The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home

CHAPTER X 60
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.