Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 1 Read online

  *

  Business’ still good at the wet market. Even for the blind. Mother still gets three hundred for a blind whore. A blind whore! This new drug, “Mice,” really fucks you up. Sells like hotcakes. Supplies snatched up before you can even blink.

  4

  FATHER CAN’T GET enough. His hunger is insatiable. Even when everyone at Troma Hospital’s had their fill, from fine patients to sickly doctors, he still can’t get enough. He’s shivering in the shadows of the alley. Like a cat starving for a week. Like an addict in a basement. Waiting. For fish going flip-flop on dry land. For a wayward hit. Drizzling.

  *

  Brother’s plate is licked clean. You’d also clean yours if you were beaten up as a child for not finishing everything until your backside was sore. Then you’d have nightmares at night: hunted by leftover rice that would catch up and stick all over you, then turn to rice paste, you turning to rice paste, until it’s impossible to even move, much less escape, until it dissolves, but it wouldn’t matter because you’re part of it and you’re not sure if you had dissolved yourself.

  *

  Baby’s gone AWOL again. The whole family’s looking for him. Where’s their beloved baby? Finally, they find him at the cockpit. The gamblers had mistaken him for Christ. Oh Baby, what have you gotten yourself into now? Too bad though, he had bet on the loser cock that offed the winning Texas breed.

  *

  Mother is wailing in front of her soil stew. She forgot it’s forbidden to cry at the dining table. Father stood up and stomped out of the house. Mother’s wailing became louder. Sister and Brother followed. So did Baby. When she was left alone, Mother abruptly stopped crying and gorged on her favorite dish.

  *

  “You’re really delicious!” moaned the greasy stink-turned-shit-turned-man pumping on top of Sister. “You’re the best!” Sister wasn’t enjoying herself at all. She wasn’t high on uppers like Phoenix. She wasn’t crashing on downers like Germs. She wasn’t getting wet on her OST aphrodisiac. Wasn’t horny. Wasn’t happy. But she’s here. Not there. And all the doors and windows have been sealed up.

  5

  BROTHER COULDN’T ERASE from his mind the final look of Ester. The one with pieces of brain oozing out. It wasn’t even a decent image of Ester’s, before the tragedy. He’s gone, so why’s he still here? Ester is Father. Ester is Mother. Ester is Sister. Ester is Baby. Brother gagged and rushed to the toilet. Even in the mirror, Ester is Brother. But Ester’s dead and Brother’s still alive, right? Right?

  *

  Father is one lucky bastard tonight. Guess who’s coming closer? The president himself. Why is the president walking under the rain in the dead of night? It’s forbidden to ask things that aren’t important. Action speaks louder than words. And Father started to do what he had to do. Even if it was late at night and it meant risking pneumonia.

  *

  It’s Sister’s turn to lead the prayer. “Bless (I can’t take it anymore!) us (Please have mercy!) O (You motherfucking cunts!) Lord (Aaaah!), and (Shit!) these (Fuck!) thy (My God!) gifts (Help!), which (Let me out!) we (Haven’t you had enough?) are (Fuck you!) about (Don’t you have any soul?) to (Don’t you have any sisters?) receive (Don’t you have a mother?) from (Help!) thy (Jesus Christ!) bounty (Beasts!), through (Just kill me!) Christ (I’ll kill you all!), our (Lunatics!) Lord (Assholes, all of you!), Amen (Fuck you!).” And Sister had no more appetite left at all.

  *

  Mother is opening a new branch today. The ninth Love Heaven at New Metropolis. Complete with every new gadget for one’s pleasure and satisfaction. The winners of the Miss Love Heaven contest have just arrived. Smelling sweet and fresh. Cutting the ribbon at the opening ceremony is Domina, former Miss Love Heaven International.

  *

  It’s Baby’s birthday. They won’t be having soil. Not barbecued soil, not carbonara soil, not soil stew. There’s no trace of soil on the table. Baby’s surely ecstatic. If only he was there. But Baby was there. Get it? Hahaha! Served up on a silver platter. Hahaha! Whathefuck... You got me there.

  (Translated from Tagalog by Mayo Uno Martin.)

  SEAN UY

  REGIMENT

  Sean Uy has been writing since he was 12 years old, and has explored a broad selection of genres in the span of a largely unheralded writing career. He has been published in Singapore’s Eggplant magazine, and has done work with characters and settings for Anito: Defend a Land Enraged, the first entirely Filipino-made computer game.

  In “Regiment”, five men returning to their homeland discover that there is more to the strange old woman they meet on the way, just as she knows that there is more to them than they expect.

  WE FOUND THE old woman on top of Eikenfast Ridge, her tattered blue cloak and her wispy white hair floating in the soft breeze. She sat upon an ancient tree stump, supporting herself with a wooden cane that looked about as withered and aged as she did.

  Clay drew his sword, but Gelarus held up a hand to stop him. “We need a healer,” he said. “Danaan doesn’t look like he’s going to last, and we’ve still got a good number of leagues ahead of us.”

  “How do we know that she’s not a spy?” Clay asked, his battered breastplate glinting in the sun.

  “We’ve been walking west, Clay,” Gelarus said. “I don’t think the Harazen would have crossed this far inland.”

  Mantu gently set Danaan’s litter upon the ground. The tall Southerner loomed over the rest of us, his usual stoic expression upon his face.

  “What do you think, Ishar?” Gelarus asked.

  “She’s an old woman,” I said, although I felt somewhat uncertain of her. “What harm could she cause?”

  “She could kill us in our sleep,” Clay insisted.

  “Then we’ll post watch,” Gelarus said.

  “But she...”

  “We’ll post watch,” Gelarus repeated, glaring at the younger knight. Clay frowned, and slid his sword back into his sheath.

  The old woman continued to wait patiently, watching our conversation with little more than feigned indifference.

  I took a few steps towards her. “Are you a healer, old one?”

  “No healer of wounds am I,” she said, “but a healer of spirits, yes.”

  “What does that mean?” Clay interrupted.

  “You seek aid for your fallen friend?” the old woman asked, ignoring Clay.

  “Yes,” I said. “Danaan — our wounded friend there — well, we were attacked by the Harazen two days ago, and he took poisoned steel in his stomach and left leg. Danaan still lives, but he grows more delirious with each passing day. We can get him help once we reach the city of Morhengaard to the west, but he may not live that long.”

  “We need a healer, old one,” Gelarus said. “You must help us.”

  The old woman considered this for a moment. “And if I do not, sir knight?”

  Gelarus took a deep breath. “That was not a request, woman. We are knights of Morhengaard, stewards of this land, and we order you to aid us.”

  The commander’s stare was threatening, but his eyes told a different story. I wondered just how well she could see through us.

  “Let me see your friend,” the old woman finally said.

  HER NAME, IT turned out soon enough, was Annyn. We never did find out exactly how old she was.

  By nightfall, Danaan was sleeping peacefully for the first time in days. The rest of us sat around the fire, picking through what little remained of our rations.

  “I still don’t like her,” Clay said. “We’re walking through a wasteland. We’re not supposed to meet anyone else out here.”

  Gelarus leaned back, weary with the day’s travel. “Danaan’s still breathing,” he told Clay, “and that’s good enough for me.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Clay repeated.

  “Mantu seems to trust her,” I said, looking at the tall Southerner. “Don’t you, Mantu?”

  Mantu looked up at the mention of his name. Unlike the rest of us,
he wasn’t a knight — only a mercenary who was once part of a separate unit. His expression hardened as he searched for the right words to say.

  “Mantu trusts,” he finally said, in a thick accent. He had been carrying Danaan’s litter for a long time, and perhaps he was glad that part of the burden had been taken from his shoulders.

  “What about you, Ishar?” Clay asked.

  “I’m sorry, Clay, but I agree with Commander Gelarus. Annyn can stay for a while, if only to take care of Danaan.”

  “There are Harazen mages who can make themselves look like any person of their choosing,” Clay pressed. “They could be anyone — your comrades, your siblings... perhaps even an old healer from out in the middle of nowhere.”

  Gelarus squinted at the old woman, crouched over Danaan’s litter in the flickering light. “She doesn’t feel like a Harazen to me,” he said.

  “I don’t trust her,” Clay insisted.

  “Then you can take the first watch tonight,” Gelarus said, sternly. “She’s doing us a service, Clay, and I don’t care what your instincts are telling you, as long as she keeps Danaan alive. Is that clear?”

  Clay mumbled a sullen answer.

  It occurred to me that the old woman had not had her dinner yet. “I’ll bring Annyn something to eat,” I said, clutching at the last remaining piece of bread.

  I stole over to Danaan’s corner of the campsite, the light of the fire fading behind me. Annyn was there, hunched over Danaan’s resting figure.

  “His breath is steady,” she said, as I sat down next to her. “The Fates have been quite merciful to him.”

  I held up the piece of bread, and she slowly took it from my fingers.

  “My thanks, sir knight,” she said, picking at the sodden loaf.

  “May I ask a question, old one?”

  “As you wish,” she said.

  I paused, trying to find the best way to voice my concerns. “Where do you come from, Annyn? What are you doing in such a place?”

  “What does it matter, sir knight? I was there when you needed me, was I not?”

  I considered her then, wondering whether or not Clay was in the right. We had all seen Harazen spies at work, and if Annyn truly was one of them, then we all could have been dead before the night was over.

  “Clay doesn’t trust you,” I said.

  “Sir Clay is a young man, sir knight. He would naturally be suspicious of people like me.”

  “He thinks you’re one of the Harazen,” I said.

  “I know of the Harazen,” she told me. “You fight against them.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We came from a massive battle to the east. Our four kingdoms against the Black Empire. Thousands of men now lie dead upon the Rivalic foothills, all for a war of no consequence.”

  “So why are you here, sir knight? I would think that you would be alongside your fellows in battle.”

  I remained silent for a while, as she waited patiently for a response.

  “Sir knight?” she asked.

  “We return to Morhengaard,” I answered. “Our home.”

  She looked at me with gentle eyes. “You have been away for long, yes?”

  “Far too long, old one. Far too long.”

  WE REACHED THE bottom of the ridge the next day. Gelarus led our march, with Clay close behind him. Annyn and Mantu followed, with the large Southerner bearing Danaan’s litter once again. I guarded the rear, in case anything decided to attack us from behind.

  “What lies ahead, sir knight?” Annyn called.

  Gelarus paused, both feet on the rocky trail, and turned to face us. “Morhengaard, old one. Morhengaard, the Elder City.”

  “What do you seek in Morhengaard, sir knight?”

  Gelarus shrugged. “Sanctuary for Danaan,” he said, “and solace for the men under my command.”

  Annyn placed one bony hand on Mantu’s arm. “What of Mantu, then?” she asked. “Mantu is not from Morhengaard, unlike the rest of you.”

  “Indeed,” Gelarus said. “Mantu is not one of us. But he is free to go as he wishes.”

  The Southerner appeared to consider Gelarus’s words for a moment. Finally, he straightened and looked each of us in the face.

  “Mantu stay,” he said, in his thick accent. “Help Danaan.”

  Gelarus nodded, and continued walking.

  We marched for a while longer. Annyn continued to clutch at Mantu’s arm, as though she needed the support. Mantu looked as though he did not mind helping two different people at the same time.

  IT WAS BARELY two hours later when the ambush took place.

  Gelarus heard the rustling sounds first, and managed to draw his sword just as the Harazen emerged from their hiding places. Each was dressed in long, billowing white robes, and each howled a vicious war-cry as they set upon us. The commander shouted a desperate warning, slicing through the chest of the first attacker to reach him.

  Mantu dropped Danaan’s prone form and left him for Annyn to watch. Clay dove into the fray, slashing madly with his drawn blade. I ran frantically in their direction, drawing my weapon at the same time.

  I counted at first two, and then five, and then twelve before I drove four feet of steel into the nearest Harazen; to my surprise, the man did not slow or flinch one bit. I narrowly avoided a dagger aimed at my eyes, and I pulled myself back to reassess the threat.

  I saw Mantu slash at a Harazen’s throat with his daggers, only to see the blades pass through their target as though they were made of mist. The Southerner leapt aside as a curved blade almost sliced him in half; He looked just as surprised as the rest of us.

  Clay and Gelarus fought wildly, as they desperately struck at opponents who seemed as though they were made from the air itself. Clay swung his sword through another of the illusory figures, and it passed through the Harazen’s visage with no effect at all.

  The four of us gathered, our backs to each other, facing the Harazen with weapons drawn. They surrounded us in a tight circle, each one gibbering curses in their strange language and gesturing with their naked blades.

  “Harazen magic!” Clay cried.

  Gelarus’s face was grim. “Take as many of them with you,” he said. “Buy Annyn the time to escape.”

  One of the Harazen lunged towards us, and I suddenly felt a chill breeze waft through the mountain air. My hair stood on end, and for the first time my heart froze, as though something were terribly wrong.

  Everyone — knight and Harazen alike — turned to look at Annyn. The old woman stood some yards away from us, chanting in some arcane language. Two of the Harazen broke from our circle, approaching her with blades drawn but with confusion clearly written on their faces.

  Then Annyn looked up, and we saw her eyes glow ghostly white. Her chant reached a low crescendo, and one of the Harazen screamed something that I could not understand.

  There was a loud sound, much like a thunderclap, and the Harazen clasped their hands to their ears. They howled a long, mournful cry, and as we watched in stark fascination, each of them began to disappear.

  The Harazen faded away from their moccasined feet upwards, like ashes in a strong wind. Their faces were the last to dissolve, and each of us could see them, screaming, to the very end.

  Afterwards, Annyn never said a word, not even as we picked up Danaan’s litter, and pressed on.

  CLAY SET DOWN his bowl of stew. “No,” he said.

  Gelarus paused, and in the flickering light I could see that the commander’s bowl was untouched. “She must be a sorceress,” he said. “A great sorceress.”

  “Then why don’t we feel any better having her around?” Clay whispered hoarsely. “You saw what she did to the Harazen! You all saw what she did!”

  “Yes,” Gelarus said, looking the young man squarely in the eye. “I don’t know what she did to them, but I also know that she hasn’t done it to us.”

  Everyone remained silent. I stirred the contents of my bowl, looking for something to say but not finding anything at all.<
br />
  Clay kicked at the rocky soil with one foot, then stood up and walked away. Gelarus ignored him.

  After a few more minutes of silence, the commander turned in my direction. “Bring her a meal, Ishar,” he said. “And watch yourself.”

  I found Annyn crouched over Danaan’s litter once again, and I cautiously approached her, bearing her portion of the evening’s stew.

  “Come closer, Ishar,” she said suddenly, almost causing me to spill half the bowl. She looked up, regarding my nervousness with faint traces of amusement.

  She took the bowl from my hands, and for a moment I saw her as we had originally met: just an old woman in a tattered blue cloak and wispy white hair. She stroked Danaan’s forehead with one bony hand.

  “How are you, Ishar?” she asked.

  “Not very good.”

  “You never told me why you return to Morhengaard, Ishar.”

  “I already told you, old one,” I said. “We return home.”

  “What is home?” she asked quietly, still looking into Danaan’s sleeping face. “Home is what we make. Home is what we believe.”

  “Yes,” I said, unable to make sense of her words.

  “Home is what we dream,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She remained silent for a moment.

  I took a deep breath. “What did you do to... those Harazen in the pass?”

  “What I was supposed to do,” she answered cryptically.

  “Magic?” I asked.

  “You could say that.”

  I sighed. That was as far as I was willing to go.

  There was the sound of footsteps behind me, and I turned to see Clay making his way towards us. The young man’s face was weary and anxious, and I wondered what he wanted.

  “Ishar,” he said.

  Annyn looked up at the younger knight. “Are you all right, Master Clay?” she asked.

  Clay shuddered, although it might not have been from the cold night air. “Ishar,” he said, respectfully, “I need to talk with An... the lady Annyn.”