Of Book Huntresses and Black Water

Books can surely lead us anywhere, we all know that. And it can be literal.


Just a week ago, one of my classmates decided she would be completing Stephenie Meyer's Twilight saga, which was composed of four books (Twilight, New moon, Eclipse, Breaking Dawn) and a postponed retelling of the first book with a different point of view (Midnight Sun). I was actually doing the same, but that afternoon, she was clearly determined to buy Twilight.

We trudged to SM Manila first, only to find out that the first three books of the series were already out of stock. I was oblivious to her irritation at first, as I was occupied with another Meyer book, 'The Host'. She spoke that she wouldn't stop until she find the first book and I quickly put the volume I was gripping back to its shelf, sensing the acidity in her words. I hesitated then suggested she could find other tomes with vampire themes aside from her target, but she readily refused. I rummaged into my head with bad, half-remembered images of where I have cited the books in special stands. I mentioned to her that I found one in Tutuban, Divisoria. So determined, she quickly responded she was going and that she'd never give up.

I wouldn't let her go alone, of course. She commented on the black clouds gathering over our heads and muttered that she didn't have an umbrella. We took a ride to Divisoria, and by the time we reached the air conditioned confines of the Tutuban mall, the sun was already sinking in the horizon. We strolled our way to the National Bookstore. It was upsetting to find only the same set of Meyer books, 'The Host' and 'Breaking Dawn' available there. I apologized for making such a hassle, and she said it's OK. But just the same, she wouldn't let her plan go awry.

So I suggested another mall, Ever Gotesco, near the Monumento LRT station. I told her there's no other way to reach the mall other than riding a jeep and a tricycle to the nearest station, emphasizing that it would be a long ride. She firmly said she wouldn't mind.

And so we set off. I commented on the bad Bavarian cream inside the waffle we bought before walking out of the establishment. She absentmindedly agreed, adding the Isiah's Cheese was better. Evidently her head was still set in the book-hunting, and there was a tired frown spread across her face. In attempts to cheer her up a little, I pointed sluggishly to the people setting up little tents in front of the mall and told her that I've been buying my clothes there, in Midnight Sale tents. She showed interest for a while, cannonading me with questions about the sale, but minutes later she bounced back to the exhausted-but-never-giving-up-book-hunter mode.

I sighed and almost involuntarily muttered, “Welcome to Tondo.”

'We're already in Tondo?” she'd said, and I carefully scrutinized her face in search of fear or alarm. I thought it's a combination of both.

“Yeah, we are,” I'd responded, quite prescient to the fact that this experience would be remarkable. As we marched to the barbed gates of Tutuban (in the way shrugging off offers of pedicab drivers who approached us as 'ma'am', despite our relative childish roundness), I noted the hungry rolls of thunders in the distance.

“Is it true that we should be careful here?” she'd asked, and I took her hand in mine. I dragged her off to the side where people were piling up for a ride.

“Yes, but it's not a very dangerous place at all,” I'd replied, just as the same moment a police siren squealed right behind us. Soon there was commotion, pedicab drivers panicking out of the sidewalks as the red and blue lights flashed on. Sheepishly, I told her that pedicabs were not allowed to stay on the sidewalks. “Let's go. I'll show you my high school when the jeep passes by in Juan Luna.”

The jeepney ride was soporifically long. More than once, my classmate nodded in fitful naps, waking up to whisper comments like the 'Rain is getting harder.. Look at those drops!' or 'It was my first time here..' An hour? Two hours? I was not really sure. I spent my time holding up the weight of my face in one hand, staring out into the rain-blurred streets. The traffic jam caught us of course, and I impatiently gnashed my teeth. There was a calesa next to our vehicle, and I pondered that if only I have brought my camera with me, I would have taken that as a subject: the silhouetted horse shape, fringed with golden light from the headlights of the car behind it, plus the splashing of the storm clearly visible in the same golden light. Adjust to high speed with the correct aperture... Voila. Perfect. How bad I felt when I let the moment pass.

The rest of the seemingly forever stay in that seat was occupied with my classmate's love stories, ones that have gone bad. I just nodded and shrugged at her words, quite unsure how to react. I was not—and I think I will never be— good at giving advices for romantic tales. I have this weird romantic history of falling in love with fictional characters and I didn't get so much lessons from them, other than the cliché of mushy, nauseating one-liners (well, that's the best term I could give them). I did have small accounts of romance with real humans. And such relationships were razor-edged.

We finally got off the jeep and stopped in front of a closed hardware shop, changing our school shoes to rubber and doll shoes. I was reluctant to set my golden-ribboned doll shoes through the muddy streets, but I thought it would be better than letting the leather soles of my black shoes flick like a tongue when it gives up underwater.

We continued our journey and we have to cross the flooded streets so we can get to have a tricycle ride. A pedicab, adorned with a bunch of wet teenage boys, was offering five-peso rides just to cross the flood. We quickly jumped into the sidecar, stooping over the soft plastic seat with smothered giggles. So we... 'sailed' into the little black sea, and shrieked like crazy when the dark water sloshed at our ankles. Our feet were completely engulfed in that black liquid and I don't think I could ever imagine that very moment only lasted for minutes. It felt like an eternity.

We leaped off the pedicab as soon as it hit solid road, as if electrocuted. We went on, shoes squeaking to accompany our crispy laughter. More than twice I told her that I wished the store was still open, because I remembered that it closes 8:30PM. It was already 8:20 and we still have to take a tricycle and an LRT ride. That would take a lot more than 10 minutes.

Unluckily, no tricycle was willing to give us a lift. They said the flood on the street nearest to the train station was so high it could stop the motor of their trifling vehicles. Frowning, we took a trike with a different path in mind but would still lead to the same destination. Only, it was too far. That would lengthen the journey, but it's the only way. The trike roared to the roads and soon we're slumped on a comforting seat of a jeepney going to Monumento. The song 'A Very Special Love' by Sarah Geronimo played, and I smiled at my classmate when she murmured that she remembered John Lloyd.

It seemed that black water was the recurring theme for that night. The front of the mall was entirely swallowed by a dark, drooling mouth. We strode against the current and at the same time bolted out of the passing cars' way. We squeezed into the claustrophobic crowd and at last reached the mall. And they were all packing up.

There's nothing left for us to do but stare hungrily through the closed doors of the National Bookstore. I apologized again, and yet again she said it's OK. She told me that she would never give up though, that she would still check other malls on her way home. I told her that I couldn't come with her anymore because it was getting too late now.

With a slight nod, we bade farewells and parted our ways. I hoped she would find the book that night, clamping down my desire to accompany her till she find it. But I have no choice—otherwise, my mother would rummage into every street corner just to find me.

I got home that night without having to explain anything. All breathing creatures in our house were already drifting in dreamland. I sneaked into the bedroom and texted my classmate to take care.

That sure was a long night. And with a prayer for my friend's safety, I joined my pillow-mates to Morpheus' kingdom. The next day, I learned that she got home empty-handed. It was disappointing, really, but I was happy to know she got home safely. I have this strange feeling that she would always get into trouble, because she has always been in the past.

Well...Up until to this date the book-hunting is still on-going. XD

Evasion and Escape?

DEATH speaks:


There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions.

After a while the servant came back, pale with fear and trembling. “Master,”panted the merchant, “just now I turned and saw it was Death who jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now lend me you horse and I will ride away from the city and avoid fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.”

The merchant lent him his horse and the servant mounted it, and dug his spurs in its flanks, as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd. He came to me and said, “Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?”

'That was not a threatening gesture,” I said, “it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”

-from ”Sheppey”, by W. Somerset Marghorn .

Can we ever escape death? Can we ever refuse to accept our doomed destiny? Just last week, a former classmate of mine told me that Andrew, one of her friends, passed away. I hardly knew Andrew—I only know that he was an emo who dyed his hair red, that chubby pale-skinned boy who trudges along with my ex-blockmates taking the courses advertising and public relations. But I must admit, it was a little scary to know that he already died of leukemia. Not so long before I learned the news, I remembered reading a friendster bulletin saying, 'ano, Andrew, tuloy tayo ha?' (So, Andrew, we'll go on, okay?).

Very unnerving really, and I caught this feeling that he maybe—just maybe—tried to escape the invitation of eternal sleep that welcomed him with open arms. Who would not if he has the chance, anyway? I know he's been so happy: he's got a girlfriend and they love each other so much (so my former classmate says. It was apparent anyway), he's got a funny and supportive circle of friends. I was told that it was too late when he learned of his cancer. It was already in the advanced stage. He shaved his head before he underwent chemotherapy, for he didn't want to see his hair leaving his head as time strolls on. He died days after. he was cremated.

I myself has been in near-death experiences that I considered myself very lucky to still breathe and see the world now. Vaguely, I can remember the feel of the hospital bed when I was confined after an unknown illness fogged my eyes, my trembling body in front of a jeepney screeching to a stop inches from my body, an angry motorcycle rider snarling for my stupidity of playing 'patintero' with the cars, a rusting sheet of metal that fell from an old shed where I was standing beneath, the bubbles escaping my nose when slowly the water swirls inside my system... There are still more, and I really am lucky that I don't mind a string of hiccups just to know that air still goes in and out of my system.

But there's one thing I should say; I never attempted to escape death. When my raw destiny of my life's end was served to me in a tray, I should be polite enough to take it. I learned to accept that if it was my time, then it will be, no matter how hard I try to evade it. But in all of these cases, I aways hold on to God. I surrender to him everything. My life wheels according to His will. And as I only borrowed this life from Him, I must learn to take care of it and surrender it when He thinks I've served my purpose already.