Awiyao

sadasdsasaasdbaAwiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the high-head threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, steeped inside, then push the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.

"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it."

The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house, like muffled roars of the falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. The sudden rush of the rich sounds when the door was opened was like a gush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.

But Awiyao knew that she had heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into them. When the coals began to glow Awiyao put of pine in them, then full round logs as big as his arms. The room brightened.

"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if - as if nothing has happened." He looked at the woman huddled at the corner of the room leaning against the wall. The stove fir played with strange moving shadows and lights upon her face. She was partly sullen but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate.

"Go out... go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing; he will marry you. Who knows but that with him, you will be luckier than you were with me?"

"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."

He felt relieved that at last she talked. "You know very well that I don't want any woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know that, don't you?"

She did not answer him.

"You know it, Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.

"Yes, I know," she said weakly.

"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you."

"Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry.

"No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Seven harvest is just too long to wait. Yes, we have awaited too long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us."

This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in, she wound the blanket more snugly around herself.

"You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work on the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because. like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"

"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The sparks rose through the cracklets of the flames. The smoke and soot went up to the ceiling.

Lumnay looked down and unconciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this, the split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gongs of the dancers clamorously called in her ears through the walls .

Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronze and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening.

"I came home," he said, "because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I come to tell that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, but as fast in cleaning jars, not as good in cleaning a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the whole village."

"That has not done me any good, has it?" she said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.

He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held his face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day, he would not be his anymore. She would go back to her parents. her let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again looked at her fingers as she tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.

"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own. Live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay."

"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of beans, in the pounding of the rice."

"I will give you the field that I drug out of the mountain during the first year of our marriage," he said.

"You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for two of us."

"I have no use for any field," she said. He looked then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a long time.

"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."

"I would feel better if you would come and dance for the last time. The gangsas are playing."

"You