Evan drew the bowstring back, shoulders tight, one eye closed as he tried to line up the shot. The arrow looked mostly straight, mostly. He let out a slow breath, held it for a second, then released the string.
The arrow wobbled mid-air, veering slightly before barely grazing the trunk of the tree with a dull thunk.
Maybe it's because the arrows don't have those feathery thingies at the end? Fletchlings? Fletchers? Those kept the arrow stable right?
He reset his stance and nocked another arrow, eyes scanning the now-empty field. Binalig and Hunyak had stayed behind in the village center to help with the feast. He'd tried to lend a hand, but they'd shooed him off. Binalig, with a smirk, telling him that if he really wanted to help, he should get back to training.
Distracted, he released too soon. The arrow flew too high, clipping a branch that cracked off and landed with a soft thud on the unsuspecting cat lounging beneath the tree.
Garcia yowled and bolted, only for a second. Moments later, the cat strutted back with deliberate grace, as if nothing had happened, and curled up neatly behind Evan's foot. The cat's curled form snuggled perfectly in his shadow.
"…Sorry, buddy," Evan muttered. He reached down to pet him, but hesitated at the last second, pulling his hand back. Still not sure if the cat was ready for that kind of trust.
He eyed the branch he'd clipped earlier, it was still dangling, stubbornly clinging on by a splinter. His gaze flicked to the worn circle he'd been shooting at, then back to the half-hanging branch. Untidy. And honestly, it seemed like a way more satisfying target than the increasingly boring spot on the tree.
Decision made, he nocked another arrow and took aim at the splinter. The rest of the afternoon slipped by in a quiet rhythm of shots and misses, just him, the bow, and that twig clinging to the branch like a popcorn kernel stuck in the teeth. After a while, he started hitting it consistently. But just like a tongue tapping and prodding at that stubborn piece of popcorn, never quite getting it loose, neither could Evan.
As the sun drew down, the sound of drums echoed from the village center, slow at first, then steadily building like a heartbeat. Binalig came jogging back to fetch him.
"Aso. They're starting, come" she said, waving for him to follow.
By the time they arrived, the air was thick with smoke, roasted meat, and laughter. Flames crackled in the center, casting flickering shadows across the gathering. Warriors and women alike were already deep in their drinks, arms slung over each other's shoulders, heads thrown back in easy, unguarded joy.
Clusters of people sat on logs on his left and right, passing gourds of what he assumes is alcohol and skewers of grilled something. Children darted through the crowd, chasing chickens and dogs through the outer edges of the feast, their shrieks adding to the wild, festive din.
In the middle of the clearing stood the massive warship Evan had seen earlier when the datu gave his speech. But now, the spotlight belonged to the babaylan, perched at the center like a queen on a floating stage.
She was wrapped in layers of red, not bright or flashy, but deep and earthen, like dried blood or rusted clay. Gold gleamed off her in layers: necklaces stacked like armor, bangles clinking at every movement, a shimmering belt that definitely looked like hammered coins strung together. The firelight danced across every piece.
'For a bunch of 'primitive' tribespeople,' Evan thought, 'they sure have a lot of bling. No wonder the Spaniards went feral. All that gold, it would've lit up every neuron in their conquistador loot lobe like Christmas. If I remember right, those conquistadors were just broke, desperate guys. Show them this much gold, and their eyeballs probably turned into money signs.'
At the foot of the babaylan, spread across the wooden "floor" of the warship, lay the feast. A vibrant, steaming display of the island's bounty. Skewered grilled fish. Fat slabs of some meat. Bowls of rice porridge. Bundles of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves. Raw slices of mango dusted with salt. Jars of sugarcane wine passed from hand to hand, already half-empty. Roasted root crops, gabi, kamote, and a taro variant Evan didn't even recognize, sat smoking on woven trays.
The fact that this clearly backwater, tiny-as-hell tribe had more food on the table than the average modern Filipino family on Christmas Eve broke his heart a little. People were supposed to move forward, not fall behind. 'So how the hell did my nowcestors have more to feast on than most people I knew back in my time?'
Before he could spiral too deep into that depressing rabbit hole, someone shouted his name, his tribal name.
"Aso! You made it!" Punay called out, already tipsy, a gourd in one hand and her other arm slung around a grinning warrior's shoulder. "Hey guys, here's our new warrior!" She waved him over with a crooked grin.
The warriors around her, half-drunk, fully rowdy, raised their drinks and hollered as Evan and Binalig approached. A broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his chest clapped Evan on the back hard enough to shift his spine.
"To the shark-tamer!" someone yelled.
Laughter and the clanking of coconut shells followed.
Evan blinked. "That's... a strong title."
Punay snorted. "You saved Alunay from sharks. With your bare hands, no less! You might fight like a weak little dog, but you've proven your heart."
More cheering, more drinking.
As the laughter died down, Punay chimed in. "Ask Kulog about the time he wrestled a monitor lizard for a bet. Almost lost a toe."
"Still got the tail," Kulog said proudly, lifting the necklace around his neck where a desiccated tip of a reptilian tail dangled.
Someone shoved a coconut shell into his hands. He glanced at the liquid inside, cloudy, amber-gold, with a sharp, earthy smell that hit the nose like sour caramel.
"It's just sugarcane wine. Tuba" said a man beside him. "My wife brewed it herself." He nodded toward a woman seated beside Punay, who raised her own gourd with a proud little smirk.
Binalig downed hers in one go. Evan hesitated.
"He's just being cautious," Binalig teased. "Punay told him to wipe his ass with rocks."
Punay froze mid-sip, then snorted hard enough to nearly choke on her drink. "Oh shit, you actually did it? I was gonna fetch you some water if you asked! But you didn't, so I figured, maybe you just didn't poop. Then I forgot all about it!"
A roar of laughter exploded around them.
"To the rock-ass-wiping shark-tamer!" someone shouted from the back.
The group lost it. Coconut shells knocked together like ceremonial goblets, sloshing wine everywhere.
Evan grinned despite himself, lifting his own shell. "Cheers to that," he muttered, and drank.
It wasn't anything like the drinks he used to knock back with coworkers. No iced-tea-tasting beers, no sugary cocktails pretending to be adult. Tuba didn't flirt. It didn't play around or try to win you over.
It had one job. And Evan was pretty sure that with just one more shell, it would finish that job, by knocking him flat on his ass.
Evan glanced to the side just in time to catch Binalig quietly slipping away from the group, melting into the edges of the firelight like smoke.
The brewer's husband caught the look on his face and grinned, clearly proud. "Strong, right?"
"Yeah," Evan said, nodding with genuine respect. "Real strong. Fit for warriors."
That got another round of cheers.
They laughed again, looser now, shoulders bumping, voices overlapping in waves. A small fire crackled near their circle, casting golden light on faces that, just hours ago, were total strangers to him. Yet here they were, teasing him, praising him, pouring him drinks like he'd always belonged.
The laughter was undercut by a change in the drums rhythms. It was faster now. Tighter. A heartbeat turning into a war cry.
And just like that, the air changed with it.
The babaylan had begun to chant.
Not in Tagalog, not in anything Evan could recognize. These weren't words. They were sounds, rough, unfiltered syllables dragged up from somewhere below the lungs. They didn't hit the ears so much as the chest. Felt, not heard.
The warriors responded immediately. A low hum vibrated through the crowd. Just moments ago, everyone had been laughing, dancing, drunk on wine and laughter. But now, that air of merriment had evaporated, burned off by something heavier. Something older.
It wasn't just a party anymore.
It was a ritual.
The warriors slowly moved to surround the big ass boat. He had no choice but to join them. The bodies pressed close enough or threatened to push him over if he didn't go with the flow.
She stepped off the karakoa and began to walk the circle, slowly, deliberately, trailing thick curls of fragrant smoke from a clay bowl she held in both hands. She moved around the boat, around the crowd, muttering, blessing, marking. The smoke curled around the dancers, wrapped around the fire, drifted toward the tables loaded with food.
She stopped at the massive pig roasting over the open flame. Still chanting.
Evan watched as the crackling fat hissed louder, like it could hear her.
Then, silence.
Not a full stop. The drums still tapped low. The wind still carried stray laughter from the edge. But there was a shift. An undercurrent. Like something unseen had just leaned in closer.
The babaylan spoke, this time in a language Evan almost recognized.
"He who eats the fruit of the sea, the meat of the earth, the fire of the sun, must also carry the blood of those who've gone before."
A murmur of agreement answered her.
She turned toward the fire and dipped her hand into a bowl, lifting out a palmful of ash. With a slow, deliberate motion, she smeared it across the pig's brow, a rough, gray streak drawn like a third eye. Then, surprisingly gently, she pressed her thumb to the pig's flank and whispered something too soft for Evan to catch. A prayer, maybe.
From the edge of the gathering, a young boy stepped forward, cradling something in both hands. A dagger, jade, smooth and green, but inlaid with glittering stones that caught the firelight and scattered it like stardust. He held it out with arms raised, head bowed.
Then, from behind the boy, emerged the Datu.
And Evan's breath caught.
The Datu gleamed.
A broad collar of hammered gold framed his neck like armor. Heavy bracers wrapped each forearm, while bands of gold clasped his knees. At his side hung a sword with a golden hilt and scabbard, gleaming even under the dim torchlight.
Evan blinked. That's… a lot of gold. Like a rap video trying to blind you with champagne fountains and body glitter so you don't notice the lyrics are trash. Gaudy, maybe even tacky. And yet, the weight of the moment smothered those thoughts before they could take root. The display wasn't meant for him; it was meant for the people watching, and it worked. The crowd saw a ruler radiant, strong, untouchable.
To Evan's more critical eyes, though, the shine couldn't hide the truth: the man beneath the ornaments was old. His measured gait looks regal but feels like an old man struggling to get up the stairs. The Datu wasn't just projecting confidence, he was armoring himself in it.
Well I guess that makes sense. Alunay looks like a grown woman already. If she is grown then it makes sense that her father is old. Wonder who will be Datu next? Her or one of these guys?
His thoughts were cut short as the Datu's voice rolled out like thunder.
"My people! The gods have been kind to us. They speak through our babaylan. The ocean has been generous with its gifts. You have labored hard through the last season, and I honor your toil. The Rajah is pleased with us. And so, tonight, I bring you blessings. Beasts of burden to ease your backs. A boar, fat and succulent, taken straight from the Rajah's own stock!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, the crackle of the fire almost lost beneath their roar.
The Datu raised his hand for silence and continued, "But remember, this is no excuse to grow idle. Our women are fertile, our children grow strong, and some among them are ready to claim their place as warriors. Tomorrow their training begins. Tomorrow, they are tested."
At his signal, the children stepped forward, small shoulders squared as the warriors stomped their feet against the earth in approval.
"They have survived childhood. Now they will walk the path of adulthood."
With deliberate ceremony, the Datu lifted the jade knife from a boy's trembling hands. In a single motion, he carved a glistening slice from the roasting pig, holding it high for all to see.
"Tomorrow will be hard," he declared, voice rising with firelight. "But now, begin!"