Chapter 1

Big River, Little Hut

Of the rafts dotting the Big River, only one was accepting passengers, and Dalon didn’t dare miss it. Heart thudding, sweat trickling, he leapt from the shoddy pier just as the raft veered away. His feet thumped on the rows of bamboo, and he exhaled in relief. The muted rays of the sun were already crawling to the horizon, and walking in the dark to the market where he told his tales wasn’t his idea of fun.

The raft-rower, a medium-built man wearing a dirty green turban, didn’t miss Dalon’s late boarding even amidst ten other passengers, and he stretched out his hand through the crowd. Dalon flashed the man an appeasing smile and dropped copper beads onto the waiting palm. With the fare taken care of, the raft-rower plunged a long bamboo pole into the water and gave the raft another mighty push upriver.

Some distance ahead, three bigger rafts fought the steady rush of the waves to the sea. Crates and boxes crouched on their surfaces, tightly lashed by ropes. Several people paddled with hungry strokes, while others spread their arms across the cargo, steadying them against the waves.

“I heard that when the rice-merchant arrived this afternoon, they needed a dozen of the fishing boats to transport his sacks of rice,” a middle-aged woman near the centre of the raft told the man beside her. “Apparently, he brought ten different grains this time.”

“Ten types!” the man echoed. He had the tanned, leathery skin typical of the fishers of Lurit, and his bright smile was a testament to the simmering excitement on the raft. The rice-merchant only visited the village twice a year, after all. “Goodness, I don’t know how Datu Hálgundî got him to sell his rice at a discount, but at this point, I don’t even care.”

“Wish the rice-merchant didn’t have to reserve all the other rafts this evening though,” someone muttered near the back.

“Someone’s got to transport his companions and belongings,” an irritated voice shot back. “Who’s going to do that? You, with some log-rollers on land?”

Several folks chuckled, then everyone braced themselves as the raft-rower lunged them through the waters with another heave. Pressed close to eleven other people, Dalon gave a silent thanks to Lakimpalad, goddess of fortune, for granting him an unexpected growth-spurt a few years ago. With his face unobstructed by the crowd, the fresh scent of the river could at least battle the musky stench of day-old sweat.

“I saw a cotton trader just after I had my midday meal,” the raft-rower chimed in the conversation. “He’s not the same one that came in the last caravan. This one took the route over the mountain.”

Curious murmurs rose among the passengers. “That’s too bad. The previous one always haggled honestly,” the middle-aged woman replied. “Hope this one will too.”

Dalon tapped the sturdy bamboo of the raft with a foot. He glanced at the raft-rower’s pole, and his hands itched to hold it, to sweep it across the waves as fast as he could. If this were his own raft, nothing could stop him from doing it. If this were his own raft, he wouldn’t have had to rush from the fish market to catch a ride in the first place.

A swift breeze swept by, ruffling the tips of the grasses and reeds on the riverbank. Dalon’s long, dark braid swung to the side, and loose strands of hair slapped his cheeks. Behind him, one passenger stepped away.

Perhaps Dalon wasn’t the only one wishing he was on his own raft right about now.

Standing behind him was an older man with graying hair and a stained, threadbare tunic. Dalon gave him a sympathetic grimace.

“Apologies, sir. I had a long day at the fish market.” After a year of preparing mackerels for a vendor, the odour of smoked fish no longer bothered Dalon much. Plenty of others, however, still found it a pungent scent.

The old man shrugged. “Not to worry, boy. It’s just I haven’t eaten yet, and you smell like you’d go nicely dipped in soy sauce and vinegar.”

“With some onions too, perhaps?” Dalon shared the man’s weary laugh. “By the way, sir, do you know if a bamboo merchant has arrived yet?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure there will be at least one. It’s rare for a caravan not to have someone selling bamboo.”

Warm energy coursed through Dalon’s chest. It had taken him half a year to save enough for eight bamboo poles. Most of those savings he’d managed to gather only in the last three months, after he’d met Karí and his storytelling sessions had garnered more interest. If his estimate for the number of people arriving in the caravan was correct, all he needed to do was tell a wildly successful story during the festival to earn enough for four more bamboo poles.

And then Dalon would have a complete set for his own raft. He could sleep in a little later, not needing to catch the pre-dawn rides. He could row to the fish vendor himself, or to the healing hut, or across the coast. And once he no longer needed to pay other raft-rowers, he would get to save even more money. Perhaps he could get a new toy for his little brother, Toba. Or a steadier cane for his father. Or just fill up his savings jar, in case his mother needed medicine again.

Palm and banana trees vied for height along the river, shadowing the lower shrubs and mangroves squatting at the banks. The tops of nipa huts poked between the greenery like anthills among grass. Although Lurit was home only to a thousand people, the population was quite spread out. It took some time before Dalon spied the pier that led to his destination. The raft-rower paused there, and Dalon hopped onto wooden boards that didn’t wobble under his weight like the one downriver.

He jogged east, through a slim path bordered by ylang-ylang trees and wild shrubs. A cluster of nipa huts welcomed him as he burst from the passage. Dalon wove his way around them until he arrived at a clearing surrounded by stalls and smaller houses. During the day, villagers traded produce, dry goods, and cooked food here.

Only one stall remained open. It was a food stall that continued to sell light fares for those who wanted to enjoy the company of friends before bedtime. For now, it only served palm wine and coconut water, along with candied fruits. Once Uncle Ilas received his ration of rice in the coming days, rice cakes would start flying out of this stall too.

Dalon always found it curious that the villagers of Lurit didn’t grow rice, considering how much everyone wanted it. But the settlement was fenced in by woods which thickened into forests further east, west, and north all the way to Mount Abutaw. And most of the villagers were fishers, unused to and uninterested in clearing land for farming. The chief of their village, Datu Hálgundî, had to strike a deal with a merchant to sell rice to the villagers at a cheaper price.

“Good evening, Uncle Ilas!” Dalon called to the round, sturdy man piling up dried mango slices on banana leaves for a customer. In front of the stall, groups of people lounged on mats that Uncle Ilas set out for his nightly fares. “Nice, friendly crowd tonight. You serving something special?”

“You know my specialty won’t come until I get a sack of those sweet, glutinous grains.” The vendor grinned at him, wiping his hands on his apron. “Nah, lad. They’re here for you. Been asking what story you might tell tonight. Told them you surprise me, just like everyone else.”

A giddy lightness spread across Dalon’s body, loosening some knots that had formed in his shoulders after a day bent over fish. There had been a time when a handful of people were all he could expect to listen to him. That was before he’d met Karí.

“Do you want a drink before you start?” Uncle Ilas asked. There was a gap on the left side of his smile, a tooth sacrificed to his love for sugar cane.

Dalon’s cheeks warmed. He had failed to catch a raft on time only once before, and he ended up sprinting across the village to get to this market. Moments after he’d reached the stall, he’d dropped to the ground in exhaustion.

But it wasn’t the fainting that embarrassed him, exactly. It was that Uncle Ilas had likely guessed that Dalon hadn’t drunk enough that day, and it had been one of those sweltering days when the air clung to the skin like a leech. Dalon’s belly shrivelled at the thought of someone like Uncle Ilas believing he couldn’t take care of himself.

“No, thank you. I drank before I got here.”

“Not even a tiny sip of this refreshing, delicious coconut water? I promise I won’t ask for a higher cut from whatever you earn tonight.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking that--”

“Come along, then. I won’t stop asking until you do.”

Dalon truly wasn’t that thirsty, but he tried the coconut water anyway. The cold liquid slid smoothly down his throat, leaving behind a mild, sweet flavour. Uncle Ilas hadn’t been merely teasing about how good it was.

“Thank you,” Dalon said, smiling.

“So, what’s the story for tonight?” The vendor’s eyes sparkled in the lone torch of the market.

“The House in the Woods.”

“Didn’t you already tell that one before?”

“Not this version.” Dalon winked.

He brushed off a few char marks from his sleeveless tunic and thigh-length loincloth. The former had once been grass-green, the latter muddy brown, but time had bleached both. Any charcoal stains now stood out starkly. Finally, he rebraided his hair, then looked back at the crowd.

A little boy waved at Dalon, squatting on a mat beside an old woman with graying hair and wrinkles around her mouth. Dalon waved back at the familiar sight, then scanned the others. Some he didn’t recognize, but there was the group of youths who used to play noisy games here before he began telling stories regularly. There was also the woman with neatly braided hair and two layers of patched skirts, bouncing her toddler on her lap.

“Labayan and Kanturi, brother and sister, limped their way through the dark, wild forest,” Dalon began, voice cutting gently through the evening like teeth sinking into rice-cake. An official storyteller, like Grandmother Damang, who told tales at Datu Hálgundî’s behest, would have started with a powerful melody and an introduction to the story. Depending on the type of tale, she might even sing the whole thing.

But a casual narrator could be more flexible. Here, where the audience held many children, Dalon found that a conversational tone best hooked their attention. It was as if they fancied themselves as eavesdroppers, overhearing a story about people they knew. And in a way, that was true. Not a child grew up in the isles ignorant of the tale of 'The House in the Woods.'

“They had been travelling for many days, carrying only the clothes on their backs. There hadn’t been time to pack more when their mean, surly father thought it was time they made their own way in the world. After all, they were both six years old now.”

Amused chuckles bubbled up from the small crowd. Dalon paused, waiting to see if anyone would object to his choice of story now that it was clear which one he planned to tell. Several times before, he’d been requested to narrate something else. But no protests came from the small crowd, and he continued.

“Kanturi, weak with hunger and exhaustion, slumped against a tree, just as her brother pointed ahead. ‘Look! A house!’ he said. They made their way to the little nipa hut, not much bigger than Uncle Ilas’ stall over there. They knocked on the door, and from inside, a voice called out to say...”

“Children, come in!” a gleeful chorus responded from the audience.

Dalon grinned. “That’s right. And we know what Labayan and Kanturi found in that hut. Food to keep them full, clothes to keep them warm, a cozy place to keep them safe. That hut sustained them for many years until they both grew up to be a fine young man and woman.

“But what they didn’t find was the person who answered them on that first fateful day. Despite hearing a voice that welcomed them, the siblings didn’t see anybody inside that house. And they never heard that voice again. But who was it? Where did it come from? Perhaps it’s time to learn about that voice.”

Blinks and whispers met his admission. “But nobody knows who it is!” remarked a girl of about twelve, with a tiny scratch on her chin. This was the first time Dalon had seen her.

“Ah, what if I tell you that I do? That the voice belonged to someone who was cursed? Someone who made a mistake long ago, and she’s on her own quest for redemption that is just as worthy of telling as Labayan and Kanturi’s tale?”

Dalon closed his eyes and inhaled the warm, mossy tang in the air. In his mind flashed a series of scenes that narrated the life of this faceless character. She was a figure sidelined by the main story, whose only role was to invite the children into the hut. But this was exactly the kind of mystery that his friend Karí liked to unravel.

Dalon let out a slow breath, opened his eyes, and glanced at the faces looking up at him in anticipation. Then he spun a tale of arrogance and greed, and the price people paid when they lived their lives hoarding blessings to themselves. The woman, whom Karí had named Salanga, had been well-off in her youth. Spoiled by her wealth, she feared poverty so much that she’d withheld sacrifices for her ancestors and offerings for the gods, fearful that giving even a little would leave her with nothing.

One day, the goddess Lakimpalad, overseer of fortune, struck a curse upon Salanga. She bound Salanga’s spirit to the hut in the woods and turned her body invisible. Forever she would stay this way until she could learn generosity. Until she could learn to give away all of her possessions with an open heart, without expecting even a sliver of acknowledgment in return. Everything that Labayan and Kanturi found and used in that hut had been Salanga’s. She’d been meting out her belongings, which remained unspoiled by the passage of time, even though it had been five generations since she’d been cursed.

Dalon eased into his narration, his spirit buoyed by the curious lifting of the audience’s brows or their slow, pleased smiles. There were many other ways to make a bit of extra money, some far more lucrative. But none offered him the ready connection with others that storytelling did. And with so little time in his days for deep talk and heartfelt exchanges, it was enough to see that others were moved by the same lines as him, thrilled by the same adventures, terrified by the same punishments, and touched by the same triumphs.

He closed off his tale the way it did in the original, with Kanturi marrying the wealthy datu of a nearby settlement, and her brother marrying one of the datu’s beautiful sisters. But this time, he also concluded Salanga’s journey of redemption. By including her one last jewellery among the bride price the datu offered Kanturi, Salanga untethered her spirit from the hut and her body became visible once more. Lakimpalad lifted her curse, and she began a new life.

Allowing the echoes of his last words to fade into the soft wind, Dalon relaxed his shoulders and dissolved into a grin. At last, he wrapped up his story with the customary conclusion of all tales, original or otherwise. “This is how I heard the story of 'The House in the Woods.' When next you greet your neighbours by the river and the fields, by the mountain and the sea, ask them how they heard it and tell it back to me."

There was a collective sigh from the crowd, as if they’d been so rapt with his story they’d forgotten to breathe. Dalon knew the feeling. He experienced it every time he watched stories come to life in Karí’s mind using the amulet they both kept secret. Unbidden, his fingers flew to the white metal pendant hanging around his neck.

“That was a very comforting story.” The young woman with the long braid gathered her toddler in her arms and stood up from the mat. “I hope more people will learn the lesson Salanga did.”

“I doubt anyone here in Lurit needs to be taught so strictly, like she did. I, myself, am already familiar with all your generosity.”

Dalon took a ratty winnower from Uncle Ilas’ counter. With a modest smile, he extended it out to the crowd. Some of the audience members dropped copper beads into the winnower.

“Thank you,” Dalon said. “Thank you all so much.”

“I got nothing worth Salanga’s jewellery, but these should help,” said the old woman accompanying the little boy who sat on the front mat. The beads clinked as they fell from her grip.

“I appreciate it all the same.”

By the time the crowd had dispersed, the winnower was rattling with copper beads. It wasn’t much, but a steady trickle of change added up over time. Even this amount had once been difficult to come by.

Dalon scooped half of the beads and handed them over to Uncle Ilas. Discreetly, he slipped two more to pay for the coconut water the vendor had given him earlier. Although Uncle Ilas didn’t charge him for it, Dalon thought it was only fair. “Your share. Thanks for keeping your stall open this late into the night. Your wife must hate me.”

“My wife loves you,” Uncle Ilas answered with a wry smile. “And she’s disappointed you never take up her invitation to have dinner with us.”

“Ah, the dinner invitation, yes.” Dalon scratched his head. He’d forgotten all about it. “It’s just my work at the fish market takes up most of my time, and then I have to plan the stories...”

“It’s all right, I understand.” Uncle Ilas nodded. “You’re a busy boy. Wouldn’t be able to sell stories if you were an idler, would you, now? You going to be all right walking home by yourself?”

“You ask me this each night I’m here, and I always come back unscathed, don’t I?” Dalon smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

And just like Uncle Ilas, Dalon knew someone who was waiting for him, too. Not at home, but somewhere a little closer.