilunin. Gently.
Sorrow. That was the color of his complexion. That made Ilunin realize the gravity of the situation she was in.
Leaf-bloods knew grief. But earthen blood knew it better. Her heart began to race with fervor. They know. She needed to escape. Escape to where? In this perilous time of day? If she looked far enough into the woods, into the shadows the fingers of twilight could not reach, she could sense the beings waiting in ambush. For her. For every leaf-blood and earthen.
The strong devours the weak. That was the earthen rule. No exceptions. A rule she should accept. But the very thought of dying kept her frozen in place.
Past the trees. There.
In that darkening shadow. There.
Perched on that flimsy twig. There.
Another. There.
There.
Apo walked past everyone slumped on rattan mats laid on cold earth and whispered something to the flame before looking skyward. Then she muttered some more inaudible prayers.
"I am sorry," Dalang uttered before producing a rope of abaca from her little wooden box that seemed to hold everything. "Do not resist."
Ilunin didn't. She was obedient. Through the whole ordeal, her infantile mind was somewhere else.
They told her to get to her knees as the babaylan bound her arms to her body. All she could feel was the faintest growl from deep within the trees.
They started to sing enchantments. The babaylan danced around the fire, chanting in an ululating tone as she howled at the hole in the roof. The flames burst and moved to her rhythm as though trying to catch hold of her glinting trinkets. All Ilunin could hear was the soft thuds of pads on soil, predators stalking their prey.
She wondered why the babaylan had not sensed them. Afterall, she was the closest a leaf-blood could come to be earthen.
Out of nowhere, a chicken egg was placed on her palms. She cupped it tenderly like she was told. The twilight had finally yielded to the darkness. The window in the roof showed stars. The blaze in the hearth barely reached the edge of the woods.
The babaylan took the egg from her, painting its shell with one stroke of glistening oil with her finger, praying in earnest as she did so.
Throughout the whole ritual the babaylan had been howling and growling, dancing and leaping. Her throat should have given up, she should be panting for breath. Yet in the calmest voice, she announced over the party.
"Whether you are Ilunin or not, our ancestors will tell us." She held up the marked egg to catch the soot of the incense sticks she had been dancing with.
Ilunin watched as the oil mark darkened, revealing an arbitrary shape there that would decide her fate.
Dalang's eyes rounded but the others on the other side of the hearth would not be able to see. They were obscured by the crackling fire.
The babaylan held the egg closer to the flame as if to recheck. That was when she turned to the direction of the forest. Tree and shadow, there was no way to tell them apart. The glare of the fire could only reach so far.
But Ilunin and the babaylan could see with more than their eyes. The dark that stared back at them had its own sort of eyes. Hundreds of them. You should have brought more than one duck, Ilunin thought, with a tad bit of pride for her own race and an I told you so. But with this sheer number of creatures ready to pounce on them, Ilunin was equally in danger.
The babaylan dropped her head in thought.
"What is it, Dalang? Was my daughter really spirited away?" Father said over the fire, getting to his feet.
A soft wind stirred the flames. ...become... Ilunin heard it say. Even now, her Creator seemed to look after her. But then, what did She want?
The babaylan regarded Ilunin with those eyes that mirrored the fire in the hearth, finally saying, "No, she is right here."
* * * * * * * *
Footnotes
kris - a type of traditional blade known for its distinctive patterning. A kris can have a straight or wavy blade.
anito - a carved wooden figure that represents the spirits worshipped during the pre-colonial era
babaylan - shamans said to have the ability to communicate with the dead. They can be women or feminized men.