Wedding Dance
Amador T. Daguio
1
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.
2
"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry.
But neither of us can help it."
3
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.
4
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 rooms brightened.
5
"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.
6
"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."
7
"I don't want any man," she said sharply.
"I don't want any other man."
8
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?"
9
She did not answer him.
10 "You know it
Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.
11 "Yes, I
know," she said weakly.
12 "It is not my
fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been
a good husband to you."
13 "Neither can
you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry.
14 "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."
15 This time the woman
stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the
blanket more snugly around herself.
16 "You know that
I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many
chickens in my prayers."
17 "Yes, I
know."
18 "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?"
19 "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.
20 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.
21 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.
22 "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."
23 "That has not
done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She
almost seemed to smile.
24 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.
25 "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."
26 "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."
27 "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."
28 "I have no use
for any field," she said.
29 He looked at her,
then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.
30 "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."
31 "I would feel
better if you could come, and dance—for the last time. The gangsas are playing."
32 "You know that
I cannot."
33 "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."
34 "I know
it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan
will bless you and Madulimay."
35 She bit her lips
now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.
36 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.
37 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.
38 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.
39 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."
40 "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.
41 "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."
42 "Then you'll
always be fruitless."
43 "I'll go back
to my father, I'll die."
44 "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."
45 She was silent.
46 "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."
47 "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."
48 "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."
49 The gongs thundered
through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.
50 "I'll keep my
beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she
half-whispered.
51 "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."
52 "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."
53 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!"
54 "I am not in
hurry."
55 "The elders
will scold you. You had better go."
56 "Not until you
tell me that it is all right with you."
57 "It is all
right with me."
58 He clasped her
hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said.
59 "I know,"
she said.
60 He went to the
door.
61 "Awiyao!"
62 He stooped 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.
63 "Awiyao,"
she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!"
64 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.
65 "Awiyao!
Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and buried her
face in his neck.
66 The call for him
from the outside repeated.
67 His grip loosened,
and he hurried out into the night.
68 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.
69 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
70 husband a child.
71 "It is not
right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can
anybody know? It is not right," she said.
72 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?
73 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.
74 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.
75 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.
76 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.
77 When Lumnay reached
the clearing, she could 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.
78 Lumnay thought 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.
79 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.
80 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.
81 Lumnay's fingers
moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.
(1951)
Meet the Writer
Amador T. Daguio was born 8 January
1912 in Laoag, Ilocos Norte, but grew up in Lubuagan, Mountain Province, where
his father, an officer in the Philippine Constabulary, was assigned. He was
class valedictorian in 1924 at the Lubuagan Elementary School. Then he stayed
with his uncle at Fort William McKinley to study at Rizal High School in Pasig.
Those four years in high school were, according to Daguio, the most critical in
his life. «I spent them literally in poverty, extreme loneliness, and
adolescent pains …In my loneliness, I began to compose verses in earnest.”8 He
was in third year high when he broke into print in a national weekly, The
Sunday Tribune Magazine (11 July 1926), with a poem, “She Came to Me.” He was
going to be valedictorian or salutatorian, but his teacher in “utter lack of
justice …put down my marks in history—my favorite subject. That just about
broke my heart because then I would have had free tuition at the U.P.”
Thus out of school
for the first semester in 1928, he earned his tuition (P60.00) by serving as
houseboy, waiter, and caddy to officers at Fort McKinley. He enrolled for the
second semester with only P2.50 left for books and other expenses. He commuted
between the Fort and Padre Faura, Manila, walking about two kilometers from
Paco station twice daily. He would eat his lunch alone on Dewey Blvd. and
arrive at the Fort about 9 o’clock in the evening. This continued for three
years. Then an uncle arrived from Honolulu who paid his tuition during his
third year; before this, he worked Saturday and Sunday as printer’s devil at
the U.P. and served as Philippine Collegian reporter. During all this time, he
learned the craft of writing from Tom Inglis Moore, an Australian professor at
U.P., and was especially grateful to A.V.H. Hartendorp of Philippine Magazine.
His stories and poems appeared in practically all the Manila papers.
One of ten honor
graduates at U.P. in 1932, he returned to teach at his boyhood school in
Lubuagan; in 1938, he taught at Zamboanga Normal School where he met his wife Estela.
They transferred to Normal Leyte School in 1941 before the Second World War.
During the Japanese Occupation, he joined the resistance and wrote poems in
secret, later collected as Bataan Harvest.1 0 He was a bosom-friend of another
writer in the resistance, Manuel E. Arguilla.
In 1952, he
obtained his M.A. in English at Stanford U. as a Fulbright scholar. His thesis
was a study and translation of Hudhud hi Aliguyon (Ifugao Harvest Song). In
1954, he obtained his Law degree from Romualdez Law College in Leyte. Daguio
was editor and public relations officer in various offices in government and
the military. He also taught for twenty-six years at the University of the
East, U.P., and Philippine Women’s University. In 1973, six years after his
death, Daguio was conferred the Republic Cultural Heritage Award. (http://www.ncca.gov.ph/about-culture-and-arts/articles-on-c-n-a/article.php?i=29&subcat=13)
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