Philippine Speculative Fiction, Volume 10 Page 4

  I turn to him, my hair framing my face, the knife pressed against the bare flesh of my thigh.

  He is older than me, his dark hair dusted with white. He is taller than even Pol, who is the tallest member of the community. He looks like me and yet unlike me. His hands are like shovels, and his chest is like a broad door. He stands with his legs apart and his arms crossed over his chest. He looks at me warily, as though I am a skittish animal, and he is waiting for me to move.

  “My name is Evelyn,” I say, testing each word out with my lips. “May I know what to call you?”

  “Arthur,” he says. His voice is like thunder in the distance. He takes a step closer, and I feel the air between us vibrate. “I have watched you.”

  “Watched me?”

  “Grow up.” He stops right in front of me. We are not touching, not yet. He towers over me. It is only now that I realize that the windows are not open, and the entire room is lit only by candles. “Did they tell you who I am?”

  “You are supposed to provide us with a child,” I say. “We are so few now, and there is nobody else to…” I falter. “We need your help.”

  There are two glasses on the table next to Arthur. They are filled with liquid, dark and heady. He gives one to me. It smells of ripeness, the ground after the rain. I take a deep drink and feel the world spin.

  “Did Yolanda tell you –?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Arthur raises his arms, and his hands ghost over my arms. I drop the glass and feel the liquid splash at my bare feet. I have never felt anyone touch me like this, and I feel like I am running both cold and hot at the same time. There is a fire in my belly, and my head feels like it is about to explode.

  “You are so young.”

  “I am the youngest in our group.”

  “I know.”

  “There is nobody else.”

  He leans down, and his lips touch mine, and I instantly ignite.

  THERE ARE ONLY the two of us left.

  I am sitting at the tower. The land is spread out like a patchwork quilt, down at my feet. A cool wind blows from the sea, smelling of cleanliness and salt. I am the size of a heavy fruit, round and heavy and ripe. I run my hands across my belly, which is curved like the moon. I can feel the babe in my body swim up and down, breathing in time with the beating of my heart. My arms cradle the world.

  I close my eyes.

  I open them again, and now I know that I am lying down on the floor. My dress is no longer on my body – it lies in tatters, on the ground beside me. Arthur is nowhere to be seen. I search for the knife strapped onto my thigh, but it is not there. I glance down at my body, but there is nothing there. My stomach is flat and hollow.

  There is nothing there.

  Then Arthur is above me. Fear runs through my body. The knife is in his hands, and he is pointing the blade straight at me. “Get up,” he says.

  I get to my feet, shivering. I can feel something wet and sticky run down my legs. He throws me some rags – the remains of my dress – and tells me to wipe myself off. I wince at the sight of a scarlet stain on the cloth. I am conscious of the knife, and how it tracks every movement of my body.

  Once I let go of the rags, Arthur throws a bundle of things at me – clothes, my normal clothes. My mask. He makes me put them on.

  There is something comforting about putting on familiar things again. I feel like I am back inside my own skin. As soon as the mask clicks into place, and I am plugged back in, I am myself.

  Arthur raises his hand to his ear and I hear his voice – how is he doing this? He wears no mask! – in my head. Can you hear me?

  Yes.

  Good.

  And with a swift motion, he throws the knife at me.

  Instinctively, I catch the haft with one hand. My mind tumbles in different directions: was he trying to kill me? Did he do something to me to make me see visions?

  Francisca gave you the knife, says Arthur. She has always been trying to help me, even when I was first captured.

  Captured?

  Have you never wondered why Girlie keeps on going outside, but none of you are even allowed to step beyond the fence? She is looking for new Studs. They know that I am old, that you will live beyond me. They need you to be with child, else you will go the same way as the other communities in this valley.

  I step back, my hand steady as I point the knife directly at his chest. Why can’t you give me a child?

  Arthur’s face changes. I’m infertile. I cannot give you a child, even if I wanted to.

  Then why are you here?

  He raises his hands, gestures to the room. Everyone has to survive. I thought this was my only choice. Francisca came with me, so that I would not be alone.

  I slowly lower my arm. Is this why she gave me a weapon?

  She would not want you to come here unarmed.

  Against who?

  Against Mattie.

  So you are not my enemy?

  No. And I am sorry if I hurt you. It’s just that – you are so beautiful, and I could not help myself.

  I wipe the knife on the cloth of my pants, and slip it back into my belt. I would have given it to you, had you asked.

  I am sorry.

  He breathes, and tells me: You have a choice. Mattie will be here soon. You can either be here or be gone.

  What do you mean?

  Arthur bends down on one knee and taps against the floor of the room. A trap door opens up, and I can smell a draft coming from the drop. There is fresh air coming from somewhere.

  I am giving you the same choice that I gave the last girl. Yolanda. You can leave this place, or stay here, trapped with me, until I die. Because I can never give you a child.

  I step closer to the hole. It is packed tight with brick and stone. This must have been here for centuries. This must be why Arthur chose the farthest home. Did they even know it was here, when they built this enclave?

  Yolly made a third choice. I accuse him.

  Yes. She cut out her tongue with the knife Francisca gave her. She wanted to keep my secret, but she did not want to leave her mother. You are not bound to this community like she is. Arthur shook his head, gesturing to the too-small room, the barred windows. There is more to life than this. You are not living, Evelyn. You are just existing. There is a wider world out there, and you have a chance to get out.

  Why don’t you leave instead?

  What makes you think I haven’t tried?

  The pieces fall into place. Girlie tracks you down.

  He pulls up his pant leg, and I see a thin ring of metal around his ankle. A blinking green light is embedded in the metal. I am a prisoner, and you are not. You have a choice, but I gave up my choice a long time ago.

  I hear a knock on the door. Three sharp taps. Mattie is here.

  The undead? Are they still out there?

  Arthur shakes his head. None has been sighted for five years. He points to the radio hanging at my belt. I will guide you when I can, if I am not yet dead. I still remember enough.

  I look at him, then at the door. He can only keep her out for so long. But it is long enough – his face is shining with hope.

  I make my choice.

  Gabriela Lee received a Master of Arts in Literary Studies from the National University of Singapore. Her poetry and fiction has been published in the Philippines, Singapore, and the US, including the anthologies Fast Food Fiction Delivery and Kaleidoscope: Diverse YA Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories. Her latest work is slated to appear in the anthologies Science Fiction: Filipino Fiction for Young Adults, and New Voices: An Anthology of Fiction. She’s an assistant professor at the Department of English and Comparative Literature at UP Diliman, and can be found online at http://about.me/gabrielalee, or on various social media platforms as @sundialgirl.

  Renz Christian Torres

  The Owl and the Hoopoe

  IT HAD BEEN raining for days in the city of Doha.

  The port city had experienced regular flooding ever si
nce the Persian Gulf Tsunami of 2192, with the tides coming in as high as three of the sailboats which dot the briny sea along Doha’s coast, stacked on top of each other. It was fortunately a resilient city, although it did help to have a high budget for reconstruction. The government had since redirected its programs to morphing the desert city into an amphibious metropolis, accommodating the rainwater when it came, rather than flushing it out.

  At night, despite the heavy mist that had come to surround Doha’s desert air, small lights still glowed sparsely across the skyline. One of these lights belonged to a rooftop café owned by Aling Dorita, who served up a variety of delicious yet inexpensive cuisine, offering a small haven for the expatriates that made up the majority of the capital’s populace.

  Hasna, Aling Dorita’s stepdaughter, trudged outside to shut off the lighted sign of their little café. It was one of the small things she would do for the last time in Doha.

  A camel, wrapped in threadbare scarves and golden trinkets, jingled, as she stood up from her seat. “I hear you’re off into a well-endowed future,” the camel said to her. She gave the young woman her payment for the chicken samosas.

  Hasna nodded, smiling shyly as she wiped the countertop. The camel lifted herself from the table, gave Hasna a little wave, and then disappeared.

  Hasna shook her head, as the overly-decorated spirit faded away. Spirits had been popping up regularly, ever since the tides started to come in. They’d been quite benevolent, coming in and going out like regular humans, only in the skins of animals. Still, Hasna didn’t want to believe in such near-impossible things, like seeing spirits; it was not part of her faith.

  Yet she had to believe they were real, didn’t she? The coins in her palm were real, rattling now in her grip, just like the camel she had served. She shrugged and went inside the shop.

  “Ibu, Aya.” She spoke to the two pictures on the side table near the door. “I guess it is time I start packing up.” Hasna released a great sigh, as she entered the camel’s payment into the cash register. She was to leave for medical school in Jakarta, her father’s home city. She had passed all the entrance exams, and was only spending the summer at the house of her stepmother.

  Aling Dorita, busy cook and captain of the Single Bite rooftop café, yelled from the downstairs kitchen, “Hija, can you please take the plates down here? I need to wash them.” A stack of greasy dishes was set up in a basket by the corner of the rooftop, and as Hasna reached out to take it, she remembered that the last customer hadn’t taken her plate inside. So she braved the rain and ran to where the camel had sat, which was at the farthest table from the doorway, nearest the metal railings.

  THE YOUNG WOMAN skipped across the wet concrete floor – painted coral like a canyon – and ran to the table. She took the plate and shielded her head from the rain with her free arm, glimpsing the sparkling city below her. It was late at night, but the lights, even in the rain, still shone like glittering fireworks; it had been like that every night, for all pedestrians and spirits to see.

  Her father used to take her up on his shoulders to see more of the city lights. Hasna remembered sitting there on the metal railings, clasping hands with both parents – before her mother could no longer join them, before the bed and the medicines. Now she felt herself melding with the raindrops, and felt a tear slipping down her cold face. “How I wish I could say goodbye, one last time,” she said.

  “Seems you have a troubled soul, dearie.”

  Hasna turned to look for the source of the voice.

  By the railings, just beside her, were an owl and a hoopoe. The hoopoe looked neat and crisp in his navy suit, his chest feathers held back by his stark white shirt. The owl had a necklace of pearls draped around her neck. She wore an olive-green bodice and a peach hijab, just like Hasna’s, though designed with more elaborate stitching.

  “I – I’m sorry,” Hasna stuttered, “but we’re closed for tonight.”

  She clung to the plate, clasping it near her chest, almost staining her apron. She quickly looked around for shelter from the rain and ran a few steps away, under the canopy of a juniper tree growing at the side of the building.

  The hoopoe gazed into the distance, smoking a cigarette. “Oh, we’re not here for the food,” he said. He closed a tin of spearmint gum, a makeshift case for his cigarettes. “We just happen to know how you can say goodbye, one last time.”

  Hasna’s eyes widened, and she gulped. Her heart was pounding. Her grip on the plate grew tighter. “There is no way you can talk to the dead,” she said. “And if you do, you never come back...”

  She paused, thinking of how happy she should be, now that her mother and her father were in Paradise – jannah – and how well-provided-for they were in the Garden.

  The owl flicked the hoopoe’s lit cigarette into the dark street below. “We’re only trying to help, dearie,” the owl said. “If you do want to see them again, go to the top of the spiral minaret.”

  Hasna looked far into the foggy cityscape, and could barely see the top of the Kassem Darwish Fakhroo, where her father used to pray. “Are you mad?” Hasna asked the spirits. “Going out into this rain is suicide.”

  The hoopoe leaned back against the railings. The owl preened at her green dress.

  “Well, they will be waiting for you there, either way,” the hoopoe informed her.

  “And you only have until midnight,” the owl added.

  “Good luck,” the spirits said together, and they faded away into the misty air.

  Hasna let out the heaviest of breaths. She ran inside, all wet, and sat down on the straw lounger in the living room.

  “Hasna, can you please bring them down now?” Aling Dorita was still asking, still waiting for the girl to finish her chores. It was the end of evening.

  But what was far from ended was the stirring in Hasna’s gut. The young woman tried not to think about the spirits’ offer. She was shaking, while she sliced the pomegranates for tomorrow’s salad. She didn’t think at all of the Greek crocodiles who usually ordered it for their regular Friday nights out. Each slice she made with the knife was paired with a hard exhalation.

  Four pomegranates in, and she tossed her knife in complete exasperation. She rubbed her forehead and took a glass of water to her room.

  HER BEDROOM WAS a converted attic, covered in lights and tiny mirrors. It held her little boating trophies, as well as her mother’s, from when she had still coasted the Javan Sea in her navigating days. In her room, Hasna was surrounded by mementos of her parents. She sat down on her bed, feeling defeated.

  A drip of rain fell from the ceiling and into her glass of water. She looked up, and she saw the canoe her mother once used to catch fish, back in the old country. Hasna and her father had used it to cover the gaping hole in the attic’s ceiling. This was before Aling Dorita met her father, and before Hasna called it her bedroom.

  As she gazed upward, a strange determination replaced the churning in Hasna’s stomach. She rushed two floors down, to Aling Dorita, and found her simmering a pot of pork stew.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, hija?” Aling Dorita answered, while removing wilted leaves of Chinese cabbage from the stew.

  “Can I take out the boat in my room? The one that has been covering the hole in the ceiling? I’ll be sure to cover the hole with the emergency tarpaulin instead.”

  Aling Dorita let out a bemused giggle. “But what are you going to use that old thing for? You’re not going to row it through the flood waters, are you?”

  Hasna licked her dry mouth and nodded.

  Her stepmother’s eyebrows shot up. She set aside her onions, and motioned for Hasna to take a seat. “Hija, where are you going with that thing?”

  “It’s important,” Hasna replied. “I – I need to go out to the spiral minaret.”

  “In this weather? What for?”

  “I need to know something,” Hasna said, in a shy, pained voice. The shame was painted all over her face.

  Aling Dori
ta softened her expression and brushed a work-worn hand over her stepdaughter’s face. “You are just like your father,” Aling Dorita said. “Always astoundingly curious.”

  She lifted Hasna’s chin up. “Go. But take the umbrella with you.”

  Hasna embraced Aling Dorita with the conviction otherwise shown only by young children.

  Aling Dorita returned the gesture, and watched Hasna, her daughter by heart, rush up the stairwell. “Oh Lord,” she muttered, crossed herself, and wished the girl safety in the downpour.

  Hasna took off her apron and replaced her soggy clothes. She wrapped a beige hijab – her mother’s – around her head, and secured it. She tossed the ropes of the emergency tarpaulin across the ceiling of her room.

  She then took the giant oar sitting ornately in the living room, and went outside, into the rain. She used a ladder to get to the canoe, which was perched on top of their building. She nudged the boat with the oar, pushing the boat closer to the edge, until it finally slid down the side of the café, into the galley, knocking down a few chairs and tables in its way.

  Aling Dorita watched her. She had seen Hasna passionately read through her cookbooks, and her father’s medical books, and her mother’s navigation books, but she had never seen her daughter fulfill her curiosity in this hasty, abrupt manner. She could only offer the protection of an open umbrella, which Hasna politely grabbed from her, before kissing her on the cheek.

  “You keep yourself safe, okay?” Aling Dorita told her.

  Hasna nodded.

  Aling Dorita secured a rope ladder – a souvenir of her husband’s first wife, from a ballooning trip – on the hand railing, and watched Hasna lower herself onto the rickety canoe.

  HASNA HADN’T RIDDEN a boat in a long time, much less piloted one down flooded streets. Those boating trophies of hers had been won in childhood, and riding a boat wasn’t exactly the fastest or trendiest manner of city travel. The sailboats and yachts that surrounded the port of Doha were mostly for show in recent times, owned by the rich, the famous, and the enthused.