Philippine Speculative Fiction 9 Read online

  “Initially, I did not find any evidence pertaining to the production’s exploitative nature, nor the historical and textual inaccuracies that some members of the academe claim to exist in lieu of Director Bulan’s addition of forty-five songs. However, this does not mean I already know how the entire production will hang together. Rest assured, if the alleged exploitation reveals itself in any manner during the performance proper, I will see that it is put a stop.”

  Meanwhile, mythic rights activist Mary Christine Cruz does not share the sentiments of the two writers or the priest. However, she and the Association for the Protection of Mythic Rights (APMR) demonstrated just as loudly as they.

  “Plain and simple, ine-exploit nang produksyong ito ang mga rights ng mga hiwaga, (the production exploits the rights of mythics),” explained Cruz, who has also not watched a rehearsal. “Specifically, their right to freedom and silence. Para lang siyang capturing wild animals and making them perform at circuses and water park shows and casino magic shows for the rich.”

  She added, “Bulan may think that he is helping give mythics a leg up to equality, pero all this is is sheer tokenism and proof that this madman is suffering from Intelligentsia Complex!”

  Intelligentsia Complex, as certain psychiatrists and members of the academe have coined it, occurs when a highly-educated human being takes it upon himself or herself to champion the cause of mythics in the name of freedom and equality, often for their own personal gain and to disastrous results.

  Deus ex machina

  DESPITE ALL THIS, the evening’s surprises were just beginning.

  A cement mixer and a 10-wheeler truck loaded with gallons upon gallons of water—presumably for the Giant Squid’s vast aquarium—also helped stall traffic along Roxas Boulevard for a few hours. According to subsequent police reports, at 5:43 p.m., the top of the cement mixer cracked and a jet of salt water sprayed everyone in the vicinity.

  For several frightening moments, it seemed as if a tsunami had travelled far inland, for the water formed a wave that gave a whole line of cars a premature washing and parted a panicked crowd of protesters and would-be-theater-goers for a while. It assumed the form of the sea god Haik at the CCP’s front steps.

  With the exception of the Duwende from earlier, the mythic community has so far been largely silent on the matter of the first-ever mythic epic adapted to a play for a human audience. At least, until the portly sea god himself arrived at the CCP.

  “Bakit kayo nagugulat sa aking pagdating (Why does my presence surprise you all)?” Haik addressed the crowd—whereupon two Kapre immediately fell from their trees to their knees.

  “Gusto ko lang mapanood ang aking sarili na ipinapahiya ang napakayabang na Tikbalang na si Noladi, gaya nang nangyari noong sinaunang panahon. Bukod sa pagiging Panginoon ng Dagat, wala akong ipinagkaiba sa mga hiwagang gustong panoorin itong dula (I just want to watch myself humiliate Noladi like I did long ago. I am no different from the mythics who want to watch this play, though I am the Sea Lord),” he said. “Nawa’y mayroon ngang salumpuwit na inilahad para sa akin lamang ni Bulan (I hope Bulan reserved a seat for me).”

  Honestly, what could anyone answer to that? Before sauntering inside unhindered, Haik told me that he would only be watching tonight’s show, but that the other gods of the archipelago’s pantheon would pop in on other nights.

  Never having been that close to a god before, I was dumbstruck—and apparently, I wasn’t the only one. A long, stunned silence descended in the Sea Lord’s wake; but soon enough, albeit rather diminished in volume, the protesters took up their chants and signboards once more.

  When asked for his reaction to all the negative responses, Bulan shook his head and had only this to say: “Hindi ko maintindihan ang tao minsan (I don’t get people sometimes). I just want to stage a great play.”

  Whether you love or hate Jerald Bulan’s work, whether you have an opinion on his newest production or not, it is certain that Noladi will remain in public memory for a long time to come. Catch shows from September 1 to December 1.

  Michael Aaron Gomez

  Only Dogs Piss Here

  Michael Aaron Gomez is an on-and-off college student currently based in Dauin, Negros Oriental, now returning this year to finish his Creative Writing degree at Silliman University in Dumaguete--for good. His foray into the world of Literature has yielded these results: writing fellowships in both the 51st Silliman University National Writers Workshop (2012) and the 13th Iyas Creative Writing Workshop (2013) and publications in The Philippines Graphic, The Nomads Quarterly—an indie literary journal published by indie artists/writers in Cebu—and the special literary issue of The Silliman Journal. While he is no visual artist, he confesses to a fixation with movies, particularly the animated/foreign kind, and he doesn’t really care if this admission smacks of crippling pretentiousness. Booksale is his home away from home.

  AFTER PISSING ON a wall marked with graffiti that said IRO RAY MANGIHI DINHI (ONLY DOGS PISS HERE), John Joe Gregorio suddenly found himself transformed into a dog. The wall had been a crude one made of hollow blocks, constructed beside the Shell station and convenience store on the same street as the Ceres bus terminal: the young man—twenty-three years old—had come to the gas station (which had become a Dumaguete nightspot in its own right) with his barkada that cool October night to drink and hang out, when he suddenly had to take a piss somewhere but could not be bothered to use the comfort room at the side of the store. Still, John Joe’s transformation was not all that bad, at least superficially, since he had completely retained his human features—what had changed in him was that now he thought like a dog, talked like a dog, walked like a dog.

  Undoubtedly, his friends—and all the rest of the people in the place—were baffled when they saw him return to their table: not only did he advance toward them on all fours, he also planted his nose on the ground every three steps or so. He wiggled his butt in the air more than a couple of times, trying to wag an invisible tail. And when he saw other dogs passing by on the sidewalk, he barked at them—the other dogs stopped in their tracks, observed him, and then approached him warily. They sniffed him from his nose to his behind—John crouched lower and barked more loudly—and when they were done inspecting him, they simply left the hapless John Joe alone: he went on barking until he reached his friends’ table—he sat on the cement beside them.

  They asked John what the fuck happened to him. The dog-man cocked his head to the side, stared at them quizzically, and then scratched his neck using his legs: the dirt stuck in the soles of his Nike sneakers got flicked onto his face, which he promptly began to lick off—his friends yelled out various expletives and frantically stopped him from trying to clean himself. Most of the other customers laughed at the spectacle, while the rest fell eerily silent—only their eyes bulging out of their sockets and their mouths hanging from their jaws betrayed any emotion.

  One of John’s friends asked: “Hoy, John, what are you doing?”

  John yelped when another friend grabbed his right leg.

  “Shit,” he said, trying to grab it again, “he’s like a dog!”

  “Duh,” yet another one remarked—he yelled: “He’s fucking barking!”

  “Pastilan, just help me here, okay? Grab his other leg!”

  “Ataya! This isn’t funny, John!”

  Now two able-bodied young men wrestled John Joe Gregorio—he yelped and howled pitifully on the ground—and tried to force him to sit on a nearby chair just like a normal human. John kept the two men off him, so the last friend joined the struggle—until finally John had gotten riled up enough to bite one of them on the leg: the guy bellowed in pain and kicked the poor dog-man in the gut. His tongue out, he rolled to his side and whined imploringly—he seemed to be asking for help from the bystanders, but no one could understand the noises coming out of his mouth.

  After a while, the group decided to take John Joe home.

  Because he wasn’t very cooperative about entering his friend’s multi
-cab and going home, John Joe had to be lifted into its rear compartment—the same thing happened when they reached John’s house (a small bungalow-type, along the highway at Banilad), only in reverse: the barkada carried him out of the vehicle and placed him outside his gate, as though he were a sacred offering given in secret. John Joe was tirelessly yelping and flailing at his friends while they were hauling him—it was very late at night, but they remained wary of the neighbors: to shut John up, they had to gag him with his own T-shirt: sorry, bay, they whispered—and when the deed had been done, they deliberated their next move. In the end they elected to stay behind and then rang the doorbell—once, twice, three times.

  One guy asked: “Bitaw, bay, what do you think happened?”

  “Ambot,” another answered. “John just suddenly became like that.”

  The third guy observed John Joe whimpering and clawing at the gate.

  He chimed in: “The question here is: what’s going to happen with Lia.”

  “Aw, bitaw, you’re right,” the two men replied, almost in unison.

  “I bet you she’s finally going to break up with him after this.”

  “She’s not a bitch, bay.”

  “Well, what would you do if your girlfriend turned into a dog?”

  The two men said nothing: instead they rang the doorbell again.

  Finally John’s parents came out—the barkada quivered collectively when the pair peeked out of their front door—and drowsily approached the rusted steel gate. The father was in a white and frayed sando while the mother was in a red and torn duster: they passed two chipped garden gnomes and a parked Honda motorcycle along the way—when they saw their son sitting on his ‘hind’ legs and whining, their faces morphed into grotesque mixtures of shock and disbelief: John cocked his head up at them, his eyes moistening and then glistening under the harsh streetlights.

  The father hollered: “Pesteng Yawa, what is this?”

  His wife said nothing—she crouched and stared at her son’s face.

  “We don’t understand also, ‘kol,” one friend replied.

  Another one reported: “It just happened suddenly.”

  John Joe’s mother stood up and said: “Let’s talk about this inside.”

  And so the barkada entered the gate, closing it after them: inwardly they sighed in relief when they noticed John walking after them silently and calmly, but still they were visibly disturbed when they saw their friend following on all fours and panting—the father grit his teeth and ignored the huffing noises he’d heard from behind, while the mother clasped her hands as though she were in the middle of a procession. John Joe had begun wagging his imaginary tail as they passed the motorcycle and the gnomes: his friends and family refused to acknowledge this.

  Eventually they stepped foot inside the sala.

  John’s parents bade the friends to sit on the sofa. Their eyes darted around the room once John had taken his place before the coffee table, sitting on his ‘hind’ legs and panting and sniffing himself. Clearing his throat, the father ensconced himself on his rattan rocking chair and told his wife to prepare something to drink. He glared at his son, now gnawing at something on his T-shirt. They heard the City Pound making its rounds outside.

  Relaxed after a couple glasses of Emperador Light, the men discussed what had happened to John Joe and how they believed it had—the young men recounted the story: he just went to piss, ‘kol, they said, and when he came back, pastilan, he was already crawling and barking and sniffing around, we tried to get him to sit on a chair, but he wouldn’t, so we wrestled him, but it was too much, he was too strong, so we decided to bring him home.

  Throughout the conversation, they ignored John Joe: he kept himself busy scratching his neck and licking his gut and sniffing the floor, and then he simply lay down on his stomach, while throwing glances at his father—only his mother touched him: she rubbed his neck, scratched the flesh under his chin, ran her hands through his back. Her expression was one of supreme pity and utter confusion.

  In the end the father decreed that John should be confined at home until he would be cured and that the barkada should keep everything a secret—absolutely nobody else should know. The friends quietly nodded at the command, and after sharing a final glass with the old man, walked out of the house. Once they were out the front door, one of them turned around and almost said something, but elected not to: he followed his friends out the gate and into their vehicle.

  It was the mother who asked something.

  “But what about Lia?”

  Her husband grunted: “What about her?”

  The woman said nothing and went to clean up after the men.

  John’s father lingered by the doorway and then lit a cigarette.

  John Joe himself had already fallen asleep—he snored by the sofa.

  Meanwhile, his friends had elected not to go home yet—they chose to finish their discussion at Escaño beach: they bought a bottle of Tanduay, a bottle of Sprite, bags of ice, and plastic cups, which they took with them to the seawall. They sat down and watched the dark placid sea, illuminated only by the broken reflection of the moonlight and the lights of a passing ship. Around them the party scene of Dumaguete was in full swing: loud dance music erupted from the Labeled bar, equally loud rock music exploded from the Hayahay Restobar right beside, and loud ska music flowed in from the Tiki bar right at the end of the Escaño strip (some cars parked along the seawall even blared out their own assorted play-lists)—groups of young people circulated around the musical maelstrom, bringing along drinks and expensive phones.

  And then the friends started drinking—one of them mixed and poured the drinks. He downed his shot, mixed another glass, and handed it to another friend: this one let the cup linger in his hands for a bit.

  He posed a question: “What do you think will happen to John?”

  The so-called ‘gunner’ replied: “Ambot lagi.”

  The third friend said: “He can’t go to a doctor.”

  “Bale sa,” the others remarked.

  “Is there something we can do?”

  “Well, Lia has to know about this.”

  “You really think that’s a good idea?”

  The guy said nothing—instead he emptied his cup in one breath.

  On the next day, John Joe was subjected to a round of spirit healing by the resident mananambal—or quack doctor/healer/shaman—dressed in a faded army overcoat, frayed cotton pants, and ripped sandals. To complete the costume, he had also tied a red bandana around his forehead. His methodology was simple yet time-consuming: using the fresh eggs and the basin of water and a pair of candles John Joe’s parents had prepared beforehand, the mananambal (who answered to the name Iyo Goryo) chanted some Latin phrases while he circled the patient (who was groveling in confusion), dripping the candle wax on his head and on his arms, running the eggs along all his limbs and his back, waving the basin over the dog-man’s head—the parents stood by, observed, and waited for the diagnosis.

  When the session was over, Iyo Goryo asked them to burn some incense or other sweet-smelling herbs: let the smoke go around the house, he said, this will make the dili ingon nato go away—I think this boy did something not good, that is why he was nabuyagan. The parents followed the instructions to the letter: they gathered whatever herbs were available in their small garden, piled them up in a clay saucer, and set them on fire. Light-blue smoke rose and filled the garden air, smelling vaguely like incense and nymph. Satisfied, Goryo told the parents to bring the smoke inside the house and then listen to what he had to say—the couple huddled around the old man: meanwhile, John Joe kept scratching the candle wax off his body.

  He showed them what he had seen inside the eggs.

  Inside the shells were black blobs of indeterminate shape.

  Goryo said: “Look—this is the shape of the being who did this.”

  The father knitted his eyebrows: the mother widened her eyes.

  And then Goryo dripped the candle wax on the basi
n of water: the thick drops of wax falling on the water eventually congealed into a formless off-white mass, something vaguely resembling a humanoid figure, but remaining fundamentally shapeless. Goryo examined the form with an anxious and curious expression, as though he really were seeing the inner workings of the earth spirits he had been investigating.

  He asked: “Did your son go anywhere or step on anything?”

  John’s father answered that he didn’t.

  “Did he urinate on anything?”

  This time the father and mother glanced at each other and gulped.

  They said that John had indeed urinated on something last night.

  Iyo Goryo beamed: “Jesus Ginoo, that is it!”

  “What is it, Iyo Goryo?”

  Almost instantly, Goryo turned serious and shared his diagnosis with them: your son urinated on a bintan place, he said, and the being that dwelled there got angry and cast a spell on him, that is why he is like a dog now—Goryo also told them what they can do to cure John Joe: you have to appease the being, he said, you have to go back to that place and offer him five old 10-centavo coins so he will remove the spell and cure your son.

  “When should we do that?”

  “You have to do that this week.”

  The couple looked at each other again and agreed with the mananambal. And then they offered him some bread and Coke, before paying him Php250.

  And so John Joe’s parents went to the holy spot the very next day. They had ransacked their old cabinets and drawers for the necessary coins—an arduous process—and wrapped them in the mother’s special handkerchief imprinted with various Latin phrases and an image of the All-Seeing Eye: they brought these things to the Shell station early in the morning.

  One of his friends came over at around 9 a.m., accompanied by a young woman—she was quite the looker: round hazel eyes, button nose, and thin lips all contained within a perfectly round face and framed by waves of curly brown hair (plus her figure made her a knockout in a simple T-shirt and jeans and clogs combo). Being unemployed, their mornings were free—when no one answered the doorbell, they waited and waited and waited outside the gate: nobody’s home, the girl said.