BATHALA! she screamed in her mind. Help me!
She could feel blood ooze from her fingers as she clawed at the hard clay soil. Her lips trembled, her body shook. She had been sitting on the same spot for days now, gripping the loose top soil, sharp, jagged rocks penetrating her soft delicate hands. Her nails, now cracked, was caked with dirt and blood.
Her eyes used to be bright. Steely, mischeivous. Now, her eyes are dulled by death. A blank stare towards the heavens. Tree spirit goddesses like herself, a diwata as her people called her, do not shed tears. But she wanted to. She wanted to feel human. Humans shed tears. She has been staring at the sky for two days now. She does not need her eyes for she can survive without them. But maybe, if she looked up long enough, staring into the sun, the tears will form.
She has not blinked since it happened. Since she looked up and waited. Waiting for Bathala, her God, to look back at her.
Do something! she screamed inside her head. Anything! I can't make it stop!
A couple of feet away, she heard a grain silo topple over. A strong gust of wind knocked the structure down, and she could feel the grain as it swirled around her. She couldn't help but be curious, surely this was a sight to behold! Golden haze covering the skies, unsheathed golden rice grains, cascading like rain, moving around her.
She brushed her right hand across her mouth, wiping off some of the blood and spit. She felt her dry, cracked lips burst open, and blood gushed forth. Water. Of course, she can live without it, but she loved the taste of it. She saw life in it, humans needed it so much, they pray to her to keep it safe.
She brushed her hair off of her face as she rocked back and forth. Her once beautiful hair was now matted against her face. She held on to a clump and pulled down. Her hair tore off easily this time, not like the last time. She held on to a couple more strands and pulled. It calmed her down, she likes how this feels. She kept at it, it gave her hands a break from clawing the soil. Soon, clumps of it lay on her side.
She still remembers the screams. It still rings inside her head. Men, women, children, wailing. Calling out her name. Begging for her help. Begging for forgiveness. That was days ago. Two moons ago. Now all was quiet, except for the dying moans of those who survived.
"Mai-ya!"
Surprised, she turned towards the voice. A small boy was staring at her. She couldn't see, her eyes are now empty sockets. But she could feel his presence. He was asking for her help. She remembered that feeling. Alapaap, the cloud bearer, used to carry the children's prayers on his back. She sent Alapaap back with her voice at night. Children everywhere across the valley smiled in their slumber as she sang to them.
But there will be no more songs, she mused. She stared upward again, waiting for her tears to come.
"Mai-ya!" he screamed. This was not a cry for help. This was an exclamation of fear. She must have been a sight to behold for this child. Her long black hair, once the envy of the silk makers, now lay next to her. Her olive skin, that shone in the moonlight, was now jaundiced and gave off an eerie, sickly glow to her. Her soft hands that held newborns, now punctured and dirtied by jagged rocks. Her eye sockets, where her steely grey eyes used to be, now empty, hollow.
She felt like she was dying. But of course, she was not. Goddesses cannot die. They move on.
The little boy's footsteps ran away from her. Maybe he will find his family soon.
The sky then grumbled. She could feel the wind slowing down. She looked up and felt rain. A few drops at first, and then it poured. Buckets of water, almost drowning her. She looked up towards the sky. She could feel water fill up her hollow eyes.
And then it stopped. She looked down, and felt the warm water stream down her cheeks, towards her chin. She smiled. Bathala finally looked back.
It was then she understood what she has to do. With all her might, she drew the last of her powers from the earth. She called on the spirits of her babaylan, her priestesses. She called on Alapaap, the cloud bringer, Kabunyian, the hearth spirit, and Abra, her father, the river. She chanted, finding the last of her strength, the last of her voice, and then, it was over.
Underneath the rubble of a small hut, a young man, no more than fourteen, watched the goddess crumble away. The last few strands of her hair fell to the ground, and her olive skin cracked and eventually, turned into dust. He had been watching her ever since she descended from the mountains. He wanted to see everything she did, he was in awe of her. But he was soon terrified and towards the end, he had to shut his eyes in horror.
As soon as he felt safe, he climbed out of the pile of debris. His arm broken and his head bleeding, he looked around at the horrible path of destruction the goddess carved. He put his hand over his mouth in disbelief. His entire town was levelled to the ground.
Mai-ya M'kilingan, he thought. What have we done?
