MARICAYANA: The Beginning [ONC 2021]

5: OF QUAIL & FIRE

The wild quails Wening caught for dinner weren't even half as fat as the ones Father used to keep.

The man had been so good at everything he raised—including the banana crop at the front yard and, arguably, Wening herself—that in a relatively short period of time, batches of healthy offspring could be produced by a couple of scrawny wild quail Father had initially captured.

At some point after their settling down at Jaladara Forest outskirt, the birds became their primary source of steady income. Father travelled so often to the village center due to the ever increasing demands and soon enough, he earned the title "quail guy" by the villagers.

"Quail guy" really sounded as harmless as Father's general look without his macan kumbang kris strapped on his back. He was so damn proud of the nickname too, thinking it was hilarious. Wening secretly thought it was embarrassing, but she would never in a thousand year deny the man a simple happiness. Cringe-inducing as it was.

The times Father ever looked decidedly not sad was too few and too far in between already.

Sure.

By the time they settled in the area, about eight years after Father took Wening under his wings, the man had grown significantly less sad-looking, of that she was certain. And Father's soft, genuine smile was always heartwarming when it wasn't wistful.

Still.

There were days when old grief came back and embraced Father like a lover, into which he willingly succumbed. During these days, Father would return home from the market with several bamboo tubes of tuak nectar wine instead of money. He, too, would've been at least half-drunk by the time he arrived.

If it was already so late into the night, as it had mostly been the case, Father would refrain from getting inside the house. The man wouldn't ever bother knocking. Instead, he would make himself comfortable on the bamboo divan placed in front of their little cottage and spend the night huddling with tubes after tubes of tuak wine.

On these nights, Wening frequently found herself lying awake still, though she nonetheless appreciated Father's considerate gesture.

As lingsir wengi—midnight—struck, father usually started fluting with his bamboo seruling. With an unexpected expertise, he often played a tune of longing and regrets, of ghosts from a happier past, of a shinier future he managed to grasp but didn't last.

And later, much later, only after the wistful melody had finally ceased to echo, Wening would quietly go outside to spread their thickest blanket all over Father's sprawled figure.

Come morning, Father would find Wening somewhere in or around the cottage, then give her a bleary but appreciative smile, which she would return with a silent, curt nod. No question asked, no answer forthcoming. Over the years, Father had made clear of his reluctance to share his past and Wening knew better than to speak a word about it.

Wening wished she hadn't known better. It was too late now to ask Father of anything at all. He already brought all his secrets and mystery buried along with him three hasta under.

And as far as she knew, Wening was all Father had left to mourn his passing.

There was no one else for him; no family, no friend, no other attachment. Even those fat quails he had religiously raised had all been sent to quail heaven by the same black-clad scums who razed Wening's own little heaven to dust.

Back to the present, Wening stared at her three pathetic-looking quails with a morbid sense of nostalgia. She had managed to catch the whole family of five (save two adolescent ones that she let go to continue the existence of their species), but they just came to be as scraggy as any wild animal could get. Wening couldn't even blame the poor catch on the low visibility of dusk.