Ocean Child: Anak Laut

Isa

Disclaimer: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. The whole book is inspired by pre-colonial Filipino society but is not limited to that. There will be words borrowed from the different languages of the Philippines (mostly from the Kapampangan people and language since I am one) and other Southeast Asian countries. There will also be words totally made up by me, the author. This book is made out of goodwill and is NOT MADE TO DEMEAN any indigenous tribe, their customs, their culture, or their people.  Happy reading!

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There are a few ways to determine the gods' will. One way to do so is through reading. Reading is the act of interpreting the divine through the forming scribbles of old bones' cracks in a fire pit; the dancing of the clouds on the longest day of the year; the ebbs and flows of the ocean on a full moon. It is known that only a few women - the mamalian - can read. Only they can pass this sacred art to their daughters - daughters chosen by fate.

But of course, there is always a curious case.

Old ears tune to the rowdy festivities. Ancient orbs of storm clouds searching between crackles and embers. Hues of oranges, reds, and blues dancing in blurry flashes. Wispy sighs swimming in merry giggles and laughter. Cracked and dry lips mouth muddled words of a language half-buried in an awaiting grave.

The mamalian tunes out the high pitch thrumming of the horizontally-laid golden gongs - a kulintang - atop a wooden, scaly serpent-dragon table; the low hum of the dabakan - a goblet-shaped drum made out of goatskin and wood. The electrifying sound of a zither and the duet of a bamboo flute and three-stringed violin sing above the sound of the drums and percussion. The loud festivities of the village people; all wearing their best-woven robes. Shades of rust, sunshine, and flame fleet through the clearing. Children's tiny feet reverberate against the ground akin to a small army.

The village's chieftain - datu - sits on a rare purple blanket with silken pillows. His gold and tangerine sarong tied in a knot at his waist. A dark bark and gold sword - a talibong - remains sheathed and hanging on his torso. His bronze skin, a canvas of ink. Each stroke of charcoal, a legend of his battles. His whole form is decorated in jewels and precious metals. His guards - the warrior class of maharlika - bear ink on their skin. Fabrics on their loins and jewelry a dull comparison to the datu's. The maharlika patrols the clearing at a controlled pace.

Readings are half divine and half feasts. Dried coconut bowls never empty of liquor, may it be palm wine (tuba), coconut wine (lambanog), or sugarcane liquor (basi). Fragrant banana leaves laid out on bamboo tables waiting for the roasting pig, grilled fish, rice, yams, and greens.

A village too cheerful can drown the god's voices. Gods let you read or listen to them the way they want you to. With an aging mamalian, concentration is much needed. The village's fate is only given through readings on certain days - the day of the sun god, Sinukuan; the night of the moon and ocean, Malyari and Laut; the reading of the Great Mother, Mangechay.

An almost inaudible roar pierces her keen ears. Embers crackle and hiss, hallowed whispers struggle to stay afloat from the wave of the raging hubbub. She can almost hear the sun god's whispers; like a swiftly swimming ocean nymph seducing sailors.

"QUIET!" she croaks. Her voice is as rough as gravel. "One more sound and I'll snap your backs in half. Your smooth skin will be my drum's new seal. Your flesh, a feast for the sharks. Your bones, dried and tossed in this pit for me to read." She hisses with venom. Her hunched form shakes in annoyance.

The clearing is immediately wrapped in a blanket of silence. Musicians pausing in terror. The maharlika herding the people in a crowd. Children guided back to their parents. Tiny hands cover loud, tiny mouths. Parents gripping their children close. Fingers pinching tiny ears. Children's heads bowing in shame. Eyes cast on the ground in guilt.