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Entry No. 1

When Father Narvaez accepted his fate at the hands of the gentlest people he knew, he reasoned that time, faith and destiny are crossbreeds - locked up in an eternal entanglement to say which conquers which, and to whom man must pay tribute. He would remember clearly how his father, Don Juan Narvaez, told him years ago, while the former was lying on his deathbed, that there are very few instances when one could see clearly, like crystals shining from a distance, the flashback of ones life. You see it on the face of your newborn child, a memory that one would forever keep. And on moments when Death pays you a visit, with a serene solemnity that touches your bone with a coldness freezing than a damp December morning, and still has the courtesy to smile at you and say that you have been given the privilege to wait for the final blow of his reaper. And on instances like this, as Father Narvaez murmured though no one could hear him, when hope was all that he could ever hope for, and that solitude was no more than a discipline he was beginning to get acquainted with.

He closed his eyes for a while, trying to remember what it felt like to run against the wind. He knew he might never do that again. With his right leg, the stronger leg he has, buried from below the knee to the ground, he felt pain reserved only for the dead. He recalled the English poet Shakespeare, and how he said on Sonnet 71 how vile this world was, with vilest worms do dwell. He sensed strange sensations, like tiny needles pricking on his flesh. He could not move. Immobile from the punishment he volunteered for, the only freedom he had was to think and to let his mind wander. But even that could be exhausting, more tiring than a hard day’s of work tending vegetables and fruit trees. During his days at the seminary, he figured that the best way not to sleep, is to try with all your might to sleep instantly. On nights like this described herein, when the world does not rest because of the anguish of those who can’t sleep, Father Narvaez have had recited all the prayers he could think of, memorized by his heart, seeking redemption on every discontent the mind could offer. But the mind has strange ways of bringing up memories, memories of the things we seek to bury on the fragments of our imaginations.

He had been provided shade under a large mango tree - it was to be his shelter for the remaining two weeks - a privilege not given to other offenders. But his was a special case. The town of Malamig and its inhabitants were torn on the issue of punishing Father Narvaez. Some were begging for mercy while others were strict on their resolve. The elders were adamant on the belief that they hold, the same faith they see as their aegis against any harm brought from the outside. In the end, Ka Bianong, the eldest and the wisest in Malamig, the same person Father Narvaez spent countless moments talking with, drinking strong coffee with, and helped the former take care of his beloved cabbage patches, said in audible whispers so that the rest could hear: “Let the priest decide his fate. He could leave Malamig in peace, or he could suffer two months fused on the grounds we dwell.”

He was taken to the nipa hut the villagers renovated for him when they were convinced that he had no plans of leaving their town. They explained the details of his options. For him, it was a long and arduous journey. Two years to be exact, only to fall back to scratches, only to try to rebuilt the trust he had earned at the hands of the hard-working people he grew fond of, and only to see for himself that faith could never be thrust on the throats of those whose religion is tied up to their own survival. He could have packed his things and rode a horse towards Lilio, Laguna, or Majayjay, or Magdalena. Instead, he sorted the things he would need. His mind was made-up. He would try to do what Christ did to the people of Israel. By the time the sun was perching itself on a clear sky that was that morning, Father Narvaez had already dug two feet on the secluded grounds where the largest squash could be seen, the reddest tomato could be admired, and every imaginable vegetable that the ground would permit to grow could be looked upon in all its glory. With his right leg buried to the ground, secured and not able to move the slightest bit, that was to be the partial tombstone that Father Narvaez had chosen to commit.