I am Isagani. I had long wished to meet Bathala, among all the gods in Kaluwalhatian. He was the most powerful of them all. In my few remaining hours here on earth, I believed I would meet him and dine with the gods. A fine Lakan like me was surely fitted to be among them.

But a different god visited me in my unpleasant hours. Manggagaway had come instead. A beautiful woman garbed in a silky black dress, she brought with her herbs placed in a small woven basket.

“I know who you are. Leave this place, for I will soon be with Bathala,” I told her.

She danced her way to me and sat close, gracefully veering over the few mangkok I had thrown on the floor. My children had been poor cooks—the food was either tasteless, watery, or salty.

“I am here to escort you. Sitan is waiting for you,” she said with a grin, placing the basket of herbs by her side.

“A special seat has been prepared for you at Sitan’s table. Would you dare turn down his offer?”

She scrutinized me, her eyes moving over my frail, sagged body from head to foot. I tried to reach for my blanket to cover myself, but my useless hands only moved a few inches. She must have realized what I was trying to do, for she reached for the blanket and covered me.

“Look around you,” she said. “No pig or chicken has been butchered as an offering for Bathala. The doors of Kaluwalhatian will remain closed to you.”

The halls remained quiet. I tried to hear sounds from outside, but there were none.

“You were never a good Lakan to your people. What did you do when you were still strong and able to walk and roam? You were proud and prejudiced.”

Smoke rose from the basket—herbs now gone. The smoke changed color and formed into the shape of a man.

“Look at him,” she said. “He was an alipin. You stripped him of his land when your son accused him of laying with his wife. He begged and pleaded, but your mind was already made up.”

The smoke shifted, and the same man now hung from a tree.

“And now he is dead, hanged by your son.”

The image faded. The smoke shaped itself into another person, then another, their faces changing from time to time.

“When you started to fall ill, what did you do?” Manggagaway asked. “They were loyal subjects. But when you heard rumors of revolt, you commanded your warriors to slaughter them. Did you ever hear their side? Did you ever learn they had gathered to prepare a festivity, asking Bathala to heal you?”

“Prejudice and partiality are not tolerated in Kaluwalhatian. How you judged others revealed your true character—and it is one they cannot allow beyond its door. You are better fitted among us, dining at the tables of Sitan.”

Another smoke emerged, darker this time. It did not form a human shape. It danced its way to me, starting at my foot, rising slowly, until—

I could no longer see anything.

Empty.
Dark.
Cold.