Joseph whirled on him. “What do you mean?—There was a fly in the cup!”
But Father Angelo smiled wisely and a little sadly at him. “Be careful of the groves, my son. Jesus is a better savior than a hamadryad.” And his smile became tender, for Father Angelo was a wise as well as a learned man.
Joseph started to turn rudely away but then, uncertainly, he swung back. “Do you understand everything, Father?”
“No, my son,” the priest said. “I understand very little, but the Church understands everything. Perplexing things become simple in the Church, and I understand this thing you do,” Father Angelo continued gently. “It is this way: The Devil has owned this country for many thousands of years, Christ for a very few. And as in a newly conquered nation, the old customs are practiced a long time, sometimes secretly and sometimes changing slightly to comply with the tenor of the new rule, so here, my son, some of the old habits persist, even under the dominion of Christ.”
Joseph said, “Thank you. The meat is ready now, I think.”
At the pits the helpers were turning chunks of beef with pitchforks, and the guests, holding tin cups in their hands, had formed a line to the wine cask. First to be served were the guitars, and they drank whiskey, for the sun was high and their work was to be done. They wolfed their food, and while the other people were still eating, the guitars sat on boxes in a half-circle and played softly, bringing their rhythms together, feeling for a mood, so that when the dancing started they might be one passionate instrument. Old Juan, knowing the temper of music, kept their cups full of whiskey.
Now two couples entered the dancing place and stepped sedately through a formal dance, all bowings and slow turnings. The guitars ran trilling melodies into the throb of the beat. The line to the wine barrel formed again, and more couples entered the dancing space, these not so clever as the first few. The guitars sensed the change and took more heavily to the bass strings, and the rhythm grew stout and pounding. The space was filling now with guests who took little care to dance, but, standing arm in arm, thudded their feet on the earth. At the pits the Indians moved up and thanklessly took the bread and meat that was offered. They moved closer to the dancers, then, and gnawed the meat and tore at the hard bread with their teeth. As the rhythm grew heavy and insistent, the Indians shuffled their feet in time and their faces remained blank.
The music did not stop. On it went, and on, pounding and unchanging. Now and then one of the players plucked the unstopped strings while his left hand sought his whiskey cup. Now and then a dancer left the space to move to the wine barrel, toss off a cup and hurry back. There was no dancing in couples any more. Arms were outstretched to embrace everyone within reach, and knees were bent and feet pounded the earth to the slow beating of the guitars. The dancers began in low humming, one note struck deep in the throat, and in off-beat. A quarter-tone came in. More and more voices took up the beat and the quarter-tone. Whole sections of the packed dancing space were bobbing to the rhythm. The humming grew savage and deep and vibrant where at first there had been laughter and shouted jokes. One man had been notable for his height, another for the deepness of his voice; one woman had been beautiful, another ugly and fat, but that was changing. The dancers lost identity. Faces grew rapt, shoulders fell slightly forward, each person became a part of the dancing body, and the soul of the body was the rhythm.
The guitars sat like demons, slitted eyes glittering, conscious of their power yet dreaming of a greater power. And the strings rang on together. Manuel, who had grinned and smirked from embarrassment in the morning, threw back his head and howled a high shrill minor bar with meaningless words. The dancers chanted a deep refrain. The next player added his segment and the chant answered him.
The sun wheeled past meridian and slanted toward the hills, and a high wind soughed out of the west. The dancers, one by one, went back for meat and wine.
Joseph, with glowing eyes, stood apart. His feet moved slightly with the throbbing, and he felt tied to the dancing body, but he did not join it. He thought exultantly: “We have found something here, all of us. In some way we’ve come closer to the earth for a moment.” He was strong with a pleasure as deep as the pounding bass strings, and he began to feel a strange faith arising in him. “Something will come of this. It’s a kind of powerful prayer.” When he looked at the western hills and saw a black cloudhead, high and ominous, coming over from the sea, he knew what was to come. “Of course,” he said, “it will bring the rain. Something must happen when such a charge of prayer is let loose.” He watched with confidence while the towering cloud grew over the mountains and stalked upward toward the sun.
Thomas had gone into the barn when the dancing started, for he was afraid of the wild emotion as an animal is afraid of thunder. The rhythm came into the barn to him now, and he stroked a horse’s neck to soothe himself. After a time he heard a soft sobbing near him and, walking toward it, found Burton kneeling in a stall, whimpering and praying. Then Thomas laughed and caught himself back from fear. “What’s the matter, Burton, don’t you like the fiesta?”
Burton cried angrily, “It’s devil-worship, I tell you! It’s horrible! On our own place! First the devil-worshiping priest and his wooden idols, and then this!”
“What does it remind you of, Burton?” Thomas asked innocently.
“Remind me of? It reminds me of witchcraft and the Black Sabbath. It reminds me of all the devilish heathen practices in the world.”
Thomas said, “Go on with your praying, Burton. Do you know what it puts me in mind of? Why only listen with your ears half-open. It’s like a camp meeting. It’s like a great evangelist enlightening the people.”
“It’s devil-worship,” Burton cried again. “It’s unclean devil-worship, I tell you. If I had known, I would have gone away.”
Thomas laughed harshly and went back to sit on his manger, and he listened to Burton’s praying. It pleased Thomas to hear how Burton’s supplication fell into the rhythm of the guitars.
As Joseph watched the swollen black cloud it seemed not to move, and yet it was eating up the sky, and all suddenly it caught and ate the sun. And so thick and powerful was the cloud that the day went to dusk and the mountains radiated a metallic light, hard and sharp. A moment after the sun had gone, a golden lance of lightning shot from the cloud, and the thunder ran, stumbling and falling, over the mountains’ tops—another quiver of light and a plunge of thunder.
The music and the dancing stopped instantly. The dancers looked upward with sleepy startled eyes, like children wakened and frightened by the grind of an earthquake. They stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, half-awake and wondering, before their reason came back. And then they scurried to the tied horses and began hooking up the surreys, fastening traces and tugs, backing their teams around the poles. The guitars stripped down the buntings and the unused lanterns and slipped them into the saddlebags out of danger of the wet.
In the barn Burton arose to his feet and shouted triumphantly, “It’s God’s voice in anger!”
And Thomas answered him, “Listen again, Burton. It’s a thunderstorm.”
The glancing fires fell like rain from the great cloud now, and the air shook with the impact of thunder. In a few minutes the conveyances were moving out, a line of them toward the village of Our Lady and a few toward the hill ranches. Canvases were up against the coming rain. The horses snorted at the battering of the air and tried to run.
Since the beginning of the dance the Wayne women had sat on Joseph’s porch holding a little aloof from the guests, as hostesses should. Alice had been unable to resist, and she had gone down to the dancing flat. But Elizabeth and Rama sat in rocking-chairs and watched the fiesta.
Now that the cloud had put a cap over the sky, Rama stood up from her chair and prepared to go. “It was a curious thing,” Rama said. “You’ve been quiet today, Elizabeth. Be sure you don’t take cold.”
“I’m all right, Rama. I’ve felt a little dull today, with the excitement and the sadness. Ever since I can remember, parties have made me sad.” All afternoon she had been watching Joseph where he had stood apart from the dancers. She had seen him looking at the sky. “Now he feels the rain.” And when the thunder rolled over, “Joseph will like that. Storms make him glad.” Now that the people were gone and the thunder had walked on over their heads, she continued to watch furtively the lonely figure of her husband.