Carmen Ariza Part 21

The house he was in was a typical native three-room dwelling, built of strips of _macana_ palm, set upright and tied together with pieces of slender, tough _bejuco_ vine. The interstices between the strips were filled with mud, and the whole whitewashed. The floors were dirt, trodden hard; the steep-pitched roof was thatched with palm. A few chairs like the one he occupied, the rude, uncovered table, some cheap prints and a battered crucifix on the wall, were the only furnishings of the living room.

While he was eating, the people of the town congregated quietly about the open door. Friendly curiosity to see the new Padre, and sincere desire to welcome him animated their simple minds. Naked babes crawled to the threshold and peeped timidly in. Coa.r.s.ely clad women and young girls, many of the latter bedizened with bits of bright ribbon or cheap trinkets, smiled their gentle greetings.

Black, dignified men, bare of feet, and wearing white cotton trousers and black _ruanas_--the cape affected by the poor males of the inlands--respectfully doffed their straw hats and bowed to him.

Rosendo's wife appeared from the kitchen and extended her hand to him in unfeigned hospitality. Attired in a fresh calico gown, her black hair plastered back over her head and tied with a clean black ribbon, her bare feet encased in hemp sandals, she bore herself with that grace and matronly dignity so indicative of her Spanish forbears, and so particularly characteristic of the inhabitants of this "valley of the pleasant 'yes.'"

Breakfast finished, the priest stepped to the doorway and raised his hand in the invocation that was evidently expected from him.

"_Dominus vobisc.u.m_," he repeated, not mechanically, not insincerely, but in a spirit of benevolence, of genuine well-wishing, which his contact with the child a few minutes before seemed to have aroused.

The people bent their heads piously and murmured, "_Et c.u.m spiritu tuo._"

The open door looked out upon the central _plaza_, where stood a large church of typical colonial design and construction, and with a single lateral bell tower. The building was set well up on a platform of shale, with broad shale steps, much broken and worn, leading up to it on all sides. Jose stepped out and mingled with the crowd, first regarding the old church curiously, and then looking vainly for the little girl, and sighing his disappointment when he did not see her.

In the _plaza_ he was joined by Rosendo; and together they went to the house of the Alcalde. On the way the priest gazed about him with growing curiosity. To the north of the town stretched the lake, known to the residents only by the name of _La Cienaga_. It was a body of water of fair size, in a setting of exquisite tropical beauty. In a temperate climate, and a region more densely populated, this lake would have been priceless. Here in forgotten Guamoco it lay like an undiscovered gem, known only to those few inert and pa.s.sive folk, who enjoyed it with an inadequate sense of its rare beauty and immeasurable worth. Several small and densely wooded isles rose from its unrippled bosom; and tropical birds of brilliant color hovered over it in the morning sun. Near one of its margins Jose distinguished countless white _garzas_, the graceful herons whose plumes yield the coveted aigrette of northern climes. They fed undisturbed, for this region sleeps unmolested, far from the beaten paths of tourist or vandal huntsman. To the west and south lay the hills of Guamoco, and the lofty _Cordilleras_, purpling in the light mist. Over the entire scene spread a damp warmth, like the atmosphere of a hot-house. By midday Jose knew that the heat would be insufferable.

The Alcalde, Don Mario Arvila, conducted his visitors through his shabby little store and into the _patio_ in the rear, exclaiming repeatedly, "Ah, _Senor Padre_, we welcome you! All Simiti welcomes you and kisses your hand!" In the shade of his arbor he sat down to examine Jose's letters from Cartagena.

Don Mario was a large, florid man, huge of girth, with brown skin, heavy jowls, puffed eyes, and bald head. As he read, his eyes snapped, and at times he paused and looked up curiously at the priest. Then, without comment, he folded the letters and put them into a pocket of his crash coat.

"_Bien_," he said politely, "we must have the Padre meet Don Felipe Alcozer as soon as he returns. Some repairs are needed on the church; a few of the roof tiles have slipped, and the rain enters.

Perhaps, _Senor Padre_, you may say the Ma.s.s there next Sunday. We will see. A--a--you had ill.u.s.trious ancestors, Padre," he added with hesitation.

"Do the letters mention my ancestry?" asked Jose with something of mingled surprise and pride.

"They speak of your family, which was, as we all know, quite renowned," replied the Alcalde courteously.

"Very," agreed Jose, wondering how much the Alcalde knew of his family.

"Don Ignacio was not unknown in this _pueblo_," affably continued the Alcalde.

At these words Rosendo started visibly and looked fixedly at the priest.

"The family name of Rincon," the Alcalde went on, "appears on the old records of Simiti in many places, and it is said that Don Ignacio himself came here more than once. Perhaps you know, _Senor Padre_, that the Rincon family erected the church which stands in the _plaza_?

And so it is quite appropriate that their son should officiate in it after all these centuries, is it not?"

No, Jose had not known it. He could not have imagined such a thing. He knew little of his family's history. Of their former vast wealth he had a vague notion. But here in this land of romance and tragedy he seemed to be running upon their reliques everywhere.

The conversation drifted to parish matters; and soon Rosendo urged their departure, as the sun was mounting high.

Seated at the table for the midday lunch, Jose again became lost in contemplation of the child before him. Her fair face flushed under his searching gaze; but she returned a smile of confidence and sweet innocence that held him spellbound. Her great brown eyes were of infinite depth. They expressed a something that he had never seen before in human eyes. What manner of soul lay behind them? What was it that through them looked out into this world of evil? Childish innocence and purity, yes; but vastly more. Was it--G.o.d Himself? Jose started at his own thought. Through his meditations he heard Rosendo's voice.

"Simiti is very old, Padre. In the days of the Spaniards it was a large town, with many rich people. The Indians were all slaves then, and they worked in the mines up there," indicating the distant mountains. "Much gold was brought down here and shipped down the Magdalena, for the _cano_ was wider in those days, and it was not so hard to reach the river. This is the end of the Guamoco trail, which was called in those days the _Camino Real_."

"You say the mines were very rich?" interrogated Jose; not that the question expressed a more than casual interest, but rather to keep Rosendo talking while he studied the child.

But at this question Rosendo suddenly became less loquacious. Jose then felt that he was suspected of prying into matters which Rosendo did not wish to discuss with him, and so he pressed the topic no further.

"How many people did Don Mario say the parish contained?" he asked by way of diverting the conversation.

"About two hundred, Padre."

"And it has been vacant long?"

"Four years."

"Four years since Padre Diego was here," commented Jose casually.

It was an unfortunate remark. At the mention of the former priest's name Dona Maria hurriedly left the table. Rosendo's black face grew even darker, and took on a look of ineffable contempt. He did not reply. And the meal ended in silence.

It was now plain to Jose that Rosendo distrusted him. But it mattered little to the priest, beyond the fact that he had no wish to offend any one. What interest had he in boorish Simiti, or Guamoco? The place was become his tomb--he had entered it to die. The child--the girl!

Ah, yes, she had touched a strange chord within him; and for a time he had seemed to live again. But as the day waned, and pitiless heat and deadly silence brooded over the decayed town, his starving soul sank again into its former depression, and revived hope and interest died within him.

The implacable heat burned through the noon hour; the dusty streets were like the floor of a stone oven; the shale beds upon which the old town rested sent up fiery, quivering waves; the houses seethed; earth and sky were ablaze. How long could he endure it?

And the terrible _ennui_, the isolation, the utter lack of every trace of culture, of the varied interests that feed the educated, trained mind and minister to its comfort and growth--could he support it patiently while awaiting the end? Would he go mad before the final release came? He did not fear death; but he was horror-stricken at the thought of madness! Of losing that rational sense of the Ego which const.i.tuted his normal individuality!

Rosendo advised him to retire for the midday _siesta_. Through the seemingly interminable afternoon he lay upon his hard bed with his brain afire, while the events of his warped life moved before him in spectral review. The week which had pa.s.sed since he left Cartagena seemed an age. When he might hope to receive word from the outside world, he could not imagine. His isolation was now complete. Even should letters succeed in reaching Simiti for him, they must first pa.s.s through the hands of the Alcalde.

And what did the Alcalde know of him? And then, again, what did it matter? He must not lose sight of the fact that his interest in the outside world--nay, his interest in all things had ceased. This was the end. He had yielded, after years of struggle, to pride, fear, doubt. He had bowed before his morbid sense of honor--a perverted sense, he now admitted, but still one which bound him in fetters of steel. His life had been one of grossest inconsistency. He was utterly out of tune with the universe. His incessant clash with the world of people and events had sounded nothing but agonizing discord. And his confusion of thought had become such that, were he asked why he was in Simiti, he could scarcely have told. At length he dropped into a feverish sleep.

The day drew to a close, and the flaming sun rested for a brief moment on the lofty tip of Tolima. Jose awoke, dripping with perspiration, his steaming blood rushing wildly through its throbbing channels.

Blindly he rose from his rough bed and stumbled out of the stifling chamber. The living room was deserted. Who might be in the kitchen, he did not stop to see. Dazed by the garish light and fierce heat, he rushed from the house and over the burning shales toward the lake.

What he intended to do, he knew not. His weltering thought held but a single concept--water! The lake would cool his burning skin--he would wade out into it until it rose to his cracking lips--he would lie down in it, till it quenched the fire in his head--he would sleep in it--he would never leave it--it was cool--perhaps cold! What did the word mean? Was there aught in the world but fire--flames--fierce, withering, smothering, consuming heat? He thought the shales crackled as they melted beneath him! He thought his feet sank to the ankles in molten lava, and were so heavy he scarce could drag them! He thought the blazing sun shot out great tongues of flame, like the arms of a monster devilfish, which twined about him, transforming his blood to vapor and sucking it out through his gaping pores!

A blinding light flashed before him as he reached the margin of the lake. The universe burst into a ball of fire. He clasped his head in his hands--stumbled--and fell, face down, in the tepid waters.

CHAPTER 2

"It was the little Carmen, Padre, who saw you run to the lake. She was sitting at the kitchen door, studying her writing lesson."

The priest essayed to rise from his bed. Night had fallen, and the feeble light of the candle cast heavy shadows over the room, and made grotesque pictures of the black, anxious faces looking in at the grated window.

"But, Rosendo, it--was--a dream--a terrible dream!"

"_Na_, Padre, it was true, for I myself took you from the lake,"

replied Rosendo tenderly.

Jose struggled to a sitting posture, but would have fallen back again had not Rosendo's strong arm supported him. He pa.s.sed his hand slowly across his forehead, as if to brush the mental cobwebs from his awakening brain. Then he inquired feebly:

"What does the doctor say?"

"Padre, there is no doctor in Simiti," Rosendo answered quietly.