TRES - CHAPTER THIRTEEN - RUSHING WATERS OF HILAWOD
By snakey1021
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The other tikbalang roared.
From behind it, another figure, that of an older man descended, his face astonished and angry at the same time; a long gleaming blade in his hands from where he took it from a leather scabbard attached with twine around his waist.
“You have killed,” the old man declared his voice controlled but the rage was unmistakable; his piercing gaze towards Anrhu.
Everyone was guarded, Bulagao tensed and wary, Dong almost ready to jump in defense if things escalated to an open fight.
“Stop!” the boy, Vincent said in a calm, commanding voice. “Who are you, and what brings you to the plains?”
No one among the companions spoke. A terse silence followed, the lone surviving tikbalang skittish, the old man edgy with the long curved blade still held ready in his hands. Anrhu was almost in tears, he can’t seem to take his eyes off the blade that he was holding just moments ago and now protruded from the chest of the dead equine monster.
Beatrice broke the silence.
“Uncle, I am Beatrice,” she spoke in a half whisper.
Vincent looked towards her, surprise in his eyes for the second time.
“Beatrice?”
“Yes Uncle Vincent, we have come to hear the prophecy,” she spoke, a little louder as she stood up from where she had fallen.
“Lies!” the old man thundered, “Lies, these people are spies from the spirit within the volcano. Come to fool us, separate and make us weaker so that they can bring our ultimate destruction.”
“What spirit of the volcano are you talking about,” Dong threw back, “Suklang Manayon, the Guardian of Happy Homes directed us to find a man named Vincent, he knows of the prophecy.”
“I am the Vincent you seek,” the boy pronounced. “We shall see if you speak the truth.” He looked at the girl, observed her, “You seem to be familiar to me, but it has been years since I saw you, in a church, and I was called back too soon.”
The companions did not notice that coming of others until they noticed that they were surrounded by other men. Thankfully no other tikbalang was present but from the looks that the newcomers gave them, it was obvious that they were not yet safe.
The old man, Tan Juan as the others called him alighted on the tikbalang that bore him earlier. “Go Requinto,” he commanded and was soon seen riding off towards the direction that the companions was headed.
They were escorted on all sides by the men, hard, edged men all wearing gray shirts and trousers that blended with the scenery that they could disappear a few feet from any one if one did not know they were there; most of them had similar blades like that of Tan Juan. Anrhu hands were tied behind him, being the one whose knife killed the other tikbalang.
Vincent walked at the head of the curious parade, Beatrice deep in conversation with him.
They walked for hours, stopping only for a short rest and a drink of water. There was no sign of the old man who went ahead, fast and mammoth was his mount.
The scenery changed. The swaying grasses dwindled and soon they were travelling through dry, cracked land. Walking became easier though Anrhu still felt that his legs would give way at any moment.
At a distance they saw the faint shimmer of moving water.
“We rest here,” Vincent’s commanding voice broke through the stillness, “Before we cross the raging waters of Hilawod.”
The hushed silence of the men and the whole-hearted acquiesce they surrendered to the order of the man-boy brought questions to the minds of the companions. Vincent looked like a teenaged boy of seventeen, long black wavy hair fell on his shoulders, and he wore faded blue jeans and a tight shirt of indeterminate color. But his eyes, his eyes were old and wise.
The companions huddled together where they were left to sit on a large flat rock. Anrhu massaging his wrist, where the twine was tight, he could see a faint red line. They were silent, afraid to talk, there were too many of their captors. And they were not harmed; it’s just that the feeling of being captive was alien and unwelcome.
Vincent approached.
“I gather you have not crossed the Hilawod before,” it was not a question.
No one answered. Beatrice seeing the look on her friend’s face shook her head, no.
“Not one of us has seen the Hilawod,” she said almost in a whisper.
“The quake gave us the Hilawod,” Vincent spoke,
“Beneath its waters are creatures that you can only imagine. It is deep, and the current is strong. We must cross it really fast, before something grabs us and takes us under.”\
Vincent turned his back from them and to the men he said, “We go.”
A half mile from their resting place and they arrived at the edge of the raging river. The spray of the cool water was a welcome to their aching and tired muscled.
The Hilawod was swift and loud, the dark murky surface restless with movement. It ran in a deep unnatural break on the ground, an almost straight slice of gash that ran far on both directions; it was impossible to see where it began and where it ended. Along its length, a little further, were the broken remains of what used to be a hanging bridge.
There was nothing else to suggest of a way to cross.
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