The Gifts of the Mango Tree

THE GIFTS OF THE MANGO TREE

by Anne Claire Baguio

(Content Warnings: ghosts, hauntings, curses)

The chime of a bell rang through the sari-sari store while I stood in front of the overwhelming selection of toyo and vinegar bottles. I took my phone out of my jacket pocket just as it buzzed with a text from mama.

Doesn’t matter the brand. Just get the cheapest ones. 

I shrugged, grabbed the cheapest bottles of toyo and vinegar before heading over to the cashier. There was a couple in front of me in line, so I ended up waiting next to the fridge filled with cans of mango juice.

My phone buzzed again.

Your aunties are already here na. A pause and three dots. Hurry pls. 

I smiled and shook my head, before texting back: Just in line. You can handle being with them for now. 

Mama loved her sisters but never quite got along with them. My aunties lived right on the edges of ordinary and unusual. 

When I was little, Auntie Tessa would stay over when mama worked night shifts and tell me bedtime stories. Instead of grabbing the books bought second-hand, their pages marked with water damage, she told me about spirits hidden in rivers. Beautiful spirits who spoke in poetry and drowned careless men. Once, she even told me of a time when her and Uncle Somchai came to view a large, beautiful house for sale on the outskirts of Carcar. When she moved beyond the steps of the entrance, she saw sad ghosts trapped in the walls and felt an evil presence lurking upstairs. She immediately dragged my uncle out of the house and demanded they find someplace else.

Auntie Jess was much less macabre but equally eccentric. Whenever I saw her in person on her yearly visits to Vancouver, she would grab my palms instead of saying hello. She traced the creases with an index finger, humming thoughtfully, before she pulled me into a hug. Dalaga na ka day, she would say, pressing her nose to my hair and giving me an affectionate sniff. She also made a point to give me a tarot reading or two, but only when mama was out. As I sat at the kitchen table waiting for our homemade chocolate chip cookies to bake, she rummaged through her purse for a well-loved beige pack that read: The original TAROT.

Mama, on the other hand, was a typical Filipina immigrant. She worked as an ICU nurse at Vancouver General. She fell asleep watching the CBC evening news and walked to St. Mary’s Church on the Sundays she had time off. If Auntie Tessa tried to tell ghost stories or if Auntie Jess spoke about divination in front of her, mama would snap at them. Berate them for the nonsense they were putting in my head. 

The store bell chimed again, and I heard the calls of salamat po. Behind the counter, a lola with a salt and pepper bob waved at me to come over. She wore a blue floral printed duster and a cheeky smile that showed off her wrinkles. 

“Maayong hapon, inday.”

“Maayong hapon,” I replied mindlessly, placing the two bottles on the counter. As I rummaged through my purse for the cash I was given, her greeting sank in. 

It seemed that my surprise showed on my face as the lola chuckled and spoke in lightly accented English, “I thought you might be Cebuana.” 

“How could you tell?”

The lola smiled, deepening the laugh lines around her eyes, as she placed change in my palm and handed over my purchases in a plastic bag. She gestured to the cans of mango juice in the fridge. “Kuhaa usa.”

I shook my head. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“No, go ahead. Init sa gawas.”

I insisted that I would be fine. 

Her smile fell slightly, no longer creasing the laugh lines on her face. 

“Next time,” I assured her, hoping this would end the back and forth. “I live nearby.”

This restored her full smile. And as I left the store, I left behind me the echo of a bell.

#

Next time turned out to be the following evening. 

Mama was at work while Auntie Tessa and Auntie Jess were at a nail salon near Metrotown, just a couple of SkyTrain stops away from Joyce. For dinner, I finished the leftover chicken adobo and, now, I was craving something sweet. 

The bell of the sari-sari store rang, announcing my arrival. From behind the counter, the lola from yesterday greeted me with the same cheeky smile. She wore a different duster this time but still floral and still blue.

“Maayong gabii,” she said. 

“Maayong gabii,” I replied, shuffling towards the snack aisle. 

While I held a box of Choco Pie in one hand and a container of ube Stik-O in the other, debating each treat’s merits, the lola called out to me.

“Your family is from Carcar?”

I looked at her, baffled and amazed. “Yes, how did you know?”

“The way you pronounce your words,” she said.

“That’s so cool.”

“Have you been?”

I shook my head. “My aunties tell me stories though.”

The lola tilted her head to the side, like a cat pondering a foreign sound. “Stories?”

“Yeah, like, about how they grew up, walked to school, and played in the streets with their friends. Ghost stories and legends, sometimes.”

She nodded, her eyes looking like they held all the wisdom of the world. “So, you know about the mango tree in Carcar?”

“The mango tree?” 

I paused, thinking back to all the stories I had been told. I remembered the tales of kapre sitting on thick branches while smoking cigars, and of ghosts making homes for themselves in balete trees. But nothing about mango trees, especially not ones in Carcar.

The lola rested her forearms on the counter and leaned in. “Would you like to hear it?”

I nodded, eager for a new story to connect me to my heritage.

Her smile grew wider and she shuffled back around the counter towards the fridge of mango juice. She placed a can down, pushing it towards me. 

“Have a drink.”

I opened the can and took a sip of the sweet mango nectar.

#

There once were three sisters living in Carcar. Orphans who lived by the generosity of their neighbours. They lived in a nipa hut built by their late parents, on land inherited from their late lolo. Behind their hut, the sisters were able to plant vegetables and raise chickens. Just enough to feed three young girls. 

Their land was large and mostly untended, covered in dry, overgrown grass crawling with snakes and insects. After all, they were still children, unaware of the adult responsibilities that came with land bearing their name. Despite not tending to this land, the sisters liked to play on it, chasing each other, climbing the trees. 

One day, they decided to play hide-and-seek. The eldest sister stood next to their humble garden, hands over her eyes, and began to count to thirty. As she did, her younger sisters ran as far and as fast as they could and managed to reach the very edges of their property. 

There they found a mango tree standing large and alone. Its thick, sturdy branches hosted bright, verdant leaves and plump, perfect fruit. The middle and younger sisters were delighted. The youngest climbed until she sat on a low branch. The game forgotten, she plucked mangoes to fill the pockets of her skirt and threw some down to her sister, who used the front of her dress as a basket. 

Unbeknownst to them, the mango tree sat just outside the borders of their land.

Meanwhile, the eldest sister finished her count to thirty. She ran inside the nipa hut first, checking for her sisters’ obvious hiding spots. When she didn’t find them there, she ran back outside, looking under and around spaces two children could hide. When she still didn’t find her sisters in the immediate vicinity, she began to call out to them.

Her sisters came out of the tall grass and short trees, skirts and pockets filled with perfectly yellow-orange mangoes.

“Manang, look,” they called, showing off the fruit they picked. 

The eldest sister stared in shock at their harvest. “Where did you get that?”

“From the mango tree,” the middle sister replied. “There’s lots of fruit, manang.”

“We could sell them,” the youngest sister added, bouncing with glee.

The eldest sister scowled, worry creasing her face. “Don’t be dumb, we don’t have a mango tree on our lot.”

The younger sisters quieted, their excitement tempering into apprehension.

At that moment, a beautiful young woman in a blue dress emerged from the direction of the mango tree. Her face was shadowed by a salakot and her long, black hair waved down her back. 

“Maayong buntag,” she called to the sisters, waving. “I think you may have taken my fruit.”

The eldest sister began to apologize profusely and ran back into the hut to grab some plastic bags for the mangoes. Her younger sisters reluctantly began to empty their skirts.

The young woman laughed, the warm wind blowing around the four of them. “Walay problema.” She pulled out a small pocket knife, offering the handle to the eldest sister. “You may keep the mangoes, but I ask that you taste them before you sell them.”

The sisters shared puzzled looks at the odd request, but sampling the sweet fruit was a small price to pay for some extra money. The eldest sister, also unwilling to risk the anger of a stranger, thanked her for her generosity and grabbed the knife. She plucked a mango from the bag, slicing it into three. She gave the two larger pieces to her sisters while saving the pit for herself. 

The younger two devoured their mangoes, savouring their sweetness. 

The eldest sister looked up at the young woman. “Do you want one, manang?”

The young woman shook her head, the smile never dropping from her face. 

“I have plenty,” she replied, then gestured to the uneaten pit in the eldest sisters’ hands.

“Have a bite.”

#

As I savoured the final drops of mango juice, unease sank into my skin. 

The lola paused her story, her gaze piercing into me. “What do you think happened after they finished eating?” 

My phone buzzed in my pocket. “They sold the rest of the mangoes?”

The lola shook her head, the smile never dropping from her face.

“Every gift has a price,” she stated before sighing. “The youngest, Theresa, began to clearly see the spirits living around her, older than their land. She was granted the ability to see ghosts who, for one reason or another, have stayed on this earth. Or monsters who were sent here to torment them.”

Hearing the name Theresa, my body froze.

The lola continued. “The middle child, Jezebel, could see the paths a person could take. With a simple touch or conversation, she was able to divine their futures. When she dreamed, she was given visions of possibilities or images of what would always be.”

My phone buzzed again as my breath quickened. 

The lola’s duster began to form into a fitted blue dress. Her short salt and pepper hair faded into black waves falling down her back. As she smiled, the wrinkles on her face smoothed into young, elastic skin. 

“Would you like to hear about what happened to Odette?”

I recognized mama’s name and my phone buzzed thrice in succession. 

“Odette,” she continued, “ate the least of the fruit. Thus, she was offered something small: knowledge of the present. She could know what was happening at any moment. From world altering events to little occurrences. When she thought of someone specifically, she would clearly see what was happening with them.”

My hands felt heavy holding the empty can as the buzz of my phone became frantic. I chanced a glance at the door.

When I looked back there was a salakot on her head, shadowing her face.

“Every gift has a price,” the young woman declared. She lifted her head and I could see that her face had no eyes or nose. It bore no features except a wide, cheeky smile. “I wonder what yours will be.”

Around me, the sari-sari store distorted into striking colours while I heard the echoing chime of a bell.

THE END