The Bamboo Hollow

I was six when my father and I made the long journey from Manila to the mountain province of Ifugao, where my aunt’s family lived in a village perched on the edge of a deep ravine. The house was built on stilts, with a thatched roof and bamboo walls that creaked like old bones. My cousins—two boys, Elias and Tomas, and a girl, Ines, who was my age—greeted us with squeals and laughter. After the initial fuss, they dragged me outside to play hide-and-seek in the vast, tangled garden that sloped down toward the ravine.

“You hide first, little cousin,” Elias said, grinning. “Count to thirty, then come find us. But don’t go past the bamboo grove. That’s the edge.” He pointed to a dense cluster of bamboo that swayed even when there was no wind. I nodded, but in the thrill of the game, I forgot their warning. After counting, I searched the usual spots—behind the banana plants, under the house, inside the abandoned chicken coop—but found no one. Then I saw a flash of Ines’ yellow dress disappearing into the bamboo grove. I followed, my bare feet sinking into the damp soil.

The grove was darker than I expected, the bamboo stalks towering like prison bars. The air was still, and the only sound was the whisper of leaves overhead. I called their names, but my voice seemed to vanish. Then I saw a small clearing ahead, and in the center stood a gnarled old tree, its roots clawing at the earth. Hanging from a low branch was a bizarre looking fruit—pale, pulpy, and shaped like a human heart. Without thinking, I reached out and plucked it. It was warm, and it pulsed faintly in my hand. A sickly sweet smell rose from it, making me dizzy. Suddenly, I heard a child’s voice, not from any of my cousins, but from somewhere inside the trunk. “You took it. Now you must stay.”

I dropped the fruit and ran, bursting out of the grove just as Elias and Tomas emerged from behind a shed. “Where were you?” Ines asked. “You were gone so long. We had to stop playing.” I tried to explain, but they looked at each other with strange, knowing expressions. That night, I had a fever. My aunt brewed bitter tea from herbs, and my father held a cold cloth to my forehead. As I drifted in and out of sleep, I dreamt of the hollow tree, and a dark figure with hollow eyes standing beside it, whispering, “You are marked now. Every night, you will dream.”

The dreams came true. Every night, I was back in that grove, but this time, the tree had a mouth, and it spoke to me in a language I somehow understood. “Bring me a piece of your home. A stone from the hearth. A thread from your mother’s blanket. Then you will be free.” I told my father, but he dismissed it as fever dreams. My aunt, however, grew quiet. She gave me a small pouch of dried marigold and told me to sleep with it under my pillow. The dreams grew stronger, more vivid. I began to wake with scratches on my arms, and once, I found dirt under my fingernails.

One evening, as the sun bled orange over the mountains, I saw a figure at the edge of the bamboo grove. It was my cousin Ines, but she was walking stiffly, her eyes unfocused, her mouth moving as if speaking to someone. I called out, but she didn’t respond. She walked into the grove and disappeared. I ran to tell Auntie, but she only hushed me, saying Ines had gone to fetch water from the spring. But when Ines returned, her dress was torn, and she carried a bundle of bamboo roots—not water. She looked at me with a hollow stare, and I knew then that the tree had taken her too.

My father decided we had to leave. He packed our bags hastily, as if the act of leaving could undo the wrong. My aunt secretly admitted to me as she hugged me goodbye, “There was a reason we never go into that grove. A child drowned in the ravine years ago, and her spirit found a home in that tree. She waits for friends to play with.” I tried to tell Ines, but she just smiled a wide, unnatural smile. On our way down the mountain path, I felt something cold and hard in my pocket. It was a small, smooth stone, perfectly round, like an eye. I threw it as far as I could, but that night, in our rented room in the town below, the dreams returned. The tree appeared, and the child spirit said, “You can’t leave me, cousin. We are bonded now.” And in the mirror, I saw a dark mark on my neck, like a bruise forming in the shape of a small hand.

Years later, when I was a teenager, my uncle finally told me the whole truth. The bamboo grove had always been a place where the veil was thin. Children who wandered there were often “touched”—they either vanished or came back changed. My aunt had known, and she had hoped the marigold would protect me, but it wasn’t enough. And the stone I threw? It was the very heart of the tree. By taking it, I had become its next keeper. And so, even now, every full moon, I feel an irresistible pull toward any bamboo grove. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the hollow stump in that ravine, and I hear a child’s voice calling, “Come play, cousin. I’m still waiting.”