Variation on a Theme: Mariang Makiling

When the moon was a certain shape,
when its light was a pale shade of gold
when its beams fell in gentle wisps
along the outlines of the mountain,
when the brooks slivered silver across the verdure brightening
the soil, patches
of life in sundry stages of growth,
when the moon showed no signs
of the waning that was to come--
the townsfolk would preen through windows,
would turn the knobs of doors
and step out, but gingerly
lest the budding blooms woke, for flowers
were sacred, as all beautiful things were,
and so they had been taught. Treading softly,
they would look up the mountain,
their eyes wistful and misting with the memory of old loves, of lost loves, their
minds wandering the pathways of erstwhile forgotten sadnesses, scattering around
as the browning petals that slip away
from the grips of calyxes, relieved from the burden
of dead desires, the pull away from prison
doors that chained and choked hearts to their deaths.
Love knew what it was not, the same way it knew
what it was. And they sighed
at this knowledge, grateful
in knowing.

Silence hung, wafting with a vagrant breeze
and they waited.
For a trail of skirt, a white foot, white hands,
that beautiful face that haunted
their sleep, more haunting now
because elusive, as a hurt heart hides
within itself, making a coccoon
of its pain. An owl hooted, the crickets
grew silent. The night
wore on and the folk grew restless--
were they ever to see her again,
the goddess of the mountain, giver
of gifts that sustained their bodies,
bearer of smiles and wordless wisdom
that kept their souls aflame
with life, keeper of the secrets
that raised those who loved beyond
the grasping hands of those bound
by earth. Maria, the vanished--
they grew sadder as the darkness deepened.

Many moons ago, they began missing
the rustle of her long, white skirt, the scent
of the dama de noche that grew gentler
as she walked by, the overpowering
sense of peace and light when she would scatter
the mist of enchantment
across the mountain and the plains
around it. Ah, Maria. They blamed the stranger
who had boldly trekked the uncleared shadows,
who had pushed away the big rocks
so he could go higher up the mountain
where the air grew sharper with each turn.
I am on a search, he had said, the man
whose eyes were a little brighter,
whose stature a little straighter
than any they had seen, tall and sure
and arrogant. They had turned their backs,
shaking their heads. But he had plodded on. And when he returned, days later,
his hands bleeding, his face scratched
and his shoes torn, all he said was,
I will come back, and the town did not
dare ask if he had found
what he was looking for.

And he did come back, each time
clearing the path a little farther, his hands bleeding
just a little more, his face growing harder
when they told him to give up.
Their wise old woman said he was Leander,
crossing the sea each night to see Hero.
Who were they? She was asked.
He was someone who loved, and she was
someone who loved back.
This man, she said, was searching for the diwata. But he will fail, she said.
And the town agreed.

One night, he was seen for the last time.
He did not descend, though the folk
waited and waited to catch a glimpse
of his dark shape. The old woman bowed her head.
He has found her, she said. He is mortal,
they protested. Ah, but his bleeding hands
have turned him into a god.
A love like that, they frowned.
Does it still exist? And the wind
blew gentler, as if in reply.

Tonight, they could feel their hearts about to burst
with longing. Oh, but to see the beautiful one
once more. Their jealousy, once cruel,
had mellowed into questions and wistfulness.
Very soon, from the far heights of the looming mountain
echoed a woman's laugh, tinkling
with the happiness they all looked for.
And they lay their heads on their pillows,
dreaming of hands that touched
and that did not let go.


September 23, 2017
Mt. Makiling