Tio, Hannah Marie R Anagolay

Short Story

There really is no stopping the noise of the barangay.

When the people of our tribe hold these gatherings together, there is not one second of
silence, not one monochromatic moment, not one instance of dissonance. It’s always so full of
life, color and harmony. The moment the natives step out of their huts, their San-taos and Ma-yi,
the celebrations begin.
I wish I could enjoy the aroma of the morisqueta, the boiled fish, flesh of wild animals,
and the quilites filled the air. I wish I could appreciate how the variety of fruits, vegetables, and
herbs decorated the tables with vibrance. I wish I could witness the men and women, in their neat
clothing, and their black, carefully-dressed, gogo-coated hair. I wish I could see the people in
their wonderfully sewn white dresses or their colorful charmarretas, bahagues, red potongs, and
their pintados, that meant a lot to their pride and bravery, something that Visayans would attest
to. I wish I could see how the calombigas glitter on their wrists, the gold stones and ivory
sparkling on their necks, and how the silk and gold cloth flowed in their garments. I wish I could
hear the music made by the kudyapi, played with great liveliness and skill, urging every person
to dance. I wish I could call every gathering a banquet.
Right now, I wish I was aimlessly drinking the sugarcane wine quilang, or instead, the
the brandy my brother distils from tuba, which usually relieves the pain in my stomach, but gets
my family uncontrollably intoxicated, since they would never stop drinking if given the chance.
This time, the pain I want to soothe could not be found in my stomach; it’s a little bit above it.
The pain is somewhere near my chest.
I wish I could enjoy it all, but for today’s gathering, none of us in this tribe can. And I
realized that there really was no stopping the noise of the barangay until my father, Dato
Gumabu has permanently left the Tagalogs he led for years. Four beautiful moons with gloom in
their skies have appeared to me until today. My father has had his time beneath the porch. We’ve
had our time to mourn, but I think the mourning doesn’t really ever end. Today, the two fowls
and a slave were prepared for us to send my father off with him on a boat. I finally ran out of
tears today, but a few moons later, when the soil becomes richer and the new flowers bloom, I
know and that my family and I would bewail him, sing for him, and praise him until we’re
weary. In grief, we will eat and drink the things we couldn’t as of the moment. We will enjoy the
things we find harrowing with my father’s absence.
I decided to leave my family for a while and give myself some time alone. I figured it to
be the best time to go to the special place my father and I used to share since I was a kid. Though
the place may seem obscure, going there always gave me comfort. It is there where my favorite
river flows, where I could swim like fish, or stay put like a sponge that needs rejuvenation. This
is where my father gifted me a knife, not only to defend myself, but to carve my name into a tree.
My father was a good Dato. He protected his people with his life. He was never a dictator
nor a carefree leader. He was full of spirit and love, and that is exactly why his followers never
left him, even when he left them. My father was my strength. I wish I left earlier than he did so I
wouldn’t have to experience this loss.

“Anagolay.”
“A-na-go-lay.”
“Yes, Anagolay, that is your name, my beloved daughter. Write it down.”
“On the tree?”
“On the tree. Did you ever wonder why? Why I called you that”
“She is the goddess of lost things.”
“Mhm, the times do change so fast. How many seasons have gone? You were once just a
small infant that had to be bathed with your mother.”
“I still don’t know why you would call me Anagolay.”
“It’s because life is full of losses, Anagolay. Everything is temporary. The people you
love and the people who love you. The words we speak. The life we live. These could all vanish
someday, even before you know it.
But if you’re the goddess of those losses, they could never be taken against you.”

Anagolay. This is the name my father and I carved on the tree, the name he assigned to
me. Anagolay, the goddess of lost things, has just lost her Father, and eventually, herself. Maybe
she is no goddess after all.
 Anagolay. Anagolay. Anagolay.
“Anagolay?,” a silly, clueless voice asked from a distance. I immediately took my knife
to prepare myself for any possible face-to-face battle. For such an obscure place to be discovered
so easily? I should be wary.
“Show yourself, I’m the daughter of Dato Gumabu. If you don’t show yourself right now,
I’ll have to force you,” I threatened.
“I wasn’t trying to hide at all,” the voice said. A man who looks about my age was
stationed right behind my father and I’s special tree. He tilted his head to show me his face and
smiled. “I was trying to read what was carved on the tree. Did you carve it?”
“Who are you, and why are you here?” I asked.
The man let out an adorable giggle and said, “I’m just a random man looking for herbs.
In a world full of warriors and tattoos, I’m the one who loves to cook.”
“What are you gonna use those herbs for?”
“Oh, I’ve already used them. It went really well. I just feel like using them again.”
Is he a Tagalog? I don’t think I have ever seen him around in banquets. He has the teeth
of the men in our tribe, those who, from an early age, filed and rendered with stones and iron. Is
he a Zambal? Cagayan? Ylocos? I can’t tell. He does act and speak like one of us, though.
“A man who loves to cook? Cooking is for women. You must be a weak fighter,” I
replied, to which he responded with a scoffing “Sure.” I’ve kept my glares on him the moment
he appeared, and the glares remained until he attempted to break them.
“Don’t worry, I’m a slave. I would never do anything to hurt the daughter of the late
Dato.” The man said. I felt my heart sink at the mention of my father’s death, and for a moment
it felt like a dream. I mentally prayed to Anagolay, wishing for this loss not to be real.
“You sure have a lot of confidence for a slave. You can read my name carved on that
tree. You can talk so casually as if there’s so much you know. Do you not realize this is
punishable? Are you really a slave?”
“I-I’m sorry, I-, I was… Uhm-”
I gave him a stern look for a good few seconds and finally dropped the act and smiled.
Of course, this man knew me. But I didn’t know him. He’s a slave - although for a brief moment,
I wondered why his presence felt so much more, that maybe if he was a slave I would have
noticed him before among others. Then again, maybe his confidence right now stems from the
fact that the people he serves do not currently have eyes on him. Sometimes, I wonder what it’s
like to be born unfree, to be shackled all your life. While I may never understand its difficulty, I
do know I would want to experience a life that is opposite to all I was predetermined to be, even
just for a while. Perhaps, this man would too.
“You taught yourself to read?” I asked.
“Y-yes, I’m not so good at it but-”
“You tried to learn things that you shouldn’t be.”
“Yes.”
I came to this place to be able to cope with my father’s death, and I’m not necessarily
deviating from that goal. Perhaps I could use some distraction. I could feel the genuine smile
creep up to my face, and I told him, “You are not a slave here, in this place. Just in this place.”
He smiled back and replied, “Okay.”
There was a moment of silence that engulfed the whole scene, as we both stood in front
of each other by my father and I’s special tree. The silence was quite long, but it was
comfortable. I urged us to sit by the river.
“Your father, I’m sorry about him.” He said, out of nowhere.
“Let’s not talk about him, it’s fine,” I remarked, and he nodded.
“As a daughter of a Dato, do you ever find the burial rites interesting? I heard that The
Aetas, or Negrillos, do you know them? They have a different form of burial, I’ve seen it once.
They dug a deep, perpendicular hole, and placed the deceased within it, leaving him upright with
head or crown unburied, on top of which they put half a cocoa-nut which was to serve him as a
shield.” His eyes sparkled with so much ardor. I began to wonder how wonderful it would have
felt to discover the world in the perspective of somebody who was deprived from it forever.
Although this man has so much passion in him right now, I’m not sure about whether or not I
would have preferred to be in his position than in mine right now.
“I could teach you some things.” I offered.
His eyes lit up, as he said, “Like what?”
“Reading, writing. Things you want to learn about. The common writing among us
natives is on leaves of trees, and on bamboo bark, which is why you found my name carved into
that tree.”
 For hours, I shared with him the things that we women, are usually made to learn at
home. I told him that the language in the big island we all reside in is not uniform, that Cagayans
have a different language, Ylocos another. We Tagalogs have their own language too. Zambals
have their own too. He heard about how Papanga has a different language as well, and the way
he would not at everything I said as if he’s being taken into a different world was too adorable
not to notice. And I thought, maybe, having a friend like this would keep me from losing myself
after my father’s death. Maybe Anagolay has also found a lost thing, a lost person, who merely
wanted to be found. Maybe we both just wanted to be found. We were talkative, we were noisy,
but the comfort I felt from this was the most peaceful one.
“Tell me more about the world. Or yourself. I want to forget about the loss of my father,
for now.” I asked him. “You don’t have to answer this, but, how did you become a slave?”
He paused for a while, as if contemplating whether or not he should express it. Before I
could tell him not to force himself to give me an answer, he sighed, and began to speak.
“In my old town, we did not have one person who we generally obeyed, except the chief.
The chief calls their people the timaguas. The most powerful chief one tyrannized over others,
regardless if they were related by blood, because they wanted to forward their own interests.
Timaguas always came before the chiefs with their suits, they tried to make opposing parties
settle. It was a really unfair system, because your likelihood of winning the suit is always
dependent on how much resources you have. The winning party usually gets to make the
defeated party pay according to the sentence. Just notice how a little bit messed up the system is,
since it is the biggest enabler of corrupt chiefs, timaguas getting away with their crimes, and
slaves being further pushed to slavery all their life. Then, it will always end with you being sold
off. Namamahay or Saguiguilid, you’re still a slave. You will have to make so much money to
buy yourself from your master, yet you don’t get to make money at all. Some slaves are born
slaves because the only sin their mothers did was become a woman. The system never benefited
the ones who needed most help. That’s what happened to us.”
“That sounds horrible. That sounds extremely horrible.”
“One of those chiefs ruined our lives. And that chief has left us a long time ago for
another tribe.”
“What did he do?”
 “He and my sister had something going on between them, until he raped my sister. This
was a long time ago, when I was a lot younger. My sister got pregnant with his child. Our town
had rules on dowry and marriage, which he, as the chief did not comply with. The dowry was
supposed to be then delivered for sustenance, for her and for their child yet he delivered nothing.
My sister, who was violated and destroyed, had to carry all of these burdens herself, and because
she knew she wouldn’t have been able to sustain the child, she aborted it. Abortion is one of the
most serious crimes in our town. And that man, that hateful, hateful man, did not stop there. He
did everything to get rid of her. He accused her of adultery, another heavily punishable crime she
never did. But since he was chief and had the power over most, it was easy for that wretched
man to sell her off. To sell our entire family off.“
His fury could be felt from a distance.
“I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.

The silence is even longer now.

He broke the silence off with a faint smile and said, “Anagolay. I think it’s time we end
this momentary pleasure.”
“Huh?”
“Anagolay.” He took a deep breath. “I killed your father. He was the chief of Pampanga
who ruined my family’s life. I poisoned him. The herbs I’m getting right now were herbs to add
to your food and kill you next. I’ve waited all my life for this moment. For vengeance. For the
love your father so easily revoked. For the words he spoke that he never truly meant. For the life
of the child and the lives our family was supposed to live. For all the things we lost. You
understand me, right?”
I stood there, dumbfounded, in a silence that was more defeaning than ever.

“It’s because life is full of losses, Anagolay. Everything is temporary. The people you
love and the people who love you. The words we speak. The life we live. These could all vanish
someday, even before you know it.
But if you’re the goddess of those losses, they could never be taken against you.”
 “I am not going to kill you, Anagolay.” He uttered. “Not anymore. But this is the last
time we’ll be seeing each other.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think having you lose something is necessarily a gain for me.”

He stood up, turned his face and walked away.

There really is no stopping the noise of the barangay. And more often than not, the noise
is within oneself.