Canines

“That’s enough for today, yeah?” Fernando shouts from the far-end of the field. He was used to ending the day later than this—but yields were low and so was the number of people purchasing their crops. The purchasing price was bound to decrease even more. There were only a few motivators left in this world: His town and his little girl.

He raises his hands and crosses his arms towards the other farmers on the other end of the field. Because it was already half-dark, he shines his flashlight at them. Like deer in headlights: He spots a few nods and the faintest sound of rustling grass, which means departure. He then lights the path ahead for himself—off to the little hut on the other side of the road which he calls home.

He always had to walk carefully. When he was a child, his tiny footsteps could never be heard by anyone. When he was a stubborn and troublesome teenager, he was silent in sneaking out of the house. (And the subsequent explanation would be a group activity.) Now, he is an adult and a farmer, with a pain in his left knee that would never go away—plus the field, the palay, and the beauty in all things small. He never had a choice but to be gentle. If his daughter’s mother was here, then it would all be better.

But also, the road that separated his house from the field was a nuisance that was recently paved. He believed, however, that, in all fairness, he was spared some of the despair that came along with its construction. The road was built in less than a year, so the noises of the cement mixers and the chatter of the workers went by fast. A few decades of a roadless town turned around with just a couple of months of work. For the rest of his life, Fernando will now have to cross its expanse for ten minutes every day, back and forth, and yield to any vehicles passing by.

He does not know if this is necessary at all to be had—if this is the type of progress that they, as farmers, need.

He has always held a great disdain for the people behind these projects that preach progress. Those that affect him and his town and his daughter. A large influence was the death of his father. Fernando was given three things by his father, along with his passing: First, a great deal of sensitivity and a tendency to cry over the smallest things; second, a love for everything that loves his daughter; and, third, an indescribable rage against the corrupt and its perpetuity. The third is a keepsake he tries so hard to hide, but it does not seem to work. This new ten minute walk is a testament to that.

Fernando curses his knee, and especially the road, as he successfully reaches the home he has known since childhood. He creaks open the door, peeks ever so slightly to ensure that no one is behind it, before he enters his humble abode. Luckily, his daughter Lily decided to sleep close to the window on the opposite side of the room. (No head-bumping accidents for tonight.) He parts his daughter’s hair and sweeps it to the backs of her ears to get a clearer view of her face. He kisses her cheek then lays down beside her.

“Good night, my love,” he says in a hushed tone before he closes his eyes. She snores in reply. They will dream sweet tonight—of heroic dreams where they save the world.

Outside, and very suddenly, tires screech and an engine sputters smoke as they hit against the asphalt. Not loud enough to wake the family from sleeping, but fast enough to rattle some windows and unroot some patches of grass. The senatorial campaign season had just begun. Now on its fourth day, the Gonzales family starts to make their stops around Nueva Ecija.

Two days ago, the traveling family celebrated their first campaign rally in the neighboring city of Angeles. And it was grand: Celebrity endorsers, color-coordinated outfits, and families brought to the convention by private buses courtesy of the family. Campaign promises were

promised not to be broken. The support of the masses was unwavering. Placards and tarpaulins spread across the city. Angeles City was orange and undoubtedly so. You could call the elections now and all of the Gonzales family would get their seats at the table. It is a definite and sure win under their sleeves.

“I promise I can give you all of this, my fellow Filipinos. If you just vote for me again, this time for re-election,” the speakers blared with Lucy Gonzales’s hopeful remarks. It was clear that, to some, the mere statement of these claims was already enough. It was the reassurance that the people of Angeles needed. “I can build off the foundation we built, together, as one big family. It is my biggest honor to be of your service. Good night, Angeles! I love you.”

Lucy stepped off the stage and passed the spotlight to one of the celebrity endorsers for this leg of the campaign rally. She took a sip of water (from their water sponsor) and sat down on the monobloc chair right next to the staircase. She had spoken for 30 uninterrupted minutes at that point, so she definitely needed to take a break or all hell would break loose. As soon as the celebrity finishes her performance, her parents will join everyone else on the stage to deliver the closing speech. Lucy’s mother approached her exhausted golden child.

“Lucy,” her mother said, her hand on her daughter’s cheek. “You did a great job on that stage. We hope you know that we’re proud of you.”

The singer took a bow as she finished her serenade. She looked back at where the three family members were with the rest of the Gonzales family, and motioned for them to come in front. One is running for counselor, the other for mayor, and the rest some roles at the House. The Gonzales family is sparse but scattered. And they know the weakest points where they need to be positioned.

“We’ll see you soon in Cabanatuan,” Lucy’s mother announced to the crowd, to a roar that overwhelmed. “Straight Gonzales sa balota!”

They arrive at the agricultural capital of the Philippines two days after their first grand parade. By morning, the news spread like wildfire. Everyone in Nueva Ecija is now preparing for the rally to happen tonight. The gates to houses are orange, streamers and tinsel cover the ground and the sky in the same color, and all the sacks of rice have “Gonzales” plastered on them. It is like a perpetual sunrise and sunset.

The sun decides to burn brighter today, Fernando’s skin noticeably darker than it was before he came out onto the field. But that is the life of a farmer. Because the work is so important that they go through metamorphosis—it changes them. Today, Fernando will harvest whatever palay the field will offer them to sell to the government, which gives him the money he needs for the week. As if that is not what he has been doing since the genesis of his life. He takes his bolo and hacks away at the overgrown greenery.

The way he swings his bolo is very particular. It is an incredibly swift and clean movement, akin to samurai striking their swords. And each hit becomes stronger, stronger, and then stronger—until he snaps out of it. It is as if he gets too into the movement and the weapon that he loses consciousness for a split second. That can be dangerous. Thankfully, he has not yet hurt anyone with his blacking out.

“Psst. Have you heard of this? Lucy Gonzales is coming here for her campaign rally,” a farmer asks Fernando. He has, of course, heard about it. It was early in the morning when buses colored orange drove through the road in front of his house. The jingle was loud as well—it almost awoke Lily from her sleep. It is all of these that Fernando hates and more. First, they build that road. And, now, there is more? “Not just her, but her entire family. You know how they do it. Are you coming?”

“It’s been a while since they last came here, right?” Fernando responds.

“Kind of. Well, they have. It’s just been a while since they stepped foot here,” he replies, with a deep emphasis on ‘stepped foot.’

“You mean their helicopter?”

“Yes, obviously,” he chuckles. “But they haven’t been here in a while, no. The last we heard of them was from the new road they built just there.”

He points to the road where no cars are currently on.

“So, there’s that,” he continues. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Fernando thinks for a moment then comes up with a response.

“I’ll take a chance and go to the rally. I’ll bring Lily with me.” Fernando looks at his accumulated palay, counts them, then begins to work twice as hard and fast.

This night must be huge for all the devout supporters of the Gonzales family. It was easy to fall in love with a family like them. So charismatic, so headstrong. They always know what to do to keep their name in people’s heads.

One such example was when the Gonzales family was present to deliver canned goods to the victims of the devastating typhoon that struck Nueva Ecija. (The word ‘deliver’ puts it kindly. ‘Drop’ makes it more true to the story.) The Gonzales family, Lucy included, was in a helicopter above the destruction, where they dropped canned goods to the houses below. The goods were not placed in a basket, no. Rather, they were unprotected goods passed down to the ground. To the citizens of Nueva Ecija, this was good help. No other public servant decided to come to them in the first place. The family’s good hands were then further exemplified because of that. And so, the people of Nueva Ecija decided to give them the power that they need. Because of this, Lucy and the Gonzales family had made a steady following inside the province.

Fernando treks the ten minute journey to his house to prepare for the rally. He calls for Lily to begin packing her purse. (She likes to call it a purse. It makes her more ‘sosyal.’)

“Papa,” Lily says endearingly. “Where are we going?”

“To the rally, love,” Fernando responds. He flips through his tupperware of folded clothes to check for something vaguely orange in hue. “Do you already have an orange shirt, hm?”

“What’s a rally?”

“It’s where people become happy,” he replies. He spots a tarnished light orange shirt with specks of stains at the back. This will have to do. “Now, where is your orange shirt?”

The organizing spot for the bus ride to Cabanatuan was not far away from them. They only had to pay for the tricycle that drove them there. But, beyond that—all free, courtesy of the Gonzales family. The bus ride, the refreshments, the banners, everything.

Fernando spots the orange bus that they will ride and finds it familiar. He shrugs it off and thinks nothing of it. He, as he clutches Lily by the wrist, follows the line made by the head organizers of this campaign chapter. The line sprawls almost three times the size of the bus, but he knows that all of them fit inside it. It is then only a matter of comfort. He forecasts that the ride will be an hour long. It goes by quickly, save for the Gonzales family jingle on repeat. Lahat su-success kapag sa Gonzales!

They arrive at the venue minutes before the event is slated to start. It is nothing short of amazing. The stadium is orange but it is more than just that: It is bright, loud, and festive. The stage is adorned in orange banners with the Gonzales name plastered on them, plus the candidates’ names and faces. Lucy has the biggest one, and is set up in the middle, because this campaign is meant to be hers. Or, at least, that is what the mother and father were trying to do.

The father and daughter try to find a spot for themselves to get comfortable. He looks around, trying to spot someone he might know—to nothing and nobody. It feels like these people were brought here from other places in North Luzon. He does not know anybody here. The candidates make their way to the stage, and the crowd cheers as Lucy takes center stage.

“How are you, Nueva Ecija?” Lucy shouts into the microphone. You could call it choreographed: the crowd shouts even louder in response. In shock, Fernando covers Lily’s ears—because it was too much even for him.

“Nueva Ecija, we have always been in awe of your devotion and support to our campaign,” she continues. “We know all you did for us to be in this position, and we are incredibly grateful for all your help so far.

“As the Gonzales family, we want you to know that we remain steadfast in our journey and mission to deliver you the best service possible. I think my mother and father can attest to that—my two biggest inspirations.” She looks behind and sees the smiles of her mother and father.

You could feel the heat coming from the crowd. It feels as if their energy is ready to burst.

The crowd begins to chant the names of Lucy’s parents, like some form of prayer. Lucy’s parents thank her, take the microphone, and begin their speech.

“We, the heads of the Gonzales family, are always aware of what plagues our great province,” the mother says. She gives a moment of silence to provide introspection.

Fernando, as well, knows what has been plaguing Nueva Ecija. He has lived this. He has been living this. His father had lived this, and then his father and his brothers. It has never been

resolved, and, frankly, he does not think it can ever be resolved. At least realistically. At least legislatively. What other work can they do that can directly affect his well-being?

She continues. “You see, it is the farmers that we are so grateful for. They provide us with food, and all of that. The palay, and crops, and whatnot. Give the farmers our support! This campaign rally is actually for them!”

The father interrupts the clamor and takes the microphone. “This is the stance of the Gonzales family. We will push for land reform and all that comes with it. Lucy, our dear Lucy, will push for land reform. Agrarian reform, land reform—we will reform everything!”

Excitement fills the crowd, but really? This was promised to them during her previous term.

Three things were given to Fernando along with the passing of his father. That was wrong. In fact, there was a fourth: An immense distrust of politicians. A distrust so concentrated that it could be called hatred. When his father was alive, his father was involved in the local political scene of the area. He was the leader in all things deemed ‘radical’: in placard-making, protesting, everything else and the like. He was passionate about his community, his family of farmers, which obviously meant that he wanted the best for everyone in Cabiao. Because he has seen how terrible some people could be to them. How terrible the government could be to them. He had seen it, his father had seen it, as well as his father’s brothers.

Generations have already passed and this ‘agrarian reform’ that they talk about is still not fully realized. He still does not own the rights to their land. He still has to reach a quota every day before he can make a living. He still has to answer to a landlord, despite having worked on their land for generations on end. There has never been true agrarian reform. When will it all change? Will it actually change? Fernando questions himself and feels this desolation within himself. What can he do? This desolation turns to anger, this anger to rage.

Lucy comes on stage once again, this time with a bottle from their water sponsor.

“Yes, yes, thank you. Thank you for your words, my dearest parents.” Lucy says. “Agrarian reform—yes! We will be doing that. That is what we want to do. That is what I want to do. And that is why I will be touring around Nueva Ecija to talk to the farmers one-on-one—to determine what they all really want and need from the Gonzales family!”

Her parents are noticeably shocked from that last sentence.

The rally continues as usual. Lucy passes the microphone to her cousin, her cousin to his brother, his brother to anyone else yet to make their grand speech. This goes on for two hours. Two hours of uninterrupted cheer, overwhelming support, and the compounding, building up rage that has been brewing inside Fernando. This was what they promised last term.

The ride home is silent this time. All the Gonzales supporters are spent. They did not think the rally was going to last this long. Fernando keeps awake despite the darkness—he has no energy left in his body, yet his brain cannot stop thinking. Thinking about all the words he could say to Lucy if she would actually talk to the farmers.

They reach Cabiao station in a shorter amount of time, possibly because the campaign jingle was not playing during the ride. Fernando carries Lily on his shoulder and walks to the house they have known since forever. They slump down on the mattress and peacefully sleep until early morning.

Fernando wakes up at a knock on the door. It was one knock, and then two, and then, rapidly, an uncountable number of knocks. In a panic, obviously, he runs to the door to answer it before his daughter wakes up.

He silently creaks open the door and sees her: Lucy Gonzales, straight from the posters and the campaign rally. She does not look like a day over 20, and at the break of dawn at that.

Her wavy brown hair perfectly sits on her shoulders, as if she just came from the salon. She puts on a smile that tries to be genuine. Surprisingly, she does not seem to have anyone accompanying her, but Fernando guesses they are inside a car parked somewhere around the corner.

An awkward silence fills the room. He tries to speak but gets interrupted by Lucy.

“Good morning, farmer,” Lucy breaks the silence. “I am Lucy Gonzales, running for senatorial re-election for the midterm elections. What is your name?” She reaches her hand out.

“Fernando Borromeo,” Fernando responds. “You can call me Fernando.” He ignores the hand.

Lucy’s eyes widen a little bit, maybe in surprise, or is it shock? That name sounds too familiar to be forgotten.

“Oh, Fernando! You can call me Lucy. Would you mind taking a walk with me to talk about your occupation as a farmer? As someone running for re-election, I would like to know my constituents better, because I believe that you know what you need best.”

Fernando shrugs. “Okay, ma’am.”
Before leaving the house, he picks up his usual tools for work to tell her more about his

line of duty: his bolo, straw hat, and an extra pair of long sleeves.
The two cross the road and walk along the side facing the field. He still feels the residual

anger from last night at the campaign rally, but hopes nothing can trigger its inflammation.

“You don’t have to worry about saying anything wrong, Fernando,” Lucy says. “You might think I have bodyguards alongside me, but I requested them to leave me alone in the meantime.”

That was a surprise, even to Fernando. “Well, I think it’s commendable that you are able to trust the people of Nueva Ecija so easily, ma’am.” He wears his straw hat.

“I know your people cannot do me any harm.”

“That we cannot do.” He tucks his bolo in his side pocket.

“I’ll get straight to the point. I know you are a farmer. After all, you are wearing that straw hat. What do you think of agrarian reform?”

“Well, ma’am,” he replies. He was shocked that she would bring it up so early. “I want true agrarian reform that would actually benefit us farmers. I want to own the land that I have been tending ever since I was born. It is only right and fair to do so.”

“Yes, yes, my parents have the same idea,” she replies. “It is so valuable to me that we are thinking on the same terms!”

Fernando seems perplexed. “Your parents? Not you, yourself?”

Lucy is perplexed as well. “My mother and father have laid the foundation for me to do my job the best way I can. I am merely following in their footsteps. You could say the same, yes? Your father did his job so you could do it as well.”

“You know nothing about my father. What are you talking about?”

“We certainly know about the Borromeos from Nueva Ecija.” Lucy tries to reach for Fernando’s hands, but to no avail. “Trust me. What you do here in Cabiao is such important work, but it was a shame that he had to die that way. Or that he died in the first place.”

Lucy does not bat an eye. Fernando only blinks in response.

She continues. “While we are here, what the family wants to say is that we are incredibly sorry for your loss. We lament the way that happened. But some things are unavoidable. Death is one such thing.”

“Are you really saying that to me right now?” Fernando stutters.

“Yes. We earnestly hope you still consider us for the midterm elections.”

It was the type of silence that was deafening. This is all so absurd. He starts to tear up as he remembers the joyful and happy moments he shared with his father. Back when he was alive, the both of them would play with the mud. They would make ‘mud angels’ because snow was not a thing where they lived. As he stares into the mud in front of them, he begins to form an idea in his head.

Fernando clenches his fists in rage. “My father voted for you and your family. Because he thought you would actually bring true change to Nueva Ecija, the one place that gave you your power. And then you kill him in Manila? Because he, too, wanted true reform? True change? This change that you promised and never gave us?”

“But you have to realize he was a terrorist—communist, terrorist, what have you. He was holding a placard! And he was shouting at the guards stationed at the barricade. He could have done something way worse and put everyone in danger.”

“He was shot. You killed him.”

“He was shot, but we are sorry,” she responds as she rubs her temples. “Listen. The family also knows you have a daughter with insufficient support from your mother. What do you think about reaching a compromise through a monetary donation? I’m sure you need it. You’re a farmer.”

How dare she mention his daughter. He thinks something has to be done, right now, at this point, in front of his house where his daughter is sleeping. He moves his hand along his pockets to grab something. Just something. And the back of his fingers touch the handle of his bolo. His weapon. He can do something.

“I am also sorry.” He hurriedly unsheathes the bolo, almost harming himself in the process.

Before the words register inside Lucy’s mind, she is pushed into the mud by Fernando. She tries to get out, but all attempts are failures. Fernando slashes at her shoulders and then her calves, the blood already seeping into the mud. The slash marks are quite deep. Deep enough that the joints might come out of their sockets if moved too much. She is unable to move because of the pain—it feels as if her limbs are about to fall off from the amount of wounds scattered across her arms and legs. She is stabbed repeatedly at her chest, her thighs, her stomach, her face. Fernando cannot see anything, quite literally, but red.

Fernando sees this as the best opportunity to deliver his final blow. He aims at the neck and leaves a gaping hole so effortlessly done, just like he has been doing with his palay. Massive amounts of the viscous thick red liquid squirt out of the severed blood vessels. Her blood will continue to rain upon the soil that will sprout new life, in perpetuity.

He continues to slash at her neck until her head falls off, which rolls into one of the channels of water that sustains the crops. He loses track of it quite quickly. Her headless body is there, bloodied. His body is bloodied, painted in blood that is not his. He takes a deep breath. And then a deeper one. And then the deepest one until all air has been exhausted. To kill a person takes so much power and effort—to kill a senator seems easier. Fernando is still in this haze of rage.

He takes her arm, slices a sliver of meat off of it, and, in his unconscious state of being, bites and eats it whole. As he chews on it, he focuses on the texture of the meat in his mouth: Tender, delectable, and a sort of bounciness akin to pork. He takes more, and eats more, rabidly, like a dog, and spends seconds to minutes and chews and chews and chews on pieces of her flesh, and spits it out if too tough, until the blood spills out of his mouth and stains his teeth in the process, until the bolo does not do its job any longer so he begins to bite on the juicy carcass, her left arm and then right, her legs then the remnants of her neck. He tries to pick up his bolo but is unable to because of the stickiness and abundance of the blood. He hacks open her body, reveals her now non-working organs, and scatters them across the field, throws them into the canals—the liver, the kidneys, the large intestines—and blesses the field a bountiful harvest the next time he arrives. The sliminess of the heart made it hard for him to grab from her chest cavity. The water makes them flow from this end to the other.

He dissects the remaining untouched parts of the body and hides them under the mud, the process easier than it looks. Besides, the plants can better benefit from her presence this way.

He returns home, all red but back to his original and conscious self, with a gift for Lily. Everything he has been doing was for his daughter: The farming, the killing, the protecting. How can she deny a gift?

This is how the revolution starts, and it is bloody.

Johannz Miguelle Dela Cruz recently found his voice. He is a manager and writer for his college's two publications; though, he tries his hardest not to make that his personality. He loves the local—and everything Filipino speculative fiction is his game. He only wants there to be more Filipino writers, at all.