Dinagyangman

fiction by Roger B Rueda

Crowds of people poured into the streets of Iloilo City Centre. I pushed my way through them. It was hot and getting hotter. There was a great crash and then a long roll of drums. The first tribe to perform was something to get excited about. My camera started clicking as soon as the tribe stepped in the performing area. I didn’t bring anything except my Galaxy S3 – I was well aware of pickpockets.

I entered into the spirit of the occasion and stood beside a man who was beside himself with excitement. He turned to look at me. I smiled at him. His eyes smiled up at me.

I was all alone in the middle of the crowds, enjoying my life as throughout the street, the views were a constant source of surprise and delight, vibrant rhythms all over.

‘Excuse me,’ the crowd were enormously enthusiastic, so it was not easy to get through. The heat and the noise made me sleepy. I began to get dizzy spells. I looked at him again; his neck had henna tattoo. He winked at me, as if he knew I was thinking the same thing that he was.

I took a step away from him, but his face lingered on in my mind. I walked away, eyes shut, body tense. I began to perspire heavily.  My skin was tanned and glowing from my day at the Dinagyang.

I edged a little closer to some buildings. I trudged wearily down Mapa Street. After quenching my thirst with a long drink of cold water, I needed to snack on some sandwich and tea. All the shops were congested with spectators.

I went in a small café in a lobby of a small hotel. I sat in the corner and browsed through the pages of a magazine, some newspapers lying on a nearby couch. I had been to the café several times, so it was such a comfortable haunt to me already. The server appeared. ‘Do you have Darjeeling?’ He nodded and smiled.

After a few minutes of sipping at my tea, fresh groups of guest arrived. Suddenly, the lobby got crowded and noisy. Judging from their looks, it seemed they were all worn-out. After drinking cans of juice, they noisily slipped away. One guy came and sat down on the couch. His breath came in short pants. He turned his head left to right. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that I was looking at him. I was painfully shy of him – he was the guy I had seen in the crowd. The tea gave me a choking fit.

I turned my chair to face the door and continued with my reading.

‘I’m Ralph,’ he tapped me on the shoulder. He had a big smile on his face. I gave him a hearty handshake. He stood still for longer than a few minutes – it was quite a shock to meet a handsome man with a beautiful voice. Then, I had thought someone came to me, but it had just been a dream. Now, it was real.

‘Please take a seat.’ I smiled warmly so he wouldn't see my nervousness. We exchanged addresses and numbers. He ordered a beer and a sandwich.

We chatted about many things. He was quite an interesting man. We eyed each other thoughtfully.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.  I was intensely curious about the world he came from.

‘I am from San Miguel.’ I didn’t know much of San Miguel. I only knew one there – Rowena, my co-worker.

‘How about you?’ He lifted the beer can to his lips and sipped.

‘I’m from Mandurriao.’ I bit into my sandwich. ‘Manduarriao and San Miguel are cheek by jowl.’

‘So how’s the Dinagyang?’ he asked. ‘I like the Panayanon,’ he added.

‘Romel Flogen choreographs the tribe,’ I told him as if he was from another city.

‘Really, I thought he choreographs the tribe from Fort Sant Pedro.’ He was curiously innocent about it. He brushed his hair back with both hands.

‘Yes, that was last year. See, now, that tribe isn’t joining. That’s why he accepted the job.’ I had to pause to clear my throat. I sipped at the cup and then put it down.

‘I’m really amazed by their performance. I thought the Panayanon is from Fort San Pedro.’ He sipped from his beer can, watching me over the rim.

‘Hahaha, it’s of the Iloilo City National High School.’ I laughed with pleasure. We got along famously.

‘I need to go,’ his iPhone was ringing off. He quickly gulped his beer. He said a hurried goodbye and walked out of the café.

‘I’ll be at the ASAP 18 later, at the sports complex. I think after I’ve eaten lunch,’ I called out as he was heading the main entrance of the hotel.

***

While I was lying in bed, my phone tweeted. ‘i’l b in smallville. jst mssge me wn ur thr. c u.’ I didn’t go to the sports complex. I got bored, thinking how crowded it was – it was like spending an hour or two in torment.

I had a shower and went out early – I needed to be there earlier than him. I fell under his spell, perhaps. There was something about him that mesmerised me, I thought.

It took a long time to wash the dirt out of my hair and my whole body. I wore my cleanest pants, a clean shirt and a navy blazer.

***

As one might expect, Smallville was full of partyers. The cars choked the roads. As the taxi drew off in front of Coffeebreak, I got off. I felt a little nervous. I was in a state of great excitement.

‘Vir,’ someone called out my name.  Ralph was sitting all alone at a table outside the coffee shop. He waved at me as if we were so familiar – as if we had met and known each other since long time ago.

‘Who’s with you?’ I greeted him with a smile.

‘No one.’ He looked at me openly.

I pulled a chair and sat facing him. ‘Wait a minute,’ I told him. ‘Do you want something?’

‘Just buy prune juice,’ he replied as I was meaning to stand.

I went in the coffee shop and ordered some Tuna Casserole and Hot Americano – and a bottle of prune juice. Ralph was busy surfing the Net looking for information on Korean music on his iPhone.

I went back too soon – the server was the one to bring all my orders.

‘Do you have a lover?’ he asked as I was trying to transfer my bag to the other chair.

I didn't say anything. Eventually I overcame my shyness.‘Ah, I had two – but now I don’t have. It has been years.’ I looked at him with all honesty.

The server laid all my orders on the table and handed the prune juice to Ralph as I told him.

‘Me, too,’ he mumbled as he was running his finger around the lip of the prune juice bottle. From time to time, he turned his attention back to the street.

We nattered into the night till a blue-grey dawn and till a spot of rain fell on his hand.

‘Let’s go,’ he suggested.  He dashed and locked himself in the small toilet of the coffee shop.

***

His car was parked up across the street towards MO2. ‘Let’s go to my car,’ he told me pointing his lips at the white Santa Fe. We crossed over and got in the car. He hugged me tightly to his chest and licked my lips.

When he started the car, which hummed smoothly, I was at sea about where we were heading. But I just committed myself to him, as if by instinct. I didn't know why I believed a stranger I’d never seen for my whole life. I was like a fluffy white cloud floating across the sky as the sun came out briefly. It was a breezy day. It was a scene of such sheer bliss.

A Leap in the Dark

fiction by Roger B Rueda

Rowena, my co-worker, went to bed early and slept like a log. I took in I was the last person stirring, apart from the hosts, Rowena's maiden aunts, so I prepared to go. They noticed that I was staring at them, so they gave me a couple of sofa cushions and insisted that I crash in the spare room, if I could find any floor space. 

I'd got to consider the distance of San Miguel, a town on the outskirts of Iloilo City. Taking a taxi from there to my house had a slim chance - besides, it was far too dangerous.

I got up and weaved my way through the debris from the house party. The hosts showed me the way and bid me goodnight. As I climbed the stairs, the light dimmed until I was feeling my way along the walls.

I stepped over bodies asleep on the landing. I nearly toppled over twice, my balance compromised by holding the bulky sofa cushions. I felt my way to the spare room door, and groped around in vain for a light switch.

Giving up, I swept my foot along the floor, trying to find an empty space in the pitch blackness. But there were people sleeping here too, and no space for sofa cushions.

My thigh brushed against something - a bed. I abandoned the sofa cushions at the foot of someone in a sleeping bag, whose drunken lack of consciousness was deep enough that he or she failed to notice.

I felt along the width of the bed. When my hands hit nothing, I became bolder and felt further up. To my surprise, the bed seemed empty.

I climbed aboard, running my tongue over my unclear teeth and regretting that I would not brush them tonight. As soon as I became horizontal, my head gently throbbed as if I had been awake so long my hangover was already kicking in.

I lay full length on one side of the bed and stripped down to my boxers in the dark. I ditched my clothes next to me on the bed and felt around for a pillow.

‘Yes!’

‘Oh! I'm sorry,’ I whispered to the boy that had shrieked when I put my hand on some bare part of his skin. He had been curled up in one small corner of the bed. ‘I didn't know you were there!’

‘I wasn't,’ he laughed nervously.

I carefully reached out into the dark to find my clothes. ‘I'll find a space on the floor.’

‘Don't be so weird,’ he sighed groggily, stretching out so that an arm and a leg pinned me back to the bed. ‘This is a big bed. We can share it.’

***

He rolled away from me. It crossed my mind that he had perhaps just pushed my clothes off the bed onto some unsuspecting drunkard sleeping on the floor.

‘I do move around a lot though,’ he said. ‘Pardon me if I disturb you.’ He jumbled up somewhere in the dark.

‘I'll be fine, I'm a deep sleeper.’

‘Pity. I'm a restive.’

There was a moment of silence. I felt certain that we were the last two people awake for miles. He squirmed, brushing my thigh. 

‘What's your name?’

He told me and I forgot it instantly. I remember it as JP, but that's a guess. I know my memory of the night is faulty because I can almost recall how he looked, but I never saw him.

He didn't ask me my name. He asked me what I did for a living.

‘I work for the government,’ I answered.

‘What do you really want to do?’

‘Well, I want to be a writer. One day. But that's not going to make me a living, at least not yet. So I have to do a job.’

***

‘You know what you want to do. That's amazing.’

‘Yes. Although sometimes I feel like I'm deluding myself. If I want to write I should be writing.’

‘I know how you feel,’ he confided, shifting again. I could hear from his voice that he was facing me directly now. ‘I'm living a dead-end life.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have no idea what I want to do. So I'm doing a menial job because it's easy. I'm just killing time until…’ He paused.

‘Until what?’

‘Exactly. Until what. It's disappointing.’

I felt a wave of drunkenness wash over me. My eyes saw dancing patterns in the black. ‘How old are you?’ I asked.

‘Eighteen.’

‘So you're of legal age already. You're only able to make your own decisions about your life. People, like wine, improve with age.’ He sighed.

‘Do whatever you want.’

‘I don't know what I want. There are too many options; it's bewildering. Meanwhile, I'm coasting along the path of least resistance. I don't want anything badly enough to pour my heart and soul into it - I admire people that do.’

‘Ah, the curse of freedom,’ I countered with mild indifference.

‘Precisely. We have too much freedom. It's a sickness. A hundred years ago, we would have been allocated a job for life, and a partner for life. And our decisions would be dictated by a firm moral code in the form of religion. And ambition was defined merely as rising above those modest expectations.’

‘I see what you mean,’ I admitted. ‘When there's only one path, there's one way to succeed and one way to fail. And now we have a million ways to fail. But we also have so many more ways to succeed.’

‘Success is impossible when everyone has such freedom, because there's always someone out there doing it better than you. When conformity was the rule, success was easy.’

***

I jumped as he reached over and tickled me. I laughed, trying to stay quiet, and reflexively slapped his arms away. It was a thrill, flirting with this stranger in the dark.

He dived for my midriff again with tickling fingers and I took his wrists and pushed them back towards him. I brushed against his torso and snapped my hands away.

‘What are you wearing?’ I asked.

‘Just underpants,’ he replied. 

‘Sorry I touched you.’

‘Don't worry, it was my fault.’

‘Are you going to sleep like that?’

‘Oh, no. I'm an insomniac. I probably won't sleep at all.’

He was much closer now, I could feel it. I could smell his skin. I self-consciously moved my arm so that it was touching him, but only barely. Probably his leg. I tried to make it seem casual, as if it was the result of inadvertent restlessness in the dark, but I left it there, feeling his warmth.

‘I just want to be different, you know, inimitable,’ he murmured, more gently than before.

‘Everyone's just unique.’

‘That's the problem.’

I felt tired, and I let his words wash over me. A couple of times I thought I had responded, but then realised I hadn't, and I had to make a real effort to lift the conscious part of my brain into speech.

But then I felt his hand touching me, searching. I became wide awake again. I shrank away as his hand wandered dangerously close to my groin. I would be embarrassed if he touched me there, especially at that moment.

The silence became as complete as the darkness as his wandering hand persisted, and found me. My breathing deepened as he massaged me beneath my boxer shorts. I closed my eyes and visualised his there.

Without stopping, he took my hand and placed it on his. With all my other senses stifled, I quivered with the pleasure of his touch, his texture.

Then I heard his gentle breathing become irregular, and I remembered that we were not alone in this room. Yet we were each more alone than ever.

He retreated for a tantalising moment and I heard the tell-tale sound of his briefs being slipped off. There was movement on the bed, and suddenly I was aware that he was invisibly straddling me.

***

He pulled down my boxer shorts and put his inside me. Warm and yielding, I enveloped him. Neither of us moved at first, just savouring the sensation.

Softly, he rocked. I put my hands on his sides, feeling taut stomach muscles, and he came. I gasped as the rhythmic gripping pulled me over the edge and orgasm rippled through him, and into mine.

Then it was as if he disappeared, as if he disengaged and left without me noticing. The bed felt empty. I must have fallen asleep.

I awoke feeling tired, as if I had not slept but been out cold. Any hangover I deserved had passed. Thick draperies had been pulled aside and the sun shone through the windows.

There were still some party guests sleeping haphazardly on the floor, but I was alone on the bed. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, hesitant to face the world, remembering JP. Then I got up.

There was more floor space now; some guests had gone. I found a bathroom and splashed water on my face. I borrowed a toothbrush and cleaned my mouth out.

I dared to venture back into the bedroom to look for my clothes. As I cast my eyes about the room I looked for faces that might be his.

Once dressed, I followed the smell of cooking breakfast downstairs and found the hosts with a smattering of guests. My recall of names and faces is unreliable at best, but when alcohol is thrown into the mix I don't even bother trying.

I made small talk and ate fried boneless milkfish and rice flavoured with fragrant screw pine and took my coffee white with Cofeemate. My eyes absorbed every face in the room and I tried to guess. None of them gave me any signal. No naughty secrets were coaxed into mischievous smiles on account of my eye contact.

But he wouldn't have known who I was. He never saw me, and I never told him my name. I wasn't even sure of his. I didn't know how to breach it in conversation - it would be embarrassing if I asked after JP and it turned out he was there.

The guests must have thought I was suffering from some kind of unreasonable worry, my eyes flicking back and forth between them, weighing each of them each up in turn as if I suspected them of pouncing.

I thought I'd look for his name at Facebook. 

***

The breakfast they made was sheer ambrosia. As it settled in my stomach, I let go. It was purer as a secret as the details of it remained cloaked in mystery. Then I bid all Rowena's maiden aunts a fond goodbye.

A Thorn in My Side

a poem by Roger B Rueda

for Rytha Mae

I feel a prickle of disquiet – my blood flowing
fast round my body.
I feel my fingers growing numb
at my tips.
My legs feel numb and my toes ached.
I feel a bit under the weather.
This stretches my imagination
and draws me out to a threshold.
I shake in my shoes.
The pity is that it is all completely unnecessary.
I look in the mirror
and see that my face is covered in terror.
I pray that God judge me with mercy.
I whisper His name
and the Trinity.
I turn to look at him but close my eyes –
I’m a martyr to my life.
My immortal soul seems in peril
as the howling wind sounds
like the wailing of lost souls.
I close my eyes and imagine I’m in bliss.
Slowly, I release my breath
through clenched teeth,
my word almost broken.
I touch my other spine and squeeze it dry.
The night is spent in prayer then,
tears welling up.
My thorn, someday, I’ll thank you –
for the life you’ve picked up and fatefully held dear.

The Dinagyang

an essay by Roger B Rueda

Early December, in the small hours, the whole city resounds with the thuds of beats on drums, in the distance. They are rhythmical, very marvellous, wafting out everywhere. Shoppers at the city centre tarry on the street corner looking at the drummers. Everyone thrills at the coming of their favourite festival.

All the details of the Dinagyang are fresh in my memory. The city centre, which has narrow streets, is closed for the festival. Drivers stop their jeepneys and commuters have to walk a hundred steps from Jalandoni Street in Jaro District to the city centre. The Forbes Bridge becomes busy with walkers. People swarm to the shops along the streets, buying up everything in sight – everywhere is packed with men, women, and children. Both locals and tourists are bursting with energy and vivacity.

Every mall is teeming with shoppers, music blaring out. Their lobbies are chock-a-block with spectators and merrymakers. Everyone joins the festival with spirit. Dinagyang costumes, props, and photographs are on exhibition at almost all local shops. The city is full of atmosphere and well worth visiting.

Every tribe is dressed in their finest attire. Last year, I loved the tribe whose costume motif was a jungle. Each member then was dressed in creeper-like cloths. The tribe whose headdress was made of rooster tail feathers and mats made of buri leaves was also charming. Their female members had cute curly wigs. When they gathered round, they looked a lot like real Atis.

The backdrops and props of every tribe provide a matchless experience, their presence a cultural means for the Ilonggos. The ones I can’t forget are the humongous heads of an Ati man and a prodigious Santo Nino. Too, the trees that were magically transported through the streets. Way off, they looked great and eye-catching. Actually, I happened to pose with them for some photographs, banderitas strung up over the street.

The dances of every ethnic group put together well enliven the mundane realities of life. They are an engrossing part of the festival, I believe. With incredible swiftness, the tribes whirl around the streets of the city centre and La Paz District. One at a time, a tribe prances as they move to another performing area. Some are rushed off their feet pulling their backdrops as some are enjoying posing with the crowds. Some members are thirsty and almost bushed, so they might ask for some bottles of water. Just be kind and generous – it’s supporting the Dinagyang in your own little way.

This year, the Ati Contest, the best bit of the Dinagyang, is on 27 January. Spectators have to be at the city centre as early as 7 AM. Everyone at the Dinagyang are packed in like sardines - blending into the crowds is  a scramble.

By the way, 'dinagyang' means 'to enjoy ourselves as one.' It means, too, as 'a sort of gaiety.' It can also mean 'to be full of glee.' More than that, however, 'dinagyang' means 'celebrating the history and culture of the Ilonggo as a people' - it is a celebration that bewitches everyone at the streets, as Ilonggos share their culture, belief, and sense of worth with everyone around.

Largely, the festival rekindles olden times and celebrations, fostering solidarity amongst the people as they look back on their endeavours with pride. It is a festival of distinctiveness, of Ilonggohood.

Happy Dinagyang, everyone! Welcome to Iloilo City, la muy noble ciudad!

This year's celebration promises to be terrifically good fun, so for more information about the Dinagyang, visit http://dinagyangsailoilo.com/.

The Wild Vines by the Diversion Road in Mandurriao District

a poem by Roger B Rueda

creep on the ground and bushes
in front of a hotel
having been being raised
for weeks.
Everything in fine fettle,
their purplish inflorescences
revere the sky.
They greet every labourer,
who knows no flower,
each day with the mystical inner whorl
of their perianths -
Their magic
doesn't bewitch their eyes,
their fragrance filling the air,
their thingness sublime.
A sweeping car park is next to be built.

Infection

fiction by Roger B Rueda

He felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He sat up and tried to know what was wrong with it. All of forty-nine, never did he experience such a curious pain that was as if gnawing his insides.

A doctor himself, Edgar observed the pain and he knew it was not a usual pain because it seemed the pain was so fresh.

He didn’t sleep anymore. He took the novel he was reading and began to bury himself in it. His wife was by him, sleeping deeply. He looked at her and covered her up with a blanket.

After an hour, Edgar began to vomit up blood. He was on the toilet when his wife got up.

‘Honey, what’s wrong with you?’ Venus asked, trying to get some sort of answer.

‘I must have eaten something,’ he said, he wanted to hide his situation at first, for he didn’t want her to worry. ‘Please hand me my antacid.’

***

Edgar didn’t pursue his plan to move to the US, though, of course, everything was ready and there was a job waiting for him there. He decided to stay in the Philippines and tried to know what was wrong with him, because his laboratory results showed nothing and there was nothing wrong with his body. However, the pain he could feel was undeniable. He carried out some fascinating research into that pain. There was no known cure for his disease, so since then he had given himself over to his infection.

Following a routine checkup, Edgar was discovered to have an unknown disease. That shocked his friend into helping him to find a cure for his disease. There was a little birdlike organism with a pointed beak and darting eyes inside his abdomen. It would scratch about searching with its beak for fresh blood. It would ruffle its feathers and he was really quite uncomfortable. He would drink fresh human blood to stop all the pain he would feel, but it was eating into his savings, so it started to worry him.

One evening, he walked home from the hospital where he was working. He fainted dead away when he was at the village green, but it took him a short while to recover. He crawled across the street and in the woods. The thought of fresh blood made him salivate. When he saw a man, he ran to him, grabbed a hold of his legs and held on so he could not get away, and bit into his neck. The helpless man was shouting his head off. He then stabbed at the chest with a stick and scooped out his liver. The next morning the news that a man was killed by a supernatural being took everyone by surprise.

Edgar got really angry with himself while he was eating breakfast in front of the TV. He attempted suicide, but he was so weak to pluck up the courage to do it. He had a fear of death. Besides, he was a Christian. He had faith in modern medicine, so he hoped and prayed that the research would go well.

His wife had got plenty of jobs to keep her busy. Her work involved a lot of travelling, so they would meet for lunch once or twice a month.

His sons were both reading medicine abroad.

He had been keeping a diary for twelve years now and one by one he would narrate the sequence of events which led up to the disaster. Strangely, no one would believe him when he would tell them he had been infected by a strange disease, so he wanted to manage to keep his illness secret from his family until he was well.

The birdlike organism in his abdomen grew large branching horns called antlers. When it was wild with hunger, it would flap its wings furiously and fly upwards to his throat. He had to endure the pain. He would close his eyes and lie in his bed screaming in agony. Sometimes, he would cry himself to sleep.

***

Edgar and Venus got married twenty five years ago. They were childhood playmates. He went to Iloilo, in a hick town, on holiday and stayed in a manor house his maternal grandparents owned. There he met Venus, a daughter of a market gardener. They and the other children spent the afternoon playing on the farm.

He hadn't seen her since that memorable evening of Dinagyang when he left Iloilo until he bumped into her tray, knocking the food onto her lap, at the university cafeteria. In those early months, there was a very close bond between them. They courted for five years before getting married.

***

Edgar, a month before his illness, went to Iloilo for their summer holiday. Venus went with him but returned to Manila after three days. Edgar stayed at the manor house with his in-laws, who are both centenarian. They gently tended him. They seemed a lot happier since they met him. They cooked him special meals. One of Venus’s cousins brought them a pig. The couple, on that day, tied the pig's leg across its chest and lugged it along, keeping it off balance. The old couple struggled to attach a second cord and pulled its legs back to expose its throat. One puncture began an inexorable flood of blood, and death came after a minute of unanswered trumpeting calls for help.

The pig almost broke free of its bonds, giving everyone a fright, and granting the couple a higher feeling of accomplishment when it was dead.

The couple cleaned the hair off the pig. Edgar couldn’t believe his eyes how they had been working energetically all morning. He was not allowed to help kill the pig nor cook the meals. So, he with his nephew exercised in the garden.

They served him a bowl of blood stew and barbecued liver at lunch.

After lunch, he took a little nap. Several poor children and their parents were waiting for him in the yard to consult with him, but he felt slightly dizzy and disoriented, so he excused himself and went inside his room. He vomited up all he had just eaten. His saliva seemed like letting it fall on the string. He was genuinely surprised at what happened to him.

In the night, the couple cooked him valenciana, sisig, and menudo. He buried himself in a novel.

***

Their neighbour died an agonising death. So now his funeral wake was in progress. When he went there, the family shooed him out of the house. They were glaring at him and muttering something. Most people hated his in-laws, but they didn't dare to say so. Edgar would nod as though he understood the people he would meet.

***

Edgar recalled that he first vomited up during his latest vacation in Iloilo. He could vividly remember the feeling of pain and horror.  It seemed that he had profound amnesia and now he was beginning to recover from it. It suddenly occurred in his mind that it must have been the food he ate that had caused his illness.

His skin turned so brownish and black. Minutes later some feathers grew and his hands became his wings. He couldn’t stop himself. He went out of the house and flapped his wings noisily. He then emerged to the roof of the house. He couldn’t believe that situation, but he seemed like dreaming. He perched on the mango tree to try how good he was at flying. He was so brisk and he flew and flew, soaring thousands of feet high in the sky. He could feel, too, how his eyesight had become sharp and he could see even the smallest creature on land. He was beginning to like his situation. But he was worried that his friends might disdain him or might condemn him whenever they’d discover he was so mystical.

***

Edgar's tinted glasses are perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. Without them, a loud reddish glow lit his eyes. People in front of him cast their shadows over his eyes, in reverse, however, so he could not look anyone in the eye. He was wild with pain whenever someone saw an image on his eyes.

Edgar went everywhere for treatment, tried all sorts of quacks, until he met a witch-doctor. He has to learn the most ancient, and holiest aswang rituals, so he has to spend his time in prayer. For one, the bird inside him started to moult at around sixty weeks of age. He’d got a healthy appetite for blood and liver.

He put a poultice over his stomach. The witch-doctor raised his tutelary ghost, that he might get well, and he did.

‘You need strength of mind to stand up for yourself.’ The witch-doctor was deep, mystical woman. Her voice was warm with friendship and respect.

She raised the stone by magic. She lifted her glass of blood and took a quick swallow. Edgar’s eyes seemed slightly dilated, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw it. He was too weak to move or think or speak, however.

She plucked the black chickens’ feathers on their throats and then slit them, one by one. She dressed them.
The witch-doctor decided on roast black chicken and vegetables, with alopí, a rice-cake made of rice-flour mixed with sugar and coconut-meat, wrapped up in banana-leaves and boiled, to follow.

The witch-doctor’s family feasted well into the afternoon on black chicken, some bizarre vegetables, and alopí. Edgar stuck his greenish tongue out. It looked very long and sticky. His eyes seemed to bulge like those of a toad. He metamorphosed to a dog and emerged onto the living room. His ears stood erect. The witch-doctor and her helps dragged him back to the room. One helper burned incense. It then started to perfume the air. The witch-doctor tried an herbal remedy to calm him down.

A swarm of his hinúptanan composed of animals and birds encircled the house of the witch-doctor.  Some blackbird flew down and perched on the parapet outside his window. Some dogs were waiting for him under the house, as the flooring was made of bamboo. In the last five hours he’d undergone a physical transformation. He became a terrifying half-human, half creature with long fingernails, long snakelike hair, fiery eyes, black teeth, and the tusk of a wild boar. Edgar had to adopt so many disguises his prey wouldn't recognise him. In a month he needed to eat man beef at least five times, according to the witch-doctor.

‘Being an aswang is just a matter of practice.’ She rubbed the back of his neck and smiled ruefully at him. She handed him a cruet after she smeared him with oil from it.

Edgar flapped his wings keenly and flew away. With no idea of what to do for his next move, he hovered over a small village. Later, he salivated over something delicious, so he followed his nose. By instinct, he took the soft pith of a banana plant and licked it with relish. Then, he attacked a pregnant woman, strangling her with his tongue that hung down at great lengths, and the unborn child, and pulling out their livers. The woman seemed to have died a natural death, as the pith became the woman’s dead avatar.

Before dawn, he went home lugging a sow behind. He tied it to one of the trees in front of their house and ran in a rush inside the house to get his iPhone, as he wanted to take some photographs of the sow. He then uploaded them to his Tumblr.

Since then, he’d never been sick anymore, and he became a fully-fledged aswang. He became evasive, to the point of secretiveness.