A Tale of Two Witches
A Tale of Two Witches In the barrio of San Roque, a witch is reputed to have lived. Having mesmerized a native girl with the magic of her craft, she is said to have carted her away to her lair on top of the highest hill in San Roque.
Talia had arrived in the barrio distraught, but determined to overcome. The town—her relatives, her co-teachers, those she did not especially consider her friends but declared themselves to be so—had been too much for her, bearing down heavily on her single-blessedness. Even the principal—married, with children—had gotten into the fray, attempting to seduce her on the shallow challenge that she must prove her womanhood.
She was not about to. Growing up under her father’s tutelage, she had learned to be independent—rather too fiercely for the town’s tastes—and at thirty-three, she was still curious about the world. No, she was not about to give up her independence and thirst for knowledge; but yes, though she felt quite above the mediocrity of that little town, she was not a little affected by the pressures it had brought to bear upon her.
So she ended up in San Roque, choosing to farm an almost forgotten two-hectare lot left by her dead father, trying to cut links completely with her immediate past. It was this complete cutting of links that led to her first and last fateful encounter with San Roque’s kapitan del barangay.
Ka Tiago—as he was fondly called by his sakop—was not a man to suffer rejection. He had worked his way into the barrio people’s affections, in a manner of speaking, and now immensely enjoyed his absolute hold on them. If he had been more educated and operating in the city, he would have called himself an “organization man;” but since he was merely an elementary school graduate and barrio jefe, he prided himself in its local equivalent, that of being a pulitiko, like it ran in his blood and was his predestination. In truth, like any city organization man, he maintained his power over the people with a heavy dose of intrigue balanced by an ever so slight dash of charm.
When Talia showed up in his house to register her presence in the barangay,Kapitan Tiago’s first reaction was to be tickled no end. A small, stocky man with a power drive stronger than his character, it flattered him to acquire a subject with a college education, and a maestra no less. Her face attracted him immediately. What joy to have such a one pay homage to him after all these years of being worshipped by a bunch of big-toed grade-three numbskulls!
When Talia had made known her purpose and was properly seated on the bench in front of his rough-hewn table, Ka Tiago immediately dispatched his wife and youngest son to fetch some paper or other not a few mountain hills away, enough time for him to finish two big cigars. Dutifully the fat woman, an inch taller than he but a third-grader nonetheless, left two glasses and a pot full of native freshly brewed coffee, already milked and sweetened withcondensada, on the table, in front of the maestra. Then off she lugged her runny-nosed son to fulfill her mission.
Presuming that he would make his catch, Ka Tiago lost no time in signing themaestra’s papers. But Talia sensed danger in the wife and son’s easy dispatch and made ready to leave with her signed papers, saying stiffly, “Salamat, kapitan, makaalis na po.” (“Thank you, kapitan, but I have to go.”)
The Kapitan’s cigar almost fell off his broad, dark mouth at the unfriendly response. Nevertheless, his charm quickly overtook his surprise.
He smiled. “O, huwag ka munang umalis, magkape ka muna. Alam mo, dito sa atin matagal bago makuha ang papeles na iyan. Maraming kung anu-anong rekisitos. Pero dahil sa ikaw ay edukada, hindi man lang ako nagdalawang-isip. Sa katotohanan, marami pa akong kailangang itanong sa iyo. Marami tayong kailangang pag-usapan. Kailangang mapatunayan ko na hindi ako nagkamali sa pagrerehistro sa iyo. Alam mo naman dito….” (“Come now, don’t go yet. Take some coffee. You know it takes a lot of time to get those papers here—plenty of requirements. But since you are educated, I did not even take a second thought. In truth, I still have quite few questions to ask you. We have much to talk about. After all, I have to prove that I did not make a mistake in giving you your registration papers. You know how it is….”)
So she stayed rooted to the bench, her back stiffening at each roundabout phrase, her eyes fixed on his ungainly nose and big mouth while he rambled on and on. How common this toad, she began thinking, how ugly like a frog. How like a frog he croaks. How like a high- pitched frog.
“How old are you?” he asked. “Thirty-three? And not yet married? With so many eligibles in town? I am forty and already blessed with a dozen children. It is good to be married; one is served. My wife—you just met her—serves me coffee whenever I want it. Ah, but she reached only grade three and you areedukada. What made you want to settle in this isolated barrio? Life in town is so much more exciting. Someday, I myself will settle in the town, maybe to become mayor, when I have bought enough land to stop farming. Now, I already have four tenants, but I still have to do some farming myself. But I will retire in the prime of life, move on to bigger things.”
What do I care about you, ugly man, she thought to herself, staring at his teeth reddened from chewing betel nut. All I want is a quiet and peaceful life.
But she said nothing.
Not getting a response, he blathered on—now sitting on the stool across the table, now walking about the cement floor.
“I have worked in town myself. In fact, I was able to save enough to buy a piece of land—this very land my house is standing on. I will never forget the town. You know, when I lived there, I had a girlfriend studying to be amaestra, like you. She was also tall and thin. She had long hair, like you. Edukada, intelektwal. Graceful. Long neck. Just like you. But I had to go back to my barrio, because I knew in my heart that this was where I should start serving my people,” he sighed, striking his breast with his rough palm, his head bent appropriately. And sighing again, he continued wistfully, “She wouldn’t go with me. She did not understand my cause in life. We were compatible in everything except my cause. And so I had to leave her.”
Talia could not have cared less about this man’s romantic past. However, his unravelling of comparisons made her hair stand on end, not so much out of fear as out of absolute contempt. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at every “like you,” “parang ikaw,” her head had reared. By the end of the story her stiffening neck had stretched its full length. When, after a short pause, thekapitan added another “Talagang parang ikaw,” “Just like you,” she was already angry, her lips thinned to a hard straight line, her nostrils flared and expelling hot air.
Sitting now, the kapitan reached for his coffee, drawing his stool closer to the table, his dark hairy arms sliding nearer, his body leaning towards her.
“It is good you came. Now I can talk to somebody at my own level. My wife, you know, I didn’t love her at first, but she has served me well. But I cannot talk to her at my own level. I only learned to love her through the years. One gets used to it after a while. After all she has given me so many robust children, all alive. But my girlfriend was something else, really something else.”
Talia leaned her tensed back on the windowsill, moving her hands away from the tabletop to the bench, ready to go. The Kapitan went on. “Ikaw naman, magkwento ka naman tungkol sa iyong sarili. Ako na lang ang nagkukwento. Paano ka naman napadpad sa lugar na ito e napakalayo sa sibilisasyon?” (“Now what about you? Tell me about yourself. I’m the only one talking here! How’d you come to a place like this, so far away from civilization?”)
That was it. A very private person to begin with, she loathed the idea of explaining to a total stranger—and what was more, a totally ugly stranger—her lifetime angst. Without a word she stood up, taking her papers from the table. At the table corner near the door she stopped, her head turned sideways to him, her body poised to get out, her fingers firmly on the papers. With full contempt she looked down at the man and said curtly, “Sa akin na ‘yon. Salamat sa rehistro. Aalis na ako.” (That’s my business. Thank you for the papers. I am leaving.”)
The kapitan’s left hand was holding his cigar, his right hand on his glass of coffee. He looked up at her and noticed for the first time her fiery eyes. He was so surprised that she had left before the insult dawned on him.
Talia had arrived in the barrio distraught, but determined to overcome. The town—her relatives, her co-teachers, those she did not especially consider her friends but declared themselves to be so—had been too much for her, bearing down heavily on her single-blessedness. Even the principal—married, with children—had gotten into the fray, attempting to seduce her on the shallow challenge that she must prove her womanhood.
She was not about to. Growing up under her father’s tutelage, she had learned to be independent—rather too fiercely for the town’s tastes—and at thirty-three, she was still curious about the world. No, she was not about to give up her independence and thirst for knowledge; but yes, though she felt quite above the mediocrity of that little town, she was not a little affected by the pressures it had brought to bear upon her.
So she ended up in San Roque, choosing to farm an almost forgotten two-hectare lot left by her dead father, trying to cut links completely with her immediate past. It was this complete cutting of links that led to her first and last fateful encounter with San Roque’s kapitan del barangay.
Ka Tiago—as he was fondly called by his sakop—was not a man to suffer rejection. He had worked his way into the barrio people’s affections, in a manner of speaking, and now immensely enjoyed his absolute hold on them. If he had been more educated and operating in the city, he would have called himself an “organization man;” but since he was merely an elementary school graduate and barrio jefe, he prided himself in its local equivalent, that of being a pulitiko, like it ran in his blood and was his predestination. In truth, like any city organization man, he maintained his power over the people with a heavy dose of intrigue balanced by an ever so slight dash of charm.
When Talia showed up in his house to register her presence in the barangay,Kapitan Tiago’s first reaction was to be tickled no end. A small, stocky man with a power drive stronger than his character, it flattered him to acquire a subject with a college education, and a maestra no less. Her face attracted him immediately. What joy to have such a one pay homage to him after all these years of being worshipped by a bunch of big-toed grade-three numbskulls!
When Talia had made known her purpose and was properly seated on the bench in front of his rough-hewn table, Ka Tiago immediately dispatched his wife and youngest son to fetch some paper or other not a few mountain hills away, enough time for him to finish two big cigars. Dutifully the fat woman, an inch taller than he but a third-grader nonetheless, left two glasses and a pot full of native freshly brewed coffee, already milked and sweetened withcondensada, on the table, in front of the maestra. Then off she lugged her runny-nosed son to fulfill her mission.
Presuming that he would make his catch, Ka Tiago lost no time in signing themaestra’s papers. But Talia sensed danger in the wife and son’s easy dispatch and made ready to leave with her signed papers, saying stiffly, “Salamat, kapitan, makaalis na po.” (“Thank you, kapitan, but I have to go.”)
The Kapitan’s cigar almost fell off his broad, dark mouth at the unfriendly response. Nevertheless, his charm quickly overtook his surprise.
He smiled. “O, huwag ka munang umalis, magkape ka muna. Alam mo, dito sa atin matagal bago makuha ang papeles na iyan. Maraming kung anu-anong rekisitos. Pero dahil sa ikaw ay edukada, hindi man lang ako nagdalawang-isip. Sa katotohanan, marami pa akong kailangang itanong sa iyo. Marami tayong kailangang pag-usapan. Kailangang mapatunayan ko na hindi ako nagkamali sa pagrerehistro sa iyo. Alam mo naman dito….” (“Come now, don’t go yet. Take some coffee. You know it takes a lot of time to get those papers here—plenty of requirements. But since you are educated, I did not even take a second thought. In truth, I still have quite few questions to ask you. We have much to talk about. After all, I have to prove that I did not make a mistake in giving you your registration papers. You know how it is….”)
So she stayed rooted to the bench, her back stiffening at each roundabout phrase, her eyes fixed on his ungainly nose and big mouth while he rambled on and on. How common this toad, she began thinking, how ugly like a frog. How like a frog he croaks. How like a high- pitched frog.
“How old are you?” he asked. “Thirty-three? And not yet married? With so many eligibles in town? I am forty and already blessed with a dozen children. It is good to be married; one is served. My wife—you just met her—serves me coffee whenever I want it. Ah, but she reached only grade three and you areedukada. What made you want to settle in this isolated barrio? Life in town is so much more exciting. Someday, I myself will settle in the town, maybe to become mayor, when I have bought enough land to stop farming. Now, I already have four tenants, but I still have to do some farming myself. But I will retire in the prime of life, move on to bigger things.”
What do I care about you, ugly man, she thought to herself, staring at his teeth reddened from chewing betel nut. All I want is a quiet and peaceful life.
But she said nothing.
Not getting a response, he blathered on—now sitting on the stool across the table, now walking about the cement floor.
“I have worked in town myself. In fact, I was able to save enough to buy a piece of land—this very land my house is standing on. I will never forget the town. You know, when I lived there, I had a girlfriend studying to be amaestra, like you. She was also tall and thin. She had long hair, like you. Edukada, intelektwal. Graceful. Long neck. Just like you. But I had to go back to my barrio, because I knew in my heart that this was where I should start serving my people,” he sighed, striking his breast with his rough palm, his head bent appropriately. And sighing again, he continued wistfully, “She wouldn’t go with me. She did not understand my cause in life. We were compatible in everything except my cause. And so I had to leave her.”
Talia could not have cared less about this man’s romantic past. However, his unravelling of comparisons made her hair stand on end, not so much out of fear as out of absolute contempt. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at every “like you,” “parang ikaw,” her head had reared. By the end of the story her stiffening neck had stretched its full length. When, after a short pause, thekapitan added another “Talagang parang ikaw,” “Just like you,” she was already angry, her lips thinned to a hard straight line, her nostrils flared and expelling hot air.
Sitting now, the kapitan reached for his coffee, drawing his stool closer to the table, his dark hairy arms sliding nearer, his body leaning towards her.
“It is good you came. Now I can talk to somebody at my own level. My wife, you know, I didn’t love her at first, but she has served me well. But I cannot talk to her at my own level. I only learned to love her through the years. One gets used to it after a while. After all she has given me so many robust children, all alive. But my girlfriend was something else, really something else.”
Talia leaned her tensed back on the windowsill, moving her hands away from the tabletop to the bench, ready to go. The Kapitan went on. “Ikaw naman, magkwento ka naman tungkol sa iyong sarili. Ako na lang ang nagkukwento. Paano ka naman napadpad sa lugar na ito e napakalayo sa sibilisasyon?” (“Now what about you? Tell me about yourself. I’m the only one talking here! How’d you come to a place like this, so far away from civilization?”)
That was it. A very private person to begin with, she loathed the idea of explaining to a total stranger—and what was more, a totally ugly stranger—her lifetime angst. Without a word she stood up, taking her papers from the table. At the table corner near the door she stopped, her head turned sideways to him, her body poised to get out, her fingers firmly on the papers. With full contempt she looked down at the man and said curtly, “Sa akin na ‘yon. Salamat sa rehistro. Aalis na ako.” (That’s my business. Thank you for the papers. I am leaving.”)
The kapitan’s left hand was holding his cigar, his right hand on his glass of coffee. He looked up at her and noticed for the first time her fiery eyes. He was so surprised that she had left before the insult dawned on him.