Kidlat watched as Jinx propped an open ledger on some large, eye-level knots on the tree trunk to his right. His diwata looked magnificent in the moonlight. Her short black hair was shot through with molten streaks now, and her eyes had lightened from the warm amber of fine single malt to ash-gray ringed with silver spangles about the iris. He watched her profile with a hungry gaze, clenching and unclenching his hands.
He knew the manacles wouldn't give way—in fact, they'd adjust to his body's changes if he shifted forms. Cocoy had learned the incantations for making the black metal impervious to his otherworldly strength from Kidlat's mother, after all. The First Priestess knew all about taming tikbalangs. That was how he and his siblings got made.
Kidlat's body was fraught with tension, the stress making him restless and insecure. He looked to Cocoy, who stood on his left, laying out an assortment of implements on a fallen log that had been worn smooth by time and erosion: A wisp of cloud that became a riding crop buzzing with electricity. Stimulation vines that writhed and budded along their squirmy lengths. A tail feather from Ibong Adarna that changed hues along its rachis, vane and calamus. The ritual jar. Leather straps held together by o-rings and carabiners.
Cocoy took the straps and carabiners and, with an agility born of years of doing his own stunts onstage and in films, climbed one, then the other mango tree. He attached the longest leather straps to the branches, fashioning a harness with leather cuffs for wrists and ankles that hung in front of Kidlat. The harness had a small seat, and more straps with buckles and holes hanging from them.
The bayot was dressed as befit his role: He was barefoot and wore a
tapis
of raw silk, its geometric lizard and tree patterns woven in green and gold. Cocoy's tanned pectoral muscles held up a chestplate of semiprecious beads in the shape of a dragon swallowing the moon, the Bakunawa of old above flat, dark male nipples that stood erect in the cool evening air breezing softly through the glade. The bayot was painting his face with something from the ritual jar, gold and metallic green paint on his cheekbones, dark kohl around his eyes, the makeup only highlighting the gorgeous masculinity of his face.
***
Translation of the ledger of Fray Domenico Juan, on the sexual perversions of the natives, with annotations, by Dr. Isabelo Reyes, professor of anthropology, University of Sto. Tomas (July 14, 1963):
Translation, Ledger 8
"... the people here revere their priests and priestesses almost as deities. These strange individuals hold much power, much more than a priest of the Holy Mother Church. They are believed to have the power to influence the weather, the favor of the various gods and goddesses of these people, even control over the bodies of those who prostrate themselves before these clerics.
"The priests dress as women, mostly because the divinity of the feminine form—they seem to believe that fecundity and the instinct to nurture are strongest in the female forms of their priestesses. The gods are benevolent in their male aspect, as well as muscular and physically strong, but the people of these islands revere more than strength and benevolence, or skill in battle. They revere the ability of the female to carry life, deliver it at risk to the female's own life, to change lives with kindness and with power—that is the realm of the female to them, and, thus, more powerful. So the male must subsume that, and meld it to the masculine strengths to make a perfect balance of power. In this community, and in many others, the Bayot is more than a mere force of nature. He is nature in totality.
"It is this blend of masculine physicality and skill that the bayot blends with the divinity of the feminine when he dresses as the priestesses dress. Thus, the people here believe, does the bayot come out as more powerful than the babaylan, in the rare cases that a man displays the power and nature of the cleric of this strange religion."
Jinx had copied some parts of the translation of those ledgers of Fray Domenico into her own ledger before this trip to Mt. Makiling. She'd made good use of the entries, down to planning Cocoy's wardrobe.
She'd also glued some printouts of photos accompanying some scholarly works of Philippine anthropology she'd found online from museum websites to create composites of what babaylans, and, by extension, bayots, would wear, and how they would enhance their appearances with cosmetics and accessories so she could guide Cocoy accordingly.
***
When Cocoy finished his incantations and his face painting, he turned to Jinx. He and the diwata seemed to be communicating wordlessly, Kidlat noted with a cocked eyebrow, feeling very left out at this point. The ache of his upraised arms was nothing compared to the ache in his heart right now, but he had to trust them. It fucking sucked, but that's what this was all about: Trusting each other. With their lives.
Love is easy when you're not putting your life in another person's hands, to do with as they will. Love is easy when life doesn't dish out problems left right center and left and right of center. Tikbalangs don't seem to have it easy. Nor do bayots and diwatas.
At least I got to eat that barbecued chicken with java rice before I got trussed up like this. And have them both fucking me. Death isn't such a bad thing now—and even if this all goes wrong and I wind up crazy, I'll never forget just how glorious their bodies feel around me and in me. Game.
Kidlat raised his chin and sent one look past the leaves and up to the Skyworld.
Bathala and Poon, bless us, or we're fucked in a very bad way
. Praying never was his strong suit.
"Prepare yourself, Kid," Cocoy said across the many breaths of space between them. "This is going to hurt. But it will hurt all of us, not just you." The bayot's face was grave, his eyes dark with both determination and regret as he picked up the feather and began writing his name in Baybayin across Kidlat's chest, just below his collarbones.
The electric burning sank beneath Kidlat's skin, settling so deep he could feel Cocoy's name across his very soul. The characters glowed, bright gold flares limned in black over the hardening points of his nipples. A channel opened across those symbols, driving home the bayot's burning want and need, his lust, and his faith in Kidlat's resilience and strength.
"I have branded you, and so will our diwata," Cocoy's mouth was so close to Kidlat's ear that his words felt like soothing touches, counterpoints to the ebbing pain across the tikbalang's heaving, sweaty chest. Sweat and all, though, the Baybayin characters painted across his chest only glowed brighter, the gold changing to silver and black, then back again.
Jinx approached, her molten glow seeming to crack through her skin as she took the feather from Cocoy. The bayot held Jinx's waist above her
tapis
of black and gold. She, too, was in the ancient garb of skirt and beads.
The feather's path burned Jinx's name across Kidlat's chest, just above the top of his eight-pack, and the tikbalang drew in a pained breath and closed his eyes. As quickly as the shock and awe hit him, it dispersed into warmth and a new channel: He could feel his diwata's heartbeat along with his. Along with Cocoy's.
The desire running through his body like the lightning bolts that were his namesake struck everywhere beneath his skin and he jolted against his restraints. His
tarugo
