KAPRE’S CALLING Kyle Tam
The air is still today. There are no eagles cawing overhead, no tarsiers chittering in the mangroves, and I cannot hear the villager’s greetings of ‘tabi tabi po’ when they pass me on their way to the mountaintops. Right now the only company I have is my cigar and the gnarling branches of the balete tree I’ve chosen for my siesta. Or at least, they were supposed to be my only company. The sound of a cacophonous voice is cutting through the forest’s silence, shrilly yammering away with no care or consideration. It seems as if Bahala himself has decided that I have other plans. I peer over ever so slightly from my lofty perch to see what the cause of the noise might be. My ears don’t deceive me. Far below, deep within my clearing, two intruders are making their way through the leafy mangroves and twisted balete trees. First through the forest is a man with skin as pale as chalk, his bright orange hair a vibrant flame amidst the greens and greys of the natural world around him. He has not stopped talking since arriving in this place, and I wonder if he was ever taught how to pause for breath. Behind him is a girl whose skin is a much healthier colour, her pitch-black brows knitted together in frustration. She speaks much less, allowing her companion’s voice to fill the space around her, but her slumped shoulders and gritted teeth cannot lie to me. Their voices don’t carry the friendly tone of the village people, and the language lacks the pleasant hills and valleys of human chatter I am accustomed to. Foreigners, perhaps? I listen more carefully, to the sharp vowels and perpetual whine in the man’s tone. Most definitely a foreigner. When the girl speaks, though, there is the faintest trace of the people there. It is in the sing-song tone, lilting and melodious, and the pleasant roundness of otherwise hard consonants. Her voice is their voice, but diluted by his presence, poisoned by sharp vowels and venomous barbs. I cannot understand the words themselves, but there are certain things that are clear to me. He is angry over something, although whether that anger is just is unclear, and will not stop speaking until it is resolved or until he runs out of lies and excuses. She carries the weight of his anger onto her shaking shoulders, and the tight line of her lips smells of resignation. His voice is growing angrier and angrier, and she’s beginning to shrink into herself. This won’t do at all. I light my cigar, breathing in the spices and ash of the burning embers. It has a rich scent, reminiscent of the last and sweetest spoils of the harvest. I allow the tobacco to flood into me, tasting smoked wood, bitter spices, and the faintest hint of the other world. From my mouth I expel a curling plume of smoke and send it onwards to greet my fiery-haired trespasser. It hears and obeys, and I watch as it snakes towards the ground in slow, winding spirals, gaining in size and expanding in 118
