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The mosquitoes were driving him mad, but he didn’t want to move. If memory served, this should be the very grove his grandfather mentioned time after time in his fairy tales. The air was bitingly cold. It was just after Christmas and he was about done with his college course: pre-med biology — very scientific, very precise, very little room for the imagination.

He thought of his future. He would take medicine and follow in the footsteps of his father. Not that he really wanted to, but it was family tradition—at least, the tradition of one side of his family. The other side, his mother’s were a family of poets, artists and musicians. All were brilliant in their respective fields and all were deemed a little touched in the head by his father’s relations. His heart was more with the "crazy Collanteses," as his father’s folk often called them. He winced. Each time he thought of that, his father’s voice would intrude and demand to know how he planned to earn his bread and butter and keep a roof over his head. His mother’s side were a lot poorer than the Manahans, his father’s side,.

In fact, the estate was all the Collanteses had left. Family legend told of some money that the mistress of some national hero or other had parlayed into a fortune and that that money that had come form government coffers. With that fortune, the mistress and her children bought the estate and, with a shrewdness that was passed down in the blood, built that fortune into the wealth that the next generations lived on. But the shrewdness in the blood thinned and was replaced with a talent for the arts. The fortune stopped growing, began to diminish and finally, dried up, leaving the family with only the estate.

There were persistent rumours and stories about the estate itself: stories about why the mistress decided to buy it and why, even when the family was desperate for cash, no part of the estate would ever be sold. The most persistent of these stories was of an enchanted grove somewhere on the estate. Accounts of the nature of the enchantment varied, but one thing was consistent: there was an enchanted place.

But it was his grandfather’s stories that captured his imagination. In these, the grove was the haunt of the tikbalang, a creature that stood upright on the hind legs of a horse, had the torso, chest and arms of a man and the head of a magnificent stallion. It didn’t matter what the focus of the stories were, there was always a grove, it was always beside a stream, there was always a cleft rock nearby and through that cleft, you could always watch the moon rise.

The moon was rising now. It was full and its pale light was starting to flood the grove. Even if it were not enchanted, it was still a beautiful place. From the trees and the bamboo stands, the moonlight conjured long shadows that brought graceful and sensual dancers to mind. No wonder this place was the favourite subject of the painters in the family. The grove also harboured fireflies and even though the air was cold, they put on their show of lights.

He smiled, enjoying the games that the fireflies were playing. He had come here to think, puzzle out a direction for his life and to indulge in the admittedly foolish hope that fairy tales do come true. He watched in wonder and tried not to fall asleep. There was something hypnotic about the dance of the fireflies tonight. Was it the moonlight and shadows? He vaguely remembered his sight going blurred and struggling to bring it back into focus.

All of sudden, it was there. He blinked a few times to check, but what he saw would not go away.

It was a tikbalang, the fabulous creature of his grandfather’s fairy tales! He froze, and for the longest time, did nothing but watch the creature. It was sitting in the middle of the clearing with its back to him. It was huge; he estimated that could easily tower at seven feet or more if it stood up. It seemed to be resting, watching the fireflies play at hide and seek among the shadows and the moonlight, but its breathing was laboured. He could see its ribcage heaving and could actually make out the muscles underneath the coat.

Magnificent though the creature was, what struck him the most was that it was white—bleached bone white. His grandfather always described the tikbalang either as black ("blacker than the starless sky at midnight") or brown ("the colour of rich, roasted castañas, the kind you buy to nibble on after midnight mass"). He smiled at the echoes of his grandfather’s voice.

Every summer he would visit the estate with his mother and without fail, as the seasons followed one another, he and his grandfather would wander the estate, feeling the wind in their hair, the lush grass under their feet and the cold water between their toes. Night would often find them abroad and inevitably, as night follows day, his grandfather would begin telling him the stories of the diwata and their great datu, Bernardo Carpio.

He would listen fascinated as his grandfather would tell him tales of the war the diwata would wage against the demonic aswang and how the battle would be led by the datu’s valiant knights, the tikbalang. Leading these knights was their leader and mentor, the great Apo.

There would be such fire in grandfather’s eyes when he told these tales the he could believe the his grandfather actually fought in those battles—but then, how could a nine year-old boy know any better?

The stories that involved the tikbalang and the common folk were very much different. At times, the tikbalang would be the villains and at other times, they would be the victims. What fascinated him the most were the tales of the vulnerability of the tikbalang: the three golden hairs at the back of their necks. Regardless of the story, regardless of the hero, the tikbalang would be tamed by grasping the three golden hairs. The echoes of his grandfather’s voice had come back now, full and strong, taking on a youthfulness that belied his aged frame.

"With a flying leap," he heard his grandfather intone, "the hero reached out and grasped the three sacred golden hairs and the tikbalang suddenly reared up and screamed the scream of a thousand horses."

The memory of his grandfather’s telling the story was vivid now: he must have heard this tale a thousand times and each time, grandfather would tell it with gusto.

"Then, with a leap that could cross a mountain, the tikbalang sprang forth in a desperate attempt to shake off the unwanted rider." He saw his grandfather’s eyes narrow with intensity. It always seemed to him then that his grandfather was rooting for the hero, but now that he thought about it, it seemed that grandfather was actually rooting for the tikbalang!

"On galloped the tikbalang, arms vainly trying to grab hold of the clinging pest. Onward the tikbalang ran, through seven mountains, across seven valleys, over seven rivers, bucking and tossing as it went!

"The hero held on, for he knew that should he lose his grip and be thrown off, he would be forever lost."

"Onward still the tikbalang ran until it finally stumbled and fell to its knees, panting and heaving, back at the very place where they started."

His grandfather’s voice would take on an odd tone at this point. He could not make it out back then, but now he understood: it was deep sorrow mixed with rage and humiliation.

"The hero had persevered and now he would ask for the boon."

The boon! It always varied from hero to hero, but whatever it was, the tikbalang could grant it! Could it possibly also point out the direction in life he should follow? Could it possibly…?

He was on his feet and running before he realised it. Faithful to the form described in the tales, he took a flying leap and grabbed a handful of the creature’s mane—and he felt them: three strands of hair that felt like hotwires. He clenched his fist over the, even as the heat threatened to scar his palms. He felt his legs thud against the creature’s ribs and wrap themselves desperately around it.

Up leaped the tikbalang! He could feel the muscles of the creature ripple underneath him. His head snapped back at the suddenness of the leap, but he leaned forward to counter it. He felt his free arm wrap itself around the tikbalang’s throat.

The scream the creature let out nearly drove him mad and he wasn’t sure if he was screaming along with it. It did sound like a thousand horses screaming, only louder.

Then he felt his insides fitfully rearrange themselves as the tikbalang took its leap out of the grove. He knew he should close his eyes but terror kept them open. He saw the grove and the ground suddenly fall away and his stomach squeamishly informed him that gravity had somehow failed. In the dizzying swirl of all this, his rational mind calmly spoke from the background and ventured the opinion that this was probably how astronauts would feel like if they rode outside their space capsule.

In spite of the rush of air, he felt something swipe at his cheek. It took him a couple of heartbeats to realise that it was the creature’s claws trying desperately to reach for him. He immediately sunk low on its back and felt a surge of sympathy: he knew how it felt to endure an itch he couldn’t reach.

Then the tossing and the bucking started and several times he almost lost the grip his legs had around the tikbalang’s waist. The creature would scratch or pound or pry, and his legs would tremble in protest and pain, but he held on. He knew too well the consequences of losing his grip.

He surprised himself when he found that, in spite of all this, he had actually begun looking around to see where the tikbalang was taking him. One of the things he liked doing whenever he rode a plane was to look out the window and guess at which island he was flying over.

Only, this wasn’t the case here.

Where ever the tikbalang was running in an effort to shake him off, it wasn’t on this earth. He saw vistas of grey and sparks of light and indescribable things hovering just out of the corner of his eye. Then suddenly, they were running down a street of a decrepit city that, for some reason, was on fire. The buildings looked hauntingly familiar and his stomach heaved when he suddenly realised why: this was old Manila as it was being "liberated" at the close of World War II. He was watching the city’s death throes and they were repeating over and over and over again!

But why were the inhabitants so blasé about it?

He caught the eye of one and he felt a chill run down his spine: they were ghosts too and they wore the atrocities performed on them like old soldiers wear their medals. So this was where old Manila went—and he heard himself swallow a sob.

As the tikbalang ran on, the spectral cityscape stretched on out before him and he began to wonder if the creature would run forever in this dismal world.

Then the tikbalang leaped.

And suddenly they were in an ancient battlefield, barely dodging a fusillade of arrows. He felt the creature run on and hear the sickening crunch of bone as it trod on the bodies of the dead and the dying. The screams of war and the screams of pain enveloped him and he was astonished to hear his and the tikbalang’s screams mingle in with them.

Again the tikbalang leaped.

And they were in a zealot’s vision of Hell. Fires flared up all around them, hot tongues flicking and licking obscenely at them. The air was heavy with the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh and filled with the cruel laughter of the tormentors and the anguished wails of the tormented. His fist closed tighter around the three golden hairs, driving them deeper into his palm. He prayed to his angels that this would end soon.

The tikbalang leaped.

They were in a howling wilderness littered with the bones of civilization and the civilized. He could make out the remains of a city in the distance where a procession of bones made its way into (or out of) the dead city. He could feel the powerful legs of the creature sink into the sand as…

The tikbalang leaped.

He felt the barbs of the Crown-of-Thorns vines rake his flesh and he dug his face into the tikbalang’s back. He imagined that the creature’s coat must be running red with its blood and his. He heard the powerful hooves crash through underbrush and it seemed that they were going faster still…

The tikbalang leaped.

He heard the wind howl in his ears and send tendrils of cold probing into his wounds, into his bones, into his soul. He felt fingers of air force their way past his lips and threaten to peel his face off starting with his cheeks…

The tikbalang leaped.

He felt the sudden chill and weight of water as it closed over them. His ribs were caught in a cold vice grip that threatened to crush them if he refused to surrender the air in his lungs. He raised his head and started to scream, but only a silent stream of bubbles issued from his mouth…

The tikbalang leaped.

And they were back in the grove, the moonlight washing it with a soft glow and the fireflies playing hide and seek in the shadows…

His fingers trembled as he forced them to release their hold on the golden hairs. He felt his body go slack as he slid off the beast’s back and stagger and fall before it.

With a will that could not be his own, he raised his head and faced the creature. It, too, kneeling, massive sinewy arms barely supporting a deep, heaving, labouring chest. Red and streaks of green marred the bone white coat and blood ran like rivers from the many wounds that scored its frame. Its mouth was open and its breath was racing in and out, rattling and gurgling as it went, but the eyes were bright and red and piercing him.

"I am Amadeo Collantes Manahan!" he heard his voice declare. It couldn’t have been him, but it was his voice...

"I have grasped the golden hairs of your mane!" It sounded like a formula, but there was no way he could have learned it...

"I have ridden on your back and stayed on through the seven worlds!" But it was his voice speaking, it was his mouth moving, it was his heart beating...

"By the pact that was made by the first fathers," but what was he talking about? Why was the creature listening?

"I claim from you a boon!"

The bright red eyes locked with his, as if waiting. Whatever possessed him had passed now and all of a sudden he found himself alone, before this fabulous creature, with a blank check. His mind raced. What to ask? What to ask? As his mind ran around in circles, he asked his heart.

"Tell me what my life path is," he asked, suddenly calm.

At these words, the tikbalang struggled to its feet and dragged itself to him. With what seemed to be painful effort, the creature laid its massive hands upon his shoulders and squeezed desperately.

"Because you believed..."

No words. Just a single thought intruded upon his thoughts and he got the impression that it came from an ancient, deep and gentle mind. The fierce red eyes held him for a heartbeat more and then rolled up. The huge frame of the tikbalang went slack...

...and faded away.

Suddenly he, Amadeo Collantes Manahan, college senior, he who dared to believe in fairy tales, he who had ridden a tikbalang, was drowning in someone else’s images, emotions, thoughts and memories.

Or were they his now?

He grappled with memory after memory, sorting what were truly his from those that he had inherited, struggling to remember who he was.

All of a sudden he was there when the angels called upon his kind and upon the diwatas and bade them become the playmates and guardians to children.

All of a sudden he was there when he would teach youngsters, human, diwata and of his kind the art of sword and weaponless combat. And he was there too when the wars against the marauding aswang were fought and when a high king was raised above them all.

"Bernardo Carpio," the name rose to his lips unbidden.

All of a sudden, he was there when the diwatas and his kind grew cruel and lascivious toward their wards and had judgement passed over them to be banished and hidden from the eyes of man.

All of a sudden he was there when news of the king’s betrayal reached the court. He was there when the sacred banyan tree that housed the court was set upon and burned by vampires and ghouls too many to count and too many to defend against. He was there when the court of the king was broken and scattered.

All of a sudden, he was there when angels approached him, bidding him to gather the diwatas and his kind together to once more protect the children. War had been openly declared between Heaven and Hell and the guardian angels themselves had come under siege. He found himself searching for children, protecting them from those who were supposed to protect them. 

All of a sudden he felt his age and the toll that time levies on all creatures and, for the first time in his life, he felt the gnawing pain of futility burrow into his heart.

All of a sudden, he felt the sacred golden hairs at the base of his mane being pulled and a weight suddenly land upon his back. All of a sudden, he felt hope flare up once more in his chest. All of a sudden, he felt his ancient heart burst from exhaustion.

"Because you believed…"

All of a sudden, it was morning.

Amadeo found himself curled up, fetus-like on the soft grass of the grove. The sun had risen and its glare had already started to hurt his eyes. His muscles were sore for some reason and, inexplicably, his clothes were in tatters.

He had the strangest of all dreams! More intriguing still because the last of its images was already fading away, leaving in its place only a strange certainty: he dreamt he could change into a tikbalang.

He stood up, stretched and winced. Numerous scratches and small wounds marked his body. Serves him right for bungling through a grove in the dark. It was miracle that he did not slip and hit his head—or did he? His stomach rumbled and he instinctively headed for the house. They must be worried about him. Muscles sore and protesting, he began the long walk back home.

His mother greeted him at the door. Her expression told him that he was indeed a cause for worry, but there was more. There was relief on her face too, but it was too great for the matter of having a son come home.

"Where have you been?!" she murmured between sobs. They were sobs of loss mingled with sobs of relief. "I thought I lost you too." She embraced him tight, oblivious to the dirt and grime clinging to him. "What possessed you to go out into the wilds in the middle of the night?"

Who was lost? He returned her hug and looked at her.

"Mom, what do you mean you thought you lost me too? Who else is gone?"

His mother’s eyes welled up with tears and not for the first time today. She let them fall freely. They were beautiful eyes and people often commented that he inherited his from her.

"We couldn’t wake your grandfather up this morning."

He felt his knees weaken. His mother continued.

"Your father says he must have passed away in his sleep. At least it was peaceful and I should have expected it, but he was so full of life that I expected him to see your children grow up." He didn’t have children. He didn’t even have a sweetheart to have children with! His mom was just beginning to accept his grandfather’s death. Talking was her way of coping.

He made his way to his grandfather’s room. The entire household help were there, mourning. They were like his grandfather—timeless, as a part of the estate as the grove or the stream. Now his grandfather had gone and reminded them of their mortality. He was always wise, his grandfather.

Amadeo came to the bed and tenderly cradled his grandfather’s head in his hands. After planing a kiss on the old man’s brow, Amadeo’s hand slipped to the neck and he felt three wiry strands of hair come away in his hand. Hiding his surprise, he solemnly planted another kiss on his grandfather’s brow and quietly retired to his room.

He locked the door and, trembling, slowly opened his fist.

Lying in his palm, were three golden hairs.

End (for now)
 

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