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ONE DAY |
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"Go get some more firewood, Mario."
For a second, his young lips pursed. He had been doing chores the whole day and he had wanted to play desperately. Junjun and the other kids had already gone ahead to the river, probably swimming like the catfish, having the time of their lives. While he was about to run another errand.
"Nayyyy..." He whined.
His mother's eyes looked at him gravely, brooking no argument whatsoever. "I want it here in ten minutes. Or I'll have your Itay tan your hide when he comes home."
It was useless. When I grow up, I'll never tell my children to find firewood ever, he thought furiously. Grumbling under his breath, he started to stomp away.
"Mario, don't forget this," she called back her 10-year old son with some degree of exasperation.
Turning around, he saw a folded sack in his mother's hand. Keeping his eyes downcast, he took it from her then practically ran off to the woods. Maybe he can still catch up with the boys if he speed things up.
The woods were nothing more than a patch of land that had been a part of a big forest a long time ago. There had been a time when spotted deer ran wild among the awnings of thick treelines and the hawk-eagles, with talons as sharp as they are cruel, made many travellers regret their carelessness. But he had no knowledge of all these. Rapid deforestration and hunting had ruined Nature's gifts, leaving what was left of the trees in brambles of neglected Earth.
But Mario had imagination. Like most ten-year old boys, the fertility of his mind was all he needed to pass away an otherwise boring afternoon.
He had not gone far when he picked up an interesting stick of dried wood. It was about a foot long and no thicker than his palm closed. The ends were neatly cut as if it had been chopped off by a bolo knife or an axe. Perhaps, one of the woodcutters had passed through here and it fell off from the pile he was carrying.
"Hey, this is great. I'll bet I can make a machine gun out of this." He was quite used to talking to himself, although he knew well enough not to do it within hearing distance of others, lest the kids think he's not quite right in the head.
He found a couple of sticks no longer than his hand quite easily, but had to look around for something to bind it with. Finally, he decided on the vine creeping from the trees to tie the smaller wood.
No sooner had he stepped on the outcrop of roots of the tree nearest him when something jumped. He screamed, tripping on his own feet and landed squarely on his behind. He heard a faint ripping sound and a detached part of his mind realized that he must have created a hole in the shorts he was wearing.
It's a snake, ohgodohgodohgod, it's a snake and it's going to bite me and I'm going to die and it's all my mother's fault. Ohgodohgodohgod, I'm going to die, I'm going to die.
After what seemed like an hour, he began to breathe again, not realizing he had instinctively sat there as if frozen. His machine gun lay on the ground, forgotten in his terror. He did not want to move. His uncle had told him once that snakes cannot see you if you just stay still. But it was taking a long time and there was a slight pain on his left leg. Maybe he was bleeding.
I broke my leg. I'll never walk again. I could have been at the river, watching Roberto flap around like a wet dog, but noooo. I'll die here. I can't go home because I broke my leg and I'll die of starvation.
A minute passed. And another. And yet another. He began to feel hopeful. He began to feel hungry. Being scared always made him hungry.
Maybe the snake had gone home.
Mario began to move tentatively, holding up his right hand and started waving slowly.
Nothing.
The air as still as the breath in his lungs. He stopped moving his hand, realizing how comical he looked waving at a tree. Still, it is better to be safe than sorry, his father always said. Very slowly, he pulled his injured leg to his chest. The skin on the back of his leg had a small graze. No more. He had gone through enough scrapes to know that it was nowhere near paralysis.
There was a rustle in the bushes. A small green thing leapt and plopped itself to the tree, oblivious to Mario's renewed screams. Then his eye caught the shape of the green object, silencing his panic immediately.
Why, it's just a frog! A tree frog! He thought with a burst of relieved joy. Then he began to feel foolish, realizing he had acted like one of those dumb girls. Good thing it didn't happen with the boys around or he would never have lived the humiliation down.
"Stupid frog!!" He scrambled to his feet, intensely annoyed at himself for being frightened at such a small creature. "I oughta catch you and feed you to our cat."
Not that a cat will necessarily eat the frog, but saying it out loud made him feel much better. The frog just sat there placidly.
He dusted the seat of his pants, still muttering words he had heard from the older boys in town. If his mother can hear him now--HIS MOTHER!!
Mario swirled around, suddenly filled with energy. The firewood had not yet been collected and he had been sitting there on the ground for hours because of a frog who did not have the sense to stay in the water.
Sharp eyes and a fear of being belted by his burly fisherman father made his concentration focus at the task at hand. He darted to and fro among the trees and the bushes, the sweat pouring out of him to drench the old white shirt he had on. He remembered the thrashing he had received last week for forgetting to feed the hens that they kept in the backyard. His Itay's meager earnings were never enough for the family's needs and keeping the chickens has helped put food on the table.
Finally, he had all the dried wood he can put on the empty rice sack. He hefted the wood onto his small back and ran all the way home.
Later that night, after a hearty supper of paksiw na isda and rice, his father sat contentedly at the table, smoking a home-rolled cigarette. The catch had been a good one today and the night was cool and comfortable. Amazingly, his mother had not mentioned anything about him being late for what turned out to be little more than half an hour. Not yet anyhow.
"How was your day, Mario?"
Mario blinked, glancing furtively at his mother. Oh, no, here it comes. But she said nothing, clearing away the dishes with a graceful deftness. "It was fine, Itay."
"Did all your chores today?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good, good." Domeng gave his son a weatherbeaten smile. "You're a good boy, Mario."
With that, the old man stood up from his seat, ruffling his son's hair and left the table. After a few seconds a smile lit up the young boy's features.
"Mario, go get some water from the well."
Outside, one by one the other huts began to go dark as the gas lamps within are snuffed out. The whole town prepares for bed and the stars watch over them.
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