DARK ENTAILS THE TORTURED SOUL

The old barrio slept soundly amid an age of reverence for foreign gods. In a time of upheaval, when a country bowed to the rule of foreigners, the old barrio was untouched by changing winds. Once brave tenants now linger in dusty corners of cities ruled by tyrant hands, leaving their poor quarters bereft of nothing but memories. Yet, even though her tenants had left, the old barrio waited, slept, and dreamt of yesterday. The fight for freedom between rebels and the Spaniards kept the old barrio abandoned. There were stories that rebels hid within the mountains where the old barrio was located. No one returned to seek refuge in this place, especially with vigilant dogs closely guarding the area in the nearby town.

The moon was witness when an old woman carrying a cloth sack, strode with silent steps and violated the peace of the old barrio. There, she saw abandoned huts longing for the touch of caring folks, waiting for that day of revelry, when their disheveled skins would be combed with rakes and coconut brooms, and they would alas stand marvelous once more against old island winds. She smiles and approves, not for tidying the old barrio or restoring it to its once former glory, but to use it as a haven from the prongs of inquisitors bound to slay all who do not kneel before their god. She was disgusted by this. She remembered her once proud village, whose people bent the knee and believed every lie the Spaniards said. She lost everything that day, even her mind, but now had reclaimed it. She would find vengeance with newfound knowledge of the dark practices she would use and pray to ancient malign powers.

“You will do,” she said beneath her breath, and to this, the old barrio heard it, for it was not a whisper, but a loud call to arms. “You will aid my vengeance, for this age has abandoned you, and you are nothing more but a husk of your former self.”

The air remained still. The old woman waited for an answer. The old barrio moaned in eventual agreement to her proposal.

The old woman laughed, and it echoed throughout the surrounding forest, creeping through the veins of the mountain, with the wind rasping on trees as if all that had heard it bent to her will. Silent steps. The wind hushed. She stopped and stood in front of a dilapidated hut. It stared back at her as if waiting for her command.

“I remember you, once, a long time ago, when I passed this way and your inhabitants screamed at me. They were afraid. They thought I was an Aswang—they thought I was a blood-sucking ghoul that lurked in the countryside, preying on the Spaniards in their town outpost. I may have acted like one, for my mind was not my own in those days. It was like a dream, as I ran naked, hiding from the stones and the spears and cries of wicked names. But they were wrong. I am no blood-sucking ghoul! I belonged to a lost lineage of Babaylan, yet the powers that gave me that heritage have abandoned me. Now, I have embraced the practice of Kulam. I am Mangkukulam—a witch—as once I was prey, now I hunt, and you will aid me in my purpose.”

The hut remained silent, but she felt it agreeing with her dark goal, and with this, she smiled. She entered with silent footsteps. The old woman gripped the cloth sack tight, for inside were her dark instruments that waited patiently to be used.

***

She was lovely in her youth, full of pride for her people, the folks of the old tribal village, who laughed and loved their lives amid the turmoil of a struggling world invaded by foreigners and their god. She was the daughter of the village medicine man, an old Babaylan, a healer and leader of the tribe. The old Babaylan’s fame soared far and wide because of his ability to heal the sick and the dying. He claimed his powers came from nature, the spirits that guided his hands in healing, and the gods that lived in the sky—the Diwata. But ever since the Spaniards came to their mountain and forced their religion, his practices have been kept to himself, his daughter, and a few villagers who still believed in him. Most villagers left, agreeing to follow and worship the new god. Some were enticed and lured by the call of civilization. Others were forced to follow because of fear. The foreigners did not come with just their faith but with sharp blades and firesticks that were mightier than the magic of their old gods.

She supported her father and practiced their prayers to the Diwata and their ancestors in private, far from the converts of the barrio who would squeal upon discovery to the Spaniards who had their garrison at the foot of the mountain. Some of the villager who stayed found comfort in their new god, as their lives changed when old tarnished vests and loin cloths were replaced by garments that covered their arms and legs. She despised these people, for they threw away tradition and disrupted their way of life. She vowed to keep her faith, and behind closed doors, she learned what she could from her father to become a proper Babaylan.

Years go by, and the days become dreary, as one by one, the tribe folks—all who were left—abandoned their heritage in the mountains for an easier life in a town ruled by the Spaniards. They have been converted to Christianity. The tribal gods and the spirit ancestors were forgotten as religious dogmas became imperative truths, abolishing olden myths found to be heresy. The tired old Babaylan withered of age and died peacefully in the hands of sleep. His funeral was attended by his daughter, who took up his mantle amid the lack of followers.

And she thought, “Maybe it is time to move on,” as she laid her father to rest and sat on the steps of her stilted hut, hearing an empty village whisper only memories. The Spaniards have forcefully changed everything. She did not want to blame her kin or the tribe for the promises of the foreigners and their new god seemed more enticing than their lives in the mountain. She persisted, though. The mountain was her home. Nature was her mother, and now that her father was gone, the god of the mountain became her father. She gave them praises—her father and mother, and all the gods that her tribe once worshipped. “You are a Babaylan,” her father once said, “And with that title is a responsibility to your tribe, the Diwata, and nature.” Though her tribe was gone, her gods and nature were still there—especially her faith. She would not abandon them.

Once, on a fateful night, when the sky poured its sorrow to the world, strangers came brandishing crests and swords and wine. The Spaniards were rowdy amid the torrent, and it seemed that the rain did not dour their mood. They spoke loudly about how their luck had changed when happenstance, that their ship had run afoul with leaks and could not join the fleet against the southern kingdoms. The Moros won the battle that day. They were still alive! They rejoiced and in their drunken stupor, headed out of town, trying to escape a life that they thought was not meant for them. They were lost, but it seemed by choice, and the lure of the forest mountain seemed better than the call of the port and the sea.

She watched as the Spanish soldiers drank the last of their wine, frolicked, and fought with their swords until they were covered in muck. They rested in one of the huts. They saw her standing by the steps of her own beneath the angry rain, holding a short blade and looking at them with eyes that could kill a man. They laughed!

“Get out of my lands, white fiends!”

Her words were fierce, yet they did not understand her language, so they inched forward with lustful eyes. She called upon her gods, the Diwatas of the sky, but they never answered. She called upon the spirits of her ancestors, but they never came. The lightning cursed, and the thunder roared, but the elements could do nothing against the malice of men.

Evil was stronger that day, but she was Babaylan, and in her blood flowed the strength of her ancestors. She felled one after she cursed her gods for not aiding her. She killed another after cursing her ancestors for leaving her. But there were still two, and they were able to subdue her. They made their way with her and left her broken in the rain. She remembered their faces—the last two who she could not kill—and committed them to memory, as these were the only things she saw after the darkness ate her.

And then she was lost for many years.

***

She ran chasing dreams. They were happy dreams filled with wonderful things like family and home. She hunted with her father, trapping boar and skinning it, feasting with the tribe as they offered the blood to the Diwata and their ancestors. She thanked the forest for giving good things so they may survive. The smell of nature lingered, especially when it rained, when the scent of the earth permeated, and the spirit of the forest came alive with every tap of raindrop against the waiting arms of trees.

But soon, the dreams became nightmares filled with men in golden armor, pillaging and raping—demons of the new world wearing symbols of their god and king. They wore no faces except for the two demons whose pale-white features had been lodged in her memory for many years. And they looked at her with contempt, smiling with wicked teeth, as wicked hands reached out and tore her many times over. Her screams were silent. The gods that she prayed to were deaf to her cries. The wonder of a life filled with fascination became the forever dread that wallowed in the recess of her mind, and never-ending was the repetitive nightmare—until she woke up.

Her skin was different, and she realized her body was dull and old. She saw her reflection in the puddle of water and wondered what had happened. Church bells rang across the street as people made their way for the evening mass. She heard loathing murmurs and gasps. White-skinned folks mingled with brown-skinned Indios. She sat on the filthy ground of the town that robbed her of her people and her life.

A group of Spanish soldiers passed by. Her bones ached as she stood. She was naked, but she did not care, for as soon as she stood erect, so did her anger. She screamed at everyone: at the friars who shooed her away, at the soldiers who laughed and mocked, and at the ghost of the old that lingered in the darkened corners, looking at her with pity.

Then, all fell silent as an old man of rich stature, wearing the regal outfit of a retired soldier, emerged from the church. She recognized him and the other old man beside him. They were old now, but their eyes looked the same. They were the demons of her nightmare—the ones who escaped. They walked out into the crowd with escorts, and the two looked in her direction to decipher what was happening.

Their eyes locked. Recognition! They laughed and went on their way, ignoring her, but before they went anywhere, she lunged at them and pulled their hair. All were taken aback. The crowd found that they could not do anything. The froze. She let them go and ran. The guards held their spears, shaking. They found their legs did not abide by their wishes and stood still. They did not know why.

She wanted to kill them, to tear their hearts and eat them, but she heard a voice carried by the wind, and it told her there were other ways to kill a man. Yes. She agreed. She ran. She would torture them first, then she would have her satisfaction.

***

Kulam is a malevolent usage of sympathetic magic. Its origins are unknown, yet its users, the Mangkukulam, are witches scattered around the archipelago. They have dwindled since the coming of the Spaniards. In the religion of Christianity, witches were hunted and tried. Yet, as the centuries passed, this practice had died down, as the existence of witches became nothing more but stories to tell at night, by candlelight, to put naughty children to sleep. That was what the friars thought, what the Inquisition thought, but in the remote reaches of an archipelago with a thousand islands, witches still exist.

She learned about Kulam when she was seven, as her father told her of the stories of its practitioners, the Mangkukulam, who only sought to harm others for a price or simply vengeance.

“Such malevolent creatures!” She recalled gasping as the images of the Mangkukulam played in her head.

“It is not the witch that is vile, but the method they use.” Her father replied, staring into the dark forest through the window of their hut. “Sometimes, a Mangkukulam is a victim of her own magic. Sometimes, she does not choose it willingly but is forced to use it, becoming dependent on the dark powers she controls, ultimately corrupting her.”

“Are all Mangkukulam women?”

“No,” her father replied with a somber tone. “Some are men—some I knew from before. They stayed away from me. I fought one of them, you know. For some reason, she hated me. She used her doll against me, as I did not know she had a lock of my hair and could not recall how she acquired it. But I am no mere Babaylan as she thought, and with the power of the Diwata, I vanquished her. But I did not know she had a newborn child when I fought her.”

“And where is the child now?”

“Somewhere…”

Her father never gave her an exact answer to the outcome of their battle. He never again mentioned the Mangkukulam after or what happened to the witch’s child. That story was closed. Since then, she had never thought of using Kulam. But times had changed, and so did the way she saw things, for vengeance was the only thing that drove her, and kulam was her weapon of choice.

The old woman sighed and looked out the window, much like the home she once lived in, but only bigger. Her memories of her youth started to fade. The stars greeted her and also feared her.

 “The Diwata are dead,” she said with spite. “You have abandoned me. You have betrayed me. I am no longer yours.”

She held up a poorly sewn rag doll with her right and a long needle with her left. She hissed.

“This is me now—Mangkukulam! With this, I call the dark elements of nature and the shadows that dwell within the confines of this forest. The darkness that will aid my vengeance!”

A gust of wind swirled around the old barrio like a mad child dancing without care. The trees swayed and moaned with reluctance, and the old barrio held tight its foundations lest it be blown away. And within the noise of an ungodly hour, she produced a lock of hair that she procured after she woke from her stupor when she pulled the strands of her assailants days ago and stuffed it through a slit on the rag doll’s chest.

The wind screamed from its former whistle, bearing the vengeance of an eternity’s mourn, as she raised the needle with the weight of all her sadness and yearning for a life long gone. She, the abandoned—the betrayed—living in solitude, once in mind, now in form, and the turning of the tide swept her loyalties from olden gods to darkness in nature. She felt the spirits of new and malicious things grasp the hand that bore the rag doll, channeling dark energies as the wind carried its scream through the forest into a town that slept like an innocent child. There is no innocence in there, she thought—only the sins of two vile men who must pay for their sins. There, in the deep of the night, the sharp end of the needle broke the rag doll’s skin, burying deep with a forceful vengeance of a broken dream.

She laughed as the rag doll bled with satisfying pain, and somewhere, she heard screams brought back by the wind to her anticipating ears. She nodded in satisfaction and continued her task. There should be more, as the old barrio sat silently, watching her with sad eyes as it mourned for the passing of a tortured soul. There were many ways to torture a man, and kulam would satiate her hunger for the kill.

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