Uhaw ng Kalikasan
By: T A Y O
Tags: Mangroves, Short Story

A creative story on the importance of mangrove forests by Denise Marcelo

Photo from WaterImage/Alamy

A child rouses from her restless slumber, the shrieking winds piercing her consciousness’ gradual descent to the realm of her perfect, flowering dreamworld. She tossed and turned, clawing the sheets in frustration, simply wanting to go back to the lush meadow she had cultivated in her sleep. In this meadow, the sun was always shining and the trees were a perennial shade of gorgeous evergreen. It was a far, idealistic cry from the apocalypse wrecking her hometown.

Unable to feign stillness any longer, she propped herself up and opened her bedside drawer. She lit one of the candles and crept towards the window, now missing several shards and allowing the rains some passage into her room. Standing on the tip of her toes, she observed the scenes of destruction flooding the ground. The streets were inundated with waters the color of murky, mysterious grey. The trees were swaying incessantly, occasionally bending to dangerous angles before snapped back into place by the brute wind. The town square, usually thriving with people coming to buy and share their gathered goods and children boisterously making our economic center their playground, was completely deserted, except for the pieces of filth and debris swarming it.

She could even see the waves crashing through the shores, dominating the barrage of trees fronting the sea. Although the trees stood tall, the sheer height and speed of the waves made them look helpless feeble against the storm’s wrath. As the child walked back to her bed, she whispered a prayer, wistfully asking her God to shower her town with the wondrous beauty of her dreamworld. Then as she was about to climb up her mattress, she heard a strange sound.

It was a sob, coming from an unused bedroom down the hallway. Stirred by morbid curiosity, the child fretfully approached the source of the odd noise, which rose in volume in unison with the peaking intensity of the relentless rains. The door was slightly ajar and with a wary heart, she pushed it open even further, taking a furtive glance inside.

Sitting on the bed was a woman, whose prickly skin was a dull shade of green. Her hair was in matted tangles, some clumps sticking out like the coarse branches of a tree. She was almost naked, except for what looked like a large square of white paper stuck to her torso, all the way until her knee. The woman’s hands were slumped to her sides and curled up into fists. The child let out a startled gasp, which called the woman’s attention. Tentatively, the child began inching closer.

“Who are you?” The child asked. The woman responded with a grief-stricken wail, the rains ceasing for a brief moment before resuming their havoc. Now intimidated, the child withdrew, taking swift, stumbling steps back to the safety on the dark corridor, when the woman gestured for her to come forward.

“Why are you here?” The child asked again, hesitant to bridge the distance between her and the woman.

“I have always been here.” The woman said hoarsely.

“What do you want?” The child persisted.

“To protect you, my dear Mutya.” The woman said, corners of her mouth turning upwards in a weary, defeated smile.

“How did you know my name?” The child named Mutya said, more entranced than puzzled by the woman’s frank admission.

“I have always known you, Mutya. I have watched you brave the seas. I have watched you dive for pearls in the glistening ocean blue. I have watched you build sandcastles. Ever since your parents first brought you the bay, I have always watched you.” The woman continued.

Mutya quivered. It was silent for a long time, the period of no exchange between them only broken by the hissing storm. Finally, she mustered up the courage to ask one more question, one that had already been denied of an answer.

“Who are you?”

“Likas.” The woman said, lifting her head, gazing at Mutya with eyes full of sorrow. “I am the seas and the storms. I am the meadow you escape to in your dreams.”

The woman stood up, proceeding with her melancholic narration. She circled the room, letting the rains thunder down the roof and the winds to continue their reckless intrusions. “I am what the world has hurt most. In fact, I may be what hurts it. But I am also what protects it.” She pointed at the window, blasting it open with the flick of her wrist and suddenly, the forest of trees that had fronted the sea in all its calmness and roaring heights, had come into full view.

“I am all of this. I am the trees trying to stay firmly rooted to the ground. I endure the battering of the winds and the waves. For years I have saved you and for years I have been losing strength, my numbers depleting, the dead bodies increasing.”

“It has gotten too much. I cannot save me from myself.” She muttered gravely.

“Who else are you protecting?” Mutya asked, unaware that she was now mere inches away from Likas, who looked much less terrifying now that her wounds could be gleaned from the light.

With all the sadness and anger she could muster, Likas let out an impassioned wail.

“Pilipinas!”

Mutya, no longer intimidated, had been filled with an organic and somehow unexplainable courage to sit beside Likas, who now ceased all movement and reverted to slow, stifled sobs once more. She intertwined her hand with Likas’, and instantly felt the prickles on her skin smooth over. Shocked, she scanned the changing facade of her companion; her skin had evolved into the pleasant evergreen of flourishing prairies, her matted hair now in voluminous curls, the shine in her eyes resembling the fullness of the moon.

Mutya didn’t even notice that the rain had stopped when Likas began speaking again, this time in fluid, graceful tones.

“All human touch I have known has destroyed me.” She told Mutya. Mutya nodded, gently prodding her to go on.

“You must promise me, your country, and your world that everything you touch will leave no trace of pain. You must promise me that whatever your hands touch will heal. You must promise me that whatever you touch will grow again.”

I will, Mutya thought.

I do, Mutya thinks.