by Dominique Gerald Cimafranca
Two hundred thirty eight. Only that could old Abulug sustain. Of that merciless number there was no paltering. Abulug within his cavernous maw gave shelter, gave food, gave water, gave air — in truth, gave life — but to no more than two hundred thirty eight.
Maguayan, of course, knew this, as he knew the choice that he alone could make. But as ritual demanded, his two bond-companions played his angel and his devil on their journey to the surface of Abulug’s shell.
“Turn back, turn back, Maguayan, return to the comfort of home,” chanted Sinukuan, “the Vastness is cold, she offers nothing but danger and death.”
Through the skinsuit radio, Sinukuan’s voice came metallic and hollow. Of Sinukuan’s youthful, smiling face there was no trace, enclosed as his head was within the life-sustaining helmet. Sinukuan wore green, befitting his role as Maguayan’s devil.
“Onward, onward, Maguayan, embrace the possibilities of the Vastness,” chanted Captan in turn, “the fires of home grow cold, they offer nothing but stagnation and sorrow.”
As with Sinukuan, Captan’s face, too, was hidden; but through the skinsuit radio, his voice carried his forcefulness and vigor. It was only fitting that he should be Maguayan’s red angel.
Despite their opposing exhortations, Sinukuan and Captan kept steady pace behind Maguayan as he made his way through the main artery of Abulug. As bond-companions, they carried the tools for Maguayan’s enterprise: harpoons, air tanks, neurolizing nets, mindlink cap, and jet pack.
The companions rounded a bend, and the artery steeply curved up. They had passed into Abulug’s inner shell. The spongy floor of the passage slowly gradually turned into mottled hardness. Here, their cargo felt lighter, but the ascent was treacherous nonetheless.
In his mind, Maguayan measured the size of the artery; he hoped it was wide enough to allow passage to the retinue that followed them, just three turns behind: these were the family and friends that had cast their lot with his. Their fates also hung on his choice.
“Turn back, turn back, Maguayan, seize the tribe for yourself,” now chanted Sinukuan. “It is your birthright, yours is the wisdom, yours is the strength.”
Maguayan blanched at the words, and his hand twitched by the hilt of his kris But the words, he knew, were not Sinukuan’s but the rites’. A sadness hung over Sinukuan as he spoke.
“Onward, onward, Maguayan, plant the seeds for your mighty tribe,” bellowed Captan, anger lending force to his chant. “Your strength and your widom alone are your birthright!”
Even as he took comfort in Captan’s encouragement, Maguayan shuddered at how tendrils of the temptation still clung to his heart. So easy, it was so easy, to turn back…
Maguayan’s choice, as the council laid it before him not two cycles past, was this: an ancient silver kris, its wavy blade still sharp after all these generations; or the golden skinsuit of the Wayfinder, which his father had worn before him.
“Choose.”
Thus came the one command from the Old Man. The Old Man said it not with passion but with a resigned weariness, but he said it loud. The word echoed in the chamber that was Abulug’s heart.
Maguayan had felt the weight of the entire tribe’s eyes upon him. He looked round at the elders’ faces — there was Inakan and Gilganen and Balyen and Kankanan and Matuay…all the men and women who had raised him. And last of all, the Old Man, who once was the Wayfinder, who had led the tribe to Abulug.
The gleaming blade of the kris beckoned to him. So easy, it was so easy. He had his youth and his strength and the bondmen pledged to him. But what would it cost? Inakan, Gilganen, Balyen, Kankanan, Matuay, the Old Man.
In answer to the Old Man’s challenge, Maguayan bent down and lifted the golden helmet of the Wayfinder. Yet all that time, what reigned in his thoughts was not himself but his sons.
“Turn back, turn back, Maguayan, think of your sons,” chanted Sinukuan, “would you leave them orphans of the Void?”
“Onward, onward, Maguayan, think of your sons,” chanted Captan, “as the son does to the father, so his sons to him.”
His sons, his two beautiful sons, Batanan and Batuey. How proud he had been when they were born! Strong and hearty, with their mother’s eyes and his solid jaws. He loved his sons dearly. Twins were a good omen, though now they brought their own sorrow, for Batanan was Abulug’s two hundred thirty eighth, and Batanan Abulug’s two hundred and thirty ninth.
I will find my sons a home, swore Maguayan.
#
As far as he could see, whichever direction he turned his head, there was nothing but the Void. The starlight gave only cold comfort, so distant were they. Maguayan reeled in shock, fearful that the perpetual blackness would swallow him.
So small, he thought, I am so very small.
Breathe, he told himself. Focus.
Maguayan’s fear gave way to his training. Once every sixty cycles, he, as firstborn son of the Wayfarer, made his way to the Abulug’s shell. Each and every time, the expanse of the Void never failed to overwhelm him. It took time to recapture his balance.
Behind him, Sinukuan and Captan had also reoriented themselves. His bond-mates shed their load and fastened them to Abulug’s shell. But where was the sawikan?
There it was. In the darkness, he had missed it during his first scan. Now that shock had worn off and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he made out the sawikan’s outline.
Maguayan noted the sawikan’s shell, saw that it was a good round shape, as yet unscarred by meteors. Its head was sleek and sharp. The sawikan cruised at an easy speed, correcting its course now and then with a wave of its thrusting fins.
A good omen, Maguayan thought. The sawikan was huge — some one hundred fifty kilometers across, by his reflectometer’s measure — as big as Abulug, but still young. With any luck, the sawikan could carry four hundred or more. His sons would not have to worry for Wayfinding for a long while yet.
If, of course, if.
Maguayan felt Abulug shift under him, changing course to match the sawikan. The sawikan eyed Abulug cautiously, but did not alter course or speed away. Balyen and Galganan guided Abulug well.
Sinukuan and Captan had assembled Maguayan’s gear behind him. They had checked and double-checked and triple-checked. Finally, Captan tapped him on his shoulder. He was ready.
A hundred different scenarios flashed through Maguayan’s mind. What if? What if he flew wide of the sawikan? What if his harpoon failed to latch to the sawikan’s shell? What if he landed too far from its head? What if he could not bring the sawikan to bear with the mindlink ciruit? If. If. If.
He drove the thoughts away from his mind, envisioned instead perfection, from which the sawikan would bear his name forever more.
He thought once more of his sons.
Then, Maguayan leapt.
**The End**