Types of Prose Narratives: A Text-Book for the Story Writer

by Harriott Ely Fansler

Since we left Currimao he had not addressed us a single word, but all of a sudden when the cart stopped in front of a ragged cottage, he cried out loud as if we were deaf, "Apu, arac quen maiz," which means, "Sirs, wine and corn." Mr. Guia and I rose from our squatting posture on the floor by the side of our steamer trunks and suit cases and got down to buy for our driver the things that he needed.

When we entered, the inner appearance of the cottage in the dim light of a small oil lamp hanging from the middle of the ceiling aroused somewhat my pity for the occupants. In one corner a rather old though fat woman was cooking supper, while in another corner were fishing nets, a new plow, a hunting spear and a callugung. In the corner near the door were rough boxes on which were ragged mats and red pillows. In the middle of the room was a basket of corn which an old, muscular man was husking when we entered and which he left to attend to our needs. We were invited to sit on a long bamboo bench which occupied one side of the room and where we remained as mute as statues until our driver, having filled his stomach with vino and having given his animal enough corn, summoned us to continue our journey.

We went out, and as the moon was now shining brightly, we had a front view of the cottage. The cogon roof, on which were perched some chickens, was pyramid-like, and the walls, broken at places but patched with rice-sacks through which the dim light of the lamp was visible, were made of bamboo. The porch, at the middle of which was a wooden staircase shaded by broad eaves, was piled full of corn.

After we paid the old man for what he supplied our now half-drunk driver, we again assumed our uncomfortable position in the cart. The road was now smooth and I was surprised to find ourselves suffering still the disagreeable upward and downward movement of the cart. I examined the two solid wooden wheels, and I found that they were not round, but oval. But the beautiful panorama of the country soon made me forget my discomfort in the cart. On our left and right were square rice-fields—some yellow with ripe grain and others green with young leaves—dotted here and there with hamlets or solitary trees so that they resembled a checker-board.

All the while that I was admiring this view, Mr. Guia seemed to be buried in deep thought. We were cabin-mates in the steamship Bustamante that brought us from Manila, and therefore I had known him for but three days, during which he was always cheerful and gay. But now what a sad and mournful countenance! His youthful and oval face, hitherto jovial and beaming with health, was pale. I was very sorry to see my companion thus afflicted with grief, and I said in a sympathetic voice, "Mr. Guia, are you sick?" He answered, "No, I am not. But, my friend, my mo-mo-mother died nine days ago, and that's why, as you see, I am mourning." Indeed, he was mourning, for he wore a black cap, suit, tie and shoes. I dared not continue our conversation along that line, for I knew it would but grieve him the more. So I expressed my condolence by silence. After a moment of quietude he told the driver something in Ilocano which I did not understand.

Suddenly the driver began to sing with a tremulous voice a common country ditty called "Dalla-dalluc." As it was getting late, I was soon lulled into a sound sleep. I think I had slept for about two hours when a loud barking of five dogs awoke me. When I looked around, I found that we were in a town, for we were passing by a church whose stone wall was black with moss and at whose rear a river was flowing. I asked Mr. Guia in what town we were and he answered, "Why, we are in San Nicolas now." I replied, "Then here we part." He exclaimed, "Oh, no! You are very tired, and it would be better for you to spend the rest of the night at my house. Besides you will not, I am sure, be able to wake the banquero (boatman), for it is now past midnight. To-night is also the celebration of what we call Umbras in honor of my dead mother, and I should like you to be my special guest." I thanked him very much for his kind invitation, and, of course, in the face of the obstacle he foretold, I was glad enough to accept.

The cart turned a corner and stopped suddenly in front of a somewhat large wooden corrugated iron roofed house—a typical town residence in the Philippines. We got down immediately from the cart, and we were met at the gate by a boy of about fifteen years of age. After Mr. Guia told the boy to look to our baggage, he conducted me to the sala, where he met his relatives.

While the affectionate greetings were going on between Mr. Guia and his family, I had time to observe all that was in the room. In one corner were young women and young men playing cards around a circular marble table, while in another corner were old women, talking of the high merits of the departed one. In the corner near the door where I was standing, a crowd of old fellows were drinking basi—a wine made from sugar cane—and I noticed our driver joining them. The walls seemed to be very plain; indeed all the decorations were covered with black cloth. In the center of the sala was a large rectangular table on which were different kinds of food ready to be eaten. The viands, however, were cold, so I judged that the table must have been set early in the evening.

As I was wondering why the table was placed there, Mr. Guia came and took me into his room where my baggage was put. My thought was still centered upon the table, and my curiosity led me to ask my friend about it. Before he answered me, he smiled, and then said, "You must know that it is the custom of the Ilocanos the ninth night after the death of any grown-up person to celebrate a mourning festival called Umbars. Each friend of the dead person brings during that day food either cooked or uncooked. That on the table is the cooked food, which is considered to be sacred and which, as you have just seen, is being watched by the people in the room. Nobody is supposed to touch the food before the prayer, which will begin at three o'clock. After the prayer is over, which will last for about two hours, then all the guests will eat the food, but at the head of the table a vacant seat is left for the spirit of the dead to sit. After the feast the guests depart, and the festival ends."

During the time that Mr. Guia was explaining to me the Umbras, I was able to wash myself and to change my traveling suit. So after he finished, he conducted me into the dining-room where we both ate a hearty meal. Naturally, after we had finished eating, we joined the company of young men and young women, to each of whom I was introduced and with whom we played cards until the time for prayers. In the midst of the prayer I asked the permission of Mr. Guia to go to his room to pack up my things so that I should be able to leave after the prayer.