Free Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) by F. Sionil Jose

really going to leave Po-on? Where will you go?” Dalin asked as Istak got off the cart. It would be the last time he would see her.
    “If this is what God wills …”
    “It is not God’s will,” Dalin said.
    “There is always land for those who want to clear it,” he said.
    “Is that what you will do? Look for new land? I have told you what I have seen.”
    “And it is so far away,” Istak said, but quickly there flashed in his mind the vast valley well beyond Tirad and across many ranges. What Dalin had seen would not be much different. Would he have the will to leave Po-on or Cabugaw itself? And how would he tell his father, who had poured his sweat into the little plot he did not even own?
    Dalin continued evenly, “I can go with you. Part of the way. Then I won’t have to travel alone.”
    Istak turned to her—dark eyes beseeching. He smiled, and in a leap, he was beside her on the cart again. Yes, it was the right thing to do, the kindly thing to do—she would go with them since she had nowhere else to go. Where would it lead? There seemed to be no way he could elude what he himself had wanted to escape, this Po-on to which, like most of his people, he had been chained. But she was here, flower to the eye, and this was not good-bye.
    He told her then how it was more than ten years ago. It was as if he were on the same cart, only he was not returning to Po-on, but leaving it instead. Padre Jose had come to say Mass, as he had done twice a year for many years, and after the Mass he had performed the rituals of confirmation on the children—many of them well into adulthood. The old priest had picked him out because he was the smartest, the most alert. That was the beginning and Istak did not disappoint his benefactor, although afterward, when he was older, Istak knew that the barriers to his ambition were higher than the Cordilleras. He had heard of what had happened in Cavitc, and Padre Jose was not one to deny or gloss over it—how three native priests were executed “for leading a revolt” and one of them was from Vigan, an Ilokano like him. The disturbing knowledge had lodged deep in his mind, grown with him, merged with his flesh, and become an oppressive afterthought; he knew his place, he had accepted it. Perhaps it was possible … but he did not let the thought consume him. The ways of the world were set; he was not going to be a thorn. He was a man of peace and would turn the other check as Christ had done, to teach people to love others if they cannot even love themselves. He could have gone to the seminary in Vigan; he had visited there with Padre Jose, had seen the classrooms, the library shelves with so many books he wouldhave loved to touch, but it was all over now—and it was God’s will, perhaps, that he was not meant to be a priest, that he and his family would always be with the land. If this was so, then he should not fret too much. Thoughts of Dalin beside him, sometimes their arms touching, lulled him. He would have someone like her, and again, the shame and wonder—how it was with Capitán Berong’s daughters, how they teased him, always leaning forward at the table so that he could peer down into their white blouses to the rise of their breasts.
    When they reached the village, only Ba-ac was at home. Istak’s mother was in the creek washing and his brothers were out in the fields. They waited at the foot of the stairs till Ba-ac came down with a large wooden basin filled with warm water. He strained down the flight, his left hand pressing the heavy basin against his waist.
    When they were through washing, Istak told him what Capitán Berong had said. The old man listened calmly; he was easily given to anger, but now there was stoic patience in the shrunken face. After a while, Ba-ac said dully, “I will go to town and beg the new priest to let us stay for another year. If we move out now, how will we live? We have but little grain left. If it could be the next harvesttime,