Carmen Ariza Part 20

The foliage on either side of the channel merged into the hot waves that rose trembling about them. The thin, burning air enveloped the little craft with fire. Jose gasped for breath. His tongue swelled.

His pulse throbbed violently. His skin cracked. The quivering appearance of the atmosphere robbed him of confidence in his own vision. A cloud of insects hung always before his sight. Dead silence lay upon the scene. Not a sound issued from the jungle. Not a bird or animal betrayed its presence. The canoe was edging the Colombian "h.e.l.ls," where even the denizens of the forest dare not venture forth on the low, open _savannas_ in the killing heat of midday.

Jose sank down in the boat, wilting and semi-delirious. Through his dimmed eyes the boatman looked like glowing inhuman things set in flames. Rosendo came to him and placed his straw hat over his face.

Hours, interminable and torturing, seemed to pa.s.s on leaden wings.

Then Juan, deftly swerving his paddle, shot the canoe into a narrow arm, and the garish sunlight was suddenly lost in the densely intertwined branches overhanging the little stream.

"The outlet of _La Cienaga_, Padre," Rosendo offered, laying aside his paddle and taking his long boat pole. "Lake Simiti flows through this and into the Magdalena." For a few moments he held the canoe steady, while from his wallet he drew a few leaves of tobacco and deftly rolled a long, thick cigar.

The real work of the _boga_ now began, and Rosendo with his long punter settled down to the several hours' strenuous grind which was necessary to force the heavy canoe up the little outlet and into the distant lake beyond. Back and forth he traveled through the half-length of the boat, setting the pole well forward in the soft bank, or out into the stream itself, and then, with its end against his shoulder, urging and teasing the craft a few feet at a time against the strong current. Jose imagined, as he dully watched him, that he could see death in the pestiferous effluvia which emanated from the black, slimy mud which every plunge of the long pole brought to the surface of the narrow stream.

The afternoon slowly waned, and the temperature lowered a few degrees.

A warm, animal-like breath drifted languidly out from the moist jungle. The outlet, or _cano_, was heavily shaded throughout its length. Crocodiles lay along its muddy banks, and slid into the water at the approach of the canoe. Huge _iguanas_, the gorgeously colored lizards of tropical America, scurried noisily through the overarching branches. Here and there monkeys peeped curiously at the intruders and chattered excitedly as they swung among the lofty treetops. But for his exhaustion, Jose, as he lay propped up against his trunk, gazing vacantly upon the slowly unrolling panorama of marvelous plant and animal life on either hand, might have imagined himself in a realm of enchantment.

At length the vegetation abruptly ceased; the stream widened; and the canoe entered a broad lake, at the far end of which, three miles distant, its two whitewashed churches and its plastered houses reflecting the red glow of the setting sun, lay the ancient and decayed town of Simiti, the northern outlet of Spain's mediaeval treasure house, at the edge of the forgotten district of Guamoco.

Paddling gently across the unruffled surface of the tepid waters, Rosendo and Juan silently urged the canoe through the fast gathering dusk, and at length drew up on the shaly beach of the old town. As they did so, a little girl, bare of feet and with cl.u.s.tering brown curls, came running out of the darkness.

"Oh, padre Rosendo," she called, "what have you brought me?"

Then, as she saw Rosendo and Juan a.s.sisting the priest from the boat, she drew back abashed.

"Look, Carmencita," whispered Juan to the little maid; "we've brought you a _big_ doll, haven't we?"

Night fell as the priest stepped upon the sh.o.r.e of his new home.

CARMEN ARIZA

BOOK 2

Ay, to save and redeem and restore, s.n.a.t.c.h Saul, the mistake, Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now,--and bid him awake from the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set clear and safe in new light and new life,--a new harmony yet to be run and continued and ended.

--_Browning._

CARMEN ARIZA

CHAPTER 1

Jose de Rincon opened his eyes and turned painfully on his hard bed.

The early sun streamed through the wooden grating before the unglazed window. A slight, tepid breeze stirred the mosquito netting over him.

He was in the single sleeping room of the house. It contained another bed like his own, of rough _macana_ palm strips, over which lay a straw mat and a thin red blanket. Bed springs were unknown in Simiti.

On the rude door, cobwebbed and dusty, a scorpion clung torpidly. From the room beyond he heard subdued voices. His head and limbs ached dully; and frightful memories of the river trip and the awful journey from Badillo sickened him. With painful exertion he stood upon the moist dirt floor and drew on his damp clothes. He had only a vague recollection of the preceding night, but he knew that Rosendo had half led, half dragged him past rows of dimly lighted, ghostly white houses to his own abode, and there had put him to bed.

"_Muy buenos dias, Senor Padre_," Rosendo greeted him, as the priest dragged himself out into the living room. "You have slept long. But the senora will soon have your breakfast. Sit here--not in the sun!"

Rosendo placed one of the rough wooden chairs, with straight cowhide back and seat, near the table.

"Carmencita has gone to the boat for fresh water. But--here she comes.

Pour the _Senor Padre_ a cup, _carita_," addressing a little girl who at that moment entered the doorway, carrying a large earthen bottle on her shoulder. It was the child who had met the boat when the priest arrived the night, before.

"Fill the basin, too, _chiquita_, that the Padre may wash his hands,"

added Rosendo.

The child approached Jose, and with a dignified little courtesy and a frank smile offered him a cup of the lukewarm water. The priest accepted it languidly. But, glancing into her face, his eyes suddenly widened, and the hand that was carrying the tin cup to his lips stopped.

The barefoot girl, clad only in a short, sleeveless calico gown, stood before him like a portrait from an old master. Her skin was almost white, with but a tinge of olive. Her dark brown hair hung in curls to her shoulders and framed a face of rarest beauty. Innocence, purity, and love radiated from her fair features, from her beautifully rounded limbs, from her soft, dark eyes that looked so fearlessly into his own.

Jose felt himself strangely moved. Somewhere deep within his soul a chord had been suddenly struck by the little presence; and the sound was unfamiliar to him. Yet it awakened memories of distant scenes, of old dreams, and forgotten longings. It seemed to echo from realms of his soul that had never been penetrated. The tumult within died away.

The raging thought sank into calm. The man forgot himself, forgot that he had come to Simiti to die. His sorrow vanished. His sufferings faded. He remained conscious only of something that he could not outline, something in the soul of the child, a thing that perhaps he once possessed, and that he knew he yet prized above all else on earth.

He heard Rosendo's voice through an immeasurable distance--

"Leave us now, _chiquita_; the Padre wishes to have his breakfast."

The child without speaking turned obediently; and the priest's eyes followed her until she disappeared into the kitchen.

"We call her 'the smile of G.o.d,'" said Rosendo, noting the priest's absorption, "because she is always happy."

Jose remained sunk in thought. Then--

"A beautiful child!" he murmured. "A wonderfully beautiful child! I had no idea--!"

"Yes, Padre, she is heaven's gift to us poor folk. I sometimes think the angels themselves left her on the river bank."

"On the river bank!" Jose was awake now. "Why--she was not born here?"

"Oh, no, Padre, but in Badillo."

"Ah, then you once lived in Badillo?"

"_Na, Senor Padre_, she is not my child--except that the good G.o.d has given her to me to protect."

"Not your child! Then whose is she?" The priest's voice was unwontedly eager and his manner animated.

But Rosendo fell suddenly quiet and embarra.s.sed, as if he realized that already he had said too much to a stranger. A shade of suspicion seemed to cross his face, and he rose hurriedly and went out into the kitchen. A moment later he returned with the priest's breakfast--two fried eggs, a hot corn _arepa_, fried _platanos_, dried fish, and coffee sweetened with _panela_.

"When you have finished, Padre, we will visit the Alcalde," he said quietly. "I must go down to the lake now to speak with Juan before he goes out to fish."

Jose finished his meal alone. The interest which had been aroused by the child continued to increase without reaction. His torpid soul had been profoundly stirred. For the moment, though he knew not why, life seemed to hold a vague, unshaped interest for him. He began to notice his environment; he even thought he relished the coa.r.s.e food set before him.