Joseph broke in, “These were words to clothe a naked thing, and the thing is ridiculous in clothes.”
“You see it. I gave up reasons. I do this because it makes me glad. I do it because I like to.”
Joseph nodded eagerly. “You would be uneasy if it were not done. You would feel that something was left unfinished.”
“Yes,” the old man cried loudly. “You understand it. I tried to tell it once before. My listener couldn’t see it. I do it for myself. I can’t tell that it does not help the sun. But it is for me. In the moment, I am the sun. Do you see? I, through the beast, am the sun. I burn in the death.” His eyes glittered with excitement. “Now you know.”
“Yes,” Joseph said. “I know now. I know for you. For me there is a difference that I don’t dare think about yet, but I will think about it.”
“The thing did not come quickly,” the old man said.
“Now it is nearly perfect.” He leaned over and put his hands on Joseph’s knees. “Some time it will be perfect. The sky will be right. The sea will be right. My life will reach a calm level place. The mountains back there will tell me when it is time. Then will be the perfect time, and it will be the last.” He nodded gravely at the slab where the dead pig lay. “When it comes, I, myself, will go over the edge of the world with the sun. Now you know. In every man this thing is hidden. It tries to get out, but a man’s fears distort it. He chokes it back. What does get out is changed—blood on the hands of a statue, emotion over the story of an ancient torture—the giving or drawing of blood in copulation. Why,” he said. “I’ve told the creatures in the cages how it is. They are not afraid. Do you think I am crazy?” he demanded.
Joseph smiled. “Yes, you’re crazy. Thomas says you are. Burton would say you are. It is not thought safe to open a clear path to your soul for the free, undistorted passage of the things that are there. You do well to preach to the beasts in the cage, else you might be in a cage yourself.”
The old man stood up and picked up the pig and carried it away. He brought water and scrubbed the blood off the slab and dusted the ground under it with fresh gravel.
It was almost dark when he had finished cleaning the little pig. A great pale moon looked over the mountains, and its light caught the white-caps as they rose and disappeared. The pounding of the waves on the beach grew louder. Joseph sat in the little cave-like hut and the old man turned pieces of the pig on a spit in the fireplace. He talked quietly about the country.
“The tall sage hides my house,” he said. “There are little cleared places in the sage. I’ve found some of them. In autumn the bucks fight there. I can hear the clashing of their horns at night. In the spring the does bring their spotted fawns to those same places to teach them. They must know many things if they are to live at all—what noises to run from; what the odors mean, how to kill snakes with their front hoofs.” And he said, “The mountains are made of metal; a little layer of rock and then black iron and red copper. It must be so.”
There were footsteps outside the house. Thomas called, “Joseph, where are you?”
Joseph got up from the floor of the hut and went out. “The dinner is waiting. Come in and eat,” he said.
But Thomas protested. “I don’t like to be with this man. I have abalones here. Come down to the beach. We’ll build a fire and eat down there. The moon lights up the trail.”
“But the supper is ready,” Joseph said. “Come in and eat, at least.”
Thomas entered the low house warily, as though he expected some evil beast to pounce upon him out of a dark corner. There was no light except from the fireplace. The old man tore at his meat with his teeth and threw the bones into the fire, and when he was finished, he stared sleepily into the blaze.
Joseph sat beside him. “Where did you come from?” Joseph asked. “What made you come here?”
“What do you say?”
“I say, why did you come here to live alone?” The sleepy eyes cleared for a moment and then drooped sullenly. “I don’t remember,” he said. “I don’t want to remember I would have to think back, looking for what you want. If I do that, I’ll stumble against other things in the past that I don’t want to meddle with. Let it alone.”
Thomas stood up. “I’ll take my blanket out on the cliff to sleep,” he said.
Joseph followed him out of the house, calling “Good-night,’ over his shoulder. The brothers walked in silence toward the cliff and laid their blankets side by side on the ground.
“Let’s ride up the coast tomorrow,” Thomas begged. “I don’t like it here.”
Joseph sat on his blankets and watched the faint far movement of the moonlit sea. “I’m going back tomorrow, Tom,” he said. “I can’t stay away. I must be there in case anything happens.”
“Yes, but we’d planned to stay three days,” Thomas objected. “I’ll need a rest from the dust if I’m to drive the cows a hundred miles, and so will you.”
Joseph sat silent for a long time. “Thomas,” he asked. “Are you asleep yet?”
“No.”
“I’m not going with you, Thomas. You take the cows. I’ll stay with the ranch.”
Thomas rolled up on his elbow. “What are you talking about? Nothing will hurt the ranch. It’s the cows we have to save.”
“You take the cows,” Joseph repeated. “I can’t go away. I’ve thought of going, I’ve put my mind to the act of going, and I can’t. Why, it’d be like leaving a sick person.” Thomas grunted, “Like leaving a dead body! And there’s no harm in that.”
“It isn’t dead,” Joseph protested. “The rain will come next winter, and in the spring the grass will be up and the river will be flowing. You’ll see, Tom. There was some kind of accident that made this. Next spring the ground will be full of water again.”
Thomas jeered: “And you’ll get another wife, and there won’t ever be another drought.”
“It might be so,” Joseph said gently.
“Then come with us to the San Joaquin and help us with the cows.”
Joseph saw lights of a ship passing far out on the ocean, and he watched the lights and held up his finger to see how fast they moved. “I can’t go away,” he said. “This is my land. I don’t know why it’s mine, what makes it mine, but I cannot leave it. In the spring when the grass is up you’ll see. Don’t you remember how the grass was green all over the hills, even in the cracks of the rocks, and how the mustard was yellow? The redwing blackbirds built nests in the mustard stems.”
“I remember it,” Thomas said truculently, “and I remember how it was this morning, burned to a cinder and picked clean. Sure, and I remember the circle of dead cows. I can’t get out too quickly. It’s a treacherous place.” He turned on his side. “We’ll go back tomorrow if you say, so. I hope you won’t stay on the damn place.”
“I’ll have to stay,” Joseph said. “If I went with you, I’d be wanting to start back every moment to see if the rain had fallen yet, or if there was any water in the river. I might as well not go away.”
23
THEY awakened to a world swaddled in grey fog. The house and the sheds were dark shadows in the mist, and from below the cliff the surf sounded muffled and hollow. Their blankets were damp. The moisture clung in fine drops to their faces and hair. Joseph found the old man sitting beside a smoldering fire in his hut, and he said, “We must start back as soon as we can find our horses.”
The old man seemed sad at their going. “I hoped you would stay a little while. I’ve told you my knowledge. I thought you might give me yours.”
Joseph laughed bitterly. “I have none to give. My knowledge has failed. How can we find our horses in the mist?”
“Oh, I’ll get them for you.” He went to the door and whistled shrilly, and in a moment the silver bell began to ring. The burros came trotting in, and the two horses after them.
Joseph and Thomas saddled their horses and tied the blankets on them, and then Joseph turned to say good-bye to the old man, but he had disappeared into the mist, and he didn’t answer when Joseph called.