Every mythology is grounded in reality. From the god of the sea to the god of agriculture, all of them have guided the communities they are serving. But they have also witnessed shared struggles. These stories reveal a common thread: Climate crises always stem from the relentless greed to utilize resources to their very core, afflicting the gods and plaguing the environment.

Dalangin sa Lupain 

By Jasnyl Drek Inocentes

Himala na lamang ang naging sandigan ni Ka Bino upang matugunan ang arawang pangangailangan ng kanyang pamilya. Buhat ng kanyang lunggati at desperasyon, sa kanyang sapantaha, tutupdin ng diyos ng agrikultura na si Lakapati ang kanilang mga panalangin. 

Dalawang linggo na rin kasing nagpupuyos sa galit ang araw. Bitak-bitak na ang lupang dating tigib sa pananim, walang maayos na irigasyon sa sakahan, hapo ang mga alagang hayop, at wasak ang mga palay. 

Kaya sa kabilugan ng buwan, tangan nina Ka Bino ang kanilang inimpok na pagkain patungong sakahan. Lumuhod sila upang isakatuparan ang isang ritwal. Itinataas nila ang hawak na mga anak habang nagsusumamo ng paggabay: “Lakapati, pakanin mo yaong alipin mo, huwag mo gutumin.”

Tanging si Lakapati lamang ang pinaniniwalaan nilang mayroong kapangyarihang puspusin ng kasaganahan ang lupain. Hindi maatim nina Ka Bino na lapitan ang among si Don Maximo, gayong naniningil ito ng rentang kailangang bunuin ng ilang araw sa sakahang said na. Gagap nilang si Don Maximo rin mismo ang sanhi ng kagutuman, sapagkat idinidildil niya na palay lamang ang kanilang maaaring itanim sa buong taon—hindi para sa kanila, kundi para sa pangangailangan ng ibang merkado. 

Kaya upang mabilis itong maisakatuparan, laging nagmamando si Don Maximo na gumamit ng labis-labis na pataba at pesticide. Sa tuwing babalikan tuloy nina Ka Bino ang sakahan, hindi nila maiwasang mapansin ang bitak at putla ng lupa. Lalo lamang din itong lumubha dulot ng tumitinding init at tagtuyot noong mga nagdaang taon. 

Dahil iisa ang buhay ng lupa at ni Lakapati, katumbas ng pagmamalabis dito ang pagparam ng presensya ng diyos. Unti-unting napigtal ang kanyang mahabang buhok, nagkaroon ng lamat ang kanyang katawan, at nagmaliw ang kapangyarihan.

Habang humihina si Lakapati at halos wala nang maiuwing pagkain sina Ka Bino, isa lamang ang hindi kailanman nagbago: ang laki ng ganansya at pagmamay-ari ni Don Maximo sa hacienda.

Dito, nabatid nina Ka Bino na silang mga magsasaka, maging ang kanilang diyos, ang umaani ng mapanghamak na epekto ng mga gawaing itinutulak nina Don Maximo upang magkamal ng labis na tubo. 

Kaya ngayon, sa halip na pawang mga alay at dasal, bitbit din ng mga magsasaka ang diwa ng pagkakaisa. Tumambad man sa kanila ang mga bala mula sa hacienda, hindi nito masusupil ang panawagang panagutin ang mga umaabuso ng kanilang lupa. 

Silang mga magsasaka na mismo ang maghahatid ng himalang inaasam–hanggang sa masilayang muli ang masaganang ani, hanggang sa manumbalik si Lakapati. ●

Beneath the Fevered Sky

By Amery Andrada

“Why has the sky turned feverish?” Mapulon wondered as he stepped into the forests, only to see wavering flames and flood aftershocks. He could no longer hear the rhythm of the skies because of its discord and turbulence.

As the god of seasons stood atop the mountain, he looked down to see that the city was also burning with fever. The city was filled with heat, mosquitoes fled among stagnant waters, and endless coughs echoed from different people. From those coughs emerged a wave of diseases which awakened the god of health, Akasi, from his slumber. He looked at the sky and rushed to the top of the mountain. 

Akasi then stood beside Mapulon, “You’ve let your seasons turn violent! You’ve summoned a heat catastrophe!” 

“No, no, no, Akasi. This is not me this time.” Mapulon’s stoic expression lingered towards Akasi. “It’s them.” 

From their view above the mountains, they witnessed trees fall on one another. Plastics burned in an open fire, black smoke rising and suffocating the sky. Rivers bled oil and waste, and the waters all drowned in poison. Children played on cracked asphalt, their coughs heard and unending. Sickness lingered and yet, these people expected healing. 

Wanting to learn more, Akasi walked down the city beneath the mountains, where the air pulsed with a strange fever, a world with broken rhythm, between heat and rain. He began with the most burdened place where “dengue fever” clung through bodies like shadows, stirred by the turbulence of seasons.

As Akasi delved deeper into the city, he saw towering machines exhaling smoke into the sky bruised with heat. The earth below trembled—from factories, exhausts, and cities that never slept. These Illnesses spurred not from myth, but from a world choking on its own breath. 

It was worse than he thought. Akasi uttered to himself, “I cannot stitch wounds made by a world that refuses to change.” 

No fire rained from the heavens, no flood swept the streets. But beneath the fevered sky, people are finally seeing beyond the smoke. In hospitals and clinics, healers tend to children with illnesses. While others plant seeds and saplings in ash-covered soil, hoping they take root. And in the streets, voices rose like wildfire, going against factories that disrupted the rhythms of the wind. 

Whether the songs of the season return—only time, and their will, shall know. ●

Rising with the Tide

By Bianca Arceo

Aman Sinaya was the fisherfolk’s protector, the god whose whispers guided their sails and pointed to the fish. The sea was more than water; it was a companion. And Aman Sinaya was the heartbeat of the ocean that pulsed beneath their boats.

But the once-peaceful hum of Aman Sinaya swelled into an uproar, clashing with the engines’ bellow, growing more unforgiving with every clang of metal. It was as if the sea itself had awakened—no longer whispering lullabies to the shore. It was change, but not the kind the fisherfolk had hoped for. 

Claws of metal tore into the shore. Posters of the reclamation project littered the coastline—bold words, smiling faces, promises of progress. Where fish once danced, now lies gravel and cement. The government called it “development.” To the fisherfolk, it was the end of life.

They injected oil into Aman Sinai’s veins, plastic into his lungs, and a suffocating heat that sought to silence his every plea. But he is a god, one who refuses to surrender easily. Every attempt to choke him became a catalyst for his vengeful resurgence.

“They’re gone,” said one fisherman as he looked out at the sea. What was once a home has now vanished. On his left, he saw families packing their belongings. Their homes were plucked like shells from the shore. Where laughter once lingered, only the hush of exile remained. 

The fisherman spoke, "They don't know what they're doing." He looked down at his feet, now in rising water, the tides slowly swallowing the shoreline. It was a quiet warning: the sea level rising, interacting with the extreme heat clinging to the morning air.

The sea crept higher, swallowing the shore inch by inch. The nets hung limp and empty, the fish gone without a trace. The government called it progress, but the fisherfolk knew better. The world is tipping—marine life is depleting, floods are coming faster, and coastlines are shrinking by the day.

The tides still rose, but so did the fisherfolk. They were relocated but unbroken, raising their hands in defiance. Through the heat, their march thundered—not just in protest, but in fierce reclamation of their land and sea. In their resistance, they became what the now rancorous Aman Sinaya once was: guardians of the ocean and keepers of its future. ●

Suspended in Storm and Heat

By Liyanah Canasa

“Kapag umuulan habang umaaraw, may kinakasal na tikbalang,” the elders used to say.

Maya had always pictured it: tall creatures in barong, hooves damp from grass, sunlight glinting off their mane as it stood beneath a veil of rain. As a child, it felt like magic. Now, she only looked up to the sky and wondered which god was angry this time.

The ceiling fan spun uselessly overhead. Sweat clung to her back. Around her, students fanned themselves with notebooks, some clutching mini fans aimed at their faces. The air was thick, unmoving.

A teacher stepped into the classroom, phone in hand. “Quezon City just posted,” she said. “Classes are suspended.”

No one cheered. Just the rustle of bags, the creak of chairs, and the tired shuffle of students leaving early, half of whom had barely made it to school. It was the third suspension in a week, not because of a storm or flood, but because of the heat.

Outside, the sun scorched—Apolaki’s fury on full display. The asphalt burned, and shade was scarce. The government had introduced online classes as a solution, but for Maya, it meant scrambling to find a place with a steady internet. And the heat that once filled the classroom now pressed in on her from every corner of her home.

But just months earlier, it had been the rain. The shift came like whiplash, offering no time to recover.

Anitun Tabu came in gusts, pouring herself across the city. Floodwater climbed curbs. In schools, students tiptoed through classrooms with damp socks. Days later, another suspension. This time, they waded home through brown water along streets, still waiting for long-promised flood control projects yet to be materialized. 

People blamed the gods. But Maya knew the gods had always been there. It was the industries and governments that turned their backs: clearing forests for buildings, polluting the seas, and choking the air with smoke. Heat and rain no longer followed season or reason. Now, they arrived hand in hand, like old gods forced into a dance they never asked for.

Officials called it caution. But class suspensions were not solutions— just pauses in between disasters.

Once again, Maya sat through her online class when she heard the patter of rain on the roof, the sun shining brightly through her window. Maybe this time it was not a wedding at all—just the gods colliding overhead. Not in joy, but in protest. Not a celebration, but a warning people could no longer afford to ignore. ●