Philippine Speculative Fiction (7 page)

One of John’s friends asked: “
Hoy
, John, what are you doing?”

John yelped when another friend grabbed his right leg.

“Shit,” he said, trying to grab it again, “he’s like a dog!”

“Duh,” yet another one remarked—he yelled: “He’s fucking barking!”

“
Pastilan
, just help me here, okay? Grab his other leg!”

“
Ataya
! This isn’t funny, John!”

Now two able-bodied young men wrestled John Joe Gregorio—he yelped and howled pitifully on the ground—and tried to force him to sit on a nearby chair just like a normal human. John
kept the two men off him, so the last friend joined the struggle—until finally John had gotten riled up enough to bite one of them on the leg: the guy bellowed in pain and kicked the poor
dog-man in the gut. His tongue out, he rolled to his side and whined imploringly—he seemed to be asking for help from the bystanders, but no one could understand the noises coming out of his
mouth.

After a while, the group decided to take John Joe home.

Because he wasn’t very cooperative about entering his friend’s multi-cab and going home, John Joe had to be lifted into its rear compartment—the same thing happened when they
reached John’s house (a small bungalow-type, along the highway at Banilad), only in reverse: the barkada carried him out of the vehicle and placed him outside his gate, as though he were a
sacred offering given in secret. John Joe was tirelessly yelping and flailing at his friends while they were hauling him—it was very late at night, but they remained wary of the neighbors: to
shut John up, they had to gag him with his own T-shirt: sorry,
bay
, they whispered—and when the deed had been done, they deliberated their next move. In the end they elected to stay
behind and then rang the doorbell—once, twice, three times.

One guy asked: “
Bitaw
, bay, what do you think happened?”

“
Ambot
,” another answered. “John just suddenly became like that.”

The third guy observed John Joe whimpering and clawing at the gate.

He chimed in: “The question here is: what’s going to happen with Lia.”

“
Aw, bitaw
, you’re right,” the two men replied, almost in unison.

“I bet you she’s finally going to break up with him after this.”

“She’s not a bitch, bay.”

“Well, what would you do if your girlfriend turned into a dog?”

The two men said nothing: instead they rang the doorbell again.

Finally John’s parents came out—the barkada quivered collectively when the pair peeked out of their front door—and drowsily approached the rusted steel gate. The father was in
a white and frayed
sando
while the mother was in a red and torn duster: they passed two chipped garden gnomes and a parked Honda motorcycle along the way—when they saw their son
sitting on his ‘hind’ legs and whining, their faces morphed into grotesque mixtures of shock and disbelief: John cocked his head up at them, his eyes moistening and then glistening
under the harsh streetlights.

The father hollered: “
Pesteng Yawa,
what is this?”

His wife said nothing—she crouched and stared at her son’s face.

“We don’t understand also,
‘kol
,” one friend replied.

Another one reported: “It just happened suddenly.”

John Joe’s mother stood up and said: “Let’s talk about this inside.”

And so the barkada entered the gate, closing it after them: inwardly they sighed in relief when they noticed John walking after them silently and calmly, but still they were visibly disturbed
when they saw their friend following on all fours and panting—the father grit his teeth and ignored the huffing noises he’d heard from behind, while the mother clasped her hands as
though she were in the middle of a procession. John Joe had begun wagging his imaginary tail as they passed the motorcycle and the gnomes: his friends and family refused to acknowledge this.

Eventually they stepped foot inside the
sala.

John’s parents bade the friends to sit on the sofa. Their eyes darted around the room once John had taken his place before the coffee table, sitting on his ‘hind’ legs and
panting and sniffing himself. Clearing his throat, the father ensconced himself on his rattan rocking chair and told his wife to prepare something to drink. He glared at his son, now gnawing at
something on his T-shirt. They heard the City Pound making its rounds outside.

Relaxed after a couple glasses of Emperador Light, the men discussed what had happened to John Joe and how they believed it had—the young men recounted the story: he just went to piss,
‘kol, they said, and when he came back,
pastilan
, he was already crawling and barking and sniffing around, we tried to get him to sit on a chair, but he wouldn’t, so we
wrestled him, but it was too much, he was too strong, so we decided to bring him home.

Throughout the conversation, they ignored John Joe: he kept himself busy scratching his neck and licking his gut and sniffing the floor, and then he simply lay down on his stomach, while
throwing glances at his father—only his mother touched him: she rubbed his neck, scratched the flesh under his chin, ran her hands through his back. Her expression was one of supreme pity and
utter confusion.

In the end the father decreed that John should be confined at home until he would be cured and that the barkada should keep everything a secret—absolutely nobody else should know. The
friends quietly nodded at the command, and after sharing a final glass with the old man, walked out of the house. Once they were out the front door, one of them turned around and almost said
something, but elected not to: he followed his friends out the gate and into their vehicle.

It was the mother who asked something.

“But what about Lia?”

Her husband grunted: “What about her?”

The woman said nothing and went to clean up after the men.

John’s father lingered by the doorway and then lit a cigarette.

John Joe himself had already fallen asleep—he snored by the sofa.

Meanwhile, his friends had elected not to go home yet—they chose to finish their discussion at Escaño beach: they bought a bottle of Tanduay, a bottle of Sprite, bags of ice, and
plastic cups, which they took with them to the seawall. They sat down and watched the dark placid sea, illuminated only by the broken reflection of the moonlight and the lights of a passing ship.
Around them the party scene of Dumaguete was in full swing: loud dance music erupted from the Labeled bar, equally loud rock music exploded from the Hayahay Restobar right beside, and loud ska
music flowed in from the Tiki bar right at the end of the Escaño strip (some cars parked along the seawall even blared out their own assorted play-lists)—groups of young people
circulated around the musical maelstrom, bringing along drinks and expensive phones.

And then the friends started drinking—one of them mixed and poured the drinks. He downed his shot, mixed another glass, and handed it to another friend: this one let the cup linger in his
hands for a bit.

He posed a question: “What do you think will happen to John?”

The so-called ‘gunner’ replied: “
Ambot lagi
.”

The third friend said: “He can’t go to a doctor.”

“
Bale sa
,” the others remarked.

“Is there something we can do?”

“Well, Lia has to know about this.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?”

The guy said nothing—instead he emptied his cup in one breath.

On the next day, John Joe was subjected to a round of spirit healing by the resident
mananambal
—or quack doctor/healer/shaman—dressed in a faded army overcoat, frayed cotton
pants, and ripped sandals. To complete the costume, he had also tied a red bandana around his forehead. His methodology was simple yet time-consuming: using the fresh eggs and the basin of water
and a pair of candles John Joe’s parents had prepared beforehand, the mananambal (who answered to the name Iyo Goryo) chanted some Latin phrases while he circled the patient (who was
groveling in confusion), dripping the candle wax on his head and on his arms, running the eggs along all his limbs and his back, waving the basin over the dog-man’s head—the parents
stood by, observed, and waited for the diagnosis.

When the session was over, Iyo Goryo asked them to burn some incense or other sweet-smelling herbs: let the smoke go around the house, he said, this will make the
dili ingon nato
go
away—I think this boy did something not good, that is why he was
nabuyagan.
The parents followed the instructions to the letter: they gathered whatever herbs were available in their
small garden, piled them up in a clay saucer, and set them on fire. Light-blue smoke rose and filled the garden air, smelling vaguely like incense and nymph. Satisfied, Goryo told the parents to
bring the smoke inside the house and then listen to what he had to say—the couple huddled around the old man: meanwhile, John Joe kept scratching the candle wax off his body.

He showed them what he had seen inside the eggs.

Inside the shells were black blobs of indeterminate shape.

Goryo said: “Look—this is the shape of the being who did this.”

The father knitted his eyebrows: the mother widened her eyes.

And then Goryo dripped the candle wax on the basin of water: the thick drops of wax falling on the water eventually congealed into a formless off-white mass, something vaguely resembling a
humanoid figure, but remaining fundamentally shapeless. Goryo examined the form with an anxious and curious expression, as though he really were seeing the inner workings of the earth spirits he
had been investigating.

He asked: “Did your son go anywhere or step on anything?”

John’s father answered that he didn’t.

“Did he urinate on anything?”

This time the father and mother glanced at each other and gulped.

They said that John had indeed urinated on something last night.

Iyo Goryo beamed: “
Jesus Ginoo
, that is it!”

“What is it, Iyo Goryo?”

Almost instantly, Goryo turned serious and shared his diagnosis with them: your son urinated on a
bintan
place, he said, and the being that dwelled there got angry and cast a spell on
him, that is why he is like a dog now—Goryo also told them what they can do to cure John Joe: you have to appease the being, he said, you have to go back to that place and offer him five old
10-centavo coins so he will remove the spell and cure your son.

“When should we do that?”

“You have to do that this week.”

The couple looked at each other again and agreed with the mananambal
.
And then they offered him some bread and Coke, before paying him Php250.

And so John Joe’s parents went to the holy spot the very next day. They had ransacked their old cabinets and drawers for the necessary coins—an arduous process—and wrapped them
in the mother’s special handkerchief imprinted with various Latin phrases and an image of the All-Seeing Eye: they brought these things to the Shell station early in the morning.

One of his friends came over at around 9 a.m., accompanied by a young woman—she was quite the looker: round hazel eyes, button nose, and thin lips all contained within a perfectly round
face and framed by waves of curly brown hair (plus her figure made her a knockout in a simple T-shirt and jeans and clogs combo). Being unemployed, their mornings were free—when no one
answered the doorbell, they waited and waited and waited outside the gate: nobody’s home, the girl said.

“John Joe is inside.”

“Why isn’t he coming out?”

“I told you—something happened to him.”

“
Bale pud
,” she remarked. “If he doesn’t like me anymore, it’s okay.”

“
Pastilan
, Lia, it’s not like that.”

But they continued waiting—finally they glimpsed a figure padding out from behind the house: crouching, it seemed to be crawling from the darkness, as though it were a bedtime monster
forced to appear in the daytime. And then they saw that it was John Joe (in soiled clothes), shuffling toward them on all fours, his snout aimed at the floor, his footsteps slow and
hesitant—from his neck dangled a leash, its length cut messily as though it had been bitten through. Lia’s eyes popped out of their sockets and her mouth fell from her well-formed jaw:
her companion simply shook his head.

John Joe reached the gate: upon seeing Lia close-up, he bayed.

“
Hala
!” Lia exclaimed.

“That’s why your boyfriend hasn’t called you.”

The girl stepped back, pinched her nose, and avoided looking at John.

“What’s wrong with him—eww, why is he like that?”

John slumped down on the ground and stared longingly at his girlfriend. He whined endlessly, trying to get her to come back to the gate, but she kept herself at a distance, locked in
conversation with his friend: we don’t know what happened, the guy said, it happened suddenly—and then John Joe approached the gate, clawed at the bars, and when that didn’t work,
he began to bite the steel—the friend reprimanded him.

“Eww,” Lia complained.

John whined some more and slumped back down.

Turning to her, the companion said: “Come on, don’t be like that.”

“But—I can’t go near him—
bale o
, what do you want me to do?”

“Just talk to him,
ataya
.”

Lia shrugged her shoulders and huffed: “Fine, okay?”

And then she gingerly stepped toward the gate and reached a hand out to John Joe—he met her and immediately started to lick her fingers. Reflexively, she drew her hand back and shook her
head vigorously: let’s just go, she demanded, I can’t take this—I’ll come back when he’s okay. The friend sighed and apologized to John on her behalf.

John Joe growled as they left his place—walking side-by-side.

Returning home, the parents were befuddled when they saw a flock of people milling about their front gate—they cut through the crowd and were utterly flabbergasted at what they saw: John
Joe lying on his stomach just inside their gate, occasionally licking his stretched arms. For a good long moment, the two parents joined the herd in gawking at the dog-man spectacle, letting the
air ring with absurd remarks about the equally absurd display. A couple of the spectators had noticed the parents and asked them what had happened to John Joe—did he go crazy, was he on
drugs, was he sick—and the poor folks simply shook them off and ordered them to go away: I will call the police, pesteng Yawa, the father railed.