The loss of his violin hit Carlos hard. But there was plenty of unspoiled rice wine for a “joyous rescue.” Their survival called for a celebration, which given their situation might indeed seem premature, but, however, didn’t contradict Carlos’ idea of “dying well”. Right then was not the time to worry about moderation. He could always receive absolution. A young man, of humble origins, more then than ever before, he recognized the certainty of death, which made him value life more. Sing, about love and sex. Was it a sin with a prostitute, and if so, what kind of sin?
Omar refused the offered drink.
Still Carlos thought that he’d made progress. Yet, there was little to celebrate about. Neither one of them could understand the other. The Moro only knew Spain as an enemy, nothing more. He knew nothing about how the Spanish viewed the world. And he was faced with a fair-skinned man, who spoke Spanish. So, when Carlos started to sing, Omar didn’t know that the song was about love. His own song, if he had sung, would’ve been an epic narrative about pirate-kings and not of women.
Women to Carlos were either mothers or whores, for in his class there were apparent contradictions, challenging the idea of honor through the lack of virginity or fidelity. Flirting and sex before marriage were normal: and before marriage all of the bargaining for a dowry. Truthfully, Carlos wasn’t interested in marriage, or else he wouldn’t have become an adventurer.
Again, in his mind, a link between love and marriage didn’t necessarily exist. On the contrary, from the days of his youth, he preferred to dance, pay his violin, and sleep with gypsy women. He was often the first to discredit the kind of the mutual, tender love that unites. He rejected the example set by his parents; wanting nothing to do with the love in sermons and theological tracks, or the kind of love that kept his father and mother together. He liked gypsy women because they “set no value on their virginity.” He pictured himself as a man of the world, who like Casanova no longer went to confession. So naturally he frequented the brothels of Madrid where women or girls were specifically dressed to entice. The city in those days had its share of rebel politicians, heretics, prostitutes, syphilitics and alcoholics.
In contrast, Omar grew up with a slave girl, who became like a sister to him. His mother provided him with the playmate. From a very early age, the slave, this playmate-helper, cradled him when he couldn’t sleepy and ran with him through the narrow passages of his home. This was a case of them being thrown together. Her beauty, complimented by her close fitted waist coats of fine muslin, with skin the color of weak tea, showed why she was prized. But just as her mother grew unattractive as a captive, Omar’s slave’s desirability, like polish, lost its luster. Familiarity got in the way of love.
By then the Sultan’s interest in trading had actually diminished, just as Jolo’s standing as a market place increased. The slave trade thrived there, and one could buy from the Chinese pier pepper and spices from the Moluccas, diamonds, and rubies from Ceylon. No doubt that was why the town was razed more than once. Though this was true, no outside power ruled the Sulus, not even the Spanish, until the advent of the steam powered gun ship. The Moro’s bravery in battle and their obstinate passive resistance in peace baffled the Spanish; and perhaps the contempt of their Christianized neighbors stemmed from this obstinacy.
Some things European, however, were valued. Before Carlos, Omar and his slave could already dance a tolerable minuet. Critically, Carlos often watched Omar wearing heavy slippers “go down” during a country-dance. Eventually, his violin playing gave him an easy in. Before Carlos Bisayan slaves played the music, however, only for the privileged.
Ultimately, Omar could never repay his slave for all she did for him. In general, she submitted to his will and moods and behaved in a particularly taciturn manner, which signified his authority. As he grew older, he began to notice her breast. They were miniature then, but still distinctive, and he thought beautiful. Blinded by the radiance of her face, again the color of weak tea, he found joy in the afternoon from looking at her and paying attention to new feelings. For Omar, she sang from her heart, when it should be remembered, she lacked a voice of her own and, as a slave, would surely die without him.
O aging jealousy! How often, in succeeding years, would she close her eyes in pain? How often would she sing, not as she once sung of the joys of lying in her young master’s lap, but complaining in song? Of his being absent? Their years together had been so short. A curse she would sing about often. She sang it with the same meter and rhyme continuously. Her curse was that she truly loved him; something he couldn’t comprehend, while he tried to juggle more than one wife. Still he used her for his most extreme lust. Might she mean more to him. Might they talk, sing, ride together, she with very short stirrups, wearing her hair clubbed atop, in Chinese fashion. Full of regrets or perhaps not, but knowing that they hadn’t gotten enough out of their time together. Might she be of comfort to him during days of darkness, or may they find each other at the time of Judgement: one final time.
Blue water, blue skies, and extremely calm. Laughing more than dancing and singing, with the storm finally gone; and as the sea family drifted slowly toward the hull, or what was left of the stuck junk, Mahmud thought about the mysteries of the capricious spirits that filled the cosmos, spirits he counted on to protect his family. He honored the elements and the earth that had rewarded him with a daughter. (My how he had changed his mind about her since he caught the big shark.) Before holding Landing, he chanted in Arabic a prayer of thanksgiving.
Soon after dawn, when he could finally assess the carnage, Carlos started recording a personal history of events. “Thus we cruised in good order and with a great deal of hope. Now there is blood on the ornate transom….” As he wrote, Omar resisted scratching, stood the itching for as long as he could. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he knew that the final disposal of the dead had to begin. He didn’t like this grisly task, but knew of no other way to avoid more itching, which he knew was an outward and comparatively harmless sign of dreaded psoric miosm, the recognized cause of contagion. He would have to somehow manage to drag and then push all of the dismembered bodies overboard. And he couldn’t count on any help from Omar, for their relationship hadn’t progressed that far. The itching, which Carlos linked to the rapid decay of the dead and the spread of contagion, was actually attributed to an ugly crab-like insect. Sulphur easily could’ve taken care of it.
Up until then, dazed from the punishment, Carlos naturally hadn’t wanted to jump into taking care of the bodies and had waited for Omar’s lead or, for some another sign, such as the itching.
In so vast an area, it might seem improbable that the gypsy family just happened upon the wrecked junk; but, as previously noted, Mahmud plied and regularly fished these great, sprawling reefs. Confronted with this evil (the wreck), he quickly surmised that someone had probably sworn falsely on the Koran and that he had two choices. He could either shy away from an obvious disaster, or satisfy his natural curiosity. As for the first option, Mahmud dreaded the possibility of displeasing Allah and knew in his heart that the evil that struck the junk also could strike him and his family. Potentially, helping survivors could be an offense and, even if they saved lives, a potential disgrace. There could always be lingering, malignant spirits around, for certain spirits were offended by good deeds and, aroused by jealousy, would attempt to destroy the good-doer. Muhmud was, therefore, always cautious and circumspect, because he knew he couldn’t live without offending some spirit.
No doubt, the junk frightened his wife too. As a precaution, she prayed “Da Gi musung” (begging “Please don’t take revenge”), and wished she had a pure white chicken to kill and offer the spirits with special spices and incense. She worried and knew people after death could direct retribution to the living. Impartial retribution also existed in the created order of things; and since the natural world insisted on equilibrium, goodness was always offset by something bad. She immediately recognized the risks.
Praying that the evil spirits would overlook them, Mahmud joined his wife in a long chant. As a new father, he certainly didn’t want anything to happen to Landing. Parenthood was such a responsibility; but he had to be careful not to make too big a fuss over his daughter on the chance of offending a spirit.
His wife busied herself. She waited for her husband to begin a discussion about the situation. Even after their romance faded the two of them learned to tolerate one another and, at times, shared genuine, deep, mutual affection. But she was never quite sure how to approach him, though she knew what set him off. She knew impatience was one of his better traits, which she carefully counterbalanced with her own patience. She had more patience than she would’ve been had had they lived on land, within a community, and had she not felt threatened by supernatural personalities. But why talk anymore about evil spirits? Evil spirits or not, wouldn’t her husband risk it? Having lived with him all of her adult life, she knew her husband had already made up his mind and that talking about it would only be a formality.
She never openly disagreed with him. She also knew nothing could keep them perfectly safe. However, she had learned to trust Mahmud’s instinct and, as a dutiful wife, went about her business of cooking, preparing the cassava and the fish, and the gathering firewood from the beaches and a variety of edibles from the reefs. During some of their more intimate moments, the couple fished together and together shared the care of their daughter.
Randy Ford
