THE FIRST DAY
Only Mari eats with us that first morning. Only she talks to us kindly, though the others daren’t say anything rude when Sister Teresa returns. San is the loudest among the orphans to answer ‘yes’ when the nun asks, ‘Did you make friends?’ and I notice that whenever she is looking he smiles affably in our direction. But when her back is turned, or only Mr Zamora is around, he takes a half step away from us.
Mr Zamora speaks only to the orphans, and he seems to especially dislike me. When he was asking San what happened to his parents, San told him that his father had died in a fishing accident. Mr Zamora looked straight at me and said, ‘Better a dead parent than a dirty one.’
I waited until Mr Zamora went inside, then approached San.
‘I’m sorry about your ama,’ I said.
San looked much as I felt: like he’d been punched. He glanced at me, his eyes glazed, and walked quickly away.
We have an hour to ‘get to know each other’, which means us staying one end of the dirt playground, and them the other. Mari circles around to me several times but I don’t feel like talking. I am not used to someone trying to make friends: at school the others ignored me and they seem content to carry on doing that here. But Mari keeps asking me about home and I know I will cry if I talk about any of it.
I excuse myself and go inside and sit holding Nanay’s basin for a while. Mari seems kind, but she is so bold and friendly when we have just met, it makes me feel even more shy. I wipe my eyes and chew the insides of my cheeks to stop the tears coming again.
I can’t spend years sitting inside with no one and nothing but Nanay’s basin to talk to. Nanay would tell me to try to make friends, to make an effort. I take three deep breaths and head outside.
As I pass Sister Teresa’s office, which is through the door next to the blackboard, I hear voices. The door is slightly ajar, and I pause, though I shouldn’t.
‘When will my quarters be built?’ snaps Mr Zamora’s voice.
‘Soon. Is your bed not comfortable enough in the boys’ dormitory?’ replies the nun.
‘I think you underestimate my needs. I am writing a book—’
‘A process that takes up no space except in your head.’
‘A book on butterflies. And far from occupying only my thoughts, I need to have space to make more samples.’
‘Samples?’
‘And to preserve the live samples I brought with me. And for the chrysalises. They need stability and the boys keep knocking them from the windowsills when they open the shutters.’
‘Heaven forbid they should have fresh air.’
‘Need I remind you that I am the one in charge here, Sister Teresa? You would be wise not to take that tone with me. And besides, I don’t know why I have to share with the Culion children. I should be moved up to the normal ones.’
‘The Culion children are only here because you brought them.’ Sister Teresa’s voice is frosty.
‘On the government’s orders!’
‘Why have you stayed? Because of orders, or because you want to help them?’
‘The government has entrusted me with the care of these children and I will undertake it!’ Mr Zamora takes a calming breath. ‘I am the authority here, and it is time you started treating me as such.’
When the nun speaks again, her voice is more measured. ‘You weren’t meant to arrive until next month. The men who were going to build your quarters are all working on other jobs.’
‘I don’t know how the Director of Health expected me to spend a whole month in that place.’
‘I’ll write to town and request they begin as soon as possible,’ says Sister Teresa, her polite tone cracking with impatience. I hear a floorboard creak and hurry away from the door. ‘In the meantime you may use this room.’
There are quick footsteps but before she appears I run outside. Mari is sitting alone, as I left her. I hesitate a moment, then settle beside her.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
Make an effort, I tell myself. ‘I heard Mr Zamora and Sister Teresa arguing.’
Mari’s eyes light up. ‘Tell me.’ I repeat the conversation as best I can.
‘He’s a butterfly collector?’ says Mari when I finish.
I nod. ‘He has some butterflies in boxes in the boys’ room, and he’s growing more on the windowsills.’
‘What does he do with them?’
‘He puts them on his walls. And I suppose he’ll write about them in his book.’
‘Why?’
‘My nanay says it makes him feel powerful to kill things.’
‘He kills them?’ Mari’s wide eyes go wider still. ‘He doesn’t just wait for them to die?’ I shake my head and she sucks in her cheeks. ‘I hope he doesn’t find out my name.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s Mariposa.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Butterfly. My nanay was Spanish.’
She holds out her arms and lets her tongue loll out as if she’s dead and pinned. ‘How do I look?’
I snort with laughter in spite of myself, just as Sister Teresa comes out, her cheeks pink. ‘Children, time to start lessons. Inside please.’
Today is mathematics and I think of Nanay as the numbers add and subtract and multiply themselves in my head. It is soothing to be allowed to fill my mind with something that reminds me of her without having to talk about her. Sister Teresa says I am very good and asks if I will help one of the other girls, Suse, with her times tables. She moves Suse next to me and Suse sits rigid, not looking at me as I point to the numbers.
It is only when Mari comes to sit with us at break time and says, ‘You know San’s lying, don’t you? She doesn’t have it, and it’s not in the river,’ that I feel Suse relax.
Throughout our lessons Mr Zamora carries boxes from the boys’ dormitory to Sister Teresa’s room. The nun studiously ignores him, but Mari nudges me. ‘Are those the butterfly boxes?’ I nod.
‘Poor things,’ she mutters. ‘Shut in the dark like that.’
At lunch all the orphans are wondering what is in the boxes, and Datu tells them about the butterflies that escaped in the forest on Culion. San listens open-mouthed, and he and Datu end up talking and kicking a ball around the playground together. I think San is bored of pretending to be disgusted by us, and some of the other children start asking us questions about ourselves too. By the end of the first day most of them are speaking as if it is the first day of school – cautious, but friendly. At dinner some of the boys sit with us too, though no one shares a spoon apart from Mari and me.
‘Why won’t he eat?’ says Mari when we have scraped our bowls clean. She nods at Mr Zamora, who is sitting in his chair next to the pile of bamboo sticks that will be his quarters. He is writing in a small leather-bound notebook, and has not touched the bowl of rice and fish Luko laid by his feet.
‘He thinks he’ll catch it if he eats the same food. He thinks we’re Touched, even though his own doctors say we’re not.’
‘Touched?’
‘It’s what we call it. The illness.’
‘We use that word too,’ says Mari. ‘But it means ill in the head. Mad.’
‘I think Mr Zamora might be a bit ill in the head,’ I say.
‘Why?’
I explain about the petition, and the cleaning. The blood on his hands. Mari puts on her listening face, her brow furrowed.
‘Poor thing,’ she says when I finish, just as she did about the butterflies. I follow her gaze to Mr Zamora. He is staring into the middle distance. He looks exhausted. ‘Imagine thinking dirt is so bad, and going to a place you think is dirty.’
‘But it’s not,’ I say hotly.
‘That’s not what we’re told here,’ she says gently. ‘On Coron lots of people think like San. People are scared of what is different. My hand, for example.’
She holds it up. I have been wary of looking at it since I noticed there was something wrong.
‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘You can look.’ Her hand lolls, and I see some of the fingers aren’t formed.
‘I was born with it like this,’ Mari continues. ‘And because of it, and my skin being so pale, my parents thought I was cursed. Though since then people have thought all kinds of things. Someone in town called me a leper – sorry – Touched once.’
‘Is that why you’re being nice to me?’
She blinks at me. ‘I’m nice because you’re nice. I could see it even on the first night. You were comforting that little boy even though you were sad yourself.’
‘Was it you at the top window, watching us arrive?’
Mari nods.
‘I’m below you. My bed is at the bottom right.’
‘Have you seen my self-portrait?’
I frown, then remember the stick figure and the ‘M’ etched into the wall. ‘Oh! Yes. It’s . . .’
Mari laughs: a light, lovely sound. ‘Terrible. I did it when I first arrived. How funny that you’re in my old bed. We should pass messages!’
I clap a hand to my forehead. ‘I said I’d write to Nanay today.’
‘You can do it now.’
‘But it won’t get to the post until Luko goes to town.’
‘Did you say you’d post it today, or just that you’d write it?’
‘Write.’
‘So you’re not breaking your promise. Wait here.’
She gets up and disappears inside. I look around. Some of the others are kicking a ball of rags around, all playing together. So much can change in a day, but here and there around the pitch I see some Culion children: the shorter Igme and Kidlat and Lilay, sitting apart and alone. I wonder if they also feel as if their heads and hearts are left behind, stuck in Culion. I feel hollowed out. Kidlat sees me looking at him and walks over. He holds out a scrappy flower, a weed of some kind, and I take it. He smiles and sits next to me.
When Mari comes back outside she sits the other side of him. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘I’m Mari.’
‘He doesn’t speak,’ I say. ‘But his name’s Kidlat.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Mari says. Kidlat grins. ‘Now.’ She puts some paper down in front of me. ‘Here. Write.’
‘What shall I say?’
‘Whatever you want.’
I scrunch up my face. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Start with the shape of your day. Then fill it in. I won’t look.’
She lies down. The air is cooler now. Insects hum and I watch the game of football for a while. San and Datu are on the same team, and Luko is in goal. He barely has to move to block the ball. Mr Zamora is frantically scribbling in the dusk.
I’ll tell Nanay he’s writing a book about butterflies. I’ll tell her about the journey, and Kidlat, the other children, and Sister Teresa. I’ll tell her about Luko and lessons, and I’ll start with sharing a spoon. I’ll start with Mari.
Sister Teresa orders us all to bed early, but I lie awake, listening for the sea. It must be close by, but I still have not found it. Tomorrow I will look for it, and for Culion Island, though it will only be a low shadow smudging the distance.
Tap. Tap.
I jump and spin towards the window. It sounds as if someone is outside, but I can’t see anyone, no fingers pressed to the shutters. My heart thuds as I watch and see a shadow swoop against it. A bird?
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I open the shutter hesitantly. The taller Igme stirs in the bed next to me but does not wake. In front of me dangles a stick, tied to a piece of string. Looking up I see a pale hand swinging. Mari. I release the stick and notice a piece of paper tied around it.
Sleep well, it says. I look up again but the string is gone, the shutters are closing. I trace the ‘M’ in the wall. Sleep well, I mouth. And I do.