By Kate
Osias
Konting Asin
THE WRITHING MASS of tentacles
attempted to clamber out of the large clay pot, even as Soledad snapped the rubbery appendages back
with her reed-thin pudlos. It would have been easier to cook pugita if it were
dead, but getting this particularly recalcitrant pugita to that state was
fraught with all sorts of perils and complications more convoluted than what
Soledad’s formidable mind had projected.
Even as bakunawa, all she could do
was to bind him to his last configuration. She knew better than to expect a
leviathan’s curse to hold Enrique down for long.
“Yield, Husband.” Soledad struck a slithering tentacle. “Just
yield.”
The pugita burst into action. Soledad was momentarily
overwhelmed with limbs that twisted, grappled and splattered blistering water
on her unprotected human skin. Three lightning flicks from her pudlos-bearing
hand, coupled with the expenditure of Adobong Parat which then produced a brackish
blue-tinged froth, forced the pugita to retreat.
“What else, Enrique?” she asked,
eying the hovering salty cloud with distaste as it continued to flavor her
slow-boiling octopus of a husband. “What else would you have me sacrifice?”
When the pugita finally died, it
did so abruptly. There was no perceived weakening, no gradual erosion of
activity. Just a sudden stillness, followed by an exhausted sense of quietude,
as the pugita settled heavily against the walls of the clay pot.
The cresting wave of foolish
sadness took Soleded by surprise. These
ripples of sentimentality surged weakly, then swelled more powerfully, as the
finality of Enrique’s death crashed onto her.
It was over.
“Enrique,” she said, adding more
salt to her octopus stew through her tears. •
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