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Alona’s Quest for the Golden Tree
Chapter 7: Sigbin
AT SCHOOL, Mathematics, English, and Science buried the grim scene away from my mind. I was half grateful for that.
It was almost the periodical tests. To honor the occasion, the teachers were heaping us with tons and tons of assignments. I spent my break time poring over one particularly tough Math equation.
Yet there were some that remained thoroughly unconcerned about the exams. Quite apart from everyone else, Ate Rachel and a couple of other students sat head to head. They were talking in hushed and excited voices. Clara was with them. She was twirling her braids in an expression of disinterest, but listening in all the same. Brandon, the thin kid who wore large glasses and had rather large front teeth, was with them. His best friend, Makisig, a cute boy with plump cheeks and deep dimples, joined them. He always did what Brandon did.
Ate Rachel was still not talking to me. I resorted to eavesdropping to learn what they were up to. I subtly edged my chair closer.
“We have to decide on the date and the time now!” argued Ate Rachel fiercely. Patience had never been one of her virtues.
“Not so fast!” argued Brandon. “We have to prepare foods and drinks first. What would we eat if we don’t? Fungi?”
Makisig snorted. “Definitely she could survive on that,” he said flatly. “We can’t.”
Ate Rachel threw him a glare. Makisig smirked back.
“And we have to prepare shelters,” continued Brandon, as if there were no interruptions. “I think I could sneak out the camping tent Papa bought last summer.”
“Will it be enough for all of us?” asked Ate Rachel doubtfully.
“Go bring one too, if you’re not satisfied!” snapped Brandon hotly.
Ate Rachel, growing hot in the face, swallowed an angry retort. She knew as well as I that it will be impossible to find so much as a functional tarp in her house. Everything they owned was scraps and rubbish.
“We don’t even know where it is. Do you even know where it is?” demanded Makisig idly.
“I have an idea,” answered Ate Rachel.
She leaned in closer so only the group could hear her answer.
I leaned in, too. Most unfortunately, the chair had had enough. It toppled comically. With an almighty plop, I tumbled sidewardly.
The whole class roared in laughter.
The group stopped their conference at once, howling with mirth. Ate Rachel sniggered. Makisig laughed so hard it looked like there was a tsunami in there.
The group stopped their conference at once, howling with mirth. Ate Rachel sniggered. Makisig laughed so hard it looked like there was a tsunami in there.
Cheeks flaming, I struggled to salvage my dignity and righted myself.
With a last look on me, Ate Rachel and her group, still cracking up, got up and moved outside.
I buried myself in my notebook, torn between embarrassment and anger.
I WAS consumed with such misery that I stayed home most of the afternoon. I didn’t like to bump into anyone from my class. Their sneering faces still haunted me.
It was lucky that Negrita was in a very playful mood. My dog prevented me from becoming bored to death. We went outside, chasing each other.
When I got tired, I sat down at the bottom of the steps, catching my breath. Negrita buried her head at my lap and drooled all over me.
I took a breath.
Our air here was the best. It was fresh and cold. I could stay outside, breathing in these winds from here on end.
Winds rustled the leaves.
Plants grew rich and thick in our backyard. It’s filled with vegetables and root crops my mother watered and cared for everyday. Along with the chickens and the pigs, these were our source of livelihood. Caring for them kept her so busy and tired all the time. Of course, she always had to ask me to help water the plants, prune the weeds, and carry the produce to the market. It was too much work I hated doing it. Our efforts showed though. Here and there, exotic wild flower and vines crept comfortably.
There were large trees, too. Among them, my favorite was the papaya tree. Tall, always pregnant with fruits, the tree stood in the very center of the garden. It never ran out of fruits. The fruits were sweet.
Today, the air billowed strongly, making the star-shaped leaves danced and twirled.
At that exact moment, Negrita raised her head, ears quivering. She ran towards the fence, peering beyond it. Aggravated, she growled at something that lurked behind it.
I took a peek.
What annoyed him was a brown, scraggly dog. Once big, if not plump, the dog was now very thin and covered with scabs. It had sad-looking eyes, and half of its head’s chunk was missing. Brain entrails exposed, an army of flies followed it like mad stalkers.
I turned around, doubling over as I felt my stomach turned over. Negrita whimpered when my vomits flew at her.
Rachel’s family used to own the dog; a lovely, courageous, and loyal guard dog. When her mother was pregnant with her youngest brother, the seventh in the family, the dog guarded them. It protected them against the sigbin. The sigbin had eyes that burned like fire and tongues that sliced like blade. They ate babies for dinner. For its trouble, the dog had half of its head bitten off. But it triumphed against the dark element.
It was a brave dog. Yet, no one wanted to come near it now.
When Negrita’s barks stopped, I knew I could look again. I saw the stranger dog’s scraggly tail disappearing in a distance.
I sighed. The dog reminded me of its ex-owner.
“It looks really exciting,” I told Negrita, with a twinge of regret in my voice. “I wish I hadn’t said I wouldn’t come.”
Negrita whined softly, but otherwise showed no sign of understanding.
I sighed.
Earlier that afternoon, I saw Ate Rachel at sea as I delivered my brother’s food. We did not greet each other. I pretended I didn’t care about whatever she was doing by pretending I was collecting seashells. Ate Rachel was far away, diving after the coins tossed by travelers riding the big ships. She was with a couple of friends her own age, swimming like little dyesebels of the ocean. She was an expert swimmer.
Come to think of it, every kid here was expert swimmers.
Their fathers taught them how to swim, while still very young. The training was strange. Fathers would swing their little children and tossed them straight into the water. Sputtering and gurgling, the kids paddled like crazy to stay afloat. Ate Rachel’s father, tall and thin and brusque, was unapologetic and straightforward in his training. He threw his daughters real hard. So, they learned.
Back when I was five years old, I got so entranced by the call of the sea that I dived into it. Having no one to throw me, I inched my way into the ocean. Soon, I was floating and swimming. I was exploring a territory that started to become taller than I was. I felt a sense of exhilaration as I felt my body danced along with the waves.
Except my mother didn’t think so.
When she saw me bobbing along the sea, she was hysterical.
I didn’t know whose father it was who pulled me out of the water. Apparently, what I thought was seamless swimming was in truth frightening waves bowling me over.
From then on, my mother forbade me to enter the ocean. While every single one of my friends dived in the distance, I bathed in the banks using a dipper.
I sighed. There was no way that the Golden Tree was under the ocean, then. If it was, Ate Rachel could have seen it already. She was always diving.
PLONK, PLONK.
Nanay was busy in the kitchen, washing the dishes.
I had learned long ago not to disturb Nanay when she was working. Sometimes, her mood was sunny, whistling a catchy tune while she worked. But sometimes, she was uptight, and for some reason, angry. It seemed she was always arguing with someone.
“What did you say whore?” she yelled, abruptly. “Who are you calling a witch? Don’t whisper! Come out here and faced me crazy!”
I never knew who her enemy was. Our neighbour’s house stood three paces away.
Replying, Negrita growled, ears standing up.
I shrugged when Negrita gave me a quizzical look. Petting her into easiness, the dog decided it was no threat and she went back to sleeping, rolling her body beside me.
I stood up. I felt like eating papayas right about now.
The brittle-looking branch can’t support my weight, I know all too well. The best way to pick the fruit was to climb the wall that stood beside it. Climbing it was easy. I was strictly not allowed to do it. Yet, I had done it several times.
When I reached the narrow top however, I discovered that someone else beat me to it. A skinny kid, must be ten or twelve, was already there. He was clutching a lot of very fat papayas.
Our eyes met each other. In a minute, comprehension dawned on me. It dawned on him too, because his eyes grew wide in fear and shock.
“Aaaaaaaaahhh!” I cried.
“Aaaaaaaaahhh!” he echoed.
Shocked, I lost my grip. I plummeted down with an almighty thud, splashing mud.
At that precise moment, Nanay came scrambling out, carrying soapy pots and pans. Maybe because she was my mother – or I was her daughter – one look was all she needed to appraise the situation. Seeing the thief, a look of great dislike and anger crossed her face.
“You thief! How dare you!” roared my mother.
With surprising strength and accuracy, she aimed the soapy frying pan and chucked it towards the boy as hard as she could. The boy, momentarily stunned, got hit on the shoulders squarely. He tumbled down the other side of the fence.
“How dare you steal! Who told you to do that! Who?”
Nanay ran after the boy, her pots dangling with her.
Swearing loudly, the boy recovered in the nick of time. He scrambled, sprinting home. My mother was in hot pursuit.
I grimaced. It was the second time that I fell down, all within the span of one day. I think that I might finally manage to fracture my ribs. Adding insult to injury, several papayas, disturbed by the commotion, danced around dangerously. They fell down with a thud, sending squashed fruits and seeds flying everywhere.
“Great,” I hissed, wiping papaya entrails off my face. “That’s just great.”
(c) 2016, Herbel Santiago