Cavalcade

The Virgin.

2010-05-07T00:06:00.000-07:00

The Virgin

wears that white dress

he asked her to.

She is innocence. She is

the ingenue. She is...

ignorant. She does not

know of men or wine

or heartbreak. She walks

into the ballroom with a

look of awe, like a child,

or perhaps even like a butterfly

fresh out of its cocoon,

before its wings get plucked

by little boys. She is

unaware that she is surrounded

by prostitutes and princesses,

dandies and gamblers,

heroes and thieves, and

men and women (of the higher social class)

who only cock an eyebrow.

But they are all the same tonight,

because tonight is different;

Of course, you cannot tell the difference.

They are all wearing masks,

silver and gold,

black and white,

shimmering and dull,

feathered or not;

The ceiling is an upside down bowl

above their heads, a giant mirror-like mosaic

upon which hangs

the chandelier. Just for a moment,

she thinks she sees faces in the glass,

but it is a world of illusions,

and she dismisses it.

It is the world

of the seven deadly sins

(though she is unaware of it at the time),

and on the dais

sit seven deadly kings and queens.

They are decked in

gold and jewels,

satin and velvet,

rubies and sapphires,

and fur and silk;

And they smile.

One of them is a woman,

more beautiful than any other,

and she laughs a dainty

but provoking laugh

between lips of blood red.

The woman winks at her.

She is Desire,

or perhaps, Lust.

She is not quite sure anymore,

for it is hard to see in a mask like hers:

Venetian, fashioned like a cat's,

and crafted from dust and dreams.

The man now sees his chance.

He is her opposite. He is

a charmer. He is

the fox, sly, wrapped in words and

dressed in poetry,

one to flatter her

beyond all reason. He catches

every butterfly

before it flutters away.

He bows low, and she takes his hand,

And he tells her how beautiful she looks,

And I cannot stand the sight of it --

Quick! Tell her that she should turn around,

not wave,

not leave a glass slipper,

not remember;

Tell her to go back,

before she falls from grace,

for sins are disguised as desires,

and lust is disguised as love,

and I watch from inside the one-way mirror

of a ceiling through the glass,

pounding my fists,

Crying my heart out

(No one can see or hear me),

And I think that the eyes under the masks

are looking on in anticipation -

and I cry some more

because here, a fragmented

piece of broken glass,

one of a million others that make up the ceiling

of the grand masquerade,

I cannot change what has become of my past...

And with that, what has become of me.

Ketsana

2010-04-08T02:06:00.000-07:00

Ketsana

My name is Katrina, born during the fall of the hurricane in 2005. My sister, Ketsana, born during the hurricane fall of 2003, died sometime after my birth. She was almost three years old.

I am blind. But even though I am, my other senses are sharper. So yes, I do know what rain is. My parents may not have enough money for special education, but I can educate myself with my other senses. Yes, I cannot see the rain, but I can feel it. Hear it, smell it, taste the salty water as it falls from a colorless sky that I can only imagine. I do not speak, although my parents say I am far past the stage where I was supposed to say my first words. No, I don’t speak – at least not in the way people would expect me to – but I don’t need to in order to express myself.

I am in the middle of the rain. It’s waist-deep already, but I twirl and laugh for the first time. So that is what a laugh sounds like.

I am one with the rain.

I heard of people becoming elements when they die, and living on like that. I thought, if I would die I would be the rain. Maybe my sister is the rain too. She died in the fall of Katrina – drowned. That was when the family was living in States. My parents returned to Manila for a quieter life with me – but they can’t escape my sister. They can’t escape the rain.

The rain spares nobody.

While they all run, I will not. My parents are at work, and the maid will not find me. No. Nobody can escape the rain, so I shall come and meet it. I will meet the rain, and I feel parts of my skin evaporate like the droplets that crash down on my skin; soon I will evaporate entirely with the droplets as well, to be the vapor of the world. To be the clouds that will cry the rain down. To be the rain, that falls and is returned to the air, never to die again.

The water is neck-deep now.

My parents returned to the Philippines to escape the storms, the horror, the death of a child… but my sister is coming back for me. Ketsana is here… Mom, Dad. Ketsana’s home.

And I am going to meet her.

Mr. Sandman (revised)

2010-04-08T01:04:00.000-07:00

Mr. Sandman

Slumber and consciousness - in between I linger
and in between I wander;
The night is clear and soundless.
A shadow steps out of the darkness
and leans over my bed; so I hear a steady breathing
From a pale face looking down at mine
He brings out a pouch and sprinkles sand,
He sprinkles sand into my eyes.
Dreams seize me, shifting, switching
As I cross a silver line -
Like when Alice stumbled down the hole
Or Lucy ventured into the wardrobe.
I dream of a world in a two-dimensional cartoon
Literally, the world is flat.
I dream of the Red Queen of Wonderland
And Peter Pan of Neverland.
I dream of a world before creation
And I dream that time is a man
I dream of superheroes, capes and briefs
And the work of artists' hands.
I dream of kings and lovers and gladiators
Of Shakespeare and Victorians,
Alamanders and Salamanders,
And Vincent van Gogh's imagination.
I dream of an empire the size of the sun
And I dream of what could have been,
The rest I can't quite remember too well
And I conclude that they were never meant for men to see.
In dreams I scream and laugh and weep,
And I wonder what the man shall think;
I wonder more if he must dream of me as well -
For I dream of him, before I sleep
I dream of him before I sleep -
I wonder if he too must dream of me,
Dream of me before he sleeps,
Dream of me before he sleeps.

Passenger Seat.

2009-12-26T00:53:00.000-08:00

Passenger Seat

I look out the window. Meadows and fields shoot by, but the sky is — well — always there. It’s not like the rivers or buildings, that you can so easily pass by, but the clouds have changed patterns since this morning. I don’t know if it was because of the wind, or because we were actually getting somewhere.

The bus is awfully quiet except for the music on the player, which plays mostly Christian songs — not really my type. Most people are asleep, like the guy next to me. He snores a little, and I turn up the volume on my iPod. I’m listening to California Bound by Carolina Liar.

It's been an hour since we left. When the song’s over, the guy next to me stirs. I glance at him. By the look of it, he’s in his mid-twenties, like me. He’s in a T-shirt, a black leather jacket, jeans, and chucks. His hair’s kind of long, but not too. He also has a semi-goatee, sort of shaven. His eyes are brown. For no reason at all, he smiles at me, almost as if we know each other really well. I smile back, weakly, mostly because I didn’t think some random person would even want to spare the time to smile at someone like me.

“Hi,” he greets, yawning.

“Er… hi,” I say awkwardly, turning away and looking out the window.

“What’re you listening to?” he asks.

I’m listening to Heels Over Head by Boys Like Girls. I show him the iPod screen.

“Oh yeah,” he says, shifting in his seat so he sat up straight. “They sang The Great Escape. Nice song.”

I nod.

“You got Vertical Horizon there?” he asks. “They’re a Christian rock band.”

“Oh, I don’t believe in God,” I tell him casually.

It’s true, I don’t.

“No?” he looks surprised, but not unpleasantly.

I shake my head.

He doesn’t say anything, and for a time, I don’t either.

“You know I watched this movie once, Legion, where this character said he didn’t believe in God, and he was told, ‘Yeah, well God doesn’t believe in you either’,” I tell the guy, almost randomly.

He laughs. “Cool line.”

“Yeah,” I agree, grinning.

“Though I don’t think God’s that harsh, is he?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean I don’t believe in God anyway, do I?”

He laughs again. “But what do you think?”

“Well… I mean, if there really was a God, I do like to think that he’s nice and friendly, and — I dunno — more humane. More human. The kind of dude you could talk to about your ex-boyfriend or your divorced parents, things like that… no matter how trivial they may be; the guy who takes the last bus home, eats the last cookies in the jar, and who may even get a smiley-faced pin on his backpack – you know?”

He smiles. It’s rather sweet. “I’m sure he is.”

I take my earphones off and look him in the eye. They’re a deep kind of brown. He kind of looks like a rock star — maybe David Cook or Kris Allen or somebody like that. I realize he’s kind of cute.

“Sure he’s what?”

“All those things you just said.”

A pause.

“I mean,” I say, avoiding his gaze, “even if I am an atheist, would God love me?”

“Sure — why not?”

I don’t say anything and look out the window for distraction. I kind of feel him staring at me from the back of my head.

The bus stops on the right side of the road. We’re practically in the middle of nowhere.

He gets up. “This is my stop.”

“Oh,” I say, slightly disappointed. I guess I wanted to talk to him a little bit more.

“You take care,” he says as he picks up his backpack. I hear a clunk, but I’m too busy thinking of what to say.

“Er… Maybe,” I say shyly, “if you’re not busy we could meet up for coffee sometime.”

“That’d be cool,” he grins as he swings his knapsack around his shoulders and pulls out his shades. “Though I guess we’ll already be seeing each other soon enough.”

“Alright…” I say, rather weakly, as he gives me one last smile and walks down the aisle.

I notice something shiny on the floor. I bend down to reach for it.

“Hey, you forgot your —”

I pick up a pin that has fallen off his backpack. It has a smiley face on it.

“—badge.”

The bus’s engine is running again, and I stick my head out the open window in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him, maybe to ask him something else or to return the pin — which of the two, I don’t really know. I think the pin may not really have mattered then, because I realize I never even got a hold of his name.

The bus is starting to speed away. He’s nowhere in sight anymore.

I tuck the pin inside my outer backpack pocket in case — I mean, for when — I meet him again.

I listen to the song on the bus for a while as it ends. It’s One of Us by Joan Osbourne.

When the song is over, I turn up my iPod again. I’m listening to Passenger Seat by Stephen Speaks.

No, I don’t really believe in God… although sometimes it’s nice to think that there is one.

Jacket.

2009-11-26T04:34:00.000-08:00

Cold. It is cold
Ice, and it runs through my bones, freezing them so
that I cannot move.
It is so cold that it is hot, and it burns.
It hurts.
I scream.
It is so cold. The cold shows no mercy but
I have a jacket. It's nice and keeps me warm when the cold
is not too harsh...
It keeps me warm.

Damp. It is damp.
The rain falls down on me hard as I desperately gasp for breath, running
through the alleyways.
They are after me. I can hear the dogs, barking, wild.
I skid into a corner. I have escaped them.
I laugh.
It is cold, so cold that my veins are almost frozen and so damp
that my whole head looks like it has been dipped in a tank.
But my jacket makes it all bearable.
It keeps me dry.

Dark. It is dark.
In the alley I cannot see a thing, but I hear whispers and hisses
in the dark.
They are looking for me. I imagine them, snakelike
creatures slithering through the walls, trying to get hold of my
warm-blooded body to suffocate and devour.
I am afraid, but only bite my tongue.
I shiver.
It is very cold and very damp, but
my jacket protects me -- I am like
a chameleon in it. It is dark, and
the jacket will make me dark too so
the creatures will not see me.
It keeps me safe.

Alone. I am alone.
It is cold and damp and dark and I am alone.
I wonder where everyone I know has gone.
Have they left me? Or have the creatures
taken them away?
... Or both?
I cry.
Suddenly a door opens in the wall and a guard
shows up. He has a lamp and says,
"You're making a lot of noise, pal. The other inmates are asleep."
I don't know what he is talking about, but I am
delighted to see a human being, so much so
that I shout in triumph.
"Maybe we ought to tighten that straight jacket --"
"Don't touch my jacket!" I scream protectively.
He shakes his head, exasperated -- as if
he has heard this already many times -- and I laugh.
"If you don't keep quiet, I'll take your jacket off,"
he tells me.
"No, no, I'll be quiet, just don't leave, I'll be quiet --"
"Good," he says, slamming the door shut and condemning
me to darkness, dampness, and cold once more.
"No, no, no --" I cry, trying in vain to run after him.
I try to look for the knob, but there is no knob...
or maybe I don't have the hands to find the knob...

No. No. No... no, no, no no no --

My head is on the floor. I can't move.
They're coming -- snakes and
dogs and creatures and cold --
But my jacket will protect me.
It keeps me sane.

Voyager of the Cosmos

2009-11-21T07:02:00.000-08:00

STARDUST, digital art by Dane Ancheta

God was definitely not boring enough to create just this.
He must have felt infinitely bored at the beginning of time –
No one to watch. To scold. Laugh at. Laugh with.
No one to talk to.
No one to love.
So God stood in the center of the vastness that was nothing,
And God stacked galaxy after galaxy in a certain sequence,
much like a child would do with building blocks,
and He hung the balls that were the planets there,
placing mountains and houses on those planets,
before putting the dolls that were men inside their dollhouses
and closing the lights and going to bed.
At least, that’s how I think it, and
that’s how I’ve taught it ever since I stood
three feet tall and saw my first starfall,
pointing in awe:
“Oh look. It’s a shooting star.”
But I wouldn’t know. I’m just passing by.

The architectural structure of the universe…
is indefinite.
Perhaps the world is flat.
But it goes on nevertheless…
At least as far as I know,
Or as far as I have come.
But I don’t know. I’m just passing by.
I shoot across stars and galaxies and constellations, tossing and tumbling,
Through the fabric of time and all it holds –
And all the homes it holds.
And I shall wave hello to the blue-skinned people of the Glow,
And perhaps land on yet another uninhabited planet;
Or find a nation that breathes water,
And a civilization whose history is only beginning;
Discover, for the second time, a city buried under rock and ash,
Or perhaps be the cause of the apocalypse.
I wonder where we go when we die.
I wonder where stars go when they die.
I wonder if they could talk…
…and what they would say on their death.

For when stars fall
And nature battles with itself
And the planets shall crumble into heaps of dust –
Left as nothing but particles to be carried away by the winds and forces of the universe
Or to be sucked into a black hole
Which could reopen on another side of the universe, or
Forever be closed,
Doomed to perish in eternal oblivion –
That could be what hell means.
But I don’t know. I’m just passing by.

Perhaps after our sun will burn out,
And succumb to the call of the cosmos,
It will proceed to fly across time and space –
And perhaps I shall fly away with it, like a comet’s tail,
And in a far away galaxy people shall point at it and say,
“Look. It’s a falling star.”

The Inn at the End of the Worlds

2009-10-11T09:13:00.001-07:00

‘Would you like biscuits with that?’

I poured the tea, steaming hot, into the tiny porcelain cup in the man’s hand. Outside, the storm raged on. The windows rattled, banging like ghosts demanding to get in, and the icy wind blew in gusts from the gaps in the windows and wood; I only pulled on my robe the tighter, knowing that no matter how harsh the storms may be, the Inn would stand all the same.

I stole a glance at the stranger’s face – he was tall, pale, handsome… although slightly – and oddly – with much semblance to a woman of equal appeal. He had hung his overcoat, scarf, and hat on the racks by the door, leaving his boots on the mat as well.

He wore traveler’s clothes, and was already warming himself by the fire – despite this, I wondered why the color did not flush back to his cheeks, and why his paleness was frozen as stale, as paper-white as when I had found him outside earlier that evening when I had left to cover the well.

‘Yes, thank you.’
As I laid the plate of pastries before him, I noticed that his eyes were the most unusual shade of gold – bright, captivating, seductive…
I looked away. His eyes were piercing, like a cat’s. I felt… exposed. Doubtfully, I convinced myself that his golden eyes were a trick of the light, or reflection from the fire, but I still forced myself to stare at the floor.
He smelled like the summer, and of captivating exotic perfume – the kind my father would trade back at the hometown.

‘I…’
‘Yes?’ he looked up from his tea.
‘I forgot what I was supposed to say,’ I muttered after a while, embarrassed.
‘Weren’t you going to ask where I was going?’ he said, amused.
‘Oh yes, that,’ I hung my head, turning scarlet. How could I forget?

He remained quiet for a minute or so, and I just sat there, looking down with my hands on my lap.
‘Some destinations, my child,’ he said, lighting a cigarette and placing it on his mouth, ‘are only found upon arrival.’

I pondered what he might have meant by that and wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to appear ignorant. Just when I opened my mouth to say something, the stranger got up and reached for his coat. I realized he was about to leave when he started putting on his boots.

I got up.
‘So soon? But the weather –’
‘– will clear. I must be on my way.’ I paused, slightly upset.

He did not notice though, and merely went on with his coat and scarf. I would not say that I did not want him to leave, because would sound odd – I had just met the man.

Instead, all that tumbled out of my mouth was, ‘The payment is –’
‘– on its way. Coins never make good payment,’ he said, and for the first time our eyes met. It wasn’t long lived though, for he had placed on his fedora; but from under it, I could still see the shine of his teeth. ‘You will never receive payment enough as this.’

And with that, he was gone.
I was still making up my mind as to whether I’d classify him as rude or not, leaving without so much as a ‘thank you’, when the mechanic interrupted my thoughts. He was a thin, bespectacled American with a balding head from the early twentieth century, and he wore a brown shirt and pants with a frock over it.

‘Why Mai, what a fine young damsel that was!’
‘Damsel?’ I repeated, confused. ‘He was a man, Mr. Robinson.’
‘A man?’ said the mechanic, taken aback. He took off his spectacles, blew on the lenses, and wiped them with a piece of thin white cloth before depositing them again in front of his eyes, all the while saying, ‘but I could have sworn I saw a woman.’

It wasn’t long until there was a desperate pounding at the door. I hurried towards it, pulling it open in time to see a young man, not too much older than I was, fall unto the carpet. He had not been the only one pounding at the door then, for the icy wind came in with him and some candles blew out. With an effort, I pushed the door shut again and helped the man to his feet.

I sat him down on the chair the stranger had been sitting on earlier and took off his coat. After adding wood to the fire, I turned to him and asked, ‘Would you like some tea?’

He had been looking around – disoriented – until I raised the question, and I finally saw him straight.
He was taller than I was, pale from the cold but incredibly handsome. The edge of his mop of short, wet black hair fell just in front of forehead. His eyes were big and brown, and he wore a collared shirt and jeans.

‘Have you got coffee?’ was the first thing he said, a little shakily.
‘Coffee?’ I repeated.
‘Yes. Where am I?’
‘Oh,’ I grinned, trying my best to dismiss the coffee issue since I did not have the slightest idea what it was. ‘This is the Inn at the end of the worlds.’
‘Right,’ he said, throwing me a look that told me he disliked me very, very much. ‘And this is where? Alaska or sumthin?’
‘Alaska?’ I laughed. ‘The Inn isn’t anywhere there at all. We’re in the middle of every world, dimension and time –’
‘How did I get here?’
‘You just do,’ I shrugged. ‘Usually the people who come around are travelers, or those who are lost. But don’t worry, you guys always find your way home after the storm.’
‘How do I get out?’
‘You can’t,’ I said. ‘Not until the storm’s over.’
‘But my car’s outside,’ he said impatiently. ‘It’s stuck.’
‘Well,’ I said honestly, forcing a smile, ‘that gives you less chances of leaving then.’

He returned a glare then looked around again – only this time, his surroundings seemed to sink in. I saw him anxiously eyeing a couple of fairies that arrived a day before, and a faun who had been there for a week. I didn’t know what he must have thought of then, but I could imagine that it must have bordered on ‘I’m dreaming’ or ‘I’ve got to get myself out of here’. The Inn houses every single lost traveler from every time and dimension, be it from earth or not. People just go there, human and nonhuman, but people nevertheless.

‘What kind of freak show are you running here?’ he whispered.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I say, my eyebrow automatically shooting upwards haughtily.
‘What kind of place is this? And don’t give me a fantastical magical answer, sweetie,’ he snapped as I opened my mouth again. ‘For God’s sake, speak properly. Because I think you’re heavily mistaken,’ he went on, almost as if he were speaking to a child. ‘One of us has obviously hit our head really hard –’

At that moment, I was incredibly ticked off; never had I met anyone so…
‘I think you’re the one who might be mistaken sir,’ I said frankly, giving him the rashest tone I could bring up. ‘I’ve been working here for a really long time, and by that I mean a long time, ever since God-knows-when, and I know how this place works inside-out. It’s not like I have control over who comes in or not, and my only job is to give them what they need – so don’t you dare go on about how I should do it. I know you’re freaked out right now, but I don’t fucking care if that’s how you show it!’
I took a deep breath. I haven’t cursed like that in a while; and I certainly didn’t learn to curse like that at home. He stared at me, not speaking, and I could tell he was extremely pissed. I tossed him some keys from my pocket.
‘Those are the keys to your room,’ I said haughtily, and I headed back behind the counter. ‘Your tea will be up in a minute. You’re welcome.’
‘Coffee.’
‘Whatever.’
I could have sworn he was about to say something but thought better of it and kept quiet, then headed upstairs.
‘What was that ruckus about?’ Kali, one of the maids and an Indian, peeped out from the back door.
‘Stupid customer wants coffee,’ I grumbled. There was a pause. ‘What’s coffee?’
‘Don’t worry,’ laughed Kali, ‘it’s one of those drinks that the Westerners love so much. I’ll take care of it.’
You have no idea how relieved I was.

I usually go out to the balcony on the second floor to get some air. Sometimes the balcony is there, sometimes it’s not. But most of the time it is – or maybe I just don’t catch it when it’s gone. Sometimes it’s on the third floor. The Inn is an odd place.
I decided to go take a breath the next afternoon, but the moment I pushed open the door to the balcony I saw him there. He jumped out of his seat when he saw me.

‘Hey –’
‘Oh. It’s you,’ I said as curtly and scornfully as I could, and turned on my heel to leave.
‘No – wait – come back a sec,’ he called, and I stopped.
‘What do you want this time?’ I asked, folding my arms.
‘I just wanted to talk,’ he said honestly, not looking me in the eye. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ He pulled up a chair immediately.
‘Looks like you’ve finally picked up some manners,’ I grinned. ‘Or does it go with the color of your clothing?’ I giggled, sitting down beside him. He stood still.
‘I was… rude last night. I wanted to apologize,’ he said quietly.
I grinned smugly.

‘It’s just that this is really hard for me, and I keep on thinking I’m in some sort of dream – but I pinch myself and I’m not waking up,’ he continued. ‘I mean, how would you react if you were on your way to one of the most important events of your life in San Francisco and your car suddenly shuts up and dies, leaving you in a run-down little inn in the middle of nowhere filled with a bunch of people whom you can only see in history books and fairytales?’

‘I see where you’re going,’ I grin some more. ‘So it finally sunk in. I was thinking you’d be too dense for it to let through.’
‘I’m trying to apologize!’ he said irritably.
‘Well you’re not doing a very good job at it,’ I retorted.
He shut up for a moment, then sighed and looked me eye to eye. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s alright,’ I smiled. ‘Let’s start all over, shall we?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m Mai,’ I held out my hand for him to shake. ‘Innkeeper of the Inn. I’m Asian, if you can’t tell.’
‘It’s kind of obvious,’ he laughed, taking my hand.
‘My name’s Max. It’s short for Maximilian. Don’t tell anyone, though.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ I closed my mouth and shut it with an imaginary zipper.
‘So…’ he said slowly. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Some place east,’ I muttered. ‘Probably China more commonly now, but that’s not what they called it in my time – which is probably quite long ago when it comes to your timing. What about you?’
‘I’m… I’m from the United States. Twenty-first century,’ he said consciously.
‘Ah, a future man,’ I grin. ‘So what were you doing before getting caught up here?’
‘I was… traveling to San Francisco,’ he said after a while, as if he were still stringing the words together. ‘I… I was going to get married.’
My heart dropped an inch. ‘Married?’
‘Oh yeah,’ he continued, not looking in my direction. ‘Her family’s from San Francisco, and she wanted to get married there. But I’m from Miami, so I took the car to drive there so I wouldn’t have to spend that much on transportation; my buddy Earl, he was supposed to catch up a couple of days after me so he could still help us fix the preparations and everything, but then I got caught up in some hail before evening. The car stuck up, and when it stopped I guess that pretty much threw me over here.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, a little blankly.
‘What about you?’ I felt myself blush and turned away so he wouldn’t see. ‘What about me?’
‘I mean, if this is supposed to be some sort of magical place where random people from random places and random times, how did you get here?’
‘Oh,’ I said softly, barely a whisper. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Why not?’ he asked curiously.
‘I just don’t,’ and I got up and left.

The following night I went to the balcony again, just to see him waiting. He turned almost at once.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
‘I’m sorry about last night, I –’
‘Nah, forget it,’ I forced a laugh, sitting next to him. ‘Just don’t ask me that again.’

There was silence for a while, and it was rather awkward.
‘Uhmmm, you might need some help getting your car fixed,’ I said shyly, ‘but there’s a mechanic downstairs. I think he could help. I’ve already spoken to him, and he’s rather enthusiastic about it.’
Max nodded absentmindedly. ‘Okay. Where’s he from?’
‘He’s American,’ I say proudly.
‘From when?’
‘Err,’ I hung my head. ‘1926, I think.’
‘I come from the twenty-first century, Mai,’ said Max, laughing. ‘I doubt he’d be able to work any magic on it.’
I didn’t say anything, and he must have noticed.
‘But… I guess trying wouldn’t do any harm, right?’ he smiled. ‘No worries.’ I smiled back weakly.
Awkward silence again.
‘Do you believe in magic?’ I asked him out of the blue, desperate to say something for fear of him leaving.
‘You mean fairies and flower kingdoms and crap? No,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Well, you ought to,’ I whispered, looking down at my hands, rather disappointed.
‘No offense or anything Mai, but I’m still having a really hard time that any of this is happening outside of my head,’ he said, quite directly.
Then, in a lowered tone, ‘I still think I’m going to wake up soon…’
I tried to hide my hurt, and I think I succeeded in doing so, because I managed to laugh and say, ‘You must be the most boring person I’ve ever met.’
And he managed to laugh too, but I didn’t know if he meant it.
‘What about reincarnation?’ I asked. ‘You believe in that?’
‘Hell no.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s somewhat… I dunno, magical either way. Mai, if there’s anything that I wouldn’t believe in, whether or not I really have got a past life, it’s magic,’ he said, adding, ‘and that’s just that.’
‘You are the most boring person I’ve ever met!’ I exclaimed.
We both laughed a bit, but it wasn’t long-lived. When he showed no signs of budging, I stood up.
‘I guess I ought to be going now,’ I said weakly, afraid I had said something wrong. ‘Goodnight.’

That had been but one of my conversations with him. On the nights that followed, I was always on the balcony with Max. We would talk, him and I, sometimes with other customers of the Inn that stayed there. I tried never to hit his nerves again, and he never brought up his questions on where I came from. Gradually, our friendship developed from there. I’d jest about him, and he’d jest about me and that was pretty much it. As the nights passed, he complained less and less about being stuck there, and just concentrated on staying there (for the time being) in the Inn.
And, well, we have traditions in the Inn.

I pushed the door open to the balcony one night, where I knew Max would be. However, there were two other men there, and I recognized one as the faun, twiddling a flute between his fingers. The other one had arrived earlier today, and all I knew about him was that he was European. I had obviously cut through their conversation, because they stopped abruptly.

‘Hullo,’ said the faun, leaning lazily on his seat as I went in and laid the tray on the table before them.
‘Good evening,’ I said, slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed anything –’
‘Oh dear, you’re not,’ said the faun, laughing. ‘Take a seat…’
I did, sitting down next to Max, who gave me a weak smile.
‘So what’s it like being a court painter?’ the faun asked the European, who must have come from the 1600s.
‘I paint. Sculpt. Interpret. Do whatever has to do with the arts – whatever his majesty pleases, whatever he will or will not ask of me…’
‘And life?’
‘Life? Life is meaningless for me…’
‘Spurned by a lover, eh?’ said the faun.

The artist was quiet for a while, and when he looked up he spoke sourly. ‘Women. Never do women love the man who is an artist – they prefer to be held by soldiers or blacksmiths, the men whose arms lift the weight of a metal sword. But I – my only sword is my paintbrush. I have loved it ever since my boyhood! With it I have painted people and worlds and landscapes…’

He withdrew his paintbrush from somewhere in his coat, and raised it up against the light. ‘Swords can only destroy. Paintbrushes create. And creation is far more powerful.’

The artist put down the brush, running his fingers delicately over it. ‘I was a fool to do what she pleased, to paint her portraits and craft for her the most intricate sculptures for her own amusement. She acted like she loved me and my art, but she did not. And yet I never loved what I was doing as much as how I loved it when I loved her.
‘No, my friend, nobody loves the artist.’

‘So is that your tale tonight?’ asked the faun.
‘My tale? No. Of course not,’ the artist said. ‘Mine is a children’s story.’
‘Much like your thinking,’ I snapped, annoyed.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss?’ he said, startled to see that I was even there.
‘I think it’s rather unfair of you to label all women to be unbecoming of your standard just because they do not respect the arts. I’ll have you know that I respect them, and that I have met many a woman who is an artist herself. That single encounter won’t define to you what women are!’ I said defensively.
‘If that’s what your story is about, then…’
‘It’s not what my story is about,’ cut the artist, still dumbfounded. ‘I told you, my story is a children’s story.’
‘Then tell it,’ I said irritably, and he looks at me in some shock, and the pause wherein he does nothing but stare at me is awkward.
Then he faces the rest of them, ready to tell his tale.

‘There’s this story kids like to tell,’ the artist said. ‘It’s about a boy who wants to be a painter. Unfortunately, he can only paint curved lines. He’s a good actor too; he likes taking up roles in dramas and comedies.
‘Now one day, he saw a girl amidst a crowd leaning over the balcony, watching the doves below her. He wonders why the people never seem to notice her even when they actually look at her. He knows something is wrong, so he goes to her. She just nods and smiles.
‘A good actor can always tell the people with masks from the people with faces. Masks tend to hide intent, while faces are a bit more passionate. He comforts her. She wonders how he knew, but smiles all the same. He knew how to act, but can only paint as much as a smile on a person’s face. And that’s what he did. He’s good at it too.’
He sighed.
‘Most would expect the end to have a happy note. Sad to say, the next time he saw her, she didn’t even bother to notice. It’s sad how painters and actors try to put smiles on other people’s faces, and no one ever bothers to put one curved line on theirs.’

Silence. It was a short story, but everything he had to say was there, and it did not show any bias of his opinion on women (at least not so much), so I held my tongue.

‘Perhaps she wasn’t the woman for you,’ said the faun, twiddling with his flute.
‘For me? That was just a story,’ the artist sniffed.
‘All stories have some truth to it,’ said the faun indifferently.
He stuck his flute to his lips then, and played a lullaby. Nobody spoke anymore that night.

The artist left the inn some time the next day, dropping by the counter before doing so.
‘Here is my payment,’ he said, pulling out his paintbrush. I eyed it warily, wondering what he must have taken in the middle of the night.
‘The Inn is a free house,’ I told him.
‘This isn’t for the hospitality,’ said the artist, hanging his head. ‘It’s for the realization.’
I stared at him, confused. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t quite –’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ the artist interrupted, looking a little embarrassed, but not ashamed. ‘You made me realize that I was wrong, and that my opinion was slightly childish. And then… you gave me a little hope again. I guess that’s all.’
‘Oh,’ I said, shocked. I looked down. ‘You’re welcome, then.’
He hand was still open, with the paintbrush in it, waiting to be accepted.
‘It’s yours now,’ said the artist. ‘Go on.’
I was about to reach out my own hand to take it, then suddenly I withdrew it and said, ‘No. It’s yours. I can’t bear to take it. You could make a whole new world of creation with that thing, and if it were with me I’d do nothing with it. Maybe if you kept it with you, then you’d remember me by instead of it gathering dust in my drawers merely waiting for me to see it to remember you.’
And he smiled, and put it back in his pocket, and bid me farewell.

That night, there was a soldier and another man who sat with them as I served the drinks. I could not tell who or what the other man was, but he seemed dim and grey and rarely spoke.

The soldier’s wasn’t much of a story, but rather the account of why he was there at the inn – but I remember every detail.
‘My name is Ramon, envoy from the land of Spain,’ he began. ‘Three years ago, the love of my life died. I wept, mourned for months, for her body was not found. They told me she had drowned, and that was how life went for me for a time – miserable, lonely…’
‘And what happened?’ asked the faun.
Silence.
‘I learned recently she was spotted with another man beyond the sea.’
His voice cracked. I never felt sorrier for anyone.
‘I was told that there is an oracle, more beautiful than any other, who could cure anything. She was the healer of all sickness, and the maiden made her home on an edifice carved into a cliff beyond the sea. I made my mind to find her, so that she may rid me of my broken heart… and that is why I am here now.’
He was quiet for a moment, hanging his head. When he raised it again, his eyes were determined, at the same time desperate, mixed emotions playing inside him that I wondered if he was still sane.

‘I do not understand where I went wrong,’ he whispered. ‘I love her.’

‘Love her?’ croaked the man in the corner. He had not spoken until now, and I realized that there was something about him… he wasn’t human.
‘Pardon?’
‘If you love her, soldier, you would have let go of her. You would have accepted that she will never be happy with you –’
‘But I have let go of her –’
‘No you haven’t! You hold on to an invisible thread. If you did truly love the woman, there would be no need for you to visit an oracle for consultation. You would have no need to brood and mope around, like you are doing now. You would not have involved somebody else, totally out of the equation, to heal your wounds – for I have heard of such oracles, and they cure anything but hearts. You do not love her, nor did you ever – for if you have, you would have no regrets!’

The soldier held his tongue, and the silence was deafening.
‘What do you know about love, wolfman?’ asked the soldier quietly.
‘Plenty,’ he replied in a low, rumbling voice. ‘Then tell us your tale,’ said the faun, and the smoke from the candle on the table rose above their heads, giving away to visibility. ‘My name is Sirefn,’ said the lycan, ‘and I too was once like you. I do not love easily, nor do I love often. Women never struck my interest, until…’
His voice faded, and recovered on another page.
‘I am the son of Fenrir, the Great Wolf, and I sought to avoid Ragnarok at all costs. I ran away, went on with no food and no bed for weeks before I arrived at the Elder Woods. There was food there, I knew – and sure enough I spotted a deer. It escaped me though, for I was weak, and I was soon struck by another captivating smell. I followed it, and it led me to a cottage in the middle of the wood. I went in.

‘I climbed through the open window. Perhaps it wasn’t the most polite thing to do, nor was it the smartest, but I was starving and weak and my hunger was blocking all the rest of my senses. The smell was coming from the kitchen, where there lay an empty plate filled with nothing but crumbs and leftovers. I seized it and began to nibble on the remains, but it wasn’t enough. I banged my head on the table.

‘I heard a voice. When I looked up, there was a young woman there, wearing nothing but a towel, holding a knife. Apparently, I had interrupted her shower.’
He laughed a little, to himself.
‘She told me to get out. I told her I didn’t take orders from maids draped in wet curtains. Her face turned bright red and she would have hit me, but I subdued her and pinned her to the wall; the knife fell to the floor.
‘I asked for her name, but she did not answer. So I let go of her, complained a bit for the lack of food, and made for the door. She told me then, that her name was Rose Red, but she’d much rather I call her Rose; she said she would cook me something if I wanted.
‘I turned around, reminding her that I was a total stranger – and she seemed not to care for people like me.
‘“He wouldn’t be a stranger if he told me his name,” she had said, and I did not quite know what about it had made me tell her who I was. She changed into a robe while I ate, and we talked. She even found out my old name, all on her own. She told me she was made to look after her grandmother, who was sick. However, her condition worsened in the following weeks, and she had to send her to a doctor. In the meantime, she took care of the house.

‘When I was done with the meal, I thanked her for her hospitality and made to leave, but she held on. She asked me if I had anywhere to stay. I said I didn’t, quite honestly, and she insisted that I stay the night.

‘It surprised me how lax she was in inviting me – I asked her if she was aware that I was the type of person who could kill her if I wanted, and she laughed. She told me that I could do even so much more than just kill her, and even winked, saying that she trusted me. I don’t know why I said yes – but it must have been one of three reasons: first, I wanted to take advantage of the offer with nowhere to go and nothing to eat; second, I pitied her a bit and decided one night would not hurt; and third, I was already unconsciously attracted to her.

‘She put up a good conversation, and we would tease each other. Slowly the nights stretched into weeks and the weeks into months, and I realized that I was still there. I did not leave her house, nor did she ask me to. And honestly, I did not want to either. I had grown fond of her, and she of me, although none of us admitted it – the same way, none of us brought it up.

‘I would hunt for food and she would pick berries; whenever we went out she always had her elaborate red hood, which she never left home without. I was never happier, and despite my denial of it at the time, I gradually fell in love with her.

‘It was on that fateful night that the house was attacked – raided – by robbers. I had been out hunting, and when I returned the door was crashed and the windows broken. I knew then something was wrong.

‘For the first time, I felt panic. Images flashed through my mind on what could have happened, and I couldn’t bear to think of it – it drove me crazy. I ran into the house, which was a total mess, looking for her, calling her name. Eventually I found her in the bedroom, her clothes torn in some places, crying. My heart relaxed when I saw her, because I knew then that she was alive; and when she saw me she ran into my arms and buried her face on my chest. She told me how she put up a fight, and I held her even more tightly. I didn’t think she would, or could, mean so much to me, and the mere thought of losing her… it made me want to kill myself for ever letting it happen.
‘That night we fixed the house, to find that they had stolen some jewelry. Her grandmother’s to be exact – although she managed to chase them away before they stole everything else. It was only then that I remembered her grandmother, and she started to sob. I asked her how her grandmother would react, and she did not reply but just fled upstairs. When I went after her, I found her sitting on the bed, staring out the window, crying. She confessed that her grandmother had been dead long before I had arrived, and she had lied to me because being alone drove her mad. She said her family left her in the care of the house, and that she did not know where they were. She cried because she had lied to me, because she did not take care of the house as planned… and I stood there, quiet, my heart racing, asking myself why did she choose me, of all people, to fool into staying there? Why was I the person to so incidentally walk through her window in her time of misery? I wondered how she must have felt when she saw me… I wondered what Destiny must have found in me to let me be in such a position –

‘She told me, in all heart, that she was sorry. She asked me how I felt, why I was still here...’
He paused, and when he spoke again there was a twinkle in his eye, as if he were bathed in nostalgia.

‘And I looked up, walked toward her, and kissed her. I kissed her to my heart’s content, wrapping my arms around her waist and kissing her some more. I felt her surprise, but after a few seconds she returned the kiss, her arms climbing up around my neck.

‘When we broke free of each other’s grasp she looked me in the eyes, and I noticed she had stopped crying. I wiped her tears away with my hands, while she told me that she did not understand. I told her then, how I felt… no, I did not feel betrayed, but I thanked whoever wrote my stupid life to have let me meet her. I told her then that I knew what it was like, being alone with the maddening silence. I told her that if she wanted me to stay, then I would. And I told her… I told her I loved her.’

He smiled, faintly.

‘She reciprocated, and I found myself making love to her that night… wild and passionate – but most of all, real. I had never felt so close to anyone else before, let alone a human being. But she made me happy, and for a time, I was.’

Sirefn looked away.

‘I thought the problems came when she got pregnant. I didn’t think I was ready to be a father, although she seemed quite excited about the idea. But what made me worry was my state. I was – am – not human. What would become of our child? She got fed up with my worry, and it resulted in an argument. We were stiff for a time, but when we resolved it I managed to stay long enough to see our son.

‘She named him Fenris – she called the name cute, like he was. And he had inherited some of my abilities. She noticed I worried though, and as soon as she was out of bed she told me that my being a wolf would not make her love me less, and it would be the exact same thing for Fenris. I asked her then – what of how the boy would grow up? She laughed, saying it would be the world’s loss if they did not appreciate a gift like him. “Nothing can come between us now,” she had said. Her words warmed me, and when she held my hand that day I believed everything.

‘I had thought the problems came when she got pregnant, but that was resolved and there was something much, much worse on its way. When Fenris was three a messenger came to the house, telling me he knew of my identity and that I was being forced back into the war – unless I was willing to take certain consequences.

‘It was my fault – I always knew that day would come when I would be forced to return, but I ran away from it. There was nothing that could be done though, and I would not risk Rose, or Fenris. What amazed me the most was that Rose was not surprised – not surprised at all. And she did not cry, or scream or react; all she did was look at me with straight eyes and nod and let it all sink in. When I was done relaying what the messenger had said, she did not speak. I asked her if she was angry, or upset. She said she wasn’t. I asked why she would not say anything – I asked if she even cared. Perhaps it had been numbing for her, because she had a hard time speaking, and for the first time since the night I first confessed my love to her I saw a tear fall from her eye. She told me that she did love me, and it was because she did that she would not stop me; sometimes we haven’t got choices, that’s what she said. And she was right.

‘I held her in my arms for the last time that night, and the next day I packed my things. Fenris asked where I was going, and, in any cliché storyline you might come upon, I told him – being his father – that it was his duty to take care of the house now, and of his mom – and you would never see an eagerness or determination on a child’s face as I did on his. I bid Rose goodbye then, and she embraced me saying, “You say goodbye when you’re never going to see each other again. We will, so this is just ‘’til we meet again.’”’

He laid down his mug, which I hadn’t realized he had been drinking from all the time. He looked tired, and his eyes were red.
‘So ‘ere I am, on my way to Ragnarok and to the end of the world. God knows if I survive it… God knows if I’m ever gonna see her again – but I pray to Him, if that crazy man up there is listening, that I do.’

The night after, nobody could locate the balcony so we continued our tale-telling on the first floor. Things quite stirred up trouble when Max and the faun had begun arguing on who would tell the next story.

‘Pray tell us yours, master Max,’ the faun said aloud. ‘You are the most fascinating character.’
Max shook his head. ‘You tell your story. I mean, you keep on asking people to tell theirs but you never really tell yours!’

That was true, and I noticed it. The faun’s face fell slightly when Max said this, and it was responded to by a lot of cheering.

‘He’s right, goat-legs,’ said Sirefn, banging his mug on the table and grinning. ‘Tell us your story.’
‘Er… it’s rather not that easy,’ muttered the faun uncomfortably, beginning to sweat.
‘Aww,’ said another, ‘it’s just a story after all. Tell us, master Faun…’
He looked at me anxiously then, and I gave him a nod. The people of the Inn continued nagging at him, as he turned back and practically lost his cool.
‘Alright, alright, I’ll tell you!’ he said aloud, and the Inn’s noise died down.

I had never seen the faun so pale and nervous, and as he told his whole story he did nothing but stare into the fire and occasionally twirl his flute nervously in his hands. He took a deep breath.
‘Where I come from, we dance with the dryads all night,’ he said in barely a whisper. ‘There were dances for spring, for rain, for autumn and summer; we would hold our hands and run in circles, and play instruments and feast every night until the break of dawn. We never got tired.

‘The dryads are the spirits of the trees, and the nymphs of the woods. Their sisters are the water nymphs, or the nymphs of seas and lagoons as well as wells and valleys. But fauns like me, we are bound to only our bond with the wood nymphs, for the naiads and Nereids and oceanids looked upon us with contempt. And yet, while I was at a nearby spring to practice in solitude my flute, I heard a soft voice singing along to the tune I was playing.
‘When I stopped, the naiad showed herself to me and pleaded me not to stop, for it was her most favorite song, and her voice was the most beautiful in the world. And I played, just so I could listen to it, and she sang more beautifully than the wood nymphs or oceanids, and we sang song after song together.
‘She told me that she had heard of me, and had seen me playing at times during our wild feasts with the dryads. Her name was Nerine. I could tell she had an undeniable attraction for me, and what started out as mere flirtation took the better of me, making me fall head over heels in love with her. I would drop by the riverbank every day, and every day I saw her… and it made my day complete. Often, I had missed our feasts to see her, finding out that it did not please the dryads. They had found us out, and contested, as did her sisters. The dryads had grown jealous, and her sisters greatly disapproved of me; her best friend and confidante however, Naida, knew of our affair, and despite the fact that Nerine had made her hold her tongue she managed to tell.

‘Little did we know that the dryads and naiads had been conversing. A few days later, I received a threat from her sisters, telling me that if she continued to see me it would not please Poseidon, and there was only one thing they could do with the nymphs who did not abide by the rules. Furthermore, I was not to tell her the reason for this, for accordingly she would wake up to find my head detached and beside her waterbed. For fear of all options, I left her.
‘She wept many nights for love of me, begging me to stay, but I did not turn around. I too had wept many nights for love of her, but I showed no emotion in front of her. I wore a mask. She called told me that I was heartless, insensitive, emotionless –
‘But there is no such thing as that. There is no such thing as insensitive, or heartless, or emotionless; you are labeled as such when you cannot choose between two options. People don’t believe in neutral, but there is always a third option… and that is to keep silent.
‘The dryads welcomed me home with open arms, presenting to me the youngest and most beautiful of their sisters, whom I was to take as my new lover. I did, partly because I was forced to, and partly because I needed someone – anyone – who was willing to nurse my heart. I thought that it would help her as well, making her move on faster, so that the pain would gradually cease for the both of us.
‘But I was wrong. In fact, it grew much worse. After many moons, I overheard a conversation amongst the dryads as they spoke in their oak tree; I heard them mention her name, and I stayed to eavesdrop.
‘“The poor thing, so brokenheartedly desperate, you won’t believe what she just did –”
‘“Oh, pray tell!”
‘“She went to Poseidon himself and asked for a way out of her predicament, as it’s been months in the making and she still hasn’t been able to carry –”
‘“What happened?” interrupted another.
‘“He… he took away her memory,” came the words, and my heart stopped. The dryad explained, “She wasn’t able to take the pain of it, and so Poseidon took her memory away – everything that has to do with him, it’s gone. She has never fallen in love.”
‘My heart was racing; I did not know how to react at all, then… ‘“How do you know all this?”
‘“Naida accompanied her, and Poseidon entrusted her the duty not to tell her who she really was. But you know Naida, her tongue slips even when she wishes not to let it slip, and so I know…”
‘“But we must keep that to ourselves!”
‘“Indeed, we must never let him hear…”
‘Their voices faded away as I ran downhill, panic and horror filling up my chest, down to the riverbank. I dropped to my knees, calling her name to the river, to the sea, to the heavens. I called her name several more times, but when there was no answer, I finally broke down… it was then I heard her voice.
‘It was her familiar dreamy “Hello,” and I turned around in all stupid hope to see her there, leaning by the banks, looking up at me curiously. She was still beautiful, as always, the moonlight highlighting her face.
‘“Nerine?” my voice was weak, shaky.
‘She cocked her head to one side and looked at me even more curiously. “Do I know you?”
‘It was true. My heart dropped to my navel, and I ran. I ran… she called me back, asking if she said anything wrong, but I did not turn around. I ran on.

‘Before I could leave the naiads’ territory, I was blocked by a figure who I found to be Naida, standing tall and stern in front of me.
‘“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
‘“They… they told me she lost her memory.”
‘“She didn’t lose it,” Naida said. “She gave it up.”
‘I asked her why. Naida raised her eyebrow and said simply, “She couldn’t stand the pain of you being away.”
‘I buried my face in my hands, and whispered why over and over again under my breath, knowing that I would not want to hear to answer to it. Naida did not seem to care, and when she spoke she was angry.
“You have no idea how much she suffered because of you. You could have run away together, you know. You could have asked the other gods for favors… but you didn’t. I don’t understand why, but that’s that. The damage is done, and it was the only way for her to be happy again – without you, not knowing you, having never met you. And you waltz so easily back into her life, and perhaps things are going to go the same way all over. I can’t have that. I can’t have you breaking her heart again.”

‘I could not say a word; I pushed past her and ran onward, not stopping. ‘I do not expect anybody to understand me or my circumstance, but perhaps you people may have a bit of heart to not say anything. The guilt ate me up, but I showed no signs of weakness to anybody at all…
‘Years later I had heard of her again. Now, she was in love with a human being. A man. A man! How could I match up to that?’
His kept silent then, and as nobody said anything, the silence grew deafening.

‘…I suspect you intend to go look for a god then, to transform you to man?’ said Sirefn. ‘Or a potion or sumthin?’ He wasn’t joking, teasing, or just being plain tactless – I could see it in the way he said it.
The faun shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps I just ought to hold my tongue here on.’
‘And why would you do that?’ asked Max.
‘There is always a third option,’ said the faun, and he raised his flute to his lips and began to play.
It was the saddest, most haunting, and most beautiful tone you would ever hear. It was quite similar to the one he played a few nights before, only this time it was far louder and in tune. It was both wonderful and bothersome, and if you were there you would have wanted to remember how it went. I was there, but I do not remember its tune; the only thing I remember was that at the sound of it, tears sprang up most the listeners’ eyes, and even the Inn itself seemed to sway to its rhythm. While others, like Sirefn, sat somber on their seats with their drinks, the others stood up to dance. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Mr. Robinson and Kali doing so. The next thing I knew, a hand was being offered before me, and I looked up to Maximilian. He was smiling, a rather serious smile, but it assured me something. I took his hand and we danced. I found myself burying my face in his chest; maybe it was because I was crying. I don’t really remember… what I do remember was that I was there, and the two of us held each other tight, and danced until the break of dawn.

The night after, the faun (who I suspect got a little too drunk) did not go to the balcony. On that night, it was only Max and I, and I was not quite sure if he felt it, but there was something different about the atmosphere between us. The conversation was rather awkward.

‘Mai?’
‘Yes?’
‘This isn’t a dream, is it?’ I laughed.
‘No.’
‘There are so many things I want to ask…’
There was a pause.
‘What did happen in your past life?’
I did not answer, looking away and trying my best to avoid his gaze.
‘Mai?’
I don’t think I quite paid attention, because the moment I opened my mouth the words just flew out – perhaps it was because I had so longed to tell somebody, or perhaps it was because they were underused.
‘I was the daughter of a merchant in the ancient Orient. I’d use the term long ago, but that’s not applicable here…’ I said quietly, still not looking him in the eyes.
‘I was an only child, and I learned to speak and write in English due to trade, where I often helped my father. We were a wealthy family, and in that, they did not want to lose the status.
‘I was set for an arranged marriage. He was a man my father had met on his travels, though I had not heard or met him at all. They said he was ideal, smart, and equally wealthy – perhaps even more – but I would not accept it.
‘At that time, I hated my mother and father; I rebelled, and refused to submit to be the wife of someone I did not know. I wasn’t even assured if he really intended to take good care of me in the first place.
‘Perhaps my mother considered me an insult – I told her I was meant for so much more than what she intended me for, and she replied by saying that she had taught the same when she was my age, and that I would gradually realize this wasn’t so. I was infuriated, and told her I was a different person, and as a different person I was – am – meant for so much more than her. I told her I would not submit to a man I did not know – much more spend my life with him. I told her I wasn’t anyone’s wife, or anyone’s pet – and I definitely was not anyone’s concubine. I told her I was not her, nor did I intend to be.

‘And I got a slap on the face. My parents called me an ingrate, and that was the final straw.

‘I ran away.’

I could see him looking at me from the corner of his eyes, and his stare was boring a hole through my face – but I did not dare look at him face to face.
‘I packed my clothes and horse and sneaked out at daybreak. I crossed deserts, forests, rain or shine. In the villages I passed by I found out my father had organized searching parties for me, which I learned to evade through time.

‘Sometimes… sometimes I missed home. Sometimes I would remember the madness they put me through, and forget all about missing it. I always knew I would be as bound as a dog on a chain if I was under my father’s household forever – and then suddenly, I wasn’t. I could not tell if it was a nice feeling; I had to admit I missed my bed, the warmly cooked supper every evening, and the maid’s humming while she fixed the rooms. But I had a different feeling there too – one of independence, and – for once – of freedom… and that was something I had never had before. I couldn’t, and didn’t, complain. I chose to leave, and I would rather have left than be a prisoner forever.

‘I traveled on – until, on a stormy night, I reached the Inn. I wouldn’t believe it at first, but I guess I had to come to terms with the fact that there was a world very different from my father’s house. And I stayed.

‘I met so many people, and all their fascinating stories – they came from all over: Faerie, England, Atlantis… some come from alternative lands which are very much alike and very much different with ours, as well as from galaxies and planets far beyond earth. They came from every imaginable time – past, and even some from the future… like you.

‘And I realized I had nowhere else to go to; I had left home without even plotting a destination, and suddenly I was here and it was wonderful. So I started out my job as a kitchen maid, until the innkeeper before me left it in my care…’
‘How long have you been working here?’ Max asked.
‘…I don’t know,’ I said quietly, voice cracking a little. ‘Time is… suspended here. Here at the Inn, the world is still, while all the rest of the worlds – they run and rotate and move, as do their people, because time passes them by. But time is totally locked out of this dimension; it can’t get in – so it can’t reach us here. I… I lost count a long time ago.’

‘Don’t you ever miss –?’
‘Of course I miss home, silly,’ I almost snapped, but I was hanging my head the whole time. ‘But this is my home now. The people here – the people I’ve met. I realized that everything I went through, no matter how shitty, is nothing compared to what they had to share. And while everyone in the Inn goes about telling their stories of travels and seas and cities and civilizations, I cannot tell my story… mainly because I have nothing to tell –’
‘But you’re telling me this now –’
‘You’re the first person I’ve ever opened up to!’ I cried.
‘Max – I have no story to tell. Look at my life: no beginning, no conflict, no climax. Who would make a story about a girl like me, who runs away from all her problems? This is why I can’t leave the Inn; I can’t leave… not until I find the ending to my story…’

There was quiet for a moment, and I found myself crying. I hadn’t cried in a long time, and the last time I remember doing so was when I had found out I was betrothed…
‘Mai…’
I felt Max’s arms around me then, and I felt him burying his face on my hair, wrapping me in the warmest embrace of the winter. We were quiet for a moment, in that position; I would not move. I didn’t want to…
‘This isn’t a dream, is it?’
‘No, it’s not…’ I answered hoarsely, leaning on his chest. ‘How can you tell?’
‘I can feel,’ he whispered, and he put his hand on my cheek and kissed me. I had never kissed before, but when I returned it, it felt as though I knew all about men and kissing and love – and I returned it with passion, my arms crawling slowly up around his neck.
When it was over, we leaned on each other as he told me, in a voice clear and doubtless (almost as though he had been practicing it), ‘I love you.’
‘You love me?’ I croaked weakly.
He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. Do you love me too?’
‘I… yes, yes I do,’ I replied, and I realized as I spoke it that it was the truth, and I soon found myself in his arms again in a mad wet kiss, his arms around my waist and pushing me closer to him as well.

Before I knew it, I found myself unlocking the door to his room. Inside, we lit a candle, taking off every piece of clothing which bound the both of us; we made love that night. We made love like a man and woman never made love before… and like they would never make love again.

I had never felt so happy – Max made my day, my life – for a time, he was it. But I knew that it was going to get rocky. Maximilian had taken off his engagement ring, but every time I cleaned his room I saw it back in its glass case in his drawer, solemn and foreboding. Sometimes, I looked at it with guilt; other times, with hate.

I asked him, once, what would happen to his engagement. He did not answer, and I decided not to bring it up again for a while.
As the days passed, the storm gradually lifted, and the only thing keeping Max from leaving was his dead vehicle. With the moving time, I found myself wishing more and more that the mechanic would not be able to fix it… But he did.

‘Mai, Mai!’ Max called, bursting into the Inn one day.
‘What is it?’ I looked up from the tray I was holding.
‘Mr. Robinson,’ he said excitedly, ‘he fixed my car!’
My heart fell slightly, but I didn’t let it show. ‘That’s great news!’
He went up to me and pulled me by the hand. ‘Let’s go for a ride.’

* * *

‘Come on in,’ he urged me, opening the door.
‘I’ve never been in a car before,’ I said nervously as I climbed in.
‘What have I got to do?’
‘Nothing,’ he laughed. ‘Just sit back, relax, and let me do everything.’
He shut the door and made his way round to the driver’s seat. I looked around in awe from inside as he climbed in. I had seen older models of cars and carriages, but this was…. wow. He started up the engine.
‘Oh!’
‘Calm down,’ he grinned, putting his hand on mine.
I blushed.
The car jolted with a start, and he moved his hand to the lever, pushing it forward. The car moved forward as well, kind of smoothly.
He took me around the Inn, never going too far, and I learned to relax in my seat.

‘You can open your window,’ said Max, pressing some button (I don’t know where), which brought down my window. The wind whipped gently against my face.
‘This is… it’s wonderful,’ I looked out at the view, then back at him.
‘Are you comfortable?’ ‘Yes,’ I beamed up at him. He smiled, but I could see something worried him.
‘Is… everything okay?’
He didn’t answer, not taking his eyes off the road.

There was an awkward silence. Then…
‘Mai, I’m cancelling my engagement.’

Two major feelings overwhelmed me then, rising up to my chest: happiness, the feeling that there would be no anyone else, that I wouldn’t have to worry anymore… and then terror. How was he going to do that? How was he going to break it to the girl? He’d have to leave… But along with the terror came guilt. How would she react? How well would I take it if I were her? I looked up at him, shocked. It wasn’t bad news for me, but…

‘What?’
‘My engagement,’ Max repeated. ‘I’m cancelling it. I want to be with you.’
‘I… how are you going to do that?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Max voice lowered. ‘Mai… I’m going home. I need a clean break. Then I’m coming back.’

I was horrified. There was never any assurance you could return to the Inn once you were gone –
‘– I know what you’re thinking,’ Max said immediately, seeing the expression on my face. ‘I’ve talked to people. Mai, I’ve got to do this. I know I might not get back in a long time, but you told me yourself – you come to the Inn when you travel, and you’ve got to come sooner or later. And I’m coming back, I promise you that. Then when I do, we can finally be together.’
‘B-but –’
‘Don’t say a word, Mai,’ he interrupted, pushing his finger against my lips. ‘Don’t try to stop me, because there’s no changing my mind. And nothing – not even you – are going to stop me.’

I couldn’t quite arrange my feelings knowing he was leaving, and not knowing when he’d return. What if he never found his way back? What if he ended up in another Inn, another of the four? What if when he got there, he changed his –?
‘Mai, I love you,’ he whispered as he climbed into bed that night next to me. ‘I hope you never doubt that.’
I looked into his eyes then, and I just knew he meant every word
. ‘Mai, I love you…’ he repeated.
‘I… I love you too,’ I whispered, planting a light kiss on his lips and leaning on his shoulder with my hand on his chest. I felt him bury his face in my hair, kissing my forehead and running his hand through my locks.
I stared blankly into space and did my best to capture the moment – everything. His smell, what his skin felt like against mine, the warmth, the feeling that, for once, somebody loved me for who I was.

His hand groped for mine in the dark, and I felt him bring it up to his lips as he said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with hoping, Mai. Everything will fall into place.’
There’s nothing wrong with hoping. I believed everything he said that moment, and absentmindedly, I nodded, unaware that I was wetting his chest with my tears.

We spent the next day packing his things, and I did not quite know what to say to him. Perhaps he thought of me as cold then, but I knew that he understood. I was still uncomfortable. Guilt was eating me up like termites would eat wood; I guess he knew that I felt that way, but neither of us spoke of it. I wanted to be with him, and he with me, and – selfish as it may sound – I would not force him to stay with someone who he didn’t love.

The day after that was the day he would leave. A number of people had come to see him go, including the faun and the mechanic, and I vaguely remembered Sirefn’s tale some nights before. Perhaps this was what Rose Red had felt like. I stood there, numb, as Max put his bags in the car. It was going to be a long ride. I bit back my tears.
No, I was not going to cry. He wouldn’t want to see me cry.
‘Mai…’
I realized he was standing in front of me then, and I looked up to see him staring down at me, probably also forcing down tears of his own.
‘Maximilian!’ the faun interrupted all of a sudden.
‘What is it?’ he asked, turning around.
‘I… I’d like you to have this,’ he said, reaching out his hand which held his flute.
Max stared. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Indeed not,’ said the faun. ‘Take it. It’s a remembrance.’
‘I can’t even play,’ said Max hesitantly.
‘That needn’t be an issue, friend,’ the faun beamed. ‘I can always have one made, where I come from. Take it – to remember me by.’
‘Oh… alright,’ Max said at last, as the faun handed it to him. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

He had had little talks with everyone he had met, last goodbyes, nods, and what have you. And when all was done, he turned back to me.
I had been looking down at my shoes, biting my lower lip to stop the tears from falling, when I heard him call my name.

‘Mai…’
I looked up, and soon found myself in his embrace, probably the last he was going to give me, looking into his deep brown eyes.
‘I love you.’
I found myself kissing him after I said it, and I did not care what anybody else thought that moment. My arms were around his neck and his were around my waist, holding each other as tightly as we could. When we finally let go, he never took his eyes off me, although we both withdrew our arms.
‘I’m coming back for you, Mai.’
He opened the door to his car. I watched blankly as he climbed inside.
‘’Til we meet again, Maximilian.’

* * *

I waited. I did not know how long I did, but I waited. Sometimes the wait would drove me mad, sometimes it gave me even more motivation. In all that time and within all those emotions, everyone else’s life stories seemed more in black and white whenever I heard them, like they too were suspended. Or perhaps I just never paid attention much – because I waited. And I hoped.

It was a blustery afternoon when I saw him.
Mr. Wilkinson, a British hunter from the late nineteenth century accompanied by his Irish setter, was bragging to me about his new Baker rifle, which he had bought in London town. It was a long shotgun, hard cold metal.
‘Nothing can ever defeat this baby,’ he said proudly.
‘That’s nice,’ I forced a smile, as I serve him and a doctor tea.
The woman at their table, a gypsy, looked up at me then. ‘Are you alright, little missy?’ she asked.
She had a mole on her face and wide brown eyes, with hair curling all about her face. Hooped earrings hung on both her ears, and she was dressed in a heavy array of skirts, cloths, and tunics. Her nose was hooked, and her stare piercing.
‘Er… I do believe so,’ I said uncertainly, pouring some tea for her as well.

‘Brace yourself,’ she muttered under her breath.

I was going to ask her why, but I was interrupted when the front door opened and he came in. The man was tall, thin, and had slightly curled short hair, probably older than I was – bordering on thirty or forty. He was panting, and one thing I noticed about him was that he was limping too.

‘Believe me,’ he said, partly to himself as he looked around in wonder, ‘that boy wasn’t joking!’
After a few more minutes of looking around, he staggered toward me. The oddest feeling rose up to my gut as I greeted him then. ‘Hello. Uhmmm… how may I help you?’
He looked at me with awe in his eyes, almost as if he were studying my face. ‘Are you Mai?’
‘I… I’m afraid that’s me,’ I said, my heart pounding in my chest as I came out from behind the counter. Why did I get the feeling I knew him from somewhere before?

‘I’m a friend of Max’s,’ he said awkwardly, holding out his hand. ‘My name’s Earl.’
My heart dropped several inches; I knew it wasn’t him. Earl however, was exactly how he had described him, albeit older now. He seemed awkward, but he wouldn’t let his awkwardness get in the way of what he wanted to say – and I could already tell that he wanted to say something. I tried to push away the building assumption –

‘Oh, yeah – Max told me a lot about you,’ I took his hand, forcing a smile
. I was feeling incredibly uneasy, knowing that he’d only be here for one out of two reasons: first, that Max was extremely nearby; or second, because…

‘Ah yes, you see, about Max…’ It definitely was not the former.

I can’t tell how Earl had relayed it to me, but the words came and went and every single one of them cut me like a thousand daggers. What was worse was that I knew he was telling the truth, because if you’ve met as many people as I have then you just learn to tell if they’re telling the truth or not. And this just wasn’t… I sat, and listened, and did not interrupt. I let him carry on and on, my heart breaking as he went through every detail and every gap. I already knew it then – that he was not lying – but I guess I also tried, rather desperately and unsuccessfully, to disbelieve it.

Finally, he dipped his hand into the pocket of his dark brown jacket, pulling out two things: an envelope, some broken wood, and some fully-colored photographs.
Shakily, I took the envelope and tore it open as carefully and neatly as possible. I was afraid, for I could already tell what was inside it.
‘He… he wrote it in case he couldn’t make it,’ he said slowly. ‘He asked me to give it to you.’

The paper was crisp between my fingers, like it hadn’t been touched or read in years. I unfolded it. With every line that I finished reading a whole new tear rose up, blurring my vision. From the corners of my eyes I could see Earl watching anxiously. Max loved me. That I did not doubt. I did not doubt at all…

After I was done, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and laid it down on the counter.

‘Give me the photographs,’ I said in a hoarse voice that sounded like glass that was already broken, the second before it would fall into a million shattered pieces. He did, and rather hesitantly at that. It was the first time for me to see a fully-colored photograph – and there will never be a worse time than that. It was clear – the scene was captured in every detail.

Max’s car – for how could I forget Max’s car? – had crashed into a gigantic tree, and it was extremely damaged. Its headlights were in pieces, its hood was open and dented, the glass smashed, tires detached; the whole car was beyond repair. There were lines drawn in front of the scene and at a distance, blood pouring on the ground below the car’s front door. There was a body in the scene, still partly inside the car, and I could have sworn it was his. I had never seen so much blood in my life.

‘I was able to escape,’ said Earl solemnly. ‘We were on our way here. He just broke off the engagement. We had been town-hopping for more than a year by then, and I have to say I thought he was partly mad, but I enjoyed seeing him so lax for once. He… he asked me to go on looking for you if I could, and I promised him that – after all, nobody was waiting for me back there, right? I… I got away limping. The doctors say it’s permanent, but Max –’

‘– didn’t,’ I croaked, flipping to the next photograph. It was of his body, already clean and put together – the blood wiped clean off his face, pale under the coffin.

And the first thing that crossed my mind was hard it was to imagine him running cold and pale in an endless sleep, and that I was not there to wake him up, to return the flush of color to his cheeks and to wrap my arms around him and to warm him again.
The photographs fell to the floor; I don’t remember dropping them, I just remember breaking down. There were some others – him unconscious at the hospital, more scenes from his funeral and the accident, but my eyesight went fuzzy and I guess I must have lost my balance.
In the blur that was my vision though, I could see Earl stepping forward, concerned, and several of the Inn’s occupants crowding around and trying to get a hold of me.

‘Mai? Are you okay?’
‘I… yes,’ I say, rubbing the tears away from my eyes pathetically. ‘I’m sorry…’
I bent down and gathered the photos, then absentmindedly stuffed them, disorganized, into Earl’s hands.
‘Excuse me good sir, but would you mind telling me what’s going on?’ I heard the familiar voice of the hunter, Mr. Wilkinson, ask Earl.
‘Well, it’s –’
I did not know what took me then, but I knew that Mr. Wilkinson was never without his hunting gun, and I happened to know, even without looking directly at it, that he was holding it at the moment and it was loose in his grasp, like it always was.
I reached out a hand for the rifle and he didn’t even notice. No, nobody noticed at all. I raised it to my…
‘Mai! What the fuck are you –’
I pulled the trigger.
BANG.
I felt the gun being tugged out of my hands, and I fell to the floor. The dog was barking madly. I missed. I had hit the light bulb instead, sending glass pieces falling and the ceiling smoking. A hundred hands grabbed me after that.
‘Let me go!’ I cried. ‘Let me go, damnit!’
I could feel Earl holding me, trying to pull me up, and I could see Mr. Wilkinson’s horrified face. I was screaming, frantically, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. I could tell that the crowd thickened even if I could see them less and less with every passing second – the tears sprang upwards and went and flowed and sprang upwards again…
‘LET ME GO!’ I screeched, thrashing against Earl’s grip, desperate to be free of it. I felt at least five pairs of arms tighten around me, forcing me to calm down, but not letting me go at all –
‘No, no, no, no, no –’ I said over and over aloud, and I said it so much that it seemed to lose meaning in my tongue.
‘Calm down, Mai –’
‘No, NO –’
Someone hit me on the head then, or maybe somebody had injected me with something, but all of a sudden I felt heavy and fell silent, and my entire body stopped moving with me. I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn’t manage to pull the words out. My head was throbbing…
I felt my back being rested on the floor, and the last thing I saw was a blurred vision of everyone at the Inn and their faces looking down at mine – Earl, Mr. Wilkinson, the doctor, the gypsy, a sprite, Mr. Wilkinson’s setter, a centaur… And then they faded into the darkness.

I awoke with the biggest hangover in history. I was in bed, and a few seconds after I woke up I remembered everything – Max, the accident, the news, the gun… I bolted upright, but then my head hurt like hell and I had to stop myself.
‘Oh God, you’re okay,’ gasped Earl, who was beside the bed and had been looking out the window.
‘My head hurts.’
‘Mai, you are one crazy bitch,’ he said incredibly directly. ‘No offense.’
‘None taken,’ I say, massaging my temples. I had to agree with him.
‘Why the hell did you do that?’
I did not say anything, and did my best not to look him in the face. There was an excruciating silence then, in which Earl must have understood that I had no intentions of answering him.
‘What now?’
‘You can stay here if you like,’ I told him, still not looking him in the eyes. ‘Well, I’ve got no place to go.’
‘Then stay,’ I say simply. ‘You can stay forever, nothing’s stopping you. You could work here, if you want to. Just don’t expect me to follow you around.’
‘I don’t,’ he said, leaning back on his chair and folding his arms, ‘which is exactly why I’m going to keep my eyes on you. We wouldn’t want you doing anything that could hurt yourself, now do we?’

My problem with Earl was that he didn’t understand; nobody did. Suicide… it had sounded so tempting. I was impatient, restless. I would not merely wait for my time to come. What about Max? I had to see him… I just had to. And if the afterlife did not exist, then it’d be better to get away from it all if it meant that I wouldn’t be able to… I hung my head and cried all over again. I was desperate then, desperate and determined at the same time. Earl knew what I had in mind, and he did not favor it. He trailed me like a bloodhound. Still, we both knew that he could not watch me forever.
I tried numerous times to commit suicide, but something – either someone, or some mere odd coincidence – always got in the way. At one point, I had sneaked some detergent in a bottle to my room, and I drank it. It was heavy, in my mouth, and I pinched my nose so I would not smell it. I waited, patiently, for it to take effect. I didn’t choke, so I expected it to slowly work its way through my insides… and I allowed it to do so, until the maid came up to my room to inform me that the vegetable oil was missing.
As Plan A did not work, I also tried throwing myself down the stairs, but then a large-bellied bald priest in spectacles suddenly came out of the corner of the stairway and I collided into him, landing flat on his belly.
Apart from the chances going against me, I lived long enough to suffer the humiliation. Knives did not work – Earl took care of that. He got rid of every knife in the Inn except for butter knives, and if they were kept there I did not know where. Earl watched me, even in my sleep, so I never really considered suffocating myself with a pillow. Drowning was out of the way – the tubs were accessible to maids, and I could not kill myself in front of my own maids. They would stop me before it was too late… I was patient though, and waited for my chances.

I had spoken with the gypsy woman sometime after, and I recalled her teasing me about not dying successfully.
‘Grandmother Death just doesn’t want you in her realm, dearie,’ she laughed. ‘Perhaps you ought to convince her.’
I thought it must have been a joke of some sort, but with all the free time in my hands I gradually realized there was some truth to it. It struck me then – who I could call. I knew what I had to do.

It was a dark, stormy night and the Inn shook and trembled, but I did not worry, for I knew it would still stand, no matter how harsh the storms may be. I had waited for Earl to fall asleep, for I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay up long. And he did.
I crawled out of bed, in my nightgown, and crept past him. I made my way to the roof, where the rain greeted me with a downpour on my head. Before I knew it, I was soaked, but that didn’t stop me from climbing out. I was barefoot, and the tiles were slippery against my feet; the wind whipped my hair, and I realized that I could hardly see. I clung on.
‘Where are you?’ I cried aloud. ‘I know you can hear me! Show yourself!’
Lightning flashed, and the thunder followed it.
‘I know you’re here! Why won’t you take me?’ I screamed, but there was no answer.
The wind whipped me harder, and it hurt so hard. I didn’t know if the world was being deaf to me, or I was already deaf myself.
It occurred to me that I could jump, right then and there. No Earl to stop me, no maids. Was this why she wasn’t answering? Because she was only waiting?

Slowly, I let go of the chimney and made my way towards the edge of the roof. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I was freezing… but that didn’t matter. It was going to be over now…
Then I slipped.

I let out a cry before I tumbled sideways, sending the tiles flying, panic rising up to my chest. I wondered why I still even bothered to panic, if I meant not to care –
And somebody grabbed me by my right wrist. The grip was firm, and before I knew it I was being pulled up. I cast my gaze upwards, probably expecting to see Kali or Earl, but it wasn’t. It was her.
The first thing I noticed was how pretty she was, and I took in her whole image while she hoisted me back up on the roof. I was sitting this time, leaning against the chimney, panting and out of breath, looking up into the face of no one but Death herself.

She was about my height, and had pale white skin and wavy black hair. She wore black all over – from her top to her jeans and the edge of her heels, on which she seemed to balance so well on the roof. A dark swirl curved under her right eye; she wore an ankh around her neck, and held a black umbrella over her head.
She smiled.
‘Hello.’
I looked down, still getting wet in the rain. ‘You’re here.’
‘Well of course I am,’ she laughed. ‘You called me, didn’t you? Care for an umbrella?’
‘No thanks,’ I said curtly. ‘I’ve wanted to see you since a while, but I never got to you. Why?’
‘Perhaps you were just picking the wrong way to try to get to me,’ she answered rather patiently, shrugging.
‘I tried committing suicide!’ I blurted out over the rain.
I can say I expected her to be somewhat alarmed, or to keep quiet a while in shock, but she wasn’t.
‘I know,’ was all she said, and she didn’t look at me any differently.
‘Why can’t I die?’ I cried, breaking down again, my salty tears mixing up with the salty rain. I buried my face in my hands and cried my heart out some more, and then I felt the downpour stop and someone patting me on the back.
‘Shhh,’ she hushed, her hand on my shoulder. She was crouched down in front of me, holding the umbrella over the both of us.
‘You took Max,’ I stated it aloud, looking up and telling it straight to her, eye to eye.
‘Yes,’ she said simply, stating it like a fact as well, incredibly indifferent.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t choose who comes or goes, Mai. Everyone has their own time – I just pick them up. You can’t blame me for doing that.’
I scowled, holding my dizzying head in my hands.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ she said softly, continuing patting me on the back, ‘he really did love you.’
The tears were salty in my eyes, and streamed over my cheeks endlessly. ‘Why?’
‘It was his time.’
‘Why can’t you take me too?’
‘I said it was his time – not yours.’
‘But I need to see him!’
‘You’ve lasted a long time waiting for him, you can do it again,’ said Death. ‘You’ve got to be strong…’
‘But what if I can’t?’
‘Yes you can! You’re the only one who doesn’t believe it, Mai. Think of it yourself – what would Max have said? Is this what he’d like you to do?’
She was shaking me, and I her words bore a hole through my brain, because I realized more and more that they were actually true.
‘I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t like it,’ she finished, standing up straight again. ‘He’d want you to live, Mai – so live!’
Her face got blurry in my tears, and my head throbbed more than ever, and the next thing I remember….
Blackout.

I woke up on the ground, the rain still pounding on my face and my body, even more soaked than I remember.
I woke with a gasp, and the first thing I saw was the crowd of people who were desperately trying to catch a look at me, peering over with curious eyes. I realized I was short of breath, and gasped and choked as I bolted upright, becoming conscious that they must have been trying to revive me.
Did I fall off the roof? I looked up there. Nothing but rain. Death was gone…
‘Mai, you’re all right!’ Earl exclaimed. I could see how worried he had been, kneeling beside me the whole time. ‘Max would have killed me if I let you…’
I looked at him, tired, and I guess teary-eyed. He fell silent.
‘Mai, you crazy bitch, don’t ever do that again.’
And I managed to smile, and I hugged him out of nowhere at all. I knew it shocked him at first, but after a few seconds, I felt him return the hug.

The next day I packed my bags and hitched my horse, which I hadn’t used in a long, long time. I had brought clothing and food, enough to last me a few weeks, and some coins in case I ran out.
‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Earl, rather uncertainly.
‘Sure I’m sure,’ I told him, fixing the saddlebags.
‘You’re not going to do anything crazy again, will you?’
‘No.’
‘And why should I believe that?’
‘Because of what happened last night,’ I replied, not looking at him.
‘What did happen last night?’
I stopped then, and put the saddlebags back in place.
‘I met her,’ I said blankly and in a low voice, almost as if I were talking to the air, staring at no particular direction at all.
‘Sorry?’
‘…You’ll understand,’ I said quickly, pulling the horse out of the stables as he followed behind me.

Everyone from the Inn had gathered to see me leave. It occurred to me then how many people I had met, and how many lives had touched mine… and maybe even, how many lives I had touched. There was hugging, crying, and a good deal of remembrances; then finally, I climbed on my horse and turned around for one last look.

‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’ asked Earl, looking up at me. ‘Max would never forgive me if…’
‘Relax,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve realized a lot of things recently, and that includes the fact that if Max were here, he wouldn’t let me kill myself… so I won’t. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life here either, because the people come and go and sooner or later I’m going to have to too. What about you?’
Earl thought about it. ‘I’m staying… for the meantime. I’ve grown to like it here.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ I told him. ‘Kali is going to take care of the Inn when I’m gone,’ I added, gesturing towards her.
‘Well, she’s going to take care of the Inn,’ said Earl, ‘but you take care of yourself, got that?’
I nodded, smiling, and for the last time, shook his hand. Then I turned forward then, making sure I would not look back, and made my way home.

Home had not changed much in the few months that I was gone, but my father and mother were pleased to see me all the same. Mother had burst into tears, and Father embraced me – and I had never received such an embrace from him ever since he had found me lost in the woods when I was five.
I realized how much I had missed them in the time I was gone, but I haven’t told any of them where I had been all the time. They would never believe me anyway.

Still, the wedding had to go on. That is, if my supposed betrothed still wanted to push through with it after finding out I had run away. I am going to find out, aren’t I?

* * *

“And so here I am,” I finish. “Would you like biscuits with that?”
“Sure,” he answers, reaching out as I push the plate toward him.
There is silence for a while as he sipped his tea. There he was: my betrothed. I had to say he seemed like a decent enough man, willing to go through all the trouble and complexity of listening to my pathetic life. He was rather patient about it. There was something familiar about him though, and I couldn’t quite put my hand on it. But however well he may have carried himself, I knew beforehand the risks of being too optimistic.

“Well,” he says, clasping his hands, “You do tell some wild stories. I’ll never get bored with you.”
He laughs.
“I don’t quite expect you to believe me, though,” I say quietly, hanging my head.
“No?” he let out a laugh, seemingly amused. “Well, I don’t believe in magic.”

The five words hit me with an impact and, I realized, quite stupidly, what exactly had made him so familiar. I smile, and the heaviness inside of me just flew away like a balloon. I smile, because suddenly I know who he is. I smile, because now… now I have a story to tell.
“I said, I don’t believe in magic,” he repeats, probably noticing that I was no longer responding.
And I turn to him and say in the simplest tone in the world, “You know, you really should.”

Pulling the strings

2009-10-03T23:09:00.000-07:00

Pulling the Strings
cowritten with Dane Ancheta

The masks hang above me,
with a smile and a frown.
I think I displease them.
For I too, wear a mask -
like many -
but...
Mine is one that even I
cannot take off.

The strings move,
up and down...
So do I.
I dance.

My costume itches.
I used to like it at first -- the clothes --
but they became frilly and itchy and
the audience laughs at me.
But then they cheer.

I used to like it at first -- the attention --
until I realize that they do not clap for me
but for the puppeteer.

He is my creator, but
Why did he create me this way?
Why won't he liberate me?
I remember when I first came into the world
and he put on my first dress
and he looked at me lovingly as a father, or a brother, or a lover --

I can't tell which. I don't have any.

I hate him sometimes,
but at the same time, I dote on him.
When he brushes my hair,
and changes my clothes...
I do not understand.
Can a block of wood, like me,
love?

I do not know...
Perhaps one day, I will tell him how I feel.
Or perhaps not.

Bastard.

My proudest moment was when
I heard him brag to a woman about his creations.
She was beautiful,
and she wore the kinds of dresses I did.
He told her he loved his puppets --
he told her he loved me.

If I had had a heart, it would have skipped a beat;
but then she turned to him and asked,
"Do you love me?"
And he looked at her and said,
"Yes."

They kissed then, right before my very eyes.
I wanted to cry, but I
cannot.
They lock themselves in the next room.
Ugh.
I can't bear to look.
Soon the room fills with laughter and noise.
I wanted to cry, but I....
...cannot.

If I had had a heart, it would have been broken.
The years pass, and the seasons come and go;
less and less people come to see my shows.
The children... they get bored,
and grow,
and are gone --
like the seasons.

And one day,
I see the puppeteer come into the parlor
with sorrow on his face.
He picks up his bag,
takes one last look,
and closes the lights.

I hear him lock the door.

Particles

2009-08-29T02:15:00.000-07:00

She owned a little wooden chest that lay just beyond the collection of books on the shelf in her room; the chest looked just as old as your grandmother’s grandmother, or perhaps even older. It had a small brass holder, delicately shaped and formed in thorough Victorian, and the box itself was carved on every surface (save for the bottom) in such intricate and elaborated detail.

It was her most prized possession.

He picked up the box, fascinated by it, and went through each of the carvings. The lid was carved to the shape of leaves and forests with characters’ heads – children, dwarves, wolves, elders – poking out of every other bush. It was so real that you could see the sparkle in the children’s eyes, the wetness on the noses of the wolves, and the wrinkles and crinkles on the dwarves’ and elders’ foreheads.

The front of the box told a story in sequence: the first picture was of children, boys and girls alike, holding hands and running around in a circle against a meadow in the early morn; the second was of the same children, in different positions this time, looking older and tired in the late afternoon. He didn’t know how he knew it was so, but he concluded that it must have been the realism of the carving, and went on. The third one showed the children falling, their feet turning into dust in the landscape of the evening. In the last carving, the meadow was empty and the moon was high and full; though perhaps, if you were to look more closely, you’d see the bits of dust flying away with the wind. He bit his lip and tried to remember why it was so familiar.

“‘Ring around a rosy, a pocket full of posies; ashes, ashes, we all fall down…’”

He turned around to see her entering the room with a tray and two glasses, her light brown hair falling just past her shoulders and even lighter brown eyes twinkling in the moonlight. She wore a robe, and rather loosely, he noticed, for he could almost make out the form beneath it.

“Hey,” he smiled.

She put down the tray. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?”

“I’m sorry, I was just… looking around,” he said sheepishly.

“Curiosity kills the cat,” she told him, grinning. He could not tell if it was a tease or a warning. She ran her hand playfully up and down his chest. “What did you find?”

“Nothing much,” he held up the little box against the light so he could see clearer, turning it around. The carvings that went around the rest of the box told a longer story, and started with the figures of two children – a boy and a girl – holding hands and finding their way home with the use of pebbles. He recognized it easily, and if he remembered correctly, then the story was Hansel and Gretel’s – one of those fairytales your parents used to tell you at bedtime when you were sweet and innocent and easily deceived by it. The picture next to it was that of the children’s mother, tall and thin and scary with a hooked nose, reminding him of his physics teacher in high school. She held a dagger though, and she held it high over her children’s heads…

“This story is a little more different from how I remember it,” he commented.

She let go of him, taking the box from his hands and depositing it back on the shelf. “That’s because how you remember it is not how it really happened. It’s a lie.”

“And how do you know that?”

She was quiet for a while, and he waited for her to speak, but when she did, she did not even answer his question, and spoke as if she were in a trance.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Their mother did not want to abandon them. No, it was much more than that. She wanted to kill them, maybe out of desperation, or poverty, or because she was mentally ill – but either way she intended to do so. She led them deep into the forest. She had a knife.”

She closed her eyes, as if pulling the threads of the story from the cloth of her memory. “They escaped, barely. Gretel got a slash on her shoulder, but the two managed to run deeper into the wood, until they were sure they were safe from their mother, and until they reached the little cottage of gingerbread and candy. At first sight, that was exactly what it looked like – a house of everything you ever wanted in the world, but if you looked closer, it was a decoy, a mirage if you will, made up of corpses and cadavers, disembodied hands and feet and fingers, only made to look like everything you ever wanted. The version you know says that they ran to the house and ate bits of it, and perhaps Hansel and Gretel realized they were really eating after a few bites, or perhaps they didn’t…”

Her voice trailed off a bit, and when she found herself again, her eyes stared into space – beyond his shoulder, or perhaps an inch from his face. “The old woman… I remember her so well. She was the ugliest thing in the world. If you caught a glimpse of her for a second, you would have nightmares for years. Just imagine how many nightmares I must have had…”

He did not say anything; the truth was, she was scaring him – though she did not seem to notice this at all. She went on, her face grave as the moonlight fell on it, casting shadows at certain perspectives, making her look much older than she was supposed to be, a lot like a cemetery angel.

“I remember her rhyme so clearly… ‘Nibble, nibble, like a mouse; who is nibbling at my house?’
“I remember her stove too – it was the old kind of stove, the ones they used in that century, when electricity was unheard of yet. It was a furnace, powered by coal, rusty and dusty and which produced the oddest squeaking and wheezing sounds. I remember the way it would burn down whatever she planned to put into it next, the horrible screaming that came from it when she shut the door, reducing the animal – or human – to nothing but ashes…”

And she fell into a silence.

“Then what happened?” he asked uncertainly, when she showed no signs of returning to the story.

She jumped a little, almost as if she had forgotten he had even existed, and quickly added, “Oh – she got away.”

“The witch?”

“Gretel,” she said distractedly, waving her hand.

“What about Hansel?”

“Oh, him too.”

“Really?”

“Not necessarily in the way you’d expect it,” she said softly, shrugging.

If he was frank at that moment, he would’ve told her he didn’t buy it – but he wasn’t, so he acted like he did. She must have realized this, and for a moment they did nothing but stare at each other, when she suddenly, unexpectedly, broke out into a giggle, and then into a laugh. He laughed with her, and they laughed together, and soon enough he found her arms around him, and before he knew it she was two inches from his nose.

She kissed him then, or maybe he kissed her – he quite forgot which way it went round. But they returned each others’ kisses, each holding on to the other.

He pushed her, gently, so she fell on the pillows, and she unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the floor, his pants going the same way. She let him kiss her neck, slipping off her robe as well; they fell into place and into such a position that no one could tell whose arms and legs were whose, breathing in the scent of each other like mad. She clung unto him from under, and he slowly descended from her neck to her shoulders, finding a scar there.

“What’s this?” he whispered, caressing her skin there.

“Nothing,” she waved him away from the spot, and he soon forgot about it, finding himself concentrating on making love to her, stark naked under the eyes of an all-knowing moon. If this were a fairytale, this would be one of the scenes they hide in between the rows of three asterisks.

If this were a fairytale, the moon would have laughed.

He woke up in the middle of the night, and there was a lullaby echoing in his head. No, not a lullaby…

Ring around the rosy…

She was leaning on his chest as he shifted, in deep sleep.

A pocket full of posies

The box on the shelf caught his attention; the moon light seemed to augment its presence, and soon he found himself wide awake. He turned away, trying to go back to sleep, only to look back at it again, the rhyme going around and around in his head like a broken record –

Ashes, ashes…

The sound seemed to come from the little chest. Or perhaps it was his mind playing the sound, at the same time telling him that the chest was the source. It was hard to tell. But there was something about it, lonesome yet conspicuous on the shelf, akin to Pandora’s Box.

He slid out of bed, gently resting her head on the pillow. She shuffled, but did not wake. Slowly, he turned around and made his way to the shelf, careful not to make a sound.

Ring around a rosy…

The box was within reach. He could make out the detail of it now, and he extended a hand, running his fingers through the ups and downs, curves and creases and crevices of the carving…
He turned the box around.

A pocket full of posies…

The story ended differently.
There was a fat boy there, and the old woman held him by the wrist, pushing him into a furnace. Her other hand held a butcher’s knife, and her expression had madness written all over it. The little girl, Gretel, was sobbing, looking hysterical, tears flowing down her face; her hair was such a mess, and in her state she looked like she could have ripped it right off her head. In the next diagram, she had pushed the old woman into the furnace as well.

Ashes, ashes…

He wondered what was inside the box.

We all fall down!

He opened the lid.
Curiosity kills the cat.

There was a creak when he did so, and her eyes burst open at the sound of it –

“NO!”

He dropped the box, in shock.

She bolted out of the bed, but the chest had already slipped out of his hands, the wood breaking, spilling its contents all over the floor.

He had expected it to hold jewelry, or perhaps a gift or document, but…

It was dust.

Just dust.

She fell on her knees, her eyes wide in horror, her mouth hanging open, absorbing the scene –

“B-baby?” he started, but she did not seem to hear him.

The shock took a few more seconds to sink in, then came the words.

“Hansel…” she whispered, her voice shaky and breaking.

After the words, came the tears. They sprang to her eyes almost immediately.

“Hansel? No, no, it’s me, it’s –”

“Hansel!” she screamed, lunging forward, trying her best to gather the dust in hands; it merely escaped her, seeping like water through her fingers and back on the floor. Some escaped further down, between and under the floorboards, and the rest was taken away by the wind coming from the open window, blowing it to all directions…

“Hansel!” she cried, hysterically, desperately trying to catch the dust, but to no avail, and he stood there, helpless, not knowing what to do or say –

“Hansel…” she croaked, sobbing, naked on the floor and crouching over the broken box. She said the name over and over, crying her heart out, as the tears fell down her face and to the floor, washing away what was left of the dust.

“I – I’m sorry,” he stammered, panicky. He reached out a hand, laying it on her shoulder.

The room fell quiet the moment he did so, for she had suddenly stopped sobbing; the silence pierced through his ears, and she looked up at him with her equally piercing brown eyes.

It was the first time he had seen her look so childlike, so helpless… much like the girl carved into the box, yet with every few seconds she seemed to age, right after he had taught her so innocent, her skin sinking into her cheekbones and becoming loose around her face – and he could not tell if it was his imagination, conscience, or a trick of the light, or whether it was actually real.

Slowly, she opened her mouth and spoke in a voice that accused him of every evil the world.
“That was my brother.”

It was the first time he knew she must have been telling the truth.

Her eyes. There was something about it in her eyes that made him know.

It was real as real as it could get. As real as the carvings on the box.

He slowly backed away, the hairs rising at the back of his neck as he picked up his clothes. Sweat trickled from his brow and his heart pumped from his chest to his ears. He dared not turn around either, for fear of what might happen if he did. The moment he reached the door, he broke into a run – sprinting through the gloom of the hallways and to the stairs, where he tripped but did not stop. As he threw on his jacket, the rooms – dark and dipped in shades of black and midnight blue – sped past him with shadows that seemed to have eyes; the run seemed to take forever, and he ran like all the hounds of hell were after him.

When he reached the front door, he fumbled desperately at the knob, hands sweaty and shaky, and when it swung open he ran down the path and out the gate, away from the house. In the quiet of the night, as he slammed the gate behind him and dashed down the street, he heard her bloodcurdling scream, desperate and mad…
“HANSEL!”

He returned to the house two or three days later, in between morning and noon, after much debate with himself and after gathering all the guts to do so.

The first thing he noticed was how empty the house was.

He knocked at the door, but no one answered. He had waited for minutes when he decided to finally just twist the knob.

It was open.

“Hello?” he called, trying to hide the fear in his voice. “Anybody home?”

No answer.

After hesitating a little, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and made his way upstairs.

The whole household was spic and span, as though nothing had happened and no one had been living there. It was deserted, save for the occasional furniture, stripped of sheets and color. Sometimes the frames on the walls and tables would be there, though most were already gone, and the ones that weren’t were hung merely as frames, the paintings and photographs under them missing.

He entered her room, the room where the most fateful turn of events took place, to find it bare; the books were gone, as was the little chest.

He returned downstairs and went out the backdoor and into the yard, also relatively empty, until he came across, scattered on the ground, a trail of pebbles. He followed it, noticing that at every interval the pebbles seemed to deteriorate, cracking and becoming smaller and smaller. The last one, which was located at the far end of the yard where it opened up to the woods behind the house, was reduced to nothing but a pile of rock particles.

He theorized what had become of her: maybe she collapsed to the same state as her brother, falling through floorboards and being carried away by the wind, or maybe she had so simply recovered and walked away. Perhaps she returned to where she came from, or traveled the world, or perhaps she never even left at all. He couldn’t really tell; but one thing he was sure of – she was one girl he’d never quite forget.

He must have given up then, or probably have had a realization, and decided to leave. Perhaps he realized he would never see her again, or that she might not even want to do so. Perhaps he realized both.

He started to whistle.

Ring around the rosy,
A pocket full of posies;
Ashes, ashes…

The wind carried him her voice as he walked away, and, if he had probably listened a little more, they seemed to sing together. Perhaps too, if his eyesight had been sharper, he would have noticed the dust the wind brought with it as well.

We all fall down.

“Both go to the same place; both were made from the dust, and to the dust they shall return.” – Ecc 3:20

Sijo 1

2009-08-15T08:58:00.000-07:00

Harlequins know pokerface,
only with smiles, which is worse.
The magician? He's a jack
of all trades. How sure are you
that his cards don't change on their own?

Pick a card; pick any card.

Senryu 1

2009-08-08T00:55:00.000-07:00

Haiku 8

2009-08-08T00:47:00.001-07:00

Sonnet 3

2009-06-09T03:54:00.000-07:00

I hope that we've left no words unspoken
But I've left the door and window open -
And ever since you've gone, I've left it so -
Just in case you decide to come back home.
Sometimes the odds and signs lose meaning,
And all the world becomes demeaning
So then through memories I carry on,
Though knowing.... that you're going... going... gone.
I do find comfort knowing in your eyes
This is ''til we meet again,', not 'goodbye';
I'll grow, and you'll become a better man -
Until then, do not forget who I am...

And perhaps one day I can call you mine,
For I shall wait.... until the end of time.

On My Travels (excerpt)

2009-05-29T07:21:00.000-07:00

Gypsies' Caravans

I don't know how I got talked into it, there was just something in the last word that seemed to take an effect on my brain. Now I sat at the table, her sitting opposite me and Anastasia beside me. I fidgeted nervously.

"Er... this won't cost anything, will it?" I said uncertainly.

"We'll just do palm-reading, it's the traveler's treat," she said patiently. "Who'll go first?"

I glanced at Anastasia, who looked back at me then raised her hand.

"Ah," she smiled. "Hold out your hand."

Anastasia did as she was told, and for about three minutes the gypsy held it, studying the lines as if they read something major. I hardly believed in that stuff, but obviously the gypsy was not playing. She unexpectedly took Anastasia's other hand and started studying that as well; then she looked up.

"My dear girl," she said, still smiling, "do you know who you are?"

None of us were expecting the question. This was starting to get weird.

"Yes, I do," said Anastasia, slightly defensive. "I'm Anastasia."

"Very good," she grinned, after a slight pause. "Your lines go up, so you are going to go far on your travels, due north. You will, however, find the one place you truly belong and stay..."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. You mean she'll drop off somewhere too? She'll leave? Like Caleb did -?

"Where is that?" Anastasia asked automatically, her tone both curious and excited.

"That," said the gypsy, "is something I wouldn't be allowed to tell you even if I was sure of the answer."

My head was starting to ache. I had to talk to someone about this...

"You will have a lot of experiences, though," she continued. "Like witnessing the crossing of two stars..."

"Crossing of two stars?"

"....figuratively speaking, darling," she said quickly, with a wink. "Means seeing things other humans won't get to see."

"Oh."

"And one last piece of advice," she added.

"Yeah?"

"Expect the unexpected."

She let go of Anastasia's hands, and she rubbed them almost immediately. She didn't seem to have noticed, since she had turned to me, but I was feeling uncomfortable. Did I really want this?....

"Anytime you're ready, dear," she said.

"Oh - er.... sorry," I held out my hands, and she took them. I could feel her long, slender fingers tracing the lines of my palm with fresh nails, then after about two minutes of extreme silence she looked up at me. Her eyes read amazement, but she didn't let it show; when she talked, her voice was in a tone that read 'things like this are rare, but that doesn't mean I don't see them often'. Of course, at that time I had no idea what she meant. I was freaked out, but pretended to take it all casually.

"So... anything?" I asked, trying to put it jokingly but not succeeding. It had always been Anthony's talent – humor – not mine.

"Have you counted how many major lines are on both your palms?" she asked me.

Why the heck would I do that? I hardly paid attention to the lines on my palms for the past fourteen years, they just disappeared at the corner of the hands anyway.

"Come to think of it.... no," I said slowly, slightly embarrassed.

She smiled again, as though she had been expecting it, and pointed out every major line to me, counting each. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.... and ten."

Ten. I squinted. Was it a coincidence? Must be - I thought. I did a recount. It WAS ten. I looked up at her, but she still kept on smiling, as if she knew what each line stood for.

"Anyway," she said brightly, as though it was no big deal, "you're going to go farther on your travels... but saying that one thing you both have in common is that you were destined to do great things would be too cliché, don't you think?"

None of us said anything to answer that, but I muttered something.

"Yes dear?"

"Will I stop traveling? Find a place where I truly belong, I mean?" I blurted out.

"... In a way, perhaps," she said after a few moments. "But not an exact somewhere - more like somewheres with a certain something… or somebody."

She looked thoughtful, and Anastasia smirked.

"Then again, I've never seen anything quite like yours," she went on. "Every person's is different, yet you have been one of the hardest to read so far. There's a lot ahead of you - twists, turns, but just take them easily..."

My head started spinning, and a little voice in my head was demanding things. Are you saying I'll be left alone and that they're all gonna find homes too?

"...but on the up side, all lines will meet again."

"Meet again?" I looked up, my eyes wide, but she was still talking.

"...prophecies... battles.... betrayals... death...."

That time, I only had ears for the last two words. Who was going to betray me? Someone I was going to meet? Someone here? Or someone back at Dunraven? Or would I be betraying someone?... no, not possible. I pushed it out of my head and a whole new set of questions flooded in again. Who was going to die? Me? Would it be a murder?...

It was a five-second silence when I was asking myself all these questions, but before I could ask her any of them, she said something.

"And there's one last thing."

"Er... okay, shoot," I said, both eager to stay and eager to leave.

"Love."

Say what?

"Er.... will I be single the rest of my life?"

"You've got humor, dear," she smiled, then put my hands together, side by side, palms facing upward so I could see. Two of the major lines met down the middle. When the hands were separated they'd lead nowhere. "They meet."

I was speechless for a moment. Where was this going?

"...I can... er... see that," I said, picking my words cautiously. "But... I can't quite get what that means."

"Then let's just say it means you'll be ending up with the person you least expect," she closed my hands.

"Eh?" I said weakly, but the gypsy didn't repeat the statement.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, it's been a tiring day -" she got up, stretching, and started heading toward the back flap. "I hope to see you again. Goodnight."

"Wait," Anastasia called, and she turned around again, one step away from the exit.

"Yes?" she said kindly.

"...where do your lines lead?"

It was a good question. She looked as if she had never been asked it before, but was pleased to hear it all the same. She broke into an even broader smile.

"The same as yours, and everyone else's," she said simply.

"And where is that?"

"To your heart."

And just like that, she disappeared behind the curtain.

Haiku 7

2009-05-10T05:39:00.000-07:00

Snow delicately
falls on my window pane; it
will be a cold night.

The Day I Ran Away with the Circus (excerpt)

2009-05-06T00:36:00.000-07:00

The Day I Ran Away with the Circus

Story excerpts, Chapter I

Eric had been beaten again tonight by his uncle; this time he had used a belt, and his backside hurt like it was being pricked by a thousand pins.

The clock struck ten; an hour ago he had come home, to their discovery, from the late night show – for the circus had come to town. He hadn’t been permitted to go – but he did anyway. And he didn’t regret it.

It was a fantastic show – acrobats and lady performers with horses and clowns and lights and a fantastic display of the most unusual beings – bearded women, miniature dragons, gigantic men they called giants, and short men called dwarves… oddly-formed, even creepy, but all the while interesting. There was a woman who had a wing for an arm, a snake charmer and a lion tamer, and huge muscular men with mustaches.

Eric was sitting up in bed; the boy was an orphan, forced to live with a strict uncle and aunt, who beat him every other day of the week. He never knew his parents, and according to his uncle his brother had been a madman, and his mother something close to a prostitute, who died at childbirth. According to his uncle, his father, in an ‘emotional escape from responsibility’, left him to them and disappeared. He had asked himself more than once if he had really been wanted, but now, at the age of ten, he had stopped wondering these things. More recently and more often now, he had considered running away, and tonight, tonight he had made up his mind.

The clock struck ten; Eric got up, took a couple of shirts from his closet, along with three red balls, and wrapped them together in a blanket, tying the blanket’s ends on the stick his aunt used to poke the ceiling with when cats ran on the roof. Then he pulled on his coat and traveling boots, and sneaked downstairs to grab some cookies. His aunt and uncle were asleep, and after putting the cookies together with the shirts and balls, he climbed out the window and into the night.

A cold wind blew against his face.

"Circus," he muttered, but in a mutter that addressed the world, "here I come."

Sonnet 2

2009-05-03T00:52:00.000-07:00

How I wish to be beautiful for thee -
Even for so much as a single day
I will be sure to sweep you off your feet,
And I do find this one of many ways.
Perhaps I shall have my lips tinted red,
Or paint this face of mine in layers three
Or I could weave a dress of silken thread
If it would make me beautiful for thee.
People shall speak of me 'til all is old -
Of eyes brighter than moon, deeper than sea;
Swindlers will swindle men's glory and gold,
Offering them all for the likes of me.

.....

For one night, I'd be as pretty as she...
If I were only beautiful for thee.

Taming the Tikbalang

2009-04-25T22:51:00.000-07:00

Ang Pagpapaamo ng Tikbalang

Sinulat ni Regine Miren D. Cabato
Sinalin sa Filipino ni Trizhia Michaella C. Matutinao

Ika-19 ng Abril, 1992
Ang buwan ng Abril ay naghahatid ng hindi karaniwang panahon, lalong lalo na sa Luzon; ang kalangitan ay nag-astang tao na nagpapalit-palit ng lagay ng kaisipan. Iyo ring idadama ang nakikipaglarong engkanto.
Walong taong gulang ako noon. Kakasimula pa lamang ng tag-araw, at kasama ng aking mga nakakatandang kapatid, kami ay naglakad patungo sa taluktok ng bundok Makiling. Nagsimulang umulan ngunit sinag ng araw iyo pa ring masisilayan. Ang sabi ng Lolo na ang ipinapahiwatig ng panahong tulad nito ay mayroong tikbalang na ikinakasal. Ang tikbalang ay isang nilikha sa paniniwala ng mga Pilipino; ito’y mayroong ulo ng isang kabayo at may katawang tao. Ito ri’y pinaniniwalaan nanliligaw ng mga manlalakbay sa parang sa pamamagitan ng paggawa ng ilusyon na iisa lamang ang kanilang dinadaanan hanggang sa sila’y mapahamak. Dahil sa sobrang kwentuhan ay hindi ko na namalayang nahiwalay na pala ako sa aking mga kapatid. Ang naaalala ko lamang ay nagrereklamo ako sa nakakainis na panahon hanggang sa ako’y nakarating sa isang lugar kung saan ang mga puno’y unti-unting nabawasan. Ako’y napagod, pinagpapawisan at marumi.

Mayroon akong nakitang mga tao roon. Hihingi na sana ako ng saklolo ngunit nang sila’y aking napagmasdang mabuti, napag-alaman kong hindi pala sila mga tao. Maraming nabanggit si Lolo tungkol sa mga tikbalang, at ngayon ay nakikita ko na sila sa aking harapan at hindi ito nag-iisa, bagkus ay buong kawan at mayroon palang kasalang nagaganap. Ang aking mga nasaksihan ay may grupo ng mga tikbalang na nakatipon sa isang malaking bilog at ang nasa gitna ay ang bagong mag-asawa ― mga ulo ng kabayo na nakahimlay sa balikat ng katawan ng taong nilalang, na mayroong mga naglahong buhok ng kabayo pababa sa kanilang mga gulugod.

Pilit kong pinatili ang aking pagiging tahimik ngunit nang ang mga tikbalang ay nagsimulang mag-ingay, nawalan ako ng balanse at nahulog sa likod ng punongkahoy. Naramdaman ko ang daan-daang mata na sa aki’y nakatulala. Nadama ko ang takot subalit pilit ko itong tinatalo at buong tapang na harapin ang mga tikbalang.

"Hindi ka dapat naririto, bata," sabi ng isa sa akin. Nakakatakot at nakakapangilabot ang kanyang boses, kawangis ito ng tunog ng matulis na kuko sa pisara.

Ako'y sumigaw ng malakas sabay takbo nang pagkabilis-bilis ngunit ang mga tikbalang ay kilala bilang isa sa mga pinakamabilis na nilalang sa mundo kaya’t ako’y nahuli…

Nawalan ako ng malay.

Nang ako'y nagising, ang araw ay unti-unti nang lumulubog sa may kanluran habang ako’y nakahiga sa putikan. Ang aki’y damit ay namantsahan at ang pantalon ko’y napunit sa bandang kaliwa ng aking tuhod. Kalayat na ang buhok ko. Ako’y naliligaw…

Hindi ko matandaan kung paano ako nakarating sa aking kinatatayuan. Ang alam ko lamang ay naglalakad ako kasama ang aking mga kapatid, ngunit pagkatapos ng pangyayaring iyon, wala na akong maalala. Ako’y kinilabutan. Ako’y naupo at naiyak.

“Doon! Naririnig mo ba siya?” sigaw ng isang boses na tulad ng sa aking kuya.
"Kuya! Kuya!" sigaw ko nang buong lakas.

Ang aking tatlong kapatid ay nagmasid sa likod ng mga puno at nang ako’y kanilang makita, agad silang tumakbo sa aking sabay akap nang mahigpit.

"Ligtas ka na," kanilang ibinulong. Masasabi kong sila’y nag-alala nang sobra-sobra kaya’t kanila na akong inuwi.

Ika-13 ng Abril, 2008

Ako'y 24 taong gulang na ay ako’y bumalik lamang para sa isang family reunion. Ang sabi ng aking tiyuhin ay mayroong siyang inilaang magandang trabaho para sa akin kaya’t maaaring ako’y manatili dito para magtrabaho nang ilang buwan. Maliban doon, ang sabi ng Lola ay mayroon rin siyang ipakikilalang gwapong lalaki. Hindi ko iyon masyado pinaniwalaan at hindi ako umasa man lamang. Isang gabi habang kami’y nagkakasiyahan ng aking mga kaibigan, medyo naparami ang aking nainom, ngunit maayos akong nakaalis at nagsimulang lumakad pauwi sa bahay ni Lola. Nahihilo ako at...

Ang sunod na pangyayaring aking nalaman ay may mga malalaki at pagkapangit-pangit na lalaking may hawak ng lanseta na nakatutok sa aking leeg, sabay hingi ng pera. Lasing na lasing ako para labanan sila, ngunit dahil na rin sa aking kalasingan, tinangka kong lumaban at itinaas ang aking kamay nang isang malaki at mabilis na nilalang ang tumalon patungo sa makitid na daan mula sa isang kalapit na bubong ng bahay. Ang naisip ko’y, siya ang aking kabalyerong sasagipin ako sa bingit ng kamatayan. Naaalala ko rin ang nilalang na may ulo ng kabayo ngunit mahirap sabihin sapagkat ang aking paligid ay pinalilibutan ng kadiliman.

Nagsigawan at nagtakbuhan ang mga masasamang loob subalit ako’y naiwan. Sobra akong lasing na ako’y lumagpak na lamang sa lupa. Ang huling bagay na aking natingnan ay mukha ng isang kabayo.

Nang ako'y nagising, ang aking ulo’y parang niluluto sa sobrang sakit ngunit ako’y nakabalik pa rin sa wastong isipan. Madilim pa rin at ako’y nasa makitid na daanan pa rin ngunit ang kabalyero ay naglahong parang bula. Pinilit kong itayo ang sarili.

"Bakit ka pa naririto? Teritoryo ko ito,” pagalit na wika ng isang boses; masakit ito pakinggan, magaspang sa pandinig. Iyon pala ang kabalyero.
Pinagmasdan ko ang aking paligid. Ang nakikita ko lamang ay ang larawang balangkas ng mama na nakaupo sa isang basurahan…
"Ahh... Patawad, nawalan ako ng malay at ―”
"Mmmmhmmm."
"Gusto ko sana magpasalamat sa pagligtas mo… sa.. akin.”
Siya'y kumaway, waring walang pakealam. “Bahala ka. Basta’t huwag ka lang iinom sa susunod.”
"Anong pangalan mo?" tanong ko, sinusubukang makipagkaibigan.
"Wala kang pakealam! Basta’t umalis ka na!”
Hinawakan ko ang kanyang balikat ngunit siya’y agad na tumalikod.
"LUMAYAS KA!" bulyaw ng lalake sa akin.

Ako'y biglang natakot. Nalaman kong hindi pala siyang knight in shining armor. Ang kanyang kabayo… ay ang kanyang ulo. Isa siyang tikbalang… "Layas! Teritoryo ko ito!” sigaw niya, habang ako’y patuloy na tumatakbo kahit na ilang beses na nadadapa. Nararamdaman kong siya’y nasa aking likod at pinipilit na ako’y mahabol. Binilisan ko pa ang aking pagtakbo hanggang sa ako’y makarating sa daanang iniilawan ng mga poste. Patuloy pa rin akong tumakbo kahit na ako’y hindi na hinahabol hanggang sa ako’y makauwi.

Ika-19 ng Mayo, 2008

Pilit kong pinapaniwala ang aking saili na ang tikbalang na aking nakatagpo ay isa lamang sa aking mga imahinasyon, bunga ng kalasingan. Ang pangyayaring iyon ay patuloy na gumugulo sa aking isipan na mahirap malimutan at ni kailan ay hindi na ako dumaan sa makitid na daanang iyon. Nang ang reunion ay ginanap, nalaman kong seryoso nga si Lola tungkol sa gwapong lalakeng kanyang ipakikilala niya sa akin. Si Miguel ay isang agricultural engineer, mas matanda nang konti sa akin. Itinakda ni lola ang aming mga pagkikita, subalit sa una pa lamang ay mukhang kami ay nagkakamabutihan. Medyo gusto ko siya… ipinagpatuloy namin ang aming pagkikita, at palihim kong pinasasalamatan si Lola sa tangka niyang pagbibigay ng romansa sa aking buhay. Siya’y matangkad, matalino, maaalalahanin at mayroon siyang panlabas na katangiang isang huwarang lalaki Pinoy lamang ang mayroon.

Kami'y aglakad patungong Makiling at nakwento ko rin na ako’y naligaw dito noong ako’y walong taong gulang pa lamang. Habang kami’y nagkwekwentuhan, may isang lalaking nagsisigarilyo at dumaan sa aming harapan; matapos ang huling pag-ihip, itinapon niya ang sigarilyo sa lupa.

"Hoi! Gago!” pasigaw na tawag ni Miguel.
"Miguel, tama na iyan,” papigil na wika ko, ngunit siya’y nagpatuloy.
"Ako bang kinakausap mo?” tanong ng mamang kakatapos lamang magsigarilyo.
"Eh, sino pa bang gago dito?!” agad na sagot ni Miguel. “Pulutin mong sigarilyo mo!”
"Bastos kang bata ka ah!” pinakita niya ang kanyang kamay para siya’y suntukin, ngunit ito’y napigilan ni Miguel at siya’y napatumba sa dalawang suntok lamang. Delikado na ang lagay ng kamay ng mama at kung siya’y lalaban pa, siguradong ito’y kikirot.
"Pulutin mo iyan, walang pinag-aralan!”
"Oo na nga.. tae,” hinila niya pabalik ang kanyang kabay, pinulot ang sigailyo at lumakad paalis sabay mura nang mahina kay Miguel.
"Miguel!” Ako’y tumakbo papunta sa kanya. “Bakit…”
"'Wag kang magsimula, Nina. Hindi mo ba alam kung ano ang gagawin ng Makiling kung ―”
"Shhh.” Bulong ko sa kanya sabay tapik sa likod, sinusubukang siya’y mapakalma.

Huminga siya nang malalim at kami’y nagsimulang lumakad.

"Nina, ang mundo ay puno ng mga pangahas na tao… at isa ka sa iilang hindi ganoon. Nang ika’y aking nakilala, ang unang bagay na aking napansin ay kung papaano ka nagkaroon ng kaalaman tungkol sa kultura, sining at kahit mitolohiya…”
"Kwento iyon ng aking Lolo.”
"Ahhh… naturuan ka niya nang mabuti."
"Kung gayon... kailan ko makikilala ang iyong Lolo?”
"Ano?"
"Err…Oo naman. Uhmmm. Wala sila… ri… to. Ahmmm… Sasabihin ko lang kung sila’y napasyal dito.”
Ako’y napangiti sabay tingin sa itaas. “Mas matataas ang mga puno dito ah.”
"Iyon ay dahil dito nakatira ang mga tikbalang,” pabiro niyang sabi.

Ako'y biglang namutla.

"Bakit, may nakita ka na noon?” tukso niya.
"Wala,” agad kong sagot, pinipilit ang sarili na matawa. “Sa panaginip lamang.”
"Alam mo, bihirang kumain ng tao ang mga tikbalang,” sabi ni Miguel. “Iyan ang kadalasang pagkakamali ng maraming libro. Kung sila’y nagdulot ng kapinsalaan, iyon ay parang paghihiganti lamang dahil mayroon silang pagmamay-aring nasira o kinuha…. Maliban na lamang sa mga masasama na walang magawa kaya’t nakikipaglaro sa mga dumadaan…”
"...kaya’t dapat baliktarin ang kanilang damit,” patapos kong wika.
"Matalino ka,” ang sabi niya. “Ang tingin nila’y ang mga tao ay nakakaaliw, mapaniwalain, lalo na ang mga kalalakihan. Ang mga tao ay talagang ganyan minsan.”
"Kung magsalita ka para kang hindi tao,” patawa kong sabi. “Nakakita ka na ba ng tikbalang noon?”

Siya'y natawa. “Tingin ko, sabi ng ilang tao."
Nagkaroon ng panandaliang katahimikan. “Naniniwala ka ba?”
"Bakit naman hindi?" anong ko sabay tawa. “Kung gayon maaari ba silang mapaamo?”
"Oo naman."
"Paano?" "Paibigin mo ito sa iyo,” sabi niya sa simpleng paraan.

Itinulak niya ang huling sanga at aming nakita ang isang kaibig-ibig na tanawin…
"Napakaganda,” aking ibinulong.
"Oo,” kanyang sagot. Nagsimulang magdilim at agad na umambon. “Umuulan na. Mas mabuti pang umuwi na tayo…”
"Pahintay,” umakyat ako papunta sa kanya, hawak ang kanyang kamay. “Kung ang tikbalang ay ikinakasal, umuulan habang ang araw ay sumisikat pa rin, hindi ba?”
"Oo, pero walang araw ngayon ―”

Hawak ko pa rin ang kanyang kamay. “Kung anuman ang mangyayari, gusto kong magkita tayo dito sa susunod na taon. Ikaw at ako. Ito ang ating lugar.”
Siya’y tumigil at tumingin sa akin. “Ito ang ating lugar,” kanyang inulit.
Ako’y nakasandal sa kanyang balikat, ang ulan ay lalo pang lumakas.
"Kung ika’y isang tikbalang, mapapaamo kaya kita?” pabulong kong tanong.
"Noong una pa lamang tayo ay magkita,” ibinulong niya sabay halik sa akin.

Ika-12 ng Hulyo, 2008

Pagkatapos ng aming unang halik (na sobrang… nakakakilig), hindi ko pa rin nakikilala ang kanyang pamilya. Ako’y nagtataka at mas lalo pa itong lumalim at kung minsa’y ang aking pagiging mapang-usisa at nagtutulak sa aking gumawa ng mga bagay-bagay. Mas lalo siyang naging kataka-taka, at nararamdaman kong siya’y may inililihim sa akin…

Bunga ng pag-aalala, nagdesisyon akong siya’y sundan. Noong una ay para lamang siyang namamasyal habang ako’y handa nang aminin na wala nga talaga siyang tinatago sa akin. Nang bumaba ang araw, siya’y patuloy na lumakad patungo sa isang medyo natatandaan kong daanan at sa tingin ko ay ang makitid na daanan kung saan ako’y hinabol ng isang tikbalang ilang buwan ang lumipas.

Ako’y binalot ng takot ngunit siya ri’y aking sinundan at nagtago sa isang basurahan. Pinagmasdan ko si Miguel nang nakasalubong niya ang isang taong hindi ko kilala.

"Pare!” masayang bungad ng tao.
"Pablo, hindi ka dapat naririto.”
"Nagpunta ako dito dahil hindi na kami makapaghintay! Kailan ba namin siya mikikilala? Ang iyong magiging asawa?”
"Hindi pa ako nagtatapat sa kanya…”
"Ano?! Kung gayon, gawin mo na sa lalong madaling panahon! Hindi ba siya ang pinapangarap mong babae? Torpe ka talaga!”
Ako'y napangiti.
"Mongo ka ba?! Hindi niya alam!”
"Ano?! Sabihin mo na sa kanya! Maiintindihan naman niya, hindi ba?”
"Hindi, hindi niya maiintindihan,” taimtim niyang sinabi.
"Bakit?"
"Dahil… inatake ko siya. Ganoon kami unang nagkita. Sa makitid na daanang ito. Sa iba kong anyo. Pinaalis ko siya…”
Kinilabutan ako at tinakpan ang aking bunganga sabay hinga nang malalim. Siya ang tikbalang na aking nakita ilang buwan ang lumipas, ang tikbalang na humabol sa akin…at alam niya lahat ng ito…

Sumilip ako sa gilid ng basurahan at nakita ang kanilang mga anino. Dalawang lalaking may ulo ng kabayo. Dalawang tikbalang.
Nagalaw ko ang basurahan sabay tumba nito. Ang dalawa’y agad na tumalikod.

“Nina!”
"Hin…di.. Hindi,” ako’y natumba palikod.
"Nina—anong ginagawa mo dito? Anong narinig mo?”
Wala na ako sa sarili para sumagot at patuloy na umuurong palayo sa kanila.
"Mukhang narinig niya lahat,” sabi ni Pablo.
"Hindi iyon ganoon… mali ang iniisip mo —”
Tumakbo ako nang mabilis sabay iyak pero pilit na pinipigilan ito.
"Nina! Hintay!"
Ngunit hindi na ako naghintay.

Ika-10 ng Mayo, 2009

Wala na akong narinig tungkol kay Miguel pagtapos noon at hindi ko na rin siya nakita. Maliwanag na tapos na kami, kahit na tutol si Lola at ni kailan hindi ako sumagot sa kanyang mga sulat. Ngunit, hindi ko pa rin siya makalimutan kaya’t hinayaan kong maligawan ng ibang lalaki. Si Tony ay isang mayamang lalaki na nagmamay-ari ng bangko at nangakong ibibigay ang lahat ng aking maibigan o magustuhan. Malapit kaming ikasal at kahit na kami’y nagkita sa Maynila, ang kasalan ay gaganapin sa Laguna kahit na ayaw ko.

Kakarating ko lamang kagabi; ang akala ko’y makakalimutan ko si Miguel dahil sa porma at dating ni Tony, kanyang kayamanan at paraan ng panliligaw. Subalit isa itong malaking pagkakamali.

Tumayo ako sa harap ng salamin at pinagmasdan ang sarili--- aking mukha’y sa likod ng isang napakagandang belo, ang maputing damit na sa sobrang haba ay nakalatag sa sahig, tinatakpan aking mga paa. Ako’y nagtataka kung ako’y talagang handa na at sa tingin ko’y hindi pa talaga. Naiisip ko si Miguel; isang taong lumipas, kahapon ay sabay naming inakyat ang matarik na bundok Makiling at nang ako’y makikipagkita pagkatapos ng isang taon. Ngunit hindi ako nakapunta. Bakit? Hindi ko rin alam.

"Huli ka na, Nina,” wika ng aking lola sa may pintuan.
"Mamaya pa ang kasal.”
"Hindi ang kasalan.”
Tiningnan ko siya at nabigla. “Paano mo —”
"Si Miguel ay isang mabuti, maaalalahaning lalaki,” sabi niya. “Hindi na importante ang kanyang anyo o pagkakamali. Alam kong mayroon kayong matinding samahan. Aminin mo nga sa akin, hija, mahal mo ba siya?”
Ako’y nagsimulang lumuha at dahan-dahang tumango.
"Sige, puntahan mo na siya. Tingin ko’y maghihintay siya. Hindi na niya papansinin kung nahuli ka man ng isang araw. Ako na ang bahala dito.”
"Salamat, Salamat talaga mamang,” niyakap ko siya nang mahigpit at tumakbo palabas ng pintuan.

Huli na ako. Huli na ako. Hindi na ako nag-abalang magpalit. Patuloy akong tumakbo. Tinanggal ko ang aking sapatos na may mataas na takong at tumakbo nang walang sapin sa paa at sa ilang bahagi, ang aking damit ay sumabit sa mga sanga ngunit ako’y hindi tumigil.

Humihingal, narating ko rin ang tuktok ng Bundok at nakaupo doon sa isang malinis na Barong Tagalog, si Miguel, pinagmamasdan ang magandang tanawin. Hindi na siya tumingin sa akin, ngunit hindi na iyon importante. Alam niyang andito na ako.

"Uhmm… Hello,” sabi ko sa nahihiyang boses… Iyon ang unang salitang sinabi ko nang kami’y unang magkita.
"Nahuli ka," sabi niya, hindi pang tumitingin sa akin. "Nahuli ng isang araw."
"Patawad,” sabi ko sa kanya at ito’y totoo. “Kakarating ko lang noong isang gabi…”

Katahimikan.

“Patawad talaga —” sinimulan ko, ngunit siya’y nagsalita.
“Ang ganda mo ngayon.”
Ako'y namula.
"Hindi pa lumulubog ang araw,” wika niya sabay tingin sa akin.

Isa-isang lumabas ang kanyang mga kamag-anak sa mga puno, mula sa pinakamatanda hanggang sa pinakabata at nang ang araw ay dahan-dahang lumubog, ang sinag ng araw sa kanila’y tumama, na nagpapakita ng kanilang mga aninong may ulo ng kabayo…

"Halika," sabi niya sabay kuha ng aking kamay.

At sa pamamagitan ng manipis na mga dahon sa tuktokng punungkahoy, habang hindi pinapansin ang sikat na araw, nagsimulang umulan.

Taho.

2009-04-20T04:07:00.000-07:00

SIGAW NG LALAKING NAGBEBENTA NG TAHO SA LIKOD NG IYONG BAHAY

Taho! Taho!

Bili naman po kayo

Ang lamig ng panahon at uminom naman po

kayo ng aking mainit na taho.

Ang lamig din ng aking buhay, ngunit

hindi itong tutulong; at hindi ko alam

kung ano ang aking gawin

sa isang litrong dala ng taho.

Bumili na po kayo…

Ito lang ang aking trabaho:

Ang pagbenta ng taho;

At ako’y may isang babaeng anak na sinusundo

ko tuwing uwian.

Dati’y ako’y iniwan

ng aking asawa para

sa iba. Minsan

nakakalimutan ko na siya.

Minsan naman…

naaalala ko pa.

Bumili na po kayo ng…

Nararamdaman ko na aki’y anak ay lumalayo

tulad ng kanyang nanay;

pero, sa sweldong ito, tinapay

lamang ang mapapakain ko.

Ngunit siya ang kaligayahan ng aking buhay,

At nais ko siyang bigyan…

… ng maraming bagay…

Bumili na po kayo ng taho…

Pero eto.

Taho! Taho! Bili na po –

Ayon! Ikaw, ser! ‘Wag mong ipawala sa iyo

ang babaeng kasama mo.

Siya’y magmamahal ng sobra-sobra sa iyo…

At ikaw po! Opo, kayo po! Bigyan mo ng regalo

ang anak mong ito…

Dahil kapag siya’y nawala sa iyo –

Masisira ang iyong mundo –

At ika’y magiging isang

tagbenta ng taho.

Taho! Taho!

Bumili na po kayo…

…ng taho.

Haiku 6

2009-04-16T08:11:00.001-07:00

Summer is a tired
ballerina's worn out shoes -
It never lasts long.

Haiku 5

2009-04-16T08:07:00.000-07:00

Night is a great-winged
black bird that covers the sky
from evening 'til dawn.

Serewood

2009-04-15T04:36:00.000-07:00

Serewood

The gypsy runs her finger down a trunk;
It is rough, wrinkled with age
much like the rocks at her feet.
The site is lit by sunlight
Pouring from the green canopy
She shall build a caravan, she decides;
And she shall live another day,
For she can feel the forest.

The fox's ears twitch.
They hear him - the hunter - laying traps
on the patches of grass that resemble
patches on a poor girl's dress.
They hear him - both cub and vixen -
And, padfooted, slip back into their den;
They shall live another day,
For they can hear the forest.

The beggar woman thirsts.
She stumbles to the open stream, quenching
it. She realizes
she is hungry; she reaches out a hand,
picks an apple,
and bites into it.
She shall live another day,
For she can taste the forest.

The little girl breathes deep, overlooking
the village. The wind
whips her hair and cloak, throwing back
her hood, red as blood.
In the shadows lurk a pair of yellow eyes,
with a set of fangs sharper
than a witch's nails. The wolf licks his chops;
The girl carries a basket.
And he shall live another day,
For he can smell the forest.

The blind man wanders.
He steps over grass and stone, twigs
crunching at his feet.
He feels a tree's aging bark, and concludes
that it has been there fifty years.
He picks some fruit to eat.
His other senses are sharper, to make up for his being blind.
He can smell the wild roses and dung on the path,
and tell that the footprints nearby
were a rabbit's,
who had passed no more than an hour ago.
He sits at the foot of the tree, listening.
Listening.
Listening.
There is a gypsy nearby, finishing her home; later,
she will house a beggar. The hunter,
who did not catch his fox, shall capture a wolf at dawn,
freeing a little girl with a red hood...
All before the forest shall consume them.
He listens to the wood, as she listens to him too;
And he will live for many days,
For he alone can see the forest.

Haiku 4

2009-03-22T08:34:00.000-07:00

I stared at the sky,
A portrait hung at the end
of the universe.

The Thing in my Bio Lab... and How I Caught It

2009-03-20T08:16:00.000-07:00

The Thing in My Bio Lab and How I Caught It

FROM THE JOURNAL OF PROFESSOR ROBERTO SANCHEZ

DECEMBER 2008

Thirty-nine years have come and gone since that day in 1969 that I caught it: the most ferocious, dangerous, and contagious creature on the surface of the earth… its dark, evil eyes that scanned the grounds for its prey, twitchy ears that could hear you from a mile away, and legs that let it jump for over a meter. Yes, and that creature now lies on the top shelf of the High School biology lab… to this very day.

I now lay on my deathbed, and I have not had the courage to accomplish the task. In all theory, the thing is still alive. I was young when I caught it – very young; and it has been a relief to leave and not face the vile being every time I crossed the laboratory floor. The High School transferred, in 2006, to the lot in Tumaga, where I had caught the being years before. And it has been transferred there as well. I went to the University of the Philippines, and majored in Biology; I taught for a while, and have met many intelligent pupils, one of which has made such an impact on my life… but year after year I see less potential in students. Eventually I quit. I say, the finding of such a thing gave me a calling… but after years completing the journal and research, I have found that they no longer exist. And the wererabbit, the last of its kind, is not what I would like to release in front on an entire committee of scientists.

* * *

MARCH 1969

I was walking home from school with Jose, my neighbor, that cold late afternoon. We used to live across the abandoned lot in Tumaga at the time, while Jose lived on the other side of it.

I remember that night clearly. We bid our goodnights and split ways, and he held the old alcohol lamp in hand. We had gone this way many times before, and I had found no reason to think tonight would be any different. As soon as I got into the house, I proceeded to do my chores, all the while aware of the glow of Jose’s lamp across the lot outside the window.

Not long after, I heard a high-pitched scream from outside. It was the voice of a boy, and it sounded like Jose. I rushed to the window, and the lamp was out. Something, I knew, was wrong, for he had only been halfway to his home.

“Jose!” I screamed.

My parents had rushed down with lamps on poles, and together we skirted through the pitch black fields. From the other side of the lot, where Jose’s house was, his parents must have also heard his scream for torches were already being lighted in the distance.

My father and mother ran off to meet Jose’s parents, while I scanned the grounds and ran across the lot, wandering farther off, looking for any sign of him. After some minutes, my feet hit something. I raised the torch to my feet to discover Jose, rasping for breath, foaming at the mouth. He was still alive, though I could see barely. He was on the ground, whole body vibrating and arching, hands flailing as if he were having a seizure; his eyes were rolling to the back of his head. His bag was not far, torn to shreds, most likely by some animal. His face was full of grime, and his uniform tearing apart at every arch, for it seemed to disturb him, and he was flapping his arms in an attempt to take it off. From the corner of my eye, I could have sworn I saw a couple of piercing red eyes boring a hole into my skull...

I screamed. I screamed and ran.

Stumbling, I ran for my parents, who were searching together with Jose’s family. Screaming about his body, I lead them back to the spot where I had seen it…

But it was gone.

A few pools of blood were in its place, and his torn backpack and uniform. There were footprints that disappeared into the grass, barely human. His father followed the trail, but it led to nowhere and eventually faded. His mother wept, whispering his name over and over, tears streaming down her face as she clutched his shirt to her breast. My mother tried to console her, but it was no use.

My parents suspected a murderer; his father suspected the devil… and the devil I think it was.

For I think… and know… that it could not have been a human being.

JULY 1969

Our biology teacher had given us a project of sampling a dead animal in a jar, preserving it in fluid, to be on display at the laboratory for future students to study. Now our professor was a genius, I found him, and incredibly intelligent. He knew so many things. Oddly, we even shared the same name! I looked up to him.

“And what do you intend to bring, Mr. Berto?” he asked me, interrupting my thoughts. All the others had mentioned mice, fishes, and few things like a hamster and a squid. But I wanted something else. I wanted my… creature to be unique.

“I… I don’t know yet, sir,” I answered, a little sheepishly.

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” he winked.

It was then I remembered the incident with Jose several months earlier, and it occurred to me that the creature – whatever it was – would be an ideal thing to catch. It would be risky, but it meant impressing my professor, and above all, avenging Jose. We had moved away from the lot, closer to the city proper after that incident, but I was willing to return.

I put together a hypothesis; perhaps the thing liked human flesh. I did not know for sure… but why else would it attack Jose? I remembered only its bloodshot eyes, but I knew… I knew I had to be more accurate than that.

We were dismissed at two o’clock, for our classes began at six, and that Friday afternoon I pedaled for the field, the abandoned lot. I had to stop a good distance back, for the road was not built then, and walked. I carried my father’s camera, which had cost him a lot when he went to Manila, a pocketknife, a piece of raw meat and some coins.

The lot was said to be a haunted place, where spirits were bounded. They said women and children were raped and killed here, and their souls have not left the place. I did not believe the stories, but after the incident I took to consideration that it could be true.

It was a windy day; the sun was covered by clouds and the mountains blew in gusts and blusters of air. They also said the corpses were left here, but from the time I lived nearby previously, I have seen no corpses, save for the undead body of Jose.

I reached the field a little before three o’clock, and, quite anxiously, set up my trap. I readied my camera and pocketknife, and pulled out the meat, which I got my bits and scattered on random places behind me, making a trail. I walked on, also keeping my eyes open. The grounds stretched far, and at the end of it you could see a magnificent view of Mt. Pulumbato and the surrounding mountains. After the first hour, I grew tired. No one was following me. I twiddled with the camera.

It was past four now. Still nothing…

And just when I had thought I merely imagined the eyes, and that perhaps it was just a murder, I heard a rustle in the grass behind me. I jumped up, and followed its movement, knife at the ready...

…and it poked its head through the grass.

It was a mouse. I put down my camera, disappointed, then turned around to head home. And it was then that I saw it, and when I turned it jumped over my head, landing neatly on the mouse, killing it with its claws and eating it, allowing its tail to dangle in its jaws for a second, before sucking it and digesting it like one would with noodles or spaghetti. The creature spared me a glance, a deadly one, and I snapped the camera.

It was exactly how I remembered it – but it had grown. And it was not just a rabbit. It had fangs, and claws at the ends of its tiny paws, one ear partly bitten and bent, with reddish eyes that had no pupils, staring out in a deadly gaze… furless, except for the occasional tangled patches of disturbing brown hair on the sides. Its skin was bare, shedding beneath the fur and in the parts where the fur had disappeared completely. It looked as if it had really bad dandruff.

I took its picture before it could attack me. The flash dazed it, and after a second the thing ran off.

I would not wait for it to come back; I grabbed my backpack, ran through the grounds, jumped over the barbed fence, and only ceased running when I got to my bike, after which I pedaled straight home.

I kept my research secret. I cut our games to go to the library and look for the right book. I searched for a week, but I found nothing but books on the Katipunan and quadratic equations.

I had the picture in the camera developed, so I could take a closer look at it. I showed it to the librarian, but said she had never seen the like of it before and suggested I go to the college library.

The college library was far bigger than ours, and I began my search after class. At the end of the day, I found nothing. I showed the picture to the librarian there, a stern lanky man with glasses, and he said he thinks he has seen something quite similar in one of the books in the restricted section, which could only be accessed when a permit was secured from a teacher.

That night, I decided to ask my father if he knew of the creature. It came out rather awkwardly.

“Itay?”

“Yes?”

“Have you heard of… a rabbit? The sort that... is different? Like it hasn't got a tail and -”

Itay laughed. “No.”

“It only looks like a rabbit, but I think it is something different. It has red eyes, and eats—”

My father stopped laughing immediately. “Why? Have you seen one, anak?”

“No,” I lie promptly. “But I have heard of them. What are they?”

“If we're talking about the same thing, then in Philippine myth, they are called the sigbin,” said my father.

“The what?”

“The sigbin,” he repeated. “Your mamang used to tell so many stories about it. They are told as pets of the aswang in some narratives, and an entirely different creature in others. They eat blood, or are humans in a curse, much like the aswang is also said to be. They have to pass on the curse to another person.”

“Has one ever been caught before?”

“Whoa, why are you so curious?”

“Er.. research project.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever caught one before, but there’ve been a few sightings. Noticeable for the red eyes…”

I listened, incredibly intensely.

My father paused then said, “You know this isn’t really real, right?”

“But demonyos are real, are they not?”

“Yes,” said Itay.

“What if this was a type of demonyo?”

“Perhaps. Although I doubt their intent is to kill, for in the scriptures it is to make people fall into sin. They’re just… themselves. They aren’t real.”

“But if they’re cursed… it’s something else,” I mutter, partly to myself.

“None of that, Berto. There are angels, demons, humans, and a God. Nothing more.”

And the conversation ended there.

“And for what, may I ask, will this be for?”

“…the project, sir.”

“I do not recall requiring any restricted area access for any of my projects in any year.”

We were in the laboratory, and the professor was seated rather calmly, while I was restless.

“What are you catching, Berto?” asked the professor, his tone very serious.

“I… er… rather it would be a surprise, sir,” I replied nervously.

“Oh, do you now?” he considered it.

I nodded. There was a pause.

“Very well. If you need it that badly.”

Inside myself, I was rejoicing. I could not suppress my smile.

“But —”

I looked up.

“I trust you not to get involved in any form of idiocy, Berto, for I would not want such to happen to my best student.”

And he signed the slip.

After an hour of sailing and excavating the college library’s restricted area, I came across a theory published in one of those dusty red leather-bound books about the beliefs and possibilities of mythological creatures being real at a certain point in time, and even up to the present, though unseen by the naked eye and either recognized or countered by religion. The Lochness monster was an example. The man, whose name I forgot but which was a bunch of hard-to-pronounce combination of letters jumbled together only to be pronounced properly by some person from the Middle East, mentioned a heap of defense against creatures that were not exactly residing in hell, nor were they holy. They were either cursed, or simply creatures from some other dimension that sprang into being from Lilith, or had no souls, like fairies, or such on. For the former, they initially had to pass on the curse by some means. Accordingly, the aswang, or Philippine vampire, did so by offering its victim a gift, usually food of a sort, and if the victim were to accept it and eat it he or she would either become one of them, or take their place. Other versions say they pass on the curse to a chosen victim by letting them swallow a glowing ball of a sort, which they extract from their mouths… they could not die in peace until so was done. It has also been said that Western trolls, the ones that reside under bridges, pass on the curse by ‘eating’ their victim. Doing so would make them switch places.

In theory, the rabbit was – yes – Jose. In theory. I infinitely had no idea how my little wererabbit would pass on the curse, but I was determined.

I shut the book. It would be a big day tomorrow.

I wrote my findings so far in a journal, and left it at some place where I knew it would either be discovered, or the opposite. I didn’t really care.

It was late afternoon. I had prepared everything, even the sack I’d use to put it in. Theoretically, hopefully, this would work.

I waited for the creature at the fields, getting there the same way I did last time. I had brought another mouse, which I had caught on my own the previous night. I remember stepping on its tail, preventing it from running away, for it would be my bait. I do not remember in detail how it had arrived, though I do recall it consuming the mouse, and staring up at me…

“Hello old friend,” I whispered.

Then, sack ready, I picked it up.

It made no struggle. I was so confident… and just when I was about to stuff it into the sack – and I actually did – I felt two sharp stings sink into the skin of my hand… I screamed, because I recall hearing a scream, and my mouth was open, so I must have been screaming – but I couldn’t remember letting the voice escape me. I went numb, and began to shake and convulse, like I was having a seizure, drool dribbling down the side of my mouth. I could not control it. I felt my nails grow longer, into something like claws, a painful process, my eyes rolling to the back of my head… Soon my sight had fallen into a different shade of color – and I couldn’t remember what it’s called, all my hair leaving me like birds in the winter… I bent forward, in pain, gasping for breath, smaller than I remembered, and I finally left all my sanity… or maybe it left me.

All fours on the ground now. I flexed my new hands. Or paws. Whatever they’re called. I also realized how skinny I was. And hungry.

Then, before I could hunt – or even consume the remains of the former – the world went down around my ears. I could still see it, but I was… no longer a part of it.

I tried to get out. I hit the glass case hard, hurting myself a little. Then another glass surface slid under my feet, and next thing I knew was that I was being carried, lifted off the grass…

Two huge, curious eyes blinked at me from the other side of the case. He was a man. And I knew him – though I knew too, for sure, that he was not my father. I remembered little…

“It’s a shame, Berto,” he sighed. “You were a nice boy… so full of potential.”

And he tucked the case – and me – under his arm, and the professor walked away.

Haiku 3

2009-03-19T04:34:00.000-07:00

The girl's father calls.

Skirts raised, knees underwater,

She makes way for land.

Haiku 2

2009-03-19T04:26:00.000-07:00

The artist twirls his

paintbrush in thought; he intends

to sketch all the world.

Haiku 1

2009-03-19T04:12:00.000-07:00

Sighing, the writer

Puts down the quill; she will write

Again tomorrow.

Broken Wings and Fragile Things (with illustrations)

2009-02-24T05:34:00.000-08:00

Broken Wings and Fragile Things

The first man I gave my heart to

I gave it on a string

Back when time was ripe and it was gold

And it had fully feathered wings;

He took it like a child and then

Played with it for a time

But like children do with toys

He tossed it, lost it like a dime;

He might have left it with the Puck himself

Or on a branch for the Faerie folk

Who flipped it, hurled it, let it fly

And took it as a simple joke.

They locked it in Pandora’s Box

And threw away the key in

So when Pandora opened it

It half-escaped with a damaged wing;

My heart, poor heart, was tattered, torn

For it had turned into a scarlet red

It breathed so longingly in heavy beats

And every time it cried it bled;

As if this was not enough for them,

It was shot and partly ate like meat

Until it rolled on downhill

And stopped at someone else’s feet.

The man, no one I knew at all –

Picked it up, defended it –

He took it in his hands and then

Brought it home and mended it;

He restored its missing pieces

And sown them together with a thread

And kept it warm under his blankets,

And sheltered on his bed;

And when the time came he knocked on my door

To return that fragment of my soul

But I had no heart in me to take it back

Though in my chest there was a hole…

The last man I gave my heart to –

It’s now strung up on a string

Time has passed and its passion red

Now mended from its broken wings.

Sonnet 1

2009-01-24T04:26:00.000-08:00

Poetry, I thought, could speak a writer's mind
But here, as the wind blows my hair away
There are things even sonnets cannot say:
Many a thing of how to lose and find,
Or tales of no end, and ends with no tales;
And these are the things sonnets cannot say.
Sonnets cannot tell you how I love you,
Or how many a word on my mouth fail
When you come around and I try to woo
To woo, too woo, your love unto, me too.
Sonnets cannot speak of lost loves and finds,
Nor can they speak a writer's mind
For there are verses that some poets play
And there are things that sonnets cannot say.

Guryon the Kitemaker

2008-12-30T21:09:00.000-08:00

Guryon the Kitemaker

He was a toymaker – bearded, built, and with a crazed look in his uneven eyes. Yes, he is a toymaker – a mad one. The dark brown mass of tangled hair that is his beard falls in between his massive chest and full, round belly that looked like he had eaten little children alive… or so the village tales went. That is, some versions of it.

They say perhaps in his past he was a jolly, cheerful soul, who made toys to entertain his children (if he had any) and those of the town; but then all that changed. Some villagers say some rowdy teens broke into his workshop and wrecked everything in it, while some say they did more than that and somehow managed to kill his family (if he had any). Other versions of the tale say he just went mad, and killed his family himself. Of this, no one will know – and no one will find out.

However the stories are spun, it all ends with his toy shop abandoned and boarded up, and though his former creations may be dead, he will live on… and so will their souls. For throughout the town there is one aspect of the story that holds the same: it is that Guryon, the madman, has toys that are alive. Yes, toys that have souls… condemned, crying, unrested souls of children – who knows some of them his own – those children whom he has lured into his domain like a beast lures its prey into its cave. He sits there, waiting, for a little boy or girl to venture beyond their father’s estate and into his territory; then he sends one of his toy soldiers, or wind-up mice, which catch their attention and which they follow straight into his lair.

His workshop is in his basement, where he silently and patiently waits in the shadows. The child walks in, awed and amazed by a breathtaking display of toys – dolls and puppets, toy soldiers and ballerinas, rocking horses and kites and jack-in-the-boxes… and when the child has reached the middle of the room, he shuts the door and bolts it; the child turns around in horror, and he sets to work, skinning them alive with his rough yet experienced hands, dirty dark fingernails peeling off any remaining layers.

The other toys look on in horror, unable to move or run away or cover their eyes and ears, his evil, maniacal laugh echoing throughout the four corners of his workshop, shaking wooden shelves and rocking horses alike. And when he is done, horrid enough, the children do not die; he piles their skin in a heap and slowly sows them together, sows them into a cloth that will soon be recognizable as a kite. He takes their bones and paints them, using them as frames, and for the tail his materials may vary from hair to veins to string. When the kite is complete he hangs it, displaying it right next to other kites from other children’s skins, proud of his newest masterpiece. After that, he pokes their eyes out of their sockets, and the scream even more, then he collects their voices and puts them in music boxes, so when you open them all you hear is shrill shrieks and cries for help, which go on forever and ever, and which are music to his ears. As for the eyeballs, he pops them into the holes on the faces of his blind dolls, so they continue to stare unblinkingly at the world of his workshop, unable to complain, or whimper, or cry. All the toys look down in horror as the last act is put out; brutally, and lightning quick, he tears the child’s very soul from its being and stuffs it into his puppets, like a chef may do when he stuffs a chicken. Then he strings the marionettes up and plays with them, he plays with the children’s souls, and will leave them in a corner, forgotten, much like any other child would.

Yes, he is a toymaker – a mad one. And wherever you go, that aspect of the tale holds the same: his toys are alive, with children’s souls – condemned, crying, unrested, staring unblinkingly at the world of his workshop.

Hungry Ghosts Festival

2008-12-30T20:26:00.000-08:00

Hungry Ghosts Festival

For thirty days on the seventh month

Purgatory's gates open, for release

I wander across my hometown, which is different nowadays

where the lights are low, and food is left

outside for the deceased.

For thirty days on the seventh month,

We return to walk among the living

We are many, small and big

That line the rooftops, streets, and chimneys.

We are many, spirits, ghosts -

For no longer do we live

Nor do those alive visit us, the dead

so we return

the dead to visit the living.

For thirty days on the seventh month

Paper offerings are burned

It's that once year they show me respect

and I feel honored once more.

For if they do not pay their ancestors their due

Then for thirty days on the seventh month

We shall wreak havoc and whatnot

among the living of the land.

If they do not leave out their food for us

and we, the ghosts, go hungry

Then perhaps I may consider eating them

For I may be capable of doing so.

But it is a shame to know

that they only do this out of fear,

On this earth nobody misses me -

nobody misses me at all.

And when the thirty days on the seventh month

will come to an end

We will retreat back through Purgatory's gates and suffer

and my family will forget me again.