“Thank God this man has no message. Thank God he has no will to be remembered, to be believed in.”
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, Juanito, 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 a 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
