A Night in the Hills

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. He would sit down to a supper
which savored strongly of Chinese cooking. 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.

For his dream concerned the 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. 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
precipitously. “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 water.
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 upon 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.
 “I am leaving town tomorrow morning.” he informed Sotera. “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.” “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.”

“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.

So to the hills he went with the gatherer of orchids. Among the foothills noon found
them. He was weary and wet with sweat. “Can’t we get water?” he asked dispiritedly. “We
are coming to water,” said Ambo. “We shall be there in ten minutes.” “There is a spring
around here, isn’t there? Or is it dried up?” “No, there is still water in it. Very little but good.”
They clambered over logs and stumps down a flight of steps cut into the side of the hill. The
young man squatted before it and lifted off a mat of leaves from a tiny little pool. Taking his
tin cup he cleared the surface by trailing the bottom of the cup on it. Then he scooped up
some of the water. It was cool and clear, with an indescribable tang of leaf and rock. It
seemed the very essence of the hills.

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. 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, 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. 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. 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. He
woke up again feeling that the little twigs underneath him had suddenly acquired
uncomfortable proportions. 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. 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 men. 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 minister 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. 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 lifespan could not be memories.
 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 was 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 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. This little corner of the earth
hidden in the hills would never again be before his gaze. He looked up again at the blue sky
and thought of God. God for him was always up in the sky. Only the God he thought of now
was not the God he had always known. This God he was thinking of was another God. He
was wondering if when man died and moved on to another life he would not find there the
things he missed and so wished to have.
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.

On his way out with the keys in his hand he saw her at the head of the stairs
anxiously lingering. He stopped and considered her thoughtfully. “Pereg, as soon as I get
these clothes off I shall come to ask you a question that is very—very important to me.” As
she smiled eagerly but uncertainty into his face, he heard a jangling in his hand. He felt,
queerly, that something was closing above his hand, and that whoever was closing it, was
rattling the keys.