Angel Read online

  The four of them walk to the nearby market to pick up some supplies before catching another jeepney home. Veronica purchases some rice, some cooking oil and a few vegetables. She has been salting and drying their extra fish so there will be enough to keep them fed for a while. There’s not much left to buy at the market anyway. It’s been busy with people stocking up before they bunker down.

  Many of the stallholders are preparing to shut their businesses. As they sell the last of what they have, they pack up their trestle tables, stacking them on top of each other inside the few covered shops. Pots and pans and cooking utensils are boxed and piled on top. Shop fronts are covered with bamboo blinds and sheets of plastic, gaps are taped to keep out rain, loose corners are nailed down to prevent them being caught by the wind. Shopkeepers who live inside leave a single flap undone, so they can enter and exit until they finally lock themselves in against the onslaught.

  Angel takes comfort from the fact that in spite of the government’s warnings to move, not everyone is evacuating. Perhaps they haven’t heard the radio and TV broadcasts or they’ve ignored them. Either way, they’ve decided not to go. They are going about their storm preparations as usual with an air of methodical routine.

  In the jeepney on the way home Angel watches more people packing their belongings. Shops and houses have been shuttered with blinds or sheets of tarp and plastic. Bricks and bags of rice have been placed on tin roofs to keep them from flying off in the wind. Anything that can be tied down has been lashed to something else that’s solid. Cars have been covered in makeshift boxes of cardboard and packing tape. Those on the move have all their valuables with them, packed in cheap striped plastic bags with handles. Passing jeepneys are full, their roofs stacked high with bags and baskets. Nadia’s father will be doing good business, she thinks to herself.

  It’s getting dark when they arrive home, but Angel and her mother immediately begin their well-known routine. Veronica fills some jugs and bottles with water from their single tap. She gathers rice and other food supplies and puts them in sturdy woven bags to take to her parents. Then she bundles up a few blankets and towels and some soap, along with matches and a couple of candle stubs and finally a change of clothes for herself.

  Together, mother and daughter pack all of the family’s clothes and linens inside plastic bags in a couple of crates. The remaining food and water is placed in another. Angel climbs the wooden ladder into the roof-space and hauls the crates up with the boys helping her from below. She hangs all of the cooking utensils on nails high on the walls. Anything else she puts in bags, which she hangs wherever she can. The storm will bring strong winds, but the bigger threat to their possessions may be flooding from the sea.

  Angel takes some candles and matches and puts them on a ledge where they can be found in the dark.

  ‘Just in case,’ she mutters to herself.

  Late into the night Angel can hear her parents talking downstairs. They decide that the boys will go with Veronica because they will be safer inland at the farm. Angel smiles to herself, cosy and warm in her bed, when they agree that she can stay behind to help protect the family’s things and keep her father company.

  The next morning everyone is up early. Angel sees Juan head out to secure his boat and help the neighbours do the same. She knows his fellow fishermen will have brought their boats in one by one, tying them close to the shoreline in protected areas or dragging them up onto the land to keep them safe. It’s hard and exhausting work.

  Even though the trip to Samar usually only takes a couple of hours, Veronica is eager to get going. Many other people are also on the move as they try to beat the storm so the going will be slow. Veronica and the boys will take a jeepney to the bridge and cross between the two islands, but it won’t take them all the way to her parents’ house. They will have to hitch a ride on the other side.

  Angel’s father stops for a moment outside their house and says his farewell to Veronica and the boys.

  ‘The forecast is very grim, but you have the whole day to get there. I will feel better with you three safe at the farm.’ He hands his wife one of the family’s two old mobile phones, sealed tight in the waterproof bag that he uses when he takes it out fishing. The reception on Samar is not very good, so he tells her to phone him when she can, just to let him know that she and the boys are okay. He’s added a couple of hundred pesos’ worth of credit to make sure she can get in touch.

  ‘Go now!’ He hugs his wife and sons hard. Veronica clasps his hands between hers and closes her eyes for a moment in what Angel knows is a silent prayer.

  ‘I will be back before dark,’ Juan tells Angel as he heads out again.

  Last thing, Veronica and Angel go next door to see Mrs Reyes. The elderly widow is coming down her ladder after packing things away in the roof-space.

  ‘You shouldn’t be up there, Mrs Reyes. Let me help you!’ says Veronica.

  ‘I’m up and down ladders all the time, my dear. To tell you the truth, I feel safer up there than down here,’ she chuckles.

  Laying her hand gently on the younger woman’s arm she asks, ‘Are you sure you have time to make the journey before the storm? There is a strange feeling in the air – I don’t like it.’

  ‘We’ve got the whole day,’ Veronica replies. ‘The storm isn’t due until tomorrow.’

  Mrs Reyes shakes her head and continues to bustle about, stacking pots and pans into a plastic tub and packing a bag of rice and a jar of boiled banana into a mesh sack. Angel helps where she can.

  Veronica takes the tub and places it on top of a wooden cabinet against the wall of the little hut. Mrs Reyes’ house is tiny but cheerful in spite of its scuffed linoleum floor and flaking paintwork. Angel remembers years ago, it was painted a vivid sea green by one of her two sons, but it’s now faded to a kind of aquamarine. There are photographs of her children and grandchildren pinned to the wall alongside colourful crayon drawings. Outside, the faded Filipino flag flutters in the rising breeze.

  ‘I would leave myself,’ Mrs Reyes says, ‘but I’m worried someone might break in and steal my things … not that there’s much to take!’

  Veronica smiles.

  ‘Argh, I’m too old to run away from storms. We’ll watch out for each other, won’t we?’ Mrs Reyes says to Angel. She turns to Veronica. ‘Now you keep yourself safe, my dear, and those cheeky boys of yours. Okay?’

  Veronica nods silently. She is clearly in turmoil as she and Angel walk back to the house. ‘Perhaps you should all come with me,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t feel right to leave you, Angel.’

  Already, the wind is strengthening and they both know the travellers must get on the road. The traffic is bound to be terrible, and they must reach their destination before dark. Their eyes are drawn to the heavy clouds and the dark, choppy waves.

  In the end it’s Angel who speaks first. ‘Go now and take the boys, it’s what you agreed. I will stay and look after the house with Papa. He will be back before dark and expect to find me here.’

  Veronica begins to protest, but Angel has taken control now. She brings the luggage outside the house and hands her brothers a bag each to carry and some boiled sweets that she has been saving.

  ‘You must go,’ she tells her mother. ‘Look at the sky.’ The clouds have that green tinge that comes with very heavy rain. They’ve all seen it before.

  Reluctantly, Veronica picks up her things. ‘We’ll be back as soon as the storm is over,’ she says.

  ‘You take care of Mama,’ says Angel to her brothers.

  For once they are subdued and solemn.

  ‘She is safe with me,’ says Cristian with confidence. ‘And me,’ smiles Carlo bravely. ‘I will keep my eye on both of them.’

  Angel watches her mother and brothers walk to the end of the lane. She can hear the boys’ young voices: ‘When are we going to see Papa and Angel again?’ ‘How long do we have to stay in Samar?’ ‘Ouch! My sandal is pinching me already …’ The three of them turn together and wa
ve, and then they’re gone.

  Suddenly Angel feels very tired and she plonks down on the step. The wind is rising and it’s starting to rain, but for the moment she just sits and stares around her, twisting her fingers in the twine from the old taklub that is tied securely to the mooring post beside her.

  Everywhere is frantic activity as people make their final preparations. Normally everyone in the neighbourhood helps each other when a storm is coming, but now there simply isn’t time and it’s everyone for themselves: shifting valuables inside, securing possessions as high from the ground as possible, hammering and tying things down.

  A dark shape is hopping about in one of the fishing boats drawn up from the water. Angel realises it’s a large seabird – maybe even the same one that she spotted on the morning of her birthday. One of the fishermen must have left some of his catch in the boat and now the bird is gulping down all the scraps. Surely it can’t be that hungry, Angel thinks, and then she remembers Juan telling her once that birds are known to eat as much as possible when bad weather is coming. Somehow they know to store as much nourishment as they can because their access to food might be severely disrupted in the coming days.

  While she watches, the bird spreads its wings and lifts into the air, beating strongly against the buffeting wind. And then just like the other day, it dives towards Angel and circles above her before turning inland and flapping away.

  This time, she feels a bit annoyed. ‘Why are you picking on me?’ she mutters. ‘Is it because you can escape while I’m stuck here?’ How she wishes her whole family could fly away and find somewhere safe until it’s all over.

  Five

  Angel spends the rest of the day cleaning up and preparing the house. She ties down everything possible and carefully places thick sheets of cardboard over the windows using plenty of tape to secure them. Last thing she clambers upstairs and checks the roof for holes. It looks good.

  When Juan returns home at dusk they eat some cold rice and dried fish and then finish barricading the little house, bracing the door with the table and chairs. Angel wears her shorts and shirt to bed, assuming she’ll have to get up again. Then, after her father kisses her goodnight, they both fall into a restless sleep.

  Angel wakes to a loud crash. She sits bolt upright on her banig and realises the mat is soaking wet. Teeming rain is pouring into the roof-space where a sheet of iron has just been torn off by the wind. So much for the roof looking good, she thinks. The roar of the storm is deafeningly close and the whole house is shaking as if it’s about to be flung into the sky just like she was flung off the boat in her nightmare.

  She wishes she could go back to sleep rather than face the frightening reality of the typhoon, but there’s no sleeping in this racket. She stretches as best she can in the cramped roof cavity and yawns hard with a shiver.

  ‘Papa,’ she calls out, but her voice is drowned beneath the din. ‘Papa!’ she shouts louder. No answer.

  The wind is building in strength and Angel is sure it will continue to get worse. Even as it whistles around the little house, making the hairs stand up on her arms, she can sense it has not yet reached its full power.

  She climbs down the ladder into the living area, feeling her way to the ledge for the candles and matches that she tucked away the other day. Although it’s almost morning the house is dark. Even with a candle lit, the room remains a mass of sinister shadows.

  ‘Papa?’

  She can see now that the table has been pushed away and her father is gone. She dares not open the door, but she peers through a narrow crack in the little window covered with the heavy cardboard. There’s nothing to see, just a wall of silvery grey water pouring from the black sky.

  ‘Papa?’

  Someone is moving outside near the taklub post where the boat has been dragged clear of the angry waves. It must be her father making sure the little bangka is tied fast against the surge of the sea.

  There’s nothing Angel can do about the hole in the roof. She only hopes that the rest of it stays on. She crouches in a corner that is still relatively dry and burrows in. Perhaps if I’m very small, she thinks, the storm won’t see me. She wonders about Mrs Reyes next door, hoping her house is still in one piece.

  Angel stays in this position for a while, shifting uncomfortably on the concrete floor, waiting for her father to come back. She has no idea what time it is, but every second feels like a minute and every minute an hour.

  She thinks about her mother and brothers, wishes that she could be sure they made it safely to her grandparents’ house. She picks up the old mobile phone but the signal is dead already. Along with the power, the storm has knocked out the phone system. Even so, she uselessly presses buttons, willing it to suddenly wake up, then sighs and switches it off to save the battery. Hopefully the phone and power will come back on tomorrow, once the storm has passed. This isn’t so bad, she thinks, just a lot of rain and wind and a loose bit of roof.

  At that moment there’s an unearthly shriek as the wind increases another few notches. Angel can barely hear herself think. The door flies open and her father staggers in, drenched, bending his whole weight against it to push it closed. Angel jumps up to help and when the door’s finally shut they pull the table and chairs back across to brace it.

  ‘It’s almost upon us,’ her father shouts close to her ear. He hugs her tightly. Angel’s been doing pretty well up until now, but she’s suddenly very frightened and she clings to her father.

  Her mind fills with terrifying images; she sees the storm collecting all of the houses and cars and trucks and jeepneys in Tacloban and throwing them into a giant blender where they’re crashing and smashing into each other, a whirling mass of wood and metal.

  The roof of the house creaks with strain as the fingers of the storm reach in under the eaves, each gust weakening the nuts and bolts and nails that hold it in place. Even over the roar of the wind she can hear awful noises outside, things falling and blowing and belting into each other. A few times she hears a human shout or scream, so high pitched with fear that it cuts through to where she and her father are sheltering. ‘Please keep us safe, Lord,’ she repeats to herself over and over, praying that their house, built with so much love and care, will stand up to Yolanda’s attack.

  There’s a crunch and a crash as something collapses outside. The house rattles as a heavy object hits the other side of the wall. Another sheet peels off the roof with a tearing shriek, opening them up to the wind and the incessant rain.

  Angel can hear another sound now, too. A deep shuddering roar. It’s the sea.

  She and her brothers have grown up fishing and swimming and playing in the sea. It’s a central part of their lives and they have come to understand its moods. But today it’s unknowable – raging and unpredictable. She remembers hearing that during a typhoon it’s not only the wind that causes death and destruction, but also the sea, which rises up and swallows the shore. She is gripped by a sudden moment of clarity.

  ‘Papa, we have to climb up.’ She shakes Juan from where he’s peering out through the little crack at the window. ‘We need to move, the ocean is coming,’ she yells.

  ‘You’re right, quick, up the ladder, go!’ he shouts. Angel scrambles for the bamboo rungs. Her father reaches for the phone and a small canvas bag of valuables that he hoists over his head and clasps securely across his body.

  ‘Hurry, Papa, hurry,’ Angel cries back at him. She’s unable to see him clearly in the gloom below her, and longs to feel his steadying hand letting her know he is close behind.

  There’s an ear-splitting crash as the first wave jumps the shoreline and engulfs everything in its path. Angel has barely made it to the roof-space before the sea hurls itself at the little house, forcing open the door and gushing through the window.

  Angel screams, feeling it grab at her ankles. The ladder is torn away just as she jumps onto the roof beam, but she’s still not high enough. Water is up to her chin and she and Juan are fighting to keep their he
ads above its churning mass. And then it’s in her nose and in her mouth and she’s gasping in panic and swallowing more. The house is completely swamped. There’s no space left to breathe and her head keeps hitting the ceiling. She’s stuck under the salty sea in her own bedroom. It’s pitch dark and there’s no escape.

  Angel almost gives up.

  Somehow, she thinks she can see her father’s dark shape in the water.

  ‘Angel,’ he’s shouting. ‘Angel, swim up, SWIM UP!’

  She tries but she’s so tired now. It’s too hard.

  Angel begins to feel herself drifting away and down … but then something pushes her up hard from below. A hand is clasping her wrist from above, and then another hand grabs her by the shoulder, hauling her up and out through the hole in the roof where the sheet was torn off earlier.

  ‘Papa?’

  It’s Mrs Reyes. ‘Breathe, child,’ the woman cries. ‘Hold on tightly, and breathe.’

  Angel gasps and breathes and vomits and gasps. She can’t get enough air; her throat feels clogged with salt and spew. The storm is still tearing at her, trying to fling her off the roof, or to sweep her away into the surging sea. Mrs Reyes has an iron grip though. She clings to Angel with one arm and the roof with the other. But another wave is coming and this one is bigger and stronger. It pushes them so high and with such viciousness that they can no longer hold on to the roof. They let go and the house disappears below them. The young girl and the old woman cling to each other as they’re sucked into the raging torrent.

  It’s so very dark. The wind is howling like a beast. The rain stabs like pins into their upturned faces as they’re swirled around like rag dolls. ‘Papa! Papa!’ Angel is desperate for any sign of her father as the water sweeps her away, but he’s vanished.

  In the gloom cars fly past; razor-sharp sheets of metal, planks of wood, fuel drums, whole boats, pieces of furniture are all now flotsam. Angel and Mrs Reyes are just two of many people fighting for their lives, desperately trying to find a stable foothold or something to hang on to that’s not moving.