The Shoes of Chadliwan
by: Consorcio Solito Borje
One morning, when the frost lay thick upon the camote fields and the smoke from the cogon huts hung like a prayer in the freezing air, the Igorot village of Ampiw-ek awoke to find that one of its wandering sons had returned to the mother fold at last. It was Chadliwan, home from the copper fields of Mankayan. And all Ampiw-ek turned out to partake of the black-footed pig that was slaughtered as an offering to the good anitos who saw Chadliwan safe home; and the people spoke to him with a new note of respect in their voices.
This was surprising, for Chadliwan's figure was not one to inspire deference. There was hardly anything remarkable about him. He was short, massive, broad, and had a very low forehead. A navy-blue woolen coat with epaulets and brass buttons lent him a martial air, and he wore pants, it was true; but in Ampiw-ek, coats and pants were no new things.
It was soon evident, however, that the village's new respect for Chadliwan was due to the mighty brogans that adorned his big, veiny feet. Shoes are shoes; but shoes, bold and heavy as Chadliwan's, had never been seen before in Ampiw-ek. And, in the estimate of the villagers, Chadliwan's shoes and, perforce, Chadliwan himself, breathed all the romance of the far-off Mankayan mines.
During the feast, Chadliwan danced the lovers' dance with Djarma, fairest of the dusky flowers of Ampiw-ek. It was a fiery and colorful dance, with Djarma blushing in the unveiled ardor of Chadliwan's gaze. But under the vibrant, throbbing notes of the gangsas, there ran a subtle current of hate and rivalry; for Djarma was beloved of Twaddig.
So it was that when the feasting was over, Twaddig told Djarma to discourage Chadliwan's attentions. But Djarma flushed with anger and asked Twaddig who he thought he was to tell her what to do. At once, Twaddig's shoulders drooped, and such depth of sadness filled his eyes that Djarma was moved to pity him. Yet she said, "If you want me, you must fight for me." But whether she knew it or not, Twaddig could never give Chadliwan battle with the head-ax. The council of old men who sat in the abong-abong and guided the destinies of Ampiwek frowned upon the bloody strife between members of the village. So, Twaddig summoned his friends to a council of war to seek their advice. If Chadliwan could not be eliminated by means of the battle-ax, his designs must be frustrated in some other manner.
In a secluded ravine, before the object of the rendezvous was broached, the council drank much wine from Twaddig's jar and danced to the weird, compelling music from his salibao. But the rice wine was strong and the music became lulling. One by one, the council finally sank into unconsciousness. That was as far as the council going. In the days that followed, Twaddig's world went black. Daily he saw Chadliwan make enormous strides in Djarma's favor. Twaddig was fast losing her--Djarma, she whose cheeks were of the color of spurting dag blood. To him no longer sang the pew-pew-ek of early mornings, to him the wild mountain streams no longer raced to the mad pounding of his heart.
Yet Twaddig did not lose hope. The heaviness in his heart had decreased somewhat as he lay in his hut one night to let his mind dwell on his problem. What was it that Djarma found so attractive in Chadliwan? Chadliwan was not handsome. He was not tall. He was not so strong as Twaddig. If he was so lacking in natural attractions, what was it that lent him fascination? Could it be his shoes? Of course, it must be those shoes of his! Why had he not thought of it before? Twaddig half raised himself from his bed as the truth dawned upon him. He sat up.
In the darkness, his expression suddenly assumed its usual craftiness. Then, a smile crept on his face. He fell back on his bed, and sleep, more peaceful than he had in days, came to him.
The morning came and Twaddig was jubilant. What was his plan? He would fill Chadliwan with wine and then contrive to make his rival lose his shoes in the game of bangking. Twaddig felt sure of winning.
Drunken men don't play bangking well, and they don't see well. A twirl of the coins, a peep under the coconut shell, a correct "guess," and the shoes would be his. Then, he would put them on and win back Djarma. For what could Chadliwan be without his shoes? Djarma would then see him as he really was - an ugly, stupid nobody.
So, that morning, Twaddig sought Chadliwan and invited his rival to drink wine with him at his house. Chadliwan, thirsty and unsuspecting, readily accepted the invitation. They hurdled a low fence that surrounded a yard paved with speckled blue river-stones, climbed a crude ladder of unbarked saplings, then crawled through a broad low door. into the dark interior of a windowless one-room cogon hut that rested on stilt-like posts. The roof, the rafters, the walls were festooned with soot. In a corner of the room lay odds and ends which had evidently been swept there to clear the floor.
Having produced a pair of bowls, Twaddig squatted on the floor of yellow saplings secured together with vine. He invited Chadliwan to do the same. Then Twaddig brought to light a jar from a mound of leaves in a corner and pushed it to the side of Chadliwan. In the dim cold sunlight that filtered through holes in the walls of the house, the green-white jar gleamed with a pale splendor, and the dragons that gamboled on studded surface writhed painfully and spat envenomed fire "This is my jar," boasted Twaddig unnecessarily as he squatted before Chadliwan. "Mine," he repeated in a tone calculated to excite the other's envy. "You know what these heirlooms are? Kept for hundreds of years. My jar," he continued, uncovering its mouth-"it changes color with the years."
Chadliwan grunted. They dipped their bowls into the jar and began drinking.
"I wouldn't sell it for twenty carabaos," Twaddig went on with a loutish.
"It is an heirloom." They went on drinking. With the third bowl, Chadliwan stretched his legs before him and rested his heavy-lidded eyes on his brogans.
"My shoes," said Chadliwan thickly, "my shoes" He broke off and held out his bowl for more wine.
"Your shoes?" prompted Twaddig, filling the other's bowl again.
Chadliwan raised his bowl but halted its way to his lips. "They are worth forty carabaos," he said, nodding defiantly at the other.
Twaddig snorted derisively. He laughed. Chadliwan regarded him quizzically.
"Forty carabaos?" Twaddig echoed, and he laughed again. He cast a depreciatory eye on the brogans.
Chadliwan exploded an English word he had learned at the mines.
"I said my shoes are worth forty carabaos, and they are!"
"Ho!" said Twaddig; and he plied Chadliwan with more wine. He let Chadliwan drink for some time before he said, "You lie." This was one-half of an insult, but Chadliwan only smirked and dived deeper into his cups.
At once, Twaddig became animated with an eloquence whose fire gleamed even through his red eyes. "You are a liar, Chadliwan. You lie about everything. Your family are all liars. Your grandfather was a worse liar than your father. And you are worse than your grandfather"
Now this was an insult. Chadliwan put down his bowl of wine and looked at Twaddig with a sleepy fixedness. He exploded with equal fire.
"You are the liar."
Unheeding Chadliwan's retort, Twaddig brought out a smooth board, a shallow coconut-shell bowl, and two coins which had been filled until they were practically no more than two plain discs of copper, each with a crosscut on one side. Twaddig polished the coins vigorously on the board while Chadliwan looked on with dull, heavy, uncomprehending eyes.
"My Chinese jar against your shoes to prove that your grandfather was a big liar" challenged Twaddig, holding out the two shining discs of copper in his brown palms.
Chadliwan took off his shoes and pushed them beside the jar. He spat violently on his hands and rubbed them together. The day was still young. The pew-pew-ek called to each other outside the palings, and far away the great Chico River could be heard booming down its chasms. The gold of the sunlight sprayed a little square at the door, and through the crevices of the floor, Twaddig's family pig could be seen perambulating, grunting to itself contentedly. The game was on.
The day wore on. In Twaddig's house, twirling coins clinked under a shallow coconut-shell bowl on a smooth board; and now and then the clinking was drowned by the grunts of contending men. And when Chadliwan, woe-begone and barefooted, crept out of the house, he left behind him a happy warrior dancing the dance of victory.
For what was Chadliwan without shoes? Nothing.
For the first time in his life, Twaddig had shoes to wear. But if Chadliwan's feet were big, Twaddig's were enormous. Still, by unremitting labor, he succeeded in forcing his feet into the brogans. They pinched horridly as he stood in the middle of the floor, and he wondered how Chadliwan ever made himself feel at home in them. He took a step, then another. Slowly around the room he walked. His feet eased somewhat into his shoes. That was better.
Twaddig toiled down the crude ladder of his house and stood in the yard. The sun had sunk, and darkness was falling rapidly. A slow breeze caught him in the face with the cold breath of the pines. He must go at once to the ulog—the girls' community house—to regain "lost territory." But when he straddled the fence, it was the beginning of the end.
After the first hundred steps, broken glass seemed to rub the bony structure at the back of his heels. Yet he continued his way. During the second hundred steps, his little toes began to feel like boils. The third hundred; Twaddig's big frame began to tremble. Now each foot was one large boil threatening to burst but could not for lack of room in the shoe. His feet, it seemed to him, filled the entire width of the path, and were each moment deploying farther over the grass until they spread over the whole countryside. With a very heavy head, Chadliwan awoke from his besotted sleep. Somebody was climbing up the ladder of his house painfully. He raised his head from the floor. It was Twaddig, holding a pair of thick, heavy brogans in his hands. His feet were black and swollen. Bent and writhing at every step, Twaddig limped to Chadliwan's side. "Chadliwan, whose father is my father's friend, who is my friend," entreated Twaddig pitifully.
"What do you want?" the other demanded gruffly. Twaddig held out the pair of shoes.
"Please take back your shoes." Chadliwan grabbed his shoes from Twaddig's hands and examined them critically.
"Why, you cut the strings!" he shrieked.
"I couldn't untie them."
"Who can if they are tied this way?" Chadliwan fingered the awkward knots Twaddig had made.
"But you can replace them with young vine, can't you?"
"Maybe yes," said Chadliwan grudgingly. And he proceeded at once to put on his shoes.
Two moons later, the nuptial feasts for Chadliwan and Djarma were celebrated. Chadliwan danced mightily in his brogans to the earnest salibao music that Twaddig played.
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