For his dream concerned the
A Night in the Hills by Paz
Marquez Benitez
HOW Gerardo Luna came by his dream
no one could have told, not even
he. He was a salesman in a jewelry
store on Rosario street and had
been little else. His job he had
inherited from his father, one
might say; for his father before
him had leaned behind the self-
same counter, also solicitous,
also short-sighted and thin of
hair.
After office hours, if he was
tired, he took the street car to
his home in Intramuros. If he was
feeling well, he walked; not
frequently, however, for he was
frail of constitution and not
unduly thrifty. The stairs of his
house were narrow and dark and
rank with characteristic odors
from a Chinese sari-sari store
which occupied part of the ground
floor.
He would sit down to a supper
which savored strongly of Chinese
cooking. He was a fastidious
eater. He liked to have the
courses spread out where he could
survey them all. He would sample
each and daintily pick out his
favorite portions—the wing tips,
the liver, the brains from the
chicken course, the tail-end from
the fish. He ate appreciatively,
but rarely with much appetite.
After supper he spent quite a time
picking his teeth meditatively,
thinking of this and that. On the
verge of dozing he would perhaps
think of the forest.
forest. He wanted to go to the
forest. He had wanted to go ever
since he could remember. The
forest was beautiful. Straight-
growing trees. Clear streams. A
mountain brook which he might
follow back to its source up among
the clouds. Perhaps the thought
that most charmed and enslaved him
was of seeing the image of the
forest in the water. He would see
the infinitely far blue of the sky
in the clear stream, as in his
childhood, when playing in his
father’s azotea, he saw in the
water-jars an image of the sky and
of the pomelo tree that bent over
the railing, also to look at the
sky in the jars.
Only once did he speak of this
dream of his. One day, Ambo the
gatherer of orchids came up from
the provinces to buy some cheap
ear-rings for his wife’s store. He
had proudly told Gerardo that the
orchid season had been good and
had netted him over a thousand
pesos. Then he talked to him of
orchids and where they were to be
found and also of the trees that
he knew as he knew the palm of his
hand. He spoke of sleeping in the
forest, of living there for weeks
at a time. Gerardo had listened
with his prominent eyes staring
and with thrills coursing through
his spare body. At home he told
his wife about the conversation,
and she was interested in the
business aspect of it.
“It would be nice to go with him
once,” he ventured hopefully.
“Yes,” she agreed, “but I doubt if
he would let you in on his
business.”
“No,” he sounded apologetically.
“But just to have the experience,
to be out.”
“Out?” doubtfully.
“To be out of doors, in the
hills,” he said precipitately.
“Why? That would be just courting
discomfort and even sickness. And
for nothing.”
He was silent.
He never mentioned the dream
again. It was a sensitive, well-
mannered dream which nevertheless
grew in its quiet way. It lived
under Gerardo Luna’s pigeon chest
and filled it with something, not
warm or sweet, but cool and green
and murmurous with waters.
He was under forty. One of these
days when he least expected it the
dream would come true. How, he did
not know. It seemed so unlikely
that he would deliberately
contrive things so as to make the
dream a fact. That would be very
difficult.
Then his wife died.
And now, at last, he was to see
the forest. For Ambo had come once
more, this time with tales of
newly opened public land up on a
forest plateau where he had been
gathering orchids. If Gerardo was
interested—he seemed to be—they
would go out and locate a good
piece. Gerardo was interested—not
exactly in land, but Ambo need not
be told.
He had big false teeth that did
not quite fit into his gums. When
he was excited, as he was now, he
spluttered and stammered and his
teeth got in the way of his words.
“I am leaving town tomorrow
morning.” he informed Sotera.
“Will—”
“Leaving town? Where are you
going?”
“S-someone is inviting me to look
at some land in Laguna.”
“Land? What are you going to do
with land?”
That question had never occurred
to him.
“Why,” he stammered, “Ra-raise
something, I-I suppose.”
“How can you raise anything! You
don’t know anything about it. You
haven’t even seen a carabao!”
“Don’t exaggerate, Ate. You know
that is not true.”
“Hitched to a carreton, yes; but
hitched to a plow—”
“Never mind!” said Gerardo
patiently. “I just want to leave
you my keys tomorrow and ask you
to look after the house.”
“Who is this man you are going
with?”
“Ambo, who came to the store to
buy some cheap jewelry. His wife
has a little business in jewels.
He suggested that I—g-go with
him.”
He found himself then putting the
thing as matter-of-factly and
plausibly as he could. He
emphasized the immense
possibilities of land and waxed
eloquently over the idea that land
was the only form of wealth that
could not he carried away.
“Why, whatever happens, your land
will be there. Nothing can
possibly take it away. You may
lose one crop, two, three. Que
importe! The land will still be
there.”
Sotera said coldly, “I do not see
any sense in it. How can you think
of land when a pawnshop is so much
more profitable? Think! People
coming to you to urge you to
accept their business. There’s
Peregrina. She would make the
right partner for you, the right
wife. Why don’t you decide?”
“If I marry her, I’ll keep a
pawnshop—no, if I keep a pawnshop
I’ll marry her,” he said
hurriedly.
He knew quite without vanity that
Peregrina would take him the
minute he proposed. But he could
not propose. Not now that he had
visions of himself completely made
over, ranging the forest at will,
knowing it thoroughly as Ambo knew
it, fearless, free. No, not
Peregrina for him! Not even for
his own sake, much less Sotera’s.
Sotera was Ate Tere to him through
a devious reckoning of rela-
tionship that was not without
ingenuity. For Gerardo Luna was a
younger brother to the former
mistress of Sotera’s also younger
brother, and it was to Sotera’s
credit that when her brother died
after a death-bed marriage she
took Gerardo under her wings and
married him off to a poor relation
who took good care of him and
submitted his problem as well as
her own to Sotera’s competent
management. Now that Gerardo was a
widower she intended to repeat the
good office and provide him with
another poor relation guaranteed
to look after his physical and
economic well-being and, in
addition, guaranteed to stay
healthy and not die on him.
“Marrying to play nurse to your
wife,” was certainly not Sotera’s
idea of a worthwhile marriage.
This time, however, he was not so
tractable. He never openly opposed
her plans, but he would not commit
himself. Not that he failed to
realize the disadvantages of
widowerhood. How much more
comfortable it would be to give up
resisting, marry good, fat A little farther they came upon
Peregrina, and be taken care of the owner, a young man with a
until he died for she would surely cheerful face streaked and smudged
outlive him. from his work. He stood looking at
them, his two hands resting on the
But he could not, he must not.
shaft of his axe.
Uncomfortable though he was, he
still looked on his widowerhood as
something not fortuitous, but a
feat triumphantly achieved. The
“Where are you going?” he asked
thought of another marriage was to
quietly and casually. All these
shed his wings, was to feel
people were casual and quiet.
himself in a small, warm room,
while overhead someone shut down
“Looking at some land,” said Ambo.
on him an opening that gave him
“Mang Gerardo is from Manila. We
the sky.
are going to sleep up there.”
So to the hills he went with the
He looked at Gerardo Luna
gatherer of orchids.
curiously and reviewed the two
porters and their load. An
AMONG the foothills noon found
admiring look slowly appeared in
them. He was weary and wet with
his likeable eyes.
sweat.
“There is a spring around here,
“Can’t we get water?” he asked
isn’t there? Or is it dried up?”
dispiritedly.
“No, there is still water in it.
“We are coming to water,” said
Very little but good.”
Ambo. “We shall be there in ten
minutes.”
They clambered over logs and
stumps down a flight of steps cut
Up a huge scorched log Ambo
into the side of the hill. At the
clambered, the party following.
foot sheltered by an overhanging
Along it they edged precariously
fern-covered rock was what at
to avoid the charred twigs and
first seemed only a wetness. The
branches that strewed the ground.
young man squatted before it and
Here and there a wisp of smoke
lifted off a mat of leaves from a
still curled feebly out of the
tiny little pool. Taking his tin
ashes.
cup he cleared the surface by
trailing the bottom of the cup on
“A new kaingin,” said Ambo. “The
it. Then he scooped up some of the
owner will be around, I suppose.
water. It was cool and clear, with
He will not be going home before
an indescribable tang of leaf and
the end of the week. Too far.”
rock. It seemed the very essence
of the hills.
He sat with the young man on a
fallen log and talked with him.
The young man said that he was a
high school graduate, that he had
taught school for a while and had
laid aside some money with which
he had bought this land. Then he
had got married, and as soon as he
could manage it he would build a
home here near this spring. His
voice was peaceful and even.
Gerardo suddenly heard his own
voice and was embarrassed. He
lowered his tone and tried to
capture the other’s quiet.
That house would be like those he
had seen on the way—brown, and in
time flecked with gray. The
surroundings would be stripped
bare. There would be san
franciscos around it and probably
beer bottles stuck in the ground.
In the evening the burning leaves
in the yard would send a pleasant
odor of smoke through the two
rooms, driving away the
mosquitoes, then wandering out-
doors again into the forest. At
night the red fire in the kitchen
would glow through the door of the
batalan and would be visible in
the forest.
The forest was there, near enough
for his upturned eyes to reach.
The way was steep, the path rising
ruthlessly from the clearing in an
almost straight course. His eyes
were wistful, and he sighed
tremulously. The student followed
his gaze upward.
Then he said, “It must take money
to live in Manila. If I had the
capital I would have gone into
business in Manila.”
“Why?” Gerardo was surprised.
“Why—because the money is there,
and if one wishes to fish he must
go where the fishes are. However,”
he continued slowly after a
silence, “it is not likely that I
shall ever do that. Well, this
little place is all right.”
They left the high school graduate
standing on the clearing, his
weight resting on one foot, his
eyes following them as they toiled
up the perpendicular path. At the
top of the climb Gerardo sat on
the ground and looked down on the
green fields far below, the lake
in the distance, the clearings on
the hill sides, and then on the
diminishing figure of the high
school graduate now busily hacking
away, making the most of the
remaining hours of day-light.
Perched above them all, he felt an
exhilaration in his painfully
drumming chest.
Soon they entered the dim forest.
Here was the trail that once was
followed by the galleon traders
when, to outwit those that lay in
wait for them, they landed the
treasure on the eastern shores of
Luzon, and, crossing the
Cordillera on this secret trail,
brought it to Laguna. A trail
centuries old. Stalwart
adventurers, imperious and
fearless, treasure coveted by
others as imperious and fearless,
carriers bent beneath burden
almost too great to bear—stuff of
ancient splendors and ancient
griefs.
ON his bed of twigs and small
branches, under a roughly
contrived roof Gerardo lay down
that evening after automatically
crossing himself. He shifted
around until at last he settled
into a comfortable hollow. The
fire was burning brightly, fed
occasionally with dead branches
that the men had collected into a
pile. Ambo and the porters were
sitting on the black oilcloth that
had served them for a dining
table. They sat with their arms
hugging their knees and talked
together in peaceable tones
punctuated with brief laughter.
From where he lay Gerardo Luna
could feel the warmth of the fire
on his face.
He was drifting into deeply
contented slumber, lulled by the
even tones of his companions.
Voices out-doors had a strange
quality. They blended with the
wind, and, on its waves, flowed
gently around and past one who
listened. In the haze of new sleep
he thought he was listening not to
human voices, but to something
more elemental. A warm sea on
level stretches of beach. Or, if
he had ever known such a thing,
raindrops on the bamboos.
He awoke uneasily after an hour or
two. The men were still talking,
but intermittently. The fire was
not so bright nor so warm.
Ambo was saying:
“Gather more firewood. We must
keep the fire burning all night.
You may sleep. I shall wake up
once in a while to put on more
wood.”
Gerardo was reassured. The thought
that he would have to sleep in the
dark not knowing whether snakes
were crawling towards him was
intolerable. He settled once more
into light slumber.
The men talked on. They did not
sing as boatmen would have done
while paddling their bancas in the
dark. Perhaps only sea-folk sang
and hill-folk kept silence. For
sea-folk bear no burdens to weigh
them down to the earth. Into
whatever wilderness of remote sea
their wanderer’s hearts may urge
them, they may load their
treasures in sturdy craft, pull at
the oar or invoke the wind, and
raise their voices in song. The
depths of ocean beneath, the
height of sky above, and between,
a song floating out on the
darkness. A song in the hills
would only add to the lonesomeness
a hundredfold.
He woke up again feeling that the
little twigs underneath him had
suddenly acquired uncomfortable
proportions. Surely when he lay
down they were almost
unnoticeable. He raised himself on
his elbow and carefully
scrutinized his mat for snakes. He
shook his blanket out and once
more eased himself into a new and
smoother corner. The men were now
absolutely quiet, except for their
snoring. The fire was burning low.
Ambo evidently had failed to wake
up in time to feed it.
He thought of getting up to attend
to the fire, but hesitated. He lay
listening to the forest and
sensing the darkness. How vast
that darkness! Mile upon mile of
it all around. Lost somewhere in
it, a little flicker, a little
warmth.
He got up. He found his limbs
stiff and his muscles sore. He -
could not straighten his back
without discomfort. He went out of
the tent and carefully arranged
two small logs on the fire. The
air was chilly. He looked about
him at the sleeping men huddled
together and doubled up for
warmth. He looked toward his tent,
fitfully lighted by the fire that
was now crackling and rising
higher. And at last his gaze
lifted to look into the forest.
Straight white trunks gleaming
dimly in the darkness. The
startling glimmer of a firefly.
Outside of the circle of the fire
was the measureless unknown,
hostile now, he felt. Or was it he
who was hostile? This fire was the
only protection, the only thing
that isolated this little strip of
space and made it shelter for
defenseless man. Let the fire go
out and the unknown would roll in
and engulf them all in darkness.
He hastily placed four more logs
on the fire and retreated to his
tent.
He could not sleep. He felt
absolutely alone. Aloneness was
like hunger in that it drove away
sleep.
He remembered his wife. He had a
fleeting thought of God. Then he
remembered his wife again.
Probably not his wife as herself,
as a definite personality, but
merely as a companion and a minis-
terer to his comfort. Not his
wife, but a wife. His mind
recreated a scene which had no
reason at all for persisting as a
memory. There was very little to
it. He had waked one midnight to
find his wife sitting up in the
bed they shared. She had on her
flannel camisa de chino, always
more or less dingy, and she was
telling her beads. “What are you
doing?” he had asked. “I forgot to
say my prayers,” she had answered.
He was oppressed by nostalgia. And
because he did not know what it
was he wanted his longing became
keener. Not for his wife, nor for
his life in the city. Not for his
parents nor even for his lost
childhood. What was there in these
that could provoke anything
remotely resembling this regret?
What was not within the life span
could not be memories. Something
more remote even than race memory.
His longing went farther back, to
some age in Paradise maybe when
the soul of man was limitless and
unshackled: when it embraced the
infinite and did not hunger
because it had the inexhaustible
at its command.
When he woke again the fire was
smoldering. But there was a light
in the forest, an eerie light. It
was diffused and cold. He wondered
what it was. There were noises now
where before had seemed only the
silence itself. There were a
continuous trilling, strange
night-calls and a peculiar, soft
clinking which recurred at regular
intervals. Forest noises. There
was the noise, too, of nearby
waters.
One of the men woke up and said
something to another who was also
evidently awake, Gerardo called
out.
“What noise is that?”
“Which noise?”
“That queer, ringing noise.”
“That? That’s caused by tree
worms, I have been told.”
He had a sudden vision of long,
strong worms drumming with their
heads on the barks of trees.
“The other noise is the worm
noise,” corrected Ambo. “That
hissing. That noise you are
talking about is made by
crickets.”
“What is that light?” he presently
asked.
“That is the moon,” said Ambo.
“The moon!” Gerardo exclaimed and
fell silent. He would never
understand the forest.
Later he asked, “Where is that
water that I hear?”
“A little farther and lower, I did
not wish to camp there because of
the leeches. At daylight we shall
stop there, if you wish.”
When he awoke again it was to find
the dawn invading the forest. He
knew the feel of the dawn from the
many misas de gallo that he had
gone to on December mornings. The
approach of day-light gave him a
feeling of relief. And he was
saddened.
He sat quietly on a flat stone
with his legs in the water and
looked around. He was still sore
all over. His neck ached, his back
hurt, his joints troubled him. He
sat there, his wet shirt tightly
plastered over his meager form and
wondered confusedly about many
things. The sky showed overhead
through the rift in the trees. The
sun looked through that opening on
the rushing water. The sky was
high and blue. It was as it always
had been in his dreams, beautiful
as he had always thought it would
be. But he would never come back. On his way out with the keys in
This little corner of the earth his hand he saw her at the head of
hidden in the hills would never the stairs anxiously lingering. He
again be before his gaze. stopped and considered her
thoughtfully.
He looked up again at the blue sky
and thought of God. God for him “Pereg, as soon as I get these
was always up in the sky. Only the clothes off I shall come to ask
God he thought of now was not the you a question that is very—very
God he had always known. This God important to me.”
he was thinking of was another
God. He was wondering if when man As she smiled eagerly but
died and moved on to another life uncertainly into his face, he
he would not find there the things heard a jangling in his hand. He
he missed and so wished to have. felt, queerly, that something was
He had a deep certainty that that closing above his hand, and that
would be so, that after his mortal whoever was closing it, was
life was over and we came against rattling the keys.
that obstruction called death, our
lives, like a stream that runs up
against a dam, would still flow
on, in courses fuller and
smoother. This must be so. He had
a feeling, almost an instinct,
that he was not wrong. And a
Being, all wise and compassionate,
would enable us to remedy our
frustrations and heartaches.

HE went straight to Sotera’s to

get the key to his house. In the
half light of the stairs he met
Peregrina, who in the solicitous
expression of her eyes saw the
dust on his face, his hands, and
his hair, saw the unkempt air of
the whole of him. He muttered
something polite and hurried up
stairs, self-consciousness
hampering his feet. Peregrina,
quite without embarrassment,
turned and climbed the stairs
after him.