Isang Lumang Sanaysay (Na Naman?)

Ano ba ang weltanschauung para sa Pilipino?

Mahalagang ipaalala dito na ang weltanschauung ay, unang-una, isang indibidwal na pananaw, isang pribado at eksklusibong pagtukoy sa mundo bilang ganito at hindi ganoon. Isang ilusyon ang pagtaguyod ng isang malawakan at mapang-yakap na weltanschauung na hindi ginugulo ng kontradiksyon at pagtunggali.

Ngunit walang kwenta ang weltanschauung na hindi maibabahagi ng may-ari nito; sa kanyang pakikipagsapalaran sa buhay hindi maiwasan na maipakita ng indibidwal ang kanyang weltanschauung sa iba. May dalawang bahagi ang weltanschauung: ang ”tradisyunal” na bahagi nito bilang isang pagtanaw ng mundo, at ang ”nakatagong” bahagi ng ”pagpapakita” (schau) ng pananaw na ito. Ito ang prinsipyo ng weltanschauung bilang isang naibabahaging realidad ng tao.

Sa pagtaguyod ng weltanschauung bilang isang naibabahaging kaalaman madaling isunod ang tanong na, ”Maaari bang umangat sa pambansang antas ang indibidwal na weltanschauung?” Sa pananaw ng maraming pantas, ang sagot ay limitado lang sa bilang ng salita nito: bakit hindi? Hindi ako tutol sa kanilang pagtangkilik sa isang progresibong proposisyon, ngunit hindi rin maaalis ang ilang alinlangan.

Una, madaling sabihin sa teorya na ang isang bansa ay may mapag-isa at natatanging pananaw sa mundo. Ngunit sa praxis, at lalo na sa isang demokratikong praxis, ang iiral lang – at kasalukuyang uniiral – na ”pambansang weltanschauung” ay isa na bumabalangkas at tumatangkilik sa realidad ng hidwaan. Totoo na ang tao ay isang mapanglipong nilalang (social animal), ngunit totoo rin na ang tao ay nilalang ng hidwaan. Inihihiwalay siya sa kanyang ina sa kanyang kapanganakan, itinuturo sa kanya na iba-iba ang mga bagay sa mundo, na may tama at mali; sa kanyang pakikipagkapwa itinutugma niya ang kanyang kaibahan (distinction) sa kaibhan ng iba; siya’y nakikipag-away at nakikibaka; atbp. Sa madaling salita, ang perpektong unibersal na weltanschauung ay isa na kumikilala sa kanyang kabaligtaran: isang di-perpekto at makasariling weltanschauung.

Pangalawa, ang mismong salitang ”weltanschauung” ay likas na limitado sa sakop nito: hindi ito angkop sa malawakang pagtalima. Ang ating paggamit ng weltanschauung bilang isang pagtanaw sa mundo ay barok at kulang, kahit sabihin natin na ang paggamit nito ay tapat sa ibig ipahiwatig ng mga Aleman. Sa karanasang Pilipino hindi sapat ang ”weltanschauung” upang isiksik ang lahat ng kasaysayan, tradisyon at mga ad hoc na kalagayan, mga realidad na hindi maaaring isantabi. Aking iminumungkahi na ang tunay na hinahanap ng kamalayang Pilipino ay isang ideolohiya. Ang Pilipino ay hindi tumatanaw sa mundo gamit lamang ang kanyang subhetibong pagkakalilanlan; hindi lang ang mga mata ang ginagamit niya kundi pati na rin ang kanyang karanasan. Ideolohiya ang mas-angkop na hanapin ng unibersal na kamalayang Pilipino sapagkat inuungkat nito ang parehong indibidwal at kolektibong karansan ng tumatanaw na Pilipino at nililipol ang mga ito upang maging batayan ng pribadong weltanschauung ng Pilipino.

Masasabi na ang weltanschauung, dahil na rin sa kanyang batayan ng karanasan (experiential dimension), ay isang mayamang pagtanaw sa mundo – oo, puno ng bias at mga irrasyonal na haka-haka, ngunit bahagi ang mga ito ng kayamanan. Ang malawak na kaurian ng kaalaman at karanasang napapaloob sa isang weltanschauung ang nagbibigay kaibahan at kasarinlan sa pagtanaw-sa-mundo. Ang ’kultural’ na aspeto ng weltanschauung ang siyang ”nagbibigay-kulay” sa pagtanaw ng Pilipino.

Mahalaga ang weltanschauung sa pag-iral ng isang kamalayan. Bagama’t ang una ay hindi bahagi sa pagbuo ng huli, mahirap isipin ang patuloy na pag-iral ng kamalayan ng indibidwal kung nawala o wala naman talaga ang weltanschauung. Sa pilosopiya ni Sto. Tomas de Aquino, ang esensya ng subjek o ng ego ay umiiral – at umiiral lamang – sa kanyang relasyon sa objek o id. Sa ganitong prinsipyo nakataguyod ang kamalayang Pilipino: ang malay natin ay tumatanaw sa mundi na nagpapatunay na namamalayan natin ito.

Sa pagtanaw ng mundo “nawawala” ang “bagay” na mundo at napapalitan ito ng ”mundo-sa harap (o paligid)-ko.” Ang paglipat mula sa obhetibo patungo sa subhetibo ay isang sine qua non ng weltanschauung, dahil dito nabubuo ang tinatawag na “karanasan.” Ngunit hindi rito nagtatapos ang proseso ng weltanschauung: sa kanyang pakikipagtalastasan at pagbabahagi sa iba ang Pilipinong kamalayan ay nagdudulot mg ”objectification” ng kanyang sariling subhetibong pananaw. Sa pagbanggit ng kanyang weltanschauung sa iba ito ay nagiging objek ng pag-ayon o pagtutol ng iba: hindi na ito ang subhetibong pananaw ng indibidwal na kamalayan; ito ay isa nang ideya na maaaring pagsama-samahin upang maging isang ideolohiya. Dito na papasok ang mag isying epistemolohikal, ngunit iiwasan na ng awtor sa mga ito.

Sa pagtaguyod ng weltanschauung bilang sangkap ng kamalayan, dapt din itanong: ano ang tinatanaw ng kamalayang Pilipino?

Ayon sa Katekismo para sa Pilipinong Katoliko, ”tayong mga Pilipino ay mapaniwala sa espiritu” (2000:18). Ito raw ang pananaw sa daigdig ng mga Pilipino. Mga puwersang hindi matanaw ang silang pinagtutuusan ng pansin ng mga Pilipino. Sa unang tingin tila kahungkagan ang ganitong pananaw. Ngunit ganito ba talaga ang pananaw ng mga Pilipino?

Isang tatak ng kulturang Pilipino ang sari-saring pananampalataya at paniniwala na tumutugon sa o nagpapahiwating man lang ng isang espiritwal na mundo o realidad. Hitik ang mga alamat, pamahiin at ritwal panlipunan sa mga bagay espiritwal. Sa kanyang pagkilala sa di-materyal na realidad nabubuo sa kamalayang Pilipino ang pananaw na may higit pa sa mundong kinagagalawan ng Pilipino, isang kwasi-realistikong kamalayan na nakakaimpluwensiya sa kanyang pagkatao at gawain at kadalasa’y nakapangyayari sa kanyang paligid. At ang Pilipino ay hindi ang tipong nagwawalang-bahala; bagkus inuugnay niya ang lahat ng karanasan sa kanyang sarili: pinipilit niyang tumugon sa mga penomenong nararanasan niya, at sa kanyang pagtugon ay nag-aalala siya sa kung anong impluho ang maidudulot ng maitatanaw.

Ang pag-aalala na ito ang siyang nagbibigay-anyo sa weltanschauung ng Pilipino. Sa pananaw ng kamalayang ito ang mundong kanyang kinabibilangan at tahasang nararanasan ay miderwertig, isang mababang klase ng realidad kumpara sa realidad na lagpas sa sarili niyang pagtanaw, at sa pakikipag-ugnayan sa espiritu ay naitataguyod niya ang sarili niya bilang buhay, may malay, naiiba sa mundo, at espiritwal rin. Ito ang prinsipyo ng relihiyong pilipino, at ang Pilipino bilang homo religiosus: isang indibidwal na weltanschauung na ang tanaw ay ang überwelt sa halip na ang mismong mundo-sa-paligid.

An Obsolete Commentary on the Philippine Situation

Months before the much-hoped-for national elections, the Commission on Elections (COMELEC) is scrambling to procure automated poll machines by which it plans to bring the Philippine electoral process into the 21^st century.

Unfortunately for the COMELEC, the 21^st century demands progress, not regress. No, it is not because they are vain in trying to update their hopelessly obsolete election apparatus; indeed, if this is even a fault (which it is) it is because the principles that allow, if not dictate, these means are themselves flawed.

The Philippine political situation is, if it is anything at all, a sour joke, perpetrated by our authorities-cum-clowns who cling to power as if it were their birthright. While charity and truth have every right to depose these scumbags who make democracy a worse ideal than other political formats, the purpose of this essay is to examine why democracy is flawed in the first place.

One of its principles is worth the scrutiny: political equality is one of the main draws of democracy, much like a hero of the battlefield praising his son before the people who have come to see the former. Political equality states that everyone is a citizen, whether he be a president or a farmer, and is entitled to one and only one vote, besides other political opportunities provided for by the state. This seems a given…until we see its inappropriateness.

Politics is a delicate exercise of societal relations, and it has a lucrative possession in tow: power. You may call it government, or some such fanciful name, but it always boils down to power – the arbitration and enforcement of convention sine qua non chaos simply draws the line between life and death. Bringing that exercise to a quantitative showdown was the first political sin, since it degenerates the value of the inherent power of the society which it seeks to govern (by recording the process of ostraka we can blame the Greeks for this). Democracy is the magnification of that first sin.

The decisive factor here is formal education. Not all men are comfortable with formal education, something that is required by democracy in lieu of the very discriminative ennobling process. While formal education is admittedly insufficient to bring about societal change, its dispensation places democratic government at the mercy of chaos, which understands no equality whatsoever.

The delicacy of politics is such that knowledge of convention—a knowledge ensured safeguarded by formal education—is required, along with a reasonable partiality, to effect justice and morally acceptable change. If politics devolves into a numbers game, all societal relations subject to that politics are compromised of their political value, i.e. any political process becomes a travesty because the convention, which recognizes no majority or minority but emphasizes its appeal to all, has been overridden by the ad hoc convention of a majority. This political value, ironically, is what political equality claims to safeguard for everyone. The majority-minority format thus imperils the entire political process, especially if the majority is ignorant of both the convention and the delicacy of politics.

Power is basically quantitative; most forces of nature are. But it is precisely our rationality that transforms it into a qualitative reality, thus enabling it to be shared. To leave it into the hands of the ignorant is to warrant the death of politics and destroy—not just impede—the progress of man.

Of Copyrights and Copy-lefts

Just a few minutes ago I ceded to a former student of mine my copyright to an entire essay (albeit a short one) that I've recently (re-)written. It may sound crazy, but given this freakish streak of charitableness that I have with me, it is not impossible. I have been prodigal in everything that I have, possessions, time, effort, even my personal secrets. You may find it incredulous, given my disrepute as a miser and as a greedy individual, but I enjoy surprising people with the little good that I can muster every now and then.

I do not intend to justify my surrender of the damned essay, as my charity needs no justification except itself. Besides, I can make another essay on the same matter, and I can readily defend it against accusations of unoriginality. I merely pray that my student can defend her rights to the essay by accepting its ideas as her own.

MJJyS, I pray that with your thesis, you should, as Churchill would have it, "KBO." An advanced Merry Christmas, despite the grotesque gift you'd have to receive from me.

INSPIRATVS

This afternoon has found me pseudo-scribbling (i.e. typing) ideas about the novel that has had crazy changes in the past four months. It does help, that self-imposed deadline of January 11, 2011 (I had promised an old friend of mine two years ago that the book will be finished by that date), even if it really meant that I shall have to reinterpret the date as the submission to a printer, to a publisher, to the editor/s, or simply as the submission of the first draft. Lord knows which.

It is my conviction, unless fate plays another cruel game on my priestly vocation, that 2011 shall not be replaced by another year without my ideas being finally published. It's been thirteen years going on fourteen. The ideas have stayed too long in my mind; I wonder whether the reader will sense the stench of corruption that has beholden me. Haha. Goodbye, Nobel Prize; goodbye, Pulitzer.

I must admit that I had aspired for fame as a writer when I was much younger, especially when I started with this endeavor; I have grown old and weary enough to cheerfully admit that right now I shall happily die satisfied as long as I get to see my book in book stores (by that time I'd be so ill with disease I shall have to drag my ass into the store while strapped into a wheelchair). 'Tis my ideal death scene to collapse while browsing the first copies of the book.

That makes me wonder: how do I repay everyone who's inspired me to write (obviously, the infernal dragon who's opposed me all these years does not count among these benevolent people)? Is acknowledgment enough? Shall I yield the proceeds to them? I cannot give them the dedication part -- that I am resolved to give to one and only one person. The only solution, it seems, is to write another book... but does that mean I shall have to live another fourteen years in the loony bin?

Ah, but I must dedicate the second book, if I ever survive the depression caused by the first one, to a good friend. I am no genius, which is why I need at least one comrade to walk me into that door called destiny. Lucky me, I've got at least one, and I am so grateful to her that the second dedication is but a small gift.

After which, I can happily be run over by some reckless driver, or (un-)intentionally fall into the Pasig River, or get stabbed by an ice pick by some deranged drug addict as I refuse to hand him the little pamasahe that I have, or some other violent death for which I must happily join the ranks of poor souls whose deaths are, like the fictional Albert Jerska, mere statistics.

God help me and my and my corrupt mind and calloused hands.

The Hubbub

Sandy recovered. It took him two days before he was able to wake up, and three more for him to be able to sit straight. He tried to stand, but it seemed that his wings were toying with his posture, as if he was being pulled backwards and at first he always had to bow in order to balance his weight.

The wings were heavy. They were far heavier than his limbs combined, and this weight became a source of another sort of back pain for Sandy, who already has to bear the intense ache from the area where his wings were attached to his back.

 

***

The storm had left. The people of Povoir have started to repair their roofs, fences, and windows; they have started to sweep the roads, reinforce their walls, and live out their lives just like before.

Oh and yes, they’re already talking about Alexander Okamoto.

The market was abuzz with stories of him. Some said he had two wings, or that he had four; that he had a tail; that Ansushi was cruel to drag the poor boy all the way to his clinic, or that Sandy’s mother was a member of an evil cult.

Most prominent of the versions came from the meat stalls, where Sarah, a fat woman with strong hands for cutting meat and stronger jaws for speaking out her mind, swiftly ran her cleaver into the chicken before her, while ranting against the local doctor.

“No, no, no, no,” bellowed Sarah to the chicken, then turning her sights on Hazel, the vendor to her right. “It was the old man’s idea. The other boys could do nothing. That old man wants to charge heavy.”

Disapproving cries. Ansushi, it seems, has his supporters.

“Beh!” continued Sarah. “He knows Mr. okamoto owns this market. Does he give a damn whether anyone here got hurt in the storm yesterday? He closed his damn clinic while five people outside!”

“Five, including you?” It was Gundy, the vendor opposite Sarah.

“Shut up, you ungrateful pig! You still owe me fifty!” Sarah was not to be crossed with, especially if you owe her.

“What will become of him?” asked Hazel.

“Hmmmm… he can play an angel every Christmas…” Gundy replied.

The chuckles that followed were stifled when Sarah glared at her debtor. “That depends whether the old man keeps him around…”

“It’s horrible, just horrible.” Vincent, a calm bulk of a butcher and husband of Sarah, has just arrived. “You don’t have to make it more horrible by fighting about it, guys. The customers are waiting for their meat. Get over it.”

***

 

In the rectory, the parish priest was quietly eating his rice and fried fish. His assistant priest has just arrived. The young man joined his superior at table, sitting by the latter’s right hand. He crossed himself, both to bless the food before him and to hope that the old man won’t ave to ask—

“Late again, Louis?”

“Sorry, Father. Confession.”

The curé stared at him. Louis knew it, but still he tried to prepare his first spoonful without trembling.

The curé resumed his meal. Silence.

Silence.

Chew. Silence.

Swallow. Chew. Silence.

Sil—

“If I may ask, Father,” inquired Louis, trying to look at the old man’s face but ending up looking at the forehead, “there’s been a lot of confusion, a lot of gossip going on about Sandy Okamoto.” It’s quite scary, I think.”

The curé continued eating as if he heard nothing. Louis somehow took it as a sign to continue. “What should I tell the people? Is it supernatural? Is Sandy a freak? Is he possessed?”

The senior laid his fork on his plate. He stared at the window in front of him, and for a few seconds did nothing more. Louis tried to eat.

“I baptized that boy,” the old man finally replied. It’s not his fault, whatever happened to him, and I am not to condemn what God has planned for him.”

“But what should I tell the people?” asked Louis.

“That he is Alexander Okamoto, son of this town and a human being. We will treat him for who he is, not for what he had become.”

***

In the hills south of the town, five children were lying on the grass, watching the sun set while talking about their neighbor’s transformation.

“Do you think Sandy’s an angel?” asked Rizza.

“Nope,” answered David.

“Then where did he get those wings?”

“Birds have wings,” retorted Bowie.

“Sandy doesn’t have a tail,” said Rizza.

“Who cares? What’s important is that he can fly now. He can see the enemy from above,” commented Samantha.

“Can he end the war?” asked April.

“Surely he can. The other side’s a bunch of losers,” replied Bowie.

“I sure hope so.” April sat up. “Then Dad can go home. I miss him.”

“Of course your dad’s going home… None of us will lose anyone, now that we’ve got Sandy the angel,” sniped Jossen.

“He’s not an angel,” said David.

The Nightmare

The ceiling tore itself open like a mouth gaping wide, and the wood and paint debris fell like sticky drool, as if they were squid’s arms extending to grab Sandy.

Help!

Sandy couldn’t move. He was stuck in his bed. He tried to rise but his back seemed to be too heavy; his arms, for no reason, wouldn’t move. Terror was eating him before the ceiling could.

The ceiling hole was nearing Sandy’s body. The debris didn’t act only like squid’s arms, they now looked as if they were fangs of this fearful gorge. Sandy could see the insides of the ceiling itself, but he saw nothing of the attic of the house that was supposed to be above that very ceiling. Instead he could see the night sky, riddled with stars, calm and quiet. It seemed like a consoling sight, if he could just be sure that the orifice was not going to chew him to pieces.

The room windows banged.

And Sandy wakes up, with the windows still banging, along with the door being continuously slammed; and there is the ceiling, still shuddering. But no hole, no monster.

There is a storm. It’s a nightmare, alright. No need for Sandy’s monster.

Sandy feels wet.

He looks at the window by his bed. The rain has been sprinkling on him for some time, no thanks to the poor fastening of his windows. He reaches for the windows.

He can’t.

His upper back feels heavy. And awfully painful. Very, very painful.

Sandy gasps.

Help!

“Okamoto, you alright?” a voice from outside the room asked in a crescendo.

“No! Help me, man! My back hurts!”

The owner of the other voice comes inside Sandy’s room. Ned is carrying his sword, as he is on his way to the office. He stands beside Sandy’s bed and not knowing exactly what to do, hovers his arms above Sandy. He finally places his right arm behind Sandy’s back. Sandy cries in pain.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t touch my back!”

Ned recoils his arm.

“Turn me on my back, man, and call the doctor…” Sandy was tiring from the pain.

Ned, confused, heads out the door and looks for a doctor.

Sandy looks sideways, sees the open door, slamming and opening, and tries to make for it. Slowly, gaspingly, he crawls, and falls from his bed.

A louder cry.

Clem and Denis come by the door and see their comrade. They rush to help him, carrying him by his arms. Agony once more.

“What’s wrong Sandy?” asks Denis.

“Get me to a hospital, guys…” panted Sandy.

“You’ve got to lie down for now,” says Clem.

“No! it’s my back that’s killing me!”

“Alright, alright!” Clem looks for the main door. “Where’s Ned?”

“He’s gone to look for a doctor,” whispers Sandy.

“I’ll call for Doctor Ansashi,” remarks Denis, and he leaves. Ned goes too, leaving Clem with Sandy.

Clem makes his friend lie on the floor on his back. He can see Sandy gasping for air, and feels sorry about it, but the man can’t tolerate lying properly, because his back is the problem.

“Hey, Clem,” gasps Sandy.

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you’ll take care of her.”

“Man, you’re not dying.”

“Oh yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Just promise me.”

“I’ve always taken care of your sister.”

“This might change things. I’m not sure—“

Sandy has hardly spoken his second thought when blood suddenly stains the cloth over his back. Sandy cries out again. Clem is shocked, as the blood stain grows larger and larger. He watches in disbelief as Sandy’s back swells.

Then, the horror.

Something is bulging on Sandy’s back. Clem is unsure as to what it is, but he grabs a pocket knife and slices into Sandy’s clothes.

“Arghh!!! What are you doing?!” yells Sandy.

“Something’s coming out of your back, man!”

Sandy faints.

“Crap,” mutters Clem, shuddering from the sight.

It was not some animal, or some strange automaton lodged in his friend’s back. It was flesh. Sandy’s own. Slowly, whatever it is, it came out like some finger or knee protruding from the wrong place. And then…

Feathers.

Bloody feathers.

“Oh, God,” and Clem crawls away with his butt, and crosses himself.

The flesh has fully emerged from Sandy’s back, covered with bloodied feathers. And there was not just one.

Wings. How about that.

Clem has not recovered from his shock when the other two friends return with the doctor. Now it is their turn to be awed and horrified.

“Is he still alive?” Dr. Ansashi whispers.

“I don’t know.”

The young doctor tries to compose himself, and though still shaken by the sight, thinks of a way to wake himself out of this. “Let’s move him out of here. He’s lost much blood,” he says.

“We can’t let other people see him like this,” replied Clem.

“We can cover him with a blanket,” says Denis. “I’ll get it.” He makes for a nearby bedroom. “There’s a cot here!”

They take the cot, and load their friend in it.

Denis unfurls the blanket over Sandy.

They leave for Ansashi’s office.

***

The three friends transfer their patient into one of the clinic’s beds, while the doctor prepares his linen.

“Let’s just wipe the blood off his back.”

Ansashi hurls pieces of cloth to Ned and Denis, who take them and start wiping the blood and grime.

“Aren’t we cutting them off?” asks Clem, who is watching from a distance, still horrified.

“We can’t, Clem,” replies the doctor. “He’s lost too much blood already to even survive the next hour.” The doctor peeks into the part of the back where the wings protruded. There’s still blood seeping. “Besides, the wings seem to share in his blood. Cutting them off might produce enough shock to kill him.” He looks again at his patient’s friends. “You might want to call his mother, or his sister.”

Ned grins. “Clem can do that. He’s Sandy’s brother-in-law, right?”

Clem’s face goes red. He goes out.

Sandy sleeps steadily. He’s still breathing, even though his breath is very faint.

Ansashi starts to clean up the room. Ned helps him. Meanwhile, Denis takes out a rosary from his pocket and settles on a stool. Himself ill with a strange disease, the effort of carrying his friend through even a short distance proved to be taxing. He clutches his rosary and mutters his prayers.

Ned whispers to Ansashi. “Is Sandy going to be alright?”

Ansashi looks sadly at his helper.

Of the Winds that Carried the Sand.

It was in 1697 when the Kingdom of Noftiers split. The entire Visayan and Mindanao group of islands declared independence from the royal government in Sichame, which was in the north. Almost immediately war broke out as the troops sent by the North to compel the separatists faced strong resistance from the breakaway South.

The roots of this conflict can be found not inside the country, but far away overseas. The world itself was undergoing a great turmoil as the Blunish Empire, the oldest, largest, and most powerful nation on earth, was slowly—but violently—being fragmented by scores of separatist rebellions. Armed with radical political ideas and supported by the few nations that have not been gobbled up by the Blunish, the separatists won ground and opportunity. The world as it knew itself was coming to an end. If the rebels had it their way, there would be no Empire to speak of by the turn of the century.

One such nation that supported the rebels – at least initially – was the Kingdom of Noftiers. Not being a rich or powerful nation itself, the Noftierese government refused harbor to Blunish military ships bound for rebellious provinces. It even sent mercenaries to help the nearby rebel provinces oust the Blunish armies.

But such international support was very taxing on a nation like Noftiers. With food production hampered by government corruption, it was easy for any government policy to rouse the ire of many a Noftierese. This fact was especially obvious in the south, whose politicians have to come to Sichame in order to find favor from the King.

Thus in 1697, amidst the already turbulent political atmosphere in Sichame, General Kiyotaki Kawaguchi, a surprisingly pro-Blunish career officer, proclaimed a “Republic of Noftiers” in the city of Bainfeer. Supported by many of his reform-minded comrades in the military, Kawaguchi set up a government composed of representatives of the people. He called on his fellow Noftierese to join the Republic, and demanded the execution of the nobles, many of whom were immediate relatives of the King. Very soon enough, clashes broke out as Noftierese towns proclaimed their support for the Republic or for the King. There were massacres of whole populations of villages. There were a lot of republicans in the north, and there were a lot of royalists in the south. But the three years of war that followed Kawaguchi’s proclamation soon evinced that only the Luzon group of islands were staunchly royalist, whereas the Visayan and Mindanao group would only support the government in Bainfeer.

In the years preceding and during this civil war, the Meizherist party controlled Parliament. In 1700, their longtime rivals, the Nationalists led by four-time prevant Langford Doi, promised to end the war if they win the election. They did win, capturing Parliament and returning Doi to the prevantial seat. In 1701, Doi and Kawaguchi travelled to Rogatorio and signed a peace treaty recognizing the Republic, returning prisoners of war, and demarcating both countries’ borders. With this the civil war was supposed to have ended.

But it didn’t.

A lot of people, not least the King, were unhappy with the treaty of Rogatorio. They were apprehensive because the treaty did not resolve the issue of whether Bainfeer’s support of Blunish troops would be seen by Sichame with hostility. And many South Noftierese didn’t like the idea of supporting the Blunish at all. The Noftierese people had won independence from the Empire only fifty-seven years ago, and memories of that previous war were still vivid to many of them.

Such dissent would inevitably foment the creation of secret groups perpetrating various agendas. Many societies did emerge, some publicly, but most were underground cabals who procured for themselves weapons.

News of these formations reached Bainfeer, and Kawaguchi immediately moved to outlaw what he branded as “Unionists.” He formed a special military force, wherein he drafted a lot of disenfranchised swordsmen[1], who would hunt down these Unionists. He called them the Sabeurreini, or “sword-kings.”

It is this troubled atmosphere that I now find myself embroiled with, and that which the other inhabitants of this singular country must live with.

---

[1] The Noftierese formerly had a socio-political caste of swordsmen that was officially abolished by the King after the Love Rebellion in 1669.

One Hell of a Prayer Book

I really haven't thought of this piece, and yet I want to share this stuff of mine.

I once had a project made by my students which constituted of prayers made by them. Regardless of their religious denominations, they were instructed to create a prayer using the overrated A.C.T.S. (adoration, confession, thanksgiving, and supplication) guideline. Having four sections under my charge, I used the opportunity to hold a competition amongst them, with the best compilation of prayers awarding a perfect score to the entire class. The photos below is that of the best compilation, which has ever since been kept in the recesses of my stuff. I now share it after more than a year of selfish possession.

What made me choose this compilation among the others was its resourcefulness, compared to the other three sections which utilized a ready-made scrapbook. This one was made out of an old magazine. The same decorations were employed, but I-Aristotle's president seemed to have much more in mind in designing this work (she claimed that she did most of the work, which was expected since most of her classmates had nary an idea of what I was trying to describe in the project plan).

For posterity's sake I now present the first quarterly examination of I-Aristotle SY 2009-10 in my subject.

Influence

I’m doing this to humor a friend, Roxanne, who suggested that I write reviews on books which have influenced me. I’m trying to recall those which did influence me, but I have no idea how to make a review. If you, o reader, be charitable, kindly teach me how to make one.

Books have a certain hold over me. I’m not really of the movie or the music type, and though I cannot claim to be the bookworm that other people would ascribe me to be, I do admit that books have had their way throughout my twenty-four years of accidental (read: freakish) existence.

The seventeen books I’ve listed here is in no way a bestseller’s list; most of these books never even reached your nearest National Bookstore branch. And yet, I must say, I’d willingly re-live my youth reading only them instead of having to scour the NB or Booksale shops for popular books that have nothing to give me except the satisfaction of having read what the rest of us have read… Nakikiuso ka?

By the way, I’m only listing them in alphabetical order, as I have no way of knowing how one book supersedes the other. After all, each work has a different impact on me, both subjectively and objectively.

48 Laws of Power (R. Greene & J. Elfers). Initially my father (and more notoriously, my mother) forbade their children to read this book. I could still remember that it was placed in the highest shelf when it was first bought, and how I had to reach for the book to be able to read it when both parents were away for work. It was worth the sneak. Though I was not really into the power-play strategies that the book was advocating, I did find 48 highly informative and entertaining, especially with how kings and kingmakers rose to power, and how suckers lost their status – and even their lives – because of their failure “to stay above the fray.” I found it a veritable supplement to my World History book. It was this book that forced me to calculate, and unfortunately, to be colder towards people. Bad influence? Nah.

A Beautiful Mind (S. Nasar). If you’re looking for the romance of a madman, then look for this one. This seems to be a classic tale of genius – of his extraordinary creativity and the ensuing madness – but it also chronicles a novel chapter in a genius’s life: recovery from the madness. This is not only the story of one man: indeed it is the story of the people around him struggling to understand that which cannot be understood.

Book of Dates. A gift from an aunt, the Book of Dates was supposed to be nothing more than what its title offered: a book of dates. Thanks to the illustrations of historical events and figures in it, I saw the world not only as a vast expanse of land and sea, but as the setting for both the cheerful and the bleak – wars, inventions, discoveries, and successions. This book preceded my World History.

Conspirators’ Hierarchy (J. Coleman). You can never expect what your Christian Living teacher can lend you once you’ve won her admiration for your penchant of the bizarre. I acquired this book from Ms. Lizette when I was in my third year in high school in photocopied form (I had to photocopy it again so as to have my own reproduction). The book details names, figures and events which the author claims to be part of an ongoing conspiracy to control the whole world. Unlikely allies, incredible tie-ins, and lots of money are the subject of this book, serving one and only goal: world domination. If you’re wondering where my paranoia comes from, it’s safe to blame this one.

Introduction to Christianity (J. Ratzinger). I’ve always been fascinated with all things Ratzinger since his election as Pope. I had naively wrote to him about contributing to our seminary newsletter when I was its editor, my two attempts at thesis writing for philosophy employed his first encyclical, and I had bought this book twice (I had given the first copy as a farewell gift to a rascal of a student of mine whom I think, deserves better in repute).

His Introduction, originally written in 1968, made me understand his theological bent, which was quite more enlightening than I had hoped from a man who spent most of his career writing books and battling heretics. His book took me to the crucial stages of early Christianity, which, contrary to the assertions of non-Catholic pastors, essentially had to deal not only with spiritual struggles but also social, cultural, and political changes as well. The Introduction made me realize that Christianity both as faith and religion can never be separated from the realities of the world, and that even the biblical figures were never isolated from the same chicaneries and machineries that the world.

In God’s Name (D. Yallop). Way back in 1999, when the world was going mad with Y2K paranoia and I had just entered my teenage years, my father bought me this book for 75 pesos from the Booksale station in SM Southmall (it was then located in front of the supermarket cashier lanes). The book was about a conspiracy (na naman?) of Masons, cardinals and bankers alike, to murder “the smiling Pope,” John Paul I, in order to prevent him from investigating on what was alleged to be a dirty money flow in and out of the Vatican, among others. This book altered my dreams of becoming a doctor. Ever since then, I wanted to become a priest, hoping that I’d end up wearing the smiling Pope’s shoes and ridding the Vatican of the bad guys. Though I gave up the book not too long ago, and though right now I’m unsure whether I would want to proceed with the priesthood, the book’s impact on me had remained.

Lipunan at Rebolusyong Pilipino. A friend let me photocopy this so that I didn’t have to borrow it again and again. Stylized as comics with a lot of narration and few, if any, speech bubbles, LRP was a beginner’s introduction to understanding the communist revolution in the Philippines. I take it that the LRP has Joma Sison’s imprimatur, as opposed to the bourgeois revisionist versions of Marx’s The Communist Manifesto sold by capitalist stores like NB. My God, what has that indoctrination done to me?

My Life as an Astronaut (A. Bean). The first significant book in my life. (No, it’s not the Bible.) Alan Bean, recounts for his child audiences his life as a Navy pilot and “sailor to the stars.” Before dreaming of becoming a doctor, I had wanted to be an astronaut, thanks to this man, who was the fourth man to walk on the moon (after Armstrong, Aldrin, and Conrad – ha! I still remember). It was also the first time I’ve read of the word “divorce.”

Stainless Longganisa (B. Ong). The mysterious writer only known as “Bob Ong” certainly caught up with my own desires as a writer with his enlightening and challenging chronicle of his life as a writer in Stainless Longganisa. With quips from famous authors and his own inspiring words as well, Bob Ong surely fired me up into continuing what seemed to be a hopeless pursuit of a dream. It’s been months since I’ve read this book, and though I’ve found true inspiration from friends who encourage me now and then, I guess I still owe Bob.

Sherlock Holmes (Arthur Conan Doyle). Four novelettes and 56 short stories tell the story of the greatest fictional detective ever. These chronicles of Holmes in the eyes of his sidekick, Dr. James Watson, more than enthralled me: it taught me logic way before I ever entered college. I can never be proud of what I’ve learned from self-study, but I was always delighted when Holmes would elucidate for his audiences, both in the story and the real ones, how he arrived at his conclusions. I was so into his character that I began calling myself “Sherlock” when I was in second year, a name I am still fondly called by those who knew me then.

The Bible through the Ages. Many people think that I know a lot about the Bible. Not so fast, chummy. My knowledge of the Bible, especially its history, came from this special publication by Reader’s Digest which I had borrowed from my grandparents and has not yet returned. Of course, nothing beats reading the Bible over and over again, but this book helped me understand eighty percent of the stuff in the Holy Writ. (The other twenty percent I learned from my “rabbi,” Fr. Gil.) This book also debunked for me the idea that the Bible was written verbatim by God.

The Cardinal Sins (A. Greeley). Fr. Greeley’s novel of the Church and the men and women who belong to it captivated me so much that I re-read it five times consequently. The sexual scenes were, ehem, part of the thrill, but what really bagged me was the realizations of the main characters at the end. “The Church is a saint and a whore.” At first impression, this could be insulting, but considering the struggles of the characters and the symbolism that they take up for the entire Church, I could say it’s worth saying it aloud.

The Domain of Being (C. Bittle). Mr. Acasio, my Logic, Ethics, Epistemology, and Metaphysics professor, is a hard man to please. And yet, for all his students’ unworthiness to learn from him he deigned to impart to us the secrets of the philosophy business. I find this book, which he required of us in metaphysics, to be a liberating book, as I was able to understand much of the mysteries of the faith through the concepts that Domain had. It also gave me my own philosophical bent, which strongly favored a revitalized metaphysics through the medium of love.

The Exorcist (W. P. Blatty). This horrifying tale of possession and redemption from the diabolic made me understand the complexity of good and evil in this world. The target of the devil is not the possessed, but those who are watching.

The Shoes of the Fisherman (M. West) Before there was the actual Slavic pope John Paul II, there was the fictional Slavic pope Kiril I, immortalized in the book (and later film) The Shoes of the Fisherman. This novel affirmed my conviction to serve the Catholic Church as a thinker when I was having doubts as to my priestly vocation. Through Kiril’s simple ripostes of love to the challenges which faced him, I realized that people were not that so hard to be with, and that they are worth suffering for.

The Three Musketeers (A. Dumas). D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis make a good read in this swashbuckling epic. The pace of the story emphasizes the romanticism inherent even in war, where gallantry and valor outweigh victory and peace.

World History: Patterns of Civilization (B. F. Beers). One of the great influences in my life, this book led me to the path of love of history, a subject ridiculed and bemoaned for its many dates and names. Maybe ‘twas just the rebel in me trying to be different from the rest, or maybe it’s my fascination for a world that I can never explore by traveling: either way, I studied history, imagining through the book’s many photos, illustrations, and even graphs who did what, what happened when and where, and why and how did such happen. I did not need a time machine to visit the pharaohs, nor did I have to step into France to learn of her famous revolution. All I had to do was read.

Surrender

Saki rushed into the chapel, his hands covering the face that was wet with tears. He sobbed loudly as he settled upon a kneeler.

Furumaki entered the chapel as well, his face grave.

"Depart from me, Monseigneur," wept Saki, facing not his patron of four weeks, "for I now know who I was."

"I shall not. Besides, if anyone needs to leave this place, you do, for this is my church." He sat beside Saki.

"I do not know what to do. I have wanted to enter the Lord's service, but this revelation of my past is so overwhelming..."

"He does not let this without a reason, my son."

"If the Lord wants to take this son-of-a-bitch into his holy orders, I am most grateful, but no wise man can agree to such a foolish intention."

"Shut up, boy!" bellowed the bishop. "First, the Good Shepherd takes no son-of-a-bitch for his representative on earth. You should stop calling yourself that."

For the first time Saki looked into Furumaki's eyes. It was the glare of a middle-aged man alright, but there was something else. It was an anger he had never seen before, even among the most savage of his enemies in battle, whom he now was starting recall. This made Saki all the more scared.

"Second, even the foolishness of God is wiser than the most learned of human wisdom. So, you fool, stop judging the Lord's intentions!"

Now the man was really mad.

"Do you think that I did not know your past? Of course I did. I did not become bishop of this place without the knowledge of men, for all its frailty and frivolity. I knew that the Roseman was missing when you suddenly emerged upon that doorstep down there, and the stories that I've heard made me suspect that I was harboring a criminal. And yet, I am a fisher of men, not of gods; and if even a king knocks upon my doorstep asking for either the priesthood or a glass of water, who am I to refuse? "To become all things to all men, that at least some might be saved," this is what the Lord asks of me, and I, his priest and vicar over this diocese, cannot but serve his wishes.

"You may have killed hundreds of men, probably even women and children, but they may have already served their purpose by both living their lives and dying their deaths. As much as you have to atone for what you did to them, to atone for their demise does not mean being dead with them. They are signposts to remind you that you have to live for and serve the same number of people now, even more.

"I am not the best judge of character in this town, but I am its bishop, and I am asking you to serve as priest of the Church. Do not hesitate... be prudent with what God has given you and make the best of it."

Rosary and Religion

While praying the rosary on the way to church, I was trying to think of how to better remember which bead I was into when it dawned on me that the key to determining which bead I held depends on the length of the string (in the case of my rosary, it's chain links) between the beads, not the number of beads that I've already prayed.

Upon reflection, this realization smacks of Professor Ratzinger's theology as expounded once by Fr. Arevalo in a symposium: it is the relations between persons that matter more, not just the persons themselves.

I really should be packing up my cassock and surplice and bible and heading for the nearest monastery. The rosary, too.

“Ghost by the Rock” (complete)

“Ghost by the Rock”

The four friends woke up to find the river completely still. Sure, there was the mess that the storm had made, and yet, it was the calm that made them feel uncomfortable.

Clem was the first to open his eyes, and he was surprised that a sleeping Sandy was on top of him. He shuddered, only to remember that he was with his winged friend before he lost track of the events. Apparently Sandy covered the both of them by spreading his wings, and had probably rolled over to him while sleeping. Still, the idea of a man sleeping over him, friend or not, was repulsive, and out of gratitude and comradeship he nudged Sandy with his elbow to move aside.

Sandy woke up to Clem’s arm pushing him, and the first thing he noticed was that they were both dirty with fallen leaves and grime. The storm had been unrelenting even in the forest—well, what the hell did you expect? He slowly stood up, and left Ned cleaning himself up in order to find their other two friends.

Walking along the river bank he noticed a singular figure atop a huge rock at the other side of the river. The man was pale, wearing a long black coat and tinted spectacles, crouching above the boulder and seemingly staring at the current. Sandy continued walking ahead, looking for Denis and Ned, gazing at this stranger, surprised that this man did not notice him despite his large wings. By the time Sandy was exactly opposite the stranger and his boulder, he stopped searching, and looked straight at the fellow.

“Strong is the storm, is it?” hollered Sandy.

The man’s face remained fixed upon the river.

Now we know Sandy was not the talker among his group, but fear got the best of him and he tried to allay it by confronting this man who seemingly had come from nowhere. He pressed on.

“Where are you going, sir?”

For a long time the man remained sil—

“I have just arrived,” the man hollered back.

Dread was creeping through Sandy’s veins. His wings flapped once, revealing tension.

“Eh?” snapped Sandy. “Where have you come from, sir? Are you aware of the ban?”

“What ban?”

“Northerners have not been allowed to pass by this river until the thirtieth of this month.”

“I did not come from the north.”

Clem had arrived at the scene. “Who’s that?” he asked.

“Probably a northerner,” muttered Sandy, without facing his friend.

“He’s got a weapon?”

“I don’t know yet.” Sandy now turned to Clem. “Look for Ned and Denis. If this man proves dangerous, I’ll cross the river at once. You already know the vines area where you can cross this river more easily, right?”

“You’ll manage, then?”

“Sure. Just get the others.”

Clem walked away. Sandy turned to see the man still staring, not at the river however, but at him.

“Where are you headed?”

“I told you, I have just arrived.”

“This is the place you’ve come for?”

“Aye.”

“And what do you intend to do here?”

“Kill you.”

Sandy’s wings flapped again. The man had now stood on the rock he was crouching a while ago, and Sandy found the man’s left hand clutching a sheathed sword. There was no need for interrogation. For all his muddied uniform, it was still evident from afar that Sandy was a Sabeurreinon.

“You threaten the law?” Sandy was furious, yet he stopped himself from drawing his sword, aware that his prospective killer was at least fifty yards away. His wings were now flapping wildly, tempting Sandy to cross the river.

Now he understood why the man was not surprised at his wings. He had come for Sandy… and perhaps for his friends, too?

Sandy let out a cry of rage before lunging into flight. Just you wait, asshole, we’ll see that your trip has been in vain.

He ascended until he was at the middle of the river, and then he dove for his opponent’s side.

The stranger remained standing instead of readying himself for a defense, staring at the same place where Sandy had taken off.

While Sandy neared his target, he wondered, why is this guy not moving? He was aware of certain sword techniques that did not require immediately brandishing a sword when danger was present, but they were so rare that they had become legendary. He had not seen a previous opponent of his do this, and he had only heard rumors of this being actually successful. He had to break this dive… NOW!

Sandy curled himself and broke his fall by heading for the trees at the back of his opponent. He rolled into the dried leaves and the mud, dirtying his uniform once more.

What story was that? Sandy tried to remember. Was it Ukeshiro? Or Dalmas? Who told that story to me in the bar?

He stood up. The stranger had not stirred. This was not the time to remove the leaves off his wings – Sandy had to strike. It could be all over…

The Roseman!

Sandy gasped. He was facing, singlehandedly, the very man he and his friends swore to put down for the honor of the nation. It was the Roseman’s massacres that they were telling in the bar. Who else could pull off such a diabolic technique against fifty men in half an hour?

Where are you guys?

Now the figure turned, ever so slowly, as if he was a statue being moved by some invisible strongman. The face was set, including the smile that seemed to mock just another victim.

By this time Sandy had drawn his blade. He held it with both hands, the hilt placed alongside his left hip, the blade thrust into the air ready to slash or stab the enemy as Sandy saw fit. His right foot supported his weight while his left leg readied itself for the pounce.

The man slowly walked toward him. After a few paces, he stopped.

“You’re lucky that I’ve decided to talk to you after all. So many others have not received the benefit of having known who killed them.”

Sandy scoffed at this humbuggery. He was ready to attack. But the man, whom Sandy was sure to be the Roseman, remained standing only a few feet from him and still clutching a sheathed weapon.

The stranger continued talking. “I see no use talking to my victims, but perhaps you can call me a fan of yours since you will be my most illustrious catch.

“I was sent here to rid your town with Bainfeer-loving idiots like you who would prefer a divided country over a divided self. I, a foreigner of this land, under the mandate of Heaven, shall strike you down, even if all the angels come to your aid. EGO SVM MORS TVA.[1]”

The stranger swung his still-sheathed sword, running towards Sandy, who in turn charged to answer the swing. As the stranger’s sword completed a rotation over his head, the sheath flew away, and he swung again, just in time to block Sandy’s thrust. Sandy, for all his weight, was hurled to the side by the block. The stranger ceased for a moment, to see whether the soldier would stand up or play dead.

This was not a time for games. Sandy composed himself, and almost immediately he put up his sword before him as his enemy had already swung his sword again. Sandy then held his sword upwards, and lunged again, but the enemy was too fast for his attacks. The man ran backwards, strafed, and eluded his slashes by nimbly countering them with his own. His opponent surely knew sword dances, and Sandy, poor guy with wings, was left to protect his balance against sword dances by running sideways and finding a tree where he can lean his back.

He was now being attacked from all sides, in rapid succession. It was the Seven-Petal style, and Sandy now understood why the Roseman was so successful. This style had long been dismissed as impractical long ago as an indoor technique, which was why few, and especially not the Sabeurreini, cared to learn it. The Sabeurreini were raiders, not guards. Fortunately for Sandy, he knew.

But his knowledge was not enough. The Roseman was getting through his defenses by sheer repetition of his attacks. He had probably struck Sandy sixty-three times, and a few of those had already yielded a cut here, a scratch there. And worse, his wings were not spared. Sixty-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-seventy-one-two-three-four-five–

“Ahhh!” Sandy leaped into the air and sliced through the branches, freeing himself briefly… only to find that the Roseman was catching up on him by leaping on the very branches he had cleared out. The glint of the enemy’s sword was enough to make Sandy go lunging again, but he had been hurt, and he needed the air for leverage. My God, am I the longest surviving opponent of this man?

He was wondering where his friends were. He was damn worried. He tried to reassure himself that he would win this fight, or at least get out of it alive. But he also knew that the Roseman had never left any living opponent. The rumor was that he who sees the Roseman’s blade will surely end up knocking at heavens’ gates.

The Roseman somersaulted to reach Sandy while in flight. Sandy countered with a slash to the enemy swing. The man fell, but landed like a cat, and then stood there, waiting for him.

Should I return? Sandy asked himself. He was at a safe distance, still shaken by that last exchange of blows, flapping his winds like a vulture contemplating on his prey. And where the hell are they?

A clash of swords below. And not just two; the intervals between the exchanges were so fast that Sandy had to observe that his opponent was facing more than one of his allies. Perhaps…

“Come down here, bird man!” bellowed Denis. For all the man’s disease Denis pursued their enemy with enough rage as did Ned and Clem. The three had been trading blows with the stranger with almost equal determination. And Sandy should be joining them.

The bird man landed a safe distance from the fight. Seeing this, the three other friends retreated in such a fashion that their opponent now stood at the center. They could attack him at the same time now.

But the Roseman kept his ground. He sheathed his sword, and waited. His eyes were fixed at Sandy, his sword pointed toward Ned at his left, his upper body leaned toward Clem in front of him, while his left foot was ready to defend his back from Denis.

One mistake, and it will be all over.

It was a beautiful morning.

The Roseman crouched, pivoted to face Denis, and swiftly attacked. Ned and Sandy leapt to defend their friend, while Denis himself took a step back to receive the impact of the Roseman’s thrust.

But it was not Denis who took the Roseman’s blow. The enemy had suddenly turned to Sandy at the last minute, and before the bird man could react with a sword slash, the Roseman had run through Sandy’s left wing, using it as cover against the other three while it was falling off.

All four were stunned. Meanwhile the Roseman stood a few feet away, then attacked again.

Like a tiger he swiftly isolated Ned while the other two rushed to attend to their fallen comrade; Ned could only now think of defending himself and surviving this. There was no way he’s going to win this. He was young, and so is the Roseman; but the latter’s speed and cunning was simply too much for him to handle. He had to play dead. It was cowardly, but he had to survive. For Cheesy… or is it Cham?

Stupidly he caught the Roseman’s sword with his hand, and guided the tip to the right side of his belly. Blood gushed forth, and the last thing Ned saw was the Roseman’s lips revealing a thin smile.

Denis had crept up to the scene and he came charging like a rhino with its horn. His sword coming from above, Denis attacked the Roseman, who quickly knelt on one knee and then blocked Denis’s slash, his knee plunging into the mush. With this move the Roseman was forced to lie on his chest, but this move proved to be necessary for him as he kicked into the air and hit Denis’s face.

Denis fell, but before he had landed into the ground the Roseman was already slashing through him. They were deep, and Denis could feel the Roseman’s blade slicing through him. Old wounds were being re-opened, while the new ones were numbing him.

Three down, one more to go.

The Roseman marched back to Sandy’s place, near the river bank. There was Sandy, bleeding and unconscious. With that pool of blood by him, he’ll be dead in minutes. But where was that fourth moron who was with them?

Here I am, fucker.

Clem emerged from behind with his sword and a dagger. He threw the dagger first, which the Roseman immediately thwarted; then Clem shoved his sword into the side of his enemy’s neck.

It could have been over for the Roseman, but he was damn too quick for even that kind of surprise. And he was surprising even with his counterattack. Instead of pulling himself from the sword, he glided his neck by the blade, turning his entire body in the process. Only when his entire neck had been serrated did he move away, and it was only to let his katana clash with Clem’s.

The Roseman smiled.

Then they stood there, the assassin who had become a legend in a matter of months, and the unknown soldier who might end up becoming just another of the former’s kills. Waited.

The Roseman started walking back to the rock where Sandy first saw him. Clem followed, his sword ever ready to strike or block.

No way I’m going back home without his head, thought Clem. I’m not returning without my friends – or him.

He charged.

The Roseman drew his sword just in time to block Clem’s slash, and then slashed at his last victim for today. A huge gash on Clem’s chest finished it all.

There was no need to survey the damage. The Roseman left the execution decree on Clem, then slowly, quietly, walked away.

It was a beautiful morning.

---

[1] Notice that this Latin statement has seventeen letters. Its opposite, “Ego sum vita tua,” also has seventeen letters.