Joseph shook his head slowly. “It would be too much water lost. Besides, there’s no need to go. The stream is coming up.”
Juanito answered without looking up, for he didn’t want to see Joseph’s eyes. “It will be good to see the priest,” he insisted. “You come away from the priest feeling good. Even if it is only a little thing confessed, you feel good.”
“I don’t belong to that church, Juanito. I couldn’t confess.”
Juanito puzzled over that. “Anyone can see Father Angelo,” he said at last. “Men who have not been to church since they were little children come back at last to Father Angelo, like wild pigeons to the water holes in the evening.”
Joseph looked back at the rock. “But the water is coming up,” he said. “There is no need to go now.”
Because Juanito thought the church might help Joseph, he struck slyly. “I have been in this country since I was born, señor, and you have lived here only a little while. There are things you do not know.”
“What things?’ Joseph asked.
Juanita looked him full in the eyes then. “I have seen it many times, señor,” he said in compassion. “Before a spring goes dry it grows a little.”
Joseph looked quickly at the stream. “This is a sign of the end, then?”
“Yes, señor. Unless God interferes, the spring will stop.”
Joseph sat in silence for several minutes, pondering. At last he stood up and lifted his saddle by the horn. “Let’s go to see the priest,” he said harshly.
“Maybe he can’t help,” Juanita said.
Joseph was carrying the saddle to the tethered horse. “I can’t let any chance go by,” he cried.
When the horses were saddled, Joseph threw one more bucket of water over the rock. “I’ll be back before it can get dry,” he said. They cut a straight path across the hills and joined the road far on their way. A dust cloud hung over their trotting horses. The air was chilled and stinging with frost. When they were half way to Nuestra Señora, the wind came up and filled the whole valley with the dust cloud, and spread the dirt in the air until it was a pale yellow mist that obscured the sun. Juanito turned in his saddle and looked to the west, from whence the wind came.
“The fog is on the coast,” he said.
Joseph did not look. “It’s always there. The coast has no danger as long as the ocean lasts.”
Juanito said hopefully, “The wind is from the west, señor.”
But Joseph laughed bitterly. “In any other year we would thatch the stacks and cover the woodpiles. The wind has often been in the west this year.”
“But some time it must rain, señor.”
“Why must it?” The desolate land was harping on Joseph’s temper. He was angry with the bony hills and stripped trees. Only the oaks lived, and they were hiding their life under a sheet of dust.
Joseph and Juanito rode at last into the quiet street of Nuestra Señora. Half the people had gone away, had gone to visit relatives in luckier fields, leaving their houses and their burned yards and their empty chikenpens. Romas came to his door and waved without speaking, and Mrs. Gutierrez peered at them from her window. There were no customers in front of the saloon. When they rode up the street to the squat mud church, the evening of the short winter day was approaching. Two black little boys were playing in the ankle-deep dust of the road. The horsemen tied their beasts to an ancient olive tree.
“I will go into the church to burn a candle,” Juanito said. “Father Angelo’s house is behind. When you are ready to go back, I will be waiting at the house of my father-in-law.” He turned into the church, but Joseph called him back.
“Listen, Juanito. You must not go back with me.”
“I want to go, señor. I am your friend.”
“No,” Joseph said finally. “I do not want you there. I want to be alone.”
Juanito’s eyes dulled with rebellion and hurt. “Yes, my friend,” he said softly, and he went into the open door of the church.
Father Angelo’s little whitewashed house stood directly behind the church. Joseph climbed the steps and knocked at the door, and in a moment Father Angelo opened it. He was dressed in an old cassock over a pair of overalls. His face was paler than it had been, and his eyes were bloodshot with reading. He smiled a greeting. “Come in,” he said.
Joseph stood in a tiny room decorated with a few bright holy pictures. The corners of the room were piled with thick books, bound in sheepskin, old books, from the missions. “My man, Juanita, told me to come,” Joseph said. He felt a tenderness emanating from the priest, and the soft voice soothed him.
“I thought you might come some time,” Father Angelo said. “Sit down. Did the tree fail you, finally?”
Joseph was puzzled. “You spoke about the tree before. What did you know about the tree?”
Father Angelo laughed. “I’m priest enough to recognize a priest. Hadn’t you better call me Father? That’s what all the people do.”
Joseph felt the power of the man before him. “Juanito told me to come, Father.”
“Of course he did, but did the tree fail you at last?”
“My brother killed the tree,” Joseph said sullenly.
Father Angelo looked concerned. “That was bad. That was a stupid thing. It might have made the tree more strong.”
“The tree died,” Joseph said. “The tree is standing dead.”
“And you’ve come to the Church at last?”
Joseph smiled in amusement at his mission. “No, Father,” he said. “I’ve come to ask you to pray for rain. I am from Vermont, Father. They told us things about your church.”
The priest nodded. “Yes, I know the things.”
“But the land is dying,” Joseph cried suddenly. “Pray for rain, Father! Have you prayed for rain?”
Father Angelo lost some of his confidence, then. “I will help you to pray for your soul, my son. The rain will come. We have held mass. The rain will come. God brings the rain and withholds it of his knowledge.”
“How do you know the rain will come? Joseph demanded. “I tell you the land’s dying.”
“The land does not die,” the priest said sharply.
But Joseph looked angrily at him. “How do you know? The deserts were once alive. Because man is sick often, and each time gets well, is that proof that he will never die?”
Father Angelo got out of his chair and stood over Joseph. “You are ill, my son,” he said. “Your body is ill, and your soul is ill. Will you come to the church to make your soul well? Will you believe in Christ and pray help for your soul?”
Joseph leaped up and stood furiously before him. “My soul? To Hell with my soul! I tell you the land is dying. Pray for the land!”
The priest looked into his glaring eyes and felt the frantic fluid of his emotion. “The principal business of God has to do with men,” he said, “and their progress toward heaven, and their punishment in Hell.”
Joseph’s anger left him suddenly. “I will go now, Father,” he said wearily. “I should have known. I’ll go back to the rock now, and wait.”
He moved toward the door, and Father Angelo followed him. “I’ll pray for your soul, my son. There’s too much pain in you.”
“Good-bye, Father, and thank you,” and Joseph strode away into the dark.
When he had gone, Father Angelo went back to his chair. He was shaken by the force of the man. He looked up at one of his pictures, a descent from the cross, and he thought, “Thank God this man has no message. Thank God he has no will to be remembered, to be believed in.” And, in sudden heresy, “else there might be a new Christ here in the West.” Father Angelo got up then, and went into the church. And he prayed for Joseph’s soul before the high altar, and he prayed forgiveness for his own heresy, and then, before he went away, he prayed that the rain might come quickly and save the dying land.
25
JOSEPH tightened his cinch and untied the hair rope from the old olive tree. And then he mounted his horse and turned him in the direction of the ranch. The night had fallen while he was in the priest’s house. It was very dark before the moonrise. Along the street of Our Lady a few lights shone from the windows, blurred by the moisture on the insides of the glass. Before Joseph had gone a hundred feet into the cold night, Juanito rode up beside him.
“I want to go with you, señor,” he said firmly.
Joseph sighed. “No, Juanito, I told you before.”