Tabi-Tabi Po, Mapaglarong Engkanto

Jayrald hadn’t meant to stray so far.

The morning had begun clear and gold, the kind of day that begged you to leave the path and see what lay beyond. He’d driven up from the city to stretch his legs on the Ridgewood Trail, needing a break from spreadsheets and the hum of traffic. The pines promised quiet, and for a while that was exactly what they gave him: the soft press of needles under his sneakers, the clean air that smelled faintly of sun-warmed sap.

But somewhere after lunch he’d lost the ribbon of dirt that marked the official route. A deer trail lured him deeper; a patch of sunlit wildflowers convinced him there was no hurry to turn back. By the time the shadows grew long, he realized he hadn’t seen a marker in nearly an hour.

“Okay,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “No big deal. Just retrace.”

He turned, scanning for the notch-blazed trees that should have lined the route. Only trunks—tall, gray, silent. He walked a few paces, then stopped again. The forest looked identical in every direction, a chessboard of pines and oak, each square repeating endlessly.

Panic nibbled at the edge of his ribs.

Jayrald pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen blinked “No Service.” The GPS map showed a frozen blue dot and a grid of gray. He shoved it back, forcing a calm breath. People hike here all the time. I just need to pick a direction and stick with it.

He chose west, where the sun was dipping, and strode forward. Branches snagged at his sleeves. After ten minutes, he spotted a clearing. Relief sparked—until he recognized the same ring of stones where he’d eaten lunch. He had somehow circled back.

That was when memory reached for him: a voice, scratchy with age, telling stories under the mango trees of their childhood home.

“If you’re ever lost in the gubat,” Lelong had said, wagging a finger for emphasis, “turn your shirt inside out. Spirits confuse your eyes, make you walk in circles. Flipping it fools them so you can see the way.”

Little Jayrald had giggled at the tale, but Apong nodded solemn agreement, her silver hair shining.

“And don’t forget to say ‘Tabi-tabi po,’” she’d added, the old apology to unseen folk. “Excuse yourself, so they’ll let you pass.”

He hadn’t thought of that in years.

Now, standing alone among rustling trees, superstition felt less silly than comforting. He unbuttoned his light denim shirt, shrugged it off, and turned it inside out. The fabric, damp with sweat, clung coolly as he slipped it back on.

“Tabi-tabi po,” he said aloud, voice rough. “Excuse me.”

1

Something changed—not loudly, not like in a movie, but subtly, as though the forest had inhaled. The air felt clearer, the hush deeper. Jayrald stood still, unsure whether to believe it.

He began walking again, slower this time, eyes scanning not only for trails but for small signs: a bent blade of grass, a patch of soil where roots broke through. The woods no longer seemed perfectly symmetrical. There were quirks—tiny mushrooms glowing orange, a birch with peeling bark shaped like a heart.

Minutes stretched. He sipped from his water bottle, already half empty. Hunger gnawed at him, but thirst worried him more; the afternoon was warm, and sweat kept pricking at his temples.

A faint sound pricked his ears: running water. He paused, tilting his head. Yes—there, a thin burble. He pushed toward it through fern and undergrowth until he found a brook sliding between mossy stones. Relief surged. He knelt, cupped his hands, and drank carefully.

The stream gave him orientation: water usually flowed downhill. If he followed it, he might find a road or at least a bigger river where campers set up. He adjusted his pack straps and set off downstream.

2

Dusk gathered like smoke among the trunks. The sun was a red coin slipping behind hills, and the forest floor dimmed to bruised purple. Jayrald kept walking, though unease tickled his spine. He couldn’t spend the night out here—no jacket, no flashlight except his phone’s fragile battery.

As twilight thickened, he thought of home: his grandmother’s kitchen where garlic and vinegar hissed in the pan, the way Lelong laughed until tears ran. They had raised him until he was eight, before his parents could send for him from Manila. Even now, decades later, their voices sometimes slipped through the city’s static.

He murmured a prayer under his breath, half Catholic, half folk charm: “Lord, lead me through. Lelong, Apong, if you’re listening… guide me.”

The brook widened slightly, but the banks grew marshy. He nearly lost a shoe in the mud. Just as he considered climbing back to higher ground, something flickered ahead—a faint glow, orange and wavering.

Firelight?

He quickened his pace, hope rising. But when he stepped into the clearing, there was no campfire, only a scatter of luminous fungi glowing like embers. Their faint radiance painted the trunks in dreamy hues. The sight was so strange and beautiful that his tension eased. He laughed quietly, shaking his head.

“Okay,” he told the mushrooms. “Not the rescue I wanted, but thanks for the vibe.”

He skirted the patch and pressed on.

3

Night fell fully. The moon, a thin sickle, offered little help. Jayrald used his phone’s flashlight sparingly, worried about the battery. Crickets pulsed in waves. Somewhere far off, an owl hooted.

He stumbled on a root and sat down hard. His ankle ached, though not badly. He rubbed it, then looked around. Shadows crowded close, weaving odd shapes between branches. For a moment, panic tried to return. He could almost believe he wasn’t alone.

But the inside-out shirt gave him a strange steadiness. It felt like a tether to something older than fear—his grandparents’ world, where every tree held stories and respect kept you safe.

He remembered another bit of their advice: if you’re truly turned around, stay put until morning. Wandering at night only made things worse.

So he found a relatively dry patch beneath a cedar, arranged fallen needles into a thin cushion, and settled in. He wrapped his arms around his knees and listened.

The forest’s noises ebbed and flowed, a living tide. He thought about the deadlines waiting on his desk, about how small they seemed now. He thought about visiting his grandparents’ graves the next All Saints’ Day, about bringing candles and telling them thank you.

Sleep, thin and restless, finally claimed him.

4

He woke shivering just before dawn. Mist drifted over the brook; the eastern sky glowed faintly. Stiff but grateful for light, Jayrald stood, brushed off dirt, and stretched. Birds were beginning their morning chorus.

He checked the stream again, then chose a new tactic: climb for height. A ridge rose to the left, rocky but manageable. He scrambled up, gripping roots for balance. At the top, wind tugged his damp shirt.

Below, beyond layers of trees, a pale thread wound through the valley—a road. Joy bubbled up. He laughed aloud, a shaky, jubilant sound.

“Salamat,” he said, voice thick. “Thank you.”

He slid carefully down the far side, aiming for the road. The going was slow; brambles scratched his calves, and once he startled a pair of deer. But soon asphalt gleamed ahead, empty except for early sunlight.

Jayrald stepped onto the shoulder, breathing hard. He glanced back at the forest: tall, serene, holding its secrets. He touched the hem of his shirt—still inside out, streaked with dirt—and smiled.

5

A ranger’s truck appeared not long after, engine rumbling. The driver, a middle-aged woman with mirrored sunglasses, leaned out.

“Morning! You all right?”

“Yeah,” Jayrald said, voice hoarse. “Got turned around yesterday. I’m lucky you came by.”

She unlocked the passenger door. “Hop in. Happens more than you’d think.”

As they drove toward the visitor center, Jayrald watched the trees recede. The superstition still hummed quietly in his chest, mingled with gratitude. Maybe it was coincidence that flipping his shirt preceded finding the way—but maybe it was also an act of remembering, of stepping into a story larger than himself.

In the age of satellites and smartphones, an old whisper from his elders had been what steadied him.

6

Later, showered and wrapped in a borrowed blanket at the ranger station, Jayrald sipped hot chocolate while filling out an incident report. The ranger raised an eyebrow at the note about the inside-out shirt.

“Never heard that one,” she said, amused.

“It’s… an old Filipino thing,” he explained. “My grandparents used to say spirits mess with your sense of direction. If you turn your shirt, they can’t.”

“Hey, whatever worked.”

He nodded, tracing the rim of the mug. The woods outside the window glowed with morning, calm and green. For a heartbeat he thought he glimpsed two figures among the trees: an elderly man in a straw hat, a woman with silver hair, smiling. But when he blinked, only sunlit trunks remained.

Jayrald smiled back anyway.

7

Driving home later that day, he caught himself humming a lullaby Apong had sung when storms frightened him as a child. The melody twined with the scent of pine clinging to his clothes. At a red light, he glanced at the passenger seat, where the shirt lay folded, still inside out.

He decided he would keep it that way for now—not from fear, but as a quiet promise: to walk prepared, to listen to old wisdom, to remember that sometimes survival isn’t only about maps and gear, but about stories carried in the blood.

And maybe, just maybe, the forest respected that.