Evan walked alongside Punay, noting the damp earth beneath his feet. The village paths were slick with moisture, puddles reflecting the pale morning light. Huh. Guess it rained last night. He hadn't noticed, yesterday's playtime had drained him so completely that he'd slept like a hibernating bear.
Once at the river again, he stretched his arms above his head, rolling his shoulders as he stood at the river's edge. The morning air was cool, mist curling over the water's surface. For once, he was up early, early enough that the village women hadn't started their laundry yet, still occupied with bathing their kids.
He took his time warming up, rolling his ankles, stretching his calves, and going through a few pre-exercise routines. Nothing too intense, just enough to not have accidental cramps and to loosen up after introducing capture the flag to the kids yesterday.
Wading into the river, he hissed at the initial chill before sinking deeper, letting the water envelop him. He dunked his head, wiping his face underwater before running his fingers through his hair. It wasn't as grimy as when he first arrived, but he still missed the familiar lather of shampoo. With a sigh, he grabbed a smooth river stone and started scrubbing, making do with what he had.
The river was shallow enough that, if he ignored the loincloth situation and the fact that the surrounding jungle looked like it could spit out a crocodile at any moment, this almost felt like a vacation. A summer in the province, when he'd wade through streams with cousins, skipping stones, playing warrior with the coolest sticks they could find.
Satisfied with his scrubbing, he glanced down at the clear water, watching the sunlight dance across its surface. On a whim, he kicked off, propelling himself forward in an awkward freestyle stroke. He barely managed three strokes before surfacing, shaking the water from his face, and turning back. Still, the motion felt good, his muscles, sore from yesterday's roughhousing with the kids, loosened with each push.
He did it again. Then again. Five rounds of gliding through the water, surfacing, catching his breath, and pushing off once more. The repetition was almost meditative, his limbs moving on instinct, his mind slipping into a quiet rhythm. The river's gentle current carried him just enough to make it feel effortless, and for a moment, he almost forgot where he was.
But as he surfaced, reality settled in again, the towering jungle, the distant chatter of villagers, the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Shaking water from his hair, he exhaled and waded toward the riverbank, where Punay stood waiting, arms crossed, her usual unreadable expression in place.
"You were swimming like a dog," she remarked as he stepped onto solid ground, water dripping from his skin.
Evan scoffed, squeezing excess water from his hair. "That's just how swimming works."
She only hummed in response, unimpressed, before turning on her heel. "Come. You're needed at the hut."
He followed her back toward the weaving hut, the damp fabric of his loincloth sticking uncomfortably to his skin. As they walked through the village, a swarm of children spotted him and immediately pounced.
"Aso! Aso! Will you join my team today?" one of them tugged at his arm.
"Do you know any other games?" another piped up, hopping excitedly beside him.
Evan hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. Hmmm, what other games can he teach these children? He actually wouldn't mind playing, but admitting that felt weird. What was he supposed to say? Yes, I want to spend my morning running around like a fool with a bunch of kids? Instead, he gave a half-hearted shrug, trying to look indifferent.
"Uh, yeah, probably," he mumbled. "But"
Before he could finish, Timbina's sharp voice sliced through the excitement.
"Enough. Aso has work to do." The older woman shot the children a pointed look, hands firmly planted on her hips. "Go help your mothers, or I'll find work for you."
The kids groaned, dragging their feet as they scattered. Evan exhaled, half relieved, half disappointed. He wasn't about to argue with Timbina, but a small part of him wished he'd had the chance to suggest something before she stepped in. Maybe next time.
Settling onto the woven floor, he picked up where he had left off the previous day, carefully threading and tightening the fibers. His fingers had gotten slightly better at the repetitive task, though his work was still nowhere near as neat as the others. He focused, determined to finish before lunch.
By the time the midday sun peaked through the gaps in the hut's walls, his mat was finally done, lopsided in places, a little uneven, but it seems to have reached the required length. He leaned back, stretching his sore fingers with a satisfied sigh.
Timbina glanced over his work, scrutinizing it with a critical eye before giving a short, unimpressed nod. "Good enough." she said dryly. "Even the Rajah's pigs need something to lie on."
Evan awkwardly offered a smile, then, out of habit, lifted a thumbs-up.
Timbina's eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. A few of the weavers exchanged puzzled glances, one even squinting at his hand like it might start speaking.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Timbina asked, her tone caught between suspicion and mild irritation.
Realizing his mistake, Evan quickly lowered his hand, clearing his throat. "Uh… Thanks only ma'am. Just giving thanks." He gives her a final awkward smile and then turns to Punay. "So… what's next?"
Punay, unfazed, simply replied, "Lunch. Then you continue until the Datu says otherwise."
After lunch, as the women idly chatted with their children, preparing them for their afternoon rest, the sky began to change. Heavy clouds rolled in, casting a gray pall over the village. The air thickened, heavy with humidity, clinging to Evan's skin like a warning. Then, the first droplets fell, darkening the packed dirt paths.
The reaction was immediate.
Voices rose as people moved with practiced urgency. Baskets of rice and dried fish were hoisted onto shoulders, rushed into the safety of huts. Tools were gathered, covered with woven mats, tucked away inside the huts before the downpour could claim them. Children squealed as they stretched their hands out to catch the cooling rain, only to be swiftly scolded and pulled inside.
Evan didn't wait for instructions. He grabbed a bundle of firewood left outside one of the huts and hurried to bring it inside. His grip was awkward, his steps uneven, but he managed. He spotted an elderly man struggling with a basket nearly as big as he was, so Evan jogged over to help, nearly knocking the poor man over in the process.
"Careful, Aso," the man grunted, using the village's nickname for him. "You're strong but clumsy."
Evan grimaced, adjusting his hold. "Sorry, sir."
The man chuckled, shaking his head as they set the basket down inside. Outside, the rain thickened, pounding against the thatched roofs. The last of the stragglers ran for cover, soaked to the bone but laughing, shaking off the water as they ducked into their huts.
Inside, the dim light of the hut flickered as the fire in the center burned low. The weavers hadn't stopped working, their hands moving with quiet precision as they continued their craft. Even in a downpour, the village never truly stopped.
Evan sat cross-legged near the fire, watching as the flames flickered, casting long shadows on the woven walls. The rain drummed against the roof in a steady rhythm, a sound that felt oddly comforting. It was a rare moment of stillness.
The children, restless from being stuck inside, huddled close, their bright eyes wide with curiosity as the older women settled in, their hands never ceasing their weaving even as their voices took on the weight of old stories.
"Long ago, before our ancestors built their homes and before the rivers found their paths, the great flood came," one of the women began, her voice steady, practiced. "The rains fell for nine days and nine nights, and the sea roared as if angered by some great insult. The rivers swelled, their banks vanishing beneath the rising waters. The land itself trembled, as if trying to shake off the weight of the ocean."
The children leaned in, already entranced.
"It is said that this flood was not just rain," another elder added, her voice lower, conspiratorial. "It was the wrath of Haliya, the moon goddess, and Bakulud, the god of the earth. Once, they were kin, bound by the duty of keeping the world balanced. But Haliya, in her endless vigilance against the serpent Bakunawa, forgot to honor Bakulud, who held the mountains high and the valleys firm. Bakulud grew resentful. He whispered to the spirits of the deep, to the hidden rivers beneath the land, and together, they called forth the flood to humble the sky."
The hut was quiet now, save for the steady patter of rain against the roof.
"The people saw the waters swallowing their fields and knew they had angered the spirits," the first woman continued. "They gathered what they could and climbed the highest mountains, hoping to escape. But the flood did not stop. The waves licked at the peaks, drowning even the tallest trees. Bakulud would not be satisfied until all who had forgotten him were lost."
One of the younger children clutched their mat, eyes wide. "Did they all die?"
The storyteller shook her head. "Not all. There were those who remembered the old ways, who still sang to the spirits of the land. One among them was Daga-Daga, a clever weaver who knew the stories of the first ancestors. She called out to Haliya, who had hidden behind thick storm clouds, unaware of what Bakulud had done. With her voice alone, she wove a song as intricate as the finest banig, threading together the names of the spirits, reminding them of their place in the world.
"When Haliya finally heard her, she was filled with sorrow. She did not fight Bakulud, for she knew the world needed both sky and earth, but she took her own golden mask and cast it into the floodwaters. Where it landed, the seas calmed, and the waters receded, leaving behind islands shaped by the hands of gods."
The old woman looked at the children, her gaze steady. "This is the work we inherit, little ones. We weave, as our ancestors did before us. Our hands may shape only simple fibers, plain and unadorned, while in the greater villages, their looms dance with color, threading stories into cloth so none are lost to time. We may be far from them, but make no mistake, they weave even our stories, stitching us into the great tapestry of our people. And one day, when we, too, become a great village, our hands will carry the weight of those who came before, weaving their stories into memory."
A hush settled over the group, the rain's steady drumming the only sound. The flood had not come yet, but the story reminded them, it still could.
Evan exhaled softly, lost in the rhythm of the tale. Funny how floods, no matter where or when, seemed to leave the same mark on people, maybe that's why flood myths were everywhere, a memory shared through space and time.
Then, one of the children turned to him. "Aso, do you have stories about floods?"
Evan blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… yeah. Pretty much the same story, just with a big boat."
The kids perked up. The adults, too, glanced at him with mild curiosity.
He cleared his throat. "Alright, so back where I come from, there's this story about a man named Noah. A great flood covered the whole world, so he built a massive boat, big enough to carry pairs of every animal, and rode it out."
A boy squinted at him. "How big?"
"Like… really big. Bigger than this whole village. It has to house pairs of all animals after all."
The kids gasped. "Lies," one muttered, though their curiosity was obvious.
Evan grinned. "Not lying. And the flood lasted for forty days and nights."
The women murmured among themselves, nodding. "A long flood," one said. "It must have been a great punishment."
"Yeah, something like that," Evan admitted. "The story says the Lord saw that people had turned wicked beyond redemption, so he sent the flood to wipe them out and start over. Well, everyone except Noah, his family, and the animals. When the waters finally receded, they started over."
The kids whispered, debating whether the story was real. But before they could decide, another old woman spoke up, launching into a different tale of floods and spirits, and just like that, Evan was off the hook.
By nightfall, the rain had lessened to a drizzle. Fires flickered inside the huts, the scent of cooking filling the air. Steamed rice, roasted fish, something rich with ginger and coconut. Evan sat among them, eating in comfortable silence, the warmth of the fire seeping into his skin.
Outside, the village was still partially flooded, shallow pools of water glistening under the moonlight. But the villagers moved through it with ease, stepping carefully as they returned to their own homes for the night.
Evan watched them go, the weight of the day settling in his bones. He was tired, but it was a good kind of tired. The kind that came from effort, from being part of something, even if only a little.
Punay motioned for him to return to his hut, and he followed without complaint.
As he lay down on his mat, listening to the last patters of rain against the roof, his thoughts drifted to the people of the village. They were just people, humans trying to make it through life, same as anywhere else. He had expected something different from the past, something harsher, maybe. Something ruled by cruelty, by constant struggle. But instead, he found families laughing over meals, old women weaving stories into their work, children playing even as the world around them remained unpredictable and wild. They worked hard, yes, but they also lived, laughed, and from the number of pregnant bellies, he hoped they loved.
It struck him how different this was from the world he knew. Back home, poverty twisted people's choices, forced them into struggles that went beyond just survival, struggles of debt, exhaustion, and sacrifice. Here, survival was straightforward. No crushing weight of bills, no mind-numbing commutes, no endless chase for something kept out of reach.
Could he even live here peacefully?
He knew, deep down, that he was coasting on borrowed goodwill. The Datu's generosity had shielded him, but only because they likely believed he was some lost noble from a distant tribe. So far, no one had questioned it, but how long could he keep up the illusion? Sooner or later, they would realize there was no Makati village, at least, not yet. And when that day came, what would happen to him?
Would they force him to farm? Fight? Sacrifice him to some nature spirit? 'Wait… did my ancestors even do human sacrifices? Can I even call them ancestors when I'm standing right here? Maybe I should call them my now-cestors? My homies?'
He sighed. 'If they do force me to fight, I'll probably die to some random arrow… just like how I originally died to a random air conditioner unit. What to do, what to do…'