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Cordillera Administrative Region

Literary Masterpieces
Cordillera Tales
by Luisa A. Igloria
This is a collection of tales about the different tribes in Cordillera and the myths
of the tribal people of the Mountain Provinces.
Stories from the northern Cordillera region of the Philippines, retold in a
contemporary idiom and illustrated by the author; based on folkloric and
anthropological research material collected by American and other foreign
missionaries in the Cordilleras, from the early 1900s.
This book received a National Book Award from the Manila Critics Circle in the
Philippines and since its publication until the present, is being used in literature
classes in the Philippine educational system and elsewhere. Individual stories
from the volume have also been adapted as short theatre pieces.
The 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.
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"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
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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 halfwhispered.
"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
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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
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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 gangsas
clamored 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.
Lumnay though 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
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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.
SYNOPSIS/ SUMMARY
Awiyao and Lumnay were husband and wife for seven years, but now the
husband has to marry another woman, Madulimay, because Lumnay was not
able to give him a child. (In their culture in the mountains during those times,
having a child to follow after the husbands name was a must.)
On the night of the wedding, Awiyao goes to his and Lumnays house to
personally invite her to the traditional wedding dance. However, Lumnay, the best
dancer in the entire tribe, refuses to go. Then, during their conversation, it is
revealed that both of them still love each other, but because of their tribes
custom, they have to separate.
Awiyao goes back to the wedding, to the wedding dance, after being
fetched by some friends. Lumnay wants to follow, partly because of the dance,
and partly because she wants to put a stop to their tribes tradition of having to
marry another partner just to have a child.
SHORT STORY ELEMENTS
A. CHARACTERS
1. Lumnay a woman who was left by her husband because he had to marry
another woman/ Developing
2. Awiyao- the husband stated above / Flat
3. Madulimay Awiyaos new wife / Flat
B. PLOT - Linear
a) Introduction
The story opens with Awiyao entering his and Lumnays house.
b) Rising Action
Things start to heat up when Lumnay says she does not want any other man.
c) Climax
There is more intensity when Awiyao says he does not want any other woman.
d) Falling action
But they both have to follow their tribes tradition.
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e) Denouement
Awiyao has to go back to the wedding dance.
C. SETTING
a) place in the mountains somewhere in the Philippines
b) time- a long time ago
c) weather conditions- fine
d) social conditions- lower-class
e) mood or atmosphere- sad and tense
D. POINT OF VIEW
The Point of View used in this short story is the Omniscient Limited - The
author tells the story in third person (using pronouns they, she, he, it, etc). We
know only what the character knows and what the author allows him/her to tell
us. We can see the thoughts and feelings of characters if the author chooses to
reveal them to us.
E. LITERARY DEVICES
For me, there is an extensive use of the literary device Symbolism. There
are many symbols here, and these are the darkness, the houses four walls, the
smoldering embers, and the beads. The darkness symbolizes how the two lead
characters feel. Meanwhile, the houses walls symbolize the former couples
imprisonment. The smoldering embers that become glowing coals symbolize
the love that both of them still feel towards each other. Finally, the beads
symbolize Awiyaos great love for Lumnay even if she was not able to give him a
child.
F. THEME
In my opinion, the theme True love never dies is applicable to this story.
G. CONFLICT
The conflict here is Man vs. Society. The lead characters have to follow
their tribes custom

Man of Earth
by Amador T. Daguio
Pliant is the bamboo;
I am man of earth;
They say that from the bamboo
We had our first birth.
Am I of the body,
Or of the green leaf?
Do I have to whisper
My every sin and grief?
If the wind passes by,
Must I stoop and try
To measure fully
My flexibility?
I might have been the bamboo,
But I will be a man.
Bend me then, O Lord,
Bend me if you can.

The Meeting
by Consorcio Borje
THE little church stood in the shadow of acacia trees. A narrow gravel path
lined with cucharita hedges led from the street into its cool, quiet yard with the
moss on the dim boles of the trees and the dew on the grasses. The roar of the
dusty, blindingly white city surged and broke like a sea along the concrete
pavements that skirted the churchyard, but went no farther.
At the whitewashed wooden gate, the young man stood diffidently. Nervously
fingering his battered felt hat, he pushed in the gate, stepped inside, allowed it to
swing back, and then slowly walked down the path.
The chilly dampness of the place rested like a cool hand upon his fevered brow,
and he expelled a breath of relief. He walked as slowly as he could, savoring
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through all the pores of his lean young frame the balm of this sudden reprieve
from the heat and brutal impersonality of the big city.
Three concrete steps led up into the vestibule. At the top step he saw the
congregation inside the heavy hardwood doors, and hesitated.
"I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your
bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable
service.
"And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of
your mind, that ye may prove what is that , and acceptable, and perfect, will of
God."
The voice was long and sonorous, and it struck a responsive chord in the young
man's heart, but he could not see the speaker. The last pew hid the altar from
him. Over the pew he could see the fluted row of organ pipes, the massive rivetstudded rafters, light that streamed down at a deep angle from a tall window of
colored glass.
"For I say, through the grace given unto me, to every man that is among you, not
to think of himself more highly than he ought to think; but to think soberly,
according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of faith."
For perhaps an hour the young man stood at the door, feeling deeply unhappy,
frightened, and lost. He dared not enter. He looked down at his torn, dusty shoes,
his stained clothes, felt the growth of beard on his chin, and already he could feel
the cold eyes of the people in the church examining him. He retired quietly to one
side of the vestibule, where he could not be seen from the inside, and leaned
against the wall to rest his trembling limbs.
And then the people began streaming out, and he felt relieved that they did not
even glance his way. After a while, he looked into the door. There was no one in.
He crossed himself quickly and entered.
For a long time he sat there staring dully at the sounding emptiness before him,
for breaking against the wall still was the reverberation of bells tolled a long time
ago.
Through all this he could hear his heart beating in a weak slow measure, and
again the beatific sense of completeness and of being filled his soul like mellow
wine. The seat was deep and restful. The wood was firm and cool. He sank back
and fell asleep.
When he woke up, he saw that his hat had fallen to the floor. The fivecentavo pancit mami that he had eaten last night had already evaporated, and he
felt a shot of pain in his middle as he stooped down to recover his hat. After the
pain, a weakness and trembling seized his limbs, and cold sweat beaded his
forehead. The church swam before his eyes.
Sunlight streamed through the west windows. From its angle he knew it must be
late in the afternoon. He had been asleep in the church for the greater part of the
day, and now he felt again vaguely forsaken, and the chill and the solitude were
no longer very soothing but were almost terrifying.
Rocking from one foot to the other, he got up hastily and made for the door, and it
was then that he saw the girl standing at his back.

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"I've been watching you," she said, smiling gently, and her hair looked like a halo
for the sunlight crowned it with gold. "You've been asleep," she continued.
"I'm sorry," he began weakly. "I didn't mean to--"
"Yes? But let's take a seat, please."
He licked his dry lips. "I didn't mean to sleep here. I just fell asleep, that's all."
"There's no harm in that, I'm sure," she said reassuringly taking her seat beside
him and pulling him down. "You're a stranger here?"
"I came to the city about a week ago."
"Staying with relatives?" Her voice was direct and cool.
"No relatives, ma'am. I thought I could get a job here. I had heard so much about
opportunities here, and I wanted to work myself through college"
She listened quietly. The quick responsive look in her eyes brought his
confidence back and made him give details about his life and his recent
misadventures he would not have revealed otherwise.
"We are from the same province as you," she said. "My father works in the city
hall. He got transferred here because my mother wants to see us through school.
Come home with me, ha? We want you to tell us about the province. It was five
years ago when we were there last. Yes, they will like to see you. Don't be
ashamed. You can't blame people for not knowing any one in the city."
She was only sixteen, or thereabouts, he could see in the calesa which they took;
she was dressed in white, simply and cleanly, almost to the point of the
anaesthetic severity of the nurse, but there was a subtle perfume about her like
that of rosal and then again like that of sampaguita, and the lines of her face
were clean and young and sweet.
"Why, I'd be ashamed--" he began again, looking at himself with horror.
"No more of that, ha?" She flashed a smile at him, her lips a light rose like her
cheeks, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
The horses' hoofs beat a tattoo on the street cobbles, round this corner, round
that corner, ancient Spanish houses under acacia trees, rows of tenements,
sounding walls of old Intramuros, a tangle of horse-drawn and motor traffic.
Everything went suddenly white at once.
The first thing that he knew was the mildly pungent smell of rubbing alcohol and
liniment. The place he was in was dark, except for a street light that came in
through the billowing curtain in the window. He was in a bed, a deep wide bed,
with mattress and cool covers fragrant with soap and starch and ironing. From
beyond the darkness to one side came to him the faint sound of voices and the
tinkle of a piano.
He jerked up with a great consciousness of guilt, but he sank back again,
dizziness swamping him back and overpowering him. Lying back there, accusing
himself of imposing on a stranger's hospitality, he began to cry, but he wiped
away his tears quickly when he saw the door slowly open and a head showed in
the opening.
"Oh, you're awake now."
It was the girl, and she ran softly in. He felt greatly disturbed within. She was
looking down now and her hand was upon his brow and he could feel the warmth
of her and get the smell of her.
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"Good!" she exclaimed and ran lightly out, closing the door behind her. In a
minute, she was back with two other persons. A switch clicked and the room
sprang into light, and he could see there was an elderly woman whom she
resembled closely, and an elderly man in pajamas.
"Well!" said the man heartily. He had a pipe gripped by the bowl in one of his
hands. "So this is the cababayan. Well!"
The woman came over and laid her hand on his forehead. A wedding ring shone
on one finger. He looked up into her eyes, and all at once he knew he need not
be afraid
The girl's parents, it later developed, were among the more influential of the
parishioners, and he was able to get a job through them as church janitor, with
bed and board provided free in the servants' quarters of the rectory. Besides
sprucing up the church, he had charge of the lawn which he mowed and the
hedges which he trimmed. Out of his pay of twenty pesos a month he managed
to send home ten pesos to his mother in the month's-end mail.
"Good morning," he would say humbly to the girl, Lita, when Sundays came and
she was in the church. Then he would hurry before her to dust the pew she
always took with her parents.
"How do you do?" Lita would ask, and sometimes she would say, "Pedro, you
must come and get your Sunday dinner with us. You don't do it so regularly, now."
From the back of the congregation, dressed in his best white-cotton suit, his
eighty-centavo necktie, his tan-and-white Gandara shoes, he would listen raptly
to her sing in the choir. He could always tell her voice, and he could always see
her lovely radiant face magnified among the rows of others.
Three afternoons a week, a calesa would halt at the church gate, and Lita would
alight in her plain white dress. She would come down the cucharita-lined path,
and she would enter the church where for an hour she would sit or kneel, just
looking at the altar, and her lips would move silently. Then would Pedro hush his
steps, and he would put aside his lawnmower and his shears and look at Lita
longingly through the window, at her profile outlined against the lighted side of
the church.
On her seventeenth birthday, Lita gave Pedro a picture. It showed her with
eyelashes swept up and lips half-parted in a smile. A stray lock fell against one
cheek. One dainty end of a lace bow curled against the straight line of her throat,
while the other reclined against the swell of her bosom.
"I can keep this?" asked Pedro wonderingly, and Lita said with a thrill of laughter.
"Why yes, it's yours. Why do you have to ask?"
He had enrolled in a night collegiate course prepared especially for working
students, but out of the money for school fees and books he managed to save as
much as fifty centavos at a time. He spent his savings for a neat little picture
frame, painted black and silver, and put Lita's picture before him as he pored
over his textbooks at home.
"How are you getting along in school?" said Lita one afternoon, after she came
out of the church.
"At least I passed in all my subjects last semester."

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"That's fine. I'm sure you'll make an engineer yet." She hesitated at the gate, and
turned back to him slowly. "Don't let anything distract you from your work," she
said. "put your mind on it and keep it there."
He thought, she looks very young, but too deadly serious. That frown on her
face. That mature cast of her mouth. But he only said, "Thank you, Miss Miel."
"Miss, still?" She laughed again, and the world was shining once more, no longer
full of problems and dark and weighty hues, but full of the silvery ringing of bells
and the light patter of dancing feet.
"I think I can help you," she went on. "About trigonometry now. It's my favorite
subject."
"I cannot understand the cosine of--"
"You mean Thomas' theory? It's easy. Like this." And thereupon she knelt on the
path and with a twig traced figures in the light fluff.
"You should make a good engineer, there are such things as women engineers,
you know," he ventured.
"My father said I should," Lita confided. "But my greatest interest does not lie in
that way, Pedro. It lies somewhere else. Should I tell you?" She crinkled her nose
at him, but again she was suddenly grave. After a pause: "I've never wanted to
grow up," she suddenly shot at him and hurriedly picked herself up, ran out of the
gate, hailed a calesa and drove away.
Pedro's perplexity was solved the following afternoon when Lita came again to
the church to pray. It was Saturday afternoon and Pedro was dusting. This time
she had on a black veil that fell to the tip of her nose. She was a tiny figure
kneeling at the far end of the church. Her head was bowed low, but he thought he
could see her lips moving. He moved about on tiptoe, used his mop gently.
He was on the floor reaching under a remote corner when he heard her light
"H'lo" behind him. He rose up hastily and nodded his greeting, "Good afternoon,
Miss Miel."
"Good afternoon, Mister Deo."
"Er, Lita"
"That's better. Did I startle you yesterday afternoon?"
"You did."
Then Lita was telling him she was going to be a nun.
"But why?" asked Pedro incredulously.
"Does it sound foolish to you?" Her lashes swept down on her cheek, and for the
first time he noticed that she had the pallid look as of one in cloistered, mossgrown nunneries.
"I don't know," he said, "I don't know." And then he went on, feeling foolish, "But
you can't want to give up all this for life imprisonment."
"It is not life imprisonment," she said gravely, "but the essence of what I've
always wanted. All my life I've wanted complete communion with God."
He shook his head to clear it of the cobweb of pain and dizziness, and her hand
crept to his. The touch of it sent an electric shock through his whole frame.
"Even as a child," she went on, "I had always wanted to have a room that looked
much like a church, with a hard, bare floor, and hard, bare seats, and an altar,
and an image of Mother and Child."
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She was looking down kindly at him, red spots in her white cheeks. "Now, as I
live from day to day, it seems as if I'm being swept farther and farther away from
that childhood dream. I want my childhood back. I hunger for its simplicity and its
faith. It seems as if deep inside me I'm parched and thirsty, and I need the
coolness and dampness of seclusion. You understand, don't you?"
Again it seemed as if the church rustled with the prayer and devoutness of a
congregation, and there was again, that sonorous voice saying, "I beseech you
therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living
sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God."
"Good-bye," said Lita, her long, white, shapely fingers tightening on his rough,
dark ones.
"I'll not see you again?"
She shook her head slowly. Suddenly she bent down and kissed him on the
cheek, and as suddenly she ran down the aisle and out of the door.
As he sat in a pew, the bells were silent, but still they seemed to be tolling from
far away, the air vibrating with their ringing. He sat in the pew and stared dully in
front of him. Light streamed in from an eastern window. The ghostly congregation
still rustled with its faith and sacrifice. On his cheek her lips were still warm.
But suppose, he thought, it had been some other way. Suppose:
"I'VE been watching you," she said, smiling gently, and her hair looked like a halo
with the sunlight crowning it with gold. "You've been asleep," she continued.
"I'm sorry," he began weakly. "I didn't mean to--"
And then they were walking down to the whitewashed gate, and he was vaguely
surprised that there was no calesa waiting there. But he went on to cross the
street nevertheless, keeping in his eyes the slim, white figure, with the clean,
young lines of face.
Outside the churchyard, the traffic was heavy as usual, and the lorry drivers
swore mightily at the broken-down old man, with that vague half-smile on his
face, who was crossing the street and breaking all rules of pedestrian traffic and
all the laws of self-preservation.
"That engineer, Pedro Deo, you know," said one of a couple driving a car near
the scene. "Dirty rich, but damned absent-minded, too."
"That's the matter with these successful people," said the other. "They put their
mind on a thing and keep it there, to the exclusion of all others, even motor
traffic."
"Yeh, Deo, for instance. Must be thinking of house plans and bridges."

Hudhud Hi Aliguyon
( Ifugao Epic )
Characters:
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Aliguyon : Son of Amtalao and Dumulao, Greatest warrior of Hannanga


Amtalao : Father of Aliguyon,King of Hannanga, enemy of Pangawian
Dumulao : Mother of Aliguyon
Pangaiwan : Father of Pumbakhayon, King of Daligdigan, enemy of Amtalao
Pumbakhayon: Fierce son of Pangawian, Greatest warrior of Daligdigan
Bugan :
Sister of Pumbakhayon, married by Aliguyon
Aginaya : Sister of Aliguyon, married by Pumbakhayon
Plot:
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.
REFLECTION:
This story tells as the importance of Forgiveness. Wars or
battles against the enemy can't solve the problem. If someone hurt us, let them
know about your feelings against them in a proper way. There is no
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such trouble that can't be solve in a harmonious way. Forgiveness and love for
each of us can lead us into a happy, peaceful and progressive way of living!

Dang Dang Ay
(Kalinga Song)
Dang-dang-ay si dong-ilay
Dang-dang-ay si dong-ilay
Isinali dumma-ay Isinali dumma-ay
Ading di ka agsangit
Agsubliyak mabiit Ading di ka agdanag
Mabiit a mabayag
Urray innak mabitay
No dik gasat a matay
Kastoy gayam ta ayat
Pangkitaan ti rigat
Anosam kad a bagi
Ta adi ka met nagpadi
.
This is a traditional song which became popular during World War 2. The
guerilla soldiers sang this song while bidding farewell to their sweethearts. The
women didn't want them to go while the men promised that they're coming back.
Dang-dang-ay in Kalinga and Ilocano culture, this is a kind of song to celebrate
certain happy occasions, or to entertain one's self while alone.

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Ullalim: Epic of the Kalinga


The story tells us that Banna was a travelling adventurous man going from
place to place in search for a maiden to marry until one day he found Lagunnawa
that truly mersmerize him until they fall in love with each other. Lagunawa was
known as the most beautiful woman in the villages he went though while Banna
was known to be a young, handsome and brave tribal leader with unmatched skill
in hand to hand with out without spear or bulo. He was feared by all men for
having that lightning speed during combat but so sought by many woman with his
sterling qualities and handsome looks and athletic feature.
One day, he came to a village and met Lagunawa that for the first time he
felt in love with this beautiful woman oozing with enchanting beauty of an angel.
To get her, he serenaded her with a song that started by giving a "moma" singing
that if you like me oh woman of beauty so serene like the melody of the moon
shining above, take my simple offering from the bottom of my heart. The woman
on the other hand being so in love with this man whom he behold so handsome
and kind, accepted the moma and chewed it while singing, " oh you are the man
of my dream that cherished every dreams I have, come let me love thee with all
the pearl of my heart. " Together, they dance and sung song full of burning
passion until they decided to get married and form a union of their waring villages
to end the conflict between their villages. From such marriage, the villages live in
peace and harmony and shared the spirit of love Banna and Lagunawa have for
the two village.

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