Chapter 3
The First Moon

It was in fact an odd backwater barrio I was in. They didn’t bury their dead. They rolled the corpse in a mat made of woven hay, and hung her on a tree within the woods that surrounded the place. All these I tried to accept with what grace I had. Different culture, that’s all. They explained to me that they were offering her death to the guardians of the forest, to the engkantos and the diwatas that looked out for them. Nature spirits that tended the unruly garden of the woods. I hesitantly asked them what the spirits would do to the corpse. They looked at me funny, and said nonchalantly that the spirits ate the bodies. Different culture, indeed.

I spent the next few weeks disseminating what medical knowledge I had to the townsfolk, treated some of the more common diseases that I could, gave medicines. In my own little way, I tried to give back what I had been blessed with. There were two more deaths, another pregnant woman who was busy dying of starvation anyway, and an old man who was suffering from dementia. He wandered off into the woods one night and was subsequently found decapitated the following day, unexplainable claw and teeth marks all over the naked body. After a couple of months, I decided to return to the city to get more supplies. I also decided to bring a companion along, if I could.

They gave me a huge hen, some dying vegetables, and woven clothes as a farewell gift. Two burly men carried my troubles all the way down the side of the mountain, bundled everything on the roof of the lone tricycle of their pseudo city, and waved me off. I watched their browned broad back as they disappeared into the woods where we came from.

Four hours of bone jolting journey on the tricycle and I was on the primitive stretch of land they decided was an airport. I promptly melted on the pavement, was assisted to the plane that looked like a remnant of the ancient war ridden days, and flew back to Manila.

On the plane, I tried to write down everything I could remember about my stay in the little barrio, too unassuming to even have a name.

When I arrived in Manila, I enlisted the aid of a young upstart doctor who yearned for field work and was never given the chance. Together, we gathered enough funds enough for a six month supply of medicines, food staples, and a few bric a bracs, a couple of tents, flashlights, and other stuff. I was almost determined to civilize the little barrio. I was almost determined to wipe out their superstitious nonsense and bring them to a better life. And this time I was also determined to stay, just a little longer. Tenure has its benefits, and my bank account kept getting fatter.

It took us the rest of the year to gather what supplies we needed for our journey back to the wilderness. I’ve forgotten most of what has happened in my stay in the barrio but for some disjointed flashes of memories. On the night that we left, I told what I could remember of what has happened to my companion. He listened attentively, took in every word. When I was done, he said that there really are some things that modern science cannot explain. He also said that there might be a possible explanation for the fetal deaths and the marks, but probably not the explanation I had in my mind.

That left me more bewildered than I started with.

We boarded the plane in silence, each contemplating the conversation we just had. I glanced his way, and saw him fiddling with the cruciform pendant he had. He didn’t see me. He was staring at his feet. I wanted him to explain what he said to me at the airport, but left it to him to find the right time. I believed he will tell me when he’s ready.

With that, I settled back on my seat, closed my eyes, and dreamt of places far far away.