My husband stokes the growing fire with wind. With a controlled sway of his kampilan, I hear the breeze tussle the nipa hut and slip slowly through the crack in the window. The flame roars. The beads of sweat reflecting the blaze on his bare skin—look much like stars. I contract, yelp, and try not to scream throughout the whole push. 

Gently shushing me, my spouse continues his dance with the zephyr and his command of the wildfire, which must be done to keep malevolent spirits away from corrupting my body and my baby.

I had been with child before the clergymen came to our village. Their control of the flame was nothing like my husband’s. I watched my people disappear, and I have been hiding in the forest ever since, where spirits are known to be hungry and unforgiving. I can only hope for mercy as the next contraction purges a shriek from me, and I feel as if I am being split in half. My husband quietly gasps—something is amiss. The wind has halted.

With haste, my husband does focused gestures as he glares at the fire, his limbs moving organically so as to beckon the gales. A soft breeze. A jolt of unendurable pain. I feel myself crowning.

I scream. My husband exclaims—he grows desperate. Outside, the sound of multiple footsteps whispering across the foliage. Then the door. 

I remember the contrast of our bare, reverent bodies against those of the furious, cloaked missionaries. The way fear pushed my child out in an instant. The way my husband raised his kampilan in the face of our fleshed threats—then the winds came. The fire roared.

He told me to run. 

I remain in the forest. We will not burn.