Ang Enkantos The Enchantment

The Manananggal is a creature from Philippine myth. In rural areas people still believe in her power.

Manila September 2054

Violy took a mouthful of food and a wave of nausea surged through her as she swallowed. She looked over her shoulder to check whether the housekeeper was watching, then tipped the rest of the food into the refuse bin. She was seventy-five years old and dying. Her husband had passed over several years earlier and taken her joie de vivre with him. She'd outlived most of her friends and her daughters were half a world away with families of their own so when she realised that she was seriously ill she told no one. All she had now were her memories and the music that comprised the soundtrack of her life. Most nights she sat alone listening to her record collection, remembering the places she'd been and the events that had shaped her life.

Her thoughts often drifted back to when she'd served with the armed forces during the insurgency in Mindanao. That was the first time in her life that she'd felt abandoned and depressed. She'd been a specialist nurse in a modern naval hospital, enjoying her work and busy social life, and then with almost no warning she received orders to report to a forward aid station in Mindanao. A week later she found herself on an ancient rust bucket of a transport ship heading for the boonies. As her superior had said as they parted, the posting was a major setback.

Sulit, South Cotabato August 2004

The storm had already raged for two days when twenty-four-year-old Lieutenant Violy Generosa climbed into an overloaded army truck to complete her journey to the almost forgotten outpost. It was just forty clicks from the city boundary but the route followed a rough track that wound uphill through dense jungle. Squalls of torrential rain lashed the ancient Hino truck as it bounced over rocks, wallowed in liquid mud up to its axles, and repeatedly became stuck. It took most of the day to reach the little group of cement block huts at the edge of the village.

A small group of soldiers and villagers gathered under the overhanging roof of the schoolhouse to watch as the driver and his assistant unloaded the few crates of supplies they claimed were all that were due to the Civil Assistance Team. The onlookers stood in a huddle and watched with amusement as drenched and splattered with mud, she argued with the driver. Her fury and threats gained her nothing, as out here in the hills, ordinary soldiers could ignore a nurse with impunity even if she were an officer. A few minutes later the truck groaned and creaked its way out of the village, taking the rest of her supplies with it.

She hadn't expected the Korporal in charge of the outpost's security detail to snap to attention and salute her when she arrived but his casual attitude, dishevelled appearance, and the way he brazenly leered at her confirmed her worst suspicions about the way the post was run. After she'd been introduced to the nurse aides and shown the tiny room where she was to sleep for the next six months, they took her on a tour of the village. It was a collection of small huts; some were traditional wooden buildings with thatched nipa roofs, and others were crudely built from concrete blocks topped with rusty corrugated iron. The only substantial buildings in the village were the schoolhouse and a small church. The smell of wood smoke lingered in the air, but the few villagers she saw vanished into their huts as they approached.

It was near dusk when they returned to the schoolhouse that served as the team's headquarters. The trunks of the Sago palms creaked ominously in the wind, and their rustling fronds brushed against the tin roof making a sound like heavy rain. When the wind died and the air was still, there were other noises. There was always the chirping and buzzing of hordes of insects, the steady hum of mosquitoes, and the sudden strident squawking of birds. Sometimes she thought she could hear the distant metallic chiming of the native musical instruments called Kulintangs, There was another sound she heard repeatedly but could not identify. It was an annoying tik-tik, tik-tik that increased in volume and then faded away until she could barely hear it. She was a city girl alone in this alien place so it wasn't hard for her to imagine that communist guerrillas or even supernatural beings might lurk in the gloomy forest surrounding them.

By mid-evening the rain had stopped, but she was exhausted from the journey, and the sweltering heat only increased her discomfort. Alone in her tiny room, lit only by a small flickering oil lamp, she was close to tears. She was still angry but now she was frightened too. Her skin was clammy, and the slightest exertion caused beads of sweat to form on her forehead and back. Wearily, she undressed, wiped her face and upper body with a damp towel, and doused herself with insect repellent. She pulled on a plain white cotton nightdress and slumped onto the crudely made bed. She pulled the mosquito net closed and opened her pocketbook at the place where she'd left the story. Within minutes, she'd fallen asleep.

In the dense jungle behind the schoolhouse, something stirred. Its finely tuned senses began to focus, searching the surroundings for the being that had disturbed its sleep. It wasn't an animal, and although it had taken human form in the hollow Balete tree, it was neither human nor mortal. It had lain dormant for many years, but time meant nothing to the creature. Some people claimed that its kind could read minds, but the gift that had woken it was more akin to an ability to sense emotions at a distance. It took in the familiar auras of villagers and soldiers, the stench of fear, unwashed bodies, and stale tobacco, but there were more interesting smells and emotions. It identified new human forms with the distinctive scent of young healthy women. It examined and considered each of the females. Two were placid and uninteresting like the villagers, but the third... her chaotic emotions had been the cause of the Manananggal's awakening. For centuries, the creature had soared unchallenged over her domain, abusing the superstitious T'boli villagers as she pleased. She rarely missed a chance to terrorise the village women. She violated them when they menstruated, stole the unborn from their mother's wombs, and tormented the sick and elderly.

For as long as she could remember, there had been a pattern, Each time she awoke, she'd roam the hills, feeding off the T'bolis' blood and terror, but always after a few decades, their fear of her would gradually fade to the point where they'd begin to fancy themselves strong enough to destroy her. For her part, she'd grow jaded by their placid nature and dismal lives. She would begin to search the hills for more exciting prey but find none, and then, as her life force dimmed, she'd retire to her tree in the darkest part of the jungle. At long intervals, she'd wake, aroused by the strongest of human emotions. The creature knew little of human life, but this third female seemed different from the villagers and soldiers. Her heart and mind were full of pure rage and sorrow, and her body seethed with hormones. The creature struggled to recall the memory of another human she'd forgotten for centuries but failed. She smiled to herself, knowing that she'd soon be more intimately acquainted with this one because, within a day, the young woman would find her underwear spotted with blood. Her familiar, a drab bird the size of a pigeon, fluttered lazily into the night heading towards the schoolhouse.

Violy woke suddenly as if she'd been shaken. She lay panting in a pool of sweat. She knew she'd had a nightmare but had no memory of it. She pushed herself upright and pulled the mosquito net aside. A bird flapped its wings in panic and skittered across the room. It ricocheted off the door frame and vanished into the night. The odd tik-tik, tik-tik sound of flapping wings faded into the darkness, and suddenly the jungle was eerily silent.

The Manananggal had sight of a sort, but she did not see the polychromatic images that humans see. For her, there were only hazy shades of grey, overlaid with brighter patterns that signified emotions. Of these, she loved anguish the best, but fear and desire also caught her attention, and this troubled girl was possessed by all three. Now that she'd seen the strange female through her familiar's eyes, she began to steal her likeness.

The strange one began to menstruate the next day, and that night the Manananggal knelt by her bed, watching as she tossed and murmured in her sleep. She was ravenously hungry from her long hibernation and intoxicated by the scent of her prey but still she hesitated. She knew that it was too early to risk revealing herself to the girl, but she couldn't resist knowing more. She swept the mosquito net aside and bent over the sleeping girl. She pressed her temple against the girl's thick black hair and listened to her dreams. She was shocked and delighted by the jumble of alien thoughts and conflicting emotions she sensed in the girl's head. Even as she slipped her hand under the nightdress to caress the girl she knew that she'd gone too far. She was weak from her long sleep and confused by the girl's strangeness. What if she woke and screamed? With a sigh, she removed her hand, pulled the nightdress down and drew the netting closed. As she slipped out of the hut, she came face to face with a drunk soldier who hesitantly saluted her. She frowned at his lack of fear before remembering whose appearance she'd assumed. She turned her back on him and strolled towards the village.

The next morning, a young T'boli woman awoke screaming hysterically, claiming that she'd been attacked by a Manananggal. At first, the nurses of the Civil Assistance Team were unaware of the growing commotion in the village. Just after midday, an ancient police Daihatsu stopped outside the schoolhouse where the army team was based. Sergeant Corazon Alvarez, smiled as she introduced herself. She was a homely middle-aged woman, so despite her camouflaged fatigues, and the heavy pistol on her belt, she appeared to them more like a favourite aunt than a guardian of law and order. The policewoman told them of the attack in the village and the superstition surrounding it. Sgt. Alvarez knew the girl was genuinely frightened and upset by whatever she thought had happened, but she did not believe in supernatural beings. Her concern was that the T'boli were superstitious and incidents like this usually led to wild allegations and trouble between neighbours.

As the nurses chatted over lunch, the policewoman sat quietly, studying the three women. Two of them were auxiliaries from GenSan with annoying Maragsa accents. After listening to them for a few minutes, she knew they were barely trained local girls with no interest in what they were supposed to be doing. She wasn't in the least surprised because it was common knowledge that the Civil Assistance Program was just a flimsy excuse to justify the army's occupation of the village. This made the third girl something of a conundrum. Her polished Manila accent, the neat naval uniform with its shiny rank badges and the designer sunglasses, all marked her out as an Ilustrada; she was a professional and very much out of place up here in the interior. Sgt. Alvarez knew enough not to take people at face value, but she'd met her sort before and they were usually trouble. Perhaps this arrogant young woman was just a hapless do-gooder, but more likely, there was a more sinister reason for her presence up here in the hills.

Two nights later, Violy had an erotic dream. She woke sometime after midnight, drenched in sweat as usual but with a lascivious throbbing in her womb as if she were on the verge of an orgasm. An image from her childhood lingered in her mind. She remembered the illustration in a children's book of an impossibly beautiful woman with flowers in her hair and tapering black wings wrapped around her like a cloak. She focused on the image, eased her panties aside and began to masturbate. Her clitoris throbbed and tingled under her moisture slick fingertips as she imagined being wrapped in those shimmering black wings. She imagined a kiss that sucked the breath out of her and then those long slender fingers thrusting deep inside her but before she could finish she'd drifted back into the dream.

At the foot of her bed, the Manananggal crouched silently watching with unblinking golden eyes, her wings extended, unfurled, ready for flight if the girl screamed. As her prey settled back into deep sleep, the wings folded and shrank until they formed an almost invisible ribbon along the underside of her arms. She gathered the sleeping girl in her arms and kissed her. Soon, her fingertips were caressing the girl from throat to breasts then drifting lower, brushing the hem of the nightdress out of her way she began to stroke the girl exactly as she had touched herself. The tips of her slender fingers deftly teased the taut bud of her clitoris, slowly stroking and circling, then as the girl writhed and sobbed in her arms she slipped two slender fingers into her.

The Manananggal laid the girl down on the bed, settled beside her and gently pushed her knees apart. She kissed her passionately then slipped between her thighs. She licked her fingers, savouring the intoxicating taste and scent of her prey, letting it waft through her senses for a while before she spread the girl wider and began to lick and kiss the source of her pleasure. Her tongue traced the moist, delicate folds and slavered over the swollen knot of the girl's clitoris. She was momentarily confused when she discovered the tampon, but soon it was on the floor with the panties. The Manananggal trembled with excitement as she thrust the tip of her obscenely long tongue into the girl's hot, tight cunt and began to lap at the rich, dirty blood that oozed from her cervix. The taste and scent combined with the quivering warmth of the girl's body saturated her senses. Her euphoric trance was interrupted when the mortal girl moaned aloud and dug her fingers into the Manananggal's shoulders, drawing her closer, and clinging to her. With a start, she realised that the girl was awake but before she could pull away the girl dragged her down and wrapped her arms around her. The girl whispered something unintelligible and began to writhe against the Manananggal's tongue. She held the squirming girl tight and repeatedly thrust her tongue into her gushing, clenching cunt filling her completely. As the last echoes of the girl's orgasm finally faded, her breathing slowed and she fell into deep sleep. The bemused Manananggal spread her wings over the sleeping girl and snuggled against her.

The Manananggal lay beside the sleeping girl for most of the night, listening to her strange dreams. She'd grown so used to abusing terrified village girls that finding a willing victim unsettled her. She hadn't bothered to learn anything about her conquests in a very long time, but now she felt a compulsion to know more about this girl. The strength of the girl's sorrow and anger had been the cause of her awakening, but now she was captivated by the girl's desire and puzzled by some of the other fascinating needs and urges she sensed swirling through the girl's subconscious. The Manananggal pondered these and decided she would probably never truly understand these creatures. Smiling, she pushed the girl's knees together and spread the thin sheet over her before she vanished into the night.

Violy woke the following morning feeling as tired as when she'd gone to bed. She lay there for another hour, trying to recall the dream she'd had in the night, but by midday, she'd forgotten that she'd even had a dream. She yawned continuously as she busied herself with writing orders and reports while the nurse aides traipsed around the village handing out Doxycycline capsules. When they returned to the schoolhouse, the girls were full of tales of another Manananggal attack. Both girls mocked the villagers' claims of sighting the creature flying over their fields or lurking on rooftops but their laughter sounded forced to her. She knew they'd probably repeated the same stories a dozen times that afternoon, helping to spread panic to the surrounding villages.

The Manananggal in her hollow tree basked in the waves of terror radiating from the village, but her attention was focused on the schoolhouse a few meters from where she crouched motionless in the shadows. She studied the mortal called Violy and those who interacted with her. Violy seemed so strange, yet when she had held the girl in her arms, that vague and distant memory resurfaced. She'd slipped into the beds of many women over centuries, so all that she could recall was that one of them had been different to the others. With each night, the Manananggal grew stronger and understood more about the strange one and the world she inhabited, but still, that faint memory nagged at her. Her growing infatuation with the girl made her feel protective of her, so when she was hungry, she'd hunt in the most remote of the surrounding villages. She could have easily beguiled the few victims she needed to sustain herself, but in her fury at the devastation of her forest, she savagely attacked all those who crossed her path, she violated them and left them whimpering and terrified. Soon the hysteria spread far and wide; within days, the village shops had no garlic or rock salt left to sell, the mission church services were packed, and no one ventured out after dark.

Sergeant Alvarez began to tour the villages almost daily, wearily recording each attack with increasing dread. She was used to dealing with simple disputes and misdemeanours. Usually, they were quickly resolved, and when they weren't she gathered the evidence and presented it to her superiors; either way, she was done with them. After the first few reports, she knew there would be no simple resolution this time so she listened to each new victim's account, consoled them as best she could and then recorded the time and place of the incident. She watched the panic and hysteria building and was sure that it would soon develop into mob violence against some hapless local woman.

She began spending a lot of her time with the Civilian Assistance Team. They knew the village women and must have gained the confidence of a few of them. She'd hoped that they might pass on something useful but the nurse aides spoke only their own dialect and could barely communicate with the villagers so there were no revelations. Then there was Tenyente Violy whose attitude continued to irritate her. She was difficult to talk to, always evasive; barely even polite. Clearly, she resented her current situation and struggled, unsuccessfully to control her anger. Once the Sergeant had arrived at the schoolhouse and witnessed the end of an argument between Violy and a visiting Army officer. It had been a disgraceful incident and she was shocked that a nurse even knew the sort of curses that she'd screamed at him. The officer had looked shaken by her fury. Later, one of the nurse aides told her that Violy had threatened the officer with a pair of scissors during the argument but Sgt. Alvarez was ever patient and continued to chat with Violy until, over time, she began to let slip clues to the events that had brought her to Sulit.

The Manananggal heard all of these conversations and sometimes saw them through the eyes of her familiar. She'd become an avid watcher of humans and grown confident in her ability to mimic their ways. She often sat by Violy's bed through the night and listened to her dreams. Many of them recurred endlessly but there were often surprises and she slowly began to appreciate how complicated it was to live a mortal life.