The ground was coming up pretty fast. I braced for impact. At about twenty feet from the ground, a shadow flew passed me. And at about ten feet, this dark apparition caught me at the waist then yanked me sideways. Now I’m going sideways, defying the force of gravity. Then for a moment whatever it was that was conveying me again changed direction after what felt like a jump up. I saw a slide show of the side of our house as I was whisked up. The grip on my waist loosened as another grip on my ankle tightened like a clamp. I could see the galvanized iron sheet. I'm on the roof! Held up by my ankle, I was shaken like a half filled sack of potatoes. One by one my Tikbalang Finder Kit:-- the kaleidoscope-like viewer and the compass-like contraption fell out from my pockets. A spark flew into the air as my Zippo hit the galvanized iron sheet. I dropped the leather pouch I held in my hand as well. Then he dropped me.
On my hand and knees, I crawled up to the ridge of the roof and sat crosswise across it. I stared at the shadowy malignant mass before me. The thing that caught me as I fell then swept me up here on the roof. I couldn’t make it out. My eyes focused just as the blob of shadows moved. It rose up. It’s edges peeled off, and these bits stretched out like cats waking up from a nap. My God, they are cats-- two slinky, mangy feral cats. They spread out but their beady yellow eyes were still on me. The hair bristles on the back of my neck and did the dance that it does so well. Some people say this is God’s warning that the devil is near, but I’ve experienced the same sensation when I’m eating balut. The menacing blob is the stuff horror movies are made of and the feral cats further add to the drama. I tried harder to convince myself that I’m not in the presence of a devil. Yet the hair on my nape continued to do its dance-- and I know I am not eating balut. And yet the sensation persisted. Okay, I'm going to scream now. I willed myself to be calm. I took a step back just as the main mass of the shadow stretched out. A distant lightning on the horizon back-lighted the blot of black. It took a human-like form, mockingly genuflected, bowed its head and spoke in a deep voice…
“Ako si Ortago, ang iyong lingkod. Kinatatakutang mandirigma at hinahangaang mangngangaso.”
He slid forward on silent feet into the moonlight. It-- or rather he, was more than eight feet tall. He had disproportionately long limbs and body wrapped in what appeared as armor made of chain mail and leather. Sheathed crosswise on his back are two blades at a length that is between a sword and a dagger. The blades shimmered in the moonlight; it's sharp translucent edge so thin it almost seemed to vanish; its hilts decorated with spirals and a ball at the end. Seated atop the sheaths is a small metal backpack. Two bolos, the hilts likewise intricately carved with spirals, are sheathed and strapped on his leather and mail brigandine. On one hand he holds a walking stick that looked more like a weapon than an ordinary staff. There was faint dark blue shimmer on the walking sick, the moonlight played around its edges giving it an almost ghostly shimmer. He was about half as tall as the Tikbalang Omas, but he seems to be much stronger and faster.
He unhinged the articulated metal lames of his bevor-- armor which covered much of his neck and chin, removed a gauntlet-- exposing a sinewy and hairy hand, and knelt on one knee as he rummaged at the pile of junk that fell out of my pockets. He held the kaleidoscope-like viewer, gave it a cursory look, crushed it with his hand then let it drop from his grip. The compass cum mechanical astronomical clock interested him more. He held it with what could be described as close to reverence. He made a sound much like the chattering laugh of a spotted hyena. It was unnerving.
The gismo is known to humankind as the Antikythera mechanism. A prototype was recovered from a shipwreck off Point Glyphadia on the Greek Island of Antikythera in 1900 and thus was named after the island. It was disguised to look like an extravagant over-indulgent Olympic calendar to hide its true usage. The ruse worked. Even as humans have discovered it and studied it. Nobody has yet understood what it is used for. Actually what was discovered from the wreak was merely a mock up-- a crude proof of concept made in 100 BC, much simpler and less portable than the mechanism Ortago now hold in his hand.
The mangy cats has now slithered up behind him and seem to disappear again into the shadows. All that remained visible are two pairs of unblinking yellow eyes. Images of Felix the Cat-- with his magical black bag that could transform into a car, an airplane, anything, uncontrollably flew across my mind.
It is usually at this point that ordinary human beings normally take stock of the situation they find themselves in. Asking themselves questions like: Can I run away? Can I take him out? Unfortunately, both options are unavailable. Running away would require jumping off the roof, an option that would only be feasible if I have a parachute. On the other hand, taking a stand and fighting is a totally different matter. Without any weapon, one must rely on their fists but when you punch the face of an adversary who could also throw a punch, they tend to punch you at about the same time you’re aiming for their face. This invariably complicates matters. If you can’t knock out the enemy first, maybe it’s better not to initiate a fight. And so I watch and waited. Waited for what fate had planned for me. And hoped that fate would still change her mind. Of course, one can always give in to panic. It’s probably what most people would do.
Ortago stepped onto the roof’s eave. He was holding the Antikythera mechanism and after tweaking some knobs and levers, he checked its bearings, then scanned the horizon. Then for a moment he froze as if surprised. He cupped his mouth with his hands. He then lets out a howl that mimicked that of a wolf. A similar howl tore thru the distant dark skies.
Omas!
In my mind’s eye, I could see Omas staggering and steadying himself. I remember the last image of his face as he pushed me off the airship. It seems even a Tikbalang is not immune to the effects of the Tikbalang powder-- a heady mix of narcotics and herbs that brought on mild hallucinations and paranoia. The most potent weapon in the Tikbalang’s bag of tricks. Effective in elaborate practical jokes as well as in combat. The powder, as I have experienced, messes up one’s sense of direction and time. It seems that somehow Omas got his wits back and has responded to what appears as a challenge from Ortago. But, I doubt Omas would oblige. The airship is now just a speck as it continued to head southward. Omas obviously is in no condition to fight and has chosen flight.
Then all of a sudden the air is filled with the sound of rapid patter as if I'm about to be overrun by a horde of stampeding rats. It’s only raindrops. Big drops of raindrops. The distant lightning has ceased and in its stead a haze of gray blurred the horizon. I got down on my elbows and knees fearful of a lighting strike.
In a blink of an eye, the armored apparition was on me and had picked me up again, this time by my shoulder. He effortlessly held me up until we are face to face.
“Ikaw ba ang bagong laruan ni Omas?”
He knows Omas. And like Omas, he speaks the Tagalog dialect but, unlike Omas, he speaks it with an Ilokano accent. Omas speaks it with a Bisayan intonation.
Ortago took a step toward the eave of the roof and swung me over the edge; I’m now dangling two stories from the ground.
"Alam mo ba na noong unang panahon ay kumakain kami ng tao? Bigyan mo ako ng dahilan para hayaan kitang mabuhay pa."
At wits end, I retrieved the contraband from my mouth. The gold locket-- with the picture of a woman, which I furtively liberated from the makeshift altar from which it hung at Omas' airship. I held it out to Ortago.
In my mind’s eye, I could see Omas staggering and steadying himself. I remember the last image of his face as he pushed me off the airship. It seems even a Tikbalang is not immune to the effects of the Tikbalang powder-- a heady mix of narcotics and herbs that brought on mild hallucinations and paranoia. The most potent weapon in the Tikbalang’s bag of tricks. Effective in elaborate practical jokes as well as in combat. The powder, as I have experienced, messes up one’s sense of direction and time. It seems that somehow Omas got his wits back and has responded to what appears as a challenge from Ortago. But, I doubt Omas would oblige. The airship is now just a speck as it continued to head southward. Omas obviously is in no condition to fight and has chosen flight.
Then all of a sudden the air is filled with the sound of rapid patter as if I'm about to be overrun by a horde of stampeding rats. It’s only raindrops. Big drops of raindrops. The distant lightning has ceased and in its stead a haze of gray blurred the horizon. I got down on my elbows and knees fearful of a lighting strike.
In a blink of an eye, the armored apparition was on me and had picked me up again, this time by my shoulder. He effortlessly held me up until we are face to face.
“Ikaw ba ang bagong laruan ni Omas?”
He knows Omas. And like Omas, he speaks the Tagalog dialect but, unlike Omas, he speaks it with an Ilokano accent. Omas speaks it with a Bisayan intonation.
Ortago took a step toward the eave of the roof and swung me over the edge; I’m now dangling two stories from the ground.
"Alam mo ba na noong unang panahon ay kumakain kami ng tao? Bigyan mo ako ng dahilan para hayaan kitang mabuhay pa."
At wits end, I retrieved the contraband from my mouth. The gold locket-- with the picture of a woman, which I furtively liberated from the makeshift altar from which it hung at Omas' airship. I held it out to Ortago.
Ortago lets out a hyena’s laugh. A glint of recognition crossed his face. Is that a smirk?
“Si Nenita Guerrero?”
Ortago’s grip on my shoulder tightened. An instant later, we are falling. It took a moment before I realized it that Ortago had stepped over the edge of the roof. And just before we hit the ground, Ortago let go of me. I tumbled. The wind knocked out of me. I staggered to my knees. I touched the ground one more time just to make sure. The ground actually felt good.
Up close and with the moonlight shining on him, Ortago didn’t looked as menacing as he was in the shadows. His dark colored armor clung to his body like skin. The leather was meticulously sewn and the chain mail made of some kind of metal I’ve never seen before. His hair, a jumble of dreadlocks. My eyes met his.
“Alam mo ba na ang mga mananakop na Kastilang prayle ang nagbansag sa amin ng Kapre”?
The word "kapre" was actually a corruption of the Arabic word “Kaffir”-- a non-believer in Islam. A defamatory reference used by early Arabs and Moors to villify dark-skinned non-Muslim Dravidians. It was the early Spanish friars who brought and propagated the term in the Philippine islands; initially to scare and dissuade early Filipinos from helping escaped African slaves. The term was later applied to sightings of Ortago and his ilk.
“Kapre” or “Tikbalang”, Ortago and Omas are of the same blood.
The Warrior-hunter class-- to which Ortago belongs, and the Intellectuals-- to which Omas belongs, had a long history of conflict and had fought each other for centuries since after the “Fall”. To prevent further bloodshed, truce was declared and an agreement forged. The Warriors-hunters were banished to the island of Luzon and the Intellectuals were condemned to the yet undiscovered wilderness beyond Luzon island. The island of Siquijor was declared neutral ground-- nay, sacred ground. The Intellectuals-- the guardians of ancient knowledge and the high priests, were tasked to keep watch over the island. Warriors-hunters and Intellectuals alike have equal access to Isla del Fuego on equinoxes for "The Gathering". But the truce was fragile and skirmishes continued thru the centuries. Fewer and fewer showed up for "The Gathering". The few who did feared ambush. Until no one showed up anymore. Many struck out on their own and chose to live solitary lives. Random fighting continued. Some were hunted by humans. Until their numbers dwindled. Until only Omas and Ortago were left. Each stayed within their realm. A semblance of peace reigned. It had been centuries since the truce was broken. Until today.
Ortago knew that Omas would not risk the intrusion for something trivial. Ortago turned to me and grabbed me to examine my chest. He saw the blood stain and at once understood. He held up the Antikythera mechanism then something like a sneer quivered over his gaunt features. He let me go.
Ortago looked up in the skies as he slid the Antikythera mechanism into a satchel. Then he sniffed at the air.
“Panahon na...”
Ortago then produced what looked like a metal tube with what appeared to me as burning embers on one end-- it actually looked like a cigar. And like a cigar, there is smoke emanating from the burning end. The smoke provides a translucent screen that makes Ortago almost invisible. The cats had made their way down and are again on his side and appear to blend with him. He again genuflected. Then from that position, he jumped up and disappeared into the dark night.
Itutuloy...
