Velvet Apple (English), Camagón (Spanish), Kamagong (Tagalog)
The whole forest burned with the heat of a forge, of hell, even if the
sun had hidden itself and the thicket lay enveloped in very dense shades and
darkness.
From time to time, the flash of lightning shook the clouds like a crack
of a whip. And after an instant the thunder rumbled in the distance harshly.
The
beautiful birds of spring had sought refuge anywhere they could. The big red,
yellow and white flowers, withered over their bent stems, fell. A swift wind,
hot and cutting like the vapor of a crate, carpeted everything with petals and
shattered leaves.
The green pine tree, trembling and frightened, spoke:
“Old kamagon,
are you not afraid?”
The kamagon smiled:
“Afraid? Of what?...”
“Of the storm that is coming.”
The kamagon
continued smiling:
“Bah!... My friend; not everything has to be enchantment,
light , flowers, and kisses… In the happiest life, there are many days of storm
like this; I have seen so many, so many that now it is all the same to me
whether it’s the fire of sunlight
or the gentle and white light of the full moon that illumines the forest.
Furthermore, the storm passes away, like all things do; youth, love and glory
itself.”
“Yes, but the storm returns…”
“And who tells you that youth, glory, and love do not return?”
The atmosphere was becoming darker, the lightning each time sharper and
almost without interruption, the thunder rumbled nearby; and some great drops
of rain started falling indistinctly, raising a rustle of whiplashes.
In
the agitated forest one could hear the hissing of the reptiles, the screech of
the kalaws, and the groans of the
injured trees. A strong windstorm rose destroying everything in its way,
throwing down nests and tearing down branches… Suddenly a red flame set the
forest on fire, and it was followed by an infernal noise which stirred up the
depths of the earth. Then the first thunderbolt fell, coiling itself like a
snake of crackling embers around the beautiful and proud ilang-ilang, which slowly fell into pieces.
When the devastating roar passed, the kamagon looked at the pine tree with pity. He had been stripped of
all his arrogance, of all his stupid pride, and he seemed harassed and
tremulous, prey of a terror that corroded even the sap of his deepest roots.
Covered by his graceful branches which the rain mercilessly lashed, he seemed
to be crying, shedding all the drops of water that were blown through his
leaves. The kamagon, feeling sorry
for the pine tree, spoke to him then over the tremulous sound of the wild
elements.
“Do not tremble, do not cry, this will pass”
“Oh, grandfather, I am afraid to die!”
“You will not die. You are still young; but if it is written that today
you will stop existing, what difference does that make? Sooner of later it has
to happen. All of us go the same way. It is only a question of some years more
or less.”
The echo of another thunder drowned his voice. Another infernal blaze
blinded them, and both listened as at their very back a poor ilang-ilang tree scorched by the
thunderbolt dryly plunged to the ground…
The pine tree even more terrified, rose in a cry of desperate protest.
“No, he did not want, could not, should not die, and die just like that,
split by a thunderbolt. He was still young, and hardly had he enjoyed the
divine sweetness of April. Why for black fetid death’s sake tear him away from
his silvery nights that smell of flowers and dreams, from his golden days full
of wings and rosy dawns?”
Suddenly he kept silent, shuddered, shaken by a horrible death rattle,
bending the ideal treetop that a thunderbolt now streaked with its blue, red,
green, and yellow phosphorescence, like a long necklace of turquoises, rubies,
emeralds, and sapphires hanging over its dead trunk. The poor pine tree was yet
another dream which was falling, and immense dream of grandeur lost in the
grandeur of the universe!
After a year, during another bright April morning, some woodcutters
invaded the forest.
And among the trunks and fresh branches of the trees which they hacked
down with bolos and axes, they brought with them the withered remains of the
green pine tree and the back kamagon.
And it happened that while the people of the village needed firewood,
the priest of the town needed a big cross for his church. And that was why he
took the trunk of the old kamagon so
he could entrust it to a skilled sculptor.
And
in that same night, while shattered into a thousand pieces, the pine became
ashes in the rustic home-made stoves of the village; the kamagon, converted into a divine cross and adored, was raise over
the holy and humble thrill of prayers.
There it
was humble, black, affectionate, serving as a support for a God who on top of
him was dying and died of love…
Meanwhile the priest over the pulpit began to speak, and his words
penetrated the simple souls of the multitude like stars, like spikenards…
“Blessed are the meek…”
Jesús Balmori
Manila (May 1941)
Translated to English by Pilar E. Mariño
