Voyage: Spirit of the Annako

By Luis J. Cui

In the shadow of a rugged mountain range in the Philippines, lies San Ysidro, a rice farming community of tradition-bound residents determined to maintain their way of life that includes telling folklore tales around the campfire. Unfortunately as time goes on, change appears to be inevitable for the San Ysidroans.

More than two decades after a violent crime transforms San Ysidro forever, events begin to unfold as an ancient ritual, the Annako, demands revenge for the victims’ souls. As the spirits stir, a mother, her daughter, and a newspaper reporter are drawn into the dark past and into a world where the line between reality and the supernatural is blurred. As all three are led on circuitous paths of mystery made worse by violent threats and political scandals, now only time will tell whether they will find answers and peace for the victims’ souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Mar 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483447209

Book preview

life

Prologue

MORE THAN SIX HUNDRED MILES north of the Philippine capital of Manila was the rugged Cordillera Central mountain range that stretched for five hundred miles on a northeasterly direction. On that mountain range were three peaks: the northernmost was Mount Amuyao that stood at 8,799 feet, to its south was Mount Pulag, the highest at 9,606 feet, and the southernmost Mount San Fabian at 7,388 feet. From the west the Ahira River moved southeast over and around the Cordillera Central mountain range by Mount Amuyao. It connected with the Chico River that came down from the north and the Magat River from the east to form the Rio Grande de Cagayan, the longest and largest river in the Philippine archipelago that weaved northeasterly towards the province of Aparri and into the Babuyan Channel 220 miles away.

At the foot of the southeastern face of Mount Amuyao, and within the natural boundaries where these three rivers met and the Rio Grande de Cagayan began, was the tiny farming barrio of San Ysidro. It was nestled on an elevated plateau by Kanilaw Lake and a valley enriched by centuries of volcanic activity.

Ten centuries ago a portion of the valley was carved up to form the rice paddies. Though man-made, the rice paddies appeared in harmony with nature whether glistening in the sunshine or reflecting the moon and stars on its waters. Streams, supplied by the water that came down Mount Amuyao especially during the rainy season, irrigated the rice paddies. In case of runoffs, water was diverted to Kanilaw Lake, where an overflow in turn created a waterfall that cascaded down one hundred feet below into the Chico River.

Just beyond the rice paddies mango, banana, papaya, jackfruit, guava trees and a host of other tropical fruits were visible. Coconut trees, bamboo and a sprinkling of sugarcane patches added contrast to the valley. In the central part of the valley, narra a rose-scented and termite-resistant tree that grew to 130 feet stood and spread out throughout San Ysidro's natural boundaries towards the Cordilleras Central mountain range. From above the massive canopy of the narra forest shadowed the landscape and appeared impregnable. A closer look though would reveal several man-made paths entering a clearing in the narra forest, leading to a wooden barn-like structure. Its roof was made of dried coconut leaves referred to as nipa. San Ysidroans referred to the structure as kubo. It served as storage for newly harvested rice, fruits and vegetables. It also functioned as a town hall where many important events were held or decisions made.

Collectively, the families of San Ysidroans could trace their heritage long before the first westerners ever set foot on the land. They lived in nipa huts. These were box shaped, one or two bedroom structures, built on elevated platforms. The framework was made of wood and bamboo that was joined together by hemp. The distinctive feature of this hut was the triangular-shaped roof that was entirely covered by nipa. Their homes were scattered throughout the valley.

San Ysidroans were farmers who do backbreaking work from planting to harvesting rice. Under the unforgiving tropical sun and the extreme humidity they toiled from dawn to dusk. Soaked in knee-deep muddy waters, their hands and feet were calloused by the hard labor. They all knew rice had sustained their barrio for many generations. That in essence ensured their existence. The commonality of their labor, the love of the land created a tradition among the families. This was called bayanihan, an age-old Philippine tradition that required communal cooperation.

So close-knit was the community that marriages between families were not unusual. It fostered stronger bonds and these in turn assured preserving their way of life. There were exceptions however; few people outside of San Ysidro had also been assimilated mostly from marriage. For these few being accepted into the community was never easy. It took years to develop trust only because San Ysidroans were not comfortable with outsiders.

Rarely would San Ysidroans leave the barrio. Those who did and experienced life elsewhere eventually regretted that decision. Many came back. The barrio did not have the trappings of a modern society but the system the people had established for themselves was self-supporting. There was always an abundance of rice, fish from the rivers, variety of fruits and wild game in the valley. There were also vegetables they grew such as chayote, tomatoes, potatoes, yams as well as peanuts and the summer favorite singkamas, a root crop similar to potato they soaked in a mixture of vinegar and salt to quench their thirst in the unforgiving heat. Their livestock consisted mostly of chickens and pigs. The carabao, a domesticated water buffalo that helped till the fields and was a staple in every farming barrio. Most of all San Ysidroans were proud to say they were accountable only to themselves.

Eight years after the end of the Second World War and the birth of an independent Philippine republic in 1946, San Ysidroans tried to remain oblivious to the politics, violence and corruption of the young government because of its geographic isolation. San Ysidroans were content being among themselves. So much so, only during the most tumultuous of events in Philippine history others realized San Ysidro existed.

One aspect San Ysidro shared with other barrios, despite trying to be isolated, was that the greater forces that shaped the archipelago always affected them. It was inevitable. The Philippines was awash with a history of conquerors: the Spanish for more than three hundred years, the English briefly in the eighteenth century, the Americans at the end of the nineteenth century, and the Japanese in the Second World War.

One constant San Ysidroans sought was anonymity but that was proving to be more difficult in the modern world.

1

THE ELDEST OF THE SAN Ysidroans was the widowed Manang Pepa Sanchez and rightfully considered the matriarch of the barrio. In the summer of 1954 Manang Pepa was seventy-seven years old and her once fit body had given way to the frailties that accompany old age. Her step now slower, she walked hunched over but with her head held proudly high. She was an inspiration and well respected by the people, known for being forthright, even-handed and an optimist despite having experienced much sorrow in her life. They knew her story. At age five she saw her father die from a Spanish bullet during the Philippine Revolution of the late 1800s. She experienced the terror of the Macabebes, Filipino volunteers from the province of Pampanga, who assisted American forces during the Philippine-American War of 1899.

Peace was rather fleeting and the horrors of war came to San Ysidro once again. In 1943 Japanese soldiers descended on the barrio and killed many innocent San Ysidroans, including Manang Pepa's husband Carlos, their daughter Maria and her husband Crispulo. However, Nitang, Maria and Crispulo's only child a seven-year-old daughter, survived. The Japanese used their brutality to stem the rising tide of guerilla warfare during their occupation of the Philippines in the Second World War. During that time cholera, borne from flies that feasted on the unburied corpses that rotted on the open fields, visited the barrio. It mingled with the rivers and caused much more death and suffering. Yet, the barrio survived all these hardships only because Manang Pepa would not allow her fellow San Ysidroans wallow in despair. She pushed them to rebuild what they had lost, to support each other, and to give to those who needed it most. San Ysidroans learned to admire her strength, wisdom, and leadership. She shared this aspect of herself wholeheartedly, most especially, to the children of San Ysidro.

Manang Pepa always gathered the children at dusk around a bonfire and immersed them in stories about the forest, the creatures that lived in it, and the history of San Ysidro. She'd tell these stories when the rains were still four months away and the cool night air spelled relief from the hot summer day. An occasional cricket chirped, the fields sounded as a rare breeze passed, the hot air mixed with the coolness as the pigs and chickens laid docile in their pens. Mosquitoes buzzed over Manang Pepa's head, but she didn't mind. The children, however, did. Occasionally, they would swipe at the mosquitoes buzzing over their heads as they listened to her. After many years of telling her summer stories she knew that once the monsoon rains came, she'd have to stop and in the interim see the young faces change as they matured. Everything was a cycle. She, in the twilight of that spin had aged considerably. She felt she had lived a full life and experienced many things with few regrets.

Whether the stories Manang Pepa told were true or not, it did not matter. What mattered for the children was Manang Pepa's animated behavior as she recounted each story. The sight of this hunched, frail looking woman belied the energy within her. The words flowed out of her mouth almost like music. Her body, hands, and fingers emoting a bewitching dance in the dark. It was magical. The effects were visible in the faces of the children whether bewildered, touched, frightened or laughing loudly. Watching her, the shadows formed on her dark wrinkled face from the flames of the bonfire. Some remained fixated to her deep blue eyes but when her story ended she'd always point out the lesson to be learned.

"Bughaw, tell us another story, please?" the children would ask.

Bughaw, the children fondly called her alluding to her blue eyes. As was always the case, the children never tired of her stories. Manang Pepa hadn't noticed her granddaughter Nitang approach her from behind and ask, Mama will you tell them another story?

Nitang was now a young woman of eighteen. Her shoulder-length black hair was tied into a bun exposing her long slender neck. She was pregnant with her first child and married to her childhood sweetheart, Guadencio Carpio. Unlike her grandmother, Nitang did not have Manang Pepa's blue eyes. The children looked to Nitang then hopefully to Manang Pepa.

Tomorrow, Manang Pepa said raising her right hand, "I will tell the story of the kapres that live in the forests. Tonight I will tell you about the aswangs." She saw the fear in the childrens eyes and heard the gasps because they were aware of the folklore of the aswang, a creature that preys on pregnant women and children, and the kapre, a hairy giant who resides in the tall narra trees and smokes a cigar.

They never rest. Manang Pepa raised both arms to the dark sky and wailed,

"These aswangs lurk everywhere to snatch children who wander off alone."

Nitang understood why her grandmother told these stories. In the past some of San Ysidro's children would play games, wander off into the forest, and get lost. Unaccompanied by adults they faced great danger from the elements and the wild animals.

Aswangs were part of Filipino lore. They looked like ordinary people during the day. At night, however, they were most active and powerful. They were shape-shifters and could transform themselves into various types of creatures. Unseen to the human eye, an appendage extended from their mouths to suck the life off a fetus inside unsuspecting pregnant women when they were asleep. They also preyed on lost children.

Manang Pepa partially cupped her face with both hands. In a barely audible voice, with the shadows now dancing on parts of her exposed face, she shrilled a name in despair, Diego! A boy she said; a good boy who did not know any better. One summer morning she related Diego accompanied his pregnant mother to the market. While her mother was busy he was left unattended when a stranger befriended him with colorful rice cakes. He asked Diego if he was alone. Unaware he was an aswang Diego pointed out his mother and told him where they lived. They were unknowingly followed home, and in the dead of night while they slept the aswang sucked the life out of the fetus in the mother's womb. The cries of Diego's mother the next morning filled the house. She knew from a needle-size wound in her navel an aswang was responsible. Diego watched sadly as his mother despaired and stepped out of the house. He noticed some crumbs of colorful rice cake on the ground.

Several weeks passed before Diego saw the stranger again in the market. He pointed out the man to the elders. The elders responded with the help of other barrio people, seized the man, and confirmed he was an aswang before he was killed.

Sensing the fear in the children Manang Pepa went to each of them and planted a kiss on their foreheads to comfort them.

What lesson have you learned from the story? Manang Pepa asked, pointing to Sergio a six-year-old boy who shouted back, Do not talk to strangers!

Why? Manang Pepa asked.

"Because they might be aswangs!"

Yes, Manang Pepa said, they can harm you.

Before letting the children go home, Manang Pepa always ended their time together with the words of her late husband, Carlos.

One day, Manang Pepa addressed the children, you will work the rice fields and it will require your perseverance. It is in your blood to do this. With each passing season, take pleasure planting and harvesting, work for each other's success, because rice sustains our life.

As the last of the children departed, some of them carried kerosene lamps and wooden sticks. Manang Pepa bid them all good night. Nitang approached her grandmother and wrapped one arm around her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek.

Mama, maybe one day you'll have a special story to tell your great grandchild?

Manang Pepa grinned and placed a hand on her bloated belly, Maybe I'll come up with new ones?

"What do you mean new ones?"

Oh, special stories to tell my great-grandchild about his or her mother. Your mischievousness, how you'd disappear for hours and I'd worry until my hair would fall out or turn white. How you'd get into fights with the boys. How when you were children you knocked down Guadencio with a sack of rice. Those are the stories I will tell my great-grandchild. Manang Pepa teased.

Nitang whispered in her grandmother's ear, Please, nice stories.

Manang Pepa gently squeezed her granddaughter's hand,

That can be difficult. Manang Pepa jokingly said and then talked to Nitang about her pregnancy.

Anyway, your ripeness is approaching very quickly. Has Guadencio been attentive to your needs? Manang Pepa asked as she pulled out a small bottle from her pocket and uncapped it. Inside she kept dried tobacco leaves. She took some tobacco leaves and packed them tightly using only her hands and saliva to paste it together to form a cigar. She then lit it with a match. After several puffs she inserted the lighted end into her mouth to taste the tobacco smoke swirling inside.

As best he can, Mama. Nitang looked up at the infinite number of stars that covered the night sky and seemed exasperated, I am driving him crazy. My cravings are so ridiculous. The other night I woke him up because I was craving for mangoes.

Manang Pepa removed the tobacco from her mouth and put it back in the bottle, securing it with the bottle cap, And what's wrong with that?

It was close to midnight and we didn't have any at home. She looked down and continued, He was livid at first then he begged me, asking me to reconsider but I wouldn't have any of that and I began crying. Finally, he lit the kerosene lamp, took it with him and also grabbed an empty basket before walking out. He came back an hour later with a basket full of mangoes.

Well, Nitang it's part of being pregnant. Guadencio will have to understand.

He's still upset, Mama. Tears flowed from Nitang's eyes.

Why?

Because I didn't eat the mangoes and....

What? Manang Pepa asked surprised.

I complained it took him so long I lost my appetite.

Manang Pepa covered her mouth with both hands to hide her amusement.

I'll talk to Guadencio, Manang Pepa said as she comforted Nitang, Guadencio loves you and cares for you very much. He's only very confused about your actions.

She hugged Nitang and wiped away her tears and asked, Where is Guadencio? Why is he not here tonight?

He went to Lagawe early this morning to see Father Arguelles to make baptismal arrangements.

And did that government doctor show up today?

Dr. Corpuz was here yesterday, Mama. Don't you remember?

I guess I wasn't paying attention. Manang Pepa stroked Nitang's hair, Dr. Corpuz is such an unpleasant man. He is so unlike Father Arguelles.

Mama, how can you say that? As Nitang slowly bent down to pick up a slightly burnt branch near the bonfire.

Never mind. Manang Pepa joked, "I guess with that branch you'll keep the aswangs away?"

Don't be silly, Mama. It's for the snakes.

They both walked away from the bonfire and into the darkness. Manang Pepa's voice could be clearly heard by anyone nearby. She was insisting on taking Nitang home first.

2

GUADENCIO CARPIO SAT ON TOP of his carabao he affectionately named Esteban. He looked up to a blue and cloudless sky, the sun burning brightly above him, and felt the hot breeze as it passed through the mountain ranges of the Cordillera Central and disperse itself into the valley. He watched his fellow San Ysidroans work the rice paddies and amongst them his childhood friends Berto Encarnacion, Manuel Zamora and Clemente Cedeño. He reminisced those endless days they shared as children roaming the valley, running down hills, climbing trees and fishing. Now, they had grown older, gotten married and had families of their own to care for and had responsibilities to fulfill. He was the last to marry. His friends always thought he'd be the first knowing Nitang was extremely fond of him since they were children. But it didn't turn out that way. Berto was the first to marry Asuncion Carmona, Nitang's best friend, and were childless. Clemente married Pilar Estrada, a widow ten years older with two children from her previous marriage -- a boy and girl in their teens. Lastly, Manuel who took Betina Gutierrez just two years earlier had a one-year-old daughter, Esther. Each of them settled in their new roles and spent less time together. Only in the rice paddies would they talk about their lives to pass the time doing the kind of tedious work they did. When work was done, they'd return to their respective families.

Guadencio looked at his friends and saw how much they'd changed and wondered how quickly time went by. Magsasakas, that's what they were, which meant farmers -- a term sometimes used disparagingly because they toiled the fields and were considered illiterates. Despite being a magsasaka Gaudencio was a proud man. He knew the traditions and understood the land and the spirit of bayanihan, which is a way of life that moved the community to act as a single entity for the benefit of its individuals. A way of life lost outside the boundaries of San Ysidro.

Yet, Guadencio oftentimes wondered if he was denying Nitang from having a better life. Every time he visited towns like Lagawe and Concepcion, he saw things he wished he had. He noticed how differently the people of those towns dressed and was aware how plain he appeared to them. He envied what they had. When the people of these towns spoke to him, he felt the lowliness of his status. He was intimidated by their education. He knew it didn't matter; he had the knowledge and skills that made him a good farmer. However, his lack of any formal education and inability to read and write made him feel inferior. Whenever he'd visit Father Arguelles at Saint Paul's Academy he'd see the children carrying their bags filled with books. They'd be running down the halls in their clean, starched school uniforms looking at him strangely. He watched them laughing or sitting in their school desks and listening attentively to lectures in their classrooms. One thing he wished for, his child would have the same opportunity as the children of the towns, and learn new things aside from what he knew in the rice fields. Now, thanks to Father Arguelles the children of San Ysidro would get their education in their new school. Maybe he'd attend school, too! He smiled.

Guadencio dismounted from Esteban and rolled up