The Dancing Candle: A True Tale from My Grandpa (A Story from the Old Cemetery)

In the quiet fishing town of Cabalian, Leyte, nestled between the sea and the hills, stories flowed as freely as the tides. Elders in the village often warned kids not to wander near the cemetery late at night. They spoke in hushed voices about condemned spirits haunting the graves. For the children, it wasn’t hard to believe—who wouldn’t be scared of flickering lights and whispers in the dark?

But my grandfather, back when he was just a curious young man, wasn’t one to be easily frightened.

He’d heard those stories too many times and decided to find out for himself. For several nights, he kept watch by the cemetery, hoping to catch a glimpse of these so-called “spirits.” But night after night, nothing happened. No mysterious lights. No ghostly wails. Just silence, save for the rustle of leaves and chirping insects. All he heard were the cries of night birds and the creaking of bamboo swaying in the wind. No phantom voices, no glowing apparitions—just the calm of Cabalian at rest.

So, being the playful and mischievous soul he was, my grandpa came up with an idea.

One afternoon, he went to the nearby stream and gathered a bunch of turtles. That night, he carefully stuck candles onto their shells and released them atop the graves. Because the tombs were elevated, the turtles stayed on top, slowly crawling back and forth as the candles flickered in the wind, their flames dancing with each tiny movement..

From a distance, what people saw were eerie, glowing lights dancing from one grave to another.

Word spread quickly—“The spirits are real!” some cried. Others whispered that it was San Telmo himself, the spirit of fire, roaming the cemetery. The strange lights terrified everyone so thoroughly that no one dared pass by the cemetery at night again.

But the truth?

There were no ghosts. No cursed souls.

Only a young man, a dozen turtles, and one incredibly creative prank.

🕯️ The Lesson:

Not everything we fear is real. Sometimes, fear grows from stories, from what we think we see—not what actually is. But there's another side to this: while curiosity and cleverness are wonderful traits, it's important to remember that our actions can shape others' beliefs and emotions. So let's use our creativity not just to play tricks—but to share light and understanding.

The Day of the "Sanggot nga Bali" Song

When I stepped into second grade at the age of eight, I already had my fair share of mischief. One particular day, I had no intention of going to school, but my mother insisted. Reluctantly, I rushed through my morning routine—quickly taking a bath, eating breakfast, and changing into my uniform.

After getting ready, I said goodbye to my mother and headed off to school.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back home. My mother was bewildered and immediately asked why I had returned so soon. She wondered if classes had been canceled, but she quickly noticed my soaked clothes.

“What happened? Why are you all wet?” she asked.

I responded with all the confidence in the world, “I tripped near the small creek and fell in.”

She sighed, then promptly made me take another bath and change into my old home clothes. Since I was already late, she declared that I wouldn’t be going to school anymore that day.

I was ecstatic!

But don’t ask me why I was so happy, because the real reason is quite something.

The day before, our teacher made an announcement—during our music class, everyone had to sing. And that, my friends, was the root of my troubles.

I had zero knowledge of any song, and even worse, my singing voice was so off-key that even the frogs would get startled if I tried to sing. My classmates were thrilled, teasing me about how they’d finally get to hear my “golden voice.”

Thankfully, I had managed to escape that day.

The next morning, I woke up early, feeling excited to go to school. Since our music lesson was over, I assumed I was safe.

When I arrived at school, we went through the usual flag ceremony and then entered the classroom. As soon as our teacher stepped in, my classmates started laughing and teasing, saying that Ma’am wouldn’t start the lesson until I sang.

Confidently, I told them, “Hey, music class was yesterday. We have a different subject today.”

But one of my classmates chimed in, “Ma’am said yesterday that we won’t start the lesson until Romel sings, since he was the only one absent during music class.”

Then Ma’am spoke. “Romel, your grade in music will be 75 if you don’t sing.”

The teasing continued, and my anxiety started building. My teacher stood her ground and refused to begin the class until I sang something. The pressure was unbearable—I was on the verge of tears!

“Romel, this will really affect your performance in my class. If you don’t sing, you might even fail music because I’ve already given you too many chances,” Ma’am warned.

At that moment, I realized I had no choice but to sing.

“But Ma’am, I don’t know any songs… I do know a poem, though,” I offered.

She shook her head. “That’s different. But you can try singing the poem if you want.”

That was when panic truly set in—I didn’t even have a poem memorized!

Left with no other option, I took a deep breath and sang the first thing that popped into my head. And guess what I sang?

I sang a traditional balitaw song called “Sanggot nga Bali”, inspired by the crooked sickle I had brought to school for our gardening activity.

The song ended. The day ended. But the teasing? That never ended—especially when the song reached my grandfather’s ears!

To this day, whenever my childhood friends bring up elementary school memories, someone always laughs out of nowhere because of the legendary “Sanggot nga Bali.”

And honestly? It’s the kind of embarrassment that’s too hilarious to regret!

The Clever Trick That Got Me Into School

When I was seven years old, excitement bubbled inside me—I was finally going to school! My parents had decided it was time, and so we went to the first-grade classroom to enroll.

The room was alive with the promise of learning. Notebooks filled the desks, pencils and papers were scattered about, and bright Crayola crayons sat neatly atop the tables. In the center of it all was Ma'am Maestra, our teacher, sitting at her desk with an air of authority and warmth.

She greeted my parents, and after a brief conversation, she asked a few simple questions.

“Does he know how to write his name yet? Can he recognize the letters of the alphabet? Can he count a little?”

Mama and Papa exchanged glances. “Just a little,” they admitted.

Ma'am Maestra smiled and nodded. “Alright, I’ll accept him—but first, he needs to pass a small test. He must be able to touch his ear by reaching over his head.”

I was confused. Touch my ear? Over my head? That seemed like such a silly requirement. But apparently, it was the way they checked if a child was physically ready to start school.

I took a deep breath, determined to prove I could do it. Carefully, I lifted my hand, stretched my arm over my head, and reached for my right ear—but it didn’t quite touch. My heart sank. I wasn’t tall enough! My fingers hovered, just short of making contact.

But I refused to let this stop me. I wanted to go to school—I had to go to school. So, I came up with a clever little trick. Without hesitation, I slid my hand subtly behind my head, angling it just right, and—there! I grabbed my ear.

Ma’am Maestra chuckled. Maybe she saw through my trick, but she didn’t say a word.

And just like that, I was officially enrolled.

Since I had enrolled late, the class had already begun. Without hesitation, I stepped inside, eager to start my journey as a student.

Nightfall’s Echoes: A Lone Journey Home

 A Childhood in the Mountains

When I was seven years old, my family lived in the mountains. There were only a few houses in the area, mostly owned by landowners. The smallest piece of land was five hectares, but my grandfather owned over twenty hectares, where life moved with the sun and the rhythms of nature. We didn’t always need to buy things from the village, especially as night approached. But when the need arose, the journey was anything but simple.

Our place was far from the village—about one kilometer away, separated from our home. The path leading there was challenging—it crossed a big river and two smaller streams, with dense vegetation lining both sides. The banana leaves along the way often looked like shadowy figures lurking in the darkness.

The worst part was going to the store alone, especially at night. The path was pitch dark, as it wound under towering coconut trees and fruit-bearing plants. The most thrilling moment was when the fear became too much, and to shake off the fear, I would shout and run all the way home, hoping to scare off any spirits lurking in the shadows. 

If someone heard me, they might have thought I was being chased by a ghost. It was common knowledge in our area that "Tiaw"—mysterious beings with big heads—wandered about at night. Many believed in their presence, and I, too, had my share of spine-chilling experiences.

That was life for a child growing up in the mountains. Have you ever experienced something like this? I surely have.

Life in the mountains was tough back then, nothing like today, where electricity lights up the roads. In the past, the only guide we had in the darkness was the well-trodden path ahead.

Nature’s Warning: A Carabao, A Python, and Divine Protection

The Philippine sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the farmlands. At just seven years old, I took pride in my daily task—herding our male carabao across the vast fields. He was an enormous, gentle beast with tough, dark skin, curved horns, and unwavering strength. Every morning, he followed my lead without hesitation, his hooves sinking into the softened earth as we made our way through the farm.

That day, at exactly ten in the morning, I decided to take him to the creek. The heat was growing unbearable, and I knew he would appreciate the cool water on his thick hide. As we started along the narrow trail, the familiar landscape surrounded us—mini pineapple crops lined the edges, their spiky leaves stretching toward the sun, coconuts swayed high above, and assorted fruit trees spread out in every direction. It was peaceful, serene, the kind of beauty I had grown accustomed to.

As we approached the jackfruit and pomelo trees along the path, I gave the carabao’s rope a gentle tug. He had always been obedient, never needing more than a small nudge. But to my surprise, he halted. His body stiffened, muscles tensed, and his massive hooves dug into the dirt. I pulled harder, coaxing him to move forward. He resisted.

I furrowed my brow, puzzled. "Come on, boy, let's go," I whispered, giving the rope another firm tug.

But the carabao wouldn't budge. Instead, he pulled back. His breathing had changed—short, heavy puffs of air escaping his nostrils, his ears flicking forward in alertness. I sighed, frustrated. Why was he being so stubborn? There was nothing ahead, just the same path we walked every day.

Determined to keep moving, I ignored his resistance and pulled again—this time, stronger. As I leaned into the effort, my gaze accidentally lifted upward.

And then, I froze.

Hanging from the low branches of the pomelo tree, barely a few feet above my head, was the largest python I had ever seen. Its thick, coiled body wrapped around the branch like a monstrous rope, its patterned scales gleaming under the sunlight. My breath hitched as I locked eyes with the creature—it wasn’t just resting. It was watching.

My heart pounded violently against my chest. My entire body felt paralyzed, as if time had stopped in that instant. The python’s enormous head tilted slightly, its forked tongue flickering out, tasting the air. I suddenly realized how close I had come to walking directly beneath it—completely unaware of the danger lurking above.

I didn’t think. I jumped.

Without hesitation, I leapt backward, landing beside my carabao. Before I could even scramble to my feet, he turned sharply and bolted—and I ran right alongside him.

The wind whipped against my face as we raced away from the tree. My legs moved on pure instinct, carrying me forward without thought. The carabao didn’t stop, didn’t look back—he charged forward with an urgency that I had never seen before.

It wasn’t until we reached a safe distance—far from the pomelo tree—that I finally collapsed onto the ground, breathless. My limbs trembled, my chest heaved, and my mind spun. The python. The huge python. If I had taken one more step forward, if I had lingered for even a second longer beneath that branch... it could have dropped down on me.

The realization sent a chill through my bones.

Then, I turned to my carabao—the one who had refused to move forward. He stood a few feet away, his breathing slowing, his dark eyes steady as he watched me.

It dawned on me. He knew.

Even when I hadn't seen the danger, he did. He had sensed it, felt it, understood something that I hadn't. And because of that, he had resisted, had pulled back—had saved me.

A few days earlier, my grandfather had mentioned seeing a python slithering through the pineapple fields, knocking the plants down, leaving behind evidence of its movements. At the time, I had dismissed it. Pythons were just snakes, I thought. Nothing more. But now, I understood. This one was different. It could have killed me.

And yet, something greater had protected me.

I looked up at the vast sky, my chest filling with gratitude. God was watching. Guiding. Guarding. The carabao had been His instrument that day—an unexpected shield, a silent protector who had sensed what I could not.

That moment stayed with me for the rest of my life.