A New Prologue
1795
Southeast Asia
The sea goddess was angry.
A ship dared sail in her path on the night she would steal a kiss from the moon god.
It was the night when the god Lika-libutan shone full and bright. The night that the moon rode low, drawn to the sea by fate itself. The sea goddess, Luyong Babay, had raised the tides and reached for his lips.
So close were they that she could feel the warmth of his breath, the thrum of her heart.
And then… whoosh!
The De Gouden Specerij, with a hiss of its vast sails billowing from three masts laden with spices of cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon, dared sail between them.
Sure, the ship was sleek and fast, but it was no match for the goddess’ wrath, for she had missed the moment to claim the moon god for her own.
Spurned and grieving, she called on her brothers to exact her revenge. Hangin Bai, god of the wind, called up a typhoon. Tung-kong Langit, god of skies, hurled thunderbolts and lightning rods till the rains came down hard and heavy. Then the goddess raised her hands to churn violent waves against the ship till its sails tore and masts broke. It rocked and listed, and when it had taken in too much water, it tipped, and slowly, with her precious cargo of spices, she sank to the bottom of the channel where the Sulu and South China seas often fought battles for dominance.
All aboard perished—except one.
A young sailor from the land of misty moors and wailing bagpipes. Spared because of an ancient promise that Kaptan, grandfather to all the gods and deities, the supreme one who lorded all of creation, had made to three fae of the Scottish highlands.
Gifted with a vest from a future generation of the twenty-first century, it would save his life as he floated unconsciously on a raft toward the shores of Panay Island in the Philippines, where a mortal marked by the goddess of a thousand eyes would heal him.
From their love would come a line of descendants destined to save a people facing extinction.
Ron travels to Amsterdam, and it brought back memories of my past trips that sent me scouring for the photos I took of those trips. And while going through the photos, I was struck by the memory of the B&B that we stayed at. The Barangay is owned and operated by Godwin, a Filipino, and his Dutch partner, Wimmo. How apropos that this book is partly set in the Philippines.
Chapter 9: Tracing Shadows The Barangay B&B is a convenient five-minute walk from the Amsterdam Centraal station, and in springtime, it was a pleasant stroll. It was early yet, but commuters were already streaming in and out of the station and purposely standing on their way to work. Outside the train station, there is an impressive sea of bicycles—thousands of bicycles in all shapes and colors, a scene not found anywhere else in the world.
I take a deep breath of the city air, amused by a hint of marijuana that lingers in the atmosphere. Already, I miss Raine. It feels strange not having her walking beside me, chatting away. We’ve been here before when the girls were younger, but we were off to spend a few summer weeks with Vivienne and her family in L.A., leaving Raine and me childless. It was the first and only time we smoked weed. It left us terribly horny, hungry, and sleepy, not necessarily in that order. We’d barely left our room.
When I turn into Droogbak Street, the scene quiets into more of a residential vibe. The Barangay is a modern-looking canal house but was originally built in 1777, as the small plaque halfway up the building says. After ringing the bell, I am greeted by Godwin, one of two proprietors, who, with his partner, Wimmo, owns and operates the inn. Godwin is a slight man, dark-skinned, with kinky hair cropped short to his scalp. He sports an earring on his left lobe and is wearing a colorful tie-dye t-shirt of the sixties. I would guess he’s in his thirties, a few inches shorter than me, and he greets me with a big smile and begins chattering away.
“You must be Ronaldo,” he says in a bubbly voice.
I’m awake, but he’s much too chipper for my jetlagged brain. And I noted he got my name slightly wrong, but I let it go.
“Ron Mitchell,” I say, holding out my hand to shake his, ignoring that he mispronounced my name. “I have reservations..."
But I stop mid-sentence because something hits me as soon as I feel Godwin’s slight handshake. I stare at him for a moment, trying to recall if I’ve met him before. There was something I felt, and I wondered if he felt it too.
“Yes, yes. I know. Come in, come in,” he replies, and the crinkle in his eyes tells me yes. It was another place, another time. We might have been connected.
I shake the fuzziness in my brain, wondering if I imagined what just happened in those few seconds of touch.
Godwin ushers me inside and down the basement stairs where they have the guest room, and as soon as I step inside, I am struck by the otherworldly feeling of being transported to a tropical island. No, not Hawaiian. Further west.
“Wow! Am I still in Holland? Or did I just wake up in Fiji?” I ask, looking around at the various indoor exotic plants Godwin raises, apparently as a hobby. The guest space is bathed in soft white light filtering from the outdoor garden, separated by a sliding glass door. Hard to believe I’m actually below sea level, and it isn’t because I’m in the basement.
“Yes, I tried to emulate the feeling of being in my country. It doesn’t make me miss home so much,” he says as he pinches a dead leaf from one of the ferns sitting on an ornately carved side table.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Philippines. From Panay. We call our B&B Barangay, which means a small village in Tagalog. That’s our native language.”
Again, a rush of recognition wraps around me as I face Godwin—still smiling.
“Are you getting the feeling that we’ve met before? I’m positive we haven’t, but you just look familiar.”
“Who’s to say we haven’t met in another lifetime? If you believe in the mysticism of reincarnation, then anything is possible, no?” he says, waving his hands rather flamboyantly.
Godwin moves around, showing me the bedroom, bathroom, and a small sitting area with a kitchenette. The walls are adorned with photos from festivals of what looks like people dressed in colorful headdresses. The furniture is either bamboo or dark, heavy mahogany. He slides open the doors to the outdoor patio, which looks straight up to the houses around it. There is no view from here, but it did make me feel like I was in another country away from Europe.
“Well, I think you’ll find everything in order. I’ll leave you to settle in, Dodie.” I swiftly turn around to gape at him, with my mouth rudely hanging open.
“What did you call me?” I choked out.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You look so much like my cousin, Reynaldo. We call him Dodie. It’s a common nickname in the Philippines. We Filipinos love nicknames, you know,” he says, tapping me on the shoulder.
And there it was again. That touch sent not chills but a warm current.
I nod in response. I am speechless until I finally find the sense to mutter a “thanks” when he hands me the keys.
Time travel in fiction is tricky—especially when a character meets their own ancestors. One wrong date, and suddenly, someone’s having a child at age ten. Oops.
That’s exactly what I ran into while mapping out my main character Ron’s family tree. Since he travels back in time to meet his ancestors, their birthdates, ages, and major life events all need to line up. Otherwise, the entire timeline collapses.
I spent the day making sure everything made sense—when his ancestors were born, when they emigrated, when they had kids, and how old they were at key points in history. After much number-crunching, I finally have a solid timeline:
It took some effort, but now Ron’s journey through time makes sense—without any impossible parenthood scenarios.
