My stay at the Trivinos' was more eventful than I had anticipated.
The little riverside village, with its nipa huts and simple villagers, gave me the degree of freedom and peace that even Marinduque was not able to provide. Free from the responsibilities of my position and my estates, everything I did there was voluntary and for fun.
Even with the 75 years of my former existence, I experienced several firsts in Calumpit.
On Wednesday, I learned the basics of nipa weaving, with Felicia as my mentor. I was proud of my first attempt—a crude, lopsided little basket that leaned like a drunk on a bad day. Needless to say, it didn't make the cut for the goods she planned to sell at the market. Still, she told me it was good for an absolute beginner. And I think she meant it.
The next day, the village kids taught me about spider-fighting. While easily found spiders were docile, certain rarer ones were more hostile and did put up a fight. They would place two spiders on a stick, each one on the opposite end. Then they would push them to the middle, where a vicious fight would ensue between the arachnids. The loser ended up paralyzed and wrapped in spider silk, its corpse becoming food for the survivor. The victorious kid won the bet and got a centavo, while the victorious spider returned to a small, cramped box to fight another day.
Intrigued, I was convinced to buy one hairy red spider for five centavos, as my champion. I think I got scammed because said spider folded like a lawn chair in its first fight. I lost my spider and the chance to gain prestige among the kids.
Vicente, noting that I liked "childish" stuff, taught me how to create a sumpak the following afternoon. The toy gun was simple to make. We went wading into the surrounding untamed rainforests to search for a bamboo plant.
Once we found one, he selected a small and straight-looking stalk, from which he produced two bamboo tubes. From the leftovers of the stalk, he created the ramrods—sticks that snugly fit into the tube. The ammo were mud pellets.
The way it worked was straightforward. It was technically a muzzle-loader. First, you insert a pellet into the front of the tube. Second, you load another pellet in the rear. Finally, you forcefully slam in the ramrod, building pressure that lets out a satisfying snap and shoots the first pellet into the air.
What happened next was treachery. Without a proper declaration of war, Vicente started shooting at me. I tried to retaliate, but without enough time to acclimate myself with the weapon, I stood no chance. The pellet didn't hurt, but getting slapped with tiny pieces of mud on your face was not a very flattering experience.
His annoying chuckles and giggles would not last. Once the kids in the village knew about the ongoing skirmish, most of them came to my rescue—all thanks to my recent spider purchase from one of their colleagues. Many of them carried much more impressive sumpaks, and Vicente and his doomed little warband were forced to surrender after thirty minutes of laughter, occasional squeals and heavy gunfight.
Friday came around, and it was not any less interesting. One of the livestock pens in the village broke, and several hogs scurried away. The entire adult male population of the settlement—all six of us—were mobilized to track them down and bring them back. I spent the entire day running around and doing nothing helpful.
Before sunset, the job was finished. And the owner of the hogs rewarded us each with a bowl of hot champorado.
When I woke up on Saturday, all my muscles and joints were aching. So, I refrained from doing any labor-intensive activity, preparing myself for Sunday and for the main event on Monday.
With Vicente's help, we were able to borrow a small fishing boat. We spent the morning sitting on it, floating on the Pampanga River, each of us with a line cast into the water.
"How did you not learn how to weave nipa or fish?" I initiated the small talk in the boredom of having caught nothing.
Vicente sighed and glanced at his parents' hut, which was visible from where we were. "Poor as we are… my parents spoiled me as if I were the son of a don. As soon as they noticed I could read and write better than kids my age… they decided that I should only focus on getting a better life for myself."
"So, while they shed sweat and tears bringing food to the table, and money for my education, all they had me do was study. And I think I'm a terrible son for having taken advantage of their sacrifice." He continued.
I was expecting a more lighthearted answer. But as I had begun to learn, Vicente's mischievousness scurries away like the shadows at dawn when he starts to talk about his parents.
"You are not a terrible son… you're not good either," I said. "But you do have the best parents."
He nodded approvingly at my comment. "And I can't wait for all of this to be over, so I can return to school and someday repay the monstrous debt I owe them."
The line remained empty, and I was starting to get bored just idling on the boat in the heat of the sun. As if on cue to provide the needed excuse, I saw someone on the riverbank.
He was on top of his horse, near the water's edge, and hollering in our direction. He wore a rayadillo uniform and had the shoulder straps of an officer.
"Is that Teniente Dimalanta?" I asked Vicente, who promptly pivoted his head around.
"I think… so."
"He knows where you live?"
"One of the few… yes," he said.
"What's that in his hands?" I asked. The young man was waving what looked like a white envelope.
We would have a ready answer on the shore, and I was not ready for it. Turned out I would be having an early response to my request from the Presidente.
He wanted me in Malolos that very afternoon.