What The Fireleaves Danced

"Tattooing is not rare in Lakungdula. Almost every Liwayan has tattoos, after all, marking their bodies as they grow and meet tribulations. It is also a coming of age ritual for many. However, within the forests and the cities there exists the Tinatakan, a group of tattooed people that hold special tattoos that have spiritual power, called tinta. Where they are now, or if they truly exist, is unknown, since they can blend in so well with other tattooed people."

- Guro Mangaso, 893th Year of the Masked Moon

It had happened too much quickly.

Dimalanta was a trained fighter, well versed in his craft of warring and killing, and he'd had duels before with skilled swordsmen from all over the Lakungdulan Isles. Hell, he'd even bested a six-limbed alitaptap once!

Yet Mana Maranan had utterly and completely caught him off guard.

Her sword's hilt slammed against his stomach, and a whipping crack of her foot sent him down to the dirt.

There was a cheer and Dimalanta — still confused — got up to his feet, leveling his shield and spear.

Without missing a beat, the demon woman's kick cracked against Dimalanta's shield, but he stood his ground.

Dimalanta's warrior instincts took over him, and his spear lashed out at the woman. The blade glanced off of Maranan's side, as if she were wearing oiled armor, despite wearing nothing but…

"Tattoos."

The demon woman hit the ground, and then cartwheeled forward in an unrelenting offense, sword ready in hand. Dimalanta thrust once again with his spear just as Maranan finished her cartwheel, and he managed to end the wheeling slash prem.a.t.u.r.ely. The demon lost balance for the quickest second, before she somehow caught her balance and fell on her feet.

Push. Dimalanta stepped forward and thrust with his spear once more, and Maranan was forced into the defensive. Her blossoming form parried the thrust. Dimalanta stepped diagonally, pressing forward, and then thrust again. Another parry, another counter. Another step, slide, then Dimalanta bashed with his shield.

The blossom faltered, the spear was quick.

The blade glanced off.

Maranan leapt to the sky again, over Dimalanta in an arcing leap. And then she, impossibly, launched herself straight downward mid arc, as if she had used the very sky as a jumping platform.

Warrior instincts bolstered Dimalanta as his shield came up to block an attack that was never an attack.

Once again, impossibly, the demon woman flipped mid-strike, landed on the shield, and then kicked it off. Her momentum flipped her over -- just as she kicked Dimalanta's shield off -- and she struck with her blade.

A cry of agony. Dimalanta thrust up with his spear.

He saw Maranan's eyes widen.

She wasn't looking at the spear.

Dimalanta's spear cut into soft flesh.

Dimalanta wasn't sure if he had cut into a torso, or a c.h.e.s.t, or the cheek.

Before Dimalanta could check, he flew backwards, three cuts materialized in three places: his right arm, his left leg, and then his right cheek.

When he finally got ahold of his bearings, shook off the waltzing stars, he could hear that instead of cheering, the entire barangay was silent.

Dimalanta rose to his feet, bleeding in three parts. His left arm throbbed with a sharp pain. He looked down to see that the shield had been shattered, inwards. Removing the shield, he found some splinters of wood in his skin. The maharlika pulled them out, the pain soliciting a grunt.

He dropped the two halves of the shield before him, and sighed. The spear was perfectly fine. He turned to the Datu, and bowed in apology.

"He has done it." He heard Maranan say.

Dimalanta blinked, rose, and turned to look at the straight gash across the lower right cheek of the demon.

Whispers and protests.

Shouts and harrumphs and expressions of disbelief.

"The traveler has proven himself worthy," said the Datu. He turned to Maranan. "What are we to do with him?"

"He will follow me into my kubo."

Dimalanta turned to Manang at that point, who was rising to her feet and stepping over to him. She cupped her hand, stood on the tips of her toes, and leaned in close to Dimalanta's ear to whisper, "She is a Tinatakan."

Dimalanta's eyes widened.

He turned and said, "They are all dead."

"Common sense, maharlika," said Manang, and she pointed at Maranan, "Sandata. You heard the Tinatakan—" Manang repressed a laugh. "Follow her."

"I will only do so if Man— Ginto may come with me."

The Datu turned to Maranan, waiting for an answer.

The Tinatakan warrioress nodded. Almost approvingly.

"And thus it will be."

Maranan led the two travelers away from the congregation in the middle of the barangay, which boiled with unsureness. Her kubo wasn't far, and soon she invited through the blinds. Unlike the guesthouse and Panan-aw's kubo, this one was rectangular in shape, with the door being on the left-hand side of the house.

Various trinkets such as gems and gold pieces and bones were all twined about rattan fiber strands that made up the blinds of the house. They walked into the bamboo floor of the home, where on the middle of it was a wooden table, with various clay cups on them, some betel nut, and to the right of that was a bed. Beside the bed were banana leaves, a stack of charcoal and a few vials of black liquid, and beside that was a wooden flask filled with that clear white lambanog.

"I have tea, if you would like to relax. You will need it."

Dimalanta furrowed his eyebrows and turned to Maranan. "What are you meaning to do, Tinatakan?"

"Make you one of ours," she said. "Now go and drink some tea."

"What do you mean?"

Maranan sighed. She walked over to the large man — twice her height and weight, Dimalanta realized she looked a lot less intimidating. It wasn't obvious when she was a flurry of war a few moments ago — and tapped on Dimalanta's left shoulder. He turned, and saw something that made him flinch back, as if he had been hit by an invisible force.

His blood was much darker than usual, bordering on the darkest of earthy marsh. What was worse is that there was a small trail of black smoke wafting from the wound, and it was binding the wound together, as if healing it supernaturally.

"That is not natural."

"It is not," said Manang. "I figured that there was something wrong with him." Maranan looked at Manang suspiciously.

"What is it?" asked Dimalanta. "Why do I have it?"

"I do not know," said Maranan, tearing her gaze away from the mangkukulam. "But it is not good. Black smoke is usually the sign of dark sorceries and witchcraft. Aligned with maligno and darkness. Why you have it? I am not sure either. Has anything wrong happened to you lately?"

Dimalanta looked up at Manang.

"Sandata was on the brink of death," said Manang. "I saved him."

"What are you?" asked Maranan.

Manang shrugged. "An albularyo of sorts."

Not taking off that suspicious gaze at Manang, the elderly Tinatakan said, "Then I guess that can be a cause. Mayhap Sulad has touched you. Perhaps something even darker. I do not know."

She turned and picked up a clay cup of coffee. "What I do know, is that you must drink tea, and I must bind it within your vessel until it has been exorcised from you."

"You think it is a dark spirit?" asked Dimalanta, now taking the tea and sipping.

"Perhaps. It is the closest to the truth, after all."

"Then what are you planning to do with me?"

"I will give you the Tinatakan Mark of the Warrior. Across your c.h.e.s.t. That will induct you into the ranks of us dying order. Then, upon your belly, I will impart the Mark of Sealing. Usually, the Mark of Sealing is used when trying to keep as much Bala within the body as possible, and is usually taken by the Datu, but now you must take it as well. It seals in all kinds of spiritual power."

"Fascinating. Bala is supernatural power, is it not?" It was Manang who had asked.

Still with a suspicious gaze, she nodded. "I guess it is only natural for an albularyo to know the concept of Bala. Surely you know it, maharlika."

"'Divinity through Bloodshed.' I do," said Dimalanta, nodding. "Spiritual power. Perhaps it is why I am so strong."

"Good," said Maranan. "Now finish your tea so we can get started."

"Wait. Once it is sealed within me, will it be inside forever?"

"I'm afraid not," said Maranan. "I… am not entirely sure, however. You must go to a Tinatakan Anitowan in Pinagsama. She is a good friend of mine. Look for Bai Likumka. Perhaps she will have some kind of remedy for your condition."

Dimalanta nodded. "I thank you for your hospitality and charity."

"Think nothing of it," said Maranan. "Now, quickly. We must get started. The Moon watches."

As Dimalanta's semi-relaxed body lay down on the fiber cot and he sank into the feathered pillow, he saw Manang take up a stick, upon the tip of which was a sharp calamansi needle. She dipped that glaive into one of the ink bottles, and it came away dripping with that splotchy, viscous liquid.

"Oil?" Manang asked.

Maranan shook her head. "Charcoal paste."

And with that, she crawled over to beside Dimalanta's c.h.e.s.t. "I need you to relax, warrior," she said. "It will be easier this way."

"I have survived the worst cuts. I doubt a needle will hurt me."

"I doubt you will faint from the pain," said Maranan. "But that just means you will experience the entirety of it."

Dimalanta was stoic-faced. He saw Manang manage a smirk from his periphery. From there, he heard Maranan whispering into the needle, a prayer to the gods and to the diwata and to the anito. A long prayer, one that he could not understand, but he could see was some sort of language that only the Spirits could hear.

He saw Manang's eyes widen when Maranan's voice grew louder.

"Then," said Maranan, finishing the whispers. "Let us begin."

It would be foolish to say that it didn't hurt.

Even Manang winced.

When the first few pricks of the needle broke through his skin, pain blossomed like an unending fire. As black paste poured into the wounds of the calamansi, mixing his already taninted blood with the spirit's own markings, he swore he could see black tendrils of smoke wafting out. He grit his teeth as Maranan closed her eyes and chanted, pricking, pulling, pricking, marking, carving. He let out a tiny, agonized grunt. The veins on his c.h.e.s.t and neck strained.

The chanting was indecipherable once again. Blood came out of Dimalanta's eyes. He shook his head as sweat started matting his hair to the sides of his face. "By Bu-an!"

"By Bu-an!" resonated the voice of Maranan as she struck down once again, and Dimalanta screamed through grit teeth, not surrendering to physical, material pain.

I have maintained, sustained, and dealt much worse.

Another prick, then a carving curve. Another pained grunt as blood dripped, and black tendrils danced again. His consciousness began to falter, and blackness crept up around his vision. From that blackness, a disembodied voice spoke.

STOP HER.

It resonated in Dimalanta's mind.

KILL HER.

It was horribly compelling.

Dimalanta had been marked before. He had been tattooed before. Tattooing was not something they did too much in the Mountains of Mayakon, alongside the Tawong Lipod. The markings were not needed, after all, and war was so seldom in the Mountains of the Gods. When he had been forced under the service of Lakan Gaputan, he had been marked on his t.h.i.g.hs and on his hands, but these were much less markings of prestige and power, but rather, markings of ownership, although they did still confer some sort of psychological advantage.

When Dimalanta had first gotten these, they had been painful. Exceedingly painful.

What he was experiencing now was not too different.

The burning pain continued on in yawning moments. Moments that never seemed to end. In the small crevices of time where he opened his eyes and he could understand his surroundings, he could see the mangkukulam, Manang, and the Tinatakan demon working her magic, scraping his flesh, replacing them with power. But even though logic would have that they should be the only ones that he could see, now he could see little shadows flitting about, behind Manang. Small glowing beings no larger than a child, with heads too large for their bodies and with hair replaced with leaves. He saw a beautiful young girl jumping into the kubo, and then grimacing when she saw Dimalanta's pain. He saw a young boy carrying a tube filled with wine, and he was feeding it to his little brothers, who were much smaller than he.

Who were these people?

What were these?

"The Mark of the Warrior is complete."

And the mysterious, ephemeral beings all giggled. Cackling in cacophonous tunes that sang of dangerous times and frayed ends. "Fate is fickle, is it not?"

"Oh it is! It is!"

When Dimalanta awoke, the mangkukulam and the Tinatakan were talking.

"What a painful procedure," Manang asked.

"It is," said the Tinatakan nodding. When they spoke, Dimalanta saw that both of their teeth were stained red. They had ingested betel nut together.

Dimalanta blinked. Sore aching on his c.h.e.s.t. Nothing he couldn't handle.

"What was that… black smoke emanating from him? Was that the dark spirit you spoke of?"

"That, mangkukulam, was something I thought you would've known by now."

Dimalanta blinked again, shaking his head. He stared at Manang, wondering how she was going to react now that Maranan knew of her true identity.

Manang nodded. "Truly, I thought I would've, but I don't. There is a reason why I am not leaving him to his own devices. Let us just say that… he came back wrong."

"Had he died?"

"Not yet. Not completely, at least."

"Then this does not bode well."

"Yes. Truly it does not. Many things can be said of that, but I don't like it's implications."

"Surely, you have heard the stories of the makata and mantatala?"

"Yes," she said, in between chews of the betel nut. "I have."

"Stories usually have some nugget of truth within them. This was something we Tintakan have learned the hard way."

"Yes, I know. I… sensed some sort of darkness within him. Not evil, or death, or disease, no. Those have distinct resonances. When I performed a seeing rite, the anito told me that the being inside him was darkness."

"Interesting. Usually, darkness is indeed associated with those concepts. But then again, I am no mangkukulam. Witchcraft is something I do not think of approaching."

"Truly," said Manang. "I have made pacts with many different beings before, and so I quite well versed in extradimensional happenings…"

"Ah, he has awoken."

Dimalanta had gotten up and was walking over to them. Maranan filled a wooden cup with tea, and then another one with lambanog. She put both of them on one side of the table. "Take both, if you will. Oh, and also, this," she gave him some betel nut. "You're welcome."

"Thank you," said Dimalanta, still groaning as he fell onto his b.u.t.t. Outside, he could hear once again the running laughter of children, the c.o.c.king of crows, the meowls of cats, the barking of dogs. "Is there rice?"

Maranan smiled. "I will be right back." She rose to her feet and walked out of her house.

Dimalanta turned to Manang. "She knows of your true identity?"

"The diwata have given her the ability to see through physical lies," said the mangkukulam as she sipped more tea. She picked up a small jar of honey and poured a drop onto the cup. "Thus is the way of the world, I fear."

"So she can go and tell how we're lying all this time!"

"Not really," said Maranan as she walked into the house, carrying a ball of rice wrapped around a banana leaf. She put it before Dimalanta, and she added a leg of a chicken in there as well. "I've known Manang for long. Not very deeply, know, but I've known her ever since she first accidentally cursed a young man."

Manang shot her a disapproving look. Dimalanta turned to her. "Is that so?"

They were silent for a moment, before Dimalanta snorted. Maranan rolled her eyes. "The boy's name was Gaor, if I recall correctly. He was a handsome, beautiful boy. All the ladies of this barangay were pining over him. One of those ladies was Manang herself."

"You will shut up this very instant Maranan."

"When Gaor went ahead and chose someone else…"

Her voice became a low intonement. "Maranan."

"I know now. It is not hard to comprehend." Dimalanta turned to look at Manang, who had turned a bright red.

"I guess she is trying to take her revenge by weaving an illusion to showcase herself as a beautiful young woman?" Maranan laughed. "But surely, I jest. I hardly knew it was even you, Manang!"—she scoffed—"Albularyo. Ha!"

"Yes," said the mangkukulam, teeth gritting. "That was kind of the purpose."

Dimalanta laughed as he shoved rice into his mouth.