Bunoy and the Encantada

In the quiet town somewhere in Pangasinan, there stood a giant acacia tree in the middle of the schoolyard. It was older than the school itself—its branches wide like arms, its trunk thick as a house. The teachers often told children not to play too close to it.

"That tree is old," they’d say. "It watches."

But one warm afternoon during recess, Bunoy, a curious and playful boy, wandered beneath its shade. He loved how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, how the breeze seemed to whisper secrets. As he stepped closer to the trunk, a sudden gust of wind whipped around him, strong and sharp like a slap. It knocked him down flat on his behind.

His friends laughed, thinking he had slipped.

But Bunoy didn’t laugh. He just sat there, staring at the tree. Something in his chest stirred—something he didn’t understand.

That night, Bunoy couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, feeling cold one moment and burning hot the next. For days, he became restless, distant, and pale. He stopped playing. He barely ate. His eyes seemed to look at things not in front of him.

“It seems someone is following my son,” his mother whispered to her neighbor. “Something’s wrong.”

Being a woman of old beliefs, she took Bunoy to a bawanen—a local witch doctor who was an expert known to speak with spirits.

The bawanen was a serious, quiet man with silver hair and eyes like glass. He brought out a shiny blade, clean and sharp, and stood Bunoy upright in his small nipa hut. With a low chant and a flick of the wrist, he placed the knife upright on Bunoy’s back.

Everyone held their breath.

The knife stuck, not falling. It was as if it had been pulled by a magnet.

“An evil spell has been cast,” the bawanen said. “And the spirit is not ordinary. It is... an encantada.”

Bunoy’s mother gasped.

The bawanen sat cross-legged on the floor and began chanting again—this time calling out, not just testing. His voice rose and fell like the wind in the trees. Minutes passed. Then...

The flame of the candle beside them flickered blue.

“She is here,” the bawanen whispered. “And she has something to say.”

Through the bawanen’s voice, the encantada spoke.

“I am the guardian of the acacia. I have protected the treasure buried at its roots for three hundred years. But I grow weary. I wish to pass it on—not to just anyone, but to someone who saw me. Someone I chose. That someone... is the boy.”

The room grew cold.

The treasure, the encantada said, was ancient gold left behind by fleeing warriors during the time of the Spaniards. Her spirit was bound to guard it. But now, she wanted freedom. If Bunoy accepted the burden, the gold would be his—and the duty of protection would pass to him.

Bunoy’s mother trembled.

“And what will happen to my son?” she asked.

“He will grow old slowly. He will never be truly free. He will see things others do not. And if he fails to guard it... he will vanish, just as I was once cursed to remain.”

“No,” his mother whispered. “I won’t allow it.”

The bawanen nodded and turned to the flame once more.

He whispered to the encantada, “The mother refuses. Find another guardian.”

There was silence.

Then the wind blew out the candle.

A moment later, Bunoy blinked—and smiled, as if waking from a deep sleep.

He was back.

From that day forward, Bunoy’s sickness vanished. He laughed again, played again, and even dared to walk near the acacia tree.

But he never stepped too close.

Because sometimes, on windless afternoons, the leaves still rustled on their own. And on quiet nights, when the moon was thin, he thought he heard a woman’s voice whispering in the breeze:

“The treasure waits... for the one who dares.”

And so the Encantada of the Acacia still watches, waiting for her chosen one.

Base Reference:

Clark, Jordan (August 3, 2021).  “Deities, Myths and Sorcery of the Pangasinense.”  https://www.aswangproject.com/deities-myths-pangasinense/