balete
tree that rose in the center, huge, mysterious, venerable, formed of
roots that extended up and down among the confusedly-interlaced trunks.

Pausing before a heap of stones he took off his hat and seemed to be
praying. There his mother was buried, and every time he came to the
town his first visit was to that neglected and unknown grave. Since he
must visit Cabesang Tales' family the next day, he had taken advantage
of the night to perform this duty. Seated on a stone, he seemed to fall
into deep thought. His past rose before him like a long black film,
rosy at first, then shadowy with spots of blood, then black, black,
gray, and then light, ever lighter. The end could not be seen, hidden
as it was by a cloud through which shone lights and the hues of dawn.

Thirteen years before to the day, almost to the hour, his mother
had died there in the deepest distress, on a glorious night when the
moon shone brightly and the Christians of the world were engaged in
rejoicing. Wounded and limping, he had reached there in pursuit of
her--she mad and terrified, fleeing from her son as from a ghost. There
she had died, and there had come a stranger who had commanded him to
build a funeral pyre. He had obeyed mechanically and when he returned
he found a second stranger by the side of the other's corpse. What
a night and what a morning those were! The stranger helped him raise
the pyre, whereon they burned the corpse of the first, dug the grave
in which they buried his mother, and then after giving him some pieces
of money told him to leave the place. It was the first time that he had
seen that man--tall, with blood-shot eyes, pale lips, and a sharp nose.

Entirely alone in the world, without parents or brothers and sisters,
he left the town whose authorities inspired in him such great fear and
went to Manila to work in some rich house and study at the same time,
as many do. His journey was an Odyssey of sleeplessness and startling
surprises, in which hunger counted for little, for he ate the fruits
in the woods, whither he retreated whenever he made out from afar the
uniform of the Civil Guard, a sight that recalled the origin of all
his misfortunes. Once in Manila, ragged and sick, he went from door
to door offering his services. A boy from the provinces who knew not
a single word of Spanish, and sickly besides! Discouraged, hungry, and
miserable, he wandered about the streets, attracting attention by the
wretchedness of