🏞️ The Land
My grandfather owned a 28-hectare farm nestled in that quiet region, a patchwork of lush bounty: towering coconut trees, rows of abaca and banana, groves of fruits like lanzones, durian, mangoes, guava, star apple, and even avocado and atis. Root crops thrived alongside rice paddies, cornfields, pineapple patches, and vegetable gardens. With over ten workers on rotation for maintenance, it was a place both cultivated and wild—blessed with hills, valleys, and flowing streams weaving like veins through the landscape.
In those streams, they once caught abundant fish, crabs, freshwater shrimp, and even local delicacies like paye—it was paradise.
👣 The Strange Discovery
It all began during one of my grandfather's casual walks. He reached a macopa tree near a stream, where a narra tree stood proudly across. The area was naturally shaded by fruit trees and foliage—yet something felt... off.
The place was suspiciously clean—no fallen leaves, no weeds, not a speck of mess. It was as if the earth itself was being swept. Then came the faint, acrid scent of urine in the air. He shrugged it off, thinking perhaps one of the workers had relieved himself nearby.
But the next day, while gathering shrimp and crustaceans for lunch, he noticed something stranger: the creatures darted away quicker than usual. The stream rippled with tiny disturbances—footsteps? splashes?—that seemed too small and scattered for humans.
He warned his workers, suspecting some had gone ahead and stirred up the water.
“Hey, I haven’t bothered you, so why mess with our lunch plans?”
Suddenly, the splashes stopped. What followed was laughter—tiny, high-pitched giggles echoing through the trees. Then, as if by magic, the shrimp and crabs gathered again ahead. From that moment on, my grandfather and these unseen beings shared a delicate truce—an invisible friendship rooted in mutual respect.
🐃 But Not All Friendships Stay Peaceful
One hot afternoon, my grandfather told a worker to let his toro (bull) rest in the stream after plowing. After lunch, he checked where it had been tethered—only to find the bull nearly drowning.
Shouting, he called the worker back. But when the man arrived, he was stunned: the bull had been tied underwater, its rope fastened not to a stake or post—but to a submerged narra root beneath the stream. It would take a swimmer’s breath to go down there. The worker swore he hadn’t done it.
“Why would I tie the rope down there? I was exhausted from plowing!”
Hurt and angry, my grandfather couldn’t let it go. That bull had helped cultivate his land for years—it wasn’t just an animal, but a partner. He scolded the tiny beings.
“We’ve lived in peace! And now you try to drown the very creature that helped shape this farm?”
After that confrontation, he kindly but firmly asked them to leave the area—to make a new home away from the workers’ paths. Since then, he no longer knew where they lived. But now and then, he’d notice their traces: the same spot unusually tidy, nature kept pristine, as if still visited by unseen caretakers.
🌬️ Belief and Memory
It may sound unbelievable, I know. But I believe him. Back when the land was still whole—before it was divided among the children—I used to wander those areas myself.
Even without seeing anything strange, I always noticed how clean one certain part of the stream was. As if swept. As if watched.
✨ Reflections
This isn’t just a story about duwende—it’s about our connection to nature, respect for the unseen, and how ancestral memory whispers through trees and soil. In a world that too often demands proof, it reminds us that not everything real must be visible.
Thank you for reading.
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