A Cry to Other Gods

By Grant Spencer

After abandoning her bastard child, Ellen met a middle aged American who took her as Celine, the name she gave him, to America. Twenty years later, she would take Magnus Eden, a young playwright, to be her lover. With the death of Horace her husband, she felt a solid grip on Magnus' affection until a return to La Playa unravelled Magnus' true identity and challenged her vow not to let him go even if it would mean crying to other gods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481760522

Grant Spencer

After studying how to write screen plays from Hollywood Script Writing Institute, he had written two plays: Darby and The Visitor. He also obtained a Masters of Liberal Arts degree from Baker University and lives with his wife in Virginia. A Cry to Other Gods is his first novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

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In a time of incipient wantonness and decay, a time when the line between truth and falsehood, honor and dishonor, sanity and madness was gray and thin, there is in every lonely heart an inaudible cry, a cry that could easily be labeled just; a cry that could throw caution into the wind. A wise man once said that there is nothing new under the sun making such a cry ancient and though there are many worlds as there are spheres of influence, the saying shows the constancy of human nature, its vices and virtues, its longings and pursuits all rooted to an emptiness that must be filled, a crack in its image that must be fixed. Yet even those who’ve encountered the one true God take up idols and upon realizing that they have done so hardened their hearts and embraced their perdition.

At the southern tip of Luzon was a J-shaped peninsula hugging Playa Bay. At the tip of the bay was the town of Opal Cliffs, home to U.S. navy ships and at its crest was La Playa, a poor seacoast town known for the tall obelisk-like tamarind tree the source of folk tales and superstitions. The town was also a favorite hangout of sailors on their liberty. Our story involved the disappearance of one such navy man.

It was 1957 twelve years after the end of the Second World War when La Playa began to show the American influence in her lifestyle. At Rooster Ben’s, the local pub, there was the jukebox with all the American hits of the 1950’s. When there was no free movie to be shown in Looban, there was the portable TV propped up by Mr. Nakano on his window sill for those who want to watch the syndicated westerns. The town was also known for the Big House owned by Don Carlos Montilla whose house of concrete and marble instead of bamboo and pawid was pharisaic by La Playa’s norm. It stood on a rise overlooking the bay on the west and on the east the valley where the forest lay. The obelisk-like tree to the irreverent a phallus taunting heaven was also witness to decades of vows of love beneath its bough. One such vow was that between Andres Eden and Simona Montilla, in their beauty was like a pair of Roman god and goddess. Among the rich, it was not uncommon to have arranged marriages, even among cousins. Though the word incest was never in their vocabulary, the very idea repulsed Andres and risking life and limb managed to win Simona taking her away from the man she had been pledged, her cousin Don Carlos. That was fifteen years ago when girls of fifteen marry and have a child. Now on his usual morning walk Andres Eden, a tall, handsome man in his early forties stopped by the Sandoval house and saw Ellen, a dissolute young girl, by the window her face towards the ocean; her apparent disregard to the wailing of her daughter gave him a sense that the spirit of rebellion residing in his heart have also captured the village youth. If God willed Isaac to be born what was he telling me on the death of Armand, my only son. And so it would be his complaint against God even when he and his beautiful wife Mona would be given another. How this came to be I will now relate.

Pedro Alvarez, a stocky man with a dogmatic disposition and the town’s mayor, always believed that the movies from Hollywood were not inimical culturally but rather a necessary escape from poverty, a belief which overlooked the impressionable youth of his village. This was especially true to Ellen, the pubescent wife of Damian Sandoval, one of the town’s policemen. Her house, one of the many which lined Looban gave her an advantage allowing her to watch the movies held there just by looking out the window. She didn’t watch to be amused but to glean beads of wisdom. And like any sensitive girl was quick to take to heart sentiments or dilemmas akin to her. If only I could be good again uttered by Pearl of Duel in the Sun was one of them. Like Pearl, she felt like trash having been forced to a marriage she didn’t want. Three months after giving birth to her first child, she would meet an ensign on liberty giving her hope of ending her dissatisfaction. One morning she was on the beach letting Emma breath the morning sea breeze, a practice of mothers to cure their children of congestion. She was breast feeding her daughter when sailors on liberty came on a boat and spotted her. She descried a young man she thought looked like Cary Grant and wished that he’d come to her. He did. Vito the amorous and bold among the three let the other two go on to town and he stayed with her. That night Damian was needed by Fabian, a detective, who was to bring Cuchillo, a convicted murderer, to Maragundon, the provincial prison. One way it was a two hour drive giving Vito ample time to enjoy Ellen. They were inside Santiki’s cottage and would forge a plan for her to leave her husband and child.

One night in September six months later, Ellen Sandoval would stand outside her house mesmerized by the antagonist of Leave Her to Heaven. As usual the free movie would play on the screen atop a van which peddled Cortal, a cold and fever reliever, parked at the south end of Looban. I will be like her strong, wily and beautiful Ellen said to herself idolizing her namesake on the screen. People in love don’t really die. How true she said to herself mimicking Ellen of the movie. Like a supplicant needing an answer to her prayer, she took the antagonist’s word as tacit approval of her plan. Three months later the wet season over, La Playa was adorned for Christmas. There were lanterns hanging on every window and carols played over the radio. Both the Roman Catholic Church situated in the heart of town and a mile away from the Methodist Chapel located near La Playa High School and across Mr. Politos’ funeral parlor got ready for advent. Dr. Borschardt, a thirty year old German who made La Playa his home and assiduously visits her and Emma, set her to give birth on the first week of December. That day had come and she didn’t take the delay as the doctor’s error rather as justification from heaven of her plan.

Three days before the promised return of her lover and her plan’s fulfillment—the first day of advent—she acted on her plan and went to see Santiki, a chubby boy her age. It was during siesta that she left her nine month old daughter to her neighbor Mona. After leaving Looban, she entered a narrow alley which continued on to the fishponds. Before reaching the fishponds, she turned to her left towards the woods. Hidden behind a clump of banana trees was Santiki’s cottage. She was glad that its stair only had two steps. Reaching the door, she opened it. What she saw assured her that her secret was secure. After telling Santiki why she came, she left and went home taking the road which cut through the forest.

Beneath the bough of the tall tamarind tree, Andres found Ellen reading the lovers names carved on its monolith-like trunk (it can hide four men abreast).

There is nothing like true love is there, Ellen said.

What do you know about love? Andres wanted to say but remembering Mona was fifteen like Ellen when she gave birth to Armand, their only son, he didn’t. The boy had been dead ten years and he’d been going into the woods in the hope of catching whoever killed his son. He was convinced that criminal elements lurk in the woods and didn’t believe the German doctor’s diagnosis of death by spider venom.

You’re bold to be here alone, Ellen heard Andres catching a hint of irritation in his voice. She looked at him and saw how anger gave him a fierce countenance and regretted it for she found him quite handsome. She left without speaking.

Soon, she was on the dirt road separating a row of eclectic houses—a mix of cottages and wood-framed houses—from the forest. Directly in line with the shadow of the tall tamarind tree was the cottage of Andres and Mona Eden. South of their cottage unbarred by any shrub or tree was her house, a two story wood frame with yero for its roof. Inside, she took the stair which led to the bedroom.

I’m sorry I came back so late, Mona heard the sincere apology of the young girl before her.

Did you accomplish what you set out to do? Ellen was startled by Mona’s question. She looked at her beautiful yet kind eyes and said, Yes, thank you. She pulled a five peso bill and gave it to Mona who took it and left. She then went to bed and counted the days, and the hours when her dream would be fulfilled.

Nobody knows how rumors start. One afternoon after one of his visits to Patsy’s, the local brothel across the river, Damian came home nagged by the rumor that Ellen had a lover. He found her seated by the window. Without much of a greeting he asked her if the rumor was true. Ellen sat quietly without giving an answer. Damian then tried to instill fear in her. He took a knife and threatened to stab her jabbing the knife stopping its point within an inch of her bulging tummy. Damian jabbed the knife three times but Ellen was defiant. Seeing her unafraid, Damian dropped the knife. On the way out of his house, he met Dr. Borschardt.

I’ve come to check on Emma, Damian heard the high pitched voice of the young doctor.

Damian nodded. He then got on his patrol car and drove off.

Ellen didn’t waste time telling the young doctor how she felt about Damian.

He’s a son-of-a-whore, she said with unmasked anger. She saw the doctor picked up the knife and told him that he threatened to kill her.

Everybody knows your husband has a mean temper, Ellen heard the doctor’s soft voice. Putting the knife away, he said, I’d like to examine Emma. She saw him put on his stethoscope and before she could nod, he had it on Emma’s chest.

I’ve been taking her to the beach every morning, Ellen said regaining her composure.

Morning sea breeze is good but be sure you have her wrapped in a blanket. I’ll come once a month. Don’t get excited, it’s bad for the baby.

The eve before the first day of advent Ellen tried to suppress her excitement. But as Major Warden tells Commander Shears on the movie "The Bridge on the River Kwai" ‘there’s always the unexpected’. La Playa would be buffeted by a storm. Would Vito come? Ellen lay on the bed thinking about the possible effects of the storm. She fell asleep thinking about it. Around ten o’clock at night, Ellen felt the lustful hands of her husband and awakened her. In the dark, she could smell gin on his breath.

Get your hands off me Damian, she said staring at his reptilian eyes.

She took her stand, assuming the role of Ellen of Leave Her to Heaven, strong and determined. After seeing her husband leave, she went back to sleep.

Damian went to the forest and took the dirt road which led to Patsy’s. Reaching the acacia tree where the road splits, he waived Patsy’s temporarily and took the one on the right which took him to Santiki’s cottage. As the town policeman, it was his duty to keep the peace and that included a fight between Santiki and Bertha. The fight which happened a week ago not only revealed the root of their brawl—sugar cane refuse Bertha wanted for her sow which Santiki had denied giving her—but by the curses they have hurled at each other their homosexuality. The cat being out of the bag accusations of dalliances of each were thrown like meaningless words into the wind. It was from there that Damian had heard how Bertha fantasized about his wife. His libido frustrated by Ellen, he decided to confront Santiki about what Bertha had said he knew about Ellen.

Like Ellen, he found Santiki in sodomy with a young man who upon seeing his uniform and gun grabbed his clothes, jumped out the window and disappeared into the woods. Fixing his reptilian eyes on Santiki he said, Now you will tell me what Ellen is up to and don’t even think of lying.

After leaving Santiki, he took the road which led to Patsy’s. Upon reaching the bridge which spanned the river, he crossed it and entered Patsy’s brothel. Then there was a flash of lightning. Patsy, a Dominican beauty, welcomed him with both arms. Then the thunder pealed. The wind howled and the rain began to fall.

Chapter 2

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There is no saner man in the world than the madman. In his mind, he alone holds the truth and those who disagree with him are insane. So he laughs. A madman-like belief whether noble like a rebellion aiming to change the world, insidious and bent on revenge or mundane like romance to gain one’s happiness is powerful, setting the mind on one track, laying captive one’s spirit, goading it with fanatic zeal to act on what the belief demands, setting the neck rigid, fixing the eyes only on the prize.

And Ellen had her eyes on the prize. The morning after the anomalous storm—no storm visits La Playa in December—under a bright silver sky beneath the dark bough of the tamarind tree, Ellen stood before its monolith trunk. She grinned reading her name and that of her lover inscribed by a heart she had just carved on it. She didn’t care if those around her—men afraid of the choleric nature of her husband—thought she was mad adding her sin to decade old names and their vows of fidelity. Isn’t madness justification apart from the madman’s justification?

It is 1957, the year of my jubilee and I intend to be free. She recalled the words of her letter she’d sent nine months ago to Flora, her friend who lives in New York. Are you Cary Grant? she smiled recalling how she got to know her lover. Thinking of him now and his promised life in a new world, she was unmindful of what surrounded her: branches broken in its tenacity, bamboo shoots bowed to humility, fruits from mango, manzanitas and guava groves both ripe and unripe, and debris-pawid, yero, karatula—strewn about her. If she was pleased with what she’d done, her happiness was fleeting. Oblivious of the village ritual of looking into the tree (a custom to assuage their fear of its toppling because their cottages fell in its shadow), she got surrounded by men—peasants and fishermen—who being reminded of their mortality came to heed ritual’s call. Why aren’t you with your husband and child? The men’s look seemed to say. Men are not gods or demons unable to read another person’s mind; yet by virtue of one’s conduct, even manner of dress, the men showed what they think and hang their lustful eyes on her.

Feeling the heat from their leering eyes, Ellen’s beautiful brown eyes filled with disdain peered into them, her sensuous lips pressed tight, showing her irritation at their sudden intrusion and talk of death, interrupting her thoughts of times spent with her lover who’d promised to take her away. Despite her white muslin dress shapeless like a barrel ending above the knee, she could read their eyes imagine her wide hips and ample bosom. Lechers! You’re one reason why I want to leave La Playa, her mind blind to her own sin said to no one. There was no pity in her heart casting her eyes at their forlorn emaciated faces, at their shadowed eyes glowing with anxiety. Reminded by poverty, she was filled with disgust seeing their cheeks bulge with nganga, homemade chewing tobacco (areca palm nut wrapped in betel leaves dubbed with slaked lime), and their parched lips wetted with the blood-like juice oozed down their chin. Stop staring at me. Her mind continued to rant. No words were exchanged by the men who stopped leering at her alabaster shoulders draped by her long black hair and looked for hope palming the rough, dark bark of the tree, patting it like a reliable ally and friend. There was the usual mustiness seeping up from the wet ground and what freshness Ellen smelled in the light east wind was overpowered by the pungent mint as the dark, wet loom soil drank nganga spat on the ground, a smell she would puke on last March nine months ago. The thought dimmed her mood. Go home and leave me alone, her mind yelled. Like an answer to her unheard ranting, the smooth, mellow sound of White Christmas which reminded them of the season of love and giving floated in the air. The romantic would not see the irony of such a song in a tropical peninsula. Ellen’s keen ear heard the song and the imagery of a winter wonderland played in her head. Thinking only of her happiness, she despised even more the bucolic crowd about her. In silence, she watched them inspect the tree, poking with bamboo sticks the earth where its roots clung onto. Having allowed one superstition corrupt her heart believing she had secured promises of eternal love, she felt happy once more. The men must have seen the sparkle in her eyes and thought her mad knowing what Damian in his jealous rage might do to her.

For Ellen, the smile on her lips may very well be that of superiority of a madman; it wasn’t so; rather a secret of her heart she thought she alone possessed tempered her disdain and gave her the audacity of writing her adultery onto the tree. If this is foolish, it would not matter; its discovery would tell Damian that love between us had died, by that time I would be in the arms of my lover in the land of milk and honey: America. So she reasoned thinking of the country glamorously portrayed on movies she had seen staged at the town plaza, at times at Looban, filling her mind with thoughts of Cary Grant the protagonist in Suspicion and of Marilyn Monroe, the aphrodisiac of The Seven Year Itch, movies paid only with time, time to subject their minds to shenanigans by peddlers—some are ventriloquists with child-like puppets of wood—of concocted panaceas, herbal medicines to heal ailments from arthritis to syphilis, a disease the men associate with Patsy’s and knew but did not dread because they have full confidence, believing the superiority of the young German, Dr. Heinrich Borschardt, in curing all diseases. Between movies, she would fill her head with dreams watching the syndicated shows on a 1955 GE portable TV perched on the window sill of Mr. Nakano’s house built on a piece of land he bought from Don Carlos Montilla, an industrialist Spanish mestizo, who owned most of La Playa: on the north, the land from the edge of the river, on the south, the land where the shadow of the tall tamarind tree fell, on the east, the fishponds, on