The Ingdalapet

The monsoon rain had at long last rested at the time when the sun should’ve been at its highest. Liriko searched for the biggest banana leaves he could find. He had the idea of using the underside of the leaves as platform from which he could set up his portable gas stove and get his lunch started. 

The clouds above were still thick though there were already spots where the blues of the heavens could be seen. Liriko’s face grimaced and his hand went up to his tummy. The grumbling began two hours into the downpour which commenced at 5 AM. He remembered he had only a few bites of his limited cookie supply since then. 

Before the rain let up, he had been stuck inside his tent killing time with his favorite book The Sirens of Greece.

While his eyes and hands were busy cutting off several fronds of the banana, his thoughts remained stuck in what he read from the book. The author was letter-perfect with her descriptions that Liriko couldn’t help replaying the scenic life of Greece. He paused at the page where the author was setting up the downturn from the great Greco life. 

It’ll lead to its grand fall, he thought. Where will the deities and demigods of Greece end up should Mount Olympus abysmally erupt? He wondered. 

His thoughts got derailed when he almost mutilated his left wrist with his sharp bolo. 

“No more!” he exclaimed after that frightening near-accident. It could have had prematurely concluded his solo expedition on the Cordilleras Mountain Range, wasting ten years of planning.

He picked up the harvested fronds at their proximal stems, then dragged them across the muddy jungle floor with the dry underside facing the murky sky. 

This wasn’t Liriko’s first expedition. He had been in countless ones before. Most were with companions while some was all by himself. The only difference with this trip than those in the past was the absence of electronic devices. This was the first trip where had forgotten to pack his pocket radio, the hand-me-down gift from his father who was once an avid outdoors man, the person who taught Liriko everything important needed to survive in the wild. The radio was on the heavy side, weighed as much as an average puppy. Though it was such, it was sturdy; and despite it being way past its prime, it swelled with features that the middle-aged man liked. The radio could store several music formats, and had quite an extensive signal reception. 

Without it, Liriko had no choice but to accept that his only other means to entertain himself was to listen to the songs of the wild. 

Upon reaching camp with the leaves in tow, his palms caromed off his sunny yellow raincoat. Streams of water raced down the poncho-style covering. Other droplets bounded off. They glistened before disappearing down the puddles.

Liriko positioned the leaves in a triangular mat orientation. Satisfied with his work, he checked his smart watch. The weather widget indicated a temperature of 59 degrees Fahrenheit. With soaked palms, he raised them to his elbows to rub the body part warm. Next, he cupped both of his palms up before his mouth to blew warm air in them. After the short-lived relief, he crawled half-way through his tent to reach in for the single burner stove, a pot, and the ready-to-cook chicken curry pack.

***

In the middle of the steep inclines of two mountains of the Cordilleras was a valley known to the local Kankanai tribe as the Layad en Diyos, “God’s Love”. It’s a valley religiously guarded by the most ferocious members of the dark-skinned, curly-haired tribe — except for a day every 20 years — when the moon is about to hide the sun, a phenomena called Ingdalapet by the tribe which meant extinction or a very dark cloud. 

Today was the day where the Ingdalapet was about to happen again. Every 20 years, the Layad is always quiet. No human dare to set foot in this area during this season.

During Ingdalapet, trees and smaller vegetation were the only non-human living organism at this biosphere. All the birds, mammals, insects and amphibians leave the area. 

The foliage of many of the plants in the Layad remained motionless except for a handful which moved in a linear direction. It was as if someone — or something — underneath were pushing the branches sideways.

There were two movements coming from each of the geographical direction — North, South, East and West. At the small clearing where four elbow-sized creeks converge, six naked bodies emerged. Three were biologically male wile the other three were biologically female. Their dark brown eyes glinted like diamonds, reflecting the sun that now came through the widening gaps in the rain clouds. Their pointed ears quivered from the splashing sound of waters that were streaming down a cavern in the midst of the Layad. 

“A blessed day of Ingdalapet, your majesty!” All five knelt and bowed to the eldest of all the females. Her name is Queen Regine Velasquez. She’s bare in her milk-white skin and curly locks that cascade down to her lower spine. 

She nodded to each one before responding. 

“A blessed day to all! Rise, my friends.” She cupped the breast of the female closest to her left then to the other on her right, then continued, “As I have told you, countless of times over the past millennium, I treat you… as sinbe-ey.”

“You’re our family, too, my queen. I’m saddened of your upcoming ultimate sacrifice, your majesty,” said Lea Salonga, the second most senior of the group. 

The queen withdrew her fist from the firm bosom of her companion named Sheyrice Pempengco, the youngest and the most unique lady — in appearance — considering her skin head hairstyle.

The leader slammed her eyes shut causing a single tear to escape the ducts. She unfolded them, then asked, “Where’s the alay?”

At 178 cm and tipping the scale at 125 pounds, Jed Madela, spoke, “I failed to get an offering, your highness.”

A look of disgust flashed across the queen’s face, then vanished. She turned away from the group and sang soft acapella sounds in various playful notes. It crumbled the stillness of the windless and scorching afternoon terrain. The melodic concierto grew from one to six. The song was very melancholic; yet a divinely pristine ballad. It invited the breeze and the snow, the latter being a rare phenomena for a tropical jungle. 

***

Liriko peered down the pot’s mouth and saw that the curry’s base was already thick; the vegetable crisp and bright. With the use of a fork, he craned the pot off the stove and onto the banana matting.

He was about to reach for a plate from his backpack when a heart-wrenching singing voice hit him. His head spun. Then, a chorus chimed in; this threw him off-balance.

His dwarf-sized collapsible chair’s legs couldn’t keep up with the switch in weight distribution. It toppled over sending Liriko down the muddy ground. Thank heavens he was gifted with agility! Both of his palms were quick to soften his fall and kept his face from slamming on the head of a boulder that stuck out from the ground. 

Despite the softened descent, the jarring incident sent Liriko spiraling into the past. 

He saw himself when he was about twenty-five, kneeling in the middle of the concrete road outside his modest neighborhood in Springfield, Arizona. His Dockers khakis and white Hanes shirt were bloodied. His eyes looked lifeless and pouring with tears as he stared at the white steps by his porch. 

In his arms was his first born son, Angelo, age three and dressed well in his blue Abercrombie jumper pants. The boy’s hair was dense yet slippery — not from the pomade — but from the crimson juices leaking out of its young coconut. 

One palm was trying to plug the cut; however, Liriko kept failing due to the slick blood from the boy’s head. In that tragic moment, he could barely understand what his hired babysitter was saying through her phone, nor fully focus on sealing the cut. His mind was fixed on a plea — Please, don’t die!

His pointing and middle fingers were on Angelo’s wrist.

At present, Liriko screamed like he never screamed before. We could only compare it to a soul that’s burning out in total anguish. In a fetal position, he curled on the mud. For him, this was how he regains some semblance of control over his trembling body and imploding soul.

After what felt like ages, the singing retreated back into the distance. Liriko’s tremors ebbed as the sound subsided to nothing. In measured increments, he stood back up while at the same time scooping up a fallen tree branch. This will be his makeshift crutch. With it, he was able to stand with his spine vertical to the forest floor. He nudged his knees awake for they remained dead asleep to his sensation. Doing so just sent him kneeling on one. Liriko pushed off the ground with his crutch then ambled as fast as how a ninety-year-old grandpa would.

His distance from camp kept growing, and although his body was already as heavy as a boulder, he was still able to carry on.

In a few meters, he reached a modest waterfall which had a drop height of two sedans arranged vertically up, from bumper to bumper.

The mist hinted that the water was freezing; however, he had no choice for he couldn’t wear his garments inside the tent with them being too muddied. He had to wash himself then change clothes. 

Throwing all cares, he slid underneath the icy waterfall which exert a fifty-pound per square inch force down his skull. The power of the white water was enough to wash all the dirt away fast. One count in and five counts out, fresh yet shaking. The way he saw it, he’s cleaned up just fine. With his walking stick, he hurried towards camp. His knees were more alive now than how it was minutes ago. The cold must’ve triggered his fight-or-flight response which was good.

After relieving himself from the chilly attire and now with a fresh set of dry camouflage, Liriko settled back on his chair, eager to warm his stomach with the long-awaited food. 

As he served himself dinner, he couldn’t help but noticed how knotted his eyebrow muscles were. 

“Where on earth could that singing come from? Who sang it? Is it really possible for a human to create such gripping acoustics?”, he thought as he looked — every now and then — at the jungle vegetation around him. From the manner by which the sound got to me, it appeared to have originated from afar. He surmised.

He recalled seeing on television a new tech that the US Department of National Defense had been pimping out to news channels. The technology’s called directed energy weapons. It could heat up human bodies upon contact hence could be a very potent tool in dispersing violent mobs, rioters, and looters. Is there some sort of military experimentation happening in this remote part of the country? He wondered. 

Liriko weighed in on his options. First, he checked his watch. The timepiece’s hands told him its half-past-one in the afternoon. Once more, he tapped on the clock’s glass and the screen changed to reveal the cardiac rate counter. It began running diagnostics then reported 70 beats a minute, indicative of a resting heart. 

Also, he ran a body and emotional state check. He was neither drowsy nor fatigued. Earlier, he was so upset when the memories resurfaced. Now, he was calm as a feather. He had plenty of energy to spare on thoughts particularly about the possible dangers of going to bed alone tonight.

How would such a sound affect me in my sleep? Could the next acoustic blast kill me? It could, right? I’d better make sure if staying in this jungle for several days or even the night was safe. 

With all things considered, Liriko decided — right after lunch — to scout the jungle for at least a couple of miles out. He recalled two things. One, a 1981 map of the area indicated there was a downhill slope a walking distance away to the East. Two, he remembered what Google Earth showed him the first time that he was scouting for a possible campsite. There was a very tall red tree to the east of his elected site on which he could survey the terrain at a 360 degree angle. 

If there was a military installation nearby, for sure, they’d have a clearing for their camp and an airstrip for resupply missions.

As he sat eating the curry, a white speck glided down to his elbow. His head twisted up towards the tall trees. There were more white dust coming, not from the trees, but from the sky. 

He picked up the speck on his elbow, and it melted on contact.

***

The six naked individuals were in a circle around the cavern on the ground. Their hands clasping with the others.

“Let’s begin,” Queen Regine said, then spat at the earthly hole. 

Altogether, they sang. It was as if the winds heeded the call. The plants’ hands waved and their bodies gyrated. The heavens envied their festivity so it clapped a thunder. The clouds, to show respect, moved away from the center and king of the sky, the sun. 

The men in the group began joining the song one at a time. Jed Madela, the one with the tallest height and the heaviest weight, added a tune, and as he did, the surrounding lost its prior brilliance. It’s not because the thick clouds were back; rather, it was the sun being corrupted by darkness. 

After the foursome established their rhythmic acapella, the fifth in the group, Arnel Pineda, with his raspy baritone voice, began a chant. 

"Oh, heavens of the highest heavens, we join thee to bid for thy undying breath. 

 'i normal and difficult circumstances, thou are aye there; even though, 'i stealth. 

 As the corky grants 'i for the new, we crave thou to be with us 'i this chaotic evolution. 

 Hark our songs, chants, and prayers, blest be our attendance 'i this divination.

 We’re the Sirens of the fourth stream of Gilperas, bid for thy divine providence under the travelling lamp and moon's transition."

The last in the group, Marcelito Pomoy, approached the hole — and with so much care — squeezed down the cavern with his legs first. Inch by inch he began disappearing from view. So was the sun. The darkness continued to bite off its brightness. Now, it looked like a huge Pacman.

When the dwarfish man was nowhere in site, the five individuals in the circle knelt with their bums on top of their heels and both hands on the ground, holding on to grasses or digging their fists deep in muddy soil.

The five voices quieted while from inside the belly of the cavern came a loud basal sound. Words from the Kankanai tribe reverberated in rapid succession. Tremors were building up in intensity like domino tiles toppling over a much bigger piece. The quake moved laterally. Trees shook sideways. Next, the ground bounced up and down for several times. Parts of the Layad’s top soil got ripped apart. In some areas of the mountainside, landslides occurred.

The thick and healthy grass, which Sheyrice was anchored onto, was ripped off from the ground. She plunged into the creek. 

Jed’s hands which were moored on sticky and muddy soil got unstuck, sending him head over backwards towards the cluster of taro plants. 

Up by the mountainside, something tumbled several times over the thick undergrowth. A yowl was heard and it continued as the commotion progressed. The sound resembled that of an animal, and may be even a human.

The eyes of the five were trained on to the area of disturbance. 

The queen gestured to Arnel to investigate. He snarled at the direction of the intruder.

The scrawny deity hummed, and he levitated above the boulders and vegetation surrounding the creek. Midway between where the last undergrowth movement was and the creek cavern, a fishing spear zipped through the air, hitting Arnel right smack into the center of his chest. He descended and vanished down the shoulder-high shrubs.

Leah, with face blushed red with blood, screamed. This elicited a bawling response from the intruder in the jungle. The more she shrieked; the louder the response got. The intruder became more obvious to be a man who’s wailing in pain. The sirens’ acute hearing could make out the man’s plea. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I took the life of the man who ran over my kid. The only reason I live for, that man took it away!”

I belted a G-sharp, lifting my body off from the other side of the mountain. I was the group’s protector, the fastest flier of all sirens. In half the time, I was at the area where the intruder was.

He kept murmuring, “He had no remorse, so I took… every inch of him… every strength… every comfort… until his soul was crushed. I enjoyed… every moment of it! He deserved it!” 

Liriko, looked at me, said his last statement then grinned.

I, Lord Palo of the fourth stream of Gilperas, raised my vocal power higher and louder, directing it to the coiled-up man. The intensity of the sound squeezed the life out of Liriko. I saw how he killed the drunk driving neighbor, how his wife left him for another man, and how he created happy memories with his son. That’s how I knew him.

Using my ultimate note, I mashed him into the soil; bone, muscles, and all. 

As I left his carcass there, the orange sun was completely hidden by the moon. The full Ingdalapet in all its glory, topped by a diamond sparkle on one side of the circle.