Datu Dumaalon
When Dumaalon laid eyes on the boy, he already knew what the babaylan would say.
He does not belong here.
It was obvious. The boy was brown, but not the deep, sun-bronzed brown of their people, his skin had a muted, softer hue, like the sea people who came on swift boats, their arms weighed down by golden krises gifted by the greater datus. But his face was unsettlingly familiar.
His cheekbones were high, his jaw strong yet softened by youth. His nose was broad but not flat, a shape that sat between the angular sharpness of the northern traders and the fuller, rounded features of their own people. His eyes, dark and searching, lacked the practiced wariness of a merchant accustomed to bargaining or the hardened gaze of a seasoned warrior. Instead, there was something raw in them, confusion, as if he were seeing the world for the first time and struggling to place himself in it.
Dumaalon asked Lantawan how the hunt had gone, and his chief hunter replied succinctly. He would demand a more thorough explanation later, Lantawan was not a man of wasted words, but a failed hunt was no small matter. Yet for now, there was a more pressing issue standing before him.
The boy's hair was strange, thick in places where it shouldn't be, growing in wild, untamed patches across his arms and chest. He bore some resemblance to the sea traders from the vast empires, his eyes carried the sharp, slanted shape of the porcelain merchants, and the stubble on his chin hinted at the ability to grow a full beard like the spice traders from the south. His chest hair was thick but straighter, lacking the tight curls often seen on those who sailed from the lands of heat and spices.
Yet the differences, though subtle, were unmistakable. His eyes, though narrow, could widen with surprise in a way unlike the measured expressions of the porcelain traders. His features blended elements of many, yet never fully aligned with any. Like a leaf caught in the current of a river, moving with the flow yet never truly belonging to the waters.
His mind worked quickly, piecing together what little he knew. The boy was clearly not one of theirs, but he was also not an outright foreigner. A lost son of some datu from another land? A bastard of a sea trader? A runaway from a far-flung village? No markings adorned his body, no tattoos that told his story, no beads that named his lineage. He was alone, stripped of everything that would have given him identity. And yet, something about him, it was not just his face, but the way he held himself, the way he seemed so utterly bewildered, made Dumaalon hesitate.
"Take him to the babaylan."
If anyone could unravel the truth, it would be her.
After the babaylan had spoken her piece, he turned back to the boy. "What is your name?"
The boy hesitated. Then, as if driven by instinct, he shifted from his seated position and crawled forward, his movements eerily submissive, like a prisoner who had long accepted his fate.
He almost laughed along with his guards but he composed himself immediately.
This was no trained man. He had the body of one, tall, broad-shouldered, a frame that could be forged into something powerful, but he moved and mumbled like a child. There was no discipline in him, no warrior's pride, no dignity.
After agreeing with his chief hunter on the boy's name, he asked another question: "Where did you come from?"
The boy was silent. Dumaalon studied him closely, his sharp gaze narrowing. Did he truly not know where he was from? Or was he simply hiding something? Perhaps he had insulted some spirit and been cursed to wander, stripped of home and memory.
The pause stretched long, thick with uncertainty, until the boy finally muttered, "Makati."
Dumaalon frowned. Was the boy playing tricks on him? He had just said an ebbing river. Was he from a river tribe? But he had never heard of a river datu wealthy enough to buy a foreign slave, much less one with a foreign wife. And yet, this boy, this strange mix of tribal and sea people, could only have come from such a union.
But where? He had known many merchants, warriors, and travelers, but none quite like this one.
Deciding to press further, he asked, "And who is your datu?"
The boy hesitated again. This time, Dumaalon's curiosity had no patience to wait.
"You do not know your datu? Your father? Your god?" His voice sharpened, edged with impatience, unable to comprehend why the answer was not immediate. "Do you even have a family?"
The boy stuttered, "Yes, yes, God, sir."
Dumaalon's expression darkened slightly. God? That was no name of a datu he had ever heard. He exchanged a glance with the babaylan, who gave the slightest shake of her head, no recognition, no guidance.
"Fine," he finally declared. "Aso, we will keep you here for now." He turned to the wiry woman beside him. "Punay, clothe and find him a place to stay while we decide what to do with him."
He ordered his slaves to bring fruits and drink before turning to Lantawan and Kalawti, his mind still clouded with questions.
"Was he really not carrying anything? No charms, no clothing, nothing that might give us an idea of who claims him?"
Lantawan shook his head. "No, sir. Nothing. We found his tracks, but it seems he just appeared in the middle of the forest, walked to a big tree, and slept there. He even fashioned a crude spear."
Dumaalon arched a brow. "And the spear, no markings? No craftsmanship that stands out?"
Lantawan exhaled, shaking his head again. "No, sir, nothing remarkable at all. It looked as if it were made by someone who has never held a spear before. The shaft was uneven, the tip poorly sharpened, and he hadn't even wrapped the grip properly. It was the work of a desperate man, not a hunter."
Dumaalon then turned his attention to Kalawti, his expression hardening. "And the spirits are quiet? You told me the hunt would be successful. Was the boy their target?"
Kalawti stiffened, tension radiating from her. "I don't know what happened," she admitted, her voice unusually uncertain. "The spirits clearly promised a deer would be brought back when I asked them this morning before the hunters departed. There was no mention of a boy, much less one so foreign. And this Datu God, the spirits don't know him."
Lantawan, as if recalling something, spoke up. "Oh, yes. We did see a deer, but the boy made a sound, and it got away."
Dumaalon sighed, rubbing his temple before taking a long drink. His mind whirled with unanswered questions, but exhaustion was beginning to settle into his bones. "Then we keep him here," he said at last. "When the merchants come, I will inquire. Maybe Vikra or Rajah Bugtas will know."
He exchanged a glance with the babaylan. The night had brought more questions than answers, and tomorrow promised even more.
Before he could dismiss the gathering, hurried footsteps echoed outside. The guards barely attempting to halt her advance before Alunay stepped into the hut, the scent of salt and wind still clinging to her clothes.
"Father," she said, her voice carrying the weight of the sea, of long nights on restless waters. "The hunters returned with a stranger instead of a kill. Is it true?"
Dumaalon exhaled through his nose, already anticipating her insistence. "It is true."
She took another step forward, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion on her face. "I heard whispers even before I set foot on the shore. Traders were already speaking of a foreigner in our village, a man not quite one of us, not quite an outsider. Some said he was a slave from a faraway land. Others claimed he was a lost son of a great datu. The rumors reached me before the waves could settle beneath my boat."
Dumaalon frowned. This girl is really getting a flair for the dramatic, how did she even hear from traders when they were out in the middle of the ocean? Word was spreading faster than he liked.
"I want to see him," she pressed.
Dumaalon studied his daughter. Her ocean travels had marked her, sun-kissed skin, salt-stiffened clothes, the faint weariness in her stance. Yet her eyes gleamed with curiosity, the same hunger for knowledge that had always set her apart.
"You will see him," he said evenly. "But not tonight. You are tired, and it can wait until morning."
"But"
"Tomorrow, Alunay." His tone left no room for argument. "Rest first. Then we will speak of him."
She pressed her lips into a thin line but did not argue. With a sharp nod, she turned on her heel and left, though Dumaalon did not miss the way her fingers curled into her palms, restless, unsatisfied.
Dayang Kaluna
The sun had barely begun its ascent when Kaluna stirred, awakened by the familiar rustling beside her. Dumaalon was already up, moving with quiet urgency, eager to catch his daughter before she disappeared from the shore, or wherever that gods-damned child wandered.
Their son, Rakun, was already awake, his small hands reaching toward his father with the unshaken trust of a child. But Dumaalon, ever preoccupied, barely spared him a glance. A distracted pat on the head, a muttered greeting, nothing more, before he strode out, his focus already elsewhere.
Kaluna watched the scene unfold with tight lips, her fingers curling into the woven mat beneath her. She had given him a son, a strong, healthy boy. Yet Dumaalon doted on Alunay as if she were the moon itself, as if her very presence was something to be treasured beyond all else.
When she bore him a son, she had hoped, foolishly, perhaps, that things would change. She had always known her father used her as a tool, a piece to be placed on the board to unite their tribes. You will keep our empire together, he had told her. But she was more than just a bargaining chip. The spirits had acknowledged her, granted her knowledge that only the worthy could wield. Surely, in time, Dumaalon would see her worth, not as a mere necessity, but as a partner.
Yet nothing changed. If anything, it worsened. He barely acknowledged her, his attentions fleeting and impersonal. And worst of all, he treated Alunay as if she were the son he had always wanted, leaving Kaluna and their actual son in the shadows.
The day stretched long before her. Kaluna was never one to sit idly, there was always work to be done, always someone in need of her skill. Though they did not speak her name with the same reverence as they did the other babaylan, she still upheld the old code: to aid those who needed healing, to bless the crops so they do not wither or fall to corruption.
But the whispers, the sidelong glances, the way they called her Dayang as if that was all she would ever be, it gnawed at her. She swallowed the disrespect, forced herself to ignore the slight in their voices.
And yet, there were moments, fleeting but potent, when she let herself indulge in darker thoughts. The knowledge gifted to her was not only for healing. She knew the old ways, the forbidden arts, the steps, the chants, the careful, deliberate poisons. She had practiced them before. She was practicing one now. But she reminded herself: he deserved it. These people, for all their insolence, were innocent.
She walked through the village, her presence noticed but not honored.
"Dayang," an old woman greeted her with a slight bow of the head. The word sat heavy in Kaluna's stomach. It was her title, yes, but only because of the blood that ran through her veins, not because of the work she had done. She was a babaylan. She had learned the ways of the spirits, the power of healing, the secrets of what lay beyond the veil of the living. And yet, they did not call her babaylan as they did Kalawti.
To them, she was still just the daughter of the Rajah. A noblewoman. A woman who had been given power through birth and marriage, not through her own strength.
The thought burned inside her as she stopped before a man sitting outside his hut, a grimace on his face as he clutched his side.
"You're in pain," she noted.
The man looked up, hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Dayang."
She knelt beside him, ignoring the title he used. With practiced hands, she examined the deep bruise along his ribs. "You've taken a fall."
"I…." The man cleared his throat. "It happened in the jungle. I thought it would fade."
She did not speak as she reached into the pouch at her side, pulling out a small bundle of leaves. She chewed them carefully before pressing the mixture onto his skin. The man winced but did not pull away.
"You should rest," she instructed. "And when the pain lessens, walk, but do not run."
He nodded but did not thank her.
He would have thanked Kalawti.
Kaluna rose, brushing dirt from her skirt. As she walked away, she felt their eyes on her, but never in the way she wanted. They did not seek her wisdom. They did not whisper of her name with awe.
They still saw her as nothing more than Bugtas' daughter. The subpar replacement of the great Kalinay. A bitter root in a healing brew.
By midday, she returned to the Datu's hut, carrying the meal she had prepared with hands that healed the sick yet remained unacknowledged in her own home. She set the food before him, the aroma of smoked fish and stewed greens rising between them, but as always, no word of thanks came. No nod of acknowledgment, not even a passing glance.
After lunch, they retreated to their sleeping floor for the afternoon rest. Their son toddled over, small hands grasping at Dumaalon's fingers, demanding what she herself had long been denied. And with effort, always with effort, Dumaalon indulged him, lifting the boy onto his lap, letting him tug at his braids and pat his face.
Kaluna watched as her husband rocked him gently, humming an old warrior's lullaby, his touch careful, his voice softer than she had ever known it to be. Yet she saw the distance in his eyes, the way he held the boy not with the warmth of a father, but with the restraint of a man bound by duty, not love.
Then came the call from the guards, their voices carrying through the still afternoon air. The hunters had returned.
It was for the Datu, as it always was. No one sought her. They would come only if there was blood to staunch, bones to set, lives to mend. She was used to it.
But this time, the commotion had a different pitch, excited, uncertain, carrying an energy that prickled at the edges of her awareness. This was no ordinary hunt, no routine report.
From where she sat, she watched them move, warriors, hunters, the Datu himself, all funneling toward Kalawti's hut.
No guard came for her.
The meeting was not for her.
Never mind that she was a babaylan. Never mind that she held knowledge the others did not. Dumaalon had not invited her. He had never invited her. Instead, he sought Kalawti, the favored one, the one whom the spirits supposedly blessed with clearer visions and sharper guidance.
Kaluna stood outside, her nails digging into her palms as she listened to their voices. She caught pieces of conversation, the boy, the foreigner, the thing that had disrupted the hunt.
She clenched her jaw, turning away. She had heard enough. That boy would not disrupt her plans anyway.
When she returned to the hut that evening, she found Dumaalon exactly as she expected, seated beside Alunay, the weight of the day seemingly lifted from his shoulders as he indulged his daughter's endless curiosity. His expression, so often hardened by duty, was now open, unguarded. He smiled at her. He laughed with her.
Kaluna sat across from them, unseen.
She had been patient. She had done all that was expected of her. She had borne him a son, given him an heir. She had tended to his people, healed their wounds, ensured their prosperity. She had been what a wife should be, dutiful, unwavering, loyal. And still, he did not see her.
Every day, with every averted glance, with every slight from the villagers, she felt more certain that she was right. Every day, his treatment of her justified the decision she had already begun carrying out. The slow, careful work of retribution.
Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps the spirits willed it. The Datu would get what he deserved, and in the end, her son would inherit the position, just as her father had intended.
She watched as Dumaalon lifted his cup to his lips, the faintest trace of bitterness in her gaze.
Perhaps only the ancestors could make him understand the weight of his neglect.