Title: THE CENTIPEDE

Author: Rony V. Diaz is an award-winning Filipino writer. He has won several Palanca
Awards.He joined the paper in 2001 as executive director. He eventually
became publisher and president of the Manila Times School of Journalism. He
has taught English at U.P. Diliman and has worked for the Philippine
government as a Foreign Service corp Born in Cabanatuan, Nueva Ecija but
moved to Mindoro after the bombing of Clark Field.

Character:
Author – A boy who narrates the story and the main cast of the stories who
love their Pets.
Delia – Sister of the author who hate the Pets of his brother.
Eddie - A man who help in their house.
Berto - a man who gave the centipede.
Biryuk – A pet dog of the author.

Settings:
In the house and in the ground.

Plot:
 When he saw her sister beating his dog.
 Few Imaginations During the time his father and the author hunted some
animals in the forest.
 When her sister told Eddie and Berto to kill his dog.
 When the time Berto give the Centipede to the author.
 When the time the author express his feeling to her sister.
Climax:
When the time the author express his feelings to her sister and her sister
did not move, and she look his brother while crying and voice out all the bad
things that can do her sister to his pets.

Conflict:
Man’s against Man
-- That’s because there are a problem the author and his sister.

Denouement:
When the time Delia kill the centipede of the author, and the author
express his feelings.
Moral lesson:
Don’t make a thing that can affect the relation in your family.

Summary:
One day he saw her sister beating his dog, and he remembers the day
when he and his dog become a friend. Her sister told to Eddie and Berto to kill
his dog, but not only those things to do of her sister, also to destruct his pet
like Butterfly and his father told him “why?”, but her sister did not answer. In
other side he looks Berto in the ground, and Berto gave him a centipede, but
the same time his centipede kill his sister, but that time the author has to
express his feeling about her sister.
Title: HARVEST

Author: Loreto Paras Sulit

Paras-Sulit was born in Ermita, Manila.[1] After finishing her secondary
education in Manila, she entered the University of the Philippines, where she
first gained notice for her short fiction. While at the University, she co-founded
the U.P. Writer's Club in 1927 along with other student-writers such as Arturo
Rotor and Jose Garcia Villa. She graduated with a Bachelor of Sciences degree
in education, magna cum laude, in 1930.

Characters:
Fabian: The older brother of Vidal and the husband of Tinay.
Vidal: The youngest brother of Fabian and have an interest of Francia.
Tinay: The wife of Fabian.
Milia: In love with Vidal
Francia: Relatives of Master.
Master: The owner of one of the big farm in their place.

Settings: In the farm, house of two brothers, and the house of the master.

Plot:
 In the farm where work Fabian and Vidal together with some other people, and at
the place master will come together with the girl name Francia a beautiful lady.
And Vidal got attract them.
 In the afternoon the two brothers go home and no exchange of words, but Vidal
talk about a lady that he see in the farm.
 In the house the suffer is on the table, but Tinay could not eat, because she
attendant her baby.
 In that day the two brothers go back to the farm.
 After a while Fabian go to master house to get the bill, and he make lies about
Vidal in front of Francia.
 During Fabian turn their house he found Vidal in Batalan and thinking some of
the deferent happen in his life.
Conflict: Man’s against nature – Because of the situation of the life of their family
Fabian could not allowed to Vidal to go to Francia to
become a servant.
Man’s against man – Because the two brothers have an argument.
Man’s against himself – Because Vidal cannot express his true feelings about
Francia

Denouement: When the time Fabian goes to the house of master’s and tell lies about
Vidal on why he could not go with here, that’s because there life did not
deserve to mingle the life of Francia.

Moral Lesson:
Don’t lose faith on your self and don’t compare your life into the other.

Summary:
In the farm there are two brothers name Fabian and Vidal. Vidal the
youngest brother he works very fast w/o pushing, he could harvest in the
field in the morning. Vidal had always been afraid of his brother because
he doesn’t appreciate beautiful things. Harvest time has almost ended
Vidal, said Fabian and he made mention about Milia A lady that have like
to Vidal. After a while the Master’s come together with the lady name
Francia, and Francia said Vidal if he welling to work in their place. After
that the two brothers walk to go home and did not exchange of word, but
Vidal found himself to talk about a lady that he see. In their house Vidal
had relaxed because he tired in that day. At the morning deserving Vidal
ask his brother to goes master’s house to work of francia But fabian is the
one to go the house of master’s and he see Francia at that place, and he
tells lies about Vidal, and Francia get the point of Fabian and she give a 20
peso bills to Fabian for their wok in the farm. And during the time Fabian
retune to his house he found Vidal in Batalan and he give 20 peso bills,
and Vidal thinking some deferent memories in his life.
THE CENTIPEDE
by Rony V. Diaz
WHEN I saw my sister, Delia, beating my dog with a
stick, I felt hate heave like a caged, angry beast in my
chest. Out in the sun, the hair of my sister glinted like
metal and, in her brown dress, she looked like a sheathed
dagger. Biryuk hugged the earth and screamed but I
could not bound forward nor cry out to my sister. She
had a weak heart and she must not be surprised. So I
held myself, my throat swelled, and I felt hate rear and
plunge in its cage of ribs.
I WAS thirteen when my father first took me hunting. All
through the summer of that year, I had tramped alone
and unarmed the fields and forest around our farm. Then
one afternoon in late July my father told me I could use
his shotgun.
Beyond the ipil grove, in a grass field we spotted a
covey of brown pigeons. In the open, they kept springing
to the air and gliding away every time we were within
range. But finally they dropped to the ground inside a
wedge of guava trees. My father pressed my shoulder
and I stopped. Then slowly, in a half-crouch, we
advanced. The breeze rose lightly; the grass scuffed
against my bare legs. My father stopped again. He knelt
down and held my hand.
“Wait for the birds to rise and then fire,” he whispered.
I pushed the safety lever of the rifle off and sighted
along the barrel. The saddle of the stock felt greasy on
my cheek. The gun was heavy and my arm muscles
twitched. My mouth was dry; I felt vaguely sick. I
wanted to sit down.
“You forgot to spit,” my father said.
Father had told me that hunters always spat for luck
before firing. I spat and I saw the breeze bend the
ragged, glassy threads of spittle toward the birds.
“That’s good,” Father said.
“Can’t we throw a stone,” I whispered fiercely. “It’s
taking them a long time.”
“No, you’ve to wait.”
Suddenly, a small dog yelping shrilly came tearing
across the brooding plain of grass and small trees. It
raced across the plain in long slewy swoops, on outraged
shanks that disappeared and flashed alternately in the
light of the cloud-banked sun. One of the birds whistled
and the covey dispersed like seeds thrown in the wind. I
fired and my body shook with the fierce momentary life
of the rifle. I saw three pigeons flutter in a last
convulsive effort to stay afloat, then fall to the ground.
The shot did not scare the dog. He came to us, sniffing
cautiously. He circled around us until I snapped my
fingers and then he came me.
“Not bad,” my father said grinning. “Three birds with
one tube.” I went to the brush to get the birds. The dog
ambled after me. He found the birds for me. The breast
of one of the birds was torn. The bird had fallen on a
spot where the earth was worn bare, and its blood was
spread like a tiny, red rag. The dog scraped the blood
with his tongue. I picked up the birds and its warm,
mangled flesh clung to the palm of my hand.
“You’re keen,” I said to the dog. “Here. Come here.” I
offered him my bloody palm. He came to me and licked
my palm clean.
I gave the birds to my father. “May I keep him, Father?”
I said pointing to the dog. He put the birds in a leather
bag which he carried strapped around his waist.
Father looked at me a minute and then said: “Well, I’m
not sure. That dog belongs to somebody.”
“May I keep him until his owner comes for him?” I
pursued.
“He’d make a good pointer,” Father remarked. “But I
would not like my son to be accused of dog-stealing.”
“Oh, no!” I said quickly. “I shall return him when the
owner comes to claim him.”
“All right,” he said, “I hope that dog makes a hunter out
of you.”
Biryuk and I became fast friends. Every afternoon after
school we went to the field to chase quails or to the bank
of the river which was fenced by tall, blade-sharp reeds
to flush snipes. Father was away most of the time but
when he was home he hunted with us.
BIRYUK scampered off and my sister flung the stick at
him. Then she turned about and she saw me.
“Eddie, come here,” she commanded. I approached with
apprehension. Slowly, almost carefully, she reached over
and twisted my ear.
“I don’t want to see that dog again in the house,” she
said coldly. “That dog destroyed my slippers again. I’ll
tell Berto to kill that dog if I see it around again.” She
clutched one side of my face with her hot, moist hand
and shoved me, roughly. I tumbled to the ground. But I
did not cry or protest. I had passed that phase. Now,
every word and gesture she hurled at me I caught and
fed to my growing and restless hate.
MY sister was the meanest creature I knew. She was
eight when I was born, the day my mother died.
Although we continued to live in the same house, she
had gone, it seemed, to another country from where she
looked at me with increasing annoyance and contempt.
One of my first solid memories was of standing before a
grass hut. Its dirt floor was covered with white banana
stalks, and there was a small box filled with crushed and
dismembered flowers in one corner. A doll was cradled
in the box. It was my sister’s playhouse and I
remembered she told me to keep out of it. She was not
around so I went in. The fresh banana hides were cold
under my feet. The interior of the hut was rife with the
sour smell of damp dead grass. Against the flowers, the
doll looked incredibly heavy. I picked it up. It was slight
but it had hard, unflexing limbs. I tried to bend one of
the legs and it snapped. I stared with horror at the hollow
tube that was the leg of the doll. Then I saw my sister
coming. I hid the leg under one of the banana pelts. She
was running and I knew she was furious. The walls of
the hut suddenly constricted me. I felt sick with a
nameless pain. My sister snatched the doll from me and
when she saw the torn leg she gasped. She pushed me
hard and I crashed against the wall of the hut. The flimsy
wall collapsed over me. I heard my sister screaming; she
denounced me in a high, wild voice and my body ached
with fear. She seized one of the saplings that held up the
hut and hit me again and again until the flesh of my back
and thighs sang with pain. Then suddenly my sister
moaned; she stiffened, the sapling fell from her hand and
quietly, as though a sling were lowering her, she sank to
the ground. Her eyes were wild as scud and on the edges
of her lips,. drawn tight over her teeth, quivered a wide
lace of froth. I ran to the house yelling for Father.
She came back from the hospital in the city, pale and
quiet and mean, drained, it seemed, of all emotions, she
moved and acted with the keen, perversity and deceptive
dullness of a sheathed knife, concealing in her body that
awful power for inspiring fear and pain and hate, not
always with its drawn blade but only with its fearful
shape, defined by the sheath as her meanness was
defined by her body.
Nothing I did ever pleased her. She destroyed willfully
anything I liked. At first, I took it as a process of
adaptation, a step of adjustment; I snatched and crushed
every seed of anger she planted in me, but later on I
realized that it had become a habit with her. I did not say
anything when she told Berto to kill my monkey because
it snickered at her one morning, while she was brushing
her teeth. I did not say anything when she told Father
that she did not like my pigeon house because it stank
and I had to give away my pigeons and Berto had to
chop the house into kindling wood. I learned how to
hold myself because I knew we had to put up with her
whims to keep her calm and quiet. But when she
dumped my butterflies into a waste can and burned them
in the backyard, I realized that she was spiting me.
My butterflies never snickered at her and they did not
smell. I kept them in an unused cabinet in the living
room and unless she opened the drawers, they were out
of her sight. And she knew too that my butterfly
collection had grown with me. But when I arrived home,
one afternoon, from school, I found my butterflies in a
can, burned in their cotton beds like deckle. I wept and
Father had to call my sister for an explanation. She stood
straight and calm before Father but my tear-logged eyes
saw only her harsh and arrogant silhouette. She looked at
me curiously but she did not say anything and Father
began gently to question her. She listened politely and
when Father had stopped talking, she said without rush,
heat or concern: “They were attracting ants.”
I RAN after Biryuk. He had fled to the brambles. I ran
after him, bugling his name. I found him under a low,
shriveled bush. I called him and he only whimpered.
Then I saw that one of his eyes was bleeding. I sat on the
ground and looked closer. The eye had been pierced. The
stick of my sister had stabbed the eye of my dog. I was
stunned. ,For a long time I sat motionless, staring at
Biryuk. Then I felt hate crouch; its paws dug hard into
the floor of its cage; it bunched muscles tensed; it held
itself for a minute and then it sprang and the door of the
cage crashed open and hate clawed wildly my brain. I
screamed. Biryuk, frightened, yelped and fled, rattling
the dead bush that sheltered him. I did not run after him.
A large hawk wheeled gracefully above a group of birds.
It flew in a tightening spiral above the birds.
On my way back to the house, I passed the woodshed. I
saw Berto in the shade of a tree, splitting wood. He was
splitting the wood he had stacked last year. A mound of
bone-white slats was piled near his chopping block
When he saw me, he stopped and called me.
His head was drenched with sweat. He brushed away the
sweat and hair from his eyes and said to me: “I’ve got
something for you.”
He dropped his ax and walked into the woodshed. I
followed him. Berto went to a corner of the shed. I saw a
jute sack spread on the ground. Berto stopped and picked
up the sack.
“Look,” he said.
I approached. Pinned to the ground by a piece of wood,
was a big centipede. Its malignantly red body twitched
back and forth.
“It’s large,” I said.
“I found him under the stack I chopped.” Berto smiled
happily; he looked at me with his muddy eyes.
white cloth. I went near, I stood behind her chair. She
was not aware of my presence. I unwrapped the
centipede. I threw it on her lap.
My sister shrieked and the strip of white sheet flew off
like an unhanded hawk. She shot up from her chair,
turned around and she saw me but she collapsed again to
her chair clutching her breast, doubled up with pain The
centipede had fallen to the floor.
“You did it,” she gasped. “You tried to kill me. You’ve
health… life… you tried…” Her voice dragged off into a
pain-stricken moan.

“You know,” he said. “That son of a devil nearly
frightened me to death”
I stiffened. “Did it, really?” I said trying to control my
rising voice. Berto was still grinning and I felt hot all
over.
“I didn’t expect to find any centipede here,” he said. “It
nearly bit me. Who wouldn’t get shocked?” He bent and
picked up a piece of wood.
I was engulfed by a sudden feeling of pity and guilt.
“But it’s dead!” I cried kneeling before her. “It’s dead!
Look! Look!” I snatched up the centipede and crushed
its head between my fingers. “It’s dead!”
My sister did not move. I held the centipede before her
like a hunter displaying the tail of a deer, save that the
centipede felt thorny in my hand.

“This wood was here,” he said and put down the block.
“Then I picked it up, like this. And this centipede was
coiled here. Right here. I nearly touched it with my
hand. What do you think you would feel?”

I did not answer. I squatted to look at the reptile. Its

antennae quivered searching the tense afternoon air. I
picked up a sliver of wood and prodded the centipede. It
uncoiled viciously. Its pinchers slashed at the tiny spear.

“I could carry it dead,” I said half-aloud.

“Yes,” Berto said. “I did not kill him because I knew you
would like it.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“That’s bigger than the one you found last year, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very much bigger.”

I stuck the sliver into the carapace of the centipede. It

went through the flesh under the red armor; a whitish
liquid oozed out. Then I made sure it was dead by
brushing its antennae. The centipede did not move. I
wrapped it in a handkerchief.

My sister was enthroned in a large chair in the porch of

the house. Her back was turned away from the door; she
sat facing the window She was embroidering a strip of

The Gift of My Father
from the book, The Laughter of My Father
by Carlos Bulosan
My uncle Sergio had three sons, who had all left
the Philippines for other parts of the world by the
time Father had moved Mother and us children
from his farm on the island of Luzon into the
town where Uncle Sergio lived. I was six years
old when the move took place. I did not know
where my uncle Serigo's two older sons were
living, but I did know that the youngest had gone
to America and was in business there as a
building contractor, in California. His name was
Poltron and he was fair of complexion, and before
he left home he used to strut about the town like a
peacock.
One day Father and I were coming home from a
wedding when we saw many people in the year of
my uncle Sergio's house, which was a block away
from our house. A big automobile was parked in
the street and the house was bright with oil lamps
and lanterns. It was one of those dark Philippine
nights. We stood under a tree, watching.
I saw my uncle coming down the wooden ladder
of his house with a flashlight in his hand. He
stood in the yard, talking to the people. He was a
gambler by profession, and most gamblers in our
province had big houses and lived more
luxuriously than those who worked hard for a
living. Uncle Sergio's flashlight was new, and he
kept flashing it at random against the house and
among the coconut trees, as if he were enchanted
by a marvelous new toy. Suddenly he focused the
beam on us.
"Is that you, Simeon?" my uncle called in Ilocano,
the language of northern Luzon.
"Yes," Father said.
"It's the night of all nights!" my uncle shouted.
"Did you bring home a wife?" Father asked.
"My son Porton came home from America and
brought a beautiful girl," my uncle said.
Father and I jumped over the barbed-wire fence
and pushed our way through a crowd of people in
the yard. We climbed the polished ladder of Uncle
Sergio's house and rushed into the living room.
My cousin Porton was standing smoking a cigar
in the center of a ring of barefooted men and
women. He was wearing a heavy fur overcoat,
although it was a hot night, and was sweating
profusely. An old man rubbed his face against the
soft fur of the coat. A young man snatched the
cigar out of Porton's mouth and took a bite of it,
chewing the tobacco with great satisfaction. Then
a girl grabbed the feather in Porton's hat and put it
in her hair. There were naked children on the
floor, smelling and licking Porton's shoes.
Father pushed the people away and stepped up to
my cousin. "Welcome home!" he said.
"You are Uncle Simeon?" my cousin asked. "I've
something special for you." He produced a
beautifully wrapped bottle of Manila rum from
the pocket of his coat.
Father grabbed it. "I came to see your wife," he
said.
"Sweetheard!" my cousin called in English,
turning toward the little private room where my
uncle kept his most precious belongings.
"Yes, sweetheart," answered a girl's voice.
"Are you ready, sweetheart?" my cousin asked.
"Yes, sweetheart!"
The small door of the private room opened and a
beautiful girl emerged from it. She stood at the
door and her black eyes beamed. Wonder filled
the house. The men opened their mouths to say
something, but could not because joy filled their
throats. The women and the young girls sighed.
Then my cousine approached the wonderful
creature and put his arm around her slender waist.
"Meet the people, sweetheart," he said.
"I'm glad to meet you all," she said in Spanish.
"This is my uncle Simeon, sweetheart," my
cousin said.
"I'm glad to meet you, Uncle Simeon," she sid,
reaching eagerly for Father's hand.
Father sparkled with gladness. "Sweetheart," he
said, shaking the girl's hand.
"Where are my cousins, Uncle Simeon?" Porton
asked.
"Your youngest cousin is here," Father said,
pushing me forward.
"My youngest cousin is here, sweetheart," Porton
said to his wife.
The girl knelt on the floor and put her arms
around me.
"Hello," she said.
"Say 'Sweetheart,'" Father said to me.
"Hellow, sweetheart," I said.
The marvelous girl got up and laughed
beautifully. "I like you very much," she said.
"Let's go outside now," my uncle said. "Let's give
the young couple some rest."
The crowd started to go, but the young men all
stopped before they went out the door and looked
back at the girl.
"Good night," she said.
My uncle Sergio killed three pigs the next day
and asked the neighbors to attend a feast in honor
of his won and the wife he brought home from
America. Father was enchanted by the girl. He
went to our arm and came back to town with two
sacks of fresh vegetables for the feast and a pair
of old shoes he had used as a soldier during the
revolution. He even collected the white juice of a
calachuchi tree and smeared it on the dusty shoes
to improve their appearance before he put them
on.
Uncle Sergio's yard was full of people who had
come from the villags to look at the fabulous girl
from America. They brought many gifts and put
them in the yard. There were three Igorots there,
too, headhunters from the mountains of Luzon.
They wore G-strings and carried bows and
poisoned arrows. They sat under the house with
their dogs and talked among themselves.
Father and several men gathered under the
granary to talk.
"I tell you she is americana!" Father said, looking
toward my cousin's wife.
"No!" my uncle protested, "She is española!"
"Her hair is curly and light, isn't it?" Father asked.
"But her skin is olive," my uncle said.
"I tell you she is americana," Father said. "I saw
one likeher in Manila when I was fourteen."
Just then my cousin Porton came over to the
group, "What's all the argument about?" he asked.
"It's about your wife," his father said. "Your uncle
says she is americana. I say she is espanola."
"You are both wrong," my cousin said. "She is
mejicana."
HARVEST
by Loreto Paras Sulit
HE first saw her in his brother’s eyes. The palay
stalks were taking on gold in the late afternoon sun,
were losing their trampled, wind-swept look and
stirring into little, almost inaudible whispers.
The rhythm of Fabian’s strokes was smooth and
unbroken. So many palay stalks had to be harvested
before sundown and there was no time to be lost in
idle dallying. But when he stopped to heap up the
fallen palay stalks he glanced at his brother as if to
fathom the other’s state of mind in that one, side-
long glance.
The swing of Vidal’s figure was as graceful as the
downward curve of the crescent-shaped scythe.
How stubborn, this younger brother of his, how
hard-headed, fumed Fabian as he felled stalk after
stalk. It is because he knows how very good-
looking he is, how he is so much run-after by all the
women in town. The obstinate, young fool! With his
queer dreams, his strange adorations, his wistfulness
for a life not of these fields, not of their quiet,
colorless women and the dullness of long nights of
unbroken silence and sleep. But he would bend…
he must bend… one of these days.
Vidal stopped in his work to wipe off the heavy
sweat from his brow. He wondered how his brother
could work that fast all day without pausing to rest,
without slowing in the rapidity of his strokes. But
that was the reason the master would not let him go;
he could harvest a field in a morning that would
require three men to finish in a day. He had always
been afraid of this older brother of his; there was
something terrible in the way he determined things,
how he always brought them to pass, how he
disregarded the soft and the beautiful in his life and
sometimes how he crushed, trampled people, things
he wanted destroyed. There were flowers, insects,
birds of boyhood memories, what Fabian had done
to them. There was Tinay… she did not truly like
him, but her widowed mother had some lands… he
won and married Tinay.
I wonder what can touch him. Vidal thought of
miracles, perhaps a vision, a woman… But no… he
would overpower them…he was so strong with
those arms of steel, those huge arms of his that
could throttle a spirited horse into obedience.
“Harvest time is almost ended, Vidal.” (I must be
strong also, the other prayed). “Soon the planting
season will be on us and we shall have need of
many carabaos. Milia’s father has five. You have
but to ask her and Milia will accept you any time.
Why do you delay…”
He stopped in surprise for his brother had sprung up
so suddenly and from the look on his face it was as
if a shining glory was smiling shyly, tremulously in
that adoring way of his that called forth all the
boyishness of his nature—There was the slow
crunch, crunch of footsteps on dried soil and Fabian
sensed the presence of people behind him. Vidal had
taken off his wide, buri hat and was twisting and
untwisting it nervously.
“Ah, it is my model! How are you, Vidal?” It was a
voice too deep and throaty for a woman but beneath
it one could detect a gentle, smooth nuance, soft as
silk. It affected Fabian very queerly, he could feel
his muscles tensing as he waited for her to speak
again. But he did not stop in work nor turn to look
at her.
She was talking to Vidal about things he had no idea
of. He could not understand why the sound of her
voice filled him with this resentment that was
increasing with every passing minute. She was so
near him that when she gestured, perhaps as she
spoke, the silken folds of her dress brushed against
him slightly, and her perfume, a very subtle
fragrance, was cool and scented in the air about
him.
“From now on he must work for me every morning,
possibly all day.”
“Very well. Everything as you please.” So it was the
master who was with her.
“He is your brother, you say, Vidal? Oh, your elder
brother.” The curiosity in her voice must be in her
eyes. “He has very splendid arms.”
Then Fabian turned to look at her.
He had never seen anyone like her. She was tall,
with a regal unconscious assurance in her figure that
she carried so well, and pale as though she had just
recovered from a recent illness. She was not exactly
very young nor very beautiful. But there was
something disquieting and haunting in the
unsymmetry of her features, in the queer reflection
of the dark blue-blackness of her hair, in her eyes,
in that mole just above her nether lips, that tinged
her whole face with a strange loveliness. For, yes,
she was indeed beautiful. One discovered it after a
second, careful glance. Then the whole plan of the
brow and lip and eye was revealed; one realized that
her pallor was the ivory-white of rice grain just
husked, that the sinuous folds of silken lines were
but the undertones of the grace that flowed from her
as she walked away from you.
The blood rushed hot to his very eyes and ears as he
met her grave, searching look that swept him from
head to foot. She approached him and examined his
hot, moist arms critically.
“How splendid! How splendid!” she kept on
murmuring.
Then “Thank you,” and taking and leaning on the
arm of the master she walked slowly away.
The two brothers returned to their work but to the
very end of the day did not exchange a word. Once
Vidal attempted to whistle but gave it up after a few
bars. When sundown came they stopped harvesting
and started on their way home. They walked with
difficulty on the dried rice paddies till they reached
the end of the rice fields.
The stiffness, the peace of the twilit landscape was
maddening to Fabian. It augmented the spell of that
woman that was still over him. It was queer how he
kept on thinking about her, on remembering the
scent of her perfume, the brush of her dress against
him and the look of her eyes on his arms. If he had
been in bed he would be tossing painfully, fever-
ishly. Why was her face always before him as
though it were always focused somewhere in the
distance and he was forever walking up to it?
A large moth with mottled, highly colored wings
fluttered blindly against the bough, its long,
feathery antennae quivering sensitively in the air.
Vidal paused to pick it up, but before he could do so
his brother had hit it with the bundle of palay stalks
he carried. The moth fell to the ground, a mass of
broken wings, of fluttering wing-dust.
After they had walked a distance, Vidal asked,
“Why are you that way?”
“What is my way?”
“That—that way of destroying things that are
beautiful like moths… like…”
“If the dust from the wings of a moth should get
into your eyes, you would be blind.”
“That is not the reason.”
“Things that are beautiful have a way of hurting. I
destroy it when I feel a hurt.”
To avoid the painful silence that would surely ensue
Vidal talked on whatever subject entered his mind.
But gradually, slowly the topics converged into one.
He found himself talking about the woman who
came to them this afternoon in the fields. She was a
relative of the master. A cousin, I think. They call
her Miss Francia. But I know she has a lovely, hid-
den name… like her beauty. She is convalescing
from a very serious illness she has had and to pass
the time she makes men out of clay, of stone.
Sometimes she uses her fingers, sometimes a chisel.
One day Vidal came into the house with a message
for the master. She saw him. He was just the model
for a figure she was working on; she had asked him
to pose for her.
“Brother, her loveliness is one I cannot understand.
When one talks to her forever so long in the patio,
many dreams, many desires come to me. I am
lost… I am glad to be lost.”
It was merciful the darkness was up on the fields.
Fabian could not see his brother’s face. But it was
cruel that the darkness was heavy and without end
except where it reached the little, faint star. For in
the deep darkness, he saw her face clearly and
understood his brother.
On the batalan of his home, two tall clay jars were
full of water. He emptied one on his feet, he cooled
his warm face and bathed his arms in the other. The
light from the kerosene lamp within came in wisps
into the batalan. In the meager light he looked at his
arms to discover where their splendor lay. He
rubbed them with a large, smooth pebble till they
glowed warm and rich brown. Gently he felt his
own muscles, the strength, the power beneath. His
wife was crooning to the baby inside. He started
guiltily and entered the house.
Supper was already set on the table. Tinay would
not eat; she could not leave the baby, she said. She
was a small, nervous woman still with the lingering
prettiness of her youth. She was rocking a baby in a
swing made of a blanket tied at both ends to ropes
hanging from the ceiling. Trining, his other child, a
girl of four, was in a corner playing siklot solemnly
all by herself.
Everything seemed a dream, a large spreading
dream. This little room with all the people inside,
faces, faces in a dream. That woman in the fields,
this afternoon, a colored, past dream by now. But
the unrest, the fever she had left behind… was still
on him. He turned almost savagely on his brother
and spoke to break these two grotesque, dream bub-
bles of his life. “When I was your age, Vidal, I was
already married. It is high time you should be
settling down. There is Milia.”
“I have no desire to marry her nor anybody else.
Just—just—for five carabaos.” There! He had
spoken out at last. What a relief it was. But he did
not like the way his brother pursed his lips tightly
That boded not defeat. Vidal rose, stretching himself
luxuriously. On the door of the silid where he slept
he paused to watch his little niece. As she threw a
pebble into the air he caught it and would not give it
up. She pinched, bit, shook his pants furiously while
he laughed in great amusement.
“What a very pretty woman Trining is going to be.
Look at her skin; white as rice grains just husked;
and her nose, what a high bridge. Ah, she is going to
be a proud lady… and what deep, dark eyes. Let me
see, let me see. Why, you have a little mole on your
lips. That means you are very talkative.”
“You will wake up the baby. Vidal! Vidal!” Tinay
rocked the child almost despairingly. But the young
man would not have stopped his teasing if Fabian
had not called Trining to his side.
“Why does she not braid her hair?” he asked his
wife.
“Oh, but she is so pretty with her curls free that way
about her head.”
“We shall have to trim her head. I will do it before
going out to work tomorrow.”
Vidal bit his lips in anger. Sometimes… well, it was
not his child anyway. He retired to his room and fell
in a deep sleep unbroken till after dawn when the
sobs of a child awakened him. Peering between the
bamboo slats of the floor he could see dark curls
falling from a child’s head to the ground.
He avoided his brother from that morning. For one
thing he did not want repetitions of the carabao
question with Milia to boot. For another there was
the glorious world and new life opened to him by
his work in the master’s house. The glamour, the
enchantment of hour after hour spent on the
shadow-flecked ylang-ylang scented patio where
she molded, shaped, reshaped many kinds of men,
who all had his face from the clay she worked on.
In the evening after supper he stood by the window
and told the tale of that day to a very quiet group.
And he brought that look, that was more than a
gleam of a voice made weak by strong, deep
emotions.
His brother saw and understood. Fury was a high
flame in his heart… If that look, that quiver of voice
had been a moth, a curl on the dark head of his
daughter… Now more than ever he was determined
to have Milia in his home as his brother’s wife…
that would come to pass. Someday, that look, that
quiver would become a moth in his hands, a frail,
helpless moth.
When Vidal, one night, broke out the news Fabian
knew he had to act at once. Miss Francia would
leave within two days; she wanted Vidal to go to the
city with her, where she would finish the figures she
was working on.
“She will pay me more than I can earn here, and
help me get a position there. And shall always be
near her. Oh, I am going! I am going!”
“And live the life of a—a servant?”
“What of that? I shall be near her always.”
“Why do you wish to be near her?”
“Why? Why? Oh, my God! Why?”
That sentence rang and resounded and vibrated in
Fabian’s ears during the days that followed. He had
seen her closely only once and only glimpses
thereafter. But the song of loveliness had haunted
his life thereafter. If by a magic transfusing he,
Fabian, could be Vidal and… and… how one’s
thoughts can make one forget of the world. There
she was at work on a figure that represented a
reaper who had paused to wipe off the heavy sweat
from his brow. It was Vidal in stone.
Again—as it ever would be—the disquieting nature
of her loveliness was on him so that all his body
tensed and flexed as he gathered in at a glance all
the marvel of her beauty.
She smiled graciously at him while he made known
himself; he did not expect she would remember
him.
“Ah, the man with the splendid arms.”
“I am the brother of Vidal.” He had not forgotten to
roll up his sleeves.
He did not know how he worded his thoughts, but
he succeeded in making her understand that Vidal
could not possibly go with her, that he had to stay
behind in the fields.
There was an amusement rippling beneath her
tones. “To marry the girl whose father has five
carabaos. You see, Vidal told me about it.”
He flushed again a painful brick-red; even to his
eyes he felt the hot blood flow.
“That is the only reason to cover up something that
would not be known. My brother has wronged this
girl. There will be a child.”
She said nothing, but the look in her face protested
against what she had heard. It said, it was not so.
But she merely answered, “I understand. He shall
not go with me.” She called a servant, gave him a
twenty-peso bill and some instruction. “Vidal, is he
at your house?” The brother on the patio nodded.
Now they were alone again. After this afternoon he
would never see her, she would never know. But
what had she to know? A pang without a voice, a
dream without a plan… how could they be
understood in words.
“Your brother should never know you have told me
the real reason why he should not go with me. It
would hurt him, I know.
“I have to finish this statue before I leave. The arms
are still incomplete—would it be too much to ask
you to pose for just a little while?”
While she smoothed the clay, patted it and molded
the vein, muscle, arm, stole the firmness, the
strength, of his arms to give to this lifeless statue, it
seemed as if life left him, left his arms that were
being copied. She was lost in her work and noticed
neither the twilight stealing into the patio nor the
silence brooding over them.
Wrapped in that silver-grey dusk of early night and
silence she appeared in her true light to the man
who watched her every movement. She was one he
had glimpsed and crushed all his life, the shining
glory in moth and flower and eyes he had never
understood because it hurt with its unearthly
radiance.
If he could have the whole of her in the cup of his
hands, drink of her strange loveliness, forgetful of
this unrest he called life, if… but his arms had
already found their duplicate in the white clay
beyond…
When Fabian returned Vidal was at the batalan
brooding over a crumpled twenty-peso bill in his
hands. The haggard tired look in his young eyes was
as grey as the skies above.
He was speaking to Tinay jokingly. “Soon all your
sampaguitas and camias will be gone, my dear
sister-in-law because I shall be seeing Milia every
night… and her father.” He watched Fabian
cleansing his face and arms and later wondered why
it took his brother that long to wash his arms, why
he was rubbing them as hard as that…