Pursuit of the Litaniera

by Elyss G. Punsalan

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

Leticia worried about Florante while she washed the metal cups in the outdoor kitchen. He had not returned from the children’s mass today. He must be at the river again, she thought. She hoped that her nephew, now a full-grown child, would be playing with his cousins. She also hoped that he was swapping stories, or even talking nonsense with them, as long as he was talking. As a babe Florante did not cry or babble like infants, and when he had grown he expressed only through nods and shrugs, and an invented language of hand signals and facial expressions.

She hung the last metal cup upside down on the bamboo spike and wiped her hands dry with her skirt. When she looked up, the clear sky was taken over by ship-like clouds sailing from the east.

She decided to go to the river to fetch her nephew before the rains came. They would have to be back before noon, when Leticia had to visit a dying maestro’s home and lead the litanies. She grabbed the old umbrella by the side of the door, and as she stepped out of the house, a series of thunderclaps shook the ipil-ipil trees lining the dirt road.

Leticia went as fast as she could to Oaig Daya, the western river. It usually took fifteen minutes to get to the Oaig on foot; but it took less time for the heavy rains to change it from an innocuous stream to a raging, living body. Many had drowned in it before, and these images filled Leticia’s mind while the rain pelted all around.

Past the muddy farmlands, the Oaig laced through one side of the mountain and a rocky bank. During the summer, families came there in droves to enjoy the serenity that its clear waters promised.

When Leticia arrived however, white water swelled and frothed, and the trees bent under the force of the rain. She called out her nephew’s name, but it seemed she could not shout loud enough — the river was drowning out her voice.

Leticia traversed the bank, still crying out for Florante. Her umbrella had already slipped from her hands and tumbled downstream. Rain slapped against her eyes and made it difficult for her to walk. She made a visor out of her hands to shield herself, and she searched the Oaig for signs of the boy. Suddenly, a child’s wet hand shot up from the water, as if waving to something.

“Florante!” Leticia cried.

She raced towards the hand and ran downstream, going around boulders and tripping on deadwood. The raised hand bobbed up and down in the gushing river, and continued to do so along a great length of the course. After some distance the hand drifted toward the banks, and the boy emerged, dragging himself out of the water.

In the last stretch as Leticia neared the child, she thought about slapping Florante hard enough so that he would not cause trouble like that again. But as the boy saw her, he smiled. His face lit up, and dimples dented both cheeks. His cheeks, she thought. The color had drained out of his face.

“Auntie!” the boy exclaimed.

Leticia dropped to her knees and held the boy. She didn’t know whether she should be happy that Florante was alive, or that he could speak. “You should have gone home after mass, you know that,” she told him.

“I know, Auntie. I’m sorry. But I wasn’t alone. Manong Leong was with me, I met him today, and he rescued me.”

“Who is this Leong?”

“You know him too, Auntie. He says you’ve met him. First at the Great Vigil, then second after Mama died. ”

“I don’t know anyone named Leong,” Leticia stammered.

“He held me up while I was in the water. I slipped, see? I was really going home because the rain came. The rocks were full of moss, and when I stepped on them, I slipped and fell into the water. He dove straight in. The water was strong, Auntie! I almost drowned! But he held me up and led me to the side of the... Wait. Where is he?”

“Who, child?”

“Manong Leong. Don’t worry. We will see him again. Tonight, he said.”

Leticia helped the child stand up. As they walked the rutted path toward home, her fury for the man who took her mother and sister away rose up and screamed defiantly in her head.

* * *

There was a small group of women in the maestro’s home that night. Leticia had been praying the Santo Rosario with them for hours, and was starting on the novena for the souls in purgatory when Florante knelt beside her. The yellow candles flickered on the wooden stand, and changed the shapes of the santos’ faces.

The room, which adjoined the maestro’s sleeping quarters, smelled of medicine and burning mosquito coils, and the overpowering scent of incense brought in by the priest and Knights of Columbus. The maestro’s daughters shuffled in and out of the kitchen, bringing food and coffee to the visitors.

In the lull between prayers, the maestro could be heard wheezing by himself in the other room. He muttered the names of his dead relatives from time to time, in the form of greeting, and this made the wife worry.

“We shall see him tonight, Auntie,” Florante whispered. Leticia sensed that the child was eager and restless.

“Use your voice to say your prayers. Thank the Lord God that you are alive. Thank Jesus that you can speak,” she whispered back.

The child nodded. He closed his eyes and sought God. Leticia closed her eyes and sought the Prayer to St. Joseph, their patron saint.

“O St. Joseph, whose protection is so great, so strong, so prompt before the throne of God...” The women behind her answered back, completing a prayer of old, the one sent by popes to emperors before going into battle. It was said that no one shall die a sudden death with this prayer, shall not be drowned or poisoned, shall not be burned in any fire or fall into the hands of the enemy. “I dare not approach while He reposes near your heart... St. Joseph, patron of departing souls, pray for us.”

Leticia felt fortified by this prayer — it was the novena she had used the most. It had never failed her since the time she learned it from the maestro himself. It would have been the prayer used to save her sister.

A draft slid into the room, which raised the hair on Leticia’s arms. She rubbed her arms to warm herself. A man dressed in black walked in from the front door and into the maestro’s room. No one had bothered to stop him.

“It’s Manong Leong!” Florante said to her, and at once stood up.

Leticia rushed into the other room and saw the man, this Leong, talking to the maestro. The maestro gazed intently at the stranger, and seemed to be comforted by his presence.

“The maestro had prayed to St. Joseph way ahead of you, Leti,” Leong said. His hand rested on top of the weary man’s head. “He misses his family. He is... very tired.”

“His family is here,” Leticia replied. Her voice carried a new boldness, but only for a while. Leong turned to look at her, and she felt her knees weaken.

“It is his time to go,” Leong said.

“I prayed to God,” Leticia choked. “I prayed to see and defeat you, that you may not inflict pain on us again.” Leticia inched closer, her fists clenched tight. She was meaning to do all she had said, but at that point did not know how.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Leti,” Leong said.

At that moment, Florante appeared at the doorway. “Auntie, what’s wrong?” he asked.

Leticia looked back at Florante, and noticed how much more animated he appeared, even with his frail body. She sensed her nephew had changed into something she was a stranger to, since she saw him at the Oaig Daya. A kind of wrongness shadowed that boy. Panic went off like a bell in her head, and her eyes fought an oncoming wave of anger. She turned to Leong, “What have you done to Florante?”

“Listen, Leti,” he said gently.

His voice drifted to Leticia, and solidified as the sound touched her ears. Her heart stopped moving, and her tears, those that were about to fall, stilled at the rim of her eyes. He came nearer, and she felt his hands go around her back, cradling her, subduing her. She was as still as stone, yet she felt everything.

“Forgive me,” Leong said, “It was the only way to make Florante stay with you.”

Leticia did not understand. How could Florante want to leave me?

Leong moved so that Leticia could see his face. “This morning, at the river, before he fell into the water, his head hit against a rock. He was already dying, and you were still far away. I didn’t want you to feel any more grief. I changed him, Leti. I changed Florante to be one of us.” He touched her forehead with his own. “Forgive me. I thought it was the only way.”

Leong released Leticia, and walked quietly out the room. Florante ran towards his aunt and held her up as best as he could. The icy hold on Leticia thawed slowly, and as the room warmed to the heat of lamps and candles, a tear melted from her eye and fell unnoticed to the wooden floor.

* * *

Apo Leticia sat precariously on a flat rock by the riverbank. The Oaig Daya was indeed beautiful in the summer — the sky, accompanying the water’s merry journey from the mountains to the ocean, stretched itself endlessly above the river. Her grandnephews and grandnieces played nearby while their parents tried their best to keep them in line.

A charming little girl, who seemed to be her favorite nowadays, waved to her while riding a rubber inner tube. Apo Leticia waved back and laughed. “Be careful of rocks!” she yelled. She did not expect to be heard above the radio with the volume turned up, and the laughter of her family which took over the river.

While gazing at the view, a young man stood in front of her. He had on a cotton shirt and beach shorts — an attire fit for the season. He reached for Leticia’s hand and touched it with his forehead.

“Auntie,” Florante said. He wore the same grin of some years ago.

This look suits him. But he could use some more time in the sun, Leticia thought.

“I didn’t think it was you who was going to pick me up,” Apo Leticia said.

“Do you want me to call Manong Leong instead?” Florante asked as he helped his aunt get up. He looked worried, and a bit hurt.

“No, that’s all right. I’m afraid I’m going to see much more of that man,” Apo Leticia answered. She curled her shaking arm around her nephew’s, and saw the Oaig Daya fade slowly from her sight.