Chương Chương 10 · Chapter X

The Town

Almost on the margin of the lake, in the midst of meadows and

paddy-fields, lies the town of San Diego. [50] From it sugar, rice,

coffee, and fruits are either exported or sold for a small part of

their value to the Chinese, who exploit the simplicity and vices of

the native farmers.

When on a clear day the boys ascend to the upper part of the church

tower, which is beautified by moss and creeping plants, they break

out into joyful exclamations at the beauty of the scene spread out

before them. In the midst of the clustering roofs of nipa, tiles,

corrugated iron, and palm leaves, separated by groves and gardens,

each one is able to discover his own home, his little nest. Everything

serves as a mark: a tree, that tamarind with its light foliage,

that coco palm laden with nuts, like the Astarte Genetrix, or the

Diana of Ephesus with her numerous breasts, a bending bamboo, an

areca palm, or a cross. Yonder is the river, a huge glassy serpent

sleeping on a green carpet, with rocks, scattered here and there

along its sandy channel, that break its current into ripples. There,

the bed is narrowed between high banks to which the gnarled trees

cling with bared roots; here, it becomes a gentle slope where the

stream widens and eddies about. Farther away, a small hut built on the

edge of the high bank seems to defy the winds, the heights and the

depths, presenting with its slender posts the appearance of a huge,

long-legged bird watching for a reptile to seize upon. Trunks of palm

or other trees with their bark still on them unite the banks by a

shaky and infirm foot-bridge which, if not a very secure crossing,

is nevertheless a wonderful contrivance for gymnastic exercises in

preserving one's balance, a thing not to be despised. The boys bathing

in the river are amused by the difficulties of the old woman crossing

with a basket on her head or by the antics of the old man who moves

tremblingly and loses his staff in the water.

But that which always attracts particular notice is what might be

called a peninsula of forest in the sea of cultivated fields. There

in that wood are century-old trees with hollow trunks, which die only

when their high tops are struck and set on fire by the lightning--and

it is said that the fire always checks itself and dies out in the same

spot. There are huge points of rock which time and nature are clothing

with velvet garments of moss. Layer after layer of dust settles in

the hollows, the rains beat it down, and the birds bring seeds. The

tropical vegetation spreads out luxuriantly in thickets and underbrush,

while curtains of interwoven vines hang from the branches of the trees

and twine about their roots or spread along the ground, as if Flora

were not yet satisfied but must place plant above plant. Mosses and

fungi live upon the cracked trunks, and orchids--graceful guests--twine

in loving embrace with the foliage of the hospitable trees.

Strange legends exist concerning this wood, which is held in awe by

the country folk. The most credible account, and therefore the one

least known and believed, seems to be this. When the town was still

a collection of miserable huts with the grass growing abundantly in

the so-called streets, at the time when the wild boar and deer roamed

about during the nights, there arrived in the place one day an old,

hollow-eyed Spaniard, who spoke Tagalog rather well. After looking

about and inspecting the land, he finally inquired for the owners of

this wood, in which there were hot springs. Some persons who claimed to

be such presented themselves, and the old man acquired it in exchange

for clothes, jewels, and a sum of money. Soon afterward he disappeared

mysteriously. The people thought that he had been spirited away,

when a bad odor from the neighboring wood attracted the attention of

some herdsmen. Tracing this, they found the decaying corpse of the

old Spaniard hanging from the branch of a balete tree. [51] In life

he had inspired fear by his deep, hollow voice, his sunken eyes, and

his mirthless laugh, but now, dead by his own act, he disturbed the

sleep of the women. Some threw the jewels into the river and burned the

clothes, and from the time that the corpse was buried at the foot of

the balete itself, no one willingly ventured near the spot. A belated

herdsman looking for some of his strayed charges told of lights that

he had seen there, and when some venturesome youths went to the place

they heard mournful cries. To win the smiles of his disdainful lady,

a forlorn lover agreed to spend the night there and in proof to wrap

around the trunk a long piece of rattan, but he died of a quick fever

that seized him the very next day. Stories and legends still cluster

about the place.

A few months after the finding of the old Spaniard's body there

appeared a youth, apparently a Spanish mestizo, who said that

he was the son of the deceased. He established himself in the

place and devoted his attention to agriculture, especially the

raising of indigo. Don Saturnino was a silent young man with a

violent disposition, even cruel at times, yet he was energetic and

industrious. He surrounded the grave of his father with a wall,

but visited it only at rare intervals. When he was along in years,

he married a young woman from Manila, and she became the mother of

Don Rafael, the father of Crisostomo. From his youth Don Rafael was a

favorite with the country people. The agricultural methods introduced

and encouraged by his father spread rapidly, new settlers poured in,

the Chinese came, and the settlement became a village with a native

priest. Later the village grew into a town, the priest died, and Fray

Damaso came.

All this time the tomb and the land around it remained

unmolested. Sometimes a crowd of boys armed with clubs and stones would

become bold enough to wander into the place to gather guavas, papayas,

lomboy, and other fruits, but it frequently happened that when their

sport was at its height, or while they gazed in awed silence at the

rotting piece of rope which still swung from the branch, stones would

fall, coming from they knew not where. Then with cries of "The old

man! The old man!" they would throw away fruit and clubs, jump from

the trees, and hurry between the rocks and through the thickets;

nor would they stop running until they were well out of the wood,

some pale and breathless, others weeping, and only a few laughing.