What The Fireleaves Danced

"The engkanto use a particular kind of magic. The Bright Men call it Glamour. We simply call it magicks. And it is not limited to the engkanto. The mangkukulam learn about the natural world and use that knowledge to manipulate it, becoming better, gleaning arcana, molding reality to their will. They can summon fires, run faster than air, and even change their appearance."

- Concerning the Supernatural, written by Guro Sindak, 1034th Year of the Masked Moon

Dimalanta awoke to pain. He let out a grunt through his teeth, realizing that the cuts on his face and sides still burned. The adrenaline had allowed him to ignore most of the injuries.

He felt for one of the cuts and found…

Leaves. They were on top of one another, pasted against his skin.

He looked down and saw various leaves of various colors pressed against his side, and his cheek. Against his cuts. Was this the work of Manang…?

Sighing, Dimalanta moved and stood up, wincing at the effort. He leaned against the tree root and looked around. There were no more diwata of protection, no more Voice of the Forest, and no more starflies. He inhaled; a warm breeze of air rustled the leaves on the trees. The Sun, on the chariot of the sky, bore down upon him, cascading down the canopy of leaves, pocking the floor with spots of blessed light.

Looking around, Dimalanta found that Manang was not there. He looked around for footprints, or any of that arcane witchglow, but found none. He blinked.

"I put remedial herbs and leaves upon your wounds to heal them. They should be working. Don't move too much."

Dimalanta perked up a bit at that familiar tone, but he frowned when he realized that the voice itself was not Manang's. It was not the creaky, almost whistling tune of the old lady – it was the strong, deep and clear voice of a young woman.

Dimalanta reached behind him, looking for his spear and shield, and his heart dropped when he remembered that every single thing he had was gone, buried away into some phantom city. The maharlika balled his hands into fists and turned, expecting some sort of snake-bodied woman or a duwende imitating the voice of a young woman.

When he turned, he saw instead a tall (almost as tall as he was), perfectly brown-skinned woman with tattoos that resembled fangs of a crocodile running down until her elbows. Her hair was tied up into a tight braid behind her, and she wore a single skirt side wrap – a saya. This side wrap skirt was vibrating with hues of red and yellow and blue and green, with that distinct, geometric okir design that has been popular ever since the Warrior-Lakan Hurusa popularized their design. On her torso she wore a loose, silken shirt that shimmered a bright red as well, and was particularly low cut, although her c.h.e.s.t was completely covered by a thick array of necklaces, each one braids of teeth of crocodiles, teeth of men, fingernails, large leaves, branch fragments, jade, and gold.

Her face was that of bronze perfection, high-browed, with luscious lips and a relatively strong nose, a chin that tutted without her moving. On one hand she held a large bonestaff. "Who…?"

"I am Manang, Dimalanta," she said. "Cease with the incessant gazing. We've a barangay to get to before Sun disappears."

"R-right…"

Manang walked down and up to him and raised an eyebrow. "Surprised, are you? Confused? I am a mangkukulam after all. A simple image or, say, an illusion ritual isn't something unheard of from me."

"Is this what you looked like when you were younger?"

Manang blinked, and then she snorted. She stepped back and looked down upon herself. "By Bathala, I wish."

Dimalanta swallowed and shook his head. He turned and then walked a few feet away from the changed Manang, right at the border of their little forest sanctuary. He realized he did not have anywhere to go, and he would most likely get lost in the vast labyrinthine forest. "Why did you need to change your image?"

"The barangay—"

"Ah right," Dimalanta said, snapping his fingers and nodding. "The barangay hates you. So you change your form?"

"Correct," she said. She then twirled about, looking at the saya and the silken shirt, at her hair that flowed so beautifully, and was as dark as the night. "I do say, I feel like I've outdone myself this time. I will keep this. That water I used really did help. Perhaps it was blessed by the diwata…"

"You used your witchcraft to turn yourself into this?"

"Yes." Manang turned to him. "Simple enough recipe. A snap of one of the balete tree's vines for an improved spiritual clarity, some mahiya leaves," she pointed at a nearby plant that had leaves that resembled a bird tail. Dimalanta knew mahiya plants very well, he would always touch one when he would find one, and the plants would slink away, folding their leaves, abashed. "A piece of ruby that is now gone, and a clear enough reflection. Since my bronze mirror had been burnt down along with the rest of my research and experiments and, well, entire life, I decided to make do with the reflection on the water, which was running very slowly, for I only heard a slight trickle that gave away the location of the stream. When I came upon it, there were various little red mayas that flittered around the stream, all of them having that same greenish glow of the nondescript, small, monkey like diwata. When I performed the ritual – it took me an hour, you know – I had been changed into something much better than before. I am quite proud of it."

"You speak much louder now. And faster. And clearer."

"I suppose the physical transformation does something to one's mind." She shrugged. "Now are you going to stand here all day gawking or are we going to venture forth?"

Dimalanta nodded. He moved his muscles and they burned with a low ache. Nothing I can't handle. "Right. How much farther until the barangay?"

"Not too far now. The Sun is rising. By the time we will have reached barangay Sunuga, the Sun will have reached right before Noon."

"Not too far indeed."

"Indeed. Unfortunately, we are going there unarmored and without weapons. My… witchcraft will exhaust me too much. I've already used much of my energy in enacting this ritual. I will not be able to defend you, Maharlika. At least, not today."

Dimalanta looked down at his hands, and then curled them up into fists. His muscles bulged. "Worry not."

They ventured forth, north from the balete tree that they had stopped on. The forestry had become dense once again, with vines falling across the wayside, roots over the large paths, detritus sprayed across the forest floor. The Sun once again was sending daylight cascading down the canopy.

As they walked, various fauna passed their path. A pygmy elephant ran across behind them, along with two others, as if they were playmates in the green. A large-eyed tarsier skittered up a branch and stopped to look at them, maybe wondering what they were doing. Most probably, the tarsier provided a window for the world of spirit to peer into the world of the living, and the tarsier's eyes judged the two of them as they trekked along the forest.

A tree shook. Wind howled. Manang and Dimalanta stopped, and looked up at the branch that swayed. A small figure – perhaps the size of Dimalanta's torso – had leapt from that tree and was sailing through the air, across the space above them, and then onto the tree right beside them, before skittering away.

"Flying dragons," said Manang.

"Dragon…"

"Yes," she said. "They are quite thriving here in the forests. I'm sure you've not seen any in the sea?"

Dimalanta shook his head. "The closest thing, perhaps, is the flying shark."

"Flying… shark?"

Dimalanta nodded, turning to her and grinning. "They're a hassle, out in the open sea. Whenever it's hunting season for them, we move out of the way, especially when we're low on supplies."

"Flying sharks sound terrifying."

"They are. Oh they are. You are not safe on your boats." Dimalanta grinned again, and then turned and walked down the path.

A few more feet, and the sun was higher up now. A group of large bats with wingspans the length of DImalanta flapped and screeched about them, moving directly to their northwest. "Flying foxes," said Dimalanta.

"A cave must be nearby."

"Indeed. What does that entail?"

"I do not know as of yet. But at least we know there is a cave there."

"Indeed."

The Sun bore down on them as they came out of a clearing. Dimalanta launched himself at the small dwarf buffalo. It grunted in protest, but the small, two-foot tall dwarf cousin of the usual water buffalo was easy to subdue. With a sharp rock Dimalanta had managed to obtain from a nearby stream, he pierced the buffalo's head. Once, twice.

Dead.

"I think Samonte should be good, no?" Manang sat on a nearby root, the size of a boulder. She balanced the bonestaff on her knees. "For my cover name, I mean."

"Hm?" Dimalanta began preparing the buffalo. "You gave your name away?"

"I did," Manang said.

Dimalanta was silent for a while as he continued preparing the buffalo. Then, right as Manang opened her mouth to say something, Dimalanta said, "Ginto. It fits better."

"Hm." And now it was Manang who was silent for a few moments. And then, "Alright, let's go with that. Gold, yes? The meaning of the name?"

"Close," said Dimalanta, shrugging, and he went back to preparing the dwarf buffalo.

Before long, Dimalanta had managed to put up a small flame. Using that same stone – which he sharpened against a smooth pebble in the stream – the maharlika managed to remove the hard hide of the buffalo and cut out strips of soft flesh and fat. Then, he found two slender branches, and made a fire against a small tinder nest he'd made, which took him at least half an hour, for once he had the flame going, the Sun was almost up in its zenith.

"I would've helped, young man," said Manang from her giant root. "But I've no ability in creating a flame without a wickstick."

"A wickstick?" asked Dimalanta. He looked up at rock as he held a few pieces of dwarf buffalo meat on a stick over the fire.

"Wickstick," nodded Manang. "You've none of those at sea?"

Dimalanta shook his head. "We used flint and steel," he said. "It's scarce in the sea, which is why Gaputan does a lot of raids up the river."

Manang nodded. "A wickstick is… somewhat of a sorcery to you, I'm sure. It is a wooden stick, you see," and as she spoke she began moving her hands, gesticulating as if to show her holding the stick, "with one end of it is covered with a small bead made up of brimstone, skydust, sugar, and rubber. Now all one needs to do to start a fire is to rub it against a rough surface, create enough friction, and a fire bursts from the end."

Dimalanta nodded, his brow creased in certain interest. "What an interesting charm, I'm sure. Are you sure you cannot show me an example of this?"

Manang turned to him. "Finding the ingredients is usually hard. I go to caves and sometimes steal from sugar plantations. I had a limited supply back in the kubo, you see. Only five sticks."

"I see," said Dimalanta. "So you used it often?"

"Not too often, no," she said. "I had a good supply of fireleaf and ash mixture to allow me to brew flames."

Dimalanta nodded, sighing once again. "I am not worthy of your wise-speak. My brain hurts from thinking what skydust would look like. But, you are able to explain it to me. Why is that?"

Manang grinned a little. "When I was alone in the kubo, usually, I would write onto my bamboo coils my theories for why witchcraft is the way it is. Usually, I come to the effect of: if it works, why question it? Then I realized something that really did catch me off guard. You see, dumb warrior – my spells and my workings are all able to be reproduced." The mangkukulam's eyes glimmered, grin widening, showing off perfectly white teeth that made Dimalanta remember how much he loved chewing on betel nut when he was younger.

"And that entails… what, exactly?"

"That entails many things! Sorcery, and witchcraft – they're these esoteric, feared things, are they not? To you, usually, I throw some ash into the air, and then fire explodes into view. I dab something onto me, or I utter something, and I turn into an owl. I make sure I perform a set of things in a specific order, and I turn into a beautiful, young lady."

Dimalanta snorted. The flesh was browning, now. The smell of meat filled the area. It was delicious, and Dimalanta briefly feared hungry predators. "You are saying that is not how it works?"

"To me, I understand what I am doing. I know that fireleaf and ash ground together creates flame because of their sympathy. It is the reason why our most infamous spell – the oft-mentioned and oft-feared kulam – is actually a very good representation of our workings. With kulam, we bind something that has significant symbolism to a doll, which also has potent symbolism, to craft a sympathy. Then we can do almost whatever we want to the person."

"That is the usual tale, yes. I still do not follow."

"I think magic – real magic – is something we cannot fully explain. Why does the Moon rise at night, and the Sun at day? Why do the spirits live and exist? Why is it that we go to the afterlife after we die? Why is it that light is light, and not darkness? I think that is magic. What I am doing? It is not magic. It is… it is some form of knowledge. A heightened state of knowledge, surely."

"So you're saying if I simply know how to do witchcraft, I will be able to do it myself?"

"Surely," said Manang. "Of course, every ritual must follow a pattern, and one must learn it properly, and must get it wrong a thousand times before completely mastering it. And soon enough, creating rituals and performing spells become second nature to you."

"Sort of like training with the arms of war."

"Perhaps," Manang said. "Close. Albeit, a bit far. But a close enough metaphor. It is more like… playing an instrument. Consider learning how to use a palendag. It is very difficult, one must learn the proper placement of the lips and the proper shape of the lips to use it properly, and then one must learn to play the songs. Unless you are a complete prodigy, you will begin with the easiest songs. Songs such as 'Leron, Leron, My Love' or 'Kubo House'. But if you keep practicing, one learns more difficult songs, such as the 'Song of Faded Leaves' or 'Starfly Brightly'. Soon enough, if you really hone your skill, you will be able to even compose songs of your own."

Dimalanta rose to his feet. The flesh was seared black and delicious. He walked over to Manang. "So you're saying… witchcraft is like that too? You learn with the easier rituals, then the harder rituals, then you can create your own rituals soon. But first, I must be able to use the correct tools, and do it in specific ways?"

Manang stared at Dimalanta as he handed her the meat skewered onto branches. "Precisely. And if you are a prodigy, or someone with an excessive amount of talent, you will be able to learn it even better."

"I understand. So to properly do witchcraft, I must learn and practice first."

Manang nodded. She tore away at a piece of flesh from the branch and chewed.

"I do not have that kind of time anymore, Manang."

"Nonsense!" said Manang. "Look at me! I'm a hundred and fifty years old."

Dimalanta smirked. "I understand, but no. I merely want to return home. Learning a new skill is something I don't exactly need, right now." He tore at a piece of flesh as well. It was delicious to him, if not a bit bland without any spices.

Manang nodded. "Very well. But if you ever get interested, you know who to ask."

Dimalanta smiled and nodded. "I appreciate it."

"You know, I know of ways to keep a sword from dulling."

Dimalanta turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "Oils? That is for rust, mangkukulam."

"No, silly. Dulling! So that you need not sharpen it against a whetstone."

Dimalanta chewed. "Now that is interesting for sure."

"Would you like to learn it?"

"Maybe after this feast…" and then Dimalanta grinned. "And maybe once I have a proper weapon."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Another silence as they ate. "Oh, I must ask, are you planning on going to Pinagsama after Barangay Sunuga?"

Dimalanta paused from eating. He was looking down. Thoughts swirled about his head, and he remembered what that tamawo had said. "She is the last survivor of barangay Sariman. I will lead the girl to Pinagsama."

The maharlika finished his food and threw the stick into the fire. "Yes. That is the plan."