Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) Read Online Free PDF Page A

catechism not just to the children of Capitán Berong—Cabugaw’s wealthiest citizen—but tothe offspring of other mestizos. Padre Jose had opened to him not just what he knew of philosophy but also practical knowledge that had enabled him and the other Augustinians to thrive in another land, often inhospitable, often alien to their own customs. Istak’s hair, though cropped short, was not bristly like a pig’s, but soft and pressed flat and shiny with coconut oil which made not only his hair but his skin shine in the sallow light.
    Ay! He was indeed the marked one, and on his face—once pale like a banana stalk—Mayang’s eyes lingered.
    The oil lamp started to flicker and Istak pushed out the reed-marrow wick. He reached out to the corner and took a small jar filled with fresh coconut oil and let a few drops trickle onto his plate. Then he filled the earthen hollow of the lamp. It burned brighter and showed clearly what hung from the palm-leaf wall—the squash headgear, the fish nets.
    “Old Woman!” Ba-ac was insistent.
    Mayang braved her husband’s baleful stare. “I want to cat, Old Man. Eat, too, and receive God’s grace.”
    Her husband would not be mollified. He waved his stump of a hand. “It is not God’s grace but ours,” he said hotly. “Ours which you sent to town today. How many chickens did you give that young priest so that he will save our souls?”
    Mayang turned to her eldest son, as if in apology. “Your father Does not know what he is saying—”
    “I know,” Ba-ac interrupted her. “You answer my question.”
    “You will know when An-no returns with our indulgences,” she said, trying to humor him, for her tone became light. She went to the jar by the stove. When she returned, she had a large coconut shell filled with drinking water.
    “I will not wait for An-no,” Ba-ac said. He turned to his eldest son. “You helped catch the chickens, didn’t you? How many were there?”
    “Five, Father,” Istak said softly. He dropped the ball of ricehe had just lifted to his mouth. He had lost his appetite as the old and nagging futility of it all started to ride him again. He could not understand why he felt weak like this every time his father, in his blabbering rage, shook his stump of a hand as if it were some proud emblem.
    “Five chickens for his birthday. Multiply that by a thousand because there are a thousand households in Cabugaw. How many then will he get on his birthday? Think—then look at us. How many times do we have chicken on our table? Istak did live well when he was in town! He should go back there so we can be sure that when we send food to the convent, our son will benefit from it.”
    “I am no longer wanted there, Father. You know it.”
    “Be it that way then,” Ba-ac said. The old man leaned forward, clenched his one good hand, and brought it down viciously on the table. The plates shook and the light—almost drowned by the oil—sputtered and dimmed.
    “Stop this foolishness, you one-handed fool!” Mayang screamed. It was her time to be angry. Bit-tik continued eating, unmindful of what was happening. He straightened the pot and stirred the broth to see if there was some special piece he might yet pick.
    “So I am one-handed,” Ba-ac said, his voice quivering. “They should have killed me instead of lopping off just one hand.”
    “Be glad that you have one left; be glad you are alive, that you have sons who tend the field and look after you.” She was no longer eating. The night had become grim.
    Istak stood up and, without a word, walked away from the table. The slats creaked under him and the bamboo ladder, too, as he stepped down into the yard, where even the fleas must be asleep at this hour. He passed the bull cart parked in the shadow of the house. Tears burned in his eyes and he tried to hold themback but could not; so, too, the shame and the rage that had become a noose around his throat. He sat down on the tamarind stump by the bull cart