The Color of My Fears [COMPLETE]

Chapter 2 - Dead Bird in the Closet [#7]

"Don't dare take a peep in the closet," I heard a voice say. It was Ismael's, the cirujano's son. He led us, Tony and me, inside their house one afternoon after we tired ourselves of playing cowboys and Indians (tirohay) among the tall cogon grasses near the creek. With slant brown eyes, he's about my age, had prominent cheek bones and long wavy hair. I sometimes wondered why he preferred to keep his hair long. After all his father was the village barber.

"What's in there?" my curiosity got the better of me. The closet was an old wooden cabinet constructed from old slabs of wood which were most probably salvaged from some debris floating occasionally in the creek, especially after a heavy rain. On the outside the closet smelled of dried mud.

In a hushed voice, Ismael said, "Don't go near the closet. Father hide many things in there. I'm not supposed to open it. There's a strange bird inside."

Ismael was warning us, but at the same time he revealed what we would like to see inside the cabinet. Our curiosity got even stronger.

"A bird in the closet?" Tony whispered, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Yes, dead one, stuffed," Ismael answered in a tone I didn't quite recognize, putting his left index finger across his lips. That's not so typical of him.

"A dead bird in the closet? Can I see it?" I edged closer to the closet. I ran my fingers over its edges. They were full of marks and scratches apparently made from repeated blows of a knife or small bolo (binangon).

"Stop!" Ismael commanded in a loud voice, took steps towards me. I instinctively removed my hand from the wooden cabinet. It was more of a reaction from being surprised rather than feeling scared.

"Father will get mad at me." Ismael stopped in midstep, seemed to dilly-dally, turned back and looked perplexedly at Tony, then his eyes fixed on mine. "You won't tell him, will you?" he said at last. Then he paused as if waiting for something.

"Tony, give him your marbles," I nodded to Tony.

"I'll give you my marbles, promise" Tony said, reluctantly. I knew he was as much as curious as I, if not more than curious. But this little act of blackmail eventually convinced Ismael to go on. Tony had with him five rugged marbles (holen) which we used to play by shooting them with our fingers. I knew he hated to part with them, but this was an extraordinary chance, and with a sudden gift of insight I knew not where it came from, I realized extraordinary chances need extraordinary sacrifices.

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