Follow The Fairy
By Carl Johnson
Published by Publications Circulations LLC.
SmashWords Edition
All contents copyright (C) 2014 by Publications Circulations LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, companies and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Chapter One
PRESENT -- 2000'S
He put his right hand up, sticking out his thumb which blocked the sun's rays. After closing his left eye, he proceeded to measure the sun's lowest point against the mountain's highest peak.
He nodded to himself. It was close to five in the afternoon by his estimation. He had learned this measure many years before, almost eight decades to be exact. He smiled as he gazed upon the terrain that lay before him.
Rice paddies stretched out to both sides of his view, the rice stalks dancing to the tune of the late afternoon breeze. With close to five score years to his name, he was amazed at what little affect time had on this remote barrio.
Barrio San Miguel, a town named after the archangel himself during the Spanish occupation, was a remote town almost inaccessible to modern civilization. As it was then, so it is now. He remembered the layout of the town exactly as it was in the days of his youth. Nothing major had changed. The main road that led out of the barrio was still the center of the small town that boasted one small market, a chapel, a small elementary school beside an even smaller high school, and a 20-foot wide stage used only on special occasions.
Except for a few modern adaptations, the town was just like he remembered it. There were now more houses located near the center of the town, one out of five households already had electricity and the more prominent households boasted the inclusion of televisions sets which, depending on the day of the week, can get up to two grainy broadcast channels. A quarter of the houses now had some manner of concrete, most often just the walls.
The only other noticeable difference that the small barrio had over the span of many decades was the streetlights, and the addition of large rocks to the main road which had leveled off over the years and gave the impression of a stone road.
When evening came, the similarities of the barrio today and the one from his childhood became even more striking.
At night, his memories came alive, when fireflies traveled in all directions along the rice fields, and the sky was dotted with the same set of constellations he had known since childhood. Not even the dim lighting of the electric posts was able to block out the thoughts he held most dear.
At 97 years of age, he had no illusions; he didn't even know why he still existed. Sure he had lived a fruitful life, his six surviving children from a group of eight were now all retired and were scattered across the nation's islands. Three of them lived in the opposite province. To the best of his knowledge, he had 13 grandchildren, most of who were already working, with more than half of them abroad. He could not remember the exact number of great-grandchildren he had.
Ingkong Julio, or Inkong, as all elderly people were respectfully called in this remote town, had already outlived all of his childhood friends.
The next oldest person in the town was young enough to be his child. He lived with a great-grandniece in his old house which his brother had taken once he ventured out of town in his youth.
Although far from being senile, Julio knew his body would not last long. His eyesight, hearing, and thoughts were still intact, but the same could not be said about his body. Considering his age, it was good that he still could manage to move about with a cane, albeit at a much slower pace than the year before, or the year before that.
There was nothing more that he loved than gazing upon the sights that resembled his half-remembered dreams.
This was the reason why he chose to come back to the remote barrio of San Miguel. Located at an equal distance of some fifty kilometers from the two more economically successful towns of Jiabong and Catbalogan, the barrio was considered remote, even by today's technologically proficient standards.
Life was easy here, even for one such as him. The farming community lived simply, their needs were not dictated by the whims of modern economic players, at least not that much.
Most of all, however, this was the place where his life's story began.
Now sitting below the ancient thorn tree, he reminisced, as all old people are wont to do on a daily basis. He thought about how his life would have turned out had he not encountered the series of events that had made him who he was.
He observed the movement of the rice stalks in the fields and looked for the signs that only experience could discern.
He looked up at the boughs and the leaves of the thorn tree hoping to catch a pattern that didn't quite fit right.
There were none.
He focused his attention to the wide row of coconut trees that spanned the edge of the rice fields. Already, even though it was barely five in the afternoon, the shades of the coconut grove were becoming darker.
And with darkness came clarity.
This he knew and deeply believed.
From the periphery of his vision, he spied three small figures approaching from the right. Five paces behind them, another four lagged. He recognized the three figures instantly -- Pedro, Yayong, and Manuel. Three of the many children who had made it a part of their day to hang out at his favorite spot. They always hope to strike up a conversation with the renowned Ingkong. Better yet was to get a story out of him.
Julio recognized the influence he had over the children that came to hear him weave his magnificent tales. Any person in town could tell that when these children started playing, they would almost always use Julio's stories as the basis for their play acting. Stories of demons and legendary beings, good versus bad, fantastical creatures, hidden pathways to the great unknown.
Even the invisible beings that coexist with the townsfolk formed part of his inexhaustible repertoire; while even the more mature listener could not help but be awed.
Most townsfolk regarded him as a master storyteller-while a few thought he was just causing trouble. They were concerned that his stories promoted daydreaming instead of labor, the latter being integral to the lifestyle of the farming folk.
Even if there were differing opinions about him and his stories, all the townsfolk regarded him highly, and mostly for one reason-he had a knack for healing most common illnesses and had a higher chance of healing one who was severely affected by an unknown cause. Even the most skeptical townsman could not risk annoying the gifted healer, in case something happened.
"Oi, Inkong!" the child Manuel, called out to him, "How come no one visited me last night? I gathered wild berries just like you said, I washed them in the river, then I lay them on top of a layer of salt in my window when the sun set like you instructed. Nothing came. I fell asleep waiting!"
"No one?" the old man asked.
"No one! I fell asleep waiting! I got many scratches in my hands and legs just to get those berries, and nothing happened!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!" the child declared, raising his hands, "I fell asleep waiting."
"That is strange," Julio replied pensively, "the Monatson never fail to retrieve their gifts. Tell me; were the berries still there wh
en you woke up?"
"No," Manuel replied, "the rats took them. I showed everyone this morning!" said the child with conviction.
The four children that lagged behind the first three joined the group and looked at the old man with an intensity that only childish curiosity could produce. Julio let it hang; he wanted them to think. He knew the pleasures that curiosity and pure thinking bring, and he didn't hold back. Although their eyes were on him, their minds were busy thinking about possibilities. He looked to the distant coconut grove and squinted his eyes for added effect before speaking.
"Hmmm," he started, pausing for a long time, "and the salt?"
There was no reply. The group seemed lost in thought. One by one, their eyes started to light up but no one dared to speak.
"Tell me, what about the salt? Can anybody tell me what has become of the salt? Did it also disappear?"
The children exchanged glances before one of them spoke.
"It was still there," replied Lito, a child of no more than five years old.
"It was still there? Was it disturbed? Err, scattered?" asked the old man, feigning curiosity too.
"No," came Pedro's quick answer.
"Oh!" the old man exclaimed, not giving anymore explanations.
The children fidgeted by themselves, uncomfortably glancing at each other; their eyes were a mixture of emotions. He could see it -- wonder, amazement, excitement, and most of all, regret for a chance now lost.
"I told you, they took it! The plant tenders took it!" spoke Yayong this time.
"They did not!" lashed Manuel, "I did not see them take it!"
The old man smiled at the last statement. He knew the child desperately wanted to believe. Even if he was lying, he knew Manuel wanted to believe; they needed to believe -- more out of boredom than anything else.
He knew that life in one of the most remote places in the country takes its toll, even in the most imaginative minds of children.
"If you weren't such a sleepy head, I'm sure they would have greeted you," he spoke at last.
The old man's words diffused the uneasiness of the children and they all burst out into laughter, at Manuel's expense. Manuel held his ground but with each taunt, his reserves slowly diminished.
But it didn't take long before he was joining the others in hearty jeers and taunts.