Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) by F. Sionil Jose Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: F. Sionil Jose
half-burned candle in his pocket.
“Are you thinking of her, son?” Mayang asked.
The question surprised him. “Of whom, Mother?”
“The beautiful stranger,” she said simply.
He did not know what to make of his mother’s question. He decided to be evasive. “It is very sad that at her age,” he said, “she is already a widow.”
“She has not cried that much.”
“Not all those who shed tears really grieve.”
“Still, we do not know anything about her. We help because she needs it.”
“I know that, Mother,” Istak said. “Why are you telling me this?”
Mayang smiled. “My son, it is about time you had a woman, I know. But Dalin—do not let her and her misfortune mislead you into believing that she is helpless, that you should rush into helping her, then loving her.” She turned toward the brown fields beyond the arbor of bamboo which served as a gateway to the village. Beyond, in the far distance, loomed the dome of Cabugaw Church like a woman’s breast pressed to the sky. Her voice became soft, almost a whisper. “I can feel it—this omen creeping into our lives. Something is hounding her. Once we have done what is Christian, we should let her seek her fate.”
Istak smiled. Omens. It was as if he were in Cabugaw again,listening to Padre Jose after a break in his Latin lessons. The old priest had decided to teach him Latin when he was twelve or thirteen, and him alone, there in the sacristy itself, after he had dusted the shelves and seen to it that all the ledgers were in place. “Eustaquio, there are many things in this world that we cannot sec, spirits that move about us, things we cannot explain, not even with the faith that we possess.”
The old priest said he knew things which he was utterly ignorant of when he arrived in the Ilokos. Past seventy and too old to care, he could now say what he never dared whisper when he was young, the mystery of this land, the beliefs rooted in an experience that only a pagan past could have engendered.
Istak held his mother by the shoulder as if to assure her that he knew what he was doing, that no harm would befall them. “Evil is often a creation of our minds, Mother,” he said. “It starts as a spark, then it is fanned into a fire, self-willed and self-sustaining. No, Mother, if we do not think about it, if we do not let it bother us, it will not be there. This is not to say that there are no evil men, but our best protection against them is our innocence and our truth.” This was real Christian virtue, but even as he said this, his thoughts were about his younger brother. Did his mother know what An-no had told him in the woodshed? Had she seen his younger brother’s face—the unbridled desire for Dalin which had now warped his mind?
He found himself saying, “It is An-no, Mother, that I am worried about, not Dalin.”
“What has he told you?” Mayang asked. “Fool sons of mine—I could see him following her all the time with his eyes the way you do. And she had just been widowed. It is a sin!”
Istak shook his head. “You see more than what is there, Mother.”
But Mayang did not hear, for she had turned to leave, mumbling, “My sons, my fool sons.”
They were set to leave. Dalin came down the bamboo stairs, wearing a well-starched skirt. An-no walked behind her, a dark scowl on his face. Together they went to Istak, who had, by then, removed the palm-leaf canopy of the cart.
An-no told him: “I want to go to the cemetery to help dig the grave. It is better if there are two of us.”
“What is this now?” Istak turned to Dalin, perplexed. She had washed her face and her skin shone.
“I tried to explain,” Dalin said, “that I don’t want anyone but the two of us to go to the cemetery—you because you can say the prayers and help me dig the grave. Just the two of us—it is best that way. I don’t want to be a bother to people the way I already am. And the cemetery is far.” She turned to An-no. “How can I
“Are you thinking of her, son?” Mayang asked.
The question surprised him. “Of whom, Mother?”
“The beautiful stranger,” she said simply.
He did not know what to make of his mother’s question. He decided to be evasive. “It is very sad that at her age,” he said, “she is already a widow.”
“She has not cried that much.”
“Not all those who shed tears really grieve.”
“Still, we do not know anything about her. We help because she needs it.”
“I know that, Mother,” Istak said. “Why are you telling me this?”
Mayang smiled. “My son, it is about time you had a woman, I know. But Dalin—do not let her and her misfortune mislead you into believing that she is helpless, that you should rush into helping her, then loving her.” She turned toward the brown fields beyond the arbor of bamboo which served as a gateway to the village. Beyond, in the far distance, loomed the dome of Cabugaw Church like a woman’s breast pressed to the sky. Her voice became soft, almost a whisper. “I can feel it—this omen creeping into our lives. Something is hounding her. Once we have done what is Christian, we should let her seek her fate.”
Istak smiled. Omens. It was as if he were in Cabugaw again,listening to Padre Jose after a break in his Latin lessons. The old priest had decided to teach him Latin when he was twelve or thirteen, and him alone, there in the sacristy itself, after he had dusted the shelves and seen to it that all the ledgers were in place. “Eustaquio, there are many things in this world that we cannot sec, spirits that move about us, things we cannot explain, not even with the faith that we possess.”
The old priest said he knew things which he was utterly ignorant of when he arrived in the Ilokos. Past seventy and too old to care, he could now say what he never dared whisper when he was young, the mystery of this land, the beliefs rooted in an experience that only a pagan past could have engendered.
Istak held his mother by the shoulder as if to assure her that he knew what he was doing, that no harm would befall them. “Evil is often a creation of our minds, Mother,” he said. “It starts as a spark, then it is fanned into a fire, self-willed and self-sustaining. No, Mother, if we do not think about it, if we do not let it bother us, it will not be there. This is not to say that there are no evil men, but our best protection against them is our innocence and our truth.” This was real Christian virtue, but even as he said this, his thoughts were about his younger brother. Did his mother know what An-no had told him in the woodshed? Had she seen his younger brother’s face—the unbridled desire for Dalin which had now warped his mind?
He found himself saying, “It is An-no, Mother, that I am worried about, not Dalin.”
“What has he told you?” Mayang asked. “Fool sons of mine—I could see him following her all the time with his eyes the way you do. And she had just been widowed. It is a sin!”
Istak shook his head. “You see more than what is there, Mother.”
But Mayang did not hear, for she had turned to leave, mumbling, “My sons, my fool sons.”
They were set to leave. Dalin came down the bamboo stairs, wearing a well-starched skirt. An-no walked behind her, a dark scowl on his face. Together they went to Istak, who had, by then, removed the palm-leaf canopy of the cart.
An-no told him: “I want to go to the cemetery to help dig the grave. It is better if there are two of us.”
“What is this now?” Istak turned to Dalin, perplexed. She had washed her face and her skin shone.
“I tried to explain,” Dalin said, “that I don’t want anyone but the two of us to go to the cemetery—you because you can say the prayers and help me dig the grave. Just the two of us—it is best that way. I don’t want to be a bother to people the way I already am. And the cemetery is far.” She turned to An-no. “How can I