Diwa
Madja-as, Panay
When the Goddess came to Posang Oda in a dream, requesting a favor to draw upon the guintandaan sang Dalikamata, she could not say no.
“There were three green ones, opening on a woman’s chest. One looks to the dead. One of the living. One of the gods.”
“Manang, the guintandaan cannot come to you. The government hunts her and is in hiding.” The elders tell her. “Besides, you can no longer make a ten-day round-trip journey.”
Pweh! Posang spits out the betel nuts she’d been chewing.
“This dream is a plea from the Dalikamata herself. My apo will go,” the oldest living tattoo artist from the province of Kalinga in Northern Luzon.
The elders did not argue.
When Kuya Gils told me Calendula Oda would visit our village to give me a special tattoo designed by Dalikamata, I was shocked and honored. Her one-hundred-and-three-year-old great-grandmother is renowned for her artistry as the original mambabatok. She is a tattoo artist skilled at creating tattoos through hand-tapping with a small hammer against a sharp bamboo “needle.” The ink is made from soot or ashes and water, or extracts from plants like the bush grape or a three-leafed wild vine.
“How does she know?” I had asked Kuya when he called me to the longhouse.
“The spirits summoned Posang to tattoo you. But she is too old to travel, and it is too dangerous to travel to the north with the soldiers looking for you. Calendula has been training under Posang for almost ten years and has been helping tattoo others who visit.
“Ate, it is time for you to become a batok. Do you feel ready?”
“I’ve never felt more ready. It truly is an honor. I can’t wait to see this special design she has for me. I know I am supposed to pay her with a sack of rice or a chicken, but I cannot imagine she’ll want to carry this on her way back. Can I arrange for Tio Pino to bring her cash, and for her grandmother also?”
“She will want no payment. The same as with me. I had gone to Posang during a summer break from school when she gave me my batok. She knew I was going to be Datu Agila and blessed by Kaptan. She resisted any payment I offered.”
I contemplated the large, bright-colored eagle tattoo across Kuya Gils’ torso. He proudly displays it shirtless. It is his mark as the leader of the Buruanga.
I had been told about the tattoos tribal members receive. But for those marked by the gods themselves, Posang Oda does them. Their designs are unique and can never be placed on anything other than the guintandaan. This came in a dream to Posang. This must be a sign.
That morning, the babaylan began the preparations. We fasted together on boiled kamote and ginger broth—no meat, no rice, no salt. We cleansed the body, emptied the vessel, and allowed the spirit room to enter.
She sent young girls to gather malunggay leaves, indigofera, and the soft green of macaranga bark, crushed with soot from burned jackfruit wood and lime to create the green-black pigment. The mix fermented in clay jars, its color deepening as the sun moved overhead.
“It must not just be green,” the babaylan said. “It must be alive.”
That night, beneath a moon wrapped in mist, we went to the ritual grounds near the old balete tree. The villagers gathered, whispering prayers to our ancestors as they circled the clearing. I was seated on a mat of woven pandan, bare-chested, hair unbraided and loose like the river.
Calendula was dressed in her Kalinga tribal costume. She is a young woman in her forties with a kind face and gentle hands. Her hair was braided, however, and twisted above her head. She sat before me, dipping a thin citrus thorn into the ink, her hand impossibly steady. She chanted softly—not to me, but to the eyes.
“Dalikamata, a thousand eyes, we ask three.
One to protect the blood.
One to see the truth.
One to light the path in darkness.
Watch her, see her, mark her.”
The first tap landed below my collarbone, just to the left of center.
Pain bloomed.
It wasn’t sharp like a needle. It was deeper—like the ache of an old wound waking up. I gritted my teeth, breathing slow and controlled.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Rhythm like rain.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Like footsteps returning to me across centuries.
But then—something changed. My chest began to pulse—not with pain, but warmth. The skin didn’t burn anymore; it glowed. I felt the breath of the earth rise through my spine. I heard Mama's song in the rustling leaves. I felt Papa's hands on my back.
I wasn’t alone.
When the third eye was finished, she dipped a tiny twig in ink and marked a mole beside each pupil—beauty marks and seals. She whispered that these were “locks,” so the eyes would not open unless truly needed.
"This is the mark of the goddess, as you are marked.”
When it was over, the babaylan wiped my skin with guava leaves soaked in turmeric and lemongrass water. The villagers sang. Calendula bowed, then packed her kit without a word. She would leave before sunrise, like a dream that never belonged to us.
I touched the center eye with trembling fingers. It was swollen and tender, and the skin raised around it like a whisper, but I felt no pain.
Only the quiet hum of something ancient, something awake—watching through me, waiting.
I felt myself becoming.
Updated: Apr 20
A New Prologue
1795
Southeast Asia
The sea goddess was angry.
A ship dared sail in her path on the night she would steal a kiss from the moon god.
It was the night when the god Lika-libutan shone full and bright. The night that the moon rode low, drawn to the sea by fate itself. The sea goddess, Luyong Babay, had raised the tides and reached for his lips.
So close were they that she could feel the warmth of his breath, the thrum of her heart.
And then… whoosh!
The De Gouden Specerij, with a hiss of its vast sails billowing from three masts laden with spices of cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon, dared sail between them.
Sure, the ship was sleek and fast, but it was no match for the goddess’s wrath, for she had missed the moment to claim the moon god for her own.
Spurned and grieving, she called on her brothers to exact her revenge. Hangin Bai, god of the wind, called up a typhoon. Tung-kong Langit, god of skies, hurled thunderbolts and lightning rods till the rains came down hard and heavy. Then the goddess raised her hands to churn violent waves against the ship till its sails tore and masts broke. It rocked and listed, and when it had taken in too much water, it tipped, and slowly, with her precious cargo of spices, she sank to the bottom of the channel where the Sulu and South China seas often fought battles for dominance.
All aboard perished—except one.
A young sailor from the land of misty moors and wailing bagpipes. Spared because of an ancient promise that Kaptan, grandfather to all the gods and deities, the supreme one who lorded all of creation, had made to three fae of the Scottish highlands.
Gifted with a vest from a future generation of the twenty-first century, it would save his life as he floated unconsciously on a raft toward the shores of Panay Island in the Philippines, where a mortal marked by the goddess of a thousand eyes would heal him.
From their love would come a line of descendants destined to save a people facing extinction.
Ron travels to Amsterdam, and it brought back memories of my past trips that sent me scouring for the photos I took of those trips. And while going through the photos, I was struck by the memory of the B&B that we stayed at. The Barangay is owned and operated by Godwin, a Filipino, and his Dutch partner, Wimmo. How apropos that this book is partly set in the Philippines.
Chapter 9: Tracing Shadows The Barangay B&B is a convenient five-minute walk from the Amsterdam Centraal station, and in springtime, it was a pleasant stroll. It was early yet, but commuters were already streaming in and out of the station and purposely standing on their way to work. Outside the train station, there is an impressive sea of bicycles—thousands of bicycles in all shapes and colors, a scene not found anywhere else in the world.
I take a deep breath of the city air, amused by a hint of marijuana that lingers in the atmosphere. Already, I miss Raine. It feels strange not having her walking beside me, chatting away. We’ve been here before when the girls were younger, but we were off to spend a few summer weeks with Vivienne and her family in L.A., leaving Raine and me childless. It was the first and only time we smoked weed. It left us terribly horny, hungry, and sleepy, not necessarily in that order. We’d barely left our room.
When I turn into Droogbak Street, the scene quiets into more of a residential vibe. The Barangay is a modern-looking canal house but was originally built in 1777, as the small plaque halfway up the building says. After ringing the bell, I am greeted by Godwin, one of two proprietors, who, with his partner, Wimmo, owns and operates the inn. Godwin is a slight man, dark-skinned, with kinky hair cropped short to his scalp. He sports an earring on his left lobe and is wearing a colorful tie-dye t-shirt of the sixties. I would guess he’s in his thirties, a few inches shorter than me, and he greets me with a big smile and begins chattering away.
“You must be Ronaldo,” he says in a bubbly voice.
I’m awake, but he’s much too chipper for my jetlagged brain. And I noted he got my name slightly wrong, but I let it go.
“Ron Mitchell,” I say, holding out my hand to shake his, ignoring that he mispronounced my name. “I have reservations..."
But I stop mid-sentence because something hits me as soon as I feel Godwin’s slight handshake. I stare at him for a moment, trying to recall if I’ve met him before. There was something I felt, and I wondered if he felt it too.
“Yes, yes. I know. Come in, come in,” he replies, and the crinkle in his eyes tells me yes. It was another place, another time. We might have been connected.
I shake the fuzziness in my brain, wondering if I imagined what just happened in those few seconds of touch.
Godwin ushers me inside and down the basement stairs where they have the guest room, and as soon as I step inside, I am struck by the otherworldly feeling of being transported to a tropical island. No, not Hawaiian. Further west.
“Wow! Am I still in Holland? Or did I just wake up in Fiji?” I ask, looking around at the various indoor exotic plants Godwin raises, apparently as a hobby. The guest space is bathed in soft white light filtering from the outdoor garden, separated by a sliding glass door. Hard to believe I’m actually below sea level, and it isn’t because I’m in the basement.
“Yes, I tried to emulate the feeling of being in my country. It doesn’t make me miss home so much,” he says as he pinches a dead leaf from one of the ferns sitting on an ornately carved side table.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Philippines. From Panay. We call our B&B Barangay, which means a small village in Tagalog. That’s our native language.”
Again, a rush of recognition wraps around me as I face Godwin—still smiling.
“Are you getting the feeling that we’ve met before? I’m positive we haven’t, but you just look familiar.”
“Who’s to say we haven’t met in another lifetime? If you believe in the mysticism of reincarnation, then anything is possible, no?” he says, waving his hands rather flamboyantly.
Godwin moves around, showing me the bedroom, bathroom, and a small sitting area with a kitchenette. The walls are adorned with photos from festivals of what looks like people dressed in colorful headdresses. The furniture is either bamboo or dark, heavy mahogany. He slides open the doors to the outdoor patio, which looks straight up to the houses around it. There is no view from here, but it did make me feel like I was in another country away from Europe.
“Well, I think you’ll find everything in order. I’ll leave you to settle in, Dodie.” I swiftly turn around to gape at him, with my mouth rudely hanging open.
“What did you call me?” I choked out.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You look so much like my cousin, Reynaldo. We call him Dodie. It’s a common nickname in the Philippines. We Filipinos love nicknames, you know,” he says, tapping me on the shoulder.
And there it was again. That touch sent not chills but a warm current.
I nod in response. I am speechless until I finally find the sense to mutter a “thanks” when he hands me the keys.
