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The big ax sang its way through the large arc and then came down on the block of wood with a mighty crash. It neatly cleaved in two formidable mass, the pieces flying for a long distance in opposite directions. Surveying his feat with glowing pride, Sebio felt a ripple run down the muscles of his arms, forearms, shoulders. He dropped the heavy ax and wiped the perspiration from his brow, from his bare brown arms, letting his fingers rest caressingly on each muscle. Small were his muscles and flat and flabby when relaxed. But how hard and powerful they became when he tensed them! As hard as seasoned, knotted yantok! Triumphantly he raised his arms above his head and, facing the afternoon sun, he thrust out his chest and made every muscle of his body tense. He was quite tall, above the height of the ordinary native, but he had paid for this increased height in diminished breadth. His chest was flat, his neck long, his legs thin. He was one of those boys who, the village people said, “grew too fast.”

“He will become bigger and stouter when he reaches his twenty-fifth year,” his mother had always told solicitous friends and relatives.

How deceptive his figure was, Sebio thought! No wonder those who knew him called him Sebiong Pasmado (Sebio the weakling) because of his slight figure, his spindle-shanks, his timidity. None of them would believe that he could lift two Socony cans full of water with either hand and raise them shoulder-high, or that he could carry three sacks of rice on those narrow shoulders. As he thought of them he snorted scornfully. The snake is the most slender, the most timid creature of the field, and yet people are afraid of it.

“Sebio, what are you staring at?” a querulous voice came from the nipa hut.

“Nothing, Nanay. I was just stretching my cramped arms,” came the sheepish answer.

“Well, it is growing late. How do you expect me to cook rice without firewood?”

“Yes, yes, Nanay.”

With renewed vigor he seized the ax and hewed away. The thick blade fairly sang as it swung back and forth over his shoulder. He paused and, for a while, was lost in thought. If he could only summon such strength in those foolish games of strength and skill! He had always failed there, miserably. Somehow his courage always ran out before a noisy, bantering crowd.

“What strength can there be in those puny arms, in that flat chest?” He would hear people say around him.

And, most unbearable of all, his friends pitied him. The men said, “You have no strength.” The women, “You have no fighting heart.”

“Thunder and lightning Name of Satan. . . !” he muttered. Those memories angered him.

Once more he savagely attacked the wood before him. Perspiration blinded his eyes; his unruly hair got into them every time he bent down; but he minded not. In a last tremendous swing he put every ounce of energy in his arms and brought down the ax. The eager blade passed through the entire thickness of the block, through the stone prop, and sank into the soft earth beneath. For a moment he regarded the result with a feeling of satisfaction; then gathering together the chips, he went into the house.

That evening, as his mother sat in front of him at their humble table, he was strangely silent.

“Are you thinking of going to Tia Binay’s tonight?” she asked.

“Yes, Nanay.” He didn’t add that he had been thinking of almost nothing else all day.

“When you go, take with you our whetstone. One of her workers came over and told me she wanted to borrow it. Tell her also that the herbs she used for her uncle’s rheumatism did me good too, and thank her for me, Sebio.”

The way to Tia Binay’s led through recently harvested rice fields. A few weeks before, the grain had lain mellow and golden in the all-enveloping light of the full moon. Now only short, thick stubble, wisps of straw and traces of the delicate, elusive fragrance of the ripe palay remained to remind one of the hectares of slender, heavy laden stalks of grain that had once rippled in graceful undulation with each breath of the harvest wind. There was scarcely any beaten path across these fields; but with hardly a glance about him, Sebio made his way through them, avoiding each stalk of sharp stubble or the holes where the carabao’s feet had sunk heavily during the rainy season and which had caked since then in the hot sun. The lovely night was full of the sounds and odors of life. The slender, swaying bamboos whispered to each other eternal secrets of the night, and from the distance came the dying croak of a frog caught in the jaws of a snake.

When he reached Tia Binay’s place, he saw that the evening’s work had already begun. All about the moonlit clearing that stood at a distance from the house were grouped young men and women whose gay laughter and voices carried far into the distance. In the center was a square of concrete where the golden grains of palay had been laid to dry. On one side were five wooden mortars, around each of which three persons, two men and a girl, stood pounding grain. Each individual brought down his pestle in definite rhythm and succession. One first and then, just as he has lifted his pestle, the next would bring his down, and so on. Every now and then the gifted voice of someone in the group would break into song, and the notes of a haunting kundiman would be wafted into the breeze to add sweetness to the silence of the countryside. At intervals, however, a sleepy cock perched aloft in a tree nearby would let out an obstreperous crow as if he disapproved of so much gaiety and lightness of spirit.

Sometimes, to vary the monotony, the men pounding palay would show off tricks with the pestle. One of a group would make the heavy tool stand on the tip of the little finger or on the nose, toss it in the air, whisk it between the fingers of one hand, and bring it down on the palay without upsetting the regular rhythm of his companions’ pounding. Such demonstration of approval from the onlookers, and repeated applause would encourage more difficult stunts. Around the enclosure was a sort of bench built by tying together several strips of bamboo. Here many sat and, while waiting their turn at the mortar and pestle, laughed and joked and ate unsparingly of the suman and bibingka of Tia Binay.

“Ho, there, Sebio!”

“Good evening to all of you. Good evening, Tia Binay!”

Tia Binay peered at him. She was getting old and with her failing eyes unable to see well even in the daytime, was finding it difficult to recognize her guests at once.

“Who is this?” She asked kindly.

“It’s Sebio, Tia Binay.”

“Sebio?” she could not place the name.

“Sebiong Pasmado!” roared someone from a group close to him.

“Ah — yes, now I know.”

There was a hilarious outburst from the group and, with blazing eyes, Sebio turned to the cruel joker. But he saw only what seemed to him a surging sea of sneering faces. His face smarted as if from a slap. He turned again to Tia Binay.

“Nanay told me to give this to you and to thank you for those herbs.”

The old woman gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Of course they would do her good. Why, my grandmother used them before I did, and so did her great-grand uncle before her.”

He found a seat in the farthest and darkest corner.

After a while, so lost was he in his thoughts that he did not see a package done up in banana leaf which a small white hand held out to him — not until a voice spoke:

“Here, Sebio, never mind those people. They are idlers. Try this suman. I made it myself.”

Not until she spoke did he recognize Merci. Dumbly he took the package, tore open the wrapper, and tasted the contents. Slowly he became his old self again.

“Merci, you must have flavored this with your kisses,” he boldly ventured.

The gratified girl blushed to the roots of her hair. “Give me back that suman,” she demanded.

Sebio laughed. He was again his likeable self. He tried to catch the outstretched hand, but like lightning it was withdrawn, and when he stood up the girl was gone. He sat down again. Oh, for a throne and a crown and a universe to lay at the foot of Merci! Now he had fully recovered his composure, and he could study the crowd better. There was Ambo and others. How strangely beautiful the moonlight made everything! He saw the play of moonbeams on the matchless hair of Carmeling and wondered if its fragrance was more soul-satisfying than the champaka-scented breeze that ever and anon caressed the cheeks of Lourdes. And then he remembered the starlight that he saw in the dark eyes of Merci, and he wondered no more.

He became aware that the workers were being changed. The second shift was ready. He got up.

“Here, Milio, you and Kiko work here. Anita, go to that mortar with Tonio. You, Sebio, come here — and you too, Pacio.” Tia Binay was assigning each to his place. Sebio found himself with Pacio and — wonder of wonders — Merci was with them to complete the group of three. For a moment he could hardly contain his joy, and then he remembered that he was also with Pacio, the bully, the braggart.

Bog-bog-bog! Every pestle fell with a dull thud each time. First he, then Merci, then Pacio, in strict rhythm. Pacio, as sure as death, would soon show off his prowess before the world, before Merci. Sebio would have to compete with him, which he knew would be another trial before a mocking, unsympathetic crowd — another effort doomed to failure.

Merci, conscious of the strain under which Sebio had begun to labor, endeavored to relieve it. “This morning we chased a big snake across the yard, but it escaped.”

“They say that nothing can prevent death from the bite of some snakes.”

“If you are bitten on the arm, you may have to cut it off.”

“Or burn it,” volunteered Pacio sneeringly.

“Here, Sebio,” suddenly said Pacio in a tone that carried to everybody. “Try this one.”

He tossed up the heavy pestle, causing it to describe the figure “8” in mid-air, caught it and brought it down just as Merci had lifted hers up. It was well timed.

“Wonderful,” everyone said.

Sebio felt himself growing hot all over. Pablo had challenged him; everybody had heard the challenge. Although his eyes were intent on his work he could feel everybody looking at him.

“See how industriously Sebio works. He does not even see us. Tia Binay, you really ought to consider him for a son-in-law.” The taunt was flung by a heartless rival.

What a noise they made! He dared not raise his eyes lest they see the light in them or he sees Merci’s own.

“Nanay does not need any son-in-law. I am still strong enough to do work at home,” came the surprising retort from Merci.

At this they all laughed and teased her about her proud mouth, her delicate hands, and her duty to sex, to her country. To Pacio, the joke was too good to cut short.

“Tia Binay,” he asked with a confident smile, “what must your son-in-law be like?”

But Tia Binay refrained from answering after a long look at her daughter, so somebody answered for her:

“He must have many rice fields!”

“No, first of all, he must be industrious,” another put in.

“Above all, he must be handsome.”

“You are all wrong,” cried the exasperated Merci. “My mother’s son-in-law must first be my husband.”

That seemed to silence them — for a while.

“Well, well — your husband then — he must be kind and obedient and loving, eh?”

“And fleet of foot and strong of arm?”

“Here then, you beautiful men, can anybody do this?”

It was Milio, the village clown. He seemed to be holding a short rod that looked like iron. He was trying to bend it and, in his apparent efforts to do so, his whole body was contorted in the most ludicrous way. Suddenly it cracked into splinters and by the sound they knew that it was only a cleverly painted piece of bamboo.

While they were still holding their sides and slapping their thighs, Pacio stood up. He stepped up to one of the mortars and took from it a horseshoe that was nailed there for good luck.

“Here, Milio, is an imitation of your feat,” he said, attempting to inject a modest note in his tone.

He seized each end and gripped hard. In that light no one could see Pacio very well, and they felt rather than saw the bulging lines of his muscles as he strained them convulsively. What they actually saw was the curved piece of iron being slowly straightened out by Pacio’s hands.

A murmur of admiration rose from the crowd.

“Bravo!”

“Unheard of!”

“Incomparable!”

“Try that, Milio. But don’t crack it!” and Pacio laughingly tossed the piece of iron to him.

“No, thanks. Suppose I vomit blood!” And Milio tossed it to Sebio.

For a moment the young man did not know what to do. Somehow he felt that this was his chance, that he could bend back that thing into the likeness of a horseshoe, easily. Suddenly he got up with a bound and seized it. Shouts of derision immediately followed. Even those few who wished him well stared at him with doubt on their faces.

“Aba, what is he going to do?”

“Hey, Sebio, drop that! That’s iron — not bamboo!”

He could feel the heat mounting to his cheeks as he gripped the two ends and strained. His lips clamped together, his face went pale, His eyes bulged. He held strained and his breath during the effort. An eternity — it seemed — passed. He thought he felt the iron give way, and he opened his eyes. He saw that it had bent only a little.

“Ho, my strong man, what now?”

“I told you it was not a bamboo!”

“Sebio would be a strong man and do mighty deeds if only he would eat more.”

And yet Sebio knew for a certainty that he could have done it. He cursed himself as, like a whipped dog, he sought for a place to hide the horseshoe.

“No strength,” said the men.

“No fighting heart,” whispered the women.

Shamed face, Sebio retired to a corner. He wanted to leave, to be alone with an ax and some logs on which he could give vent to all the bitterness that was in him. But to leave now, he realized, would be an admission of his desperation, his hopelessness.

“Sebio,” whispered Merci, who, unnoticed, had approached him when his tormentors had left him alone, “I want to make a fire so we can roast some corn. Will you help me get some hay?”

Like a drowning man who suddenly found a floating object to cling to, he eagerly followed Merci to the hay pile. Here was someone who understood him.

“How could I do anything with that crowd?” he murmured a little apologetically. Then his disgust at himself rising, he kicked the pile of hay. This eased his feelings somewhat.

“Yes I know,” she sympathized, as she pulled out an armful.

“Just let me try again!” and again he struck savagely at the hay pile. They dropped their burden at the center of the clearing. And then as he turned away a blood-curdling scream from Merci pierced the noise being made by the merry-makers. He turned around to see what had frightened the girl. From the bundle that Merci dropped, had emerged, rearing its head like some fantastic toy, its slender, green body poised to strike, — a snake! And Merci stood and stared like one hypnotized! Sebio knew that it would strike, strike before his next breath. There was no time to plan what to do, to will what part of the body to move. Instinctively, however, he made a move to place himself between the girl and the danger. As he did this he struck at the bundle of hay on which the snake lay poised to strike. The effort was so ill executed, however, that he missed it entirely. He fell on his face and before he could recover the serpent had bitten him on the calf of the leg, and then was gone.

Sebio staggered up and looked at his leg. From twin spots on the skin, blood was beginning to ooze. A momentary sense of faintness came over him and he closed his eyes. Already he seemed to feel the searing course of the deadly poison to his thigh, to his heart. He felt an impulse to run, to dance about, to do anything. The faces around him were becoming hazy. Only the excited voices of those crowding around him prevented his mind from becoming completely numbed.

“The deadly dahong palay!”

“Get some vinegar!”

“Sebio is dying!” wailed someone.

His thoughts whirled crazily, his breath became convulsive. Over and over he rolled in the dust, clutching widely at the air, at the earth around him as if he sought for something solid, some divine support that would bolster up his nerve. He came up violently against one of the mortars, and something heavy fell in the dust almost on his face. He seized it. It was a horseshoe. It was as if out of a dark hole a stalwart hand had lifted him, so clear and so sharply did he see light. He waved the babbling group away.

A fire here, quickly!” he muttered in an agonizing voice.

It was Merci, obeying uncomprehendingly, who scooped a handful of hay and husk, and in no time at all had a blazing fire. It was she who tore a piece of her skirt and bound up his leg tightly above the wound. It was her delicate hands now suddenly grown powerful that had tightened the ligature above the wound on the leg of the dying man. The others were paralyzed to inaction.

“A knife, for the love of Christ!” Sebio again muttered convulsively.

Several sped to get a knife and several moments — eternities — passed. He could feel his foot becoming cramped and cold. Then a large knife was handed to him.

And now the crowd witnessed the act that they were to relate to their children in after-years. With a low cry, Sebio seized the horseshoe and, before the same faces that had frequently taunted him, he straightened it as if it were a slender hairpin. Then he wrapped a piece of cloth around one end and thrust the other end into the fire. There was no applause from the onlookers, just heavy labored breathing. They could only stare and stare, now at the colorless face of Sebio, grim and twisted as if by some terrible resolution, now at the piece of iron turning an angry, luminous red.

“What is he going to do?”

“Merciful God!”

For Sebio had taken the sharp knife and had slashed across the two pin pricks. Dark blood oozed out slowly. Then he grasped the red-hot iron and before their horrified gaze plunged it into the wound. The glowing point sizzled drawing the blood out of the wound. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The women shrieked. Several of them who could no longer stand the sight fainted.

Then, calmly, Sebio laid aside the iron, and his frothy lips relaxed into the semblance of a smile. Slowly his eyes closed. Somebody held him up. But before unconsciousness came he had seen their eyes. And they told him that never again would he be called Sebiong Pasmado.