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.

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. 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 he 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 he 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 relationship 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 Peregrina, and be taken care
of until he died for she would surely outlive him.

But he could not, he must not. Uncomfortable though he was, he still looked on his widowerhood
as something not fortuitous, but a feat triumphantly achieved. The thought of another marriage
was to shed his wings, was to feel himself in a small, warm room, while overhead someone shut
down on him an opening that gave him the sky.

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.”

Up a huge scorched log Ambo clambered, the party following. Along it they edged precariously
to avoid the charred twigs and branches that strewed the ground. Here and there a wisp of smoke
still curled feebly out of the ashes.

“A new kaingin,” said Ambo. “The owner will be around, I suppose. He will not be going home
before the end of the week. Too far.”

A little farther they came upon the owner, a young man with a cheerful face streaked and
smudged from his work. He stood looking at them, his two hands resting on the shaft of his axe.

“Where are you going?” he asked quietly and casually. All these people were casual and quiet.

“Looking at some land,” said Ambo. “Mang Gerardo is from Manila. We are going to sleep up
there.”

He looked at Gerardo Luna curiously and reviewed the two porters and their load. An admiring
look slowly appeared in his likeable eyes.

“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. At the
foot sheltered by an overhanging fern-covered rock was what at first seemed only a wetness. 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.

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
ministerer 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. 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 had a deep certainty that
that would be so, that after his mortal life was over and we came against 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.

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 uncertainly 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. Ω

Gerardo Luna, a jewelry store salesman in his 30’s, has always dreamed to go to the forest which
he regards as a beautiful place. One day, when Ambo, an orchid gatherer who buys some jewelry
for his wife’s store, tells Gerardo about living in the forest for weeks at a time, the latter gets
more interested, and tells his wife about it. However, his wife is eyeing only the business aspect
of such idea. Hence, he never mentions his dream again.

Then Gerardo’s wife dies. At last, he can fulfill his long-time dream, especially that Ambo
has come again, with stories regarding newly opened public land on a forest plateau. So, the two
of them plan to go to the forest.

Before actually going to the planned trip, Gerardo’s Ate Tere is not so keen on the idea.
She wants him to marry Peregrina who will surely take him the minute he proposes.

Ambo and Gerardo go to the hills, and it is among the foothills where they spend noontime.
Gerardo is tired and sweaty, and he asks for water, which, according to Ambo is ten minutes
away. They walk and walk, and along the way Gerardo experiences nature in a manner that is not
that wonderful for him.

Finally they enter the dim forest. Gerardo is uncomfortable on his bed of small branches
and twigs. He cannot sleep that night; he thinks of his wife, not fondly, though. He also thinks of
God. He is oppressed by nostalgia.

There is an eerie light in the forest, and Gerardo hears strange sounds that are caused by
tree worms. Then he hears water from afar. All in all, he feels that he will never understand the
forest.

Gerardo goes home, first getting his house’s key from his Ate Tere. There he meets
Peregrina whom he tells “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 uncertainly 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.

III. SHORT STORY ELEMENTS

A. CHARACTERS
1. Gerardo Luna - a jewelry store salesman in his 30’s, Protagonist, Developing
2. His wife – Antagonist, Flat, Static
3. Ambo - an orchid gatherer who buys some jewelry for his wife’s store, Flat, Static
4. Ate Tere or Sotera – Gerardo was a younger brother to the former mistress of her also younger
brother, Flat, Static
5. Peregrina – Flat, Static

B. PLOT - Linear

a) Introduction

Gerardo Luna is being introduced, with the mention of his secret long-time dream of going to the
forest.

b) Rising Action

He tells her wife about such dream, but she brushes it off; thus, he forgets about that dream.
Then she dies.

c) Climax

The peak of this short story is when Gerardo is finally in the forest, and he experiences things
that he has never though the forest has.

d) Falling action

Things start to “fall” when Gerardo realizes that the forest is not exactly what he has always
dreamed.

e) Denouement

When he goes back home, Gerardo feels he should get back to reality.

C. SETTING

a) place – in Intramuros, Manila, Philippines

b) time- a long time ago

c) weather conditions- fine

d) social conditions- Gerardo has a nice job

e) mood or atmosphere- light

D. POINT OF VIEW

The Point of View used in this short story is the Omniscient Limited - The author tells the
story in third person (using pronouns they, she, he, it, etc). We know only what the character
knows and what the author allows him/her to tell us. We can see the thoughts and feelings of
characters if the author chooses to reveal them to us.

E. LITERARY DEVICES

For me, the literary devices used in this story are Symbolism and Irony. Gerardo’s dream of
going to the forest symbolizes the freedom he has always longed for. Meanwhile, this dream is
ironic because the forest is not what he thinks it is.

F. THEME

In my opinion, the theme things are not always as they appear to be is applicable to this
story.

G. CONFLICT

The conflict here is Internal, that of Man vs. Himself. Gerardo has always dreamed of
going to the forest, and he has kept this within himself.
 THE LITTLE PEOPLE
by Maria Aleah G. Taboclaon

©2001 by Copper Sturgeon

THE elves came to stay with us when I was nine. They were noisy creatures and we would hear
them stomping on an old crib on the ceiling. We heard them from morning till night. They kept
us awake at night.

One night, when it was particularly unbearable, Papa mustered enough courage and called out.
"Excuse me!" he said. "Our family would like to sleep, please? Resume your banging
tomorrow!" Of course, we had tried restraining him for we didn't know how the elves would
react to such audacity.

We got the shock of our lives when silence suddenly filled the house--no more banging, no more
stomping from the elves. Papa turned to us smugly. Sheepishly, we turned in for the night,
thankful for the respite.

When dawn came, the smug look on Papa's face the night before turned into anger for shortly
before six, the banging started again, and louder this time! We got up and tried speaking to the
elves but got no response. The banging continued all day and into the night, and stopped at the
same hour--eleven o'clock. And at exactly six a.m. the next day, it started again.

What could our poor family do?

Papa tried to call an albularyo to get rid of our unwelcome housemates but the woman was
booked till the end of the week. Meanwhile, the elves had become our alarm clock. When they
start their noise, we would get up and do our errands. Papa would start cooking, I would start
setting the table, Mama would sweep. The whole house--my older sister and my cousin would
water the plants, and my brother would start coloring his books. (We really didn't expect him to
work, he was only four.)

After a week, we got hold of the albularyo. She spent the night in our house and by morning, she
told us to never bother her again. The elves had already made themselves a part of our life, she
said. Prax, the leader of the elves, had spoken to her and had told her that his family had no plans
of moving out. They liked things as they were.

We eventually settled down to a comfortable coexistence with the elves. They woke us up at six,
they let us sleep at eleven, and in return for the alarm service we would leave food on the table.
By morning, the food would be gone and the table cleaned.

All in all, it was a very good relationship.

After three weeks--the first week of May--I met Prax, the leader and oldest in the clan, and I met
him literally by accident. I was climbing the mango tree in our yard when one of its branches
broke. I fell and broke my ankle. The pain was so great that I just sat there numb, staring at my
ankle which had begun to turn blue. I could not move or cry out. I went to sleep to forget the
pain. My last conscious thought was that the ground was too cold to sleep on.

I woke to a hand touching my foot. It belonged to someone--something nonhuman, for his hand
radiated warmth that seemed to penetrate to my bones. His hand was small, wrinkled and felt like
dried prunes.

Although I was curious, I kept my eyes closed. I imagined a hideously deformed face, with long
and sharp teeth. Would he disappear when I open my eyes? Or would he devour me? I pretended
to be asleep.

After several minutes, I could pretend no longer; I was too curious to remain still. When I
opened my eyes, the horrible sight that I expected was not there. Instead, there was this old,
wrinkled creature, even shorter than I was although I was the smallest in my class. He wore
overalls unlike any clothing I knew of. Its texture was a mixture of green leaves and earth. It
clung to his skin and writhed with a life of its own. Its color continually changed from deep to
light green, to dark to light brown, and to green again. It was fascinating to look at. I felt a sense
of awe and respect towards the elf.

He was good with his hands. My ankle already felt better. He was massaging it with an ointment
that smelled nice. Before I could stop myself, I sniffed deeply, bringing the healing aroma of the
ointment deep into my lungs. Detecting my movement, the elf turned to me and smiled kindly.
Although I didn't see his mouth moving, I could hear him talking.

"Don't be afraid," he said. His voice was so soothing that I had to fight my urge to snuggle and
sleep in his small arms.

I shook my head slightly. What was I supposed to say? Hello, elf? How are you? I could not. I
didn't even know if I was supposed to call him that or just say Tabi or Apo.

As if knowing what I was thinking, the elf smiled again. "You call our kind dwendes or elves,
no?" I nodded. "I actually don't mind if you call me an elf, but please call me Prax."

Seeing my astonished look, Prax laughed. His laugh sounded like the whistling of wind through
the trees and a bit like the breaking of the waves on the seashore. I thought it nice and longed to
hear more. And I wanted to know more about his kind. Did they have children? Wives? Did they
play games like patintero? Habulan?

But Prax was not in the mood to chat. He told me that I should have been more careful. I could
have been seriously hurt.

I nodded absently, thinking that I liked his clothes, his laugh, and his voice. He reminded me of
my grandfather who had died a long time ago.
I closed my eyes, letting Prax's healing massage lull me to sleep. Thirty minutes later when I
woke up, the elf was gone. Only the lingering fragrance of his balm remained.

When Mama and Papa arrived, I told them what had happened. It was really frustrating seeing
their reactions. They became pale, then collapsed on the sofa. I had to douse them with water
before they revived. Why couldn't they be like other people and be glad that I had been
befriended by a supernatural being? I had told them about my first encounter with a real elf, and
they fainted on the spot! I sulked for the rest of the evening.

Mama told me to never, never talk to elves again. Or did I forget the countless tales of elves
taking people to their kingdom after killing them? I just shrugged. After all, the elf had saved my
life!

I thought no more of it and, indeed, began to enjoy the banging and stomping on our ceiling. I
almost wished to be hurt again just so I could see Prax. But nothing happened and I passed the
rest of my summer days dreaming about playing with elves.

I met my second elf in school. I was in Grade 3, a transferee to a new public school that had a
haunted classroom. My classmates related tales about dwendes, white ladies, and kapres in our
school. I believed their stories readily.

I tried to tell them about Prax but since they were skeptical, I decided to let them be. As it was, I
was excluded from their games.

In the classroom, I chose the seat I felt was the most haunted, the one farthest away from the
teacher's table. Nobody wanted to sit near me. Behind me was a picture of the president. Without
the company of my classmates, I expected elves to make their presence felt. So I waited.

By the third month in class, it happened. We had a very difficult math exam. Our teacher left us
and went to gossip outside and all around me my classmates were openly copying each other's
work. I looked at their papers from my seat, hoping that their scribbles would mean something to
me but the answers to the blasted long divisions eluded me. I looked at the ceiling, trying to see
if my brain would work better if my head was tilted a certain angle. It did not. I looked to my
right, nothing there. And finally, I looked down and saw this tiny little elf, smaller than Prax by
as much as six inches, sitting on the bag in front of me tap-tapping his foot impatiently.

"What took you so long to notice? I've been here for hours!" he said.

What gall! Did he really think that his race would excuse his bad manners? I ignored him and
frowned at my test paper. What was 3996 divided by 6?

Immediately, he apologized and told me that his name was Bat. He had seen me play outside and
thought that I was beautiful, sensitive, and romantic. Did I want him to help me in my test?
Me beautiful? I enthusiastically agreed to let him answer the test. I showed him my paper, and he
snorted. "For us elves, this is elementary!" he said. I wanted to tell him that to us humans, these
problems are also elementary, third-grade in fact, but I changed my mind.

Bat and I became friends. He helped me with my homework and gave me little things such as
colored pencils and stationery that were the craze in school. He cautioned me strongly against
telling my parents of my friendship with him. After all, he said, some people might not
understand our relationship. They might forbid us from seeing each other.

I thought nothing of it and kept silent about my friendship with Bat. I enjoyed his company, for
he was very thoughtful. He was a good friend and I thought we would be friends forever.

The time came, though, when he declared that he loved me. He wanted me to go with him to his
kingdom and be his princess. I refused, of course. For God's sake, I was only nine! I didn't know
how to cook or do the laundry or do the other things that wives are expected to do. And he was
an elf! Short as I was, he only came up to my knees. What a ridiculous picture we would surely
make. He pleaded with me for days but out of spite I told him that I had already confided to my
parents, and that they were very angry. It was not true, but Bat didn't know that. He got angry
and launched into diatribes about promises being made and broken. Then he vanished.

That night I dreamed that Prax talked to me. He told me that I should have never offended Bat
outright. "That elf is a stranger in our town," he said. "We don't know his family. He might be
violent."

But I had already done what I had done and there was no use wishing otherwise. I told Prax I'd
never worry. After all, he'd always be there for me and my family, right?

"Wrong," he said. His gift was for giving good luck and for healing minor, nonfatal injuries.
"What good is that for?" I asked. He couldn't answer, and left me to a dream of falling houses
and shrieking elves.

The next day, I got sick and did not get well even after the best doctor in town treated me. My
parents had grown desperate so the albularyo was called once more. She told my parents to roast
a whole cow, which they did willingly. The albularyo and her family feasted on it. When I was
still sick after a few days, she instructed my parents to cut my hair; she told them that elves liked
longhaired women. The problem was Bat liked my new look, and in my dreams, he was always
there, entreating me to go with him. I got sicker than ever.

The albularyo, getting an idea from a dream, then tried her last cure--an ointment taken from the
bark of seven old trees applied to my hair. It cost more than the cow and nobody could enter my
room without gagging. The smell was terrible. That did the trick. Apparently, Bat was disgusted
but he would stop at nothing to get me, even if it meant getting my family out of the way. I told
him again and again that I didn't love him and would never go with him, but the elf's mind was
set. In the end I just ignored him, for who could reason with an elf, and a mad one at that?
He did not turn up in my dreams the next few nights. In a week, I was up and running again and I
thought that all was right. My parents decided that I should transfer to another school, this time a
sectarian school.

Then something happened. My mother had a miscarriage. People blamed the elves and talked
about it for a long time. I remember the sad and fearful looks of my parents every day as they
heard the banging on our ceiling. Were they friends or were they responsible for the accident? I
had never told them about Bat, who Prax said was the one behind all these incidents.

Years passed, and since nothing untoward had happened since my mother's miscarriage, we
began to let go of our fears. The alarm service continued, and our belief that my mother's
miscarriage was the elves' doing was discarded. It was simply the fetus's fate to die before it was
born.

"Bat left town, probably to look for some of his kin to help him," Prax said.

It was a chilling thought, and with Bat's words the last time we talked, I was terrified. I laid
awake at night thinking of a way to protect my family. I had Prax, but what about them?

When I was twelve, the banging on our ceiling stopped. We were having lunch, feasting on the
pork barbecue my mother had bought after her experiment with chicken curry failed. The sudden
cessation of the noise we had been living with for years was jarring. The silence grated on our
ears. For the first time, we could hear ourselves breathe.

No one moved. Even my brother, who was now seven, stopped chewing the pork he had just
bitten off the stick. Papa stood up and called to the elves. Nobody answered. Gesturing for my
cousin to follow him, they got the ladder and prepared to climb to the ceiling. They took with
them an old wooden crucifix and a bottle of water from the first rain of May. My cousin brought
along a two-by-two and a rope. I didn't know what they wanted to do but we looked on, our
barbecue forgotten.

Papa went inside the ceiling and my cousin followed. Moments later, they came back running.
My cousin descended the ladder first and I don't know whether it was because of fright or just
because he was careless, but a rung broke and he fell to the ground, back first, hitting the two-by-
two he had dropped in his haste. He lay there, unmoving except for his ragged breathing, his
back bent at an angle we never thought possible.

Mama fainted, Papa stood still, my sister called an ambulance, my brother wailed, and I sat in the
ground, laughing. It was not a laugh of gladness, just my nervous reaction to what happened. But
they misunderstood and locked me in my room. I cried, shouted, cursed, but remained locked in.
From inside my room I could hear them talking, the medical help coming in, and relatives
pouring inside our house. I was ignored. I slept and dreamed that an elf was laughing. When I
woke up, the whole house was filled by elven laughter. Then my cousin died.

After another year, my little brother followed. He was run over by a postal service van. I can still
hear the anguished wail of the driver as he asked for forgiveness. He claimed that a tiny creature
had run in front of his van and he had swerved to avoid it. My brother was unfortunately playing
by the roadside and the van ran straight into him. Witnesses say they had heard laughter at the
exact moment the wheels caught my brother.

The driver was imprisoned, but the deaths did not stop there. Barely six months later, my father
drowned while fishing. A freak storm, the fishermen said, but for us who were left alive there
was no mistaking that our family would die one by one.

There were only three of us left: my mother, my sister, and I. We tried to seek help, but the
policemen laughed in our faces. We were branded as lunatics. And Prax was gone, defeated by
Bat and his family apparently on the day the banging stopped. Even the albularyo could not help
us. What use were her potions and ointments? What the elves needed was a good dose of magic,
and the albularyo was primarily a healer and an exorcist. She had no training when it came to
defending a whole family against vengeful elves.

And poor Mama! A mere week after my father died she followed. Extreme despair, the doctors
said but we knew better.

My sister and I left home and went to live with our relatives in the city, hundreds of kilometers
away. We told them about the elves but they laughed and told us we were being provincial. "It is
the 90s," they said. "Belief in the little people died a long time ago." We knew they were wrong,
but how could two orphaned teenagers convince the skeptics? Perhaps, we should have insisted
on talking more but, as things were, our aunt had already scheduled counseling sessions for the
two of us The fear of being sent to a mental institution stopped us from further trying to convince
them. In the end, we just hoped that the distance from our old home would keep us safe from the
elves.

But they followed and, one by one, our foster family died. Car accidents, food poisonings,
assassinations through mistaken identity--there were logical explanations for their deaths but we
knew we had been responsible. We could only look on helplessly, and despaired.

We traveled again, haphazardly enough to let us think that we could outwit the elves. But they
finally caught my sister about a year ago. We were on the bus bound for another town when a
tire blew out. The bus crashed into a ditch and although most of the passengers including myself
were injured, the only fatality was my sister. I realized then that there was no escaping the fury
of the little people.

After my sister's death, there was a period of silence from the elves. I decided to continue
studying and enrolled at the local college. I had no problem with finances. I had inherited a large
sum from a relative I had unwittingly sent to death.

After I got settled in the school dormitory, Prax appeared in my dreams again. He told me about
a chant that he had dug up in the enormous library of a human psychic he had befriended. It was
a weapon against any creature--effective against those with malicious intentions, whether
towards humans or other creatures. Prax thought it would he better if I could defeat Bat myself.
After all, hadn't Bat done me great harm already? I agreed and prepared myself for the battle that
would decide my fate.

It was not long after my conversation with Prax that Bat tracked me down. It was a weekend and
I had the room all to myself. I looked up from my notes and saw him--much older, his once clear
complexion now marred with dark, crisscrossing veins. Hate screamed from him, and he stooped
and walked with great difficulty. I pitied him.

He gave me an ultimatum: go with him or die on the spot. I pretended to look defeated and worn
out. My act was effective and Bat looked pleased. He wanted us to go immediately but I dallied.
At the pretext of packing my few valuable possessions, I told him to wait outside and count to a
hundred.

When he was gone, I took out the ingredients I had prepared and the mini-stove I had borrowed.
I boiled a small amount of sweet milk. I unwrapped Bat's image made in green and brown clay,
with strands of his hair given to me by Prax, and started blowing and chanting words that meant
nothing to me.

Blow. Allif, casyl, zaze, hit, mel, meltat.

Blow. Allif, casyl, zaze, hit, mel, meltat.

Blow. Allif, casyl, zaze, hit, mel, meltat.

Outside the room, Bat's count reached 70. I put aside the image and into the pan I poured
hundreds of brand new pins and needles that had been blessed. The count reached 80. I repeated
the chant and immersed the image in the boiling liquid. I waited.

Bat's count reached a hundred but I did not worry for it had become faint and weak, just as Prax
had told me. Then Bat dissipated into a mist--shrieking, I might add--to where, only God would
ever know.

Prax appeared again in my dreams that night and told me that they--Bat and his family--would
never bother me again. He himself would move his family away from humans to avoid similar
incidents in the future. It was too bad he didn't discover the old book with the vanquishing spell
earlier for I could have saved my family. I could not bring them back, he said, but I could build a
good life of my own. With the luck he bestowed on me, I would never be in need for material
things the rest of my life.

I kissed the old elf, knowing that we would never see each other again. I watched him fade away,
seeing the last of my family go.

When I woke up, I went to my desk and studied math, remembering where it all began.
 SUMMARY

The story introduces a family that is struggling to seek for peace and serenity because of the
viscous elves stomping on an old crib. Due to this, they hired an albularyo to seek solutions as to
how to get rid of this nuisance. As much as they tried to solve the issue, they decided to develop
a win-win relationship for both to stay harmoniously. The elves became their alarm clocks which
in return they offer them food to show appreciation.

One day, the young girl fell down from a broken Mango tree branch which caused her ankle to
break. Prax, the leader and oldest of the elf tribe decided to help the young girl to recover fast.
The girl felt the healing sensation and was peculiar about this certain situation since it is not what
she is used to see. Since then, she thought elves were nice until she met Bat who helped her
when she had difficulty in finishing her Math exam.

They became good friends to each other and wanted it to to be a secret until Bat confessed his
romantic feelings for the young girl. But then the girl refused because she couldn’t visualize
herself being a princess in the kingdom of elves doing wife duties. She believes that she is not fit
to be in the position. She told Bat that her parents were angry upon knowing that they had been
talking to each other even though it wasn’t true. Bat was frustrated upon hearing the news and
vanished.

Even though he wasn’t seen by the naked eye, the young girl still felt his presence and he always
appears in her dreams asking for her to be his wife. Days passed and different tragedies entered
the life of the young girl. Her loved ones were killed one by one because she broke the trust that
Bat gave to her which caused him to keep a grudge in his heart.

The young girl was devastated and desperate for a solution that is why she decided to head to
meet with Prax and got a spell where she could eliminate Prax from seeing and controlling her
life forever. She got the spell and successfully recited the following phrases to finally get rid of
Bat. She may have won, but it was too late for she was the only one left in the family.

MAIN CHARACTERS

1. THE NARRATOR/YOUNG GIRL – gullible and peculiar about mythical creatures

2. PRAX – the leader of the elf tribe; helpful and shows compassion
3. BAT – the suitor of the young girl; brought real life nightmares; implacable

POINT OF VIEW

 First person point of view

 Uses I and We
SETTING

 Residence of the young girl – where elves are discovered

 The supernatural world – where the elves naturally live
 School – where the young girl encountered Bat

CONFLICT

 Person against the supernatural environment

 The young girl creates a conflict with Bat for breaking her promise

TONE

 Fear
 Devastation
 Skepticism
 Uneasiness

STYLE

 The story was presented in a narration form. The young girl narrates her past experiences
with elves.

CENTRAL IDEA

 It introduces a sequence of events like deaths, sickness, bad luck or misfortunes are due to
curses brought about by elves. In every action, there is a negative and positive reaction.

THEME

 The theme of the story is about courage and fate. Courage to do anything and standing on
your fate. It’s also about being wise and aware of your decisions.

EVALUATION

The disaster brought into the narrator’s life have shown a huge impact because what life brought
to her was caused by her negligence to fulfill her promise. It is an eye-opener for people who are
gullible towards certain situations. It was expected that whenever we bother a mythical creature,
we should be prepared because it can do more harm than good. In personal relationships, you
have to do unto others what you want others to do unto you. If you give good karma, you will get
good karma in return.