Chapter 5: Baylan Versus Binukot | Rajah Versus Conquistador
You lie together on the banig, your breathing finally slowed to match the evening breeze that whispers through the nipa walls. Her untouched white skin glows against your tattooed flesh, like moonlight falling across dark waters. The ritual's fire has burned away, leaving you in that rare space where power sleeps – where rajah and binukot become simply bana ug asawa, man and woman, like any timawa couple resting after a day's labor, like Rama holding Sita in the forest of their exile.
In these moments, the serpent within you grows quiet, sated perhaps by the ritual's submission. Your callused fingers trace idle patterns on her silk-smooth arm, marking invisible tattoos on skin that will never know the baylan's needle. The contrast between you feels like a message from the diwata – her flesh pale as mother-of-pearl, yours darkened by sun and marked with the stories of your victories. When the moon hides its face, as it does tonight, the tattoos on your skin are swallowed by darkness, leaving only memory to trace their spirals and lines – each one a fragment of blood and power written into your being.
Paraluman's eyes drift to the small window of your payag, where only the soft whisper of the wind betrays the void outside, the moon absent from her vigil. "When I was a girl," she says softly, "I would sit at my window in the hours before sunset, watching the village children play. I envied how freely they moved under the sun, how their laughter rang out across the warm afternoon air. The other girls would chase each other through the dust, their skin growing dark and gleaming like bronze. My mother caught me once, pressing my palm against a shaft of sunlight that had slipped through the weave of our walls. She didn't scold me – she just said that one day, when the prophecy was fulfilled, binukot would be free to embrace the sun again. I didn't understand then what she meant."
Her childhood longing for sunlight echoes against memories of your own mother, another binukot who lived in perpetual twilight. You rarely let yourself think of those days – such memories belong to the boy you keep locked away. But tonight, as the faint light from oil lamps paint Paraluman's skin the same pearl-white shade you remember from your mother's hands, the past rises unbidden like fish in still waters.
"I remember the last time I saw my mother defying the baylan," you say, speaking not with a rajah's calculated words but with the simple honesty that such moments allow. "She came to confront Handuraw, seeking to free her boy from the baylan's hold. The old baylan simply stood, her tattoos seeming to writhe in the lamplight, and told her that binukot are like the sampagita – beautiful but delicate, needing to be kept in shade lest the sun destroy them. That my mother was too gentle for this world, too pure to understand its powers. That my gifts would be wasted if the baylan had not intervened." You remember how your mother's fury crumpled before Handuraw's calm display of power, how she left in tears, never to rise against the baylan again.
You feel Paraluman grow still beside you, like a deer catching a hunter's scent. When she speaks, her voice carries a new tone – not the dominating mistress of ritual, nor the submissive binukot, but something older, like an echo from the time before the balanghay crossed the seas.
"Your Handuraw spoke true, but not complete," she says. "She told you the story as the baylan tell it, painted in blood and justified with power."
"I saw this dance once," Paraluman says, her fingers still tracing the serpent on your arm. "When I was a young girl, dancers came from Pagoetan in Bali to accompany a princess to be married to one of my relatives. The performance was at night, so I was allowed to go out. My mother made sure that I appreciated its importance. 'This is how they wish to tell our story' she told me as she wrapped me in layers of silk. ‘It no longer belongs to us, but to those that turned the serpent's power against us. Let your eyes search for what they hide.’"
She shifts to face you, her voice taking on the quality of someone reliving a powerful memory. "The torches cast flickering shadows as she appeared – Rangda, the witch. Her wild hair twisted like snakes in the firelight, her mask had eyes that could swallow you whole. I clutched my mother's hand, though I was already too old for such things." Her words paint the scene in your mind. You've heard of these Balinese performances but never witnessed one.
You feel her shiver slightly at the memory. "They danced the story of Rangda's vengeance after a king rejected her daughter. She sent plague among the people."
"They showed us how the villagers fled their homes," Paraluman continues. "Men and women wandering the roads, desperate to escape Rangda's plague. Among them was a heavily pregnant woman, her steps growing heavier with each passing moment. The dancers captured their exhaustion, their fear, but also that stubborn hope that makes people keep moving even when death stalks their paths."
Her voice grows softer. "Then came the birth scene. As the villagers gathered to help the woman deliver her child, Rangda's disciples lurked in the shadows. The moment the newborn – a small wrapped bundle – entered the world, they struck. They snatched the child, tossed it between them like a cruel game, then killed it before the mother's eyes. When they returned its lifeless form, the villagers' cries pierced the night."
Paraluman's voice carries both fascination and horror. "Later, Rangda stood alone at the temple gate, draped in white cloth like a mother's sling for her child. The thought chilled me then – she was no mother but death herself. Or so they wanted us to believe."
"Then Barong appeared, the giant serpent that you, the Bisaya, call Bakunawa." She continues, "It moved with otherworldly grace, its great head bobbing as if alive. The baylan say Barong represents life, the protector of balance. But when I saw them dance together – Rangda and Barong – I saw something else. My mother must have sensed my understanding, for she whispered, 'Look beyond the dance, child. Rangda is not just chaos. They call her demon because they cannot control her. Barong they call life, but he is order, and order serves those who hold the throne.'"
"In my mother's land, we know this truth in our bones," she continues, her voice dropping even lower. "When famine or plague struck our kingdoms, when the invisible powers grew restless and demanded blood, the kings would choose who must feed the hunger. Always it began with whispers – rumors of women who flew in the night, who stole children, who brought disaster upon the land. Soon mothers and daughters would vanish, especially those of noble blood whose beauty might rival a datu's favored wife, or whose lineage threatened his rule. The aswang, they called these women, painting them as monsters to hide their own monstrous deeds."
"The baylan saw this pattern and sought to master it. They learned to speak to the Bakunawa, to channel its hunger toward lesser sacrifices – chickens for small blessings, pigs for greater needs, and when the hunger grows too strong, the blood of slaves. Better to feed the serpent's appetite with careful ritual than let it feast on mothers and their children. Now when the invisible powers stir, when the people cry out for blood, the baylan whisper of aswang while directing the sacrifice to their altars. In every kingdom, the pattern repeats – in Bali they have their Rangda, in the north our aswang, each tale hiding the same truth: power demands its tribute, and someone must direct its hunger."
You feel the weight of revelation in her words. This is more than memory – it is doctrine passed between generations of binukot.
"Men with kris daggers stepped forward, their faces contorted in trance as Rangda’s spell overtook them. With trembling hands, they turned their serpentine blades upon their own bodies, yet no blood flowed. Then a man stepped forward—a baylan, though I could scarcely believe it. Here, you are the exception, but in Bali, it is men who hold the role of baylan. The male baylan sprinkled holy water on the men, breaking their trance with chants I did not understand. The women joined then, their hair unbound like Rangda's disciples, but their movements were softer, as though trying to calm the storm."
"The dance moved toward its end," she continues. "As Rangda and Barong remained locked in their eternal struggle, the male baylan stepped forward. In their hands they held a chicken, its feathers dark against the torchlight. The sacrifice would restore harmony, they said, would seal away chaos for another night."
Her voice grows quieter, thoughtful. "I watched as they severed its neck with practiced grace. The blood dripped onto the earth, mixing with incense smoke and the rising crescendo of bronze gongs and drums. My whole village seemed to hold its breath, as if this small death could truly sway the invisible powers that rule our world."
She pauses, and you feel the weight of meaning in her silence. "The baylan say this blood pays for order, for Barong's victory over Rangda's chaos. But my mother taught me to see deeper. Every drop of blood offered to maintain order is really tribute to the serpent. Whether it flows from chicken, slave, or noble throat, it feeds the same hunger."
She turns to face you fully in the darkness. "You must know what this means," she says. "You have been trained by the baylan. You have wielded the knife of sacrifice. Tell me what they taught you about this dance."
"Yes, I know the truth of it," you say, your voice bearing the weight of wisdom carved from blood and fire. "The Bakunawa arises it times of chaos. When the invisible powers grow restless, they whisper in the ears of the mob, and their hunger turns to rage. In their frenzy, they blame the king—his failings, his weakness, his sins—and they cast him to the serpent. I have seen it with my own eyes in my youth, the way their cries rose against their ruler, how they called him unworthy, a curse upon the land. They dragged him to the offering ground, his pleas drowned in their fury, and fed him to the hunger they dared not face in themselves."
You remember Handuraw's teachings, delivered in the sacred grove where you learned to master the knife. "In Bali, when the plague came, the king faced the Bakunawa's hunger. Like all desperate kings, he chose to feed it the easiest prey – the women and children. The beautiful ones were taken first, then their daughters. The kingdom's finest flowers, fed to the serpent."
"But men do not wish to remember such things. They cannot bear to look upon the true face of their ancestors' deeds. So the story transformed. The women became witches, their beauty turned monstrous. Their deaths became justice rather than murder. This is how power cloaks itself in righteousness."
Your hand moves unconsciously to Kamatayon's hilt as you continue. The datu's knives never leave him, even these intimate moments. "Our forebears who fled to these islands saw this truth. The baylan arose among us with this knowledge: better to master the trade of blood than to be its currency. They learned to speak the Bakunawa's language, to feed it with careful ritual rather than desperate slaughter."
"This is why the baylan must control the sacrifice," you explain, your voice carrying absolute certainty. "They understand that the Bakunawa's hunger cannot be denied, but it can be directed. Through their wisdom, the king's power becomes sacred rather than merely brutal. They transform random slaughter into holy ritual."
"Handuraw..." you pause, remembering her terrible grace. "Handuraw was the greatest master of this art I have known. She could sing to the Bakunawa like others sing to their children. Under her guidance, even the victims came to see their deaths as necessary, as sacred."
You fall silent, remembering the sacrifices you have made, the blood that stains Kamatayon's blade. This is the truth that binds king and baylan – that power feeds on blood, and someone must choose who dies so that others might live.
Paraluman sits up slightly, pulling silk around her shoulders. The gesture should make her seem more vulnerable, more human, but instead it reminds you of how the baylan wrap themselves before delivering prophecy. Her voice, when it comes, carries that same weight of revelation.
"Each generation of binukot learns to reshape herself," she says. "We bind our waists till we can span them with two hands, or let them grow full like ripening fruit. We paint our faces with white lead and cinnabar until we look like porcelain dolls from the Ming empire. Our voices we can make childlike or queenly, demure or commanding – each tone a different key to unlock men's hearts. The sons of the balanghay desire skin pale to show that their women, like their gold and porcelain, are treasures kept safe from common eyes. So we give them what they desire, weaving ourselves nests of shadow. Any diver knows that the brightest pearls often hide in the darkest depths. We must become the most desired women in their realms so that we can command their hearts and bend their will."
Her hand finds yours in the darkness. "We pass down a prophecy, whispered from mother to daughter in rooms like this." She shifts into the prophetic voice of her people's language, "At sa takdang panahon, babangon ang isang binukot na magpapakita ng tunay na kulay ng kanyang balat sa harap ng lahat. Hindi siya magtatago sa anino. Yayakapin niya ang liwanag ng araw, at dudurugin niya ang ulo ng ahas. Ang kayumanging ina ng kayumanging hari ay magdadala ng bagong panahon para sa ating mga anak."
She translates it for you to Melayu, not because you do not understand her tongue, but because you are at this moment speaking as equals. "And at the appointed time, a binukot will rise, revealing the true color of her skin before everyone. She will not hide in the shadows. She will embrace the light of the sun, and she will crush the head of the serpent. The brown mother of the brown king will bring forth a new era for our children."
You feel her smile in the darkness as she continues the prophecy. "At ang kanyang anak ay maghahari, ngunit hindi tulad ng mga hari ng nakaraan. Ang kanyang kapangyarihan ay hindi magmumula sa dahas o dugo, kundi sa pag-ibig na walang hanggan. Sa Kanyang pagdating, ang aming mga lalaki – asawa, kapatid, at anak – ay mapapalaya mula sa pagkakaalipin ng ahas. Sa araw na iyon, kaming mga binukot ay muling haharap sa liwanag ng araw, hindi na kailanman magtatago ng aming tunay na anyo.
"Her child will rule as king, but not as the kings before Him. His power will flow not from violence or blood but from love everlasting. When He comes, our husbands and brothers and sons will finally be free from the serpent's enslavement. On that day, we binukot will step into the sun again, no longer needing to hide our true nature."
Her voice takes on a hint of her regal authority. "This is why we train in the arts of pag-ibig. Not the lust that the serpent permits, but the terrible power that makes warriors lay down their blades, that transforms mighty datus into willing servants. The baylan think we are preserving ourselves for the pleasure of kings. They do not understand that we are preparing for a different kind of rule entirely."
She lays her head back on your chest, as if the weight of revelation has exhausted her. "So you see, aking mahal, Handuraw spoke true but incomplete. We binukot are like the sampagita – not because we are delicate, but because our power comes not from death, but from beauty freely given. We hide not from weakness, but to preserve something the serpent must never touch."
The weight of her words settles over you like the stillness of a windless night. You feel the serpent stir restlessly within you, as if sensing a threat to its dominion. But here, in this moment between power and submission, you allow yourself to imagine a world where gugma might indeed prove stronger than the blade.
***
Her prophecy stirs ancient memories, like ripples spreading across still waters. Even now, decades after Handuraw stole you from your mother's gentle world, you remember how it felt to be torn between two paths. The memory surfaces unexpectedly – perhaps triggered by Paraluman's caresses, so like and unlike the ritual humiliations that marked your initiation into the baylan mysteries.
Your first wife, Pilapil, was meant to be Handuraw's masterpiece. The old baylan had shaped her daughter with the same ruthless precision she later used on you – tattooing sacred patterns into her flesh before she could walk, teaching her to speak with diwata before she learned the language of men. Where other girls played with dolls, Pilapil learned to read the sacred marks that covered her mother's skin. While other children feared the darkness, she made friends with the beings that dwell in shadow.
You remember your wedding night – how her tattoos seemed to move in the lamplight, telling stories of power that made even your serpent uneasy. She was Handuraw's daughter in every way, down to that peculiar grace that made even simple movements feel like ritual. The marriage bound you not just to Lapulapu's bloodline but to the most powerful baylan lineage in the Visayas.
For years, it seemed the pattern would continue. Pilapil bore you a daughter, Inday, and Handuraw immediately began preparing the child to carry on their traditions. But something unexpected happened – something that echoed your own childhood struggle in ways that still haunt you.
Inday was perhaps seven when she first refused the tattoo needle. You still remember her small voice, trembling but determined: "I want to be like father's mother." The words struck you like a blade between the ribs – not pain exactly, but something deeper. You watched Pilapil's face darken with the same fury you once saw in Handuraw's eyes when your mother tried to reclaim you.
You lent your authority to little Inday’s choice. You had learned well from Handuraw's teachings about power – so well that you could turn them against her own dominion. Tradition was on your side. Among the people of the balanghay, it is believed that once reason spouts1 within a noble child, its will must be respected. To break it would be to create a weak ruler, no better than an ulipon. When Inday declared her intention to become binukot, following your mother's path instead of the baylan’s, even Pilapil could not simply deny her choice. Just like how your mother could not deny yours.
Perhaps too, the boy locked in his boxes within you saw in Inday a chance to preserve what had been stolen from him – that gentle world your mother once created.
You saw how it ate at Pilapil – this rejection of everything she embodied. She blamed your dead mother's influence, claiming the woman's weakness had somehow poisoned her grandchild's blood. But you recognized something else in Inday’s quiet defiance. The same thing you glimpse sometimes in Paraluman, that still center that even the serpent cannot touch.
When Paraluman came to your life three years ago, she recognized something in Inday that you had always sensed but never fully understood. She took the girl under her protection, teaching her the binukot arts that your mother had taken to her grave. Now sixteen and recently married to Tupas, Inday moves like a ghost of your mother – her skin pearl-white from years of seclusion, her manner carrying that same otherworldly grace that once made you love and fear your mother in equal measure.
You remember how it felt, being caught between the baylan's power and your mother's love. Sometimes, watching Inday during the rare moments she visits the royal payag, you see that same struggle written in her careful movements. But where you chose the serpent's path, she chose another way entirely.
The thought stirs something in those boxes within boxes where you locked away the boy who loved his mother. You push the feeling down, but it lingers like smoke after a sacrifice, reminding you of choices made and paths not taken.
You look at Paraluman in the darkness, wondering if she sees in Inday what her prophecy foretells – a binukot who might finally step into the sun. The thought both terrifies and thrills you, like the moment before a storm breaks.
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Matugkan og buot.