by Nica Bayona

 Obet is never late.  But I’ve been waiting for almost an hour now that I finished counting all the concrete trucks bound for San Juanico. It’s been four years since they started building the bridge and the trucks would always arrive before sundown. I never really understood the huge, rotating barrels behind them but just recently, Obet’s father, Tiyo Jun got hired to drive one so I asked him how they worked. Driving trucks is the only job I’ve seen the old man do ever since I can remember, all kinds of them, so it only makes sense that he jumped at the opportunity the moment it was offered. Add a base wage and a promised pack of cigarettes and Tiyo Jun is good to go.

“The trucks have to keep mixing the chunky stuff inside so they can use it right away,” I remember him saying. Tiyo Jun seems so happy doing it day after day. I wonder if I can drive one of those too when I grow up. 

San Juanico is almost finished and Obet wanted to see how far we could walk the bridge before some grumpy man in an orange vest and hard hat kicks us out. But here I am by the entrance with no sign of my friend ever showing up. 

As I wait for a couple of minutes more, Tiyo Jun passes by with his truck. He slows down his already sluggish vehicle and calls me from the other side of the road.  “Erik! What are you doing here so late?”

“I’m waiting for Obet, Tiyo!” I shout from my side, making sure he hears me back amidst the passing cars between us. “But— he should be here soon!” 

Tiyo Jun checks his watch and yells back as he drives away from me. “His grandmother must’ve asked him to do some chores! We never let him out this late!” 

“Oh. All right!” I scratch my head in mild disagreement. I don’t think six o’clock is late for grown boys like me and Obet. We’re almost twelve now. But I have to follow Tiyo nonetheless.  

“Ingat, Tiyo!” I tell him instead and he honks his truck twice as a reply before speeding away. Just then, I look at my feet, willing them to decide whether I should cross the bridge without my friend, go home, or wait for him to come around. 

“Do I go?” But my toes seem to answer back, turning the rest of my body around. It’s just not fun without Obet. 

I guess the bridge has to wait another day. 

The walk home is chilly— and dark. Tacloban never really had properly lit roads at night. And where we live, every house is half a mile away from each other. It rains here almost every day and the wind usually picks up the closer I get to the barrios. I don’t want to go home yet, though. My mother works the graveyard shift at a nearby factory so it gets lonely at the house at this hour. Then I remember Obet lives nearby, I might as well go see him.

“Obet!” I call out from outside their dilapidated bamboo gate. The rain is now threatening to fall. His grandmother, Nanay Lena, comes out of their hut. I can not tell if her scrunched-up face was from old age or from the sound of my yelling. She lets me into their house though, as the wind is getting stronger outside. 

“I told you kids not to play outside when it’s raining.” Nanay Lena says as she walks hurriedly back into the house without looking back at me. “Dry up, Obet. Then set the table up for dinner. Erik, you stay. Come eat with us”

I try to look around the house for Obet but he is nowhere to be seen. Who is Nanay Lena talking to? 

“Obet, I said set up the table—” Nanay Lena tries again. 

“Nanay Lena—” I call her attention. Only then did she look back at me and realize her grandson isn’t around.

“I thought you were with Obet?”  Nanay Lena looks at me confused.

“He didn’t show up. I waited for him by the bridge the whole afternoon.” Even telling her that I saw Tiyo Jun before coming here. “Tiyo told me he’s at home doing chores. I never saw Obet today, ‘Nay. That’s why I’m here—”

Nanay Lena’s face turns pale as she finds the nearest chair to sit on. Maybe Obet walked the bridge without me. Or maybe he found a way to get to the other side? Or worse, he has found a new friend to do it with? I try to think of more reasons before Nanay Lena breaks our silence. 

“He’s not going to be one of those, right?” her voice slightly quivering. 

Nanay Lena could only mean one thing. For the past four years, there have been multiple cases of people disappearing in Tacloban and Samar. I first heard about it when my mother came home one time telling me about a coworker who never returned to work. Many people say it has to do with San Juanico because the disappearances only started when they began building it. Some even say they grind these people to mix them with concrete so San Juanico can be the strongest and most beautiful bridge in the world. 

It takes away the dullness of our barrios, these stories. And if anything, it keeps our elders alive, eagerly awaiting for a new tale to keep them occupied. I never believed them though. That was such a crazy thing to say. Plus Tiyo Jun would never agree to work there if it were true. 

“Anything but that, ‘Nay. ” I say to the old woman.

“Did you play near the rivers? You know Obet can’t swim, right? What if the Kataw— you know they come out when the waters are deep—”

The Kataw—right. Another one. The shapeshifting sea monsters pretending to be humans are the reason my friend is missing.

“‘Nay, we didn’t play anywhere. I didn’t even see Obet today. I’ve been telling you.”

She begins again, “Could it be—” 

And there she goes again. I’ve been spending way too much time at Obet’s house that I know right away what Nanay Lena is going for. We have memorized her cycle of topics from every conversation we’ve had with her. And with her old age, she just repeats everything all the time. 

But here’s another thing about Tacloban—most people here have always believed in myths, Nanay Lena included. But this time, as if the tales of the seemingly murderous bridge and sea monsters weren’t enough, she adds another one. The town’s favorite. She’s talking about Biringan. Ask anyone and they’ll answer you with utmost pride about a city so perfect other provinces wish they had it. It’s like a trinket passed down from generations of Warays who believe that Biringan is a gift from God. But ask these people again where exactly Biringan is and they’re silent. It’s because no one has really seen it— even up until now. 

“Obet is missing, ‘Nay.” I plead with her. “Can we do this some other time?” I couldn’t take the rest of her assumptions so I make up an excuse to leave their house. I’m going to find Obet myself. 

It has started to drizzle on the road back to San Juanico. The smell of the earth from the nearby forest takes over the air. When we were younger, Obet and I would race through this same forest until our feet hurt. And we loved climbing trees growing up. I remember that was the first time we’ve ever heard of Biringan too, when some old man shushed us in the middle of the woods. 

“Be quiet. They get little kids too, you know?” I remember the old man saying. His impish smile was impossible to forget. And he wore clothes that were always so grimy from the sacks of copra that he carried on his back. We saw the old man every time we went to the forest until he became a really great friend. He told us about Biringan and all the things we know about it. The engkanto and the balls of light that led people astray, and the city so ideal no sane abducted person would ever dare to leave. 

But the more Obet and I grew up, the more we thought Biringan was just another make-believe tale from our elders. I just don’t see it being true. We stopped seeing the old man in the woods a few years ago and our time spent racing through the forest grew less. Maybe the old man left Tacloban and went to Samar where Biringan was. He was obsessed with that place. 

“Obet!” I call for my friend repeatedly, hoping that a little threat of grounding from his father would work. “Obet, you’re dead meat if Tiyo Jun gets home before you!” 

What if Obet is in the forest right now?  But what would he be doing there? 

“Obet!” I can hear my voice echoing back at me.  And it’s too quiet that I’ve gotten an earful of my rubber slippers squeaking in the puddles. The crickets are getting louder, too. There’s nothing here. No one but me. The frogs will chime in once the rain dies down a bit though so at least I’ve got some company—because other than that, no soul seems to be around.  

“Obet! Come on, I’m tired.” I call for my friend again. 

Then, there are two bright lights coming at me from the far end of the road. I suddenly remember the stories from the forest. “Don’t look at it,” I whisper under my breath. But before I can keep walking with my head bowed down, I realize they were just headlights from an incoming jeep. “Hey! Here!” I wave my hands frantically to get the driver’s attention. 

The jeep’s tires screech as it stops in front of me. The driver looks a tad queasy in his seat, with his hair disheveled and his eyes as if they could fall off their sockets.

“Kuya, did you see a boy on the way?” I ask him. “He’s just a little bit taller than me.”

Kuya scans me from head to toe before shaking his head. “Can’t help you. I’m lost, too.” He scratches his head and turns off his engine. “I’ve been looping in this part of town I think.”

My brows furrow in confusion. “But you can’t get lost here. This route leads to Cabalawan and nowhere else.” 

“But I’m supposed to go to Ormoc.”

“Nobody takes Cabalawan to Ormoc.” I answer him. “Turn around and take Diit instead. It’s an hour quicker.”

Kuya lets out a heavy sigh. “The roads are too dark in this part of town, that’s why.” He then mutters curses only he can hear. “These Governors can build bridges but never lamp posts!”

“Is it safe for you to drive still?” I ask. Kuya tries to shake off his sleepiness but his eyelids betray him, each blink slower than the last. 

“I have to.” Another sigh. “Did you say I need to turn around?”

I nod in response, hesitating for a moment before quickly deciding against telling him to drive safely knowing he wouldn’t listen anyway.

But as I watch the man drive away, I notice a shadow running on the side of the road heading towards San Juanico. It’s too dark to recognize anything but the figure seems just as tall as me. Or taller.

“Obet! Obet!” Portions of the road are slick with moss, making it hard to run in my slippers, so I leave them behind as I catch up to my friend. “Obet, this is not funny!” 

My rain-drenched shirt clings to my skin as I pick up my pace. I’m wet, cold, and bone-tired. Still, the bridge is getting closer, I can tell because the cranes moving in the distance are more visible now. The shadow seems to slow down so I squint into the darkness to see a clearer view of my friend. But just when I’m about to call his name again, a vehicle honks from behind me. 

“You again?!” The driver from the same jeep minutes ago is just as confused as I am. Our eyes narrow in unison. Kuya howls at me, “You told me to turn around and take Diit!”

“I did!” 

“Then how am I here still! Again!” 

“But you should be in the right direction,” I wail back. “I watched you drive away—” 

Then the driver yelps in pain. 

“What’s happening?”

 He reaches for his nape, then takes his hand back covered in blood— and sand. Like grits of dark red. And it reeks of something extremely rotten. 

The man starts sweating beads of the same gritty red on his forehead. Then on his neck. Then his eyes and nose. Then he starts vomiting curdles of grainy blood as he struggles to look at me. 

“Run!” his voice almost hissing. “Don’t let them see you.”

“Who?! Why are  you—” I can’t decipher where he’s bleeding anymore. “Kuya, we need  to get some help–”

 But the driver pushes me back onto the road instead. “Go!” His glare piercing through as if he’s talking to someone behind me— it’s just the two of us here. 

“No! You stay here. I’m getting help!” I demand from him. My voice grows louder and rougher from the panic. “Don’t go anywhere!” 

The bridge. The cranes are still moving. I can get help from the operators or whoever is still working there. Then, as if reading my mind, the driver whispers, “The bridge.”

“Yes! I know– I’ll come back okay?” I look straight into his eyes. A promise. “Kuya, I’ll come back, okay–”

“The bridge.” He whispers again, quieter this time. “Your friend.”

“Obet?!” Did he see Obet there? I look back at the lights from afar. “He’s there?” But as I turn around to ask him again, “Kuya, did you see him there—” 

The driver is gone. His jeep too. 

My stomach churns, suddenly feeling the urge to vomit. But I swallow hard to keep it down. I try to cast off the fear surging inside me. It’s getting late, it’s past my bedtime, it’s too dark in here, and I have to find Obet still. 

“Just get to the lights,” I tell myself quietly, willing to stay calm. Obet is there.

I finally reach San Juanico, still shaken from moments past. The cranes still have their lights on but I hear no guttural sounds from the engines and they don’t seem to be moving anymore. Just an unsettling silence in the air as I try to catch my breath while wringing the bottom of my rain-soaked shirt. But for a moment, I’ve forgotten the cold that was seeping through my skin. 

The bridge. 

It’s beautiful. 

I’ve never seen it from this view. It’s brighter in the late hours when almost nothing else is lit up—and the more I walk towards the middle, the more I am enamored with the lights reflecting in the water below. The waves look so gentle and strings of moonlight gleam down the surface that they look like glitter. I can not wait to run around here with Obet every day, I hope they finish it soon. And Samar seems so near now, I heard they have plenty of dark scary caves with impossibly giant rocks there. We could get one of those and then throw them from up this bridge and into the water. Whoever makes the bigger splash wins. Obet would like that.

“Obet…” I say, though faintly. Some orange vest man might hear me and I am not taking any chances to get kicked out this time—at least not without my friend beside me. “Obet, come on, you’re going to get us in trouble.” 

I look for the shadow again in hopes of seeing it clearly under the bright lights. But something catches my eye from the water. A small spot seems to be bubbling about the length of my arm wide. Could it be—

Nanay Lena says they come out when it’s pouring. She tells us every time she gets a whiff of the air when rain is near. It’s how she knows. She doesn’t check the clouds nor listen to the slightest hints of thunder like a normal person would. She just takes the deepest breath outside of her hut— something about the smell of her backyard shifting, filling her lungs. I’m not sure how she just knows. That’s when she would tell us then about the Kataw who drag people down by their feet to feast on them at the bottom of the river. Never in Nanay Lena’s existence had she witnessed anything like it, she always says, but it’s true. She knows it’s true. 

“Tabi-tabi po—” I say out of habit. So much for someone who doesn’t really think they’re real. More bubbles emerge from the water. But the rain starts pouring again. And my friend is still nowhere to be found.  

The bubbles are getting harder to see in the downpour but I wait until, finally, some object comes up. It looks like a dark-colored sack floating with boughs attached to the sides. And is that a coconut husk sticking out on the top? It’s round and hairy and—

“No, no, no, no, no—” 

That is not who I think it is. It can’t be. 

The wave of heaving that I had swallowed in the forest is now threatening to crawl back up my throat. The route down the riverbank is brutal. Shards of debris from the construction above keep pricking my feet. And the closer I get, the more my knees tremble at the possibility I couldn’t even say out loud. It can’t be him. My friend fears the water and he never learned how to swim. The river doesn’t look too nice from this view anymore. It’s just vast darkness and the water is freezing it hurts my skin. Please let it not be my friend. Please let it not be him. 

I can’t possibly pull this weight out of the water all by myself—whatever this is. But as the familiar rancid smell closes in on me, the sack suddenly rolls over onto its back before I can get any closer, revealing a face that isn’t my friend’s but someone I can still vaguely remember.

The old man from the forest. 

The water starts to vibrate. Bubbles start springing up again, this time beside the old man. And then another from five meters away. And then another beside me. Then a new one behind. Until we’re surrounded by bubbles raging everywhere as if the water is boiling. My feet cannot reach the bottom anymore and I’ve swallowed mouthfuls of water to stay afloat. 

I grab the old man by the feet to pull him with me as I swim to the bank. He’s dark purple—and cold. How did he end up here? 

I try to find a faster way to carry him back to land but something pushes me up from underwater as if something is preventing me from going under.  It’s the same cold feeling though gripping the calves of my feet. Aren’t Kataw supposed to pull me down? I’m too tired to think clearly at this point, I’ve only had murky river water for dinner and this old man’s dead weight on me is not helping. And why do I keep running into everyone except Obet?

“Can you take me to my friend first at least?” I say on a whim, breathless. 

Then I feel something move from behind me. 

“Go,” says a deep guttural voice. 

“Who’s that?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge anything beyond my periphery. But the voice grunts again. The command still echoes in my ears, the nth time tonight. Mustering up all the strength I have left, I turn around only to see the old man, wide-eyed—but still purple, talking to me. The grip on my calves is gone now that I visibly see him reach for my shoulder instead. Then multiple floating bodies emerge from every seething spot. Some of them floating upright like how the old man is now. 

“Go.” The old man’s voice pleading. His face is closer— so close I can feel his unusually warm breath inches from me, comforting me from the cold. 

I don’t remember how I reached the bank so quickly. The water has no signs of what had happened. No bubbles, nor a lifeless old man from the forest beside me. It’s just the endless darkness of the water—silent and perfectly still. And the way back to the bridge had gotten muddier, my already weak legs couldn’t keep up. I collapse onto the ground. 

“Obet, if you don’t come out in ten seconds I’m going home without you!”

Flashes of worry engulf me as I scream into the void. It’s almost midnight. My friend must be really scared and hungry right now. Obet was always more cowardly, he couldn’t be here on his own. I hope he isn’t drenched from the rain like I am. 

“I mean it this time! Ten—” On nine, I see the same shadow from a mile away, but with more prominent features of my friend. 

“Obet!” He looks doused with mud. Is he looking for me too?

 “Hey! I’m right here!” My legs rise back up before I even realize it. I never ran so fast in my life. I just know that it’s him. “Obet!” I try again, but then a sudden gust of warm wind blows across my back, carrying a light prick of something bitter cold. 

It sends shivers up my spine. And why does it hurt though? I reach for my nape to check—

That’s the last thing I can remember as I try to recall why I woke up in a small ditch under the bridge this morning with the sun shining brightly on my face. I must’ve blacked out from everything that had happened the night before.

But I haven’t found my friend yet— and that my mother should be home by now waiting for me with her favorite slipper to beat me with. I’ll look for Obet again in the afternoon. Or tomorrow. Or when my mother isn’t home because, at this point, I’m grounded for sure. 

“Ma, I’m here!” I say casually as I enter our gate, still practicing the lamest excuse under my breath. “I stayed at Obet’s to do a school project—I stayed at Obet’s to do a school project— I stayed at Obet’s–” But even before I can call for my mother again, I see Nanay Lena walking towards our house with stacks of tupperware in her hand. 

Why is she here?

“‘Nay, you shouldn’t have—” says a voice from behind me. It’s my mother. She doesn’t greet me though and strangely doesn’t even look at me, so  I just move to the side as I watch her take the tupperware from Nanay Lena. Fair enough, still better than the slipper. And is that pancit she’s holding? 

“Oh no, don’t worry. Just wanted to cook something for your son’s birthday, you know—” Nanay Lena replies. 

“Salamat, ‘Nay. Like you always do.” My mother rests a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “‘Nay?” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Could you please tell Obet to come visit me some time soon?

“Do you need any help with the house? I can ask Jun to come with him—”

“No, ‘Nay— just Obet. I— I want him to have some of my son’s clothes. Erik had too much of them laying around in the closet, catching dust— and— they would fit Obet. He’s just a bit taller but they would fit—”

“Oh no, I’m not so sure about that. Obet has gotten bigger.”

They share a slight laugh before silence surrounds them, an unsettling one. Then my mother takes a deep breath before bowing her head over the stack of food. Nanay Lena does the same. The older woman takes my mother’s hand. 

“Obet still has dreams about him too, you know. He would always have dreams of Erik still looking for him— still waiting by the bridge.”

“They were inseparable.” My mother’s eyes start to well up. 

“They were.” Nanay Lena whispers under her breath. “ I just wish they hadn’t gone to the bridge that day. I’ve told them multiple times but they wouldn’t listen. It’s been two years but I still couldn’t—”

Two years?

I try to hold my mother’s hand but she doesn’t budge still, as if my hand passes through like air. I can’t touch her. “Ma, I’m here!” And she can’t hear me, too. “Ma, I’m here! It’s Obet who’s missing!”

Obet. Obet knows what’s happening. Obet can tell my mother we just went to meet by the bridge yesterday except he didn’t show up and now my mother is giving away my clothes that I didn’t even want to give away. I need to find Obet. 

I find myself running back to San Juanico again, where we always meet. He must have gone back to find me, too. I don’t know anymore. I’m tired and hungry and the pounding in my head from the previous night is threatening to come back, though this time, the pain is tenfold. Should I look for him in the forest too? This town is too small to miss him. 

“Obet!” I yell for my friend again. I need to know what’s going on. He knows what’s going on. I can’t rest until I find him. 

But then I reach the bridge, standing at the entrance, barely catching my breath— only I don’t remember why I’m there.

“Move!” A concrete truck honks at me from behind. “You’re going to get yourself killed standing there! Go!” The driver’s voice echoing at me as I stumble away from the road. 

Great, I have now managed to nearly get myself killed before Obet gets here. I’ve been looking and waiting for almost half an hour and countless concrete trucks have gone past since. Obet is still not here.

About the Author. Nica Bayona, originally a playwright and screenwriter, is currently taking up her MFA in Creative Writing at De La Salle University. Her notable works include her debut play, A Trip To The Moon for the Benildean Theatre Festival and Henry and the Barefoot from the recent Short+Sweet Theatre Festival held in Manila. She also writes poetry and fiction.