Chapter 14: Hikay | Rajah Versus Conquistador
Morning of April 15th, 1521
Dawn breaks over Sugbo like a gift being unwrapped, each layer of darkness peeling away to reveal new treasures. You watch from your lantay as golden light spills across your domain, painting everything in colors you had somehow forgotten existed. The morning feels new-made, as if the world itself has been transformed by last night's awakening – yet you cannot shake the awareness that Lapulapu's vessels approach from Mactan, the old warrior's presence already casting long shadows across your newfound joy.
The smells reach you first – not the usual calculated inventory of trade goods and cooking fires, but a symphony of scents that makes your mouth water like a child's. Whole pigs turning slowly on bamboo spits, their skin crackling and glistening in the morning light. Women weaving fresh palm leaves around mounds of rice, their quick fingers transforming simple ingredients into hanging jewels of sustenance. The sharp sweetness of mangoes being sliced, their golden flesh catching the sun's first rays. Your people have been working through the night to prepare the feast, and their efforts rise to you on the sea breeze like incense.
You notice everything differently now, as if a veil has been lifted from your eyes. The way your devadasi's anklets chime as they hurry past carrying garlands of sampagita. How the morning light catches in the carved eaves of your payag, creating patterns you've somehow never seen before. Even the familiar sounds of your port – the creaking of ships' timbers, the calls of sailors, the endless rhythm of waves against shore – seem to carry new music.
Your warriors are setting up the arnisan – the bamboo poles for the ritual combat that always accompanies great feasts. Their movements flow like a dance, each pole positioned with practiced grace. You find yourself remembering when you first learned these arts, how your young hands ached from gripping the fighting sticks, how you dreamed of earning your first tattoos. But where once those memories carried only the serpent's hunger for power, now you feel something else – the simple joy of movement, the pride of mastery, the brotherhood forged in shared training.
The platform where you received the bautismo has been transformed. Your people have woven fresh palm leaves into elaborate patterns, creating a canopy that shifts and whispers in the morning breeze. Beneath it, they've arranged seats in the ancient pattern – a great circle of datus, just as they did in the days when the first balanghay crossed these seas. You notice how Tupas has cleverly positioned the Kapitan's chair so that the morning sun will highlight his white garments, making him seem to glow like their sacred statues. Your nephew has learned well how to blend the old ways with the new.
At the eastern edge of the platform, your baylan wives have prepared the ancestral space – small carved wooden vessels filled with the finest tubâ, plates of untouched mangoes and rice, all arranged before empty seats that no living person will occupy. These offerings will feed the spirits of those who ruled before you – your father, his father before him, and all the great datus whose names are still spoken in the stories of your people. Their presence is essential for this hikay; no significant compact could be made without their witness and blessing.
Among the baylan, your first wife Pilapil moves with particular determination, her hands arranging offerings with ritual precision that reminds you instantly of her brother Lapulapu. The same blood flows in both – uncompromising, devoted to tradition, suspicious of change. As she works, her eyes occasionally find yours across the gathering, carrying silent questions about the path you've chosen. You can already sense how her divided loyalties – to you as husband, to Lapulapu as brother – will soon be tested more severely than ever before.
Paraluman's influence is evident everywhere. The binukot arts of beauty have been applied to the feast's arrangement with the same precision they use for their own adornment. Even the way the offering table is draped speaks of her hand – the clothes arranged so that each fold catches light in ways that remind you of flowing water. She has transformed the usual display of wealth and power into something that feels more like a celebration of life itself.
The Bendahara approaches with his usual measured steps. But today you see him differently – not just as your administrative mirror, but as the boy who once arranged his toys in perfect patterns, who found beauty in order itself. Gani's face carries its familiar serious expression, but now you notice the hint of excitement in his eyes. Even he feels the change in the air.
"The datus begin to arrive," he says, his voice carrying its usual precision. "Kulambô's boats are already in the harbor. Sula's fleet was spotted at dawn. Mandawe signals from the northern channel." He pauses, and you catch that small shift in his posture that speaks of concern. "Lapulapu's vessels approach from Mactan."
The name alone sends a ripple through you – Lapulapu, your former teacher, the greatest warrior of the islands, whose tattooed body tells stories of battles you've only heard in whispers. The man who trained you with equal parts brutality and wisdom, who sees your new alliance as betrayal. Even in your transformed state, something primal in you responds to the thought of facing him again.
Once, you would have immediately calculated the advantages and threats in each arrival. The serpent would have spun scenarios of betrayal and dominance. But today, you find yourself remembering instead how you played together as children – you and Kulambô and Sula. You think of Pakoy too, your childhood friend who passed before knowing what kind of ruler you would become.
Even the battle-aged Lapulapu, whose tattooed scalp bears the marks of a hundred victories, appears different in your memories. You remember the day he first took you as a student, how his massive hands corrected your grip on the fighting sticks, the strange mix of fear and pride you felt when he nodded approval at your first successful strike. You remember shared feasts, battles fought side by side, the complicated dance of rivalry and brotherhood that has bound your families for generations – and the gradual cooling between you as you turned toward commerce while he remained devoted to the old ways.
The morning breeze carries the sound of drums beginning their rhythm, deep notes that seem to rise from the earth itself. Not the frenzied beating that calls warriors to blood, but the steady pulse that reminds you of your mother's heartbeat, of the waves against your first balanghay, of life itself flowing endlessly like the tides. Your people are setting up the gongs that will accompany the feast. Their testing strikes send ripples of sound across the morning air, each note awakening memories of celebrations past.
You pause in your observations, remembering the child-king's face from the night before, how its gentle expression spoke of a power different from anything you'd known – not the serpent's hunger but a child's capacity for love. Paraluman's words echo in your mind, and you feel their truth in every breath of this morning, in every sight and sound and smell that seems made new by your awakening.
Near the platform, a small group of the Kapitan's men huddle around their baylan, Father Pedro, in his strange black robes. Their whispered chants carry across the morning air, their foreign tongue mixing strangely with the rhythm of drums and the calls of merchants. The baylan's voice rises and falls in patterns you recognize from their water ritual, though you notice how his eyes keep darting to the preparations around him, as if struggling to understand your customs just as you struggle to understand theirs. Their young scribe sits cross-legged nearby, his quill moving constantly as he tries to capture every detail of this meeting of two worlds.
***
Your heart soars as you survey the gathering, feeling a child's delight in the spectacle of power and pageantry – until your eyes meet Lapulapu's stern gaze. The old warrior towers above the crowd like a living monument to the old ways, his battle-scarred frame still straight and proud despite his years. Every inch of visible skin is a testament to his victories – complex patterns flow across his bald head and weathered face, each mark earned through blood and valor. You can't help but remember Kulambô's irreverent jest during a drinking session: "They say if you look inside the great datu's anus, you'll find tattoos recording the glory of his morning shits!" The memory almost makes you giggle like a boy, but you contain it – some habits of power remain useful.
Your first wife Pilapil, Lapulapu's sister, watches you with the cold intensity of a baylan reading omens in entrails. Her face carries the same intricate patterns as her brother's, though hers speak of different powers. Around her, your other baylan wives maintain a pointed silence, their disapproval as thick as incense smoke.
But the child in you refuses to let their darkness dim this morning's light. You rise to address the gathering, your voice carrying the authority of Rajah Humabon but touched now with genuine warmth:
“Look how our port grows strong! From the shores of the Great Ming to the lands of Majapahit, from Gujarat to the realm of the Rum, traders seek Sugbo's welcome." Your gesture takes in Ban-Sŏn and the other merchants—Muslim traders from the Moluccas in their flowing robes, Javanese royalty glittering with gold, even merchants from distant Champa. "They come not just for our goods, but for our trust, our laws, our protection.”
Cheers rise from the crowd, but you notice the baylan's tight-lipped silence. They understand what you're proposing – a new kind of power, built on commerce and law rather than blood and sacrifice. You catch your brother's slight smile – the Bendahara has long argued against wasting valuable workers in sacrifice. Why spill blood when it could be turned to profit?
You and Paraluman understand something that warriors like Lapulapu never could. In his mind, such orchestrated displays are effeminate – bayot – and beneath the dignity of a true datu. His kind of rule is simple: blood and iron, the eternal cycle of raid and sacrifice, power maintained through fear and force alone. To him, real authority flows from the edge of a blade, not the artful arrangement of silk and ceremony.
But you've seen how differently power moves through a great port. Fear alone cannot bind together the thousands who call Sugbo home. They need something more – beauty, wonder, the sense of belonging to something greater than themselves. When they see their rajah and his binukot in splendor, when they witness such moments of transformation, it becomes part of who they are. The timawa walk taller, the slaves work with pride, the merchants spread tales of Sugbo's glory to distant shores. They stay not from fear, but because they have become Sugboanon – people of Sugbo.
You and Paraluman are made for this kind of rule. Like master players in the balak, you understand how to weave meaning from gesture and symbol, how to turn simple feast into sacred memory. Even now, you can feel how this gathering will be remembered, how it will become part of the stories people tell about themselves.
Then comes the moment you've planned with Paraluman. A collective gasp rises as she appears in full daylight, surrounded by devadasi wearing the intricate layers usually reserved for the nobility. But it's Paraluman herself who captures every eye – she wears a single garment of deepest red, the color of the Santo Niño's cape, her skin glowing like pearl against crimson silk. The sun touches her face for the first time in years, revealing a beauty that seems almost otherworldly.
Your eyes catch the baylan's faces as they recognize their own sacred instruments – the ancient gongs and drums that usually call the diwata to feed on blood – now being used to summon a different kind of power. Like a master of the knife arts using an opponent's force against them, Paraluman has turned their tools of sacrifice into instruments of devotion. You see the realization dawn in their eyes: their weapons of spirit-calling have been transformed into vessels for love-songs.
Her eyes find yours across the gathering, and just as they did last night, they strike you with the force of revelation. You feel the same wild joy that filled you when the boxes cracked open, when the boy first tasted freedom again. Let them whisper and stare – you're too delighted by this shared mischief to care.
She moves with measured grace to the platform where a space has been prepared. In her hands she carries the Santo Niño, its small carved face catching the morning light. As she places it in position, her voice rises clear and pure:
"Batobalani sa gugma, ang batâ namong palanggâ
Batobalani sa gugma, ang batâ namong palanggâ
Batobalani sa gugma, ang batâ namong palanggâ."
The words fall like pearls into silence. Your people stir in wonder at hearing their tongue from northern lips, the familiar sounds made new by her accent. Even Lapulapu's stern face shows a flicker of something – surprise, perhaps, at how naturally your language flows from her. You savor the poetry of her choice – batobalani, the lodestone that draws all things to itself, singing of love's magnetic power. Its aptness given her name makes you want to laugh with delight, but you hold it inside like a sweet secret between you.
Then the devadasi join her, their voices weaving together as their hands rise in unison. They move with the fluid grace of dancers, but this is no performance – their faces shine with genuine wonder as they reach toward the small carved figure:
"KANAMÔ MALOOY KA UNTÂ, NGA KANIMO NANGILABA
KANAMÔ MALOOY KA UNTÂ, NGA KANIMO NANGILABA.
KANAMÔ MALOOY KA UNTÂ, NGA KANIMO NANGILABA"
The gesture transforms the entire gathering. Hundreds of hands wave side-to-side like sea grass moved by gentle tides, bodies swaying in shared rhythm. Even your bilanggô, whose name alone makes children cry and warriors touch their amulets, joins in the motion, his scarred hand waving toward the child-king's image. Among them, you notice the Kapitan's men – some awkward in their iron shirts, others having shed their heavy armor in the morning heat – moving hesitantly at first, then with growing enthusiasm as the rhythm takes hold. Father Pedro stands transfixed, his mouth slightly open, watching his sacred figure's power work in ways his foreign prayers never achieved. You watch faces transform – hardened warriors softening, proud datus forgetting their dignity, slaves and nobles moving as one in the rhythm.
When the last notes fade, you rise again. A child's delight fills you as you look upon your gathered people. "Today we give new names to mark this sacred feast," you declare. "See these whole pigs roasting in their own richness? Lechon, as our visitors say, a word that tastes of celebration. And look how our women weave rice in palm leaves, hanging like hearts from branches – pusô, as my beloved names them in her mother tongue."
"Aguy, kagilok!" Kulambô shouts, and the crowd erupts in laughter. The mischievous child within you delights at the thought of the amounts of cringe that Lapulapu must be suffering through right now.
You catch Paraluman's secret smile, knowing she understands the deeper meaning – how these simple names will carry the memory of this day into countless future feasts, long after you are gone. Every time your people gather to share lechon and pusô, they will be remembering, whether they know it or not, this moment when old and new became one.
***
For the sacred rite, you chose to wear Bidlisiw instead of Kamatayon. Where Kamatayon's hilt is carved to resemble the Bakunawa, with scales you can feel beneath your palm and a blade that rises like a serpent's tongue, Bidlisiw speaks of a different kind of power. Its handle is ancient lawaan wood, worn smooth by generations of hands, inlaid with mother-of-pearl that catches light like stars on water. The blade curves gently, almost lovingly, like a mother's hand cupping a child's face.
Your mother gave you Bidlisiw on the day of your tulî, telling you its story as she placed it in your small hands. It came from her people, the Western Visayan datus, passed down through generations of binukot. Unlike Kamatayon, which was forged for war and sacrifice, Bidlisiw was made for healing – for cutting medicinal plants, for preparing offerings of fruit and flowers, for the gentle arts that sustain life rather than take it.
You see the Bendahara notice your choice, his eyes widening slightly in recognition. A few of the older datus exchange glances – they remember how this knife was used in the peace treaties that ended the wars between East and West, how its blade drew blood to bind kingdoms together rather than spill it in conquest.
The Kapitan approaches for the blood compact, his white garments almost radiant in the morning light. He rolls up his left sleeve, revealing his pale skin, like that of a binukot. The contrast between you is striking – your skin marked with the stories of your victories, his bearing only the scars of battle. Yet there is something fitting in this difference – two ways of recording life's journey, meeting in friendship.
You take your places on the platform, servants placing a brass cup before you. In your memory flashes another scene – blood flowing into similar cups, but for a darker purpose. You push the thought away, focusing instead on the warmth of the morning sun on your bare shoulders, the sweet scent of flowers in the air, the gentle weight of Bidlisiw in your hand.
The blade catches sunlight as you draw it across your right arm, just below the shoulder. The cut is swift and clean – Bidlisiw's edge is so fine you barely feel it. A few drops of blood fall into the cup, mixing with the tubâ. You watch the Kapitan's face as he makes his own cut, noting the soldier's steadiness of his hand, the precise depth of the wound – exactly enough, no more.
After you, the Kapitan drinks from the cup, and you catch the briefest flicker across his rigid features – a shadow of revulsion quickly mastered, like a man forcing himself to swallow bitter medicine. Yet he drinks deeply, deliberately, as if trying to prove something to himself as much as to those watching.
The gathered crowd erupts in cheers. You catch sight of Tupas and Inday among the celebrants, your daughter's binukot grace somehow more radiant than usual. Just this morning, Paraluman shared the joyous whispers from the women's quarters – your first grandchild is on its way. You see how Tupas keeps glancing at his wife with barely contained pride, his face shining with excitement as he imagines the future this alliance might bring for his own child. Ban-Sŏn and the other merchants are already exchanging calculating glances, measuring the profit in this new brotherhood. Even some of your datus seem caught up in the moment's joy.
But not all. You notice how Lapulapu's face has hardened into a mask of disapproval, how the baylan have drawn together like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. They see what this means – how trade and trust might replace blood and sacrifice, how their old powers might fade before this new way of binding people together.
For now, though, you let the boy's joy rise above these shadows. You embrace the Kapitan as a brother, feeling the genuine warmth in his response. Around you, the feast swirls with music and laughter, the smell of roasting meat and fresh-cooked rice, the sound of new words being born in the meeting of different tongues.
You then begin the formal introductions between your blood-brother and the assembled datus. You stand together on the platform as they approach one by one, this ancient ceremony of presenting allies now mixed with the new way you've embraced.
Kulambô bounds up first, his face bright with tubâ and joy. "Higala!" he calls out, using the formal term for blood brothers and clapping the Kapitan on the shoulder as if they've known each other for years. You catch a rare smile breaking through the Kapitan's stern demeanor – perhaps he recognizes something of himself in Kulambô's warrior spirit, or perhaps your old friend's infectious joy simply cannot be resisted.
Sula and Mandawe follow with more formal greetings, each carefully measuring their words as befits their station. You watch the Kapitan respond to each with precise courtesy, his movements carrying that peculiar rigidity that marks him even in celebration.
Then Lapulapu approaches, and the crowd falls silent. Strapped to his broad back is Buaya, its massive hilt rising above his shoulder like a dormant beast. The great sword is as legendary as its wielder – they say its steel was folded a hundred times, each fold consuming the blood of a sacrifice. Its blade is as wide as a man's hand and longer than most Agta are tall. The years have darkened its metal to the deep black of river-bottom mud, except for its edge, which gleams like a crocodile's teeth in sunlight.
Stories say the sword earned its name during the red harvest of Butuan, where it cleaved through armor and bone with the same terrible efficiency as its namesake. Just as a crocodile can lie motionless for hours before striking, the blade moves with uncanny speed despite its size. You've seen Lapulapu draw it in a single fluid motion that ends with men falling in halves, their faces still frozen in surprise.
He towers over both of you on the platform, his weathered frame seeming to block out the sun itself. Age has carved deep valleys between the tattoos on his face, and his once-mighty chest sags slightly beneath the weight of years. Yet his arms still ripple with the ropy strength that terrorized you as a boy, when you trained under him in Mactan. You've seen younger warriors try to match his power, only to find themselves flying through the air from a casual sweep of those arms. Your own belly has grown soft from years of port feasts, but Lapulapu's frame remains hard as old wood, shaped by decades of battle. The sword's hilt casts a shadow that falls across your feet like an omen. You feel the boy inside you shrink beneath that familiar gaze.
"How fares my student?" he asks, his deep voice carrying just the right note of authority to remind everyone present of his role in shaping you. The question lands like a blade – not meant to wound, but to demonstrate its edge.
His eyes move deliberately to where Paraluman stands with the Santo Niño. "Your binukot is fair and beautiful," he says, but his gaze shifts to the Kapitan in his white garments. The double meaning strikes you like a physical blow.
"Do you remember, my student, what I always taught you?" The weight of memory in his voice makes you want to look away, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. "Beware of pale foreign wives – they may enchant with their rarity, but their beauty hides weakness. They cannot bear the weight of our ways." His lips curve in what might be called a smile. "But do not worry. Your teacher will always be here when you need rescue from such... delicate influences," he says, while looking at the Kapitan again.
The fear hits you like a wave of cold water – not the calculated assessment of threat that the serpent would make, but the pure, primal terror of a child before this man who once commanded your whole world. You realize with startling clarity that this joy you've rediscovered, this freedom from the serpent's coils, comes with its own price. The boy can feel fear in ways the serpent never could.
Though the Kapitan cannot understand Lapulapu's words, something primal in him responds to the warrior's presence. Like a deer at a river's edge sensing a crocodile beneath the still waters, his body tenses almost imperceptibly. You see how he straightens in his white garments, as if the purity of his cloth could shield him against this tattooed giant who moves with the deceptive calm of an ancient predator. Even through your fear, you recognize that instinctive reaction – the moment when one hunter realizes he has become prey.
The feast continues around you, but now you sense the currents shifting beneath its bright surface. Like the sea before a great storm, everything appears calm while deeper waters begin to churn. You catch Paraluman's eye across the crowd, and her serene smile carries both comfort and warning. The boy's joy remains, but now it's tempered with something else – an awareness that every new path brings its own shadows, every freedom its own price.
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