I HEAR YOU

XV: CALVIN

“Let’s make this a tradition,” she beamed as she took hold of the bag I was carrying.

I was panting, almost out of breath, from carrying the bag she had brought with us. The bag held her dearest box. The one with all her portraits. The one with all her white stones she painted on. The one with all her paint and brushes. She had already sat down and fished the box out of the bag. Bringing all the materials in the box out, she patted the space beside her.

My heart literally leaped again. How does she do that? I thought, puzzled at how she affects me. I sat down on the space she patted calming my heart down.

She already had her eyes closed. Her fingers tapping lightly on the surface of her paint. She’s using what I taught her. She’s remembering. A surge of pride filled me as I watched her moving her fingers slowly from the paint to the stone.

We sat there, a comfortable silence between us. The sea reflected what was painted on the sky and so the mountains from up here looks like floating in the atmosphere. The green slopes looked richer here than below. The heat doesn’t burn at this time of the year. The cold air of February softly brushes past us. Her scent dancing with the wind. The smell of her shampoo lingered and I enjoyed how creepy it may seem to sound.

I closed my eyes. I could hear the wind. I could hear the waves from here but they sound like soft murmurs in your slumber. I could hear the cows crying out from a distant hill. I could hear her breathing. Her soft taps and brushes against the stone. I’m remembering. I remember.

“If this is life, I don’t want it to end,” I opened my eyes and looked at her. But she wasn’t looking at me, she was looking at a distance.

“Then I guess skipping classes paid off,” I replied following her gaze.

“I’d skip everyday to see this.”

“We can’t skip everyday,” I exclaimed laughing.

“Why does this have to be so far from Alcantara?,” she sounded frustrated.

“One ride isn’t that far,” I replied.

“Tell me the story again,” she said excitedly.
I sighed but smiled. She had fallen in love with folk tales since the day I brought her here. I told her what I had heard before too. How this town I used to run to when mom and dad fight is actually a part of Alcantara before.

“It’s too long,” I answered. “Besides, it’s just an old maid’s tale,” I added.

“Please Cali,” she pleaded now squeezing my arms with her dainty hands facing me. I turned to look at her before breaking into a small smile. I can’t resist her when she calls me Cali. Who am I kidding? I’ll always be willing when it comes to her.

“Fine,” I said then releasing a long deep breath before I could start the story. “Alcantara was a bridge. That’s why it was named Alcantara because it literally means the bridge. When the Spaniards discovered this island, they didn’t expect to find another island linked to this one. At low tide, a sandbar emerges from the waters. No one knows what was in the island. No native residents from this island were ever given permission to cross the sandbar other than the Spanish officials.

“But there were stories that the island was enchanted, and that fairies roamed that island. A rumour had spread like wildfire among the natives, saying that the governor of Alcantara is under a love spell. Until three years after, the governor fled the from the island without a word. He left and had never returned leaving Alcantara without a ruler.

“A typhoon suddenly struck several days after the departure of the governor. People said they heard wailing along with the furious waves. Some said they heard a voice. After the storm, the tide between the mysterious island and Alcantara  had never shifted. The sandbar never emerged again and that island remained a mystery.