I think it was fitting that I finished reading The End of All Skies by Vincent C. Sales (published by Penguin Random House SEA) on September 21, the birthday of a dead tyrant, Ferdinand Marcos Sr. But let me backtrack. The book started out with the fantastical, with the larger-than-life depiction of the great kingdom of Sun Girna Ginar. The palace itself was so large that several giants could fit in it. The god cannon was so loud that it would bring people to their feet. Gods like Bagilat and heroes like Lam-ang walked on the Earth and did fantastic things. We got tales of the six-headed giant, Gawi Gawen, the wily tikbalang Saragnayan, and the crocodile god Isarog. I did not think that forgetfulness would be my biggest takeaway from the book.
I was hoping for some kind of redemption for the people of Sun Girna Girnar, particularly for the ordinary people, the slaves, who were in the background, living simple lives or starving stoically. That hope was planted when the witch in the market sold dreams that every person could afford, dreams of love, of revenge, of greatness. I’m reminded of the idiom, be careful what you wish for because wishes can turn into something else especially a deluge of them.
As I was reading, I could not help seeing the parallelisms between the events in the mythical Sun Girna Ginar and recent history. This was deliberate on the part of the author and you’ll even find it on the blurb, “The End of All Skies is a story of reclaimed myths, but it is also a mirror of recent history, of today.” The sultan in the story is renamed The Tyrant by one of the characters, Datu Adlao. “We name him instead. We call him Tyrant. We call him Lord of Lies. False Prophet, Murderer.” From the 1970s to the 1980s, there was a revolution brewing in the Philippines and the name that was used at that time was Dictator. The very same Ferdinand Marcos Sr. in my first paragraph. There are thinly veiled descriptions of the equivalent of Marcos’ rival, Benigno Aquino Jr., as Datu Adlao, of how he was exiled, how he returned, and how, after he was assassinated, he went “beyond death” for a sultan “cannot kill an idea.”
There is no triumph, though, in this book. We only see glimpses of it. What we have is forgetfulness. I think the author did not mean for it to be an excuse, an explanation, or a way out. He simply painted a picture of what was and what is. It’s more painful for me, a Filipino, to read this story. But there it is. There we have it. We have an endless case of amnesia. In place of an ousted Dictator, the country installed his son as president in 2022.
The antidote is anamnesis, a remembering, a calling to account. But that is another story yet to be told.
Go read The End of All Skies. It will break your heart, but not before showing you an epic, breathtaking, magical view. What we once were and what we may have been if only we remembered.