Once I was told to go to Libas with a bottle of medicine for Tio Sabelo’s sick wife. I started from the town at half past five and by the time I saw the balete tree across the creek from Minggay’s hut, I could hardly see the trail before me. The balete was called Minggay’s tree, for she was known to sit on one of the numerous twisting vines that formed its grotesque trunk to wait for a belated passer-by. The balete was a towering monstrous shadow; a firefly that flitted among the vines was an evil eye plucked out searching for its socket. I wanted to run back, but the medicine had to get to Tio Sabelo’s wife that night. I wanted to push through the thick underbrush to the dry part of the creek to avoid the balete, but I was afraid of snakes. I had discarded the idea of a coconut frond torch because the light would catch the attention of the witch, and when she saw it was only a little boy... Steeling myself I tried to whistle as I passed in the shadow of the balete, its overhanging vines like hairy arms ready to hoist and strangle me among the branches.
Emerging into the stony bed of the creek, I saw Minggay’s hut. The screen in the window waved in the faint light of the room and I thought I saw the witch peering behind it. As I started going up the trail by the hut, each moving clump and shadow was a crouching old woman. I had heard stories of Minggay’s attempts to waylay travelers in the dark and suck their blood. Closing my eyes twenty yards from the hut of the witch, I ran up the hill. A few meters past the hut I stumbled on a low stump. I got up at once and ran again. When I reached Tio Sabelo’s house I was very tired and badly shaken.
Somehow after the terror of the balete and the hut of the witch had lessened, although I always had the goose flesh whenever I passed by them after dusk. One moonlight night going home to town I heard a splashing of the water below Minggay’s house. I thought the sound was made by the witch, for she was seen to bathe on moonlit nights in the creek, her loose hair falling on her face. It was not Minggay I saw. It was a huge animal. I was about to run thinking it was the sigbin of the witch, but when I looked at it again, I saw that it was a carabao wallowing in the creek.
One morning I thought of bringing home shrimps to my mother, and so I went to a creek a hundred yards from Tio Sabelo’s house. I had with me my cousin’s pana, made of a long steel rod pointed at one end and cleft at the other and shot through the hollow of a bamboo joint the size of a finger by means of a rubber band attached to one end of the joint. After wading for two hours in the creek which meandered around bamboo groves and banban and ipil clumps with only three small shrimps strung on a coconut midrib dangling from my belt, I came upon an old woman taking a bath in the shade of a catmon tree. A brown tapis was wound around her to three fingers width above her thin chest. The bank of her left was a foot-wide ledge of unbroken boulder on which she had set a wooden basin half full of wet but still unwashed clothes.
In front of her was a submerged stone pile topped by a platter size rock; on it were a heap of shredded coconut meat, a small discolored tin basin, a few lemon rinds, and bits of pounded gogo bark. The woman was soaking her sparse gray hair with the gogo suds. She must have seen me coming because she did not look surprised.
Seeing the three small shrimps hanging at my side she said, “You have a poor catch.”
She looked kind. She was probably as old as my grandmother; smaller, for this old woman was two or three inches below five feet. Her eyes looked surprisingly young, but her mouth, just a thin line above the little chin, seemed to have tasted many bitter years.
“Why don’t you bait them out of their hiding? Take some of this.” She gave me a handful of shredded coconut meat whose milk she had squeezed out and with the gogo suds used on her hair.
She exuded a sweet wood fragrance of gogo bark and the rind of lemons. “Beyond the first bend,” she said pointing, “the water is still. Scatter the shreds there. That’s where I get my shrimps. You will see some traps. If you find shrimps in them they are yours.”
I mumbled my thanks and waded to the bend she had indicated. That part of the creek was like a small lake. One bank was lined by huge boulders showing long, deep fissures where the roots of gnarled dapdap trees had penetrated. The other bank was sandy, with bamboo and catmon trees leaning over, their roots sticking out in the water. There was good shade and the air had a twilight chilliness. The water was shallow except on the rocky side, which was deep and murky.
I scattered the coconut shreds around, and not long after they had settled down shrimps crawled from boles under the bamboo and catmon roots and from crevices of the boulders. It did not take me an hour to catch a midribful, some hairy with age, some heavy with eggs, moulters, dark magus, leaf-green shrimps, speckled.
I saw three traps of woven bamboo strips, round-bellied and about two feet long, two hidden behind a catmon root. I did not disturb them because I had enough shrimps for myself.
“No, no, iti. Your mother will need them. You don’t have enough. Besides I have freshwater crabs at home.” She looked up at me with her strange young eyes and asked, “Do you still have a mother?”
I told her I had, and a grandmother, too.
“You are not from Libas, I think. This is the first time I have seen you.”
I said I was from the town and my uncle was the head teacher of the Libas barrio school.
“You remind me of my son when he was your age. He had bright eyes like you, and his voice was soft like yours. I think you are a good boy.”
“Where is your son now?”
“I have not heard from him since he left. He went away when he was seventeen. He left in anger, because I didn’t want him to marry so young. I don’t know where he went, where he is.”
She spread the length of a kimona on the water for a last rinsing. The flesh hanging from her skinny arms was loose and flabby.
“If he’s still living,” she went on, “he’d be as old as your father maybe. Many times I feel in my bones he is alive,and will come back before I die.”
“Your husband is still living?”
“He died a long time ago, when my boy was eleven.”
She twisted the kimona like a rope to wring out the water.
“I’m glad he died early. He was very cruel.”
I looked at her, at the thin mouth, wondering about her husband’s cruelty, disturbed by the manner she spoke about it.
“Do you have other children?”
“I wish I had. Then I wouldn’t be living alone.”
A woman her age, I thought, should be a grandmother and live among many children.
“Where do you live?”
She did not speak, but her strange young eyes were probing and looked grotesque in the old woman’s face. “Not far from here--the house on the high bank, across the balete.”
She must have seen the fright that suddenly leaped into my face, for I thought she smiled at me queerly.
“I’m going now,” I said.
