The Good Father Martinez

There was a story that circulated among the old natives on the mountains surrounding the town of Yligan. It was not that, just like the tradition of indigenous peoples, the story entered into tribal folklore because it was such a piece of life that it resounded the very voice of their culture; but that its strangeness made it remarkably appealing to the innocent mind. This is the story of Father Fernando Martinez, who the reader may already know from the numerous rumors that reached Manila in the 17th century. As the natives did not possess a calendar those days, we can only presume what the Augustinian Recollects presumed many years ago though we can only presume the time and not their interpretation of the story. According to their calendar, based on the calculations of the present historians of the town, this story should have occurred on the seventh day of the ninth month of the year of our Lord 1688. Sagyawan, prince of the natives of the mountains, was sent by his father to understand the ways of the foreign visitors, especially the red-haired ones whom the people of the coast called Kastila. To be a prince is to walk the path of learning, his father the King told him. You have learned much from me and your environment here in the mountains, now you must learn outside our horizon. Or some similar sounding words. The natives consider wisdom in knowledge and princes of the tribes were required to develop the skill to weigh experiences and judge from the wisdom of their hearts. So off Sagyawan went dressed like a common native to the town of Yligan, eager to face the adventure before him, though he was not prepared for whatever this story was known for. On his way to the town he started hearing rumors about a healer who was helping the natives in any way he could. His curiosity was eventually awakened when he started hearing that this miracle worker was able to heal the sick with the touch of his hand. A native from the land of Puga trees told him that his fever that was going on for weeks was instantly healed with a touch. A family from where the Ibo trees grew told him that their youngest daughter was completely healed of a skin disease after she was touched on the forehead. Others even mentioned that he was able to resurrect a dead man near a community where the Bayug trees were located. As he entered the town, an old man approached him. Are you here to get yourself healed like the rest of us or are you here to be converted to the religion of Father Martinez? Asked the old man, not recognizing the prince from the mountains. I am here in search of knowledge His mouth opened without thinking, the irony of too much thinking. What? Are you a prince or a shaman perhaps? The old man stared at him. Only princes talk in such a way as the shamans do. Father Martinez is better than the likes of you.

No sir. Trying to hide himself from the old mans stare. I have come to see this healer I heard about. Of course. The old man smiled at him. If that indeed is your business, then you shall find wisdom in Father Martinezs house. He speak our language as well as us. Be careful though, those who can heal the sick and resurrect the dead possess the knowledge of god and we common mortals may be unfit for it. He walked away, but not before telling Sagyawan that he knew that he was a prince. Whatever the old man did after that encounter nobody knew, but it was allegedly from him that this story originated. Sagyawan then walked to the direction of the house of Father Martinez as instructed by the old man. The nipa hut was swarmed by many natives that a crowd was formed. Some of them were there to receive healing, while others came to listen to the teachings, which according to many sounded almost the same with the teachings of the Sharif hundreds of full moons ago; except that the Sharif never had the kind of power Father Martinez possessed. Sagyawan found himself a spot under a cluster of banana trees. The red-haired Father Martinez was busy, but there was calmness in his eyes. This man was someone without comparison to any of the shaman Sagyawan knew. It was as if he was surrounded by a godly aura unseen since the days of the sacred Tuminokol, an ancestor of his who went to heaven to join the gods. As Sagyawan was remembering Tuminokol, he did not notice that Father Martinez was staring at him, or at least that was what he felt at that time. I know who you are prince of the natives of the mountains. Sagyawan heard in the whispers of the air. You have come for knowledge, and I shall give you a slice of it. Sagyawan saw Father Martinez's eyes piercing his spirit. How can this be? Sagyawan asked himself. How can he talk to me in this strange way? How can his eyes look at me while he tend to these people? What power Suddenly, a pain inside his head interrupted his thoughts and he started seeing visions allegedly beyond his capacities of description. He saw the sky light up like the sun, things he could not understand, death and birth, men with wings, talking boxes, the song of the Sharif and things that he could no longer express in words. He wanted to say something. He wanted to scream. But his voice was suppressed. He heard Father Martinez laughing at a distance though his face looked still, and that was the last he remembered before remembering waking up in the darkness beneath the banana trees. He felt he slept only for a few minutes and was surprised to know that it was already evening. The crowd was gone. He was dizzy, but he started walking slowly to the direction of the hut of Father Martinez. It was dark and the crescent moon was not helping, but a small device which Sagyawan could not identify served to light the inside of the hut. It was placed on the ground. He stared at it for a while for he had not seen such a thing in his life, and the light it produced was something unnatural. He began to feel uneasy, and the hairs at the back of his neck began to rise.

This part of the story, when Sagyawan started hearing a strange noise at the back of the hut and bravely walked fifty paces to the direction of the noise, is already marked with uncertainty. Perhaps fear has that effect on men whether they be brave or not. In most cases, boring details are easily lost in the sight of a much more interesting event. Whatever happened along the way, it never mattered in the end. What mattered was when Sagyawan finally saw Father Martinez at a small clearing in the middle of the forest, kneeling down to someone as if talking respectfully to a king. He first thought that the distance was the reason why he could not understand what Father Martinez was saying. He sounded like murmuring, so Sagyawan went nearer while trying to hide away his presence, silently and stealthily crouching from tree to tree. The light of the moon strangely was stronger in that part of the forest. It was when he got near that he realized that Father Martinez was speaking in a language he could not understand. Curiosity forced Sagyawan to ascertain who the man was talking to, when he heard his name called. Prince Sagyawan of the natives of the mountains. Welcome. Suddenly out of the shadows of the trees came a horned beast standing upright like a man, but with feet that looked like those of a carabao, and with a long tail at that. The beast then turned to Father Martinez and said, It is best to reveal yourself to this man. I heard he was seeking knowledge, and some knowledge we shall give. And the beast disappeared, as if it was never there. You are worshipping a demon?! Sagyawan exclaimed as he went out of the shadows himself. But why? Are your powers not that of a god? Father Martinez turned towards him and spoke again in a different tongue. He smiled, then produced a wild laugh. Then he started speaking in the native tongue, Prince Sagyawan, know that the evil in this world can never be evil without the good. That is why I heal people, preach them the word of the crucified god, one of his forms. His eyes began to produce fire and it was at that time that Sagyawan noticed that in a blink of his eye Father Martinez transfigured into the old man he encountered during the day. It was strange but Sagyawan swore the man transfigured. He felt the impulse to run but Father Martinez's voice was still very clear, For it is in witnessing what your people called good that the evil of my master is greatly appreciated. Know however that there had always been one god and you have seen just one of his forms tonight! After which, Father Martinez laughed and it seemed to Sagyawan that even the forest itself trembled at the mans laughter. Scared, Sagyawan ran as fast as he could away from Father Martinez, away from forest and the town, and back into the mountains. Stories had it that Sagyawan never converted to the religion of the foreigners, and he remained faithful to the religion of his people. The words that were forever etched in his memory remain incomprehensible even today. Wisdom or not, the Augustinian Recollects were quick to call it a blasphemy against God, and against the saintly Father Fernando Martinez, whose fame reached

Manila and became an inspiration to the recruitment for the secular clergy years later. The natives on the mountains where Sagyawan eventually became King, unable to understand those words that night, thought of them as a deception from evil spirits living in the forests outside Yligan.

The Village
I. On the summer of 1973 a river native, who lived near the city where I was staying for a vacation with my distant relatives, visited me one early morning to hand me an ancient looking letter that appeared to have been written by a Jesuit missionary during the Spanish period. I misplaced it while leaving the village with haste after a group of rebels assaulted the place a couple of days later. I did not mind it back then for it could have been a forgery. The native did ask me for a can of corned beef and a container of salt for it. However, a man in retirement loves to tinker with old memories and it was in one of those days that I found the crude translation that I did of that letter. Reading the translation in the context of boredom made me wish I did not lose it that time. Whether you will share the regret with me or not, I leave it to you. The letter was dated July 24, 1632 and, though it belonged to the period of Jesuit missionaries in Zamboanga, it did not contain any actual names. Its heading read as follows: Report to Reverend Father A----- on the strange affair attributed to some river natives on one of their brethren J----- on the 7th day of the 4th month of the year of our Lord 1631, in the village of X----just outside the capable jurisdiction of the Residence in Dapitan. Where this place really was, I already gave up for future researchers. I do not have any proof to connect Father A----- to the rector Father Pedro Guttierez of that same year. Tracing a river native of that time proves to be much more difficult that figuring out who the recipient of the letter was and who wrote it. There never was any record of cultish Christian beliefs in the folklore of the river natives, but you may understand why after reading the letter yourself.

II. To Your Reverence X-----, July 24, 1632 Reverend A-----, regarding the task you gave me, I am most troubled by the enthusiasm the natives showed in interpreting the words of God in this place. Have they accepted Christianity? That I did not doubt. Were they Christians in the way our order, or any order for that matter, saw it? The thought of this second question may terrify your very soul Your Reverence, as it did mine. I hope that no other native see or would see our beloved faith the same way as they did. Perhaps the only reprieve I can give Your Reverence is to tell you that the deed you requested was done and was carried by your holy warriors without complications. I include in this letter Your Reverence my observations of the people in village X----- and the result of the inquest I made to go to the bottom of this most horrible affair.

I arrived from Manila on the 17th. I had some difficulty finding this place and was fortunate enough to find a native who can understand a bit of Spanish. He was a capable young man, and I suspect he may have been a pirate for his knowledge on the seas and land here in Mindanao appeared to me to be quite sufficient. Why he helped me find this place without asking anything in return is a mystery to me. I suspect that he could be a Mohammedan and was equally disturbed by the inhabitants of this village. As I mentioned, there was a degree of enthusiasm when the river natives welcomed me and they offered me an empty hut for my stay. On the first day, everyone I encountered bowed to me in the same way the Mohammedans bowed to their god. I implored them that it was not necessary. Every conversation that I had with them usually end up with a discussion on the life of our savior Jesus Christ. At first, I find nothing wrong with them and began thinking that the affair we talked about Your Reverence was just a rumor invented by pirates. They told me that a certain brother R----- was responsible with their conversion to the faith. I could not comprehend much of the things those people said, but they seemed to have an idea that this Christian Brother R----- and a Mohammedan Sharif A----- were working together for their conversion to a belief in one God. What a preposterous thought Your Reverence?! Whoever he was, he should be punished. As I began to inquire on their beliefs, their stories sounded like...it is up to you to decide Your Reverence. Once and this was where everything began for me, on the third day, a woman approached me and started talking about the river native J----- who saved her from a group of natives from the coast who wanted to sexually abuse her. She considered J----- a savior, at least from what I can understand from her emotions (I regret that I could not understand most of the things she said Your Reverence). As the river natives heard the woman explaining to me somehow, they began to gather around us. They told me that J----- could heal sick people; that he walked on water, transformed water to fermented coconut sap, and even took his carabao at the top of a coconut tree. The people were demonstrating this in front of me with great pride and joy. They called him messiah Your Reverence, in the same way the Jews pronounce the term. I had to pretend I was not revolted by all their claims, and I thought at some point that maybe they took me for a fool. But the sincerity in their eyes proved to me that they were not joking, and that their blasphemy against the works of Our Real Savior Jesus Christ was deeper than mere mockery. During the evening, a man they called U---- visited my hut and told me that J----- was the one who resurrected him from his death. Right there Your Reverence I wanted to chastise the man for his arrogance, but perhaps I was held back by the angels themselves. Around midnight, your holy warriors arrived in the shadows and told me that you instructed that I only need to give the signal. Forgive me for the delay of that signal Your Reverence, I thought this humble servant could save those souls from damnation. The next day I contemplated on the possibility that everyone in the village was possessed by demons, and that it was only because of my faith in God that I did not fear them. It was only in the fifth day that I found the strength to finally ask someone about the affair we heard about Your Reverence. I decided to talk to the old man who kept on referring to J----- as the

messiah, and also because he could understand Spanish well and spoke it better than any of them. I almost killed him myself that day. May God forgive me for my evil thoughts; may you forgive me Your Reverence. He told me J----- was a shell of the many forms of the spirit of God. The details Your Reverence was horrifying and I feel in writing this letter that I should not write them all and instead give it to you in full the next time we meet personally. Here it is sufficient to know that the affair we talked about was indeed true. The old man added that in order to release the spirit from the limitation of the flesh, the shell must therefore be broken. He further speculated that the same thing can be said of the crucifixion of our Lord Jesus Christ, that it was right that he died on the cross. But this is not all Your Reverence. After they murdered J-----, he told me that they followed the tradition and ate his flesh and drank his blood just as mentioned in the last supper. I ran out of his hut unable to take all his claims. We shall talk more about it on my return. I spent the rest of that day thinking about what the old man said. These blasphemous interpretations on our faith shook my very soul and that night I gave your soldiers the signal. They poured from the shadows by early dawn like angels coming out from heaven to spite the wickedness of this village. Our brethren from Nagasaki were very precise in the art of killing Your Reverence. The only regret I had yesterday was that they died in their sleep. I wanted them to suffer for their miserable beliefs. This is not to say that I thought lowly of your plan Your Reverence, but that I was weak and so full of hate that I wanted them to feel the pain in my heart just before they died. Forgive me God for such thoughts. Forgive me Your Reverence. After the deed was done I was the only one left standing in that village. Disturbing thoughts however soon entered my mind Your Reverence, and I decided to write this letter to appease my soul. I want to confess to Your Reverence when I arrive after I visit first the residence in Dapitan. I have to make sure first that rumors concerning this town and the events our order perpetuated remain in secrecy III. The letter however ended just as it was; no period following the word "secrecy". But as I remember it now, at the bottom of the letter was the word "why" and it appeared to have been written using the author's finger and it was dirtied with smudges of ink. Whatever could that letter mean in the end, especially how it ended, I do not know. Whoever wrote the letter can longer be ascertained, and since its contents I have not verified even in the stories of the river natives, I wish for them not to be true. Maybe the author of the letter really made sure no rumor came out or any traces of the events of the village were wiped out to oblivion, who knows? But if they are true, I can only pray to those poor souls who died in that terrible village.