The Mountainside

I might have written this in 2008, or around that time anyway.

I don’t know where she came from, or whether she came from anything at all (but she must have!) but, in any case, I have my suspicions.

  It was in the backyard of our little hut that she first made her appearance.  Tony, that little pest of a brother, had been throwing stones at a huge tree across the stream, entirely forgetful of what Mother said about doing such things.

  That girl.  She may have been a spirit, but I saw her as clearly as I saw my brother, when she suddenly emerged from some leafy corner of the stream, and sat next to him.

  “Tony,” I called.  As usual, he played deaf and picked up another stone.  I anxiously drew nearer, aware that the girl was talking to him animatedly, but he was taking no notice.  Rude little thing, I thought.  The girl was probably a new cousin of the ever-multiplying neighbors.

  “Tony!” I repeated.  “Mother’s calling us for lunch.”  I approached them and poked the back of his head.

  “All right, I’m coming!”

  The girl turned to me with a brilliant smile.  “That’s his name?  Tony?”

  “Yes,” I replied, warming to her at once.  “What’s yours?”

  She ignored my question.  She looked at by brother and laughed.  “Tony,” she said"not as if she was talking to him, but just like she was sounding his name on her tongue.  She turned to me and said, “He woke me up.”

  “Tss.  Never mind him,” I told her, “he’s always making trouble.”

  I became aware of Tony staring at me incredulously.

  “Who on earth are you talking to?” he demanded.

  “Look, Tony, if you really want to ignore her"”

  Then the girl giggled and put a finger to her lips, and said, “Sshh!”  And then she bounced away into the bushes, yelling, “Bye, Tony!  Bye!”

  And still, Tony was looking at me, one eyebrow raised.

 

 

Near the market, my brother often played games with his friends.  I couldn’t understand how he could block out the fact that we had a sick grandfather and baby twins at home, and no father to speak of.  At ten carefree years old, he wouldn’t help me, his twelve-year-old sister, as I trudged home from the market laden with one plastic bag of food and one tattered bag of homework.  I’d rarely have the luxury to join him.  I never did, after our father left and I first saw the hidden tear-tracks on my mother’s cheeks.

  It was one of these days that I saw the girl again, watching him with shining eyes, from beneath a tree.

  “Hey, it’s you again,” I said affably.  “You’re always looking at my brother, huh?  Like him, don’t you?”

  She laughed.  “Look, he plays really well.”
  “Don’t you want to join?”

  She shook her head.

  “Want me to punch him for you, if he won’t stop ignoring you?”

  She laughed again, and shook her head again.

  “I’ll punch him anyway,” I said a little bitterly.  “While his family’s having a hard time…”

  “Oh no, he’s a good person,” she interrupted me.  “A good person,” she repeated.

  I frowned at her.  “What’s your name, kid?  Where are you from?”

  She laughed yet again, ignoring me, pointing to Tony.  “Go, Tony!  Go!” she yelled as my brother concentrated on the slipper he was about to throw.  Nobody seemed to be paying her any attention.

  I shrugged, picked up my bags, and went off.  When I looked over my shoulder, she was gone; she’d probably run off too.

 

 

The next few years grew increasingly difficult for us, but the carelessness had washed off of Tony.  He became for us the man of the house, snuggling up to Mother, taking odd jobs, dreaming of being a teacher, or a doctor, or something in the city.

  “In the city!” our grandfather would laugh.  “No, you’d be better off staying here, boy.  Aren’t there schools here?”

  It was only comments like that that could make my brother frown.  Our mountainside town frustrated him.  But we had to stay, at least for now: our combined efforts allowed our mother to put up a small store at home.

  A girl named Michelle often bought snacks at our store.  Somehow she always came when Tony was the one “on duty” there.  They were both fifteen at that time.  Soon they were sort of inseparable.  They took long walks along the rocky stream where Tony used to throw stones.

  One evening I was surprised to see three of them sitting among the big rocks.  It was Tony, Michelle, and another girl, who looked slightly familiar.

  As I drew nearer, the other girl saw me over her shoulder, and she drew back her long dark hair.  “Hello,” she said to me, and laughed.  “Tony’s sister, right?”

  I was so shocked I stumbled back onto the muddy pebbles, almost into the water.

  Tony looked up.  “What’re you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Come to see you,” giggled the mysterious girl.

  “Just passing by,” I said defiantly.

  “Hello, big sister,” said Michelle sweetly.

  “Tony’s doing really well, isn’t he?” said the girl.

  “Who are you?” I said loudly.

  “Um… you mean me?” Michelle said, uncertainly.

  “No"her!”

  Tony stood up.  “You’re crazy,” he told me.  “Let’s go, Chelle.  Where no one’d spy on us.”  He threw me a dark look, took Michelle by the hand, and walked away.  “I’ll be home for dinner!” he yelled.

  The girl got up too, and started to follow the couple.  She found time to wave at me, and smile brilliantly, before she went.  I ran all the way home.

  Tony later asked me what that had been all about.  I told him I thought I’d seen someone lurking behind the rock.

 

 

I was twenty, and already a teacher; but I’d had to postpone further studies and my going to the city, so we could pay for our twin siblings’ schooling.  Tony was gone chasing his own (new) dreams of being a journalist.  He was young, but he was fearless, and he’d gotten himself a job as an assistant to some big-shot journalist.  He was always sending us long letters and a little money, and though we were all uncertain about his adventures, we were so glad he was happy.

  While he was on his way, I was stuck at home, in the middle of nowhere far from the city lights we’d so dreamed of.  I’d sit alone by the stream sometimes, dreaming and planning in my head, and hoping Tony was all right.

  Then I saw her again.

  Someone was crying.  It was a long-haired young woman.  I heard her sobs not far from where I sat, and the sound of her voice reminded me of a laugh I had heard many times, years before.

  I came closer, tentatively.  She looked up and wiped her eyes with her hands, and looked at the starry sky.

  “How is Tony?” she smiled at me, sadly.

  “You know,” I said, as quietly as I could, “whoever and whatever you are, I think you should be able to know how Tony is.”

  “I miss him,” she told me.  She picked up a small stone from the stream, and it dripped as she held it up in the starlight.  And, exactly as Tony used to do when he was younger, she threw it across the stream.  She laughed.

  “Who are you?  Please?”

  She wiped her eyes again.  She walked away into the trees, leaving me too drained to be very much unnerved.

 

Finally an assignment brought Tony to our town, and he got to visit us; we wish he never did.

  They went off into the mountains, not to look for spirits, not to go hiking, but to speak to the rebels who lived in hiding.  There were twelve of them.  Six of them went up that evening and the other six stayed in town.

  The next morning they returned"with a group of rebels in tow.  The townspeople were afraid.  We stayed in our homes; we believed that talks with the rebels could not possibly go well.  Well, I believed they could.  I forced myself to believe this; there had been anger in Mother’s eyes when Tony had insisted on going the previous night.

  That day I pulled out of Mother’s clutching hands and followed Tony, the other journalists, and the grubby rebels with their guns, as they crossed our dear old stream and laughed loudly.

  The top reporter who had apprenticed Tony said to one rebel, “I am really glad you do not feel that we are interfering.”

  “No,” the rebel laughed back at him.  “We are always safe no matter what we do, sir.  Surely you know that, sir.  We appreciate your honesty.”

  And the other rebels agreed loudly.  I saw that Tony had gone quiet.

  “Hey,” another rebel said.  “We are here to meet your whole party, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” the head reporter replied, and he took out a cell phone.  “They’re coming.”

  They waited in silence for a while.  And I did, too, concealed behind a rock, behind some ferns, in a tiny crevice in the mountain, sunk beneath the ground.

  Tony saw me, and his eyes widened.  I waved at him and his furious yet amused expression told me I should be home.

  When the other journalists arrived, I had almost dozed off in my little hole.  I only heard, as if in a dream, a yell of triumph.  “This is what you get for your casual conversations!  Next time, don’t go too far.”

  There was an almighty uproar and I thought I felt someone clasp my hand.  But there was no one beside me.  Guns were going off and men were yelling.  It seemed to go on for a long time.  I dared not show my face above ground, but crouched in my hole, sobbing, trying not to sob, and losing breath.  Then there was silence, silence for a long, long time.

 

 

When I emerged from the leaves at last, I heard from a distance women shrieking, not daring to come closer.  I was still in the thicket of trees, where the townspeople could not immediately see me and the mess around me.  But surely they could see the old, beloved stream, now running with blood.

  Only eleven bodies were recovered; Tony’s was never found.  It’s said that he was taken by the rebels for who knows what reason.  I let them speculate: I know what happened.

  For when I emerged into the scene of carnage, a gibbering wreck, I fell at once upon Tony’s body.  I could not speak, and I could no longer cry, but I was shaking madly.  To my wonder my brother’s body started to move.

  It was a young woman with long hair, also shaking with quiet sobs, but she wasn’t bloody or messed up like I was.  She was beautiful, and she was pulling Tony’s body away into the trees.

  “He woke me up,” she told me.  But I didn’t feel like hearing explanations.  I felt like I knew, even if I didn’t.  I only remember thinking that she was going to fall asleep again.

  My going home that morning and our life afterwards is another long and sad story.  I wish it could have ended where I stood that day.

  Into the trees, into the darkness.

Author's Note

This is a primarily Filipino story. I have never lived in the province, or even stayed in a real provincial town, except in small hotels by the beach. I live in the city, and I always have. All I know about this kind of life, I've picked up from TV, like news and reality stories and telenovellas.
So this story isn't true, and it may not even be possible. But here are some realities:
1. We're well known for being a dangerous place for journalists. Not in the top 5 though, I checked.
2. Rebels do hide out in mountains. They sometimes take foreign hostages, Filipino hostages, journalists, missionaries, tourists. BUT I'm pretty sure they do not usually target journalists and most journalist killings are political.
3. Many provincianos dream of coming to the city. Some even make it successfully in Manila. Unfortunately, there are too many of them swindled by illegal recruiters or blinded by empty promises, who fall into poverty and very, very sad lives once they get here.

All in all, I never thought I'd think up a story like this; I've never really thought up a story before. And this, particularly, is not my type of story; I'm into missions and adventure and fantasy. But it was suddenly in my head one day and it would be wrong not to write it. Sorry for inaccuracies and general crappiness.

P.S. I forgot to add the fact that we Filipinos usually believe in spirits of nature. Like enchantresses and dwarves and other creatures. So it's funny how I didn't really think of this as a fantasy story the whole time. Maybe it's not :>