When the Elephants Dance (14 page)

I
N OUR VILLAGE
of Baclayon in Bohol, there was always talk of an old fisherman who carried a powerful amulet. People said he could command the sea with it. Some mused that he was really the Jonah mentioned in the Bible, that the story of Jonah and the whale was really his story, but who can say? The conversation surrounding him was always dark and consummated in the smallest of whispers. It was taboo to speak his name, blasphemy.

The stories were always different. He could send a swarm of bees to sting an enemy. He could make himself like one of the trees in the forest. If you heard someone whisper your name at night or whistle, you should never answer back, for it was he calling. I only heard pieces, for the grown-ups would always shut their mouths tightly when I walked by. It possessed me. I wanted to know the whole of it, so I went in search of him.

I stand before you now an accomplished journalist at twenty-three. I write for the
Manila Herald
, and I assure you I am quite content with my achievements. But long ago, I used to tell elaborate lies where I was always the hero. Anything to impress my father.

My father was rich. He gave me everything you could think of to give a son. But he kept the one thing I desired most. Ah, there is always the one thing, isn’t there? But it wasn’t of material value. All I wanted was my father’s time.

At fourteen I was already this tall, this broad in the shoulders. I never had to work hard at attracting women, of any age. It made for some very interesting situations. But to my father, I was invisible. As for my mother, she was like a delicate bird, always elusive. She would perch beside me for a few seconds each day. She never stayed long enough to talk. Everything she said was a cliché, or a laugh, one line, a pat on the head, and then she was gone.

My parents were always distant, as if we were shouting at one another from opposing cliffs, with no bridge, no way to get close. I was carted to social gatherings every other day. I was left to play and bunk with strange children until Mother and Father were ready to return home. I was bought extravagant gifts to occupy myself. Grandfather was the only one who was affectionate to me. But an old man who sits by the window each day is not much of an instructor on the ways to become a man.

I prayed in my heart for a real father, since the one I had been given was a failure to me. That was my deepest wish, and my deepest sorrow. So it is not surprising, really, who answered my prayers.

W
HEN
I
FIRST
became interested in Mang Minno, I knew this much, that he made his living catching and selling fish and that he had become very wealthy from it. Enough to buy his way into our social circles. He even had a family, a wife and three children. They were all very embarrassed by him. To them he did not exist. He refused to live in the grand house he had bought for them and insisted on the treehouse by the sea. After a time his family became very prominent in the elite circles, and one day his eldest daughter, Amalia, came by and asked that her father not visit anymore. She asked his permission to tell her
friends that he was a distant uncle and that her father was dead. Can you imagine how that must have broken the old man’s heart? To have your own daughter ask this of you?

I shall never forget his name, for Minno reminds me of a fish—
minnow
, you see?

O
NE DAY AT
the market I stumbled across two fishermen taking their siesta with cold coffee and their catch stored in nearby baskets filled with ice and shaded from the sun. They were trading stories about Mang Minno. One man shivered and discouraged the other from saying anything further. When I asked them to tell me more, they quickly took their belongings and bade me good day. Their quiet served only to intrigue me more.

People told me Mang Minno was crazy, that he worshiped the devil, and that that was how he came back with so many fish each day. He had bargained his soul in exchange for money for his family. I was confused, you see, for I had always associated being a fisherman with Jesus of Nazareth, the fisherman of souls. I was not afraid.

T
HAT AFTERNOON
I went in search of Mang Minno. I scoured the fish markets. I waited for hours, but he never showed. Then the thought struck me. Where better to find a fisherman than his special fishing hole? I asked the market owner, Mang Saro. “Where does Mang Minno hunt for these fishes?”

Mang Saro looked startled. “Why do you want to know? Stay away from him. Besides, there is no one special place for him. Everywhere is special, you see? He calls them, they come. Black magic,” Mang Saro whispered with large eyes.

“What do you mean?” I scoffed. I could see my tone offended him.

“The
antíng-antíng
he wears, it brings the fish. But he is too old now. It weighs on him, you see? As he gets older. If he does not give away the medallion soon, it will drag him down.”

When I questioned him more, Mang Saro clamped his mouth tight on a soggy cigarette and turned his back on me. I tried to goad him further to see what else he would let slip.

“You’re frightened of an old man? I shall tell everyone how much of a coward you are.”

Mang Saro turned and tossed the cigarette stub at me.

“Hey!” I shouted.

“Get away from me, unwanted boy. Tell your grandpa to teach you manners. Go—” He gestured with his hands, his face like one who smelled something disgusting.

I remained with my fists clenched.

He placed his hands on his hips. “What, what will you do? You are tall, yes, but you have none of your grandfather’s character. Go home, mama’s boy.” He laughed. Mang Saro obviously knew more about goading than I did.

I left with my tail between my legs.

I
WALKED HOME
at the end of the day frustrated, but more determined. I went through the woods, using a shortcut. As I walked, I began to have the sensation that I was lost. The woods seemed alien to me, though I had walked them a hundred times. Has this tree always been here? I asked myself. This hill, why have I not noticed it before? I stopped and looked around, frightened. I shook the feeling.
This is foolishness. You have made a wrong turn somewhere. Don’t be such a sissy
. But the hair on my neck was standing on end, and my heart was playing at a tempo that made it hard to breathe. I could hear whispering and movement. And I know you will not believe it, but I heard the kind of whispering that one would imagine a fish would make when talking to another fish. Doesn’t that sound crazy?

Then I realized what else was bothering me. The forest, usually blanketed with rows of chattering mynah birds, scurrying lizards, and snapping crickets, was quiet. Not a bird could be seen, though I squinted my eyes at every coconut tree. The silence was unnerving. All was quiet, except for the fish sounds. It was like the cackle dolphins make, but deeper in pitch, liquid somehow. I began to hear other noises as well. I heard something like a waterfall, or rainfall, or a stream. Soon, the sound of running water was everywhere, the taste of it in my mouth.

I took a step to go, but my foot sank into swamp water. I looked down, incredulous. All around me was a kind of bayou. I was taking quick, short breaths at a time. When had the forest ended and the water begun? I couldn’t remember leaving the forest. I stayed very still, all the while my mouth tasting cool water, my ears hearing running water. I turned in a circle. I could feel the panic rising, and then I saw him. He was staring right at me, as if he had been there all along, waiting for me to pick him out from the tall swamp grass.

He was dark, like the warlike Igorot tribes of the Cordillera Central. He wore an old gray shirt, rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His face was wide, his dark eyes dull, yet watchful.

“Sino ang tumatawag sa akin?”
he asked. Who is calling me?

“M-Mang Minno,” I stammered.

He nodded slowly, then looked down into the waters. He canted his head, as if listening. When he looked back to me he said my name: “Roman Flores.”

I nearly fell backward. That was when I saw the shadows in the murky water, dark ink taking form around my feet. Fish all around me, weaving in between my feet. Mere fish, but they alarmed me. There was something different about them. I could see they had thought, and that was what frightened me the most. They gathered around and watched me expectantly, a swirl of metallic colors. They did not scatter as I turned and surveyed them.

A group of twelve in particular hovered near me. There was a difference in their appearance from the others. Each had a bright stripe of violet down the length of their backs. Their fins cast the kind of glow a candle gives off. They appeared to watch me with great interest.

“What is it you want, Roman? State what it is. The tribunal is listening.”

“The tribunal? Uh … I come to ask … I want to become a fisherman.” My hands shook as I watched the purple fishes.

He stood still at my words, then looked off toward the forest of trees. The trees had reappeared somehow. The only way I can describe it is it was as if the forest had become flooded by the ocean, the same forest, only filled with water. I could feel my feet solidly on the ground, but when I looked down I could not see past the murky waters. He studied my arms, the set of my shoulders, and the way my arms were soft from lack of work.

“Go home, Roman. Do not speak my name again.” He turned, and as he started to walk away, the fish moved from around me and followed him.

I was so amazed by the sight that for a moment, I lost my voice. By the time I found it, he had almost disappeared into the trees. “Wait, Mang Minno. I would give anything to become like you. My family is starving.” It came naturally, this lie.

I explained how my family worked without sleep, job after job. I think the desperation in my voice was what gave him pause. He seemed to pick through the truth in my words. He moved toward me, his dark eyes almost violet. The tribunal surrounded me again, touching noses. They looked upward at me, as if discussing my case with one another. They seemed to come to a decision, and though still surrounding my feet, they looked toward him.

Mang Minno nodded to them. “Perhaps, perhaps.” His voice became gentle. “Come back tomorrow. Sleep tonight, and in the morning let the sun wash over you to clear your thinking.” At his words the fishes swam violently between us. “Silence!” he bellowed. I thought he had gone mad. “I am weary,
Roman. But I must be certain. Come back. I ask only this: If you decide to return, remember the feel of the sun upon you.”

“Yes, sir. How will I find you?”

“The same as today. Begin at the edge of the forest where the rays of the sun do not touch the ground, then call out my name. Farewell.” He turned and walked away.

“Tomorrow.” I cupped my hands together and called out to him. Already he was at the edge of darkness, surrounded by trees. No sooner had the words left my mouth than the forest became as it had always been. There was no water at my feet; my legs and pants were completely dry. I turned in a tight circle, and there were all the green-billed
malkoha
birds perched in the trees, grooming their long tails and chattering happily. I took a deep breath and ran home.

T
HAT NIGHT, ALL
was as usual, and as I eased into the simplicity of our evening I began to wonder if I had imagined it all. I went to my room to check my bed, to see if it had been slept in. There was always the chance I had fallen asleep and dreamt it entirely. The maid called us to dinner and I sat down to eat, mentally scratching my head.

She had prepared my favorite dish, lugao with manok, the warm rice and chicken stew. I stirred the bowl, and the green onions and slivers of ginger appeared hidden in the thick porridge. I squeezed a slice of lemon over it and added a jolt of the pungent fish sauce known as patis, my mouth already watering. If you put just the right amount, the salty flavor of the sauce complements the sweetness of the ginger; too much and you have to throw out the whole bowl and start again.

I was still pondering my afternoon, allowing the steam from the bowl to rise and cool, when my parents walked in. My father sat down at the table and flapped open the day’s news with a quick snap of his hands. He was dressed in a light gray Western vest with matching trousers. He and my mother were both dressed to go out for the evening. I glanced over their clothing with annoyance. They would be leaving us again.

I looked at my older brother, Roger, absorbed in his bowl of lugao. He spoke without looking up from his stew. “Daniel Romero is going to study in the States, Papa. When will we look into the schools I shall attend? Daniel’s father is buying him a car.”

I rolled my eyes. My brother and I were different, like milk and cola. We could stand each other only in front of our parents.

“We shall see, Roger. Concentrate on your studies,” father answered
through his paper. My brother pulled out a book at the table and started his studies.

Father peered over his paper at me. “There will be a social dance tomorrow at Aling Lumina’s. Do not forget to come, Roman, not like the last time.” He thrashed his paper. My eyes followed the servants as they walked back and forth. Our maid, Sara, was getting big around the hips. I watched as the extra weight on her behind tried to find a place to protrude in her small uniform.

My mother coughed to distract me. “Sara, please get a bigger-size uniform. I will not have you displaying yourself to my boys in this manner.”

Poor Sara. She was sixty years old, not exactly a point of sexual interest to a fourteen-year-old. She blushed painfully and muttered, “Yes, ma’am.’ ”

I looked at my mother in irritation. She did that, spat things out without thinking of people’s feelings. Like the time my brother brought home his first girlfriend, and my mother said as she was still smiling and waving good-bye to the girl from our window, “Her nose is as flat as the
baníg
the servants sleep on. Can you not pick a prettier girl, Roger?”

“Itay
, how long has it been since you have gone fishing?” I asked my father. “I hear there is a really good fishing spot just outside of the forest.”