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#Mahalaga Books #Children
Alona’s Quest for the Golden Tree
Chapter 3: A Crab’s Nasty Bite
AS IÂ ran back home, the excitement of the whole town became tangible. It seep into the very stone and pavement of the street.
A small, albeit very noisy, commotion was happening at the corner. A big fat dark pig was pinned to the ground. Three burly men were wrestling down the poor thing.
“Hold it tight!” commanded one man. “Hold it down!”
Everyone moved as one in his command. One man, Manong Gardo, a balding man used to hauling carts of fishes, put his strength to good use. Yet another man, a huge lump of tobacco in his mouth, came forward bearing an enormous knife.
Mr. Black Pig’s fate was sealed.
I had a feeling this particular one wouldn’t be chopped to pieces. It would roll over blistering hot coals, flavored with spices and calamansi. A fiesta wouldn’t be complete without Litson Baboy.
My mouth watered at the thought of the crispy litson. But, the pig’s cries were breaking my heart.
I continued running.
Passing a place where several people stood shoulder to shoulder, I stopped for a while, curious. Several sweaty men were jabbing the air and shouting like good-hearted maniacs.
“Get him! Give him an uppercut!”
There was a flutter of action in the middle.
“Oh,” said one, his face alight with interest. “Naku, that one looked solid! That must have hurt a lot!”
I tried to get a look but was shoved roughly aside.
I shrugged. Leaving them to their sport, I raced forward.
CLIMBING THEÂ short wooden steps three at a time, I threw the door open. It released a squeaking sound.
Our house was a crafty combination of bamboo and sawali. It was once pretty and sturdy, in a provincial sort of way, when it was first built. Years of use and disrepair chipped away its old beauty. The roof now dripped, the walls were brittle, and the floorings were full of gaps. There was more than enough ventilation coming from those gaps. The cackling and crowing of native fat brown chickens underneath can be heard as if they were pecking beside us. It was my habit to insert rice and corns in between them for the chickens to peck on. My mother, of course, was not pleased.
“Nay!” I called.
Our dog Negrita, a black hound with eyes the color of honey, stirred from her nap. She gave me one lazy look, then went back to sleep. Nanay was nowhere to be found.
“Nay!” I called again, louder this time.
Careful not to tread on the napping dog, I headed for the backyard and climbed down. There was a splashing sound that was coming from there.
“Oy,” said my mother pointedly. “Alona, lower your voice. It’s not ladylike to shout. Come over here.”
I ran down.
“And don’t run!” my mother scolded.
I slowed my pace.
Nanay was bent over the fire.
She was tiny and thin, with sagging breasts, and a round middle she hadn’t managed to shake off after giving birth three times. We inherited her sallow cheeks and bronze coloring. Right now, she was darker than usual, covered in soot and coal. A kettle was on the fire.
“How many times must I tell you to act like a lady? Little ladies don’t run.”
I picked on my toes.
It was fun to run, I wanted to argue. But I kept my mouth shut.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“Opo,” I answered, talking to my knees.
 “Good,” she said, almost absent-mindedly.
She went back to her work. I looked over her shoulder to see what she was doing. There was a steel basin full of pink crabs. They were snapping dangerously.
“We’re having crabs for dinner, Nay?”
“Yes. Your brothers caught quite a lot.”
Crabs were tricky creatures to catch. Every three months or so, the riverbanks of the Suba river will be teeming with it. Agile little kids, my brothers included, would troop to the river to catch them. Spending the entire afternoon knee-deep in the mud, they will patiently cajole the crabs out of their holes. Once the crabs scuttled out of their hiding places, the kids would immediately trap them. Woe betide the people who didn’t move fast enough. Crabs would snap their pincers in a fiercely defensive way. The kid’s cries were so loud it could be heard the entire town.
Every now and then, my kuyas would go home with throbbing hands and red faces. Nowadays however, they were getting good at catching them. There were more crabs in this basin than I had seen for a while.
“They looked so alive!” Which they probably were.
My mother’s face looked a bit pale.
“I don’t know what to do with them. Your brothers only caught three or four before.”
I chuckled in sympathy. The crabs’ pincers looked nasty.
“Never mind that,” Nanay said, turning around to look at her. “Did you give your brothers their lunch?” she inquired.
I nodded.
“And?”
“Kuya Habagat had his lunch,” I informed her. “But, I couldn’t find Kuya Maliksi.”
My mother’s face deepened into a scowl.
“Where do you think your brother is?”
I shrugged, indicating I had no idea.
Nanay sighed, a deep one.
“Did you get your father’s letter?”
Remembering, I nodded. From out of the inside of my shirt, I produced a letter.
She accepted it, smoothing the kinks.
I plopped down beside the basin. The plastic bag I was holding screeched, indignant at being forgotten.
“What’s that?” Nanay asked.
“For you po. Manang Bebang gave them to us.”
 “Really? What are these?”
“Dried fishes po, Nay.”
“But we don’t have money to pay for this!” mother protested.
I shrugged. “She didn’t say anything about payment, Nay.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Very well, if you say so,” she said, voice still dubious. “I’m going inside to read this letter. Don’t touch anything. Call me once the kettle boils.”
I nodded, almost absent-mindedly. The fragility and brilliance of the crab’s shells looked pretty.
My mother retreated back to the house. When she was almost inside, she looked back.
“Ne?”
“Po?”
“Don’t touch anything,” she said pointedly.
“Opo.”
As soon as my mother turned her back though, I waddled forward to take a better look. These crabs were curiously energetic. They were sneaking and pulling at each other in their bid for freedom.
Not content with observing, I hunted for a piece of stick that I may use to prod the crabs. They stirred at my prodding, showing great interest towards the mundane stick as if it could help liberate them. I prodded one to examine its backside. Enraged, it jumped and snapped hard in retaliation. I couldn’t get away in time.
My finger had been the unlucky victim.
In an effort to disentangle my fingers from the crab, I shook it hard — thrashing wildly about. The basin upended, several crabs tumbled down with a thud. Not wasting time, they scuttled and waddled about, walking in their distinctive sideward gait, towards their freedom.
My finger was red and swollen. The bite stung. Three or so crabs converged at my feet, their dangerous pincers snapping.
I howled.
Mother went out, alarmed.
“What? What is it?”
One look at me and the crabs running away crazily and Nanay figured it all out.
“I told you not to touch anything, especially not the crabs!” she said, half-exasperated, half-worried.
I sobbed tragically as an answer.That day, I learned to respect a crab’s angry bite. I never wanted to be near one again if I could help it.
(c) 2016, Herbel Santiago