The Dreammaker

Viscous streams of lakkas flowed from Manggob’s stomach to his palm for the one hundred eleventh time. A soft breeze rustled the surrounding forest trees. The inscriptions surrounding the decrepit golden top resting on his palm emanated a dim light. Manggob injected more lakkas, but the light flickered and died.

“At least it glowed half a breath longer,” Manggob sighed.

Four breaths and a half was something to be proud of. It really was. His father only made it glow for three breaths during his prime, but Manggob was only twelve. He would make it glow for six breaths someday. But what’s the point even if it glowed for ten breaths or one hundred breaths? Manggob squeezed the top and threw it away.

The golden top flew and landed in a thorny bush. Galloping giant grasshoppers. Manggob injected lakkas into the balls of his feet and dived headfirst into the thorny bush. His father would slap his head off if he found out how he treated the family heirloom. That jerk loved the rusty toy more than his own filial son. It wasn’t even the real Dreammaker. It could not turn dreams into reality. Only that lame old man believed the silly folktale.

Manggob combed through the thorny bush for an hour. Scratches covered his hands and face, but there were no signs of the relic. Did it land somewhere else? His father’s dejected eyes floated in his mind. Why did he have to throw it? The heirloom might be fake, but his father’s hopes of walking again were as real as the wind. Huh? 

On the small patch of grass were footprints too small to be human. But it also walked on two feet—not a forest animal Manggob knew of.

The tiny footprints led Manggob out of the forest and into a valley with towering pillars of rocks. In the middle, the king of the rock towers stabbed through the clouds and lorded over the other giants. Manggob stood more than three hundred meters away from it, but he could not see its peak. Ten rabbit-sized figures patrolled the base of the tallest rock and at least ten times as many occupied it. Their radish-colored skin and sunny hair made them look like chrysanthemums blooming on rocks. Duwendes.

Manggob turned back. No way he would risk his life for a useless relic. His father once told him how he encountered a duwende in one of his adventures. He had been taking a bath in a lake when a duwende stole his favorite sword. He went to the nearest tavern, hired ten mercenaries, and raided the duwendes’ base. But he had been the lone survivor. 

The old man will surely understand. Manggob erased his father’s depressed expression threatening to form in his mind. He’ll be fine after a few mugs of ale.

* * *

Two trails diverged on the verdant forest before Manggob. Flying fluffy ferrets. A tikbalang had changed his route. He unsheathed his kris. There were two major opinions in the village on how to counter a tikbalang’s pranks: to mark the trees or to challenge the tikbalang to a duel. But Manggob learned the most efficient method from the wisest and oldest man in the village, Apo Dimasaleb.

Transparent lakkas revolved in Manggob’s stomach, becoming more viscous with each cycle. He channeled a stream of lakkas to his hand and tossed the kris. As he watched it spin in the air and fly until it was only a dot in the sky, a shadow appeared in the corner of Manggob’s vision. Above the east trail flew a rainbow-feathered bird. BOOM. The kris crashed at the entrance of the west trail—a small crater formed where it landed.

According to the spirit of the kris, the way home was to the west. But if that bird was what he thought it was, it might be able to help him retrieve the heirloom from the duwendes.

Manggob silenced his common sense and stepped on the east trail.

He walked for half a day and reached a large clearing. A lofty ancient balete tree sat in the center. No animal or plants dared to intrude in its throne except for the rainbow-feathered bird perched on its topmost branches. The bird’s body was no bigger than a chicken but its tail was as long as an asp. Feathers of every known and unknown colors covered its body. The villagers called it Adarna, but no one had seen it personally. Those who did were sitting with the rest of the life-sized sculptures littered beside the tree’s roots. How would the villagers look when he told them he saw Adarna?

Manggob crept closer. The bushes made a soft rustle, but Adarna’s beady eyes darted towards him. Out of its beak came the sweetest and most soothing song. The rest of the world was silenced and only Adarna’s relaxing voice remained. His eyelids gained a hundred kilograms and his knees threatened to collapse.

Manggob unsheathed his kris and sliced his pinky off. Excruciating pain replaced drowsiness. He immediately stepped back into the bushes, not bothering to pick up the dismembered finger. He ripped the hem of his mantle and wrapped it around the bleeding stump. Adarna flapped its wings and laughed. This isn’t over.

* * *

Manggob returned to the bushes an hour later. In his five-fingered hand, he held a forest rat by the tail. Adarna remained perched proudly on the top of the ancient balete tree, indifferent of its surroundings. 

Manggob hurled the forest rat and it landed at the bottom of the tree. It tried to scamper back towards the forest but two golden talons lifted it into the air. Manggob released the lakkas he revolved in his stomach to the balls of his feet. One chance. He pushed his feet against the ground and flew straight towards the bird. Adarna beat its massive wings and rose ten meters in one flap. Manggob landed on the ground, missing Adarna by a hair. 

There was no time to revolve lakkas. He jumped straight up and surprisingly overtook Adarna. Manggob was taken aback, but his nine fingers were not idle. He spread the mantle and Adarna flew straight into it. Manggob wrapped the mantle around Adarna and tied it with a rope.

“I’m really a genius,” Manggob laughed heartily. “Even luck is on my side.”

Manggob slung the bundle over his shoulder and skipped, whistling the farmers’ tune. He retraced his steps to the rock towers.

Four fingers brushed against the small M carved on the trunk of a tree. I’ve already passed through here.

“Tikbalang,” Manggob shouted, his voice echoing in the night forest. “I challenge you.”

No answer. How could it ignore the law of the forest?

“Tikbalang?” a monotonous voice rang in Manggob’s head. “You dare call Us half-breed, mortal?”

Blades of the grass stretched and wrapped around Manggob’s feet and spun up to his thighs. The weight of the world crashed on Manggob’s shoulders. Without the grass locking his feet, he would have been forced to kneel. 

“P-pardon m-my i-insolence, your highness.” Every word scratched his throat like broken glass. “Th-this lowly one was pranked by a tikbalang earlier in my journey.”

“You think We were pranking you?” 

The pressure on Manggob’s shoulders increased. Manggob’s knees audibly cracked. Tears welled up in his eyes but he stopped them from falling.

“This lowly one does not dare, your highness.”

“But you are daring, are you not, young hero?”

How should he answer that question? If he said no, the forest deity would think he was proud and arrogant. If he said yes, the forest deity would think he was a coward and meek. Either answer would give the deity a reason to kill him. 

The deity did not rush him to answer. The only signs of the forest deity’s presence were the grass wrapped around Manggob’s feet and the pressure on his shoulders. 

“N-not as brave as your highness,” Manggob said.

The forest deity giggled but it was brief and barely audible that Manggob doubted if it was his imagination. 

“Do not think that flattery will save your skin, mortal.” 

The voice was as monotonous as before, no sign of giggling.

“This lowly one would not dare.”

“What is your name, mortal?”

“This lowly one is called Manggob, your highness.”

“Manggob?”

The deity fell silent. The hairs on Manggob’s arms stood. He felt as if his clothes were stripped and his entire body was exposed.

“I see,” the deity whispered. In its monotonous voice it said, “Son of Manggob, do you know your crime?”

“No, your highness. I swear I’m innocent!” Manggob said hurriedly.

“Innocent?” A strong gust of wind warned Manggob of the deity’s real emotions.

“I am sparing you in the name of your father,” the voice said. “But you must confess to your crime. My grass prison will gradually swallow your body for every day you refuse to confess. On the third day, if you still refuse to confess, your father will not blame me if my grass prison swallows you whole.”

Soft breeze swept the fallen leaves and silence fell in the dark forest. Not even an echo of the voice remained.

Crime? Was the forest deity trying to pin a nonexistent crime on him? But the deity would not have to go through all that trouble to kill a mortal like him. His life was no different from a pebble in the deity’s hand. Did it find out about his abducting Adarna? But why didn’t it just take the bird away?

The sun neither rose nor set in the dark forest but the grass and vines wrapping around his chest told Manggob that two days had passed since he talked to the deity. He still had no idea what the deity wanted to hear. On the bright side, he did not feel hunger, thirst, fatigue, pain, or sleepiness while trapped in the grass prison. However, he would have wanted to at least eat a piece of mutton before he was swallowed by a blade of grass.

To see, hear, smell, and taste nothing for two days tortured Manggob. The only proof he still existed was the blade of grass slithering across his body every day. But he spent the rest of the day wondering if his existence was an illusion.

“Are you ready to confess?” the voice boomed. It was as monotonous as three days before, but tears welled up in Manggob’s eyes. How great it was to hear something again. And the faint light that descended in the middle of the forest finally gave Manggob something to look at. But the deity’s words reminded Manggob of his task.

“I apologize, your highness. This lowly one will not do it again.”

“So you know your crime?”

“Yes, your highness. Please forgive this lowly one.”

“What should I forgive you for?”

“For this lowly one’s insolence and crimes against the forest.”

“You are very smart for your age, Son of Manggob,” the voice drawled. “But I shall not free you unless you confess your crime.”

Manggob’s heart dropped. How would he know how he offended the forest deity? He had never met it before. And it was the one who attacked first. The forest deity made him stray, so he thought it was a tikbalang playing pranks. He wouldn’t have called it a tikbalang otherwise. And now he’s going to die for it. Blades of grass and vines slithered around Manggob’s feet to his neck. Wait. Lost? Manggob searched the forest illuminated by the dim light.

“This lowly one knows my crime, your highness,” Manggob said.

“If you dare deceive me again, Son of Manggob…” the voice trailed off but the vines and grass tightened their embrace.

“Th-the trees,” Manggob pointed at the trees bearing the small M. The vines wrapped around his mouth, preventing him from speaking or breathing.

Snap. The vines and grass retreated like water and returned to the ground.

“Well done, Son of Manggob,” the voice said. “You have shown me wisdom, courage, res0urcefulness, and perseverance. Your father will be proud.”

Did the deity know his father? But his father was called Obriym, not Manggob. Did the deity mistake him for another person?

“Thank you, your highness,” Manggob said, bowing.

“Go straight from here. It will lead you directly to Duwende’s Rock. Remember to release the bird only when you’re within ten meters from the rock.”

A soft breeze announced the forest deity’s exit and the forest was once again plunged into darkness and silence. The trees in front of Manggob parted and sunlight seeped in. Manggob followed straight along the trail for half a day, and as the forest deity promised, he reached the rock formations.

Manggob crouched behind a bush and watched the king of the rock towers. Skeletons of different sizes littered the valley—probably the duwendes’ lunch. It would take him three fully charged lakkas jumps to reach within ten meters of the duwendes’ rock. But the duwendes will easily see him approaching and they would not give him time to charge his lakkas. That won’t work. What if he used the other rock formations as cover to get close to Duwende’s Rock?

Manggob controlled a drop of lakkas to flow from his stomach to his right eye. The rock formations magnified as if Manggob was right in front of them. On some of the rock formations surrounding Duwende’s Rock were one or two duwendes standing guard. Manggob closed his right eye. It felt like it was burning and getting stabbed at the same time. One drop is still too much. But his bleeding eye was the least of his problem. He could not sneak to Duwende’s Rock by using the rock formations as cover.

Out of ideas, he sat and watched Duwende’s Rock. He waited. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was waiting for or if something would really happen, but he hoped it would happen as soon as possible. He glanced at the stump where his little finger used to be. It had become purple and twice as fat. It had gotten numb but from time to time, a sharp pain would shoot across his entire body.

Fate did not disappoint Manggob. After waiting for half a day, as the moon hung high in the sky, dark clouds covered the night sky. The valley was plunged into darkness. But it was nothing compared to the darkness he experienced for three days. This kind of darkness was no different from daylight for Manggob.

He crept towards Duwende’s Rock. The sound of water slapping on rocks masked his footsteps. He passed through the Watchtower Rocks and reached within one hundred meters of Duwende’s Rock without being detected. But the duwendes were no fools.

One of the duwendes on the Watchtower Rocks cried out. The valley was lighted with rains of fire. Lakkas flowed from Manggob’s stomach to his feet and he pushed off the ground. Seventy meters. The duwende army surrounded him and sealed his exit. Not that he was planning to leave without the golden top in the first place.

He unsheathed his kris and held it in front of his body. He channeled mana to his feet and pushed. The duwendes stepped out of Manggob’s path but the unlucky and slower ones were skewered in Manggob’s kris like barbecue. Thirty meters. Only one jump left but he was now in the middle of the duwende army. Their sharp fangs glinted in the firelight.

Manggob directed lakkas towards his feet. One second felt like eternity. He watched hundreds of mouths grow closer and sank into his immobile body. Before his brain had time to process the pain, Manggob pushed off the ground and soared. Swimming square squirrels. Duwende’s Rock was so near, and yet so far. Three steps and he’ll make it to the ten-meter radius. But the ten duwendes hanging on his arms and feet made each step heavier than the last. On the third step, Manggob finally entered the ten-meter radius.

He unwrapped the cloth bundle and Adarna flew straight upwards, knocking Manggob back. Adarna opened its beak and a sweet melody echoed throughout the valley. Adarna’s voice sank in Manggob’s ears like quicksand and his eyelids became heavier than the duwendes on his arms. Finally.