Uvlo Knolls

Milkos had lost track of the time. When he came down from the Uvlo Knolls, it was a quarter past midnight. The air felt chill but dry. Up above the stars radiated at full intensity without the artificial industrial lights to dim them, while the moon, up so late and almost full, cast enough light for Milkos to see the land outstretched before him.

Pushing a lock of hair out of his forehead, he turned to where the jeepney stop was. His foremost concern was that, given the lateness of the hour, there might not be transportation to take him home, but the sight of a lone passenger jeep with its dispatcher proved that Milkos was not so much deprived of hope after all. He quickened his pace, and as soon as he was within earshot of the dispatcher, such joy overwhelmed him as that which can only be attained when one hears that one is to board a public transport that will take one home.

Milkos�s immediate ride home, though, was not determined merely by whether or not he could find himself a jeep to ride. A factor that could be as critical as that remained unmet: there weren�t enough passengers for the jeep to depart.

Milkos counted the heads as he came in. Four were on the left side, three on the right, two on the front seat beside the driver, and of course, him, the driver, and the dispatcher outside. He chose the farthest end of the left side seat, the one behind the driver, making sure his knees avoided the trash bin situated at that part of the vehicle.

Having somewhat settled, Milkos had time to make a rough estimate, aided by observation, how much more time he had to wait before the jeepney left the terminal.

There was no question about this being the last trip. Milkos was a regular commuter, and he knew that jeeps stopped coming as early as 11 PM. Being the last trip, then, the ride would have to move as many passengers as what was within the vehicle�s capacity to carry. It was on last trips like this that both the dispatcher and the driver exerted the most effort in calling people to ride, for failing in this job meant that someone would not be coming home tonight. And that this terminal was on the fringes of the UVLO Knolls made the idea of getting stranded a great deal more unpleasant.

Through the narrow window on the side of the vehicle, Milkos glanced back at where he had come down from.

The UVLO Knolls, bright in moonlight, sent chills to his entire body. How did he ever come to this? What events transpired, what people he met, that the Milkos whom he was eighteen years ago, playing jolens in their backyard with his friends, grew up to be the man today, taking a jeep ride home from the UVLO Knolls?

And so his mind drifted back. Names were called up. Faces emerged out of memory, faces he�d always thought he�d forgotten, but came out as rotting corpses do from the grave�

And they were smiling.

Of course there was Ramoun, possibly the most influential person in his life. His deep, contemplative eyes said everything, but his curly hair said more.

He it was who vehemently believed in the existence of the UVLO Seal even if no one else did. Days and nights with no food, only water from a nearby creek, found him sitting with his computing machine. He was deciphering the UVLO Seal, the only device that could unlock the gates to the UVLO Knolls. What made it more complicated was that both the UVLO Seal and UVLO Knolls were mere ideas, not physical objects any living person had ever lain eyes on.

Milkos met him when Ramoun needed his computing machine fixed. Milkos was then a boy of seventeen, a student of ****, on full scholarship granted by some politician who had presidential aspirations. On hours his presence wasn�t needed in school, he helped out as a computing machine repairs personnel in the library of the school next to theirs.

He remembered hearing about a certain Ramoun�s broken computing machine so distinctly as the phone call that saved him from a near fist fight with a bratty kid who insisted he be lent The Awful Tale of Wack Wack, a book that didn�t exist. He was sent promptly to a rural district a two-hour jeep ride away from the university town. (Had he known then, the UVLO Knolls was just an eight-minute uphill trek away from the jeepney terminal.)

He saw Ramoun, a broken man who appeared five months older than his real age. He corrected Milkos as soon as Milkos made this comment. Milkos apologized and said he didn�t mean any insult. Ramoun said it was OK, �nothing�s as it seems these days.�

Ramoun was a man of wisdom. This Milkos didn�t take very long to realize.

�I was born with straight hair,� he related to Milkos some time later. �It�s just this brain activity that is faster and more superior than those of most regular people that�s heating my head up and bascially frying my hair.�

�What do you mean?� Milkos asked, as a reaction to Ramoun�s claim that �nothing�s as it seems these days.�

�How�s Emmna?� Ramoun asked instead, avoiding the question.

So, Milkos thought, that was Ramoun�s link to the university library he was employed at. He knew Emmna.

�The three to five librarian? She�s fine. She�s getting smarter by the day. Accademically smarter, that is. She practically knows the Dewey Decimal System by heart.�

�Oh.�

There was silence after that, an uncomfortable silence shared by two people who have just met. It lasted for about seventeen seconds. At last, Milkos asked: �Is that what you�re still working on now? The UVLO Seal project?�

Ramoun nodded. �Yes, it is,� he even admitted.

Ramoun showed Milkos the broken computing machine, Milkos fixed it, and several years later Milkos was on a jeep waiting for it to fill up so he could go home.

� Jay Santos 2003.