The Fern’s Bargain

It was during the summer of my sixteenth year that my family decided to escape the sweltering heat of Manila for the cooler climes of the Cordillera mountains. We settled on a small, rustic inn nestled among the pine trees in a town called Atok, known for its vegetable terraces and cool, misty mornings. The inn was a converted farmhouse, with creaky wooden floors and windows that overlooked a valley blanketed in green.

On our second day, I decided to take a walk alone along a trail that wound through the forest, following a narrow stream. The forest was alive with the sound of rushing water and the chirping of birds, and I felt a sense of peace that was rare for me. As I walked, I noticed something peculiar – a small patch of ferns that seemed to shimmer with an iridescent glow in the dappled sunlight. I knelt to examine them, and as I did, I felt a sudden chill despite the warmth of the afternoon. A voice, soft and melodic, seemed to come from the ferns themselves.

‘You see us, don’t you?’ it said. I looked around, but there was no one. I thought I was imagining things, but then the voice spoke again: ‘We have been waiting for someone who can see us as you do.’ I felt a strange compulsion to respond, and I whispered, ‘Who are you?’ The ferns rustled, and a figure began to materialize amidst them – a being no taller than my knee, with skin like moss and hair like tangled vines. Its eyes were like pools of amber. ‘I am Luntian,’ it said, ‘keeper of this grove. And you, child, have a gift – you can see and hear the hidden folk.’

I was both frightened and fascinated. I had heard tales of the *diwata* and *engkanto* my grandmother used to tell, but I never truly believed them. Luntian spoke of an ancient pact between the land and the first people who settled here, a pact that had been broken when the colonizers came and cut down the sacred groves. Now, the spirits were growing restless, and my presence was a sign that the old bonds could be restored. Luntian asked a simple request: that I take a single frond from the grove and plant it on the outskirts of my home in the city, to create a new sanctuary. In return, I would be granted a small boon – a wish, but only for something truly heartfelt.

I was skeptical, but something in the being’s eyes made me believe. I plucked a frond, its edges shimmering with silver light, and tucked it into my pocket. Luntian smiled, and then the forest seemed to exhale, and the being faded back into the ferns. When I returned to the inn, I felt a strange sense of weightlessness, as if I had been given a great secret. I didn’t tell my family, of course. They would think I had gone mad.

A year passed. The frond had thrived in a small pot on our apartment balcony, and I kept it watered and tended. I had almost forgotten the promise until one evening, when I heard the faint whisper of Luntian’s voice in the rustling of the leaves: ‘It is time to make a choice.’ I had been consumed with a personal desire at that time – I was struggling with an unrequited love for a classmate named Miguel. I wished that he would notice me, that he would feel the same overwhelming affection. So, when Luntian asked what my wish would be, I blurted it out.

Luntian’s face turned grave. ‘Love cannot be forced,’ it said, ‘but I will grant your wish in a way that honors the old ways. He will see you for who you are, and if that is not enough, then it was never meant to be.’ I agreed, not fully understanding. The next day, Miguel approached me with a strange look in his eyes. He asked me to walk with him, and he told me that he had fallen in love with me – that he couldn’t stop thinking about me. At first, I was overjoyed, but then his demeanor changed. He became possessive, almost obsessive. He would show up uninvited at my house, call me constantly, and become jealous if I even spoke to other friends. I soon realized that the wish had twisted his feelings into something unhealthy.

I tried to break it off, but he became violent in his emotional outbursts. I felt trapped. One night, as I was crying on the balcony, I heard Luntian’s voice again. It was gentle but firm. ‘You have seen the consequences of a hasty wish. But there is a way to undo it – a sacrifice. You must give up the thing you hold most dear.’ I racked my brain for what that could be. My love for him had crumbled, but what did I hold most dear? My passion for painting? My memories? And then I realized – it was the frond. The frond was my connection to the spirit world, my gift of sight. If I destroyed it, I would lose all that forever, and the promise would be void.

Desperate, I looked at the frond, its green leaves still glowing softly. I thought of the magic I had witnessed, the beauty of that hidden grove, the sense of wonder that had filled my days. I couldn’t bear to lose that. Instead, I chose to bear the consequences of my foolish wish. I endured the twisted affection of my former classmate until, in a fit of rage, he drove his car into a tree and died. I was relieved, but also consumed with guilt.

Years later, I still tend to the fern, but it has lost its shimmer. I can no longer hear Luntian’s voice, and I wonder if I am being punished. Perhaps the gift was never truly mine, and I have squandered it. The fern sits there, a constant reminder of a bargain I made in ignorance. Sometimes, in the deepest silence of the night, I hear a rustling, and I imagine it is the spirit of the grove, waiting for me to ask for forgiveness. But I do not know how to do that. And so, I remain haunted by the choice I made on that misty afternoon in Atok, and the price I am still paying.