Chapter 7
Past Regrets, Present Hopes
In the time it took Dalon to drop off Toba, gather a bucket of water from the Big River, and return home, his mother’s fever had gone from merely noticeable to distinctly blazing. All the blankets in the house swaddled her shivering form. His Pa sat at the edge of the cot, looking slightly lost. Pulsing with restless energy, Dalon hailed another raft and headed back to shore.
He ventured for the closest healing hut inland. Its nipa roof peeked between rows of palm trees. It had been almost a year since Dalon had last treaded this path, but his feet knew it well. Potted plants lined the packed dirt leading up to the hut, which was a large, well-made structure with thick stilts high enough for the space below the floor to be a functioning storage space. There were three such huts across Lurit, and last Dalon had heard, Datu Hálgundî was planning to build another one.
A twinge in his arm momentarily distracted him. His collision with Karí earlier hadn’t been as impactful on him as it had evidently been on her, but there was a sprouting bruise on his arm. He could imagine she’d have them in a few places as well. Heat crawled up his neck at his carelessness.
Dalon didn’t even remember running that fast. But then again, his mind had been on his mother and the additional errands he’d have to run. If someone were to ask how he got to the river in the first place, Dalon wouldn’t be able to recount it. One moment, Toba’s cries were echoing in his ears, the next he slammed into something, and there was Karí drenched in water on the sand. He’d been fortunate it wasn’t someone else, thank Lakimpalad. Karí had brushed the incident off despite Dalon giving what he now realized was a lacklustre apology. He ought to make a more sincere one tonight.
There was no queue in front of the healing hut yet, so Dalon took the stairs two steps at a time. He knocked on the door, and a woman opened it. Her braided hair was grey, bordering on white, and fine wrinkles lined her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Still, she stood straight-backed and there was a vigour to her expression that belied her years.
“Dalon!” The katalonan seemed surprised to see him. Grandma Ahel had been the one to tend to his mother during all those years of sickness, as well as his father when he’d been injured. She seemed to him less of a village healer, and more of a grandmother, seeing how present she’d been in his home life. “Is everything all right? Or are you finally here for a friendly visit?”
The meaning of her last question was not lost on Dalon. It must seem rude to only show up here whenever he needed something. He rubbed the back of his neck, still warm from his recollection of Karí.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been very—“
“Busy,” she supplied, a gentle understanding on her face. “It’s an illness that has made you come, then? Well, what are you still standing there for? Step inside!”
Dalon’s feet crossed the threshold, compelled by the warmth and strength in Grandma Ahel’s voice. Like the pathway, the inside of the healing hut hadn’t changed. A large shelf filled with pots, jars, winnowers, and baskets stood by the left wall. Beneath the window opposite the doorway was a low, squat table with a pile of thin sheets of bamboo and a sharp writing implement. There was a small bowl of ashes in the corner, ready to darken the etchings on the sheets. Occupying the remaining space in the main room were two rows of mats and a cot for patients to lie on. A curtained doorway led to more rooms in the right wing.
“Is it your mother again?” Grandma Ahel asked.
“Yes, she woke up this morning with a cough and a fever. She’s gotten worse in the short time since then.”
“All right, let me see what I have for you.” Grandma Ahel pulled several pots from the shelf, setting them on the table. She measured and scooped their contents onto a piece of banana leaf, all the while humming a mellow tune. Dalon didn’t recognize it, but the pleasing vibration of her voice in the still air eased his distress a little.
He wondered if Grandma Ahel was intentionally using this serene tune for him. All healers learned how to wield their voice with purpose, and perhaps it was just second nature to her now. The ability to hone that skill separated powerful healers from average ones, for a malleable voice allowed spirits to communicate with the human world through the katalonan.
Maybe that was another reason Dalon was attracted to storytelling. An effective voice was a sign of physical and spiritual vigour, not just for a healer, but for anybody. That was why orators like Grandma Damang garnered so much respect, why datus who were articulate earned so much admiration. Using his voice to tell stories seemed like a celebration of the health he’d been bestowed, knowing that so many people in his own life weren’t as lucky.
“I hear you’ve been getting larger crowds with your stories,” Grandma Ahel said, as she wrapped the herbal blend in the leaf. “I remember when you were half my height and insisted on telling your mother the story of ‘Little Bamboo and Ragini’ as she was falling asleep. Look at you now, taller than me, and with a real audience too!”
“Ah, thank you, Grandma. It did take me some time to woo them over,” Dalon said, thinking back a year ago when he first tried narrating in front of Uncle Ilas’ customers. “There’s quite a bit of difference between trying to catch the attention of busy folks and distracting your sick mother from her ailments.”
“I bet there is. Speaking of ailments, get your mother to drink a hot cup of this three times a day.” Grandma Ahel approached him with the package of herbs. “It should make her feel better. I hope you haven’t forgotten how to brew this.”
Dalon accepted the package with a strained smile. “Of course I didn’t forget. You were a great teacher.”
He drew ten copper beads from his pouch as payment. “Actually, I... I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I haven’t been making offerings to grandmother lately. Do you think this is her doing? Is she tugging at my mother’s spirit again?” Every day after work, he set aside two fish from the package Aunt Nigo gave him as part of his pay. One fish usually went to Kawalanlunod, the other to Lakimpalad. The rest went to his family for their meal the next day.
“I wouldn’t know until I perform a rite on your mother.” Grandma Ahel accepted the beads from him. “But if it gives you some peace of mind, I’m not too worried about your mother’s symptoms. Many people have recovered from a cold before. A few villagers have been here for that same reason the last few days. If she shows any signs of getting worse, come and fetch me.”
Dalon thanked her again, and after a few moments where he grasped for something else to say but failed, he finally took his leave. Grandma Ahel had done so much for his family, she deserved more than a list of symptoms for a conversation. But he couldn’t quite muster the usual energy he had for a cheerful small talk. It would just seem contrived, and he had other things to do.
One day, when everything was all right, he would visit Grandma Ahel without an illness to motivate him.
For the rest of the day, Dalon tried to use his anxious restlessness as energy for his chores. It was not a foreign feeling to him. It had been a constant companion when he’d been younger and had only retreated for the better part of a year. But it hadn’t entirely disappeared. It had just slept. With every batch of smoked fish he could wrap and arrange on Aunt Nigo’s stall, a tendril of satisfaction sliced through his scattered nerves. Every one of those they sold today would result in money Dalon could put towards his Ma’s recovery.
But there was only so many fish that could fit in the boiling salt bath, only so many batches that could fit in the racks, and only so long to keep smoking them. Dalon was short on time today, and he’d known when he’d arrived late at Aunt Nigo’s stall that he wouldn’t make as much money as he usually did.
Instead, Dalon sat by one of the boiling cauldrons, fishing for ideas to explain Princess Maya’s predicament in his story. An impressed audience would certainly be more willing to part with their beads during the festival, and Dalon could make up for all the money he was losing today.
The late afternoon crowd was barely paying any attention to the ranks of seafood around them. Even Aunt Nigo was chatting excitedly with the women in the neighbouring stalls. Word was, the caravan had finally arrived, and Datu Hálgundî had declared that the festival could begin the next morning, just as planned.
“Oh, the other merchants are fine, but I just want my sacks of rice, that’s all. I’ve already planned out the next few days’ worth of meals,” one woman said in high-pitched glee.
“You say that as if you don’t go around eyeing the embroidered sashes from the merchant from Lawang-Singsing,” Aunt Nigo teased.
“Who said it was the embroidered sashes I was eyeing?” Soft giggles erupted. “Never mind that. What I want to know is if Datu Hálgundî can bargain for cheaper cotton for us, too. The same way he did with the rice.”
“First, he’ll have to find a cotton-merchant who’s a nobody,” a different voice said this time. It was the older woman who grilled fish a few stalls down.
“Merchant Tangad isn’t a nobody,” Aunt Nigo defended. “I heard he trades all over the archipelago these days.”
“Yes, these days,” the older woman agreed. “He was a lot humbler when Datu Hálgundî first brought him to trade in Lurit. Two years later, he’s suddenly putting on airs. One would think that’s a short time for a man to forget his beginnings.”
“If he can afford to put on airs, just let him be. And be careful about saying those things, because we certainly can’t afford the fee for insult. Especially you, Auntie. Not with your daughter about to deliver her third child.”
Nothing about their conversation was illuminating. It certainly didn’t give Dalon any inspiration. What kind of conversations and activities was Karí privy to that she got story ideas from them? Things must be a lot more interesting in the northern parts of Lurit.
Dalon hunched up his shoulders and crouched a little more. There wasn’t a lot he could hear from this one spot, but with the amulet, a lot of minds were within reach. His fingers enclosed the pendant, and his lids fluttered closed. Immediately, pulsing globes of white light surrounded him, some gliding quickly north and south, others stationary. His mind’s eye sought for any orb swirling with colour nearby, but there was none. Was nobody making up stories like Karí did?
But no, all the lights remained white, some dimly glowing, others more brightly. He couldn’t use any of those. He’d tried before. He couldn’t fall into them, the same way he fell into Karí’s when rainbow flashed through hers. Dalon had long suspected that white light meant a mind occupied with the here and now and other matters of reality. Real thoughts that the King Eyes couldn’t penetrate.
Suddenly, bright colours infused several small orbs bobbing up and down in the inky space. Hope flared within Dalon. He opened his eyes and snuck a glance back to where the orbs were in his mind.
To his dismay, they belonged to children, one of whom was Aunt Nigo’s eldest, Lika. The children were splashing on a puddle, pretending to be amulet hunters. They prodded the puddle with sharp sticks, exclaiming over little rocks. “Look, this rock makes me see farther. I can see an ant swimming down the Little River!” one little boy announced. The others laughed.
Dalon had once played that game too, back when he’d believed that every little trinket that might wash ashore held a mysterious magic he was meant to unlock. The reality was less extravagant. Although most amulets across the archipelago were indeed discovered near bodies of water or blown in after a storm, finding an amulet in Lurit was an event few and far between. Datu Hálgundî was only in possession of a palm-sized shell that glowed in the dark and a steel knife that never dulled. Dalon had been truly well and shocked when he’d discovered that his father’s heirloom was one.
He spun back around, eyes catching the boiling broth in front of him. With a sigh, he dropped his hand. He would never use the King Eyes on children that young. In fact, he ought not to use it on anybody who wasn’t aware he was doing it. It had been wrong when he’d done it on Karí the first time, and it would still be wrong now, even when his need was greater.
The first time Dalon realized that his father’s pendant was an amulet was three months ago when, in a rare instance of vanity, he had hung it on a length of leather and wore it as a necklace. When he’d reclined on his mat that night and closed his eyes, his fingers playing with the metal, he suddenly descended into that strange black world populated with spheres. At first, he’d thought he was hallucinating from exhaustion. But he’d consistently entered that space only while he was gripping the pendant and his eyes were closed. No hallucination could be so congruent.
He’d been frightened and struck with grief. If the pendant really was an amulet, he must present it to the datu, who would likely decide to keep it. Yet it was his family’s remaining possession that held a lot of value and history — no matter how obscure or distant — that had survived their frantic attempts to stave off starvation.
For the first few days thereafter, Dalon had tried not to think too hard about it. He’d worked and performed chores as usual. Besides, what would he say to Datu Hálgundî? “It’s an amulet that brings you into a world with miniature suns?” Wouldn’t it be better if Dalon knew exactly what it could do? Maybe if it had fascinating powers, he could surrender it for a high price. And if it didn’t, then perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to just keep it for his family.
One night before sleep had whisked Dalon away, a distant white sphere had burst into colourful swirls. It looked like a star, if stars could twinkle in a mix of vibrant purples and pinks and yellows and greens. His awareness trekked across the dark space, like he was moving north towards the mountain. Once he was in front of the coloured sphere, he’d reached out, heart thumping in his throat.
There had been the terrifying sensation of falling. Then he came to a gentle stop, but all around him, his environment had changed. Two youths garbed in strange clothes had appeared in front of him, although they didn’t seem to notice him. For the next few moments, Dalon watched, bewildered, as the youths played out several scenes that seemed reminiscent of a story he’d heard before.
Dalon hadn’t known what to make of the experience, hadn’t been sure exactly what the amulet had done. But the following day, he’d realized that he’d seen a version of ‘Monkey and Turtle,’ except the animals had appeared as humans.
That very night, with the waning interest of the five people in front of Uncle Ilas’ stall at his seventh time narrating ‘The Fifty-One Thieves,’ Dalon had switched stories partway through. Instead, he’d retold the vision he’d seen, recapturing the enthusiasm of the listeners.
Only when a young woman had sought him afterward did the two of them put together what the King Eyes had allowed Dalon to do.
He remembered the doubt at first. The visions he’d encountered were so fantastical, so surreal, that his mind struggled to accept that it came from a person. Then came the shame, which he recalled even better. Those lights, they were probably minds. The colourful one he’d fallen into, that was her mind. Just the mind of a girl who was daydreaming, trying to make herself fall asleep. Dalon had never felt so voyeuristic.
No, the idea of doing it to someone else left a sour and bitter taste at the back of his throat. He was beyond fortunate that Karí had not only forgiven his intrusion, but had also given him a chance to make up for it. There would be no making up for anyone else, as he didn’t want to reveal the amulet to even more people. And if he couldn’t expect a fair, assenting exchange, then he didn’t want it. He couldn’t rely on it.
The cheerful voices of the children playing by the puddle penetrated his reverie. One boy was now standing apart from the others, arms crossed. It seemed he lost whatever game they’d been playing and was petulant about it. “I don’t care!” he cried to the others. “Ma thinks it’s silly to look for amulets, anyway. She says I’m her real amulet. I bring her good luck!”