I was a Kakawate tree. I grew on the bank of a river. I had been there for more years than I could remember. And my branches spread out-some of them reaching almost halfway, across the river.
Usually I was covered with green leaves. They grew in such great masses, casting such deep shadow all around, that nothing could grow under me. And when the wind blew, they rustled and danced to their own music.
Once a year I shed off my old leaves. And for a while, I became covered all over with clusters of pinkish-purple flowers. I was beautiful then, and I enjoyed watching my image on the quiet surface of the river.
It was while I was in flower that bumble bees and butterflies came to see me in great swarms. They hovered over my flowers, sucking the nectar in them. They ticked me, but I knew that they meant well. Besides, I liked their company and the strange music they made. And I also needed them. For without them, my flowers could never develop into fruit.
Birds came, too. They danced on my branches, or chased one another in the air above me. They chattered and sang all the time, as they made love to each other. They were wonderful to watch and listen to.
After their love-making, the birds paired off and set about building their nests in the crooks of my branches. Each pair worked together, and they did not stop until their nest was ready.
The nests were made of grass and small twigs, which the birds wove together into what looked like shallow baskets. But they were so strong that they did not fall off, no matter how hard the winds blew.
Soon each mother bird laid her eggs in the nest which she and her mate had build together-sometimes tow, sometimes more. Then she and her mate took turns sitting on the eggs until the eggs were hatched.
The baby birds kept their parents busy form sunrise until sunset. For they seemed to be hungry all the time-crying for food every minute of the day.
But the father bird and the mother bird did not seem to mind. For they were good parents. While one of them kept watch over the nest, ready to protect the young birds from any harm, the other went out in search of food-seeds, small insects, and worms.
This went on until the young birds were able to fly and be on their own. But sometimes they did not have a chance to grow up. For birds had many enemies-men and boys, as well as animals.
Sometimes the parent birds were killed, or caught, while they were in search of food. And the baby birds, with no one to look after them, soon died of cold and hunger, Sometimes too, boys climbed up my branches and raided the nests hidden in them, or even took the nests away with them. And I was sure that the birds would die in the boys’ hands before the day was over.
Boys, I found out, were more cruel than animals. Animals killed birds for food. Boys killed birds for fun. They even laughed when they saw birds suffer. That was why I did not like them.
I did not like boys, even when they came simply to hold picnics under me. I did not mind it when they took off their clothes, climbed up my branches, and dived into the water below. I did not mind it when, using worms for bait, they perched upon my branches – or sat on the grass, leaning against my gnarled trunk-to fish… And I did not mind it when, using my dead twigs for fuel, they cooked the fish that they had caught and the rice that they had brought.
But boys always made a lot of noise. They carved their names in my bark. They cut off my branches for no reason at all. And the heat and smoke of their cooking bothered me.
Worst of all, I owe my first misfortune to the carelessness of boys. One day a group of them. More thoughtless than the others before them, went home without putting off the fire which they had used for their cooking.
The day was hot and dry, so that the fire spread until all the smaller plants around me were in flames. The flames singed my branches and leaves and the smoke choked me.
The wind rose fanning the blaze. For one fleeting moment, I caught sight of my image on the surface of the river. And I saw that I was even more beautiful than when I was a flower. For the flames leaped and dusts with every gusts of wind.
But this time I was afraid. For I was being eaten little by little by the flames. And I could only stand there helplessly, wishing for rain that would not come.
When night came. I was still burning-the flames driving away the darkness. Nothing had remained but my trunk, and that was nothing but a twisted chunk of wood.
My days as a living tree had thus come to an end. For the rains did not come until long after the fire. And by that time, it was already too late. I could no longer grow either new branches or leaves.
Thus I stood, season after season, on the bank of the river. My bark had gone, of course. The soft parts of my wood had rotted away, and nothing was left but the hard core of me.
If at all, however that core of me had become harder than ever before. For its sap had dried up long since, and it was almost like a rock.
This made me hopeful and glad. For that core of me was my only remaining hold of life – or what, for me, had to pass for life. And its hardness and strength were signs that I would last a long time yet.
In the meantime, the river had been eating away the land on which I stood. Against its swift current, my dried-up roots were powerless to hold the soil together. And one night, I finally, after an unusual heavy storm, I found myself drifting about on the flood.
From that time on, I knew no rest. I kept bumping against rocks and against other chunks of wood like me, as I carried away helplessly downstream. And it did not come upon me, until long afterwards, that I had drifted out of sight of the place where I had stood for years and years and years. As the days went on, I learned to make the most of my aimless voyage down the river. For there were a thousand and one things to interest me along the way – carabaos lying lazily in the water, with nothing but their horns and noses showing; naked boys calling to one another, as they swam about in the river; men on salambaos dipping their huge nests into the water, which was swarming with fish; and houses standing in rows along the banks of the river, some of them half hanging over the water.
I passed town after town; each larger and more busy than the one before. How many of them there were, I could not remember for I soon lost count.
Finally, I came to a very large city. The waters of the river were held back by stone embarkments. The river itself was spanned by many bridges. And the buidings taller and more solid-looking than anything that I had seen before, some of them towering over the water.
The city was full of life. People kept hurrying to and fro. Cars and buses kept speeding up and down the streets along the river and across the bridges. And all the time, there was such a noise as had never heard before.
Day and nigh, small boats kept darting up and down the river; while larger ones, with smoke billowing from their smokestacks, lay at anchor along the embarkments. I kept bumping against the boats.
Little by little, the river got more and more salty. Its current was no longer swift. But its surface was broken by bigger and bigger waves.
I must have reached the mouth of the river, for I soon found myself in the open sea. And wave after wave caught hold me, held me aloft, and dashed me down again.
Then a storm broke, and the waves became terrible indeed. They turned to moving mountains, chasing one another across the surface of the sea. And with a mighty roar, they crashed upon one another and upon the sandy shore.
A huge wave carried me on its white crest, so that I could sea the heaving sea all around me, and dashed me against the shore. Then it tried to pull me back toward the deep, but another wave caught hold me and dashed me against the shore again.
How long the waves tossed me back and forth, I was too dizzy to remember. But when the storm had died down, I found myself sandy shore. And the sun shining on me.
Within a few days, I was dry as I could be. And I was lighter in color than I had ever been. For the water and the sun had bleached me.
It was thus that a young man and a young woman found me just before sunset. They had been walking slowly hand in hand, talking and laughing softly. Suddnely, the young woman stopped and said, “Oh, look at that beautiful piece of driftwood.” The young man let got her hand and went down on his knees to look me over carefully. “Its beautiful, isn’t it?” he said after a while. “It looks like a woman in grief.” “Yes,” answered the young woman, also going down on her knees. “It looks as though someone had carved it.” The elements have carved it sure,” said the young man. “Fire and water and wind and the sun-they’re better artist than man. Only they, working together, can produce such things of beauty as this piece of driftwood.”
The young man and the young woman took me their new home. And now, I occupy the place of honor in their living room; and they almost always ask questions, or make comments about me.
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