MARKANG BUWAYA

The following short fiction is inspired by the article from AswangProject about the traditional tattooing in Philippines called Pang-o-Tub. It was said that tattoo in pre-colonial Philippines was believe to endow strength who anyone who has it. You can view the article right in this link: https://www.aswangproject.com/pang-o-tub-the-traditional-philippine-tattooing-you-havent-heard-about/)

Anton doesn’t like the smell and taste of blood. Especially if it is his own.

With broken ribs, swelling eye and wheezing breath, perhaps the only thing that keeps him going is adrenaline against Dadong Damuho inside the audience. The audience’s blatant heckling didn’t even help either. Everyone is rooting for the towering six feet tall juggernaut with fist like sledge hammer pounding him to death. The other bad news is that round 3 is just starting. There is still a lot of minutes to clobber him. To humiliate him.

Going for a brawl against Dado is an irrevocable death contract sign by his own blood. Perhaps this was a mismatch or maybe his skills in fight fighting is getting rusty after his release from jail a month ago. He still remember before that he is the prize fighter in the Bilibid and no one can outmatch his prowess when it comes to good old slugfest.

But his opponent, a well-trained MMA fighter with polished skills in striking, is not just a lean mean fighting machine. His physique doesn’t just look like a boulder cut roughly to become a human boy. It also the share the same toughness that no matter how many combination he throws, the juggernaut just shrugged it off with a mocking grin.

His punches sting like insect bites to him; contrary to what the Tata Ador’s promise that they will become a living weapon on its own capable of inhuman destruction.

“Your fist will be like the jaw of a *Buwaya; snapping its target with frenzied strength.” The words of swarthy old man still echoes in his ear as he remember the painful etch of knife in his skin during the day before he was release from the jail. As a parting gift, the old man decided to give him a tattoo done in the primitive ways of his tribe.

Instead of needles he use a knife to inscribe on his skin a simple design of crisscross and dots in varying sizes. The ink taken from the black soot of an old worn out cooking pot was only applied after design was finished. Anton got teary eyed from the agonizing pain that he wanted to stop the old man in the middle of the session. But he refuse as I sign of respect but more important as I sign that he is a man.

“Make good use of this Anton. I see a warrior in you but you haven’t figure it out what you should fight for.” That was Tata Ador’s last word of wisdom before they parted their ways. He didn’t manage to ask why the kind old man who is also donning ink armor all over his lean body is among the scum of their country. All he knows from other jailer is that the old man is from the mountain and rallied together with his tribesmen against those lousy big wigs who wanted to steal their ancestral land. The rest of his people are killed after the chaotic clash with the riot police. He is the sole survivor who still carry the pangs and bitter memories of the incident.

Hell, he didn’t even ask how on earth he will find out what he should fighting for other than surviving this cruel world by his own fist.

As Dado continue to pummel him with crushing blows and whip like kicks, the answer remain elusive but the question remains afloat on his consciousness; keeping his mind busy as if the answer will determine whether he will win or lose in this fight.

“What does a warrior fight for?”

Anton lift his chin upon hearing the voice only to find out that there is a spinning elbow waiting to be planted on his jaw. The impact of the blade like elbow send his molar teeth flying with trails of red hot blood on its trajectory.

“They fight for things that can’t be perceive. For the palpable and free.”

His vision becomes watery. The image of Dado on his mind begin to multiply with less details. His feet are getting wobbly as if they were melting on their own.

“The previous owner of the Mark of the Buwaya is also a prisoner like you who had nothing in the beginning. When he was freed, he restart his life with also nothing; no money, no family and even friends. Do you know what is the first thing he wanted to gain after that?”

Anton is now off his feet. Gravity is also now sided with his opponent as it pull his body towards mat. He can now have a glimpse of the lights on top of the ceiling.  They are too warm and too bright. He wanted to close his eyes now and shut his senses. His muscle is getting eager to comply with that.

But the enigmatic voice strike him like lightning as it whisper to his ear the answer he has been waiting for; the revelation leave him gasping for one last breath and a final struggle against his downfall.

“It’s honor; respect.”

He felt a burning sensation coming from the ink patterns wrapped around his wrist; a healing and bolstering surge of force that coiling around his arms down to his fist. He can’t be sure of it but he saw a glimpse of something emanating from his leather gloves; a stream of bluish light with fluid like consistency that slowly shape shift into something too familiar for him to be missed.

The head of a Buwaya grinding its knife like teeth.

He needs to land a punch; a decisive blow where every ounce of his faltering strength will be given. Tightening his fist and twisting his feet for one last stand, he watch in slow motion of Dadong Damuho about to deliver another  overhand strike. He saw an opening; his chin is uncovered and wide open. He follows the invisible thread that connecting his vision towards the unguarded chin of Dado with a piston like right cross punch.

The old man’s word came to life the moment his fist landed on Dado’s face; it crushes his face as if it was held by the Buwaya’s jaw and twisting it with a death roll.

It was 10 seconds before round 3. The referee didn’t have to count to 10 after Dado lay unconscious in the mat. His face is painted entirely by red splashes; too gruesome to be recognized.

Anton dropped to his knees after releasing his final blow. He look into fist and found the image of Buwaya slowly fading from them like a wisp of smoke from a dying flame.

“W-what happened?” He ask to himself without minding the wild cry of the crowd and the commentator’s booming voices exuding awe and surprise.

“You are now a warrior with a reason Anton.”

Anton turn his head towards the source of the voice that seems to guide him in the final moments of his bout. Standing in his corner is a dark skinned man garbed in tribal dress colored in red and white. The intricate patterns on his skin are glowing in soft light unlike before that it radiates dull blackness.

Tatang Ador smile at him before his figure slowly become translucent; losing its colors and details until he left without a trace except for the space he occupies.

“Honor…I see.” After the outpour of the last reservoir of his strength, Anton surprisingly can still stand from his feet. Now he is looking at the lights and all the people saluting and chanting his name. They are still so bright and warm but this time he doesn’t want to close his eyes for they are now become inviting.He wanted to welcome everything on his soul and inscribed it on his mind like a tattoo. He will wear it proudly not unlike the other markings on his body.

He wanted the answer and the feeling remain permanent on him as he raise both his fist and found his life officially started as a warrior of honor.

*Crocodile