by Kadi Serafica

One would not fault an observer for assuming Facunda Praxedes Santisima was 60 years younger than her 122 years. Her skin may be wrinkled and her back bent, but she was as agile as she had always been. When queried, Facunda would reveal a mastery of Tagalog, Cebuano, Waray, Ilocano, Tausug, Spanish, and a form of Baybayin she called Letra y Santisima. Every so often she convinced a guest by navigating at that perilous line between decency and forcefulness, to sit-in for a trail down memory lane on how she, as a young woman was able to unite her clan, the Santisima, by learning the language of each branch, and through adventures grafted the disparate branches back into the family tree under her leadership. 

Facunda’s vision was as sharp as it had ever been. Her sense of smell had not lost its edge. And yet she always felt weary these days. Facunda couldn’t pin-point exactly when she started feeling old. It snuck on her. A muscle cramp from stepping on a loose stone, then a bad back from sleeping in the wrong position. Her knees flaring up and then a migraine upstages it, minor pains and aches. No more than a nuisance, really. But they kept piling up. On and on a parade of discomfort. Like the ghosts of her departed, they haunted her. 

Neighbors affectionately called her Andang Facunda, long serving Barangay Captain of Gulod. A tough old woman who could settle disputes with a grumble. A favorite story, which every elder in the community attested to, was that time local rascal Conrado ‘Isputing’ Acebedes confessed to a burglary when he saw the victim towing the elder Facunda to the barangay hall. Another was that time her eldest grandson and by far the most handsome, Enrico, stayed overnight at a drinking session with friends. The next day Enrico was paraded in his karsonsilyo around the barangay with the then-younger and more feral Facunda, lecturing him about decency and making his family worry about him as he reveled in drinks and girls, all the while whacking his bare back and bottom with a walis ting-ting every step of the way. No police officer, not even the mayor, intervened.

When her family first set foot in what would become Gulod, there used to be talahib as far as the eyes could see. Cliffs and rocky hills secluded it. Her entire family could also vanish in the woods to the west if they needed to. The land was bountiful. A family could thrive if they were willing to till the soil. And so the Santisima made it their home. 

Soon, other families had arrived. Mang Simeon and his eight sons used to live fifty dipas away from Santisima’s ancestral bungalow. They were, as far as Andang Facunda can recall, their first neighbor. Eventually, the war found its way to the secluded barangay. The Spaniards brought their faith and muskets, the Americans their democracy and Colt .45’s, and the Japanese their fanaticism and katanas. The succeeding wars engulfed Mang Simeon, his eight children, and their children through circumstance or choice. When the war with the Japanese ended, none of his descendants were left. Thank God Simeon didn’t see the atrocities suffered by his great-grandchildren. 

On the other side of Andang Facunda’s old home used to be the Bisaya siblings, Ismael and Hakim, who left their island looking for a better life, only to find the same thing they ran away from. There was also a mother and daughter, the Kamlon’s, rumored to be witches who mostly kept to themselves. As far as Andang Facunda could remember, those were the only people in their corner of the world. 

That was a long time ago. Modernization and the ever-spreading humanity brought roads turning a half day of a dangerous trek into a two-hour bumpy trip from the town proper. And Andang Facunda had smoothened her ways. The heavy-handed, justice-serving, and gate-keeping Barangay Captain became a doting lola. 

There were no gadgets back in our time. We know the faces of our enemy and how to deal with them. We learned of death and suffering early on. It made us tougher but these millennial children, paying money so they can ride a horror train and scare themselves silly. How they laugh, comfortable in their ignorance, innocent of the darkness just outside their periphery.

Most of them would remain so. They would live quiet lives filled with balloons and cheers and painted faces. Just like the perya around her, this modern age was prettied-up with smoke and mirrors. Behind the cheery clowns lay a darker, harsher world. Her world. Andang Facunda closed her eyes and reminisced.

When the Second World War ended, the yet unnamed town was left in tatters. The survivors needed leadership. Someone strong enough to rebuild the town. Someone powerful enough to hold it together. Against her wishes, they christened the town Santisima. Andang Facunda, the eldest of her clan, became the impromptu alkalde. When the government sanctioned an official election, she left her post and ran for Barangay Captain of the then-newly named Gulod, the small tract of land over rocky hills bordered by a cliff on the north and a forest on the west. She still held that position unchallenged until today.

The glory of yesteryears faded as a child around six exited the horror train in the perya, puffed her chest, and ran to the grizzled woman. The child recounted, her ponytail bouncing with her head. “I was so brave, Anda! I punched the ghost. Kelly couldn’t do that!” 

“I’m sure you did! That’s why you’re my favorite. But it’s getting late. We should get home.”

“Hmmp. I had four rides. You promised five.” Jillian Grace counted with her pudgy fingers. “One. Two. Three. Four.”

The old woman turned her pockets out. “Anda ran out of money. We’ll ride the fifth one tomorrow.”

Jillian Graced looked at Andang Facunda quizzically. “I thought you were rich. Ow-key, you’re still my favorite but not by much.” The elder feigned hurt, a wizened hand on her chest. 

“Anda, Mama said we will live with you. I don’t like it here. My friends don’t live here.”

The elder caressed Jillian Grace’s cheeks. “Your Papa will become the barangay captain of Gulod. Why don’t you like it here? You don’t like me?!”

“You, I like.” Jillian Grace pouted. “But my friends are not here. Kelly is not here. Joana is not here. Arabel is not here. I don’t have friends,” 

` “Am I not your friend?”

Jillian Grace shook her head, the ponytails wagging with her head. “You’re not my friend. You’re my Anda!”

“I’m sure you will meet new people and you will have new friends. Come on, it’s getting late.” Andang Facunda offered her hand to Jillian Grace. The child took it and they walked back to their home.

Commands barked amid the loud perya. The operator of the running light spied on the shooting gallery. They were taking the ducks off the platform and unscrewing the air powered gun off its tank. The running light operator with sideburns and neon pink sando announced, “Pack up na, pack up na!” His deep voice boomed from the speaker. The octopus and bump cars whined to a halt, then the Ferris wheel with its bright bulbs flickered and died. Shouts and instructions filled the perya. The merry-go-round galloped to a halt. Operators and their crew folded the empty perya.

Jillian Grace ran her fingers over the elderly’s hand. The skin was loose, rough, and warm. “Hmm, can you tell me a story about aswangs? I watch horror movies. Papa said I’m very brave.”

The elder studied Jillian Grace. The child beamed a smile at her. “Last time I told you a story, you had nightmares. Your Mama Evelyn might get mad at me again.”

The child tugged at Andang Facunda’s hand. “Sige na. It will be our secret!” 

“If you promise to behave, I’ll tell you one.” The child nodded. Andang Facunda started, “This happened when the Japanese entered the town of Santisima–” 

“–Hala! That’s my last name! San.. San… Santimina.”

Andang Facunda corrected her, “It’s San-ti-si-ma.” 

Jillian Grace tried her best. “San-timina.”

Andang Facunda shrugged. “The soldiers had guns, katanas, and bombs. They herded everyone in the town plaza. They were looking for a book called Santisima Negra. The Japanese soldiers threatened to lop everyone’s head off if the townsfolk didn’t produce it.”

“Lop the head…. What does it mean?” inquired the child.

“Ah… eh… it means getting shot. The Soldiers will shoot them!”

Jillian Grace inspected the old woman with a sideways glance, nodded, then processed the information, before finally blurting, “Hala!”

Andang Facunda continued, “The book they were looking for was written by a fearsome ancestor, the greatest offspring of the first aswang. My ingkong told me when I was a bit older than you are now that our family had it looong before the Spaniards arrived.”

“Anda, I have many books, but I don’t shoot people.”  

Andang Facunda nodded solemnly. “Very good ka kasi.” 

Jillian Grace jumped away from imaginary cracks on the ground, nearly toppling. Andang Facunda propped her up with a hand. The child asked, “Where is the aswang?” 

“If you keep asking questions, we will never get there.” 

“Ok. Silent na. I’m ready Anda,” the child zipped her lips and wrapped her fingers together. 

“First, let’s hold hands. The townsfolk would have given the Santisima Negra up, but they didn’t know what it was the soldiers were asking for.” 

“Naku! Someone had his head lopped off! Sabi na nga e. I saw this in a movie. They didn’t give the necklace, boom! Batman became an orphan. Tsk.” 

The elder continued, “No one had been shot yet. But the Japanese were going to do it. Thank God it didn’t come to that! Some of the villagers turned into aswangs!” 

“They ate the soldiers with guns?” 

“Secret!” 

The child pondered it for a while. After mumbling to herself, Jillian Grace said, “Me, Anda, when I become an aswang, I will eat people with guns. Rarrr! Rarrr!”

Andang Facunda tussled her great-great-granddaughter’s head. Jillian Grace wrapped her hands around the elder woman. They tottered, but Facunda kept her balance. “Ay! That’s Mama. Anda, I’ll run to her.” She ran in place, her small legs quickening. “Mabagal ka kasi.” Jillian Grace said as she sped away.

Evelyn, the child’s mother, caught Jillian Grace and wrapped her hands around the kid. They waited for Andang Facunda to catch up. “You’re spoiling her, Anda. Should you even be going out given your—” 

Andang Facunda shushed her. “Since you and your husband arrived, my schedule has opened up. Besides, I enjoy spending time with my apo.” 

“Naku, Anda! You have a check-up tomorrow, you better rest up. I’ll take care of the chikiting.” Evelyn held her daughter’s hand. “Hoy, what troubles have you been up to?”

Jillian Grace inhaled sharply before answering, “Nag horror-train lang. Four lang. Because I’m a good girl. Tomorrow I will ride the fifth one, Mama.”

“As long as you don’t strain your Anda.”

Jillian Grace nodded her head, ponytail bouncing, “Opo Mama.”

The elder smiled as she watched the mother and daughter banter. They grow up fast. Soon, little Jillian will have her own family. Would I still be here? What will become of them without me?

Andang Facunda Praxedes Santisima had felt it for a long time now. Her command of the change had been weakening. She could barely keep herself together. There used to be a time when the mere mention of her name was enough to keep the outsiders in their place. Nowadays, no one knew her, nor the power she once wielded. 

Bartolome, her apo sa tuhod, seemed promising. His command of the change was greater than anybody else in the family right now. But what he could do as opposed to what Anda could back in the day was not even worth comparing. The forms she could take alone: birds, beasts, and reptiles. 

It must be the way these new kids grow up. In a way, it was her fault. They were raised under my protection. These kids never knew hunger, fear of death, or seen the terrors of war. They grew up like kings waiting for their turn to rule. 

Andang Facunda shook her head. If only she could make it better. Make them better. All I want now is for our legacy to endure. Or maybe this is the way it’s supposed to go. When rulers fade, their kingdoms crumble with them. The Santisima had been fading for a long time. Started way before she was born. Even before recorded history, a Santisima had sat on the aswang throne. But that mongrel Tiniente changed all that when he crowned himself king and the other families bent their knees and kissed his bloody hand.

“Nga pala, Mayor Luciano is waiting for you at home, Anda,” interrupted Evelyn. “Been there for an hour now. I had ordered Bart to pick you up, but the Mayor insisted on waiting. He said he doesn’t want to intrude on you and Jillian’s night at the perya.”

Mayor Luciano Liwayway had held office for almost eighteen years. Their family had served the town since the sixties with the support of Andang Facunda and the Santisima clan. Luciano was the fourth mayor in the family. 

Andang Facunda squinted at the shadows outside their bungalow home. “Is that Boy and Charlie?” she inquired, pointing to two men with her thin lips. The duo had been the mayor’s bodyguards for a decade now. Boy wore a pair of Glock low on his hips. He lit a cigarette and blew large puffs of smoke above his head. Charlie was half asleep in his chair. A cap pulled low to cover his face. He had his arms wrapped around an automatic rifle.

The three women, separated by decades, walked towards them; elder hands on the youngest. Jillian Grace sang as she hopped.

“Anda, magandang hapon ho. Mayor is waiting for you inside,” greeted Boy with affection. He tapped Charlie from his slumber, who removed his baseball cap and dipped his head at the passing elderly. 

Bartolome, Andang Facunda’s great-grandson and Evelyn’s husband, was with the mayor in the sala when the three females arrived. Mayor Luciano and his first-born son, Luciano the third, stood up and greeted the old woman. She motioned for them to take a seat before taking the large tumba-tumba in the corner.

The mayor was tall with a penchant for locally produced tobacco that had stained his fingers. His hair was graying, but he wore it with a textured falling quiff. He was a shade paler than the usual moreno skin Filipinos had. Supposedly, the Liwayways were begotten from an illegitimate dalliance between a Spanish friar with the parish washer-woman. Beside the mayor was his equally tall son. The younger Luciano seemed to shrink in the presence of his more elegant and seasoned father. He had bright eyes obscured by a thick pair of spectacles and a skittish look about him. 

The mayor exclaimed, “Anda! I was just telling Bartolome earlier that if need be, we can fly a specialist from America to treat you.”

Andang Facunda demurred, “I appreciate the concern, Mayor, but you don’t have to worry about me. My condition… it’s…” Andang Facunda rubbed a handkerchief at her face and neck. “There is no medicine, no treatment, no cure. I can smell it.” 

She noticed the rotting stench forty years ago. Andang Facunda thought little of it. Her mastery of the body allowed her to expel poison and alien substances, and heal wounds in minutes. Surely, with her capabilities, this disease would go away. But it didn’t. Instead, it festered. So Andang Facunda cut it out. But every time she did, it grew back. She could regrow new kidneys or arms. If she wanted to, Andang Facunda could replace her heart. But the disease had spread. She could not grow an entire body. 

She changed the subject. “My home will always be welcome to the Liwayways, you know that Mayor, but why the sudden visit?”

The mayor gave a practiced smile. He raked his hair with a hand, a nervous gesture that Andang Facunda ate up. “Nangangamusta lang ho, Anda. I also want to ask for your support in the coming election. The Santisima and the Liwayway have been long-standing allies.” 

Andang Facunda nodded, “’Alang kaso yan Luciano. I have been a vocal supporter of your clan since the time of your Lolo. We like how Santisima has grown under your family’s care.” 

Emboldened, the mayor put a hand around his timid son. “That is great to hear po. This is Luciano III. Around family, we call him Lucas. Ako nama’y ma-uban na, much like you are, Anda. I’m stepping down. Kung mamarapatin, I would love to pass the reins to my son. He is our vice mayor and has done wonders. The free WIFI in Gulod is his project! And if you remember a couple of months ago, the Police Chief we had replaced? It was Lucas who looked into him, turned out he was married to a Remedios, probably trying to weasel into town and into your land.” 

The mayor laughed, but the room was silent. He added, “Anda, you are the first to know of our plan. Of course, we will not go through it without your blessing…”

Lucas found his voice. “Bartolome informed us he plans to run as Santisima’s mayor. If that is the case, our family will rally behind him. My only request, if it’s not too much to ask… I hope the Santisima will consider me as his vice mayor.”

“A… e…” Bartolome started uncomfortably on his chair. 

Andang Facunda cut him off. “Bartolome will not run for mayor. He will run for barangay captain like I did.” She stood up, her legs shaking from the effort. “My clan will support you, Lucas, for your candidacy.” She addressed the current mayor. “My family has no interest in politics, Mayor, all we want is to keep to ourselves, like what my ancestors have always done.”

“But Anda–” Bartolome began. 

“–You may leave, Mayor. And give my regards to Mayora. Please tell her that my great-granddaughter enjoyed the horror train she imported for our pista.”

The elder Luciano and the future mayor of Santisima both bowed to Andang Facunda. Boy and Charlie peeped to say their goodbyes before leaving.

Bartolome kept his mouth shut. Evelyn pulled Jillian Grace to their bedroom. Alone at last, the leader of the new generation of Santisimas spoke to the old woman. “Anda, times have changed. Our clan has grown. Our side of the family that stayed in the South is being squeezed out of their lands by Tiniente’s ilk! If I become mayor, we will have our own town. Aba, our entire clan, even those from Sur, can migrate and settle here!”

In her younger days, she would have plucked an eye for this kind of insubordination. Andang Facunda kept her rising rage in check. She bit hard, keeping her mouthful of sharp teeth closed. Times had indeed changed. 

She said calmly, “That is not our way, Bartolome. What I’m doing has worked for our family for hundreds of years. We are still here after all the other clans and kingdoms have fallen. But I will not be long for this world and you will inherit this family. When I pass the Santisima Negra into your hands, you may do as you wish. But while I breathe, my word is still law.”

Andang Facunda Santisima hauled herself out of the plush tumba-tumba and into her room. She tired easily nowadays. She had been fighting the disease and losing ground for 38 years. It had conquered her body. Skin, muscle, bones, and everything in between had been contaminated by the disease. Some days, the stench was all she could smell. It made her wonder why others couldn’t smell it, too. 

Anda fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. She dreamed of the day they indoctrinated her to the secrets of the Santisima Negra. She had just celebrated her fifteenth year. Hilaga, her Ingkong, passed it on to her on his deathbed. 

“Facunda, you will inherit Apo Dupil’s secret. Lead the clan. Protect the secrets within the tome, as you would protect our blood.” He said, barely catching his breath. The old man handed her a tome in the darkness. His eyes were bright yellow.

Young Facunda wrapped her arms around the tome. It ebbed with power. It was bound with human skin. Peeled from the arm of the first aswang itself. 

Ingkong Hilaga continued, “We are the strongest of the clans. They have forgotten it, but it is your duty, as it was mine, to make them remember. Study the secrets of the Santisima Negra. Share its bounty to the worthy among our family.” Ingkong Hilaga flipped the tome to its last page. It was blank save for tanning and smudges of dried blood. “Finish the great work Apo Dupil has left us. Uncover the ultimate secret within its pages.” Hilaga coughed uncontrollably.

Facunda waited for Ingkong Hilaga before she asked, “Tell me everything you know about it.”

“Those who led the clan before me said it was a gift given to Apo Dupil by the first aswang. It’s a ritual so terrible, Apo himself feared discovering the secret. I tried Facunda, but its secrets have eluded me. Find it. Complete our inheritance,” Ingkong Hilaga sighed and was no more.

The elders hurried to their dead patriarch, burning leaves, wailing his name. But young Facunda, newly-crowned matriarch, had no time to waste. She left the funeral rites to the elders. She stayed in her room and for the next few weeks, pored over the tome leaf by leaf, transcribing, translating, organizing the bits and pieces of power to be awarded to branches of the family of the new generation.

The Santisima Negra glowed as Facunda held it. Pages bled, leaving scripts as she flipped it open. The handwriting was atrocious and used a mixture of Baybayin and other Polynesian languages. Around the key text, in ink of various hues, were commentaries and guides added by succeeding keepers of the Santisima Negra. The languages drilled into the next generations by the elders of the clan. 

Facunda herself had been the recipient of some of its secrets. Many aswangs could change into animals like a dog, a large bird, or boar by imprinting on a companion animal. They would appear as the same dog or cat. The Santisima’s learned of a way to overcome that limit. Beyond that, the strongest among the Santisima’s could turn into a flock of birds, a troop of monkeys, or a mass of spiders. Ingkong Hilaga had been known to turn into a bed of snakes. A feat Andang Facunda mastered by the end of the Second World War. 

In the dream, years passed as Facunda studied the tome. She kept coming back to the last page. While other pages showed instructions, recipes for a ritual, or diagrams, the last page was blank. Then the dream continued but this time Ingkong Hilaga appeared to her. He was young and fearsome. His yellow slitted eyes were bright as the sun. 

He revealed, “To protect the most fearsome ritual of our family, it was written in a different way. The first aswang ensured that only the worthy among us will inherit it.” Ingkong Hilaga laughed as blood gurgled from his lips, “Will you save us Facunda? Or will you let this family rot like you did your body?” 

Andang Facunda woke up with the TV turned on. A thin veneer of sweat covered her face. Her eyes were orange, a pair of fangs jutting between her dried lips. Jillian Grace was sitting beside her. The little girl had it on a nature channel. The child watched with rapt attention. Predators fascinated her.

Andang Facunda controlled her breathing, and the change vanished. She fixed her now disheveled hair with a carabao horn comb from the bedside table.

Jillian Grace announced, “It’s almost time for dinner, Anda! May chickenjoy ako.” She looked at her pudgy fingers and showed two fingers at Andang Facunda. “Two chickenjoys, you can have one so you can get better. When I was hospitalized, Anda, I ate chickenjoy then I got better! Totoo.”

Andang Facunda motioned for the child to hug her. Jillian Grace dived into her arms. The old woman hugged the child as tight as she could. “Bait naman.”

Jillian Grace returned to her show. The elder propped her pillows for them to lean on while watching the large smartTV. She asked, “What are you watching, apo?”

“Bees. They like flowers.” 

Evelyn peeked inside the room. “Naku, you are disturbing your Anda again! Let’s go chikiting! Dinner is ready.” 

“Yehey!” shouted Jillian. She placed the remote beside Anda’s blotched hand and ran out of the room.

Evelyn addressed her great-grandmother, “Anda, it’s time to eat ho. Boy dropped by earlier. Handed ten kilos of the biggest sugpo I have ever seen, ga-braso! Bart cooked half in Sprite.” 

Andang Facunda smiled, “It’s Bart’s favorite. I will be there in a second. Just need to find where I put that remote control…”

“Don’t take too long, Anda. Let’s go Jillian.” The mother and daughter left.

She peeped under the bed and checked the bedside table but couldn’t find the remote. After looking under her pillows, she found the remote beside her. Andang Facunda chuckled.

“…. humans have one of the best eyes in the animal kingdom. Our way of vision is so appealing sometimes we forget that there are other ways of seeing.” Blared the TV. To protect the most fearsome ritual of our family, it was written in a different way. She sat on the edge of the bed. 

“…flowers use their scents and beautiful colors to attract animals. Some flowers like these yellow Potentilla anserina look like any common yellow flower at first glance. Since it specifically looks for bees and other insects to pollinate it, it has evolved a color scheme ‘for insect eyes only’. Bees do not see red as we know it. Their vision is shifted toward the violet end of the visual spectrum. So, a common yellow flower-like Potentilla anserina hides a pattern and color scheme…” 

The TV showed the flower under what looked like x-ray vision. The unassuming, plain yellow flower was lit brightly with dazzling arrays of patterns–

The last secret of the Santisima Negra, a ritual of power long forgotten. Written in a way only a truly powerful aswang can perceive. It was said that the great aswang who made the Santisima Negra was unrivaled in his command of the change. It is possible the forgotten elder, the first aswang, learned how to use the senses of insects? 

Andang Facunda noticed a bee buzzing busily outside her window. The matriarch staggered to the window, unclasping the rusted hinge, hands shaking as she flung it open. She peeled her wizened mouth and sucked in, pulling the helpless bee, chewed.

Facunda heard Ingkong Hilaga’s words as if they were spoken yesterday. Taste its essence, let it swirl in your mouth. Find the root source of its abilities. Absorb and learn its ways. Repeat after me: Aram Acdam Acsadam Aram Ardam Adraoam, Ampilam Goam Exemener Au!

Her eyes glowed as she recited the incantation, bled as they warped, as they learned how to see. The world turned gray and bleak. But outside, Andang Facunda could see bright patterns in once plain flowers. She hurriedly opened the trunk below the bed, flung old clothes and photo albums out of the way. At the bottom, she found the Santisima Negra. Bound in flesh and written with blood, it glowed in an explosion of new patterns and scripts no eyes had seen in a millenia.

Somewhere in the halls of her ancestors, Ingkong Hilaga laughed.

About the Author. Kadi Serafica lives in Isabela, Philippines. He has been fascinated by Pinoy myths and folklore as far as he can remember. He has a collection of Filipiana books on history, religion, and the supernatural. He writes fantasy and horror that celebrates Pinoy culture, and authored  The Awakening which was published by Paperkat Books. The Awakening, available in select Fully Booked Stores and Lazada, is the first of a planned eight volumes of interconnected short stories that explore a modern world where all myths and folklore are real. His next book, Days of the Elder Gods, comes out in 2025.