Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 1 Page 16

  Two mounds. Perfect hillocks that drag south, pointing to the delta beneath, lush as the forest of pubic hair that covers it.

  VINCENT MICHAEL SIMBULAN

  IN THE ARMS OF BEISHU

  Vincent Michael Simbulan is a two-time Manila Critics’ Circle National Book Awardee for his anthologies, Isaw, Atbp. and Siglo: Freedom. He is the co-founder of Quest Ventures, which is both a publishing house and a coalition of Filipino comic book creators. His work has appeared in Project Hero, Philippine Daily Inquirer, Stuff, and Guide Magazine. Siglo: Passion, co-edited with Dean Francis Alfar, is his latest comic book anthology. He is in the process of editing a collection of stories about dragons, due in 2006. He is also the general manager of the Comic Quest chain of comic book specialty shops.

  “In the Arms of Beishu,” a tale about longing for one’s homeland, is set in the time of the Spanish rule over the Philippines. It marks Simbulan’s first published work of short fiction.

  TIEN PU STARED at the approaching shores with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness that accompanied the prospect of new beginnings. A salt spray whipped his loose clothes as he steadied himself on the railing of the junk to keep from falling over. His raven locks, tied back in a long ponytail, swung with the rise and fall of the junk as it crashed against the waves. The voyage had been long and taxing, crowded months spent with people like him, dreaming of a brighter future in a new land. A land called Hinirang.

  Hinirang. Such an unwieldy name for a land, Tien thought to himself. Quite unlike the comfortable simplicity of Tsin, the homeland he had just left behind. The idle thought became a cascade of memories and Tien smiled. Memories of home always brought a smile to his face, no matter how painful some of them were.

  “What are you smiling at?” Mei Lung asked, her now familiar sharp tone cutting through the quiet. Her face was a delicate porcelain mask, framed like the moon by her long dark hair, which flowed across her back, a cape woven from fine strands of the night sky.

  Tien remained silent, mesmerized by her eyes, which burned with a fire that was missing from her heart. This did not stop him from loving her, from hoping that he could be the one to spark a reciprocal love. A foolish hope, some would say, but for now, in his seventeen-year-old, her beauty eclipsed the flaws of her heart.

  “Are you going to answer me or keep gawking, peasant boy?” She whirled gracefully, her hair dancing behind her, a pirouette of dark strands that left him breathless.

  Tien winced at her words. Mei Lung still refused to utter his name, a reminder of their positions in the world. “I’m sorry. I was just reminiscing about my home along the mountains of Chen Lu province. Around this time I would be lighting the lanterns outside our house. My friends would be running home from our kite flying, and my A-yi would be cooking rice and steaming dumplings.” Tien’s stomach rumbled and his mouth watered as he spoke.

  “Well, at this time I would be bathed by the servants in scented oils before I go down to dine with my family,” Mei Lung said, her eyes fixed beyond him, staring into the past. We would have eight different dishes served on regular nights. But on special occasions we would have as many as sixteen.”

  “Sixteen?” Tien marveled at how so much food could be lavished on one family meal. “Surely the Emperor himself would be green with envy.”

  She laughed, and her laughter was sunshine and the flowering fields of home.

  *

  THE UNLIKELY HAPPENSTANCE of their first meeting occurred at the docks where Tien sat, his boredom mounting as he waited for an opportunity to load his meager belongings onto the large junk that would take him to a new land.

  “What are you sitting around there for?” The sharp voice that cut through the early morning chill belonged to a girl of barely sixteen summers. She stared at him with eyes that sparkled, emeralds in sunlight, favoring him with a smile that suddenly sent his heart dancing.

  “I’m waiting to load my bags. Why are you wandering the docks alone?”

  She laughed at him. “I am not alone, silly peasant boy. I am Mei Lung and my parents are on the other side of the dock, waiting for our servants to load our belongings.” Then she looked at him expectantly, as if he was yet to pay proper homage to her.

  Struck speechless, Tien regarded her with an amusement mixed with an unfamiliar feeling he could not name, for he had never yet fallen in love. He found himself staring in rapt attention while she preened before him; her dress was fine embroidered silk of the deepest crimson with inlays of gold, highlighting her delicate features.

  “Hello, Mei Lung,” he said at last, recovering his lost voice. “My name is Tien Pu, and you are welcome to sit here with me if you wish.”

  “What a boring idea, peasant boy,” she said, gracefully navigating the edge of the docks, wrapped tightly in the fog that hung in the air like a blanket of ghosts. “It’s so rare to be free and away from the eyes of my family. Get up and follow me! If you catch me I will allow you to escort me back to the junk.”

  Tien followed her across the dock, drawn to the sound of her laughter, their sandals clacking on the rotting wood. Just when he thought he had lost her, a flash of red showed him where she had disappeared to. He ran with anticipation dogging his every step, possessed by the urge to sweep her into his arms, to never let her go, treasuring the sudden notion, absurd as it was, of making her his bride.

  A sudden crash and shout shattered his dream, and he saw the elderly woman sprawled on the ground, with Mei Lung already rising and running away. The woman lay still for a moment, and Tien was almost irrationally certain she was dead. Then she stirred and struggled to get up. He rushed to her side and gently helped her up, brushing the dirt from her simple green and yellow robes.

  “A thousand pardons, venerable grandmother.” He wished he were elsewhere, to avoid the scolding that must surely follow. “Forgive us, we did not see you. We were foolishly playing in this fog.”

  “We?” the old woman’s confused voice began. “I see only you, and I know it was someone else who struck me down.”

  “Please accept my humble apology, I’m sure my friend meant no disrespect,” Tien said, bowing low.

  “Could she at least speak for herself, or perhaps she has no voice of her own?” The woman looked pointedly at the trees where a fluttering of red waved in the breeze, before turning her piercing gray eyes squarely on Tien. “At least you seem to have been brought up with some sense of courtesy.”

  Tien felt his cheeks burn with shame as he struggled to mouth another apology, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand.

  “Such courtesy should not go unrewarded, just as one should not be made to suffer for the failings of one’s companions.”

  “You are most kind, grandmother. But it is reward enough that you are well.”

  “Ah, but I insist. It looks to me like you will be needing what I have to give.”

  His curiosity building, Tien bowed lower and spoke reverently. “I do not deserve the honor, but I humbly accept your gift.”

  “Well said, but you must first make a choice.” The woman produced two pendants from the folds of her robe. One was brilliant gold, finely crafted with the image of a dragon, its long sinuous form rendered in lifelike detail, dancing as if frozen in time. Ruby eyes flashed with an inner fire straining to be free, and for an instant, Tien was overwhelmed by a presence that burned with savage pride, filling him with a terrible hunger. And then it was gone.

  Tien gazed at her with surprise, but her face revealed nothing as she raised the second pendant closer for his inspection. It was simpler than the first, yet no less beautiful. An elegantly crafted diminutive pagoda in burnished bronze, replete with miniature lanterns and tiny windows inset with fragments of jade. The craftsmanship was beyond anything Tien had ever seen, and it suffused him with the warmth of the hearth, the feeling of returning home after a long voyage away.

  Tien glanced from one to the other and reached for the dragon pendant, then reconsidered and took the house in his h
and. It felt warm to the touch. Bowing low, he thanked her for the unexpected gift.

  “A wise choice, Tien Pu,” she said, approval crossing her face. “It is called Lujing Beishu, ‘The House That Chose Its Own Path’. Like you, it is destined to bring the glory of Tsin to alien shores. You have a long journey ahead of you, but I can see that you will be up to the task. Always keep in mind that to conquer through force of arms is not our way. To prosper is.”

  Without another word, she bowed to Tien and walked away, a shadow melting into the fog.

  *

  AS THE JUNK sailed into the harbor Tien and Mei Lung got their first glimpse of the Ispancialo capital in Hinirang. The imposing stone walls of Ciudad Manila crowded the sky, casting them into insignificance. Even as Tien admired the foreign craftsmanship of what the Ispancialo builders had wrought, his awe was tempered by the small kernel of wisdom his A-yi had shared with him the night his parents were laid to rest.

  “The greatness of men and their creations may blind you, but never forget that it is only the divine grandeur of Heaven that will endure. Mortality is a cloth we all wear. Even the greatest Emperor will cross the Black Gates when the day mandated by Heaven arrives.” He heard her voice, clear as the day she spoke the words to him.

  The junk finally docked and immediately the cacophony of commerce surrounded them. The Tsin enclave in Agora was alive with buyers haggling and vendors hawking their wares. The market was ripe with exotic scents, all carried by the October breeze, assailing Tien with their strangeness.

  Tien gathered his small bag, lining up with the other passengers anxious to set foot on the new land. He saw Mei Lung lingering behind her family, watching him.

  “Farewell, Mei Lung,” he said, helping her down from the junk. “The Seven Fortune Stars have blessed me with your company on this voyage.” After a brief moment of hesitation, he was betrayed by his heart. “I love you. May we one day meet again.”

  “Farewell,” she whispered into his ear. “I fear we shall never meet again, save in your dreams.” She bowed slightly, favoring him with a fleeting smile and for an instant Tien imagined the slightest hint of regret cross her face.

  Tien could think of nothing more to say so he remained silent as she turned and walked away. He said a small prayer to his ancestors and bid farewell to his old life, vowing to honor the memory of his parents by working hard and earning his fortune. In his heart he felt like a tree uprooted by a raging gale, left to perish on foreign soil. But he kept his mind free of doubt, refusing to remain in the shadow of uncertainty, resolving instead to take root and grow strong. Without a backward glance he lost himself in the crowds of Agora.

  *

  THE YEARS THAT passed were kind to Tien. He found work quickly, and with his savings he managed to buy a modest stall at the Lotus Emporium, a market at the fringes of Ciudad Manila where Tsin merchants sold replicas that could be had at a fraction of the original’s price. His stall prospered and he quickly expanded his holdings to Agora itself, where his shop, Ample Flowering Bliss, sold goods from all across Hinirang. His hard work and persistence extended his influence beyond Ciudad Manila, to the jewelers of Vezcaia, and as far as the mysterious lands of the South, where exotic spices, colorful tapestries, and magnificent wooden sculptures from Diya al Din were much in demand.

  His growing prosperity was matched only by his humility, which kept him in good stead with all those around him, for he never lost sight of his roots as most men who reach the lofty peaks of success often do. He devoted much of his wealth to improving the conditions of the ever-growing Tsin enclave in Hinirang, making it as close in likeness to their homeland as possible. As he grew older, many of the Tsin merchants looked up to him as a wise and respected leader, seeking him for advice on business opportunities.

  Tien also made a point of paying the Ispancialo taxes regularly, and more importantly, tithing a hefty sum to the coffers of the Ispancialo church of the Tres Hermanas. Tien knew that it was wise be in good standing with the church, even if he was not, and would never be, a believer.

  Yet through all the years that passed, it was the night which saddened him. Nights filled with dreams of Mei Lung, the girl who kept hold of his heart, her hair flowing in the night, her skin glowing like the moon, tormenting him with the thought of what could have been.

  But even in this regard good fortune proved itself on his side, for on his fortieth year, despite her promise to the contrary, fate brought Mei Lung back into his life, heavy with the change that only time could bring.

  Their unlikely meeting occurred at the very docks where they had parted ways. Tien was unloading a shipment of spices when a familiar voice, sharp as his fondest memories, spoke from across the gulf of years.

  “Hello, peasant boy.” Mei said, her dark hair billowing behind her.

  “I am no longer a boy, and hardly a peasant,” Tien countered, masking his surprise with an awkward smile.

  “And I am no longer the girl you knew, Tien Pu.” The familiar stranger laughed, her eyes ablaze with a fire that had finally, impossibly, burned in her heart, kindled at last by the hard won wisdom of experience.

  In her eyes, Tien saw for himself the truth of her words, even as she spoke his name at last, for the first time.

  They were married that very week, a courtship that seemed all too brief for those who witnessed their union, but it was a promise ordained by the stars on that day, a lifetime away, when the unlikely friendship between a young peasant boy and a rich aristocratic girl blossomed.

  On the eve of Tien’s eighty-eighth year, he knew it would be his last. He knew with a certainty spoken by the secret voice of his soul, even as his body, which had served him faithfully through the long years, succumbed to the betrayal of time. As he celebrated the day of his birth with Mei, their children, and their children’s children, as well as the extended family that had grown around them, a seed of disquiet took root in his heart. In that moment he knew that he could not be truly happy. He longed for the homeland he had left behind, on behalf of his children and those that followed them, who would all grow into old age and die, never knowing the warm embrace of the land of their ancestors.

  He spent the rest of that day alone, paying his respects to the spirits of his ancestors at the small yet well-kept altar he had built at the center of his humble home. Though he could afford to live in the most lavish mansion, his humility bade him to live in simpler surroundings. His only extravagance was the elaborate garden behind the house, filled with rare orchids arrayed in a dazzling symphony of color and fragrance, and grottoes covered with roses, lilacs, and the native sampaguita.

  He sat upon the small wooden bench at the center of his garden and wondered idly, as most men of his age did, whether his existence held any meaning, or if he had lived in vain.

  In answer to his unspoken question, a voice spoke to him in a language he not only heard but also felt in his heart. “You lived as you were meant to live Tien Pu, and Tsin is proud to call you one of her most favored children.” The voice reminded him of the crackle of the hearth fires, and the bubbling of rice pots. “There is no one who does not carry scars on his heart; what matters is how well you bore those scars, child of Tsin.”

  “Who are you to say these things?” Tien remained calm in the face of such strangeness, for he had seen his share of spirits in this land filled with wonders. “Please, show yourself.”

  In reply, a soft glow sprang from his chest. Tien reached into his shirt and pulled a worn leather strap from around his neck, gazing in mute awe at the shining pendant he had worn through the long years, the only possession he would never part with. The jade windows of the house were glowing, all the lanterns lit like miniature stars.

  “You know who I am.” The voice enveloped Tien with the warmth of his homeland, and he gasped with delight as memories lost to the passing years became vivid once more. He stared, entranced, as the pendant of Lujing Beishu unfurled. Brilliant light shot out of the pendant and whirled around him
in a display of scintillating colors, filling the sky with a thousand woven rainbows, coruscating and bursting with fireworks that spilled teardrops of pure gold, emerald, ruby, azure, indigo, russet, silver and vermilion. They fell to his feet, meshing with the earth, snaking tendrils of light towards the wooden steps of his home. Spires and walls and tasseled windows and jade sculptures sprang from the ground like a lotus in bloom, shining like the sun, rushing upward into the heavens — a house, a glorious house, transformed from his own.

  “I am Lujing Beishu, the House of Tsin,, and this is the path that I have chosen.”

  Tien blinked back tears of wonder, for beyond the house he glimpsed the ghost of familiar rice paddies, the mountains of his youth beckoning to him as the manifold paper lanterns of Lujing Beishu swayed like wayward stars in the night. Tien could only weep with joy as Mei joined him, stumbling to his side, too astonished to speak, and they embraced while a faint breeze filled the air with the scent of a land far across the sea.

  “This land has brought you prosperity, and by this I will bring the glory of Tsin to these far shores.” The voice of Lujing Beishu rose to a thundering roar. The force of a hundred hurricanes swallowed Tien as tears of time and memory glistened on his face.

  In his mind he saw the wealth and influence he had amassed throughout the lands of Hinirang, the routes of commerce that snaked from North to South, through the East and West, veins pulsing with the lifeblood of Tsin, feeding Lujing Beishu with the power to root itself on foreign soil. He felt the spirit of Hinirang greet the newborn yet ancient fragment of Tsin with open arms, through the benevolent commerce and exchange of cultures between the native Katao and the Tsin.

  “Rejoice o children of Tsin! Your verdant homeland has come to be with you on this day.” The words echoed in the ears of all the Tsin in the enclave, rousing them from slumber with the voices of their ancestors, filling the empty spaces left in their hearts by separation from the land of their birth.