The Field of Recurrence

The province had a way of erasing time. Months crawled through the rice paddies like molasses, and years could slip by without you noticing the seams. I was nineteen, or maybe twenty, the summer I came back to stay with my lola and my uncle, after my grandmother’s knees gave out and my uncle’s wife left him. We were a house of quiet desperation, held together by the smell of burnt rice and the occasional crackle of the AM radio.

Our barangay was a smudge on the map, a place that only existed because the highway needed a name between here and the next town. The nearest sari-sari store was a thirty-minute tricycle ride down a dirt road, and the closest mall was a mythical destination that required a full day’s expedition. We were nestled against the foot of a mountain, its slopes a dark green smear against the gray of the sky, and the only constant was the wind that carried the sharp, sweet scent of drying hay.

Our house was a squat concrete structure that had been painted white once, but now wore a patina of grime and moss. It faced the main path that cut through the barangay, a dusty ribbon that wound between our neighbors’ houses. But beyond the last house, the path gave way to fields, and the fields went on until they met the mountain’s shadow. And in that no-man’s land, at the very edge of our property, there was a single, gnarled acacia tree. It was a skeletal sentinel, its branches crooked like arthritic fingers, and it was the only spot on the property where the grass refused to grow.

I’d always felt a strange pull toward that tree. As a child, I’d been forbidden from playing there, but now, as an adult, I could claim it as my escape. I’d take my notebook and sit at its base, letting the silence soak into me. It was during one of those afternoons, when the light had gone amber and the air had grown heavy, that I noticed it: a patch of color at the field’s edge, where the dried stalks met the untamed grass. It was a dress, a yellow sundress, and it was draped over a rusted piece of machinery that had long been swallowed by weeds.

I should have ignored it, but I didn’t. I walked over, the ground crunching under my flip-flops, and I felt a cold that had nothing to do with the fading heat. The dress was fresh, no dust, no mildew, and it was damp, as if it had just been pulled from a washing machine. I picked it up, and it was light, impossibly light, as if it had never been worn. And then I saw the stains. Dark, rust-colored, blooming at the hem and across the chest, like a watercolor painting gone wrong. I dropped it, my heart hammering, and I ran back to the house, the dress’s image burned into my mind.

I told my lola about it, trying to sound casual, but she stiffened. ‘What did you see?’ she asked, her voice sharp. ‘A yellow dress, near the acacia tree,’ I said. She crossed herself and muttered a prayer. ‘That’s the dress of the Manang Rosa,’ she said. ‘She died in that field, thirty years ago. They say her husband buried her there, under the tree, but no one ever found the body. But sometimes, when the wind dies down, you can see her, dancing.’ I laughed, a hollow sound. ‘It’s probably just someone’s laundry that blew away,’ I said, but my grandmother’s eyes were dark. ‘There’s no one around for miles, child. No one.’

That night, the fever hit. It came on suddenly, a burning cold that wracked my body. I dreamed of the field. I was standing in it, the yellow dress on my own body, and I was dancing. My feet moved without my volition, my arms flailing, and I was singing a song I’d never heard. A child’s song, in a language I didn’t recognize, but I understood the words. ‘Planting you, planting you, the roots go deep, the roots go deep. And the harvest comes, and the harvest comes, and we all go to sleep.’ I woke up gasping, the sheets soaked with sweat, and I saw a figure standing in the corner of the room. It was a woman, tall and thin, her face obscured by a tangle of dark hair, and she was wearing the yellow dress. She didn’t move, but I could feel her gaze on me, and I could hear her breathing, slow and steady, like the wind through the rice.

I tried to scream, but only a croak escaped. The figure tilted her head, as if curious, and then she dissolved into a swirl of dust that faded into the moonlight. I turned on the light, and the room was empty, but the smell of damp earth lingered.

The next day, I was weak, but I forced myself to go to the well at the back of the house. My uncle was there, drawing water, and I asked him about the dress and the field. He set down the bucket, his face pale. ‘I was hoping you’d forget,’ he said. ‘You saw her, didn’t you? The dancing woman.’ I nodded. He sighed. ‘It’s been years, but she comes back when there’s a young girl in the house. She tried to take your cousin when she was younger, but we moved her away. Now it’s you.’ I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the water. ‘What does she want?’ I asked. ‘She wants a new body,’ he said. ‘Her husband did something to her, they say he buried her alive. And now she wanders, looking for a vessel to free her spirit, to get revenge on the one who killed her. But her husband is long dead. She’s just looking for a way out.’ He looked at me with an urgency that frightened me. ‘You have to leave, child. Go to your aunt in the city.’

But I couldn’t leave. Not yet. My grandmother was sick, and my uncle had to work the fields. And besides, I felt an odd fascination. I started spending more time at the acacia tree, and I would often see the dress again, hanging from a branch, or lying on the ground. I’d pick it up, and I’d feel a surge of warmth, as if it were alive. And each night, the woman would appear in my room, closer than the last. She began to whisper, and her voice was like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘You’re mine,’ she’d say. ‘You’re mine, and we’ll dance together forever.’ I’d wake up with scratches on my arms, small, but there, as if she’d been holding them.

I started to lose time. I’d find myself in the field, in the middle of the night, with no memory of how I got there. My feet would be bare, and my body would be covered in red soil. On one such occasion, I woke up at the base of the acacia tree, and in my hand was a clump of earth, and beneath it, a glint of metal. I dug, frantically, and I unearthed a small locket. Inside was a faded photograph of a young woman with the familiar dark hair, and a man with a cruel smile. I knew it was her, and I knew I had to end this.

I went back to the house, and I told my lola everything. She held my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. ‘The only way to put her to rest is to give her what she wants,’ she said. ‘But you can’t give her your body, child. You have to give her the truth. They say her husband claimed she drowned in the river, but he buried her in the field to hide his crime. If you can find his remains, or any proof, and bring it to the authorities, maybe her spirit will be freed.’ I didn’t want to die, but I had a plan. I spent the next days searching for the husband’s grave, and I found it near the edge of the field, marked by a piece of granite. I dug up the bones, and I took them to the barangay captain. I told him the story, and he listened, and he sent for the police.

The police came, and they took the bones, and they also found the locket. They said they’d investigate. That night, I expected the woman to appear, but she didn’t. I slept soundly, the first time in weeks, and in the morning, I felt a lightness in the air. I went to the acacia tree, and the dress was gone. A patch of wildflowers had bloomed where it had lain, a ring of marigolds, bright and golden. I stood there, and I felt a breeze that smelled of rain, and I knew she was gone. I never saw her again. But sometimes, when I walk past that tree, I hear the faint strains of that child’s song, and I know that the field remembers what happened. And I hope that she found her peace.