How to Tame Your Tikbalang Ch. 02

Double-shift over, Tala made it as far as her couch before collapsing in a tired heap of cloth and flesh. But just as she was about to drop off into la-la land, she felt something hard, a corner of sorts, digging into the middle of her back. That book. She hadn't put it away and it lay just where she'd left it.

Grunting in a most unladylike manner (her mother would have frowned, really), Tala reached behind her and pulled the book out from under. She would have tossed it on the coffee table supporting her left foot, but the tome began to glow again and she felt a burst of energy begin to fill her, upward from her fingers. The book fell open in her splayed lap, right at the page where she'd put a 7-11 receipt as a bookmark.

Baylan. Read me, Baylan.

Tala dropped the book as if it were molten and stood up. "You didn't talk and I didn't hear that," Tala said to no one in particular as she headed to the sink at the breakfast nook to get herself a glass of water. She swallowed the water, not that it helped her nervousness, her creeped-out feeling.

Unease continued to flicker up and down her spine, the discomfort of not being alone when one should actually be alone. The voice had been in her head more than in the atmosphere of her apartment. It was a woman's voice, sultry and sure.

Shaking herself slightly, Tala went into her room to strip out of her work clothes and change into white gym shorts and a thin yellow tank top, eschewing bra and underpants because the heat was just too much for that many layers of clothing. Anything to shake off the weirdness she was feeling.

When she couldn't shake the feeling, Tala decided that the best defense was a solid offense. Striding the three or so steps back to the sofa, Tala settled down with a leg tucked up against her on the seat, picked up the book and began reading it again, knowing without wanting to admit it that she wouldn't get any sleep until she'd read at least another page, the entry dated 26 Abril 1898.

"There are many dangers when one seeks to tame a Tikbalang—the creature's teeth are not those of an herbivore, but of an omnivore. Beware those teeth that can, and will, tear at vulnerable flesh. It is stronger than horse and man combined, and much more determined. It is keenly intelligent, as creatures of all the Other Races are.

"My recommendation is not outright battle or confrontation. Humans are the most brittle, the weakest of races when faced with the majesty of the horse-man built of both warrior and warhorse. Heed me in this: Engage the Tikbalang on all levels that avoid combat. Use your wit and brains, your charm and goodwill. Even good cooking skills will serve you well, if you have those, for the Tikbalang is a hungry beast and he likes all things made with meat and hearty vegetables.

"Draw out your interaction with the Other Being, make yourself attractive to him and make it worth his while not to simply eat you. Then you are a step closer to the goal of taming this glorious wild thing. Thus do you get past the natural defenses of your Tikbalang.

"If you are reading this Bestiario, then you are blooded with the blessing of our ancestors' witches, the Baylan the colonizers could not burn at stake for fear of lightning reprisals from Nature Herself. You have the gifts of sight and of storms, the unwitting compassion with the Earth and its Other Races. Good. The Tikbalang will have pause despite its instinct to devour you. You are of my blood and it is in the blood that your power runs. You have been named for the star that has always shone in my family. You are Tala, the strongest of us yet."

Tala frowned. The book is talking to me. Really talking to me. This is so not the time to be freaked out about the Bestiario de Criaturas Mágicas en las Islas Filipinas. She took another breath, just to reassure herself that she is, indeed, in the present day, in Pasay City, in 2014.

How on earth did Beatriz know she would have a descendant named Tala? For she was the only one in her clan who carried a native name—everyone else has Spanish or Western names, names that followed the fashion of the times. Her naming was only different in that her great-grandmother had named her before the old woman drew her last breath.

Well, that was a mystery for another day. Tala continued reading, more out of morbid curiosity than anything else. That, and her desire to sleep had fled, leaving insomnia in its wake.

"Since you are reading my diary—gotten hold of it, in fact, then you do carry in you the seeds of the power of the Baylan, the priestesses of old who held the power of healing and of peacemaking firmly in their hands. Don't let anyone tell you we have died out, Tala. We merely move in the spaces where the common Tao do not look, for such has always been our way. Our power lies in that which seems ordinary, say, the knife you will use to carve a chicken for tinola—that is your athame (for want of a better term, I use that which the witches of the West bring us). Kiss that knife, it is your primary weapon and tool, and never lose it.

"Before you set out to seek your fortune in a Tikbalang's pelt, you need to unlock your Otherness. Chances are, and I know our family too well to think otherwise, you have been told that your foresight is unnatural, that your hands are made hot by fever, not power. They mean well, child, but they do you a disservice.

"You unlock your power when the moon cannot be seen, on as clear an evening as you can get. You will need nine black candles that have never been lit, and nine candles of pure beeswax, candles that also have never been lit. Gather, too, one salop of sea salt and one piece of gold jewelry, the oldest piece you own.

"Buy a black chicken—they call it ulikba in the marketplace. None of its plumage should be colored or white. Slaughter it yourself and drip the blood into a bowl with a handful of red rice grains. Plunge the dead fowl in boiling water and pluck away every black feather and let the feathers dry on a bamboo threshing tray as you prepare the chicken for tinola.

"As you boil the chicken, ginger root, unripe papaya and chilies in the broth, add as much garlic and onion as you dare. Once it has come to the boil, drop in the blood and rice grains. Add some peppercorns with your prayer for power. Kiss a handful of sea salt and sprinkle it in as you stir and cover the pot. Douse the cook fire until only embers remain to simmer the tinola and prepare for the ritual that will unlock your Otherness and bring the Tikbalang to you.

"Learn to center yourself between now and market day, for, surely, you need to be able to concentrate your focus no matter what uncontrollable things may erupt around you. Make your list so you know what to buy, then sit on the ground under the stars, with your head up, focusing on one of the stars after which you were named.

"Feel the power of that star you select fill you. Do not fight it. Allow it to carry you to the plane no other Taga-Lupa may seek. Do this each night until you feel the power thrum through your heartbeats. Then you know you have been unleashed and are free to roam the Other World known only to the few of us. Touch the spark of the Old Gods in you, for they are there, waiting to be acknowledged."

Tala looked around for a piece of paper, rummaging through her bedroom and on back to the living room. Finding not a single scrap to use but for the makeshift bookmark, she proceeded to make a list of things to buy in Quiapo market five days hence on her smartphone's Inkpad app. Thank goodness she didn't have to work over the weekend. Her next problem was finding a place to do the sitting meditation part of Beatriz's instructions. Her balcony would have to do.

So she settled herself comfortably on that scrap of concrete and steel the condo developer called a balcony, her back to the fire escape on the furthest side from the sliding glass doors and facing the balcony railing where the wrought iron grilles allowed her to see the sky. That was the only vantage point she had for watching stars.

Tala focused on the brightest star, Sirius, the dog star—the star just rising in the early evening, for her reading and re-reading the April 26 passage in the Bestiario had taken long enough that the sun had set and the stars were rising.

The irony was not lost on Tala: Here I am beseeching a hunting dog for the power to overcome a warhorse. She shook her head, let go of her doubts and began her open-eyed sitting meditation even as she felt heat that was not born of the fading summer begin to dance in her loins and radiate up through her torso and down to her toes.

***

Fifteen stories below, the Tikbalang stood in the shadows by the entrance to Tala's apartment building, sniffing her fragrance on the humid night air. The generous red curve of his mouth curled into a knowing smile. She's home. Good.

Up the fire escape and onto the very edge of the balcony he went, silently despite his hooves. The Tikbalang halted his ascent just as he was about to scale the balcony railing, sniffing the air and scenting Tala.

She was sitting cross-legged on the balcony's cold concrete floor, her head thrown back and limned in the dark flames of her tresses. Her back was straight as a ramrod, her shoulders were relaxed and her breathing was that even deep rhythm of a mystic's trance.

The Tikbalang stood balanced on the corner of the balcony railing, his tarugo engorging with blood as it always did around this beautiful woman he beheld. And lo, even as he gazed at her in his perfect balance, the scene in front of Tala shifted so he could see the sky of his own world, the Other Place the mundane creatures of this plane have no knowledge of, could not begin to even imagine.

He heard Tala gasp as her sight took in the sights beyond her balcony rail. She no longer saw stars, perhaps. Perhaps she was seeing what he'd grown up knowing: The dancing nymphs called Diwata and the stocky, industrious Duwende shoring up the punso, the hillock home of the long-limbed Nunos in the distance.

Perhaps she was seeing the thick forests overlaid by the other buildings in the busy heart of Pasay's red light district, the dancing girls phasing in and out with the dancing Diwata in their garb woven of moonlight and starshine.

The sliding doors were open and, since he could not bring himself to intrude upon Tala's obvious sense of wonder, he entered her apartment and kept walking on through the bedroom door she'd left open.

The Tikbalang opened Tala's cabinets, sniffing her tuberose and ylang-ylang scent where it was strongest: Her underwear drawer.

He drew out the lacy nothings and granny panties she kept there, along with her silk stockings and garters, those little nothings she wore as brassieres, the modest Catholic schoolgirl half-slips left helter-skelter, as if order was not necessary for the underthings nobody else would see.

He selected a demure half-slip, one in thin beige silk and trimmed in a matching shade of lace. This will do very nicely, the Tikbalang though to himself. I can feel her in this, close against my skin, where she belongs.

He wrapped his right hand in the half slip and wrapped that hand around his straining member as he watched the wind wafting over the balcony fan Tala's hair to flame, the motion making the natural red and gold highlights in her loose curls catch the light from the living room.

The Tikbalang suppressed a groan as he felt the slippery silk make the sweetest friction around his huge ari, his hand squeezing as tightly as he imagined her tight, wet puki would. The now-hot silk emulated the slickness he expected to find when he finally breached her most private of places.

His hand sped up as he listened to her murmurs and gasps while watching his world unfold before her eyes. His grin grew as he envisioned her screams and gasps as he pumped hard into her, his huge tarugo stretching her to the limits, to the border of pain and pleasure and past it into ecstasy.

The Tikbalang would pound himself to orgasm against her cervix, taking her from behind as a stallion would cover a mare in the iyot, the mating of animals. He would change back to his man-form and flip her over to face him, fucking her even harder and faster. All the better to suckle at her breasts, to draw in Tala's distended nipples into his hungering mouth.

She would be so delicious and he would swallow her orgasms, as well as make them pound through her blood until she knew nothing else but the mindless pleasure of mating. Yes, yes, she would be so delicious. She was his delicacy and his treat after all the years spent waiting for his Baylan.

And, just like that, uttering "Baylan" on but the slightest whisper, the Tikbalang let loose his hot seed, catching it in the little silk half slip, his knees shaking from the intensity of the orgasm that seized his whole body, shaking him despite the immense power of his muscles and bones.

Baylan? Where did that thought come from? Wadding the semen-soaked half slip easily into a ball clutched in his palm, the Tikbalang drew a deep breath, and another, steadying himself. He peeled his gaze away from Tala and scanned her living room, finding the Bestiario laid haphazardly on the couch, the lettering etched into its worn leather binding glowing gold in the bright lights of the woman's apartment.

The Tikbalang saw the bookmark sticking out of the center of the book, which gave off the slightest glow something purely of this world shouldn't ever emit.

She has the book. She can read it. She is Baylan. Oh, shit and fuckora.The Old Gods must be laughing at us now.

Tala was still enthralled with her visions and it was easy for the Tikbalang to trace his way back to the fire escape unseen. Down he went and out into the night, his mind full of what he'd just seen.

It seems that the menu has changed somewhat, he thought to himself. I think I'll have to get used to eating her alive, then. Time for the Tikbalang to draw up his strategies, then, because, petite as she may be, this young Baylan radiated a power he had never felt before. This prince had magic of his own to prepare.

***

Rising from her balcony floor in a swift uncurling of legs, Tala tried to make sense of what she'd seen. It was one thing to read about the Nuno and Diwata, the Duwende and the Laman Lupa in the dry old lore books in the school library. It was quite another thing to see them in front of you.

When the vision ended, she'd begun to wonder if she had, indeed, inherited Beatriz's insanity. The old woman had been considered the skeleton in the family closet, having been declared insane by her own husband just after the Americans bought the Philippines from Spain along with Puerto Rico via the Treaty of Paris.

Because the Bienvenido family was well-off and respected in their community, one of the Illustrado class, Beatriz was kept in the ancestral home. The grounds then were extensive, so her meanderings through the dense and adjacent patch of fruit trees was not a problem. That stand of trees had since been sold, cut down and turned into a commercial building.

Family lore had it that Beatriz also always had money, gold, gems, anything she wanted, though her explanations that the precious goods had come from the Other Land, the one overlaying the mundane plane every other human saw—those words were considered rantings. Why, even her Abuela Selo said the writing in the Bestiario was illegible, the writings of the insane. But Tala could read the book, and easily.

I will just have to sift the truth from the lie, Tala told herself as she slid the glass door shut behind her and locked it. I will have to believe what should be believed, no matter what my senses tell me does not connect with logic and reality. So she took the old tome from the sofa and resumed reading the entry she'd started before her meditation.

"Finally, embrace your pleasure. Do not let anyone deny your ecstasy and call it filthy. That is a form of control that is meant to teach you to deny the magic you alone can wield. Take your lust and embrace it as you would accept the earth and trees around you.

"Know that your woman's peak is natural and powerful and it is this power that will fuel all your personal magic. It will help you channel the magic you need for healing, for battle, for conquest. It is what you will need to master and accept this power without hesitation or shame so that you may make peace happen and draw prosperity to yourself and those you love. Accept your pleasure. Create it. Revel in it, for it forges the way to the highest good. It is this pleasure that will enable you to tame your Tikbalang."

Good advice, Tala thought as she walked to her bedroom, intent on giving herself an orgasm or two and settling down for some shuteye so her brain could process all the strange things she'd read and seen. She espied her cabinet hanging open and her underwear drawer slid slightly ajar. Tala did a double-take, trying to recall if she'd shut the cabinet when she'd changed clothes.

Instead of feeling creeped out, a warm sensation crept over her skin, one that seeped to her bones, sought out her breasts and wended its way down between her legs. Groaning slighly, feeling the rise of arousal in her very core, Tala pulled her underwear drawer open and took out her handy-dandy boyfriend-replacement unit.

There was nothing that a good round or three with her vibrator wouldn't fix and, hell, she needed her sleep. Fucking oneself blind, after all, would help take her mind off the strangeness of the evening.

Out of the tank top and gym shorts she got, spreading herself over the red coverlet of her queen sized mattress like an offering on some pagan god's plinth. She banished her Catholic schoolgirl self to a dark corner of her mind as she began massaging her breasts with hands made hot—over what she knew not—but Beatriz was obviously right in saying her pleasure was her power. Time to see if Beatriz was right.

So, since there wasn't anyone here to help her solve her problem of sexual tension, it was fantasy time with her rechargable fuck-buddy. The safest sex one can have in Sin City, after all, is blue, comes with five speeds and has a clitoris stimulator par excellance. Safe from STDs. Safe from heartbreak. Safe sucks, Tala thought to herself. Oh, well. Until there is a better choice...

Tala began her fantasy by morphing her hands. They were large, tanned hands, like the hand that had kept her from falling in the coffee shop earlier in the day. Those hands were pressing her bounty of breasts together, their forefingers circling her pink-brown areolas with tantalizing lightness before squeezing gently and pulling her nipples to hard little peaks. Those hands were making a magic massage that made the flame between her legs burn more intensely than the bluest flame.

A hot, wet mouth would descend on one nipple and the barest grazing of teeth would be her only warning as he would suckle hard, his tongue lashing the very tip of her captive nipple.

His hands would move to her wrists, pinning them to the sides of her head as he sucked each nipple hard and flicked their tips with his tongue, exerting enough pressure to make her arousal gush to her thighs, but not enough to give her relief.

Her fantasy man ran his free hand down her torso, sliding down the curve of her breast and the dip of her belly to trace light circles around her navel, lower, down to the top of her thigh.

She opened her eyes to see his dark head against the light golden skin of her chest, his face in profile as he nipped and sucked at her breasts, his thick fan of dark lashes pulled against a tanned cheek. His weight was delicious on her hips, pinning her down so she could do nothing more than undulate between him and the softness of her red-clad bed.