Chapter 7: Kalag and Diwata | Rajah Versus Conquistador
Year 1510
Handuraw found you watching the sunset from the hill where you had first learned to feed the diwata their tribute of blood. The redness of the sky stirred memories of that profound day – how the sacred liquid had flowed like a blessing down the ancient rocks and into the waiting sea. Though your hands had trembled then, unsure in their holy task, you had since mastered the sacred arts. Now you understood the precise angles of the blade, the exact pressure needed, the careful timing that made each drop of offering count. Where once you had been merely a vessel for power’s hunger, you had become its carefully measured cup.
"You see only colors in the sky," the baylan said as she lowered herself beside you with the fluid grace that belied her age. Her weathered hands, marked with decades of ritual scars, rested on knees wrapped in faded tattoos from a generation past. Though silver had long claimed her once-raven hair, her eyes remained sharp as daggers. "The slaves see omens and portents, desperate to know the will of powers they cannot control. But there is another way of seeing."
You didn’t respond. Over the years, you had learned that Handuraw’s lessons began when she chose, not when you were ready. The deepest mysteries revealed themselves in moments like this, when the light grew strange, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
“The diwata are not deities to be worshipped,” she continued, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “They are forces to be mastered. Look again at the sky. Tell me what you see.”
You had played this game before – describing the obvious until she guided you to see what lay beneath. But something in her tone made you pause. This wasn’t the same lesson repeated.
“I see the sun falling into the sea,” you said carefully. “I see clouds being torn apart by the wind.”
“You still speak like a trader, counting what can be measured.” There was an edge of disappointment in her voice. “Look deeper. See as the baylan see.”
You forced yourself to look beyond the mere colors, beyond the shapes of clouds and the fading disc of the sun. Slowly, patterns emerged that you had never noticed before. The way the wind moved through different layers of the sky, each stream fighting for dominance. How the clouds didn’t simply drift but were pulled and pushed by invisible hands. The sun wasn’t simply setting – it was being devoured, only to be reborn tomorrow in an eternal cycle of death and triumph.
“Habagat is winning,” you said suddenly, the words coming before you fully grasped their meaning. “It’s pushing back Amihan. The pattern is changing.”
Handuraw's smile held the quiet tension of a drawn bowstring. “Now you begin to see. The diwata are not spirits that dwell in trees and rocks, as the slaves believe. They are the forces that move through all things – wind and water, yes, but also through the hearts of men, through the flow of wealth between ports, through the rise and fall of datus.”
Her hand traced patterns in the air, following invisible currents. “There is the warrior, who lives for battle and glory. There is the child, who seeks safety and comfort.” At the mention of the child, you remembered that day in Mactan when you first learned to imprison that part of yourself in boxes within boxes, deep inside where its cries could no longer reach you.
“There is the lover, who yearns for beauty and pleasure. And there are others – the wise elder who remembers, the dancer who celebrates, the merchant who calculates. Most men must manage these kalag like a father herding unruly children.”
Her voice took on the quality of a ritual chant, her eyes reflecting starlight. "There is a way to see these diwata directly, to witness the invisible currents that shape all things. The secrets I have shared with you so far are mere shadows of the true mysteries. Few datus have the strength to look upon the diwata with unveiled eyes, to recognize them not just in the world around them, but within their own hearts."
She paused, studying your face as if weighing your readiness. "You have mastered the knife, learned to feed the hunger with precision. But there are deeper arts – ways to speak directly to these forces, to bend them to your will rather than merely appease them. These are the most sacred teachings of the baylan, preserved since our ancestors first crossed the seas."
The sun's last light vanished, leaving only stars. But your eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and you could still see the patterns – invisible currents flowing through the night sky, through the port where traders' lamps were beginning to flicker, through the very rock beneath you that still held memories of sacrificial blood.
"Show me," you said.
Handuraw stood, her outline seeming to blur with the gathering shadows. “First, you must learn to recognize them and how they speak to the kalag within each person. The diwata of wealth whispers to the merchant kalag that lives in every trader, urging them across dangerous seas. The diwata of power calls to the warrior kalag, making men kneel before those who master violence. The diwata of faith reaches for the child kalag in each person, binding followers to their deities through promises of safety and belonging.”
She pointed toward the port. "Watch how they move through the world. See and learn which kalag dominates each person – some ruled by their warrior, others by their merchant, most by their child. The diwata feed on these hopes and fears, these desires and dreams. They know that to move a man, they must first know which of his kalag holds the reins of his being and which diwata possesses that kalag."
Her voice took on the sharp edge that always preceded her deepest teachings. "This is why those born with the serpent twin are both blessed and cursed. The diwata find it harder to grasp you – your serpent sees through their whispers, recognizes their games. You can learn to work with them instead of being worked by them. But first, you must understand what they hunger for."
You rose to follow her back toward the port, your mind already reaching out to grasp these new patterns, these invisible forces that you had always felt but never truly seen. The old way of seeing began to fall away like a snake's shed skin, revealing a world crackling with power, waiting to be seized.
"There is one diwata emerging in our ports," Handuraw said as you walked. "The Hokkien merchants call it wealth, the Gujarati call it trade, but these are merely faces it wears, like masks at a ritual. The baylan call him Sapî. He grows alongside the old powers, feeding not on blood like the spirits of raid and war, but on desire itself."
"Sapî grows stronger with each generation," Handuraw continued. "He feeds on the endless hunger for things from distant shores. The Hokkien bring porcelain, the Gujarati bring cloth, the Siamese bring gold – and with each trade, Sapî's power grows."
A group of merchants approached along the path, their rich garments marking them as representatives of their kingdom's most prominent trading houses. As custom dictated, they pressed their palms together and bowed deeply to Handuraw – proper reverence for a baylan of her stature. But when their eyes fell on you, you caught the subtle tells of dismissal: the arch of eyebrows, the shadow of a smirk playing at the corners of their mouths, the swift glances exchanged between them like silent daggers. These were men used to dealing with datus like Lapulapu – tall warriors with broad shoulders and arms thick with battle scars. Instead, they saw a young man barely reaching their chests.
"Greetings, young one," their leader said in the trading tongue, his voice carrying that particular tone adults use with children. He turned to Handuraw, clearly addressing her as the true authority. "The evening's blessings, wise one. We seek audience with the rajah's heir tomorrow."
You felt the familiar heat rise within you – not from their disrespect, but from the delicious anticipation of how their assumptions would serve your purposes. Already you could see how their confidence would make them careless in negotiations, how they would speak more freely around someone they didn't see as a threat.
Handuraw's voice cut through your reverie. "I see how they dismiss you, even now. Your size makes them think you weak – not like my son and his warriors with their battle-scarred arms and broad chests from rowing raiding boats."
"Is this why you chose me?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could master them.
Handuraw's laugh was soft and dangerous as a poisoned blade. "Lapulapu is a great warrior, yes. His very shadow makes men tremble. But look at these traders – do they fear the thunder of war drums? No. When the warrior threatens, the merchant simply finds another port. Their kalag responds to subtler currents – whispered rumors of untapped markets, hints of exclusive trading rights, tales of rivals growing rich. The silent knife of well-placed words cuts deeper than any blade." Her eyes glittered in the growing darkness. "You move like a woman through the halls of power – graceful, watching, learning what each heart desires. The very weakness they mock in you is your greatest strength. This is why I taught you the ways of the baylan, though you are merely a man."
You felt the familiar flash of rage at her words. Among the people of the balanghay, being called bayot was the greatest insult a datu could face. This was how the women of every household maintained their subtle power over warriors and datus – a casual comparison here, a pointed comment there, and even the mightiest fighter would become a child desperate to prove his manhood. You had seen how men in your family would launch their war boats at the slightest questioning of their courage, how other datus would compete to show their battle scars. Handuraw had taught you to see these storms of emotion for what they were: the most basic moves in the game of power, as predictable as the tides. You learned to recognize how women wielded shame like a blade, using it to steer men's kalag toward their desires. This was one of her first lessons – that the very forces used to manipulate the warriors of the balanghay could become weapons in your hands, once you learned to master both the kalag within and the diwata without.
"The future belongs to those who can dance with Sapî," Handuraw said, bringing back your conversation to the lessons she wished to impart that day. "The old ways of raid and tribute will not be enough. The port needs a different kind of rajah."
"But first," she said, leading you toward the shore where foreign ships rocked gently in the moonlight, "you must learn to read the diwata that move through men's hearts. Sapî does not work alone. It rides the currents of deeper forces."
The port of Sugbo then was smaller than what it would become in your reign, yet it already pulsed with activity. Traders' ships from across the Western seas crowded the harbor – less than a tenth of what you see today, but enough to make it the greatest port in the Visayan seas. Closest to shore, local vessels bobbed like waterbirds, their outriggers cutting dark lines in the silver water. Behind them loomed the larger ships of the Siamese and Javanese. At the deepest anchorage, the junks of Hokkien merchants towered over all others, their high sterns decorated with elaborate designs that caught the moonlight.
Along the shore, hundreds of cooking fires traced the curve of the beach. Their smoke carried the mingled aromas of spices from a dozen distant ports. Your father's warriors patrolled between these camps, keeping peace between different peoples brought together by Sapî's invisible currents. You watched as a group of Mohammedian traders made their way down to the beach for their evening prayers. They laid out their mats and began their ritual prostrations, all facing the same distant point beyond the horizon.
"What do you see?" Handuraw asked.
"Men bowing to their diwata," you answered, but you knew this wasn't what she meant.
"Look deeper. See how their pagtuo moves them like the tide moves these ships. This is a diwata older than Sapî, but no less powerful. It binds men together, makes them die for invisible things, drives them across oceans to spread their beliefs."
You studied their movements – so different from the ways of your people, yet performed with absolute certainty. Their actions show their possession by the diwata of pagtuo, bringing all their other kalag into harmony under its rule. "See how their almighty deity gives them courage to sail to strange ports," you observed. "How it makes them trustworthy to all others similarly possessed."
"Yes. And what else?"
You thought of how these traders refused to eat pork, how they stopped all activity at certain times to pray, how they spoke of their deity’s laws with the same reverence that your people spoke of the diwata. "Their pagtuo also makes them... rigid. They cannot bend in certain ways without breaking."
Handuraw's smile widened. "Now you begin to understand. Every diwata that moves through human hearts creates both power and weakness. The wise rajah learns to see these patterns, to know where men are strong and where they will break."
You realized how every people had their own invisible forces that ruled them, their own strengths and blind spots. A master of the port must learn to read these forces, to speak to each in their own language of power.
“Watch how they move through the minds of men,” she said. “The diwata do not simply command – they shape how we see the world itself. They paint our eyes with their colors until we cannot see anything else.”
“Most men are like leaves in the wind,” Handuraw continued, “blown about by forces they cannot see. Even datus and rajahs are usually just bigger leaves. But you can become like the wind itself—moving with these powers but not moved by them.”
You thought of the great warriors in your family and how predictably the diwata of war and domination moved them. They thought themselves powerful, but their dominant kalag made them vulnerable to any diwata that spoke the language of violence and honor.
“This is why the sacrifices must be done with clear sight,” she continued. “When you cut the sacred flesh, the warrior will feel the hunger of the diwata, but your serpent must maintain control. Other baylan can only direct the possession, but you—you can feed the diwata without letting any of your kalag be consumed.”
She fell silent for a moment, watching the last traces of light fade from the horizon. You felt the weight of her contemplation, understanding that she was leading you toward something beyond the familiar rituals of blood and bone. "Do you know why Sugbo grows while other domains merely survive?" she finally asked, her voice lowering to match the gathering darkness. "Lesser datus think power comes only from the warrior's spear or the trader's gold. But look at your port, at how people from distant shores speak its name with reverence."
“Sugbo binds thousands to an idea,” she said. “This is a different kind of power, one that grows stronger rather than weaker as it spreads.”
You saw how this force, this diwata called Sugbo, could grow beyond the limits of personal loyalty or physical coercion. A datu might command a hundred warriors through force of personality, but Sugbo could move thousands through pride of belonging.
The implications staggered you. If what Handuraw said was true, then the real power of a port lay not just in its weapons or wealth, but in its ability to capture the imagination of its people. Every feast you hosted, every display of prosperity and strength, every act of justice or generosity that enhanced Sugbo’s reputation—these were not just tools of power but offerings to this new kind of diwata.
It would be years before you understood the full depth of Handuraw's game. The realization came one afternoon as you watched your warriors at the sabong, placing their bets on fighting cocks. The caller adjusted the odds with each new wager, his voice rising and falling like a baylan in trance. Winners celebrated, losers cursed their luck, but the house collected its share either way. You suddenly saw your old teacher's strategy with perfect clarity – she had been playing both sides all along.
While she trained you in the subtle arts of the port, she was also strengthening her son's grip on Mactan. Lapulapu's warriors grew more feared with each passing season. The datu's reputation for ferocity spread across the Visayan seas. If you failed to master the ways of Sapî, her son would still hold power through force of arms. If you succeeded, she would have influence in both domains – the warrior's fortress and the trader's port.
You had to admire the elegance of her scheme. Like the sabong master who pairs roosters of equal strength, ensuring a spectacular fight that fills his coffers regardless of the outcome, Handuraw was cultivating two different kinds of power. One rooted in the old ways of raid and tribute, the other in the rising force of trade and cunning. She was preparing for any future that might emerge.
The passing seasons witnessed your mastery of Handuraw's arts of seeing. You learned to recognize how invisible currents moved through your domain – some ancient and slow like deep ocean streams, others quick and dangerous as monsoon winds. You watched them shape the rise and fall of kingdoms, the flow of wealth between ports, the endless dance of power between men who thought themselves free.
***
The night deepens around you, and you hear the soft bustle of servants preparing for your guests. Soon the Malaccan slave will be brought before you. Through him, you'll begin to map this new force's currents, just as you once learned to read the flows of trade and power that make Sugbo great. You smile, thinking how Handuraw would appreciate the elegance of this game – watching, probing, learning the patterns before making your move.
You are no longer that young datu who once sat at Handuraw's feet, struggling to see the invisible world she revealed. Now you are Rajah Humabon, supreme in Sugbo, who has mastered every diwata that entered your waters. From your royal lantay, you watch the port where traders' lamps dot the shoreline like fallen stars. The evening breeze carries mingled scents of sea salt and burning cooking fires, while behind you servants prepare the platform for tonight's guests. You savor that exquisite moment before a fresh game begins – when all possibilities lie open, waiting to be shaped to your will.
The serpent coils within you, eager for this new challenge. You've learned there are three ways to play when a strange power enters your domain: crush it quickly, avoid its influence, or master it for your own ends. Tonight's performance will help you decide which path offers the most... entertaining possibilities.
Your cup bearer brings fresh tubâ, and you settle into position, arranging your gold ornaments so they catch the lamplight just so. You hear voices approaching – Kulambô's familiar laugh mixing with foreign tongues. The game begins anew, and you are ready to see what diwata these visitors bring to your shores.
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