Prologue
Bathala made the sky, the sea, and the land. He made the mountains and filled the world with life, both visible and invisible. The ocean’s deep trenches held secrets that even the stars couldn’t understand, while the high ridges were covered in emerald mist. Every living creature, from the smallest bug to the largest eagle in the sky, moved according to a predetermined plan.
But the legendary bird didn’t just peck at the bamboo to create people. It also split the world open to see if it could bleed. From that same cradle, men and women came out the same. Born from the same bone, we are held together by the same salt. They didn’t come out as master and servant; they came out as two halves of a single heartbeat, meant to walk on the volcanic soil with the same weight and dignity. Neither was made to be a crown, and neither was born to be a footstool.
The people of the Banwáan archipelago lived by that balance for hundreds of years. They heard the wind. They gave gifts to the rivers. The rhythm of saffron and sea salt controlled the tides in 1412. It was a time of growth and big maps. Traders in huge Ming junks brought silk and stories, and the balangay hulls were full of the riches of the Majapahit Empire. The sandalwood and forest resins floated away from the ports and mixed with the warm, tropical sea spray. The islands felt like the center of the world at that time, held in place by a peace that seemed as strong as the limestone cliffs.
The “seen” world is thriving, but the “unseen” universe is becoming cold. The spirits that used to communicate through the buko leaves are now gone. They are going back into the caves of the dead and the dark parts of the jungle. The sky, which used to be a watchful father, is now a distant observer in a city of glass and cloud. He feels farther away than the farthest star, like a Creator who has finished His work and left the tools to rust in the rain.
Hiraya was in the river settlement, her feet sinking into the mud. She was a quiet shadow to the villagers, a girl whose hands were often stained with the juice of healing roots and whose eyes seemed to be looking at things far away. They thought her silence was peaceful, but she knew it was a paralyzed soul. Fear was always with her, like a cold, snake-like coil that got tighter when the wind changed or a branch broke in the dark. That fear had kept her in a cage.
But while the elders were worried about the rice that was going bad on the altars, Hiraya looked up.
She didn’t whisper names to the diwatas of the trees or ask the anitos of the ancestors for a quick answer. To her, the spirits were like the morning fog: they were there but not the sun.
Bathala was the one thing that kept her heart steady, even though it was scary and beautiful. The One who shaped the granite bones of the earth didn’t need spirits’ permission to move.
The barangay of Banwáan still respects the old ways. People still put offerings on the limestone altars. People still bring their best rice and sweetest fruits, hoping to buy another season of safety.
But the offerings are no longer being accepted.
The rice rots in the sun, and the beings that used to want it don’t even look at it. The babaylan, the chosen vessels who can hear what others can’t, are reaching into the dark and finding nothing but silence. It is a spiritual drought where the voices of the ancestors used to be. And on the northern horizon, the outline of a Wokou sail looks like a predator that has found a house with a broken door. The iron of the north is coming to take over a land that has lost its shield.
Before the iron takes the islands, the world is waiting for a voice.
And one of them was born to hear the scream... But she hasn’t been recognized yet.
