not far from the shores of the laguna de bay lies the town of san diego, surrounded by fertile fields and rice plantations. it exports sugar, rice, coffee, and fruits, or sells them at ridiculously low prices to the chinese, who make large profits out of the credulity and vices of the laborers.
when the sky was serene and the atmosphere clear, the boys used to climb to the very peak of the old moss and vine covered church tower. and what exclamations they would utter when, from that high pinnacle, they looked out at the beautiful panorama that surrounded them. there before them lay a great mass of roofs, some nipa, some thatch, some zinc and some made out of the native grasses. and out of that mass, which here and there gave way to an orchard or a garden, every one of those boys could find his own little home, his own little nest. to them everything was a landmark; every tamarind tree with its light foliage, every cocoanut tree with its load of nuts, every bending cane, every bonga tree, every cross. beyond the town is the crystal river, like a serpent asleep on a carpet of green. here and there, its tranquil surface is broken by rocks projecting from its sandy bottom. in places, it is hemmed in between two high banks, and there the rapidly rushing waters turn and twist the half-bared roots of the overhanging shade trees. but further on it spreads itself out again and becomes calm and peaceful.
but what always attracts attention is a peninsula of forest projecting into this sea of cultivated land. there can be found hollow-trunked trees, a century old, trees which die only when struck by lightning and set on fire. they say, also, that even in that case the fire never spreads to any other tree. this old grove is held in a certain degree of awe, for around it have been woven many strange [41]legends. of these the most probable, and consequently the least known and believed is the following:
when the town was still a miserable group of huts, when weeds grew in abundance in the so-called streets, and deer and wild boar roamed about at night, there arrived one day an old spaniard. his eyes were deep and thoughtful and he spoke tagalog fluently. after visiting the different estates and peddling out some goods he inquired for the owners of this grove, which by the way, also contained several hot water springs. a number of persons claiming to be the owners presented themselves, and the old man purchased from them the grove, paying in exchange some money, jewelry and clothing. a short time afterward he disappeared, no one knew where.
his sudden disappearance made the people think for a time that he had been spirited away, but later on a fetid odor was noticeable near the grove, and some shepherds, upon investigation, found the body of the old man in a badly decomposed condition hanging from the limb of a balit? tree. when alive the old man had terrorized many by his deep and resonant voice, his sunken eyes and his silent laugh, but now that he was dead, and a suicide at that, the mere mention of his name gave the town women nightmare. some of them threw the jewelry that they had bought from him into the river and burned all the clothing, and, for a long time after the body had been buried at the foot of the balit? tree, no one cared to venture near it. all sort of stories became current about the haunted place.
a shepherd, looking for his flock, said that he had seen lights in the grove. a party of young men, passing near the place, heard groans and lamentations. an unfortunate lover, in order to make an impression on the disdainful object of his affections, promised to spend a night under the tree and to bring her a branch from its trunk, but on the next day he was taken ill with a quick fever and died.
before many months had passed, a youth came to the town one day. he was apparently a spanish mestizo, declared himself the son of the dead stranger, and established himself in that far-off corner of the world. he began to farm the land and devoted himself especially to [42]the cultivation of indigo. don saturnino was a taciturn young man, violent and sometimes cruel, but very active and industrious. he built a wall around his father’s grave and, from time to time, went all alone to visit it. a few years later he married a young girl from manila who bore him a son, rafael, the father of crisostomo.
don rafael, from his earliest youth, was fond of farming. under his care, the agriculture which had been started and fostered by his father was rapidly developed. new inhabitants flocked to the vicinity, and among them were a great many chinese. the village grew very fast and was soon supporting a native priest. after it had become a pueblo, the native priest died and father dámaso took his place.
still the grave and the adjoining lands were respected. at times, children, armed with sticks and stones, ventured to wander about, exploring the surrounding country and gathering guayabas, papays, lomboy and other native fruits. then, all of a sudden, while they were busily engaged collecting the fruits, some one would catch a glimpse of the old rope hanging from the balit? tree, and stones would be heard to fall. then some one would cry, “the old man!” “the old man!” dropping fruit, sticks and stones, and leaping from the trees, the boys would flee in all directions through the thickets and between the rocks, not stopping until they emerged from the grove, pale and panting, some laughing, some crying.
you could not say that don rafael, while alive, was the most influential man in san diego, although it is true that he was the richest, owned the most land, and had put almost everybody else under obligations to him. he was modest and always belittled his own deeds. he never tried to form a party of his own, and, as we have already seen, no one came to his aid when his fortune seemed to fail him.
whenever captain tiago arrived in town, his debtors received him with an orchestra, gave him a banquet, and loaded him down with gifts. if a deer or a wild boar was caught he always had a quarter of it for his own table; if any of his debtors found a beautiful horse, within a half hour it would be in the captain’s stable. all of this is [43]true, but still when the captain had his back turned they made fun of him and referred to him as sacristan tiago.
the gobernadorcillo1 was an unhappy fellow who never commanded but always obeyed; he never attacked any one, but was always attacked; he never ordered anybody, but everybody ordered him; and besides, he had to take the responsibility for everything that they had commanded, ordered or disposed. the position had cost him five thousand pesos and many humiliations, but, considering the profits he made, the price was very cheap.
san diego was like rome; not the rome of the time of romulus, when he marked out the walls with a plough, nor when, later, he bathed in his own blood and that of others and dictated laws to the world: no, san diego was like the rome of contemporaneous history, with this difference—instead of being a city of marble, monuments and coliseums, it was a city of saual?2 and cock-pits. the parochial priest of san diego corresponded to the pope in the vatican; the alferez3 of the civil guard to the king of italy in the quirinal, but both in the same proportion as the sauali or native wood and the nipa cock-pits corresponded to the monuments of marble and coliseums. and in san diego, as in rome, there was continual trouble. everybody wanted to be the leading se?or, and there was always some one else in the way. let us describe two of these ambitious citizens.
friar bernando salvi was the young and silent franciscan whom we mentioned in a preceding chapter. he had even more of the customs and manners of his brotherhood than had his predecessor, the violent father dámaso. he was slender, sickly, almost always pensive, and very strict in the fulfillment of his religious duties as well as very careful of his good name. a month after his arrival in the parish almost all the inhabitants became brothers of the “venerable third order,” to the great grief of its rival, “the brotherhood of the most sacred rosary.” his heart leaped with joy at seeing on every neck in the town [44]from four to five scapularies, a knotted cord around every waist, and every funeral procession dressed in habits of guingon. the sacristan mayor or head warden of the order made quite a little capital by selling and giving away all those things considered necessary to save the soul and overcome the devil.
the only enemy of this powerful soul saver, with tendencies in accord with the times, was, as we have already stated, the alferez. the women relate a story of how the devil tried one day to tempt father salvi and how the latter caught him, tied him to the bed post, whipped him with a lash and kept him tied fast for nine days. thus he had been able to conquer the devil entirely. as a result, any one who persisted in being an enemy of the priest was generally considered a worse man than the devil himself—an honor which the alferez alone enjoyed. but he merited this reputation. he had a wife, an old, powdered and painted filipino by the name of do?a consolación. the husband and several other people called her by a different name, but that does not matter. anyway, the alferez was accustomed to drown the sorrows of unhappy wedlock by getting as drunk as a toper. then, when he was thoroughly intoxicated he would order his men to drill in the sun, he himself remaining in the shade, or, perhaps, he would occupy himself in beating his wife.
when her husband was dead drunk, or was snoring away in a siesta, and do?a consolación could not fight with him, then, wearing a blue flannel shirt, she would seat herself in the window, with a cigar in her mouth. she had a dislike of children and so from her window she would scowl and make faces at every girl that passed. the girls, on the other hand, were afraid of her, and would hurry by at a quick pace, never daring to raise their eyes or draw a breath. but say what you may, do?a consolación had one great virtue; she was never known to look into a mirror.
these were the leading people of san diego.
toward the west of san diego, surrounded by rice fields, lies a village of the dead. a single, narrow path, dusty on dry days, and navigable by boats when it rains, leads thither from the town. a wooden gate, and a fence, [45]half stone and half bamboo, seem to separate the cemetery from the people in the town, but not from the goats and sheep of the parochial priest of the immediate vicinity. these animals go in and out to rummage among the tombs or to make that solitary place glad with their presence.
one day a little old man entered the cemetery, his eyes sparkling and his head uncovered. upon seeing him, many laughed, while a number of the women knit their eyebrows in scorn. the old man seemed to take no notice of these manifestations, but went directly toward a pile of skulls, knelt down and began to search among the bones. after he had sorted over with considerable care the skulls one by one, he drew his eyebrows together, as though he did not find what he was looking for, moved his head from side to side, looked in all directions, and finally got up and went over toward a grave-digger.
“eh, there!” he shouted to him.
the grave-digger raised his head.
“do you know where that beautiful skull is, the one white as the meat of a cocoanut, with a complete set of teeth, which i had over there at the foot of the cross under those leaves?”
the grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.
“look you!” added the little old man, bringing out of his pocket a handful of silver. “i have more than that, but i will give it to you if you find the skull for me.”
the glitter of the coin made the grave-digger reflect. he looked over in the direction of the bone pile and said: “isn’t it over there? no? then i don’t know where it is.”
“don’t you know? when my debtors pay me, i will give you more,” continued the old man. “it was my wife’s skull, and if you find it for me——”
“isn’t it there. then i don’t know where it is,” repeated the grave-digger with emphasis. “but i will give you another.”
“you are like the grave that you are digging,” cried the old man irritably. “you don’t know the value of what you lose. for whom is this grave?”
“for a dead person, of course,” replied the bad-humored man. [46]
“like a tomb! like a tomb!” repeated the old man dryly. “you don’t know what you throw out nor what you swallow. dig! dig!”
at this the old man, who was tasio, the village philosopher, turned and started toward the gate.
in the meantime, the grave-digger had finished his job, and two little mounds of fresh, red clay were piled on either side of the grave. he took some betel nut out of his broad-brimmed hat, and began to chew away, looking with an air of stupidity at everything within his horizon. [47]
1 petty governor, the highest local official.
2 trellis work made of reeds.
3 local commander of the civil guard.
