CHAPTER 2

Synecdoche's POV.

Our hearts beat only with their permission. But at least, we have never known a world without them.

I did not know that our nation was divided separately and alphabetically from A to Z—not until I read a dictionary, stopped on its page 143, saw an English word, and went outside to see if we have it.

"A single rice grain is equivalent to death because we are forbidden to eat even half of it, even if we are the ones who cultivate and harvest it. That's why, I don't want you to go out, Synecdoche. Soldiers—the Manjies, will attack you," Padre Oriel said, lighting up the candle near the altar.

He's the one who fostered me since before. I want to thank him a million times for saving my life—several times as how often I recite, recall and reflect on those letters and definitions of the words in the dictionary; how often I look outside those windows.

"Can I be in a state of fear without being afraid of them?" I asked him innocently, looking outside the window. I'm 23 now, but I haven't been outside for so long. I just went out to feed our piglet below our bamboo house then went back again.

"What kind of a question is that?" Padre asked me again while he was sitting beside me. He's holding my face. The forehead is puckered but he's smiling. He wants to feel me that they'll not get us.

"Theologically, logically and critically speaking, what's the purpose of humanity?" I kill my curiosity before it kills me.

"To live and let live. To love and be loved. To be treated equally. To know your meaning and fulfill your purpose." Padre squinted, then looked heavenward.

"Just like words in the dictionary, right? If I read all those words again and again, can I know my purpose, Padre?"

"If that so you are in the process of knowing your purpose. If you stop reading, you start fulfilling it eventually."

"But as I scan the pages, I stopped when I saw the word Freedom, Padre." I showed him the word in the dictionary which I highlighted last time using the green leaf.

"Back in the days, our ancestors are fighting for our freedom. Our ancestors— Aetas, Negritos, Balúgas, Dumágas, Mamanúas, Manguiánes, Tagals as Soldiers and Sailor. Maharlika. Grass," Padre started.

District G.

We call it Grass. Home of farmers, supplier of grains to Mahar—the capital of Maharlika. That's where we live now—in where we hide.

"But you know what's worst?" We went behind the windows and watch its demeanor, "we have our ancestors, and other districts have their ancestors, too. That's why it started the rebellion and created the civil war, they failed—long before you see those green green lush hybrid grasses." He pointed out and I followed the direction.

"But you know what's the worst of the worsts, Padre?"

"No, what is it?" he asked.

"Our ancestors remain in our hearts and the fact that we failed to fight for it, remains in our mind." I looked at him trying to figure out the mole on his cheek looked like grain seeds.

Filled with farmland of Grains, I am not accustomed to unseeing them—not the grains, but those Embassy's armies ransacking our grains without reluctance.

I don't know why they call them Manjies. They are the ones that comprise a gendarmerie which was controlled by the Embassy and tasked with maintaining order throughout the nation of Maharlika. Led by a Head Manjie who is the commander of the district's respective garrison, they are the primary instrument of control and repression in Maharlika, having been known to execute citizens even for minor offenses just like eating our harvested crops or being late when they visited our district.

I don't know the fate of the other 25 districts. It depends on their industry. Talk to Hugo Cassidy, the ruthless ruler and Ambassador of the Maharlika Nation. 

The president is in critical condition. An unknown assassin shoots him during his presidential speech. That's why Hugo is doing everything to become the new president of Maharlika. 

Go back to the dictionary.

The word is Freedom. 

Always...seldom,

No peace, and hope. Surveillance cameras on every corner look like bulging eyes. No technology, no electricity because these are forbidden. No bulb, no outlet of light. 

Abject poverty. Oppression. Controlled.

So we need to fight... the locusts, not the Embassy. 

We are powerless. 

We are afraid.

They have all the resources.

We need to protect the grains so they have something to eat. We don't want to die. Better to eat some exotics rather than grains, rain as water to drink, yarrows to aid our wounded Grass people. We still have our chapel, we believe that Mother Ceres, Goddess of Agriculture will help and guide us.

The Padre and I have a pig that hides under our house but we pity her, she has no family. We will let her live.

Because of these treatments, one time I just need to sleep. I want to rest from all these cruelties. I closed my eyes to see if there is a light of hope but... I saw something. Something that can tell that I am different, that I can go with the flow. Let them flow, let them glow. Let the letters let me.

But I know, I am not the only one who has this ability.

After how many days, I was out of the house and I did know where I was. Not until someone showed up.

"So what happens when you close your eyes, Synecdoche?" A guy asked out of curiosity. The room's light was as blue of his eyes, of the sky, of the ocean. He's watching me, his left hand is holding on to his chin, his right hand on the desk and its fingers are tapping on it like the sound of a clock. I will not be shocked if I can see an hourglass anywhere around. But I still sit, firmly.

"I can see them," my voice echoed in this small laboratory room and I am exhausted because my voice sounds different. 

Feathery. Boisterous. But below normal. Not regal. 

“I can see them,” I said it again to ensure and I bite my lips as I heard the same voice.

"Who?" he asked while holding a pen and started writing something on paper. 

Who? What. They are not people. 

"Words. Lots of words!" I said in a bloodcurdling tone. When I say Lots, I mean it—as much as the precious golds of power we have. The gold of helplessness. The power to be a slave.

"It seems very exaggerated. How is that going? What do you mean?" His eyebrows furrowed and paused for a while. 

"I don't know? This might be a result of reading books." I said and he nodded twice, paying attention to every detail I said.

"Darling, in the English language, can you spell the 5th longest wor⁠—" I interrupted him.

I closed my eyes, jumbled letters began to flow like specks of pixie dust forming a word. It's like magic but It's not fantasy. It is sensory, a thought experiment. It is science.

That's how I imagine.

If there is no imagination, William Harvey wouldn’t have discovered the full circulation of blood in the human body. Isaac Newton would not have defined the concept of gravity and might as well, Albert Einstein would not have developed the theory of special and general relativity.

"F- L- O- C- C- I -N- A- U -C -I- N- I- H -I -L- I- P- I- L- I- F- I- C- A- T- I- O- N." I spelled it without a doubt. 

He's really testing my capacity and gauging if I really read books or dictionaries. I think, and I know that people also think, that it is the 5th longest word in the English Language. It is defined as the action or habit of estimating something as worthless. 

Are we worthless or are we worthy to be less?

We have worth but the embassy did not see it. 

Or worst, they saw it but they did not infer great paramount importance.

Before he completely says what he wants to say, my brain is functioning. Now, I am the one who is tapping my fingers and each letter I pronounce has one tap on the table. I just want to add some bang effect, it's so tedious.

"And what is the 4th⁠ word—"

"It's Pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism, composed of thirty letters," I grinned which made him feel uncomfortable. He stopped once again. He tried to talk faster but I can still catch it up and his face was triggered. I'm hungry, I love to crack words. Come on!

 "And the definition?" He asked, slowly and kindly. 

Don't be too slow, or else you'll get behind. Others might overtake you.

"A mild form of inherited pseudohypoparathyroidism that simulates the symptoms of the disorder but isn't associated with abnormal levels of calcium and phosphorus in the blood," I released a deep breath because I talked so fast. 

I can still recall it. It is still fresh in my mind. 

As I said it, he quickly picked up the dictionary and rummaged there, he even spits out its papers to move to the other page. Subsequently, his eyes widened as there was probably not a single mistake or omission in what I said.

"And what is the longest word that doesn't contain⁠—" He spoke again and he was still not convinced of what he had heard. Fortunately, my brain and mouth are ready.

 "Rhythms is the longest word in the English language that doesn't contain vowels, sir." I almost stuttered but fortunately, I was able to say it.

"Let me finish my statement first. I mean the longest word that doesn't contain conso⁠—" Okay, I expected what he would say next.

"It's Euouae. Six letters which composed of exclusively without consonants, Sir." I know, that this man seems to be intimidated by my presence.

"Holly, molly. You're a crackerjack! I didn't make a mistake in choosing you. I'm impressed, really impressed! You're so good, you're so good darling Synec, how old are you?"

He enthusiastically responded to me like he got a miracle from heaven or like a meteor that only he had seen, or as if he had seen an amulet or a magical ark containing precious jewelry.

"I'm 23 years old—" I looked at him without hesitation. He is fine and calm now. I am not fond of interacting with other people. He's lucky.

"I'm Dr. Connor by the way. So can I ask you a question about you and your family?" he asked endlessly. But of course, I am a kind person so I replied. I don't want to be rude.

"I don't know anything about them. As far as I can remember, they left me in front of the church, and then the Father, of course, saw me while naked. I grew up with him, with the pigs, of the muddy areas, of vast lands many crops of Grains, in the grainfields where there are many farmers. The District G, we call it Grass. The Padre once said that we are one of the poorest among 26 districts, and our industry is Grains,” I explained, reminiscing the past the Padre had told me. 

I immediately thought of the various kinds of rice we have such as NFA, Ivory, Brown Rice, yellow corn, and many others. They are all delicious. Only from District G. They serve as the gems of our ancestors claimed by the people in the government.

"Our ancestors— Aetas, Negritos, Balúgas, Dumágas, Mamanúas, Manguiánes, Tagals as Soldiers and Sailor. Maharlika. Grass." I remembered what Padre said to me.

Grass.

They came from the Asian mainland, crossing shallow seas and land bridges. But the Peace Commission guarantees the Orders in possession—Pacification retarded—The Orders must go!—And be replaced by natives.

The islands might be an earthly paradise.

Might.

“Aha, That’s correct haha ​​haha. Just continue darling, ” Dr. Connor said, giving me a broken laugh. I can see no heart that is broken. Now he began to stand up and my eyes followed his movements.

I spoke again, “I don’t know what are the industries of other districts. We, are the farmers but are not allowed to eat even a single grain of rice. All our rice grains will be exported directly to Mahar, the capital of Maharlika. Only wealthy people have the privilege to live there. Not to mention the Embassy — where Hugo Cassidy is the Ambassador. ”

I remember our situation. It is sad to think that even a grain of rice — Yes, that single grain, like Padre's moles— is still forbidden.

 “He was a weed, Synec. Tsk. ” He was referring to Ambassador Hugo. His teeth gnashed. They just did something wrong to this man. "What else, what else?" he said. He was already leaning against the wall. The color of the walls is as white as his suit.

“The people of Mahar take the rice without payment, they say it is our way of paying tax and it is not sold to them but only distributed. Many Manjies come here to our District to guard us, those armies of the Embassy. If anyone tries to eat our crops, we will be captured. We plant it, it's ours. How could they do that to Grass? They don't have humanity! ” My hand fell on the table.

I'm really disgusted, too. We can't be like that. If this fate will be passed to others. Will they manage it? Will it be accepted?

I looked outside the window. It is not as similar in our house.

I saw a shadow of a man behind those walls. A shadow that makes its playful dance, telling stories of leaves in the buoyant breeze. Someone is out there.

Most of the time, shadows are so welcome, a chance to dwell in diffuse rays, to rest. There are times that a kiss of cold air is a salve, for it beckons me to sit here, to revive what needs quiet solitude.

In those sweet puddles of calmness, in the colors of a sunset lullaby, I let everything that I am connected with the surface of the Earth above and below.

"Don't look outside. It hurts." I remember Padre's words. I also taught myself not to look above. Instead of blue sky—and heaven, I saw a flying ship with thousands of soldiers inside it. It's like the aerodynamic forces engulf it.

I let my eyes see how close the sun is, how, even if I only rest here, it will come to me with all strength and brilliance.

I faced the guy again. "You know what, darling? The Embassy in Mahar City is a technologically advanced metropolis, utilizing advanced science and engineering to make life easier for its plutocratic citizens. However, we are set in a dystopian world where it contrasts the lives of us— the poor District residents with those of the cutting-edge Mahar citizens. Despite cataclysmic natural disasters and human-made war, the astounding technological innovations of Mahar appear from area to area in the form of hovercrafts, flying ships, and miracle medicine. In those other districts, Technology development is the t engineering, and the district contains factories and establishments that manufacture televisions, computers, electronic devices, and weapons. Here in District G, only Grains which give life to its residents but are still taken away. And those rebels back in the days, there were pods, which are obstacles or maze made in Mahar that are used to stop the rebels from advancing into the city," He explained thoroughly.

 That's what fears me. That is why our ancestors failed to fight for our freedom. But I wish our District will not become the battlefield. Because if there is a war, if people are given a chance to hold guns, the only bullets we have are grains. 

"Can I go home now Dr. Connor? I'm sure Father is looking for me!" I told him and slowly stepped away from him and prepared to walk away.

"Father Oriel, right?" I was about to leave but I heard the name he said. Did he know the father?

"Give this to him," he handed a small book or I must say a beige notebook, "go! It'll be getting dark soon. Be careful. The Manjies might see you," he warned and reminded me. As if I could no longer go home alive or that there were Mnajies waiting for me outside. I don't know where I am. I'm scared!

I asked myself, "Should I thank him for my new look? Or should I be angry with him because he made me a puppet in two weeks??

I hurried out of the small laboratory room and I went through a clandestine tunnel carrying the lamp and I ended here up the mountain.

Mountain?

He brought me up the mountain!

But I see my district from up here. The grains, the whole Grass, it is so green and brown. I like how everything looks from up here.

It's like a painting. 

 And the sunset adds aesthetics to its panoramic view.

 My home.

But there is a part of Grass that looks bald. The Manjies, the Embassy. They ruined it!

How powerless we are.

The sun was setting and I needed to go home. As I am walking down the mountain, a shadow crosses the hillside, I heard it again, the sound of the big flying ship in the sky. Silver and gold. It signifies the Embassy.

I hid in a secluded part. Near the grasses. The size of this thing, an overhead vehicle, it's not an airplane because it doesn't have wings but it looks like that. A kind of aircraft.

I rolled my eyes at its side. Now I just examined it carefully. Brilliant people, the ones who created this thing. I wonder what is this made from? Metal? Iron? Gold and Silver?

When the sky is clear, I continue walking. No, I was running. I was chasing my breaths as soon as I'm in the front door of Padre's house.

I knocked ... many times. As fast as my heart beats. I’m trembling that I can’t explain.

Come on open the door, Father!

When the door opened, Father stared at me. He couldn't believe it when he saw me. I can't help but give the book given by Dr. Connor. I have nothing else to do. Will he scold me?

He read what was written on the cover of the book and looked at me.

 "God... wait, is that you Synecdoche? What happened, why do you seem to lose weight? I thought the Manjies took you, where did you go?" he stammered and his face was full of concern, "You've been missing for two weeks! What did he do to you, Synecdoche? Are you okay? Come in, hurry! Someone else might see you, "his voice was cracked.

He read the contents of the book and suddenly spoke.

"No! What did you do to my daughter, Connor? Since she turned 18 years old again because of you, I won't waste this opportunity, I'll just enroll her at Grass University. I won't let her participate no matter what happens. I love this child. " From the book, he looked at me, "yes she's smart, but I won't let her participate in the royal Maharlika Spelling TwistBee competition. Why her? Oh Lord, I hope Connor is aware of what he did." He did the sign of the cross and whispered something in the air.

What is going on? I shouldn't have chased the piglet. If I only knew this was going to happen to me I would never go out of the house.

Maharlika Spelling TwistBee.

It sounds new to me. I want to join, but what's the problem? Why does Padre Oriel don't want me to join?

I love to spell words and give them meaning.

I hope I can give everything its meaning.