The Thorn in the Sugarcane

In the rolling plains of Negros Island, where sugarcane fields stretched as far as the eye could see, life moved to the rhythm of the harvest. The air was always thick with the scent of ripening cane, and the farmers who worked the land knew nothing but the sweetness of their crops and the labor that fed their families.

It was in this simple, isolated community that Rose was found as an infant, wrapped in a dirty cloth and abandoned at the edge of the cane fields. No one knew where she had come from or who had left her, but the villagers, kind and tight-knit, took her in as their own. She was raised by everyone, treated like the collective daughter of the field workers. And yet, from the very beginning, there was something unsettling about Rose.

Her beauty was undeniable—skin tanned by the sun, hair as dark as the shadows between the cane stalks, and eyes so deep they seemed to hide secrets. But there was an eerie calm about her, a quiet that made even the most compassionate of the villagers uneasy. Rose rarely spoke, and when she did, her words were measured, as though every sentence she spoke had been carefully chosen.

By the time Rose was a teenager, the community had come to accept that her strangeness was just part of who she was. But then the deaths began.

Mang Ernesto, a seasoned foreman who had worked the fields for decades, was the first. His body was found at dawn, lying among the sugarcane with a deep slash across his throat, the kind of wound inflicted by a sugarcane knife. The police came, asked questions, but left without answers. Accidents happened on plantations. The villagers, shaken but practical, buried Ernesto and carried on.

But something gnawed at them. On the day of his death, Ernesto had been seen talking to Rose. They had walked together into the fields, and only Rose had returned. The whispers began to spread, but no one had the courage to accuse her. After all, how could the girl they had raised be capable of such a brutal act?

Still, they watched her more closely.

As the years went by, more deaths followed. A young man who had been courting Rose was found lifeless near the river, his face frozen in an expression of terror. An elderly woman, who had often cared for Rose as a child, was discovered dead in her home, no sign of injury, no clear cause. The villagers murmured of curses and spirits, but the quiet accusation lingered in the back of their minds: Rose.

Despite their suspicions, no one confronted her. She continued to live among them, working the fields with the same quiet intensity as ever, her hands moving deftly through the cane with the machete she always carried. And all the while, her eyes seemed to follow everyone, cold and unreadable.

Then, one day, Tomas, a five-year-old boy who adored Rose, disappeared. His mother had last seen him playing near the sugarcane, laughing as he chased after her. The village erupted into chaos, search parties combing the fields for days, calling out his name, but finding nothing.

Fear gripped the community like a vice. The whispers about Rose grew louder, more urgent. They had loved her once, had raised her as one of their own, but now the villagers began to see her differently. The kindness that had once shaped their view of Rose was replaced by dread. If Tomas was not found, they feared that the darkness surrounding her would only grow.

The village elders finally gathered to confront Rose. They brought her to the center of the village, beneath the old acacia tree, their voices stern but their eyes filled with the sorrow of a difficult decision. They asked her if she knew what had happened to Tomas.

Rose stood silently for a long time. Then, without emotion, she spoke.

"The fields hide what they wish to keep," she said. "Some things are better left undisturbed."

Her words sent a chill through the crowd. There was no remorse, no fear—only certainty. The elders, weary and unsure, decided that Rose could no longer stay. Whether she was guilty or not, the danger she represented was too great.

That night, under a full moon, Rose was exiled. She walked alone into the sugarcane fields, disappearing into the thick stalks that had been her home for so long. The villagers watched her go, their hearts heavy, their fears unspoken. No one followed her. They never saw her again.

But the cane fields were never the same after that. Some said that on quiet nights, when the wind blew just right, they could hear soft footsteps between the rows, and sometimes a low, haunting laugh. The fields continued to thrive, yielding bountiful harvests, but there was a weight in the air, a sense that something—or someone—still lingered among the stalks.

The villagers never spoke of Rose again, but they all knew her story. And though they carried on, they knew that the thorn they had raised in the heart of their community had left its mark forever.

The sugarcane was sweet, but the land it grew on now held a secret darker than any shadow.