Chapter Twenty-One Finlyr
chapter twenty-one
finlyr
I walk beside Ligaya, and it is a relief to be out of the inn.
Despite my years at sea, I still hate being cooped up.
The houses and shops in Umasa’s town square cosy together like old friends.
Earthen tiles glitter in the sun and handmade bunting and streamers cascade from shop awnings and balcony gardens.
There’s a frenetic energy, the air full of shouts of harried vendors preparing their wares in the town square, and it is even more intense than when I arrived a few weeks ago.
‘What if we haven’t shipped in enough piyata cider?’
‘Is Dally around to help with the market stall?’
‘Feels like there won’t be any more room in Paranish soon,’ I whisper to Ligaya.
‘And to think we’re giving away beds to you lot,’ she returns, a pert smile dancing on her lips.
I catch my reflection in a shop window. A plume in my hat and finer clothes than I’ve ever had before.
My cheeks are fuller, as are my muscles.
Turns out it’s easier to do garden labour on a full belly.
I’m not sure my own father would recognise me now, but the hangman’s seen me more recently. Best keep a low profile.
Sea brine sweeps across us as we approach the promenade. We turn a corner and spot a small mound with a large tree, bare branches stretching languidly beneath the sun. Ligaya stops in her tracks and her grip on the satchel tightens.
‘What is that?’ I ask.
‘An emerald vine,’ Ligaya says, voice full of wonder.
‘Is that worth something then?’ I ask, cocking my head at the tree.
Ligaya laughs. ‘I don’t really know. It still makes my heart skip a beat – that’s why I came here, you know. To Paranish. To finish my mother’s recipe.’
‘Your mother’s recipe?’
Ligaya nods. ‘She was Paranishian. Always broke her heart that she could never properly make her family recipe: kare, a nut stew with vine. You see, emerald vines only grow here. I met Morna researching the vine; she has many books on herb lore in her collection.’
‘You shouldn’t trust books,’ I sigh. ‘They can say all manner of things. Even outright falsehoods.’
‘I’m sure Morna wouldn’t like to hear you say that,’ Ligaya jibes. ‘Don’t you read?’
‘I can, but not many learn,’ I say, fingering my cuffs. ‘Especially as most of the juicy stuff is locked up tight in the Bastion or the temple.’
Ligaya frowns. ‘I hate to think of them all caged up like that.’
The bell chimes happily as we enter Morna’s shop, and the relative peace is a relief from the bustle outside.
The bookshop is bright and smells like old paper and calamansi frosting.
The shelves are meticulous, every spine shining with embossed gold and silver lettering.
Behind the counter stands Morna. She pushes her sleek bob behind her ear and reluctantly closes her book.
‘We brought you some tea. Narra said your supplies were running low?’ Ligaya asks, placing her hand on top of the other woman’s.
‘Thank goodness – I was beside myself. Bring it into the kitchen, would you?’
Ligaya lays out the pouch of tea leaves. ‘Now one teaspoon should be plenty for a book hangover.’
‘A book hangover?’ Isagani asks, scratching their head.
Morna nods. ‘You know when you fall into a book and then finishing it is like crawling out of the sea. Your body feels heavy, and you’re dazed for a moment, completely unaware of how much time has passed.’
‘And you’re hungry,’ I chime in. Everyone looks at me. No one says anything for a beat. ‘Swimming makes you hungry,’ I clarify. I don’t know about this book hangover malarkey, but it sounds like the morning after some particularly memorable nights.
I turn away to stare out the window at the crowded streets. So many bodies. So many curious eyes. ‘Do you really think a party is good idea while we’re in our current predicament?’ I ask.
‘It’s a wedding.’ Morna laughs.
‘Exactly. You already know you’re in love, why the big to-do?’
Ligaya and Morna share a look. Not the kind of look I shared with Nestor, or hundreds of other bedfellows before him. It’s like sharing thoughts with only your eyes, its own kind of magic. It’s always mystified me.
‘Everyone’s celebrating something: the Magliyab festival, the upcoming royal birth, the ports opening at long last,’ Morna says.
‘So, the Seaguardians will have their hands full,’ Ligaya says, trying to reassure me.
‘I know there’s some tenderness left in that broken heart of yours,’ Morna teases.
‘Whatever happened to small weddings?’ I groan. ‘Or simply saying your vows to each other, witness only to the powers of Life and Death under a full moon?’
Weddings are not low-key affairs. I usually enjoy the merriment, the booze, the opportunities for a romantic fumble.
But not when I’m trying to act respectable and keep my head down.
Narra keeps insisting it’ll be a small gathering, before reminding me of the hundred spring rolls that need to be rolled and fried, and the fact that we are still earning our keep.
She says it in the same tone with which she threatens to haul us in to the Seaguardians.
We roll up our sleeves and wash our hands, setting ourselves at the counter. Grumbling aside, I relish the energy of a communal space. The same energy of a ship, although on board it can’t really be any other way.
‘Many hands make light work,’ Morna says, bringing out the mixing bowl of filling and the thin sheets of pastry.
‘Lumpia is easy but requires patience,’ Ligaya explains, in the sweet way a parent might explain to a child. ‘First you heat the oil until it sizzles, and then you place each roll in the pan, rotating it so the outside crisps evenly and the filling is piping hot all the way through.’
I didn’t think this would require so much dexterity. The women have got five done in the time it takes me to wrap one. And even then, mine looks like an overstuffed sausage bursting out of its casing.
‘You’ve overfilled it.’ Morna laughs, though not unkindly. ‘Here, let me show you.’
I don’t quite get the knack but there’s something satisfying in picking out which rustic-looking rolls are mine as we drop them into the oil.
Mostly because they come apart straight away, the filling falling out and swimming around the oil.
By the end of our work, I have oil burns across both my forearms and a sweat breaking out on my top lip.
In time we’ve got rolls aplenty. Let’s just hope the palm liquor is as forthcoming as the food.