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.

"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 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 half-whispered.

"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 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 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 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.

My Brother’s Peculiar Chicken

My brother Kiko once had a very peculiar chicken. It was peculiar because no one could tell whether it was a
rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We almost got whipped because we
argued too much.

The whole question began early one morning. Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the cornfield. The corn
had just been planted, and the chickens were scratching the seeds out for food. Suddenly we heard the rapid
flapping of wings. We turned in the direction of the sound and saw two chickens fighting in the far end of the
field. We could not see the birds clearly as they were lunging at each other in a whirlwind of feathers and dust.

“Look at that rooster fight!” my brother said, pointing exactly at one of the chickens. “Why, if I had a rooster like
that, I could get rich in the cockpits.”

“Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested.

“No, you stay here. I will go and catch it,” Kiko said.

My brother slowly approached the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did not notice him.
When he got near them, he dived and caught one of them by the leg. It struggled and squawked. Kiko finally held
it by both wings and it became still. I ran over where he was and took a good look at the chicken.

“Why, it is a hen,” I said.

“What is the matter with you?” my brother asked. “Is the heat making you sick?”

“No. Look at its face. It has no comb or wattles.”

“No comb and wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it in fight?”

“Sure, I saw it in fight. But I still say it is a hen.”

“Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with spurs on its legs like these? Or a hen with a tail like this?”

I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I tell you it is a hen. Why, look at it.”

The argument went on in the fields the whole morning. At noon we went to eat lunch. We argued about it on the
way home. When we arrived at our house Kiko tied the chicken to a peg. The chicken flapped its wings and then
crowed.

“There! Did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose you are going to tell me now that
hens crow and that carabaos fly.”

“I don’t care if it crows or not,” I said. “That chicken is a hen.”

We went into the house, and the discussion continued during lunch.

“It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.”

“It is a hen,” I said.

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“Now, now,” Mother interrupted, “how many times must Father tell you, boys, not to argue during lunch? What
is the argument about this time?”

We told Mother, and she went out look at the chicken.

“That chicken,” she said, “is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen.”

That should have ended the argument. But Father also went out to see the chicken, and he said, “Have you been
drinking again?” Mother asked.
“No,” Father answered.

“Then what makes you say that that is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?”

“Listen. I have handled fighting cocks since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me that that thing is a rooster.”

Before Kiko and I realized what had happened, Father and Mother were arguing about the chicken by
themselves. Soon Mother was crying. She always cried when she argued with Father.

“You know very well that that is a rooster,” she said. “You are just being mean and stubborn.”

“I am sorry,” Father said. “But I know a hen when I see one.”

“I know who can settle this question,” my brother said.

“Who?” I asked.

“The teniente del Barrio, chief of the village.”

The chief was the oldest man in the village. That did not mean that he was the wisest, but anything always
carried more weight if it is said by a man with gray hair. So my brother untied the chicken and we took it to the
chief.

“Is this a male or a female chicken?” Kiko asked.

“That is a question that should concern only another chicken,” the chief replied.

“My brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an answer. Just say
yes or no. Is this a rooster?”

“It does not look like any rooster I have ever seen,” the chief said.

“Is it a hen, then?” I asked.

“It does not look like any hen I have ever seen. No, that could not be a chicken. I have never seen like that. It
must be a bird of some other kind.”

“Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and we walked away.

“Well, what shall we do now?” I said.

“I know that,” my brother said. “Let’s go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.”

Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in a nearby town of Katubusan. He had studied poultry raising in the University of the
Philippines. He owned and operated the largest poultry business in town. We took the chicken to his office.

“Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a rooster?”

Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said:

“Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell in one look. I have never run across a chicken like this before.”

“Well, is there any way you can tell?”

“Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the feathers are round, then it’s a hen. If they are pointed, it’s a
rooster.”

The three of us examined the feathers closely. It had both.

“Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz.

“Is there any other way you can tell?”

“I could kill it and examined its insides.”

“No. I do not want it killed,” my brother said.

Kiko was silent most of the way. Then he said:

“I know how I can prove to you that this is a rooster.”

“How?” I asked.

“Would you agree that this is a rooster if I make it fight in the cockpit and it wins?”

“If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I will believe anything,” I said.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to the cockpit this Sunday.”

So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent. He finally picked
a red rooster.

“Don’t match your hen against that red rooster.” I told him. “That red rooster is not a native chicken. It is from
Texas.”

“I don’t care where it came from,” my brother said. “My rooster will kill it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the fox. There is no rooster
in this town that can stand against it. Pick a lesser rooster.”

My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were readied for the killing. Sharp steel gaffs
were tied to their left legs. Everyone wanted to bet on the red gamecock.

The fight was brief. Both birds were released in the centre of the arena. They circled around once and then faced
each other. I expected our chicken to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A lovesick expression came
into the red rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance. That was all our chicken needed. It rushed at the red rooster
with its neck feathers flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spurs into its opponent’s chest. The fight was over.

“Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowd shouted.

Then a riot broke out. People tore bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and I had to leave
through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran toward the coconut groves and kept running till
we lost the mob. As soon as we were safe, my brother said:

“Do you believe it is a rooster now?”

“Yes,” I answered.

I was glad the whole argument was over.

Just then the chicken began to quiver. It stood up in my arms and cackled with laughter. Something warm and
round dropped into my hand. It was an egg.

The Mats
By: Francisco Arcellana

Papa was an engineer. He inspected new telegraph lines for the government. He had written from Lopez,
Tayabas:

I have just met a marvelous matweaver – a real artist – and I shall have a surprise for you. I asked him to weave a
sleeping mat for every one of the family. I can hardly wait to show them to you…

After a few days Papa wrote again:

I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have the mats with me, and they are beautiful. I hope to be home to
join you for dinner.

Mama read Papa’s letter aloud during the noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up like wildfire.

“I like the feel of mats,” said my brother Antonio. “I like the smell of new mats.”

“Oh, but these mats are different,” said Susanna, my younger sister. “They have our names woven into them.
There is a different color for each of us.”

A mat was not something new to us. There was already one such mat in the house. It was one we seldom use, a
mat older than any of us.

This mat had been given to Mama by her mother when Mama and Papa were married. It had been with them
ever since. It was used on their wedding night and afterwards only on special occasions. It was a very beautiful
mat. It had green leaf borders and gigantic red roses woven onto it. In the middle it said:

Emilia y Jaime

Recuerdo

The mat did not ever seem to grow old. To Mama it was always as new as it had been on her wedding night. The
folds and creases always looked new and fresh. The smeMama always kept that mat in her trunk. When any of us
got sick, the mat was brought out and the sick child made to sleep on it. Every one of us had at some time in our
life slept on it. There had been sickness in our family. And there had been deaths….

That evening Papa arrived. He had brought home a lot of fruit from the fruit-growing provinces he had passed in
his travels. We sampled pineapple, lanzones, chico, atis, santol, watermelon, guayabano, and avocado. He had
also brought home a jar of preserved sweets.

Dinner seemed to last forever. Although we tried not to show it, we could hardly wait to see the mats.

Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Papa rose from his chair and crossed the room. He went to the corner
where his luggage was piled. From the heap he pulled out a large bundle. Taking it under his arm, he walked to
the middle of the room where the light was brightest. He dropped the bundle to the floor. Bending over and
balancing himself on his toes, he pulled at the cord that bound it. It was strong. It would not break. It would not
give way. Finally, Alfonso, my youngest brother, appeared at Papa’s side with a pair of scissors.

Papa took the scissors. One swift movement, snip!, and the bundle was loose!

Papa turned to Mama and smiled. “These are the mats, Miling,” he said.

He picked up the topmost mat in the bundle.

“This is yours, Miling.” Mama stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of her
apron. Shyly, she unfolded the mat without a word.

We all gathered around the spread mat.

It was a beautiful mat. There was a name in the very center of it: Emilia. Interwoven into the large, green letters
where flowers – cadena de amor.
“It’s beautiful, Jaime.” Mama whispered, and she could not say any more.

“And this, I know, is my own,” said Papa of the next mat in the bundle. His mat was simple and the only colors on
it were purple and cold.

“And this, for you, Marcelina.”

I had always thought my name was too long. Now I was glad to see that my whole name was spelled out on the
mat, even if the letters were small. Beneath my name was a lyre, done in three colors. Papa knew I loved music
and played the piano. I was delighted with my new mat.

“And this is for you, Jose.” Jose is my oldest brother. He wanted to become a doctor.

“This is yours, Antonio.”

“And this, yours, Juan.”

“And this is yours, Jesus.”

One by one my brothers and sisters stepped forward to receive their mats. Mat after mat was unfolded. On each
mat was a symbol that meant something special to each of us.

At last everyone was shown their mats. The air was filled with excited talk.

“You are not to use the mats until you go the university,” Papa said.

“But, Jaime,” Mama said, wonderingly, “there are some more mats left in the bundle.”

“Yes there are three more mats to unfold. They are for the others who are not here…” Papa’s voice grew soft and
his eyes looked far away.

“I said I would bring home a sleeping mat for every one of the family. And so I did,” Papa said. Then his eyes fell
on each of us. “Do you think I’d forgotten them? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget
them?

“This is for you, Josefina!

“And this, for you, Victoria!

“And this, for you, Concepcion!”

Papa’s face was filled with a long-bewildered sorrow.

Then I understood. The mats were for my three sisters, who died when they were still very young.

After a long while, Papa broke the silence. “We must not ever forget them,” he said softly. “They may be dead
but they are never really gone. They are here, among us, always in our hearts.”

The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The colors were not bright but dull. I remember that the names of
the dead among us did not glow o shine as did the other living namesll was always the smell of a new mat.
Watching it was an endless joy.
May Day Eve

By: Nick Joaquin

The old people had ordered that the dancing should stop at ten o’clock but it was almost midnight before the
carriages came filing up the departing guests, while the girls who were staying were promptly herded upstairs to
the bedrooms, the young men gathering around to wish them a good night and lamenting their ascent with mock
signs and moaning, proclaiming themselves disconsolate but straightway going off to finish the punch and the
brandy though they were quite drunk already and simply bursting with wild spirits, merriment, arrogance and
audacity, for they were young bucks newly arrived from Europe; the ball had been in their honor; and they had
waltzed and polka-ed and bragged and swaggered and flirted all night and where in no mood to sleep yet--no,
caramba, not on this moist tropic eve! not on this mystic May eve! --with the night still young and so seductive
that it was madness not to go out, not to go forth---and serenade the neighbors! cried one; and swim in the
Pasid! cried another; and gather fireflies! cried a third—whereupon there arose a great clamor for coats and
capes, for hats and canes, and they were a couple of street-lamps flickered and a last carriage rattled away upon
the cobbles while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tile roofs looming like sinister chessboards
against a wile sky murky with clouds, save where an evil young moon prowled about in a corner or where a
murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and
wafting unbearable childhood fragrances or ripe guavas to the young men trooping so uproariously down the
street that the girls who were desiring upstairs in the bedrooms catered screaming to the windows, crowded
giggling at the windows, but were soon sighing amorously over those young men bawling below; over those
wicked young men and their handsome apparel, their proud flashing eyes, and their elegant mustaches so black
and vivid in the moonlight that the girls were quite ravished with love, and began crying to one another how
carefree were men but how awful to be a girl and what a horrid, horrid world it was, till old Anastasia plucked
them off by the ear or the pigtail and chases them off to bed---while from up the street came the clackety-clack
of the watchman’s boots on the cobble and the clang-clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll of
his great voice booming through the night, "Guardia serno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o.

And it was May again, said the old Anastasia. It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night,
she said--for it was a night of divination, and night of lovers, and those who cared might peer into a mirror and
would there behold the face of whoever it was they were fated to marry, said the old Anastasia as she hobble
about picking up the piled crinolines and folding up shawls and raking slippers in corner while the girls climbing
into four great poster-beds that overwhelmed the room began shrieking with terror, scrambling over each other
and imploring the old woman not to frighten them.

"Enough, enough, Anastasia! We want to sleep!"

"Go scare the boys instead, you old witch!"

"She is not a witch, she is a maga. She is a maga. She was born of Christmas Eve!"

"St. Anastasia, virgin and martyr."

"Huh? Impossible! She has conquered seven husbands! Are you a virgin, Anastasia?"

"No, but I am seven times a martyr because of you girls!"

"Let her prophesy, let her prophesy! Whom will I marry, old gypsy? Come, tell me."

"You may learn in a mirror if you are not afraid."

"I am not afraid, I will go," cried the young cousin Agueda, jumping up in bed.

"Girls, girls---we are making too much noise! My mother will hear and will come and pinch us all. Agueda, lie
down! And you Anastasia, I command you to shut your mouth and go away!""Your mother told me to stay here
all night, my grand lady!"

"And I will not lie down!" cried the rebellious Agueda, leaping to the floor. "Stay, old woman. Tell me what I have
to do."

"Tell her! Tell her!" chimed the other girls.

Mirror, mirror, show to me him whose woman I will be. If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear
the face of the man you will marry." A silence. Then: "And hat if all does not go right?" asked Agueda. "Ah, then
the Lord have mercy on you!" "Why." "Because you may see--the Devil!"

The girls screamed and clutched one another, shivering. "But what nonsense!" cried Agueda. "This is the year
1847. There are no devil anymore!" Nevertheless she had turned pale. "But where could I go, hugh? Yes, I know!
Down to the sala. It has that big mirror and no one is there now." "No, Agueda, no! It is a mortal sin! You will see
the devil!" "I do not care! I am not afraid! I will go!" "Oh, you wicked girl! Oh, you mad girl!" "If you do not come
to bed, Agueda, I will call my mother." "And if you do I will tell her who came to visit you at the convent last
March. Come, old woman---give me that candle. I go." "Oh girls---give me that candle, I go."

But Agueda had already slipped outside; was already tiptoeing across the hall; her feet bare and her dark hair
falling down her shoulders and streaming in the wind as she fled down the stairs, the lighted candle sputtering in
one hand while with the other she pulled up her white gown from her ankles. She paused breathless in the
doorway to the sala and her heart failed her. She tried to imagine the room filled again with lights, laughter,
whirling couples, and the jolly jerky music of the fiddlers. But, oh, it was a dark den, a weird cavern for the
windows had been closed and the furniture stacked up against the walls. She crossed herself and stepped inside.

The mirror hung on the wall before her; a big antique mirror with a gold frame carved into leaves and flowers and
mysterious curlicues. She saw herself approaching fearfully in it: a small while ghost that the darkness bodied
forth---but not willingly, not completely, for her eyes and hair were so dark that the face approaching in the
mirror seemed only a mask that floated forward; a bright mask with two holes gaping in it, blown forward by the
white cloud of her gown. But when she stood before the mirror she lifted the candle level with her chin and the
dead mask bloomed into her living face.

She closed her eyes and whispered the incantation. When she had finished such a terror took hold of her that she
felt unable to move, unable to open her eyes and thought she would stand there forever, enchanted. But she
heard a step behind her, and a smothered giggle, and instantly opened her eyes.

"And what did you see, Mama? Oh, what was it?" But Dona Agueda had forgotten the little girl on her lap: she
was staring pass the curly head nestling at her breast and seeing herself in the big mirror hanging in the room. It
was the same room and the same mirror out the face she now saw in it was an old face---a hard, bitter, vengeful
face, framed in graying hair, and so sadly altered, so sadly different from that other face like a white mask, that
fresh young face like a pure mask than she had brought before this mirror one wild May Day midnight years and
years ago.... "But what was it Mama? Oh please go on! What did you see?" Dona Agueda looked down at her
daughter but her face did not soften though her eyes filled with tears. "I saw the devil." she said bitterly. The
child blanched. "The devil, Mama? Oh... Oh..." "Yes, my love. I opened my eyes and there in the mirror, smiling at
me over my left shoulder, was the face of the devil." "Oh, my poor little Mama! And were you very frightened?"
"You can imagine. And that is why good little girls do not look into mirrors except when their mothers tell them.
You must stop this naughty habit, darling, of admiring yourself in every mirror you pass- or you may see
something frightful some day." "But the devil, Mama---what did he look like?" "Well, let me see... he has curly
hair and a scar on his cheek---" "Like the scar of Papa?" "Well, yes. But this of the devil was a scar of sin, while
that of your Papa is a scar of honor. Or so he says." "Go on about the devil." "Well, he had mustaches." "Like
those of Papa?" "Oh, no. Those of your Papa are dirty and graying and smell horribly of tobacco, while these of
the devil were very black and elegant--oh, how elegant!" "And did he speak to you, Mama?" "Yes… Yes, he spoke
to me," said Dona Agueda. And bowing her graying head; she wept.

"Charms like yours have no need for a candle, fair one," he had said, smiling at her in the mirror and stepping
back to give her a low mocking bow. She had whirled around and glared at him and he had burst into laughter.
"But I remember you!" he cried. "You are Agueda, whom I left a mere infant and came home to find a
tremendous beauty, and I danced a waltz with you but you would not give me the polka." "Let me pass," she
muttered fiercely, for he was barring the way. "But I want to dance the polka with you, fair one," he said. So they
stood before the mirror; their panting breath the only sound in the dark room; the candle shining between them
and flinging their shadows to the wall. And young Badoy Montiya (who had crept home very drunk to pass out
quietly in bed) suddenly found himself cold sober and very much awake and ready for anything. His eyes sparkled
and the scar on his face gleamed scarlet. "Let me pass!" she cried again, in a voice of fury, but he grasped her by
the wrist. "No," he smiled. "Not until we have danced." "Go to the devil!" "What a temper has my serrana!" "I am
not your serrana!" "Whose, then? Someone I know? Someone I have offended grievously? Because you treat me,
you treat all my friends like your mortal enemies." "And why not?" she demanded, jerking her wrist away and
flashing her teeth in his face. "Oh, how I detest you, you pompous young men! You go to Europe and you come
back elegant lords and we poor girls are too tame to please you. We have no grace like the Parisiennes, we have
no fire like the Sevillians, and we have no salt, no salt, no salt! Aie, how you weary me, how you bore me, you
fastidious men!" "Come, come---how do you know about us?"

"I was not admiring myself, sir!" "You were admiring the moon perhaps?" "Oh!" she gasped, and burst into tears.
The candle dropped from her hand and she covered her face and sobbed piteously. The candle had gone out and
they stood in darkness, and young Badoy was conscience-stricken. "Oh, do not cry, little one!" Oh, please forgive
me! Please do not cry! But what a brute I am! I was drunk, little one, I was drunk and knew not what I said." He
groped and found her hand and touched it to his lips. She shuddered in her white gown. "Let me go," she
moaned, and tugged feebly. "No. Say you forgive me first. Say you forgive me, Agueda." But instead she pulled
his hand to her mouth and bit it - bit so sharply in the knuckles that he cried with pain and lashed cut with his
other hand--lashed out and hit the air, for she was gone, she had fled, and he heard the rustling of her skirts up
the stairs as he furiously sucked his bleeding fingers. Cruel thoughts raced through his head: he would go and tell
his mother and make her turn the savage girl out of the house--or he would go himself to the girl’s room and
drag her out of bed and slap, slap, slap her silly face! But at the same time he was thinking that they were all
going to Antipolo in the morning and was already planning how he would maneuver himself into the same boat
with her. Oh, he would have his revenge, he would make her pay, that little harlot! She should suffer for this, he
thought greedily, licking his bleeding knuckles. But---Judas! He remembered her bare shoulders: gold in her
candlelight and delicately furred. He saw the mobile insolence of her neck, and her taut breasts steady in the
fluid gown. Son of a Turk, but she was quite enchanting! How could she think she had no fire or grace? And no
salt? An arroba she had of it!

"... No lack of salt in the chrism At the moment of thy baptism!" He sang aloud in the dark room and suddenly
realized that he had fallen madly in love with her. He ached intensely to see her again---at once! ---to touch her
hands and her hair; to hear her harsh voice. He ran to the window and flung open the casements and the beauty
of the night struck him back like a blow. It was May, it was summer, and he was young---young! ---and deliriously
in love. Such a happiness welled up within him that the tears spurted from his eyes. But he did not forgive her--
no! He would still make her pay, he would still have his revenge, he thought viciously, and kissed his wounded
fingers. But what a night it had been! "I will never forge this night! he thought aloud in an awed voice, standing
by the window in the dark room, the tears in his eyes and the wind in his hair and his bleeding knuckles pressed
to his mouth.

But, alas, the heart forgets; the heart is distracted; and May time passes; summer lends; the storms break over
the rot-tipe orchards and the heart grows old; while the hours, the days, the months, and the years pile up and
pile up, till the mind becomes too crowded, too confused: dust gathers in it; cobwebs multiply; the walls darken
and fall into ruin and decay; the memory perished...and there came a time when Don Badoy Montiya walked
home through a May Day midnight without remembering, without even caring to remember; being merely
concerned in feeling his way across the street with his cane; his eyes having grown quite dim and his legs
uncertain--for he was old; he was over sixty; he was a very stopped and shivered old man with white hair and
mustaches coming home from a secret meeting of conspirators; his mind still resounding with the speeches and
his patriot heart still exultant as he picked his way up the steps to the front door and inside into the slumbering
darkness of the house; wholly unconscious of the May night, till on his way down the hall, chancing to glance into
the sala, he shuddered, he stopped, his blood ran cold-- for he had seen a face in the mirror there---a ghostly
candlelight face with the eyes closed and the lips moving, a face that he suddenly felt he had been there before
though it was a full minutes before the lost memory came flowing, came tiding back, so overflooding the actual
moment and so swiftly washing away the piled hours and days and months and years that he was left suddenly
young again; he was a gay young buck again, lately came from Europe; he had been dancing all night; he was very
drunk; he s stepped in the doorway; he saw a face in the dark; he called out...and the lad standing before the
mirror (for it was a lad in a night go jumped with fright and almost dropped his candle, but looking around and
seeing the old man, laughed out with relief and came running.

"Oh Grandpa, how you frightened me. Don Badoy had turned very pale. "So it was you, you young bandit! And
what is all this, hey? What are you doing down here at this hour?" "Nothing, Grandpa. I was only... I am only ..."
"Yes, you are the great Señor only and how delighted I am to make your acquaintance, Señor Only! But if I break
this cane on your head you maga wish you were someone else, Sir!" "It was just foolishness, Grandpa. They told
me I would see my wife."

"Wife? What wife?" "Mine. The boys at school said I would see her if I looked in a mirror tonight and said: Mirror,
mirror show to me her whose lover I will be.

Don Badoy cackled ruefully. He took the boy by the hair, pulled him along into the room, sat down on a chair, and
drew the boy between his knees. "Now, put your cane down the floor, son, and let us talk this over. So you want
your wife already, hey? You want to see her in advance, hey? But so you know that these are wicked games and
that wicked boys who play them are in danger of seeing horrors?"

"Well, the boys did warn me I might see a witch instead."

"Exactly! A witch so horrible you may die of fright. And she will be witch you, she will torture you, she will eat

your heart and drink your blood!"

"Oh, come now Grandpa. This is 1890. There are no witches anymore."

"Oh-ho, my young Voltaire! And what if I tell you that I myself have seen a witch.

"You? Where?

"Right in this room land right in that mirror," said the old man, and his playful voice had turned savage.

"When, Grandpa?"

"Not so long ago. When I was a bit older than you. Oh, I was a vain fellow and though I was feeling very sick that
night and merely wanted to lie down somewhere and die I could not pass that doorway of course without
stopping to see in the mirror what I looked like when dying. But when I poked my head in what should I see in the
mirror but...but..."

"The witch?"

"Exactly!"

"And then she be witch you, Grandpa!"

"She bewitched me and she tortured me. l She ate my heart and drank my blood." said the old man bitterly.

"Oh, my poor little Grandpa! Why have you never told me! And she very horrible?

"Horrible? God, no--- she was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! Her eyes were somewhat like yours
but her hair was like black waters and her golden shoulders were bare. My God, she was enchanting! But I should
have known---I should have known even then---the dark and fatal creature she was!"

A silence. Then: "What a horrid mirror this is, Grandpa," whispered the boy.

"What makes you slay that, hey?"

"Well, you saw this witch in it. And Mama once told me that Grandma once told her that Grandma once saw the
devil in this mirror. Was it of the scare that Grandma died?"

Don Badoy started. For a moment he had forgotten that she was dead, that she had perished---the poor Agueda;
that they were at peace at last, the two of them, her tired body at rest; her broken body set free at last from the
brutal pranks of the earth---from the trap of a May night; from the snare of summer; from the terrible silver nets
of the moon. She had been a mere heap of white hair and bones in the end: a whimpering withered
consumptive, lashing out with her cruel tongue; her eye

like live coals; her face like ashes... Now, nothing--- nothing save a name on a stone; save a stone in a
graveyard---nothing! was left of the young girl who had flamed so vividly in a mirror one wild May Day midnight,
long, long ago.

And remembering how she had sobbed so piteously; remembering how she had bitten his hand and fled and how
he had sung aloud in the dark room and surprised his heart in the instant of falling in love: such a grief tore up his
throat and eyes that he felt ashamed before the boy; pushed the boy away; stood up and looked out----looked
out upon the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of street-lamps flickered and a last carriage
was rattling away upon the cobbles, while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tiled roofs looming
like sinister chessboards against a wild sky murky with clouds, save where an evil old moon prowled about in a
corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the
summer orchards and wafting unbearable the window; the bowed old man sobbing so bitterly at the window; the
tears streaming down his cheeks and the wind in his hair and one hand pressed to his mouth---while from up the
street came the clackety-clack of the watchman’s boots on the cobbles, and the clang-clang of his lantern against
his knee, and the mighty roll of his voice booming through the night:

"Guardia sereno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o!"