To a God Unknown

by John Steinbeck

He looked slowly over at her. “I’ve thought of going there, too. There’s a spring in the grove, and I want to see if it is dried up like all the rest.” His eyes grew more animated as he thought of the circle in the pines. The rock had been so green when he saw it last. “That must be a deep spring, I don’t see how it could dry up,” he said.

When I was carrying the child, little things grew huge. I didn’t find the path, going in. I broke my way through the underbrush, and then I came into the circle.

“Well, as I say, it was my condition. When I was carrying the child, little things grew huge. I didn’t find the path, going in. I broke my way through the underbrush, and then I came into the circle. It was quiet, Joseph, more quiet than anything I’ve ever known. I sat in front of the rock because that place seemed saturated with peace. It seemed to be giving me something I needed.” In speaking of it, the feeling came back to her. She brushed her hair over her ears, and the wide-set eyes looked far off. “And I loved the rock. It’s hard to describe. I loved the rock more than you or the baby or myself. And this is harder to say: While I sat there I went into the rock. The little stream was flowing out of me and I was the rock, and the rock was—I don’t know—the rock was the strongest dearest thing in the world.” She looked nervously about the room. Her fingers picked at her skirt. The thing she had intended to tell as a joke was forcing itself back upon her.

The sky was misty clear when he went back across the yard. He thought he could see a pale ring around the moon, but it was so faint that he could not be sure.

Far off on a hillside they saw a dead cow, almost covered by slow gluttonous buzzards. “I hope we don’t get to windward of that, Joseph.” He looked away from the feast. “They don’t give meat a chance to spoil,” he said. “I’ve seen them standing in a circle around a dying animal, waiting for the moment of death. They know that moment.”

He lifted his head and sniffed the wind. “I can smell the salt,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought you here, Elizabeth, to make you sad.” “But it’s a good full sadness, dear. It’s a luxurious sadness. I can remember how the pools were in the early morning at low tide, glistening and damp, the crabs scrambling over the rocks, and the little eels under the round stones.

“It’s lovely moss, Joseph. See how deep.” She pulled out a handful and held up the damp black roots for him to see. “I’ll never dream of you any more,” she said to the rock.

Elizabeth leaned down and looked into the dark cave from which the stream flowed. “Nothing in there,” she said. “Just a deep hole in the rock, and the smell of wet ground.” She stood up again and patted the shaggy sides of the rock. “It’s lovely moss, Joseph. See how deep.” She pulled out a handful and held up the damp black roots for him to see. “I’ll never dream of you any more,” she said to the rock. The sky was dark grey by now, and the sun had gone.

“I’ll climb up on its back and tame it.”

Elizabeth still stood beside the rock. “You think I’m silly, don’t you, Joseph,” she called. “I’ll climb up on its back and tame it.” She dug her heel into the steep side of the mossy rock, and made a step and pulled herself up, and then another.

Her heel dug for a third step. And then the moss stripped off a little. Her hands gripped the moss and tore it out. Joseph saw her head describe a little arc and strike the ground. As he ran toward her, she turned slowly on her side. Her whole body shuddered violently for a second, and then relaxed.

Her heel dug for a third step. And then the moss stripped off a little. Her hands gripped the moss and tore it out. Joseph saw her head describe a little arc and strike the ground. As he ran toward her, she turned slowly on her side. Her whole body shuddered violently for a second, and then relaxed. He stood over her for an instant before he ran to the spring and filled his hands with water. But when he came back to her, he let the water fall to the ground, for he saw the position of her neck, and the grey that was stealing into her cheeks. He sat stolidly on the ground beside her, and mechanically picked up her hand and opened the fingers clenched full of pine needles. He felt for her pulse and found none there. Joseph put her hand gently down as though he feared to awaken her. He said aloud, “I don’t know what it is.” The icy chill was creeping inward upon him. “I should turn her over,” he thought. “I should take her home.” He looked at the black scars on the rock where her heels had dug a moment before. “It was too simple, too easy, too quick,” he said aloud. “It was too quick.” He knew that his mind could not grasp what had happened. He tried to make himself realize it. “All the stories, all the incidents that made the life were stopped in a second—opinions stopped, and the ability to feel, all stopped without any meaning.” He wanted to make himself know what happened, for he could feel the beginning of the calm settling upon him. He wanted to cry out once in personal pain before he was cut off and unable to feel sorrow or resentment. There were little stinging drops of cold on his head. He looked up and saw that it was raining gently. The drops fell on Elizabeth’s cheeks and flashed in her hair. The calm was settling on Joseph. He said, “Good-bye, Elizabeth,” and before the words were completely out he was cut off and aloof. He removed his coat and laid it over her head. “It was the one chance to communicate,” he said. “Now it is gone.”

“Homer is thought to have lived nine hundred years before Christ.”

There was a dull rainbow in the east, fastened by its ends to the hills. Joseph turned the extra horse loose to follow. He slung his burden to one shoulder while he mounted his horse, and then settled the loose bundle on the saddle in front of him. The sun broke through and flashed on the windows of the farm buildings below him. The rain had stopped now; the clouds withdrew toward the ocean again. Joseph thought of the Italians on the rocks, cracking sea urchins to eat on their bread. And then his mind went back to a thing Elizabeth had said ages before. “Homer is thought to have lived nine hundred years before Christ.” He said it over and over, “before Christ, before Christ. Dear earth, dear land! Rama will be sorry. She can’t know. The forces gather and center and become one and strong. Even I will join the center.” He shifted the bundle to rest his arm. And he knew how he loved the rock, and hated it. The lids drew halfway down over his eyes with fatigue. “Yes, Rama will be sorry. She will have to help me with the baby.”

“The moss skinned off. Just a little fall. You wouldn’t believe it. I thought at first she had only fainted. I brought water before I saw.”

“When that pool is gone the beasts will die,” he thought, “or maybe they’ll move over the ridge.”

Thomas turned away and walked toward his own house, carrying the body of Elizabeth. For the first time that he could remember, Thomas was crying. Joseph watched him until he climbed the steps, and then he walked away at a quick pace, nearly a run. He came to the dry river and hurried up it, over the round smooth stones. The sun was going down in the mouth of the Puerto Suelo, and the clouds that had rained a little towered in the east like red walls and threw back a red light on the land and made the leafless trees purple. Joseph hurried on up the river. “There was a deep pool,” he thought. “It couldn’t be all dry, it was too deep.” For at least a mile he went up the stream bed, and at last he found the pool, deep and brown and ill-smelling. In the dusk-light he could see the big black eels moving about in slow convolutions. The pool was surrounded on two sides by round, smooth boulders. In better times a little waterfall plunged into it. The third side gave on a sandy beach, cut and trampled with the tracks of animals; the dainty spear-heads of deer and the pads of lions and the little hands of racoons, and over everything the miring spread of wild pigs’ hoofs. Joseph climbed to the top of one of the water-worn boulders and sat down, clasping one knee in his arms. He shivered a little with the cold, although he did not feel it. As he stared down into the pool, the whole day passed before him, not as a day, but as an epoch. He remembered little gestures he had not known he saw. Elizabeth’s words came back to him, so true in intonation, so complete in emphasis that he thought he really heard them again. The words sounded in his ears. “This is the storm,” he thought. “This is the beginning of the thing I knew. There is some cycle here, steady and quick and unchangeable as a fly-wheel.” And the tired thought came to him that if he gazed into the pool and cleaned his mind of every cluttering picture he might come to know the cycle. There came a sharp grunting from the brush. Joseph lost his thought and looked toward the beach. Five lean wild pigs and one great curved-tusked boar came into the open and approached the water. They drank cautiously, and then wading noisily into the water they began to catch the eels and to eat them while the slimy fish slapped and struggled in their mouths. Two pigs caught one eel and squalling angrily tore it in two, and each chewed up its portion. The night was almost down before they waded back to the beach and drank once more. Suddenly there came a flash of yellow light. One of the pigs fell under the furious ray. There was a crunch of bone and a shrill screaming, and then the ray arched its back as the lean and sleek lion looked around and leaped back from the charging boar. The boar snorted at its dead and then whirled and led the four others into the brush. Joseph stood up and the lion watched him, lashing its tail. “If I could only shoot you,” Joseph said aloud, “there would be an end and a new beginning. But I have no gun. Go on with your dinner.” He climbed down from the rock and walked away, through the trees. “When that pool is gone the beasts will die,” he thought, “or maybe they’ll move over the ridge.” He walked slowly back to the ranch, reluctant to go, and yet fearing a little to be out in the night. He thought how a new bond tied him to the earth, and how this land of his was closer now.

One cannot be dead until the things he changed are dead. His effect is the only evidence of his life.

High up on a tremendous peak, towering over the ranges and the valleys, the brain of the world was set, and the eyes that looked down on the earth’s body.

High up on a tremendous peak, towering over the ranges and the valleys, the brain of the world was set, and the eyes that looked down on the earth’s body. The brain could not understand the life on its body. It lay inert, knowing vaguely that it could shake off the life, the towns, the little houses of the fields with earthquake fury. But the brain was drowsed and the mountains lay still, and the fields were peaceful on their rounded cliff that went down to the abyss. And thus it stood a million years, unchanging and quiet, and the world-brain in its peak lay close to sleep. The world-brain sorrowed a little, for it knew that some time it would have to move, and then the life would be shaken and destroyed and the long work of tillage would be gone, and the houses in the valleys would crumble. The brain was sorry, but it could change nothing.

“But you didn’t know her as a person. You never have known a person. You aren’t aware of persons, Joseph; only people. You can’t see units, Joseph, only the whole.” She shrugged her shoulders and sat up straight. “You aren’t even listening to me. I came over to see if you had had anything to eat.”

She stepped over and turned up the wick a little. “It is a hard time, Joseph. I want to see how you look at this time. Yes,” she said. “There is no change. That makes me strong again. I was afraid there might have been a break. Are you thinking about Elizabeth?” He wondered how to answer. There was an impulse in him to tell the thing as truly as he could. “Yes, somewhat,” he said slowly and uncertainly, “of Elizabeth and of all the things that die. Everything seems to work with a recurring rhythm except life. There is only one birth and only one death. Nothing else is like that.” Rama moved close and sat down beside him. “You loved Elizabeth.” “Yes,” he said, “I did.” “But you didn’t know her as a person. You never have known a person. You aren’t aware of persons, Joseph; only people. You can’t see units, Joseph, only the whole.” She shrugged her shoulders and sat up straight. “You aren’t even listening to me.

“I am the last man in the western world to see the sun. After it is gone to everyone else, I see it for a little while. I’ve seen it every night for twenty years. Except when the fog was in or the rain was falling, I’ve seen the sun set.”

“I live over to the right, on a flat,” the old man said. “My house is five hundred feet above the beach.” He nodded at them impressively. “You shall come to stay with me. You will see how high it is.” He paused, and a secret hesitant mist settled over his eyes. He looked at Thomas, and then looked long at Joseph. “I guess I can tell you,” he said. “Do you know why I live out there on the cliff? I’ve only told the reason to a few. I’ll tell you, because you’re coming to stay with me.” He stood up, the better to deliver his secret. “I am the last man in the western world to see the sun. After it is gone to everyone else, I see it for a little while. I’ve seen it every night for twenty years. Except when the fog was in or the rain was falling, I’ve seen the sun set.” He looked from one to the other, smiling proudly. “Sometimes,” he went on, “I go to town for salt and pepper and thyme and tobacco. I go fast. I start after the sun has set, and I’m back before it sets again. You shall see tonight how it is.” He looked anxiously at the sky. “It’s time to be going. You follow after me. Why, I’ll kill a little pig, and we’ll roast it for dinner. Come, follow after me.” He started at a half run down the trail, and the burros trotted after him, and the silver bell jingled sharply.

“Then come to see the sunset place. You’ll like that, too.”

“Then come to see the sunset place. You’ll like that, too.” He half ran around his house in his eagerness. A little platform was built on the cliff’s edge, with a wooden railing in front and a bench a few feet back. In front of the bench was a large stone slab, resting on four blocks of wood, and the smooth surface of the stone was scoured and clean. The two men stood at the railing and looked off at the sea, blue and calm, and so far below that the rollers sliding in seemed no larger than ripples, and the pounding of the surf on the beach sounded like soft beating on a wet drum-head. The old man pointed to the horizon, where a rim of black fog hung. “It’ll be a good one,” he cried. “It’ll be a red one in the fog. This is a good night for the pig.”

Fifteen or twenty little piles of picked bones lay on the side-hill, and grey coyotes were slinking away toward the brush, and vultures roosted on the ribs and pulled off the last strips of flesh.

When they had got down the slope to the river source with its dry and brittle moss and its black ferns, they drew up under a bay tree. “Let’s go over the ridge and drive in any cattle we can see,” Thomas said. They left the river and followed the shoulder of the ridge, and the dust clouded up and clung about them. Suddenly Thomas pulled up his horse and pointed down the slope. “There, look there.” Fifteen or twenty little piles of picked bones lay on the side-hill, and grey coyotes were slinking away toward the brush, and vultures roosted on the ribs and pulled off the last strips of flesh. Thomas’ face was pinched. “That’s what I saw before. That’s why I hate the country. I’ll never come back,” he cried. “Come on, I want to get to the ranch. I want to start away tomorrow if I can.” He swung his horse down the hill and spurred it to a trot, and he fled from the acre of bones. Joseph kept him in sight, but he did not try to follow him. Joseph’s heart was filled with sorrow and with defeat. “Something has failed,” he thought. “I was appointed to care for the land, and I have failed.” He was disappointed in himself and in the land. But he said, “I won’t leave it. I’ll stay here with it. Maybe it isn’t dead.” He thought of the rock in the pines, and excitement arose in him. “I wonder if the little stream is gone. If that still flows, the land is not dead. I’ll go to see, pretty soon.” He rode over the ridge top in time to see Thomas gallop up to the houses. The fences were down around the last stacks of hay, and the voracious cattle were eating holes in it. As Joseph came close, he saw how lean they were, and poor, and how their hips stuck out. He rode to where Thomas talked with the rider Manuel. “How many?” he demanded. “Four hundred and sixteen,” Manuel said. “Over a hundred gone.”

“Look, Rama! That was my tree. It was the center of the land, a kind of father of the land. And Burton killed it.”

He smiled at her, and the calm he knew came upon him. He pointed to the dead and naked tree beside the porch. “Look, Rama! That was my tree. It was the center of the land, a kind of father of the land. And Burton killed it.” He stopped and stroked his beard and turned the ends under, as his father had done. His eyes drooped with pain and tightened with resistance to the pain. “Look on the ridge where the pines are, Rama,” he said. “There’s a circle in the grove, and a great rock in the circle. The rock killed Elizabeth. And on the hill over there are the graves of Benjy and Elizabeth.” She stared at him uncomprehendingly. “The land is struck,” he went on. “The land is not dead, but it is sinking under a force too strong for it. And I am staying to protect the land.” “What does all this mean to me?” she asked. “to me or to the child?” “Why,” he said, “I don’t know. It might help, to give the child to you. It seems to me a thing that might help the land.” She brushed her hair back nervously, smoothed it beside the part. “Do you mean you’re sacrificing the child? Is that it, Joseph?” “I don’t know what name to give it,” he said. “I am trying to help the land, and so there’s no danger that I shall take the child again.” She stood up then, and backed away from him slowly. “Good-bye to you, Joseph,” she said. “I am going in the morning, and I am glad, for I shall always be afraid of you now. I shall always be afraid.” Her lips trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. “Poor lonely man!” She hurried away toward her house, but Joseph smiled gravely up at the pine grove. “Now we are one,” he thought, “and now we are alone; we will be working together.” A wind blew down from the hills and raised a choking cloud of dust into the air.

And, as always, his eyes came at last to the pine grove on the ridge. For a long time he stared at it, and then he stood up and walked down the steps. And he walked toward the pine grove—walked slowly up on the gentle slope.

He went back to his own house, spread up his bed, and carried in wood for the night’s cooking. He swept his house and polished the stove and wound the clock. And everything was done before noon. When he had finished everything, he went to sit on the front porch. The sun beat down on the yard and glittered on bits of broken glass. The air was still and hot, but a few birds hopped about, picking up the grain Joseph had scattered. And, led on by the news that the ranch was deserted, a squirrel trotted fearlessly across the yard, and a brown weasel ran at him and missed, and the two rolled about in the dust. A horned toad came out of the dust and waddled to the bottom step of the porch, and settled to catch flies. Joseph heard his horse stamping the floor, and he felt friendly toward the horse for making a sound. He was rendered stupid by the quiet. Time had slowed down and every thought waddled as slowly through his brain as the horned toad had when he came out of the fine dust. Joseph looked up at the dry, white hills and squinted his eyes against their reflection of the glaring sun. His eyes followed the water scars up the hill to the dry springs and over the unfleshed mountains. And, as always, his eyes came at last to the pine grove on the ridge. For a long time he stared at it, and then he stood up and walked down the steps. And he walked toward the pine grove—walked slowly up on the gentle slope. Once, from the foothills, he looked back on the dry houses, huddled together under the sun. His shirt turned dark with perspiration. His own little dust cloud followed him, and he walked on and on toward the black trees.

In December the black frost struck the country.

He knew he couldn’t leave the rock, for fear the moss would wilt.

That afternoon he saw the fog heads on the western range. “I might go back to the old man,” he thought. “There may be more things he could tell me.” But his thought was play. He knew he couldn’t leave the rock, for fear the moss would wilt. He went back into the silent glade and spread his tent. He picked the bucket from his gear and walked over to throw water on the rock. Something had happened. The stream had receded from his marking pegs a good two inches. Somewhere under the earth the drought had attacked the spring. Joseph filled his bucket at the pool and threw water on the rock, and then filled again. And soon the pool was empty—he had to wait half an hour for the dying stream to fill it again. For the first time a panic fell upon him. He crawled into the little cave and looked . at the fissure from which the water slowly trickled, and he crawled out again, covered with the moisture of the cave. He sat beside the stream and watched it flow into the pool. And he thought he could see it decrease while he looked. The wind ruffled the pine branches nervously.

The terse Indian stories his mother had told him came into his mind, stories of the great misty Spirit, and the jokes he played on man and on other gods.

Only the oaks lived, and they were hiding their life under a sheet of dust.

“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

“Why should you be afraid? See, the moon is coming up.” Juanito looked and cried excitedly, “Look, there’s a ring around the moon!” Joseph laughed harshly and climbed into the saddle. “There is a saying in this country, I learned it long ago: ‘In a dry year all signs fail.’ Good-night, Juanito.”

Away in the dark north there was a faint flicker of aurora borealis, rarely seen so far south. The cold stony moon rose high and followed him. The mountains seemed edged with phosphorus, and a pale cold light like a glow-worm’s light seemed to shine through the skin of the land. The night had a quality of memory.

Joseph turned his back on the moon and rode away from it, into the west. The land was unsubstantial under the misty, strained light; the dry trees seemed shapes of thicker mist. He left the town and took the river road, and his contact with the town dropped behind him. He smelled the peppery dust that arose under the horse’s hoofs, but he couldn’t see it. Away in the dark north there was a faint flicker of aurora borealis, rarely seen so far south. The cold stony moon rose high and followed him. The mountains seemed edged with phosphorus, and a pale cold light like a glow-worm’s light seemed to shine through the skin of the land. The night had a quality of memory. Joseph remembered how his father had given him the blessing. Now he thought of it, he wished he had given the same blessing to his namesake. And he remembered that there had been a time when the land was drenched with his father’s spirit so that every rock and bush was close and dear. He remembered how damp earth felt and smelled, and how the grass roots wove a fabric just under the surface. The horse plodded steadily on, head down, resting some of his head’s weight on the bridle. Joseph’s mind went wearily among the days of the past, and every event was colored like the night. He was aloof from the land now. He thought, “Some change is beginning. It will not be long before some new thing is on the way.” And as he thought it, the wind began to blow. He heard it coming out of the west, heard it whisking a long time before it struck him, a sharp steady wind, carrying the refuse of dead trees and bushes along the ground. It was acrid with dust. The tiny rocks it carried stung Joseph’s eyes. As he rode, the wind increased and long veils of dust swept down the moonlit hills. Ahead, a coyote barked a staccato question, and another answered from the other side of the road. Then the two voices drew together into a high shrieking giggle that rode down the wind. A third sharp question, from a third direction, and all three giggled. Joseph shivered a little. “They’re hungry,” he thought, “there’s so little carrion left to eat.” Then he heard a calf moan in the high brush beside the road, and he turned his horse and spurred it up and broke through the brittle bushes. In a moment he came to a little clearing in the brush. A dead cow lay on its side and a skinny calf butted frantically to find a teat. The coyotes laughed again, and went away to wait. Joseph dismounted and walked to the dead cow. Its hip was a mountain peak, and its ribs were like the long water-scars on the hillsides. It had died, finally, when bits of dry brush would not support it any more. The calf tried to get away, but it was too weak with hunger. It stumbled and fell heavily and floundered on the ground, trying to get up again. Joseph untied his riata and roped the skinny legs together. Then he lifted the calf in front of the saddle and mounted behind it. “Now come for your dinner,” he called to the coyotes. “Eat the cow. Prettysoon there will be no more to eat.” He glanced over his shoulder at the bone-white moon, sailing and hovering in the blown dust. “In a little while,” he said, “It will fly down and eat the world.” As he rode on, his hand explored the lean calf, his fingers followed the sharp ribs and felt the bony legs. The calf tried to rest its head against the horse’s shoulder, and its head bobbed weakly with the movement. At last they topped the rise and Joseph saw the houses of the ranch, bleached and huddled. The blades of the windmill shone faintly in the moonlight. It was a view half obscured, for the white dust filled the air, and the wind drove fiercely down the valley. Joseph turned up the hill to avoid the houses, and as he went up toward the black grove, the moon sank over the western hills and the land was blotted out of sight. The wind howled down from the slopes and cried in the dry branches of the trees. The horse lowered its head against the wind. Joseph could make out the pine grove darkly as he approached it, for a streak of dawn was coming over the hills. He could hear the tossing branches and the swish of the needles combing the wind, and the moan of limbs rubbing together. The black branches tossed against the dawn. The horse walked wearily in among the trees and the wind stayed outside. It seemed quiet in the grey place; more so because of the noise around it. Joseph climbed down and lifted the calf to the ground. And he unsaddled the horse and put a double measure of rolled barley in the feed-box. At last he turned reluctantly to the rock.

Ahead, a coyote barked a staccato question, and another answered from the other side of the road.

The coyotes laughed again, and went away to wait.

“Now come for your dinner,” he called to the coyotes. “Eat the cow. Pretty soon there will be no more to eat.” He glanced over his shoulder at the bone-white moon, sailing and hovering in the blown dust.

The light had come secretly in, and the sky and the trees and the rock were grey. Joseph walked slowly across the glade and knelt by the little stream.

The light had come secretly in, and the sky and the trees and the rock were grey. Joseph walked slowly across the glade and knelt by the little stream. And the stream was gone. He sat quietly down and put his hand in the bed. The gravel was still damp, but no water moved out of the little cave any more.

Joseph heard a little struggle behind him where the calf tried to loosen its legs from the riata loops. Suddenly Joseph thought of the old man on the cliff-top. His eyes shone with excitement. “This might be the way,” he cried. He carried the calf to the stream-side, held its head out over the dry bed and cut its throat with his pocketknife, and its blood ran down the stream bed and reddened the gravel and fell into the bucket. It was over too soon. “So little,” Joseph thought sadly. “Poor, starved creature, it had so little blood.”

When he had rested a few minutes, he took out his knife again and carefully, gently opened the vessels of his wrist.

The sun lost its brilliance and sheathed itself in thin clouds. Joseph regarded the dying moss and the circle of trees. “This is gone now. I am all alone.” And then a panic fell upon him. “Why should I stay in this dead place?” He thought of the green canyon over the Puerto Suelo. Now that he was no longer supported by the rock and the stream, he was horribly afraid of the creeping drought. “I’ll go!” he cried suddenly. He, picked up his saddle and ran across the glade with it. The horse raised its head and snorted with fear. Joseph lifted the heavy saddle, and as the tapadero struck the horse’s side, it reared, plunged away and broke its tether. The saddle was flung back on Joseph’s chest. He stood smiling a little while he watched the horse run out of the glade and away. And now the calm redescended upon him, and his fear was gone. “I’ll climb up on the rock and sleep a while,” he said. He felt a little pain on his wrist and lifted his arm to look. A saddle buckle had cut him; his wrist and palm were bloody. As he looked at the little wound, the calm grew more secure about him, and the aloofness cut him off from the grove and from all the world. “Of course,” he said, “I’ll climb up on the rock.” He worked his way carefully up its steep sides until at last he lay in the deep soft moss on the rock’s top. When he had rested a few minutes, he took out his knife again and carefully, gently opened the vessels of his wrist. The pain was sharp at first, but in a moment its sharpness dulled. He watched the bright blood cascading over the moss, and he heard the shouting of the wind around the grove. The sky was growing grey. And time passed and Joseph grew grey too. He lay on his side with his wrist outstretched and looked down the long black mountain range of his body. Then his body grew huge and light. It arose into the sky, and out of it came the streaking rain. “I should have known,” he whispered. “I am the rain.” And yet he looked dully down the mountains of his body where the hills fell to an abyss. He felt the driving rain, and heard it whipping down, pattering on the ground. He saw his hills grow dark with moisture. Then a lancing pain shot through the heart of the world. “I am the land,” he said, “and I am the rain. The grass will grow out of me in a little while.”

Then his body grew huge and light. It arose into the sky, and out of it came the streaking rain. “I should have known,” he whispered. “I am the rain.”

And the storm thickened, and covered the world with darkness, and with the rush of waters.

The priest knew what would take place in this rainy night. A hot anger flared up in him. “Only let them start it, and I’ll stop them,” he said.

At dusk of the second night, the storm was unabated. Father Angelo went into his church and replaced the candles before the Virgin, and did his duties to her. And then he stood in the dark doorway of the church and looked out on the sodden land. He saw Manuel Gomez hurry past carrying a wet coyote pelt. And soon afterward, Jose Alvarez trotted by with a deer’s horns in his hands. Father Angelo covered himself with the shadow of the doorway. Mrs. Gutierrez splashed through the puddles holding an old moth-eaten bear skin in her arms. The priest knew what would take place in this rainy night. A hot anger flared up in him. “Only let them start it, and I’ll stop them,” he said.

It was difficult to hear them over the splash and the battering of the rain, but at last he made them out—the throb of the bass strings of the guitars, pounding and pounding.

He went back into the church and took a heavy crucifix from a cupboard and retired with it to his house. Once in his sitting-room he coated the crucifix with phosphorus so that it might be better seen in the dark, and then he sat down and listened for the expected sounds. It was difficult to hear them over the splash and the battering of the rain, but at last he made them out—the throb of the bass strings of the guitars, pounding and pounding. Still Father Angelo sat and listened, and a strange reluctance to interfere came over him. A low chanting of many voices joined the rhythm of the strings, rising and falling. The priest could see in his mind how the people were dancing, beating the soft earth to slush with their bare feet. He knew how they would be wearing the skins of animals, although they didn’t know why they wore them. The pounding rhythm grew louder and more insistent, and the chanting voices shrill and hysterical. “They’ll be taking off their clothes,” the priest whispered, “and they’ll roll in the mud. They’ll be rutting like pigs in the mud.” He put on a heavy cloak and took up his crucifix and opened the door. The rain was roaring on the ground, and in the distance, the river crashed on its stones. The guitars throbbed feverishly and the chant had become a bestial snarling. Father Angelo thought he could hear the bodies splashing in the mud. Slowly he closed the door again, and took off his cloak and laid down his phosphorescent cross. “I couldn’t see them in the dark,” he said. “They’d all get away in the dark.” And then he confessed to himself: “They wanted the rain so, poor children. I’ll preach against them on Sunday. I’ll give everybody a little penance.”

“I couldn’t see them in the dark,” he said. “They’d all get away in the dark.”

He went back to his chair and sat listening to the rush of the waters. He thought of Joseph Wayne, and he saw the pale eyes suffering because of the land’s want. “That man must be very happy now,” Father Angelo said to himself.