Free A Pledge of Silence by Flora J. Solomon Page A

dungeons, baroque cathedrals, and museums, promising many lifetimes’ worth of intrigue to discover. Chinatown, founded in the tenth century, was a labyrinth of narrow streets swamped with bargain hunters enjoying the ambience and purchasing exotic wares. Restaurants offered food choices from soups and noodles to exquisitely prepared dinners.
    In sharp contrast to the bustle and wealth of Manila, in the pitiable countryside peasants lived in bamboo nipa huts perched on stilts next to mud wallows. Margie gaped at them through the car window while on a day trip out of the city. Evelyn and Max occupied the front seat. Margie was friendly with Max for Evelyn’s sake, but she disliked his piercing gaze and unbearable arrogance.
    Royce Sherman, a surgeon and former Texas A&M quarterback, shared the back seat with Margie. Their mutual attraction had been immediate—her long gaze, his wink, her blush. Friendly and outgoing, he affected a bit of a swagger, but he wasn’t a flirt, she learned. They had been sharing lunch hours for a while.
    “People live in those shanties?” she asked.
    “People and animals,” Max said. “The floors are made from split bamboo so food scraps can fall through to the pigs and chickens underneath. The water buffalo over there are called carabao. They don’t sweat, so they need those mud wallows to keep cool.”
    “Carabao pull those high-wheeled carts you see all over,” Evelyn added.
    A convoy of 16 open buses approached from the opposite direction, each bus holding sixty-some gaily-singing Filipino men. Conglomerations of suitcases, boxes, guitars, cooking pots, chickens in cages, and piglets in bags were stowed on top, underneath, and lashed to the sides of the buses. Clanking, squawking, and squealing noisily, the convoy rattled along. The Filipino men waved and shouted as they passed by.
    “Look at those jokers. It’s the Philippine Army,” Max said. “They’re training with bamboo guns.”
    “Bamboo guns?” Evelyn said. “They use darts dipped in poison, what is it…curare?”
    Max scoffed, “Don’t be absurd.”
    “It’s not absurd. In South America, the Indians hunt with blowguns made from bamboo and darts dipped in curare. I read about it in the National Geographic.
    Max said, “Stop showing your ignorance. This isn’t South America.”
    Margie frowned and stared out the window.
    Royce calmly explained, “The Philippine Army is short on equipment. They make guns from bamboo for practice drills.”
    “Just as well,” Max said. “They’d shoot holes in their own feet.”
    “I thought the Filipinos had a well-trained army.”
    “They do; the Philippine Scouts,” Max said. “They’re part of the Regular U.S. Army, commanded mostly by American officers. The reserve divisions you see here are rag-tags from the rice paddies. Thousands of them are in this so-called training. I wouldn’t want my life depending on them.”
    The road took them through miles of flat farmland before skirting the southern shore of a large freshwater lake. From there, the terrain became hilly. In a little while, they reached a small town in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains. Max stopped the car, and they got out.
    The town itself was worth the journey. They snapped pictures of each other posed in front of its magnificent arched gate, grand ancestral homes, and panoramic views of pristine hills and crystal waters. Max retrieved a picnic basket from the trunk and carried it to a riverside dock where he haggled with two locals. Money changed hands, and Max put the basket in what appeared to be a floating log. He waved Evelyn over.
    “What’s this?” she said.
    “It’s a banca and the guides are bankeros. Get in.”
    “You serious? Will it hold me?” She stepped in and squealed as the banca tipped. Max grabbed her arm to steady her.
    Royce helped Margie into their banca, she in front, he behind with his legs stretched on either side of her. The banca rolled, and he grabbed her around