Biag ni Lam-Ang Pedro Bucaneng Don Juan and his wife Namongan lived in Nalbuan, now part of La Union

in the northern part of the Philippines. They had a son named Lam-ang. Before Lam-ang was born, Don Juan went to the mountains in order to punish a group of their Igorot enemies. While he was away, his son Lam-ang was born. It took four people to help Namongan give birth. As soon as the baby boy popped out, he spoke and asked that he be given the name Lam-ang. He also chose his godparents and asked where his father was. After nine months of waiting for his father to return, Lam-ang decided he would go look for him. Namongan thought Lam-ang was up to the challenge but she was sad to let him go. During his exhausting journey, he decided to rest for awhile. He fell asleep and had a dream about his father's head being stuck on a pole by the Igorot. Lam-ang was furious when he learned what had happened to his father. He rushed to their village and killed them all, except for one whom he let go so that he could tell other people about Lam-ang's greatness. Upon returning to Nalbuan in triumph, he was bathed by women in the Amburayanriver. All the fish died because of the dirt and odor from Lam-ang's body. There was a young woman named Ines Kannoyan whom Lam-ang wanted to woo. She lived in Calanutian and he brought along his white rooster and gray dog to visit her. On the way, Lam-ang met his enemy Sumarang, another suitor of Ines whom he fought and readily defeated. Lam-ang found the house of Ines surrounded by many suitors all of whom were trying to catch her attention. He had his rooster crow, which caused a nearby house to fall. This made Ines look out. He had his dog bark and in an instant the fallen house rose up again. The girl's parents witnessed this and called for him. The rooster expressed the love of Lam-ang. The parents agreed to a marriage with their daughter if Lam-ang would give them a dowry valued at double their wealth. Lamang had no problem fulfilling this condition and he and Ines were married. It was a tradition to have a newly married man swim in the river for the rarang fish. Unfortunately, Lam-ang dove straight into the mouth of the water monster Berkakan. Ines had Marcos get his bones, which she covered with a piece of cloth. His rooster crowed and his dog barked and slowly the bones started to move. Back alive, Lam-ang and his wife lived happily ever after with his white rooster and gray dog.

Rice Manuel Arguilla Slowly, Pablo unhitched the carabao from the empty sled. He laid a horny palm on the back of the tired animal; the thick; coarse-haired skin was warm and dry like sun heated earth. The carabao by quietly, licking with its dark colored tongue and beads of moisture that hung on the stiff hairs around its nostrils. Dropping the yoke inside the sled, Pablo led the beast to a young tamarind tree almost as high as nipa hut beside it. A bundle of fresh green zacate lay under the tree and the carabao began to feed upon it hungrily. Pablo watched the animal a moment, half listening to its snuffling as it buried its mouth in the sweet-smelling zacate. A sudden weakness came upon him and black spots whirled before his eyes. He felt so hungry he could have gone down on his knees beside the carabao and chewed the grass. "Eat," he said in a thin, wheezy voice. "You can have all the grass you want." He slapped the animal's smooth, fat rump, and turned to the house, his hand falling limpy to his side. "Sebia," he called, raising his voice until it broke shrilly, "Sebia!" No answering voice came from the hut. He bent low to pass under a length of hard bamboo used as a storm prop, muttering to himself how careless of his wife it was to leave the house with the door open. Toward the side where the prop slanted upward against the eaves, the hunt leaned sharply. The whole frail structure in fact looked as though it might collapse at any moments. But this year it has weathered four heavy storms without any greater damage than the sharp inclined toward the west, and that has been taken care of by the prop. As he looked at the house, Pablo did not see how squalid it was. He saw the snapping nipa walls, the shutterless windows, the rotting floor of the shaky batalan, the roofless shed over the low ladder,but there were familiar sights that had ceased to arouse his interest. He wiped his muddy feet on the grass that grew knee deep in the yard. He could hear the sound of pounding in the neighboring hut and, going to the broken-down fence that separated the two houses, he called out weakly, "Osiang, do you where

my wife and children have gone?" "Eh?" What is it Mang Pablo?" Te loud voice of a woman broke out the hut. You are home already? Where are your companions? Did you see my husband? Did you not come together? Where is he? Where is the shameless son-of-a-whore?" "Andres is talking with some of the men at the house. Osiang, do you know where Sebia and the children are?"

"Why doesn't he come home?" He knows I have been waiting the whole day for the rice he is bringing home! I am so hungry I cannot even drag my bones away from stove. What is he doing at the house of Elis, the shameless, good for nothing son-ofa-whore?" Pablo moved away from the fence, stumbling a little, for the long blades of grass got in his way. "There is no rice, Osiang," he called back wheezily over his shoulder, but evidently the woman did not hear him, for she went on talking: "Mang Pablo, how many cavanes of rice did you borrow? Sebia told me you are to cook the rice as soon as you came home. She went with thechildren to the creek for snails. I told them to be careful and throw away whatever they gather if they see a watchman coming. God save our souls! What kind of life is this when we cannot even get snails from the fields? Pay a multa of five cavanes for a handful of snails!" Osiang spat noisily through the slats of her floor. She had not once shown her face. Pablo could hear her busily pounding in a little stone mortar. "There is no rice, Osiang," he whispered. He felt too tired and weak to raise his voice. He sat on the ladder and waited for his wife and children. He removed his rainstained hat of buri palm leaf, placing it atop one of the upright pieces of bamboo supporting the steps of the ladder. Before him, as far as his uncertain gaze could make out, stretched the rice fields of the Hacienda Consuelo. The afternoon sun brought out the gold in the green of the young rice plants. Harvest time was two months off and in the house of Pablo there was no rice to eat... That morning he and several other tenants had driven over with their sleds to the house of the Senora to borrow grain. The sleds had been loaded with the cavanes of rice. Pablo remembered with what willingness he had heaved the sacks to his sledfive sacks-the rice grains bursting through the tiny holes of the juice covers. Then the announcement: "Five sacks of rice borrowed today become ten at harvest time."

"We have always borrowed tersiohan - four cavanes become six," the man had repeated over and over. Although they used to find even this arrangement difficult and burdensome, they now insisted upon it eagerly. "Tersiohan!" they had begged. "Not takipan - that is too much. What will be left to us?" "The storms have destroyed half of my rice plants..." "I have six children to feed..." "Five becomes ten," the encargado said, "Either that or you get no rice." They had gathered around Elis. In the end every man had silently emptied his loaded sled and prepared to leave. The senora had come out, her cane beating a rapid tattoo on the polished floor of the porch; she was an old woman with a chin that quivered as she spoke to them, lifeless false teeth clenched tightly in her anger. "Do you see those trucks?" she had finished, pointing to three big red trucksunder the mango tree in the yard. "If you do not take the rice today, tonight the trucks will carry every sack in sight to the city. Then I hope you all starve you ungrateful beasts!" It was Elis who drove away first. The others followed. The sacks of rice lay there in the yard in the sun, piled across each other... "Mang Pablo," loud voice of Osiang broke again, "are you cooking rice yet? If you have no fire, come here under the window with some dry ice straw and I'll give you two of three coals from my stove. I am boiling a pinchful of bran. It will do to check my hunger a bit while I wait for that shameless Andres." "Wait, Osiang," Pablo said, and finding this mouth had gone dry, he stepped into the kitchen and from the red clay jar dipped himself a glass of water. He came down with the sheaf of rice straw in his fist. Passing the tamarind tree, he pulled down a lomb covered with new leaves, light green and juicy. He filed his mouth with them and walked on to Osiang's hut, munching the sourish leaves. "here I am, Osiang," he said, but he had to strike the wall of the hut before he could attract the attention of Osiang, who had gone back to her pounding and could not hear Pablo's weak, wheezy voice.

She came to the window talking loudly. Her face, when she looked out, was a dark, earthy brown with high, sharp cheekbones and small pig-like eyes. She had a wide mouth and large teeth discolored from smoking tobacco. Short, graying hair fell straight on either side of her face, escaping from the loose knot she had at the back of her head. A square necked white cotton dress exposed half of her flat, bony chest. "Whoresone!" she exclaimed, as one of the pieces of coal she was transferring from a coconut shell to the straw in Pablo's hand rolled away. Pablo looked up to her and wanted to tell her again that there was no rice, but he could not bring himself to do it. Osiang went back to her pounding after all. He spat out the greenish liquid. It reminded him of crushed caterpillars. Smoke began to issue forth fro the twisted straw in his hand. He was preparing to climb over the intervening fence when he saw Andres coming down the path from the direction of Eli's house. The man appeared excited. He gestured with his arm to Pablo to wait for him. Pablo drew back the leg he had over the fence. The smoking sheaf of straw in his hand, he went slowly to meet Andres. Osiang was still pounding in her little stone mortar. The sharp thudding of the stone pestle against the mortar seemed to Pablo unnaturally loud. Anders had stopped beneath the clump of bamboo some distance from his hut. He stood beside his carabao - a much younger man than Pablo - dark, broad, squat. He wrote a printed camisa de chino, threadbare at the neck and shoulders, the sleeves cut short above the elbows so that his arm hung out, thickmuscled awkward. "Are you coming with us?" he asked Pablo, his voice granting in his throat as he strove a speak quietly. There was in his small eyes a fierce, desperate look that Pablo found to meet. "Don't be a fool, Andres," he said, coughing to clear his throat and trying to appear calm. Andres breathed hard. He glared at the older man. But Pablo was looking down at the smoking straw in his hand. He could feel the heat steadily increasing and he shifted his hold farther from the burning end. Andres turned to his carabao with a curse. Pablo took a step forward until he stood close to the younger man. "What can you do Andres?" he said. "You say you will stop the trucks bearing the rice to the city. That will be robbery. "Five cavanes paid back double is robbery too, only the robbers do not go to jail,"

"Perhaps there will be a killing..." "We will take that chance." "You will all be sent to bilibid." "What will become of the wife and the children behind? Who will feed them?" "They are starving right now under our very eyes." "But you are here with them." "That is worse." The smoke from the burning rice straw got into Pablo's mouth and he was shaken a fit of coughing. "What do you hope to gain by stealing a truck load of rice?" he asked when he recovered his breath. "Food," Andres said tersely. "Is that all?" "Food for our wives and children.Food for everybody. That is enough!" "What will happen if the stolen rice is gone? Will you go on robbing?" "It is not stealing. The rice is ours." The straw in Pablo's hand burst into sudden flame. He threw it away. It fell in path, the fire dying out as the straw scattered and burning coals rolled in all directions. "I must get some rice straws," Pablo said in his thin, wheezy voice. "Osiang, your wife is waiting for you." As he turned to leave, Andres whispered hoarsely to him, "before the moon rises tonight, the first truck will pass around the bend by the bridge..." Pablo did not look back. He had seen his wife and three children approaching the hut from the fields. They were accompanied by a man. He hurried to meet them. A moment later the loud voice of Osiang burst out of the hut of Andres, but Pablo had no ear for other things just then. The man with his wife was the field watchman. "They were fishing in the fields," the watchman said stolidly, He was a thickset, dullfaced fellow clad in khaki shirt and khaki trousers. "You will pay a fine of five cavanes." "We are only gathering snails," Sebia protested sobbing. She was wet. Her skirt clung to her thin legs dripping water and slow trickle of mud. "Five cavanes," the watchman said. "I came to tell you so that you will know--" speaking to Pablo. He turned and strode away. Pablo watched the broad, khaki covered back of the watchman. "I suppose he has to earn his rice too," he said in his wheezy voice, feeling an immense weariness and

hopelessness settle upon him. He looked at his wife, weeping noisily, and the children streak with dark-blue mud, the two older boys thin like sticks, and the youngest a girl of six. Five cavanes of rice for a handful of snails! How much is five cavanes to five hungry people? "Itay, I'm hungry," Sabel, the girl said. The two boys looked up at him mutely. They were cold and shivering and full of the knowledge of what had happened. "I was just going to get fire from Osiang," Pablo heard himself say. "You have not cooked the rice?" Sebia asked, moving wearily to the ladder. "There is no rice." Sebia listened in silence while he told her why there was no rice. "Then what were you going to cook with the fire?" she asked finally. "I don't know," he was forced to say. "I thought I would wait for you and the children." "Where shall we ever get the rice to pay the multa?" Sebia asked irrelevantly. At their feet the children began to whimper. "Itay, I'm hungry," Sabel repeated. Pablo took her up his arms. He carried her to the carabao and placed her on its broad, warm back. The child stopped whimpering and began to kick with her legs. The carabao switched its tails, he struck with its mud-encrusted tip across her face. She covered her eyes with both hands and burst out crying. Pablo put her down, tried to pry away her hands from her eyes, but she refused to uncover them and cried as though in great pain. "Sebia, Pablo called, and his wife hurried, he picked up a stout piece of wood lying nearby and began to beat the carabao. He gripped the piece of wood with both hands and struck the dumb beast with all his strength. His breath came in gasps. The carabao wheeled around the tamarind tree until its rope was wound about the trunk and the animal could not make another turn. It stood there snorting with pain and fear as the blows of Pablo rained down its back. The piece of wood at last broke and Pablo was left with a short stub in his hands. He gazed at it, sobbing with rage and weakness, then he ran to the hut, crying. "Give me my bolo, Sebia, give me my bolo. We shall have food tonight." But Sebia held him and would not let him go until he quieted down and sat with back against the wall of the hut. Sabel had stopped crying. The two boys sat by the cold stove.

"God save me," Pablo said, brokenly. He brought up his knees and, dropping his face between them, wept like a child. Sebia lay down with Sabel and watched pablo. She followed his movements wordlessly as he got up and took his bolo from the wall and belted it around his waist. She did not rise to stop him. She lay there on the floor and watched his husband put his hat and go down the low ladder. She listened and learned he had not gone near the carabao. Outside, the darkness had thickened. Pablo picked his way through the tall grass in the yard. He stopped to look back in the house. In the twilight the hut did not seem to lean so much. He tightened the belt of the heavy bolo around his waist. Pulling the old buri hat firmly over his head, he joined Andres, who stood waiting by the broken down fence. I silence they walked together to the house of Elis.
My Father goes to Court Carlos Bulosan When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the island of Luzon. Fathers farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so for several years afterward we all lived in the town, though he preffered living in the country. We had a next-door neighbor, a very rich man, whose sons and daughters seldom came out of the house. While we boys and girls played and sand in the sun, his children stayed inside and kept the windows closed. His house was so tall that his children could look in the windows of our house and watch us as we played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the house to eat. Now, this rich mans servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us from the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smell of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich mans house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbors servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us. Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went out to play. We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbors who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our laughter.

Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living room and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with his fingers and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring with laughter. There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of my brothers came home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he brought something to eat, maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make our mouths water. He rushed to mother and through the bundle into her lap. We all stood around, watching mother undo the complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of the bundle and ran wildly around the house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with her little fists, while the rest of us bent double, choking with laughter. Another time one of my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother reached her first and tried to calm her. My sister criedand groaned. When father lifted the lamp, my sister stared at us with shame in her eyes. What is it? <other asked. Im pregnant! she cried. Dont be a fool! Father shouted. Youre only a child, Mother said. Im pregnant, I tell you! she cried. Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. How do you know you are pregnant? he asked. Feel it! she cried. We put our hands on her belly. There was something moving inside. Father was frightened. Mother was shocked. Whos the man? she asked. Theres no man, my sister said. What is it then? Father asked. Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father dropped the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sisters blanket caught fire. One of my brothers laughed so hard he rolled on the floor. When the fire was extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but Father kept on laughing so loud we could not sleep any more. Mother got up again and

lighted the oil lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all our might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter. It was like that for years. As time went on, the rich mans children became thin and anemic, while we grew even more robust and full of fire. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like barking of a herd of seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what had happened to them. We knew that they were not sick from lack of nourishing food because they were still always frying something delicious to eat. One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had grown fat with laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through the house, shutting all the windows. From that day on, the windows of our neighbors house were closed. The children did not come outdoors anymore. We could still hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house. One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had filled a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was all about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food. When the day came for us to appear in court, Father brushed his old army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the center of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept jumping up his chair and stabbing the air with his arms, as though he were defending himself before an imaginary jury. The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We stood up in a hurry and sat down again. After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. Do you have a lawyer? he asked. I dont need a lawyer judge. He said. Proceed, said the judge.

The rich mans lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, Do you or do you not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complainants wealth and food? I do not! Father said. Do you or do you not agree that while the complainants servants cooked and fried fat legs of lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food? I agree, Father said. How do you account for that? Father got up and paced around, scratching his head thoughtfully. Then he said, I would like to see the children of the complainant, Judge. Bring the children of the complainant. They came shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands. They were so amazed to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the floor and moved their hands uneasily. Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally he said, I should like to cross-examine the complainant. Proceed. Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became morose and sad? Father asked. Yes. Then we are going to pay you right now, Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change. May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a minutes, Judge? Father asked. As you wish. Thank you, Father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.

Are you ready? Father called. Proceed. The judge said. The sweet tinkle of coins carried beautifully into the room. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came back and stood before the complainant. Did you hear it? he asked. Hear what? the man asked. The spirit of the money when I shook this hat? he asked. Yes. Then you are paid. Father said. The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel. Case dismissed, he said. Father strutted around the courtroom. The judge even came down to his high chair to shake hands with him. By the way, he whispered, I had an uncle who died laughing. You like to hear my family laugh, judge? Father asked. Why not? Did you hear that children? Father said. My sister started it. The rest of us followed them and soon the spectators were laughing with us, holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the loudest of all.

Hudhud hi Aliguyon

In the mountainous regions of Northern Luzon, a hudhud is a long tale sung during special occasions. This particular long tale is sung during harvest. A favorite topic of the hudhud is a folk hero named Aliguyon, a brave warrior.

Once upon a time, in a village called Hannanga, a boy was born to the couple named Amtalao and Dumulao. He was called Aliguyon. He was an intelligent, eager young man who wanted to learn many things, and indeed, he learned many useful things, from the stories and teachings of his father. He learned how to fight well and chant a few magic spells. Even as a child, he was a leader, for the other children of his village looked up to him with awe. Upon leaving childhood, Aliguyon betook himself to gather forces to fight against his fathers enemy, who was Pangaiwan of the village of Daligdigan. But his challenge was not answered personally by Pangaiwan. Instead, he faced Pangaiwans fierce son, Pumbakhayon. Pumbakhayon was just as skilled in the arts of war and magic as Aliguyon. The two of them battled each other for three years, and neither of them showed signs of defeat. Their battle was a tedious one, and it has been said that they both used only one spear! Aliguyon had thrown a spear to his opponent at the start of their match, but the fair Pumbakhayon had caught it deftly with one hand. And then Pumbakhayon threw the spear back to Aliguyon, who picked it just as neatly from the air. At length Aliguyon and Pumbakhayon came to respect each other, and then eventually they came to admire each others talents. Their fighting stopped suddenly. Between the two of them they drafted a peace treaty between Hannanga and Daligdigan, which their peoples readily agreed to. It was fine to behold two majestic warriors finally side by side. Aliguyon and Pumbakhayon became good friends, as peace between their villages flourished. When the time came for Aliguyon to choose a mate, he chose Pumbakhayons youngest sister, Bugan, who was little more than a baby. He took Bugan into his household and cared for her until she grew to be most beautiful. Pumbakhayon, in his turn, took for his wife Aliguyons younger sister, Aginaya. The two couples became wealthy and respected in all of Ifugao.

Wedding Dance By Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness. "I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it." The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There

was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness. But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened. "Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate. "Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me." "I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man." He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?" She did not answer him. "You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated. "Yes, I know," she said weakly. "It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you." "Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry. "No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us." This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the blanket more snugly around herself.

"You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers." "Yes, I know." "You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?" "Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling. Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care through the walls. Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening. "I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the whole village." "That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.

He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor. "This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay."

"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice." "I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," he said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us." "I have no use for any field," she said. He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time. "Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance." "I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing." "You know that I cannot." "Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back. You know that." "I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay." She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed. She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled, resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death. They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the other side of the mountain. She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the carved out of the mountains

five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him. She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die." "It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness. "I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but you. I'll have no other man." "Then you'll always be fruitless." "I'll go back to my father, I'll die." "Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe." She was silent. "If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me." "If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail." "If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from the life of our tribe." The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway. "I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered. "You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields."

"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I love you and have nothing to give."

She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao!Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!" "I am not in hurry." "The elders will scold you. You had better go." "Not until you tell me that it is all right with you." "It is all right with me." He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said. "I know," she said. He went to the door. "Awiyao!" He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this. "Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly possession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go. "Awiyao!Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his neck. The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night. Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.

She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give her husband a child. "It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right," she said. Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the river? She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsasclamored more loudly now, and it seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach? She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast. Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village. When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.

When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for her sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas. Lumnaythough of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on his desire to marry her. The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them. A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on. Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.

ULLALIM
Ang kwento ay nagsimula sa nakatakdang kasal nina Ya-u at Dulaw nang makapulot ng nganga o ua (na tawag ng taga-Kalinga). Ang magkasintahan ay naanyayahan sa isang pistahan sa Madogyaya. Nang sila ay nasa Madogyaya, naakit ang pansin ni Dulliyaw kay Dulaw hanggang si Dulaw ay magkagusto sa kanya. Sa pagplano na ligawan ni Dulaw si Dulliyaw ay naisip nitong painumin ng alak si Ya-u hanggang sa malasing. Habang si Ya-u ay natutulog sa ibang bahay ay saka niligawan ni Dulaw si Dulliyaw. Pinakain nito ang babae ng nganga at sinabi niya sa babae na sa pamamagitan ng pagtanggap niya ng nganga ang ibig sabihin ay tinanggap na niya ang pag-ibig na kanyang iniaalay. Bago siya umalis

ay sinabi niya sa babae na siya ay babalik kinabukasan. Naiwan na nag-iisip ang dalaga. Kinabukasan sa kalagitnaan ng gabi ay dumating si Dulaw sa bahay nina Dulliyaw. Habang silay kumakain ng nganga, sinabi nito sa babae na siya ay nagpunta roon upang isama ang dalaga sa kanilang bahay. Nagulat si Dulliyaw sa winika ng lalaki. Iyon lamang at nagkagulo na ang mga tao sa nayon. Sa pagtakas nila ay nakasalubong sila ng isang lalaki na may dala-dalang palakol at balak silang patayin. Bago sila maabutan ng lalaki ay nakaakyat na si Dulaw sa isang puno upang tumakas. Samantala wala namang mangahas na siya ay lusubin kaya naipasiya ni Ya-u na tawagin ang mga sundalong Espaol ng Sakbawan. At noon nga si Guwela na kumander ng Garison ay umakyat sa kaitaasan ng Kalinga na kasama ang mga sundalo. Iniutos niya na dakpin si Dulaw na nakaupo pa rin sa puno. Napag-alaman niya na marami ang tutol sa ginawa niya kaya wala na siyang lakas na lumaban nang siya ay lagyan ng posas. Sa utos pa rin ni Guwela siya ay dinakip at nakulong sa Sakbawan. Makalipas ang tatlong taon na pagkakabilanggo, naging payat na siya. Humingi si Dulliyaw ng nganga kay Dulaw. Kinuha ni Dulaw ang huling nganga sa bahay at itoy pinagpirapiraso. Bago niya ito maibigay kay Dulliyaw bigla na lamang itong nawala. Samantala, sa pook na Magobya naliligo si Duranaw. Sa paliligo niya sa ilog ay nakapulot siya ng nganga. Kinain niya ito nang walang alinlangan. Matapos nguyain ang nganga ay bigla na lamang itong nagbuntis hanggang sa siya ay magsilang ng isang malusog na lalaki at pinangalanan niya itong Banna. Tatlong taon ang lumipas. Si Banna ay mahilig makipaglaro sa mga Agta, subalit siyay madalas na tinutukso ng kanyang mga kalaro. Sinasabi na kung siya raw ang tunay na Banna ang ibig sabihin ay siya ang anak ni Dulaw na nakulong sa Sakbawan. Sinumbong niya ito sa kanyang ina ngunit pinabulaanan ito ng kanyang ina. Sa isang iglap, si Banna ay naging malakas at naghangad ng paghihiganti. Isang mahiwagang pangyayari ang nagdala kay Banna pati ng kanyang mga kasama sa Sakbawan. At doon ay kanyang pinatay si Dulliyaw. Sinabi ng isang kasama ni

Banna kay Dulaw na si Banna ay kanyang anak, iyon lang at sila ay dali-daling sumakay sa isang bangka at sa isang iglap ay nakarating sila sa pook ng Magobya. Mula noon ay nauso na ang kasalan sa kanilang pook.

NU NUNUK DU TUKUN Catalina Faronilo Hontomin Nu nunuk du tukun, minuhung as kadisina; ichapungpungdiya am yaken u nilawnganna.Kapaytalamaranavasuavang di idaud ta miyan du inayebnganna, ta miyan du inajebnganna. Nu itanisko am nu didiwenko. ta nu taw aya u suminbangdiyaken; nu maliliyak a pahung as maheheyet a riyes u minaheyniya-u minaheyn'yadiyaken.
Footnote to Youth Jose Garcia Villa
The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow, and led it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, he wanted his father to know what he had to say was of serious importance as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, but a thought came to him that his father might refuse to consider it. His father was a silent hardworking farmer, who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his mother, Dodongs grandmother. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. I will tell him. I will tell it to him. The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish earthy smell. Many slender soft worm emerged from the further rows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodongs foot and crawled clammilu over it. Dodong got tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where into the air, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young anymore. Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and fave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it and the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interest.

Dodong started homeward thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, then down on his upper lip was dark-these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it, although he was by nature low in stature. Thinking himself man grown, Dodong felt he could do anything. He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown, he thought wild young dreams of himself and Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him want to touch her, to hold her. She made him dream even during the day. Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscle of his arms. Dirty. This fieldwork was healthy invigorating, but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then marched obliquely to a creek. Must you marry, Dodong? Dodong resented his fathers question; his father himself had married early. Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray under shirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. Then he went into the water, wet his body over and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool. It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling was already lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. He and his parents sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried freshwater fish, and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held the,, they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of caked sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parent. Dodongs mother removed the dishes when they were through, and went with slow careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out. But he was tired and now, feld lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone. His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him, again. Dodong knew, Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward, Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth, he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father.

Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what we had to say, and over which he head said it without any effort at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relived and looked at his father expectantly. A decresent moon outside shed its feebled light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father look old now. I am going to marry Teang, Dodong said. His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth, Thesilenece became intense and cruel, and Dodong was uncomfortable and then became very angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything. I will marry Teang, Dodong repeated. I will marry Teang.

His father kept gazing at him in flexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat. I asked her last night to marry me and she said Yes. I want your permission I want it There was an impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at his coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sound it made broke dully the night stillness. Must you marry, Dodong? Dodong resented his fathers question; his father himself had married early. Dodong made a quick impassioned essay in his mind about selfishness, but later, he got confused. You are very young, Dodong. Im seventeen. Thats very young to get married at. I I want to marry Teangs a good girl Tell your mother, his father said. You tell her, Tatay. Dodong, you tell your Inay. You tell her. All right, Dodong. All right, Dodong. You will let me marry Teang?

Son, if that is your wish of course There was a strange helpless light in his fathers eyes. Dodong did not read it. Too absorbed was he in himself. Dodong was immensely glad he has asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father, for a while, he even felt sorry for him about the pain I his tooth. Then he confined his mind dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dreams *** Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely so that his camiseta was damp. He was still like a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt afraid of the house. It had seemingly caged him, to compress his thoughts with severe tyranny. He was also afraid of Teang who was giving birth in the house; she face screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry. In a few moments he would be a father. Father, father, he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now contradicting himself of nine months ago. He was very young He felt queer, troubled, uncomfortable. Dodong felt tired of standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He looked at his calloused toes. Then he thought, supposed he had ten children The journey of thought came to a halt when he heard his mothers voice from the house. Some how, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something not properly his. Come up, Dodong. It is over. Suddenly, he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he has taken something not properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust off his kundiman shorts. Dodong, his mother called again. Dodong. He turned to look again and this time, he saw his father beside his mother. It is a boy. His father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up. Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. His parents eyes seemed to pierce through him so he felt limp. He wanted to hide or even run away from them.

Dodong, you come up. You come up, his mother said. Dodong did not want to come up. Hed rather stayed in the sun. Dodong Dodong. Ill come up. Dodong traced the tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parents eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untru. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him. Son, his father said. And his mother: Dodong.. How kind their voices were. They flowed into him, making him strong. Teanf?Dodong said. Shes sleeping. But you go in His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his wife, asleep on the paper with her soft black hair around her face. He did not want her to look that pale. Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips. But again that feeling of embarrassment came over him, and before his parent, he did not want to be demonstrative. The hilot was wrapping the child Dodong heard him cry. The thin voice touched his heart. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him. You give him to me. You give him to me, Dodong said. *** Blas was not Dodongs only child. Many more children came. For six successive years, a new child came along. Dodong did not want any more children. But they came. It seemed that the coming of children could not helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes. Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children tolled on her. She was shapeless and thin even if she was young. There was interminable work that kept her tied up. Cooking, laundering. The house.The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had no married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike

her. Yet, she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong whom she loved. There had neen another suitor, Lucio older than Dodong by nine years and that wasw why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong who was only seventeen. Lucio had married another. Lucio, she wondered, would she have born him children? Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He wanted to be wise about many thins. Life did not fulfill all of Youths dreams. Why must be so? Why one was forsaken after love? One of them was why life did not fulfill all of the youth dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken after love. Dodong could not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet. Dodong returned to the house, humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know little wisdom but was denied it. When Blas was eighteen, he came home one night, very flustered and happy. Dodong heard Blas steps for he could not sleep well at night. He watched Blass undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called his name and asked why he did not sleep. You better go to sleep. It is late, Dodong said. Life did not fulfill all of youths dreams. Why it must be so? Why one was forsaken after love? Itay.. Blas called softly. Dodong stirred and asked him what it was. Im going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight. Itay, you think its over. Dodong lay silent. I loved Tona and I want her. Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard where everything was still and quiet. The moonlight was cold and white.

You want to marry Tona, Dodong said, although he did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard Yes. Must you marry? Blas voice was steeled with resentment. I will maryTona. You have objection, Itay? Blas asked acridly. Son non But for Dodong, he do anything. Youth must triumph now. Afterward It will be life. As long ago, Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong and then life. Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.