by B. TRAVEN
The chieftain wanted to continue, but Padre Balmojado hadn’t the power to keep as quiet and as solemn as the seven Indians had kept themselves for a whole day while he had been talking.
He interrupted the chief, and in an excited voice he said: “Everything you say, my son, is right, but you must see that Our God did these things to save men from the consequences of sin. He wished to suffer so that men should not have to suffer through all eternity.”
The chief was far from being convinced. He went on: “You said that he, your god, is an almighty and an all-powerful god. You also said that he is a god of infinite and unlimited eternal love and kindness.”
“True. So I said, because this is true of Our God.”
“Well then, holy father, if your god is really almighty and all-powerful, why then does he not take all the sins away from poor humans? If he, as you told us, is such a great god and so full of eternal love and kindness, why does he allow persons to commit sins and to make errors? Why didn’t he, since he is so very powerful, not make men perfect, so that they would be without sins? Does he, your god, allow men to commit sins for no other reason than to have a chance to save them later when he thinks it time to do so?”
“Can’t you understand, my beloved misguided son, that Our God did all this so that all men might gain eternal life in heaven on account of their own merits and on account of their faith and their belief in God, so that they might have the great opportunity to earn what they are going to receive from God?”
“No, holy white father, this is something I can’t understand. Please forgive me if I fail in being polite. But why so roundabout? Why must men earn by a roundabout way that which a god of eternal love and of never-ceasing kindness ought to give them for nothing, out of his great love for them? Were he such a great god of love and kindness, he should not even ask people to believe in him and pray to him and worship him. My own mother gives me everything she has to give out of love for me, whether I believe in her or not, whether I pray to her or not. She would, my beloved mother would, give me everything she could; and should I be cruel enough to insult her, a thing which my god may prevent me from doing even in my dreams, even then she would give me everything in her power to give. Yes, my mother is far, far greater than is your god. She has more eternal love than your god has, and she is only human.”
The monk had no answer ready for the moment, so he tried to lead the discussion away from this dangerous point of comparisons and change it to a certain dogma which, as he knew by long experience, never failed to make a deep impression on simple-minded natives.
“Your mother will die some day, and you and I will have to die some day, too. Yet My God has never died. Perhaps you haven’t heard clearly the story that tells how He goes on living for ever and ever. In appearance only did He die. But three days after He had died He came to life again and with great pomp He rose up to heaven.”
“How often?” the chief asked in a dry tone.
Astonished at this unexpected question, the monk answered, “Why … why … eh … once only, quite naturally once only.”
“Once only? And has he, your great god, ever returned to earth?”
“No, of course not,” Padre Balmojado answered, his voice burdened with irritation. “He has not returned yet, but He has promised mankind that He will return to earth in His own good time, so as to judge and to …”
“… and to condemn poor mankind,” the chief finished the sentence.
“Yes, and to condemn!” the monk said in a loud and threatening tone. Confronted with such inhuman stubbornness he lost control of himself. Louder still he continued: “Yes, to judge and to condemn all those who deny Him and refuse to believe in Him, and who criticize His sacred words, and who ignore Him, and who maliciously refuse to accept the true and only God even if He is brought to them with brotherly love and a heart overflowing with compassion for the poor ignorant brethren living in sin and utter darkness, and who can obtain salvation for nothing more than having belief in Him and having the true faith.”
Not in the least was the chieftain affected by this sudden outburst of the monk, who had been thrown off routine by these true sons of America who had learned to think long and carefully before speaking.
The chieftain remained very calm and serene. With a quiet, soft voice he said: “Here, my holy white father, is what our god had put into our hearts and souls, and it will be the last word I have to say to you before we return to our beautiful and tranquil tierra: Our god dies every evening for us who are his children. He dies every evening to bring us cool winds and freshness of nature, to bring us peace and quiet for the night so that we may rest well, man and animal. Our god dies every evening in a deep golden glory, not insulted, not spat upon, not spattered with stinking mud. He dies beautifully and gloriously, as every real god will die. Yet he does not die forever. In the morning he returns to life, refreshed and more beautiful than ever, his body still trailing the veils and wrappings of the dead. But soon his golden spears dart across the blue firmament as a sign that he is ready to fight the gods of darkness who threaten the peoples on earth. And before you have time to realize what happens, there he stands before wondering human eyes, and there he stays, great, mighty, powerful, golden, and in ever-growing beauty, dominating the universe.
“He, our god, is a spendthrift in light, warmth, beauty, and fertility, enriching the flowers with perfumes and colors, teaching the birds to sing, filling the corn with strength and health, playing with the clouds in an ocean of gold and blue. As my beloved mother does, so does he give and give and never cease giving; never does he ask for prayers, not expecting adoration or worship, not commanding obedience or faith, and never, never condemning anybody or thing on earth. And when evening comes, again he passes away in beauty and glory, a smile all over his face, and with his last glimmer blesses his Indian children. Again the next morning he is the eternal giver; he is the eternally young, the eternally beautiful, the eternally new-born, the ever and ever returning great and golden god of the Indians.
“And this is what our god has put into our hearts and souls and what I am bound to tell you, holy white father: ‘Do not, not ever, beloved Indian sons of these your beautiful lands, give away your own great god for any other god.’ ”
Having said this, the chieftain thanked the monk for all the kindness and attention which he and his men had received during their visit. Then they rolled up their serapes and petates, packed up their gear for the long trip home, and returned to their people to tell them not to trade a basket full of corn for a covered basket whose contents cannot be seen.
It remains to be told that today these Indians are as far removed from the true faith which alone can save men as they were when first they went to visit Padre Balmojado, And therefore we will not have the divine pleasure of finding them in heaven playing their harps for us.
Macario
Macario, the village woodchopper, had one overwhelming desire which he had nourished for fifteen years.
It was not riches he wanted, nor a well-built house instead of that ramshackle old hut in which he lived with his wife and his eleven children who wore rags and were always hungry. What he craved more than anything in this world—what he might have traded his very soul for—was to have a roast turkey all for himself combined with the opportunity to eat it in peace, deep in the woods unseen by his ever-hungry children, and entirely alone.
His stomach never fully satisfied, he would leave home before sunrise every morning in the year, weekday and Sunday alike, rain or shine. He would disappear into the woods and by nightfall bring back a load of chopped wood carried on his back.
That load, meaning a full day’s job, would sell for one bit, sometimes even less than that. During the rainy season, though, when competition was slow, he would get as much as two bits now and then for his load of fuel.
Two bits meant a fortune to his wife, who looked even more starved than her husband, and who was known in the village as the Woman with the Sad E
yes.
Arriving home after sunset, Macario would throw off his pack with a heavy groan, stagger into his hut and drop with an audible bump upon a low crudely made chair brought to the equally crude table by one of the children.
There he would spread both his arms upon the table and say with a tired voice: “Oh, Mother, I am tired and hungry, what have we for supper?”
“Black beans, green chili, tortillas, salt and lemon tea,” his wife would answer.
It was always the same menu with no variation whatever. Knowing the answer long before he was home, he merely asked so as to say something and, by so doing, prevent his children from believing him merely a dumb animal.
When supper was set before him in earthen vessels, he would be profoundly asleep. His wife would shake him: “Father, supper’s on the table.”
“We thank our good Lord for what he allows us poor sinners,” he would pray, and immediately start eating.
Yet hardly would he swallow a few mouthfuls of beans when he would note the eyes of his children resting on his face and hands, watching him that he might not eat too much so that they might get a little second helping since the first had been so very small. He would cease eating and drink only the tea, brewed of zacate de limon, sweetened with a little chunk of piloncillo.
Having emptied the earthen pot he would, with the back of his hand, wipe his mouth, moan pitifully, and in a prayerful voice say: “Oh, dear Lord in heaven, if only once in all my dreary life I could have a roast turkey all for myself, I would then die happily and rest in peace until called for the final reckoning. Amen.”
Frequently he would not say that much, yet he would never fail to say at least: “Oh, good Lord, if only once I could have a roast turkey all for myself.”
His children had heard that lamentation so often that none of them paid attention to it any longer, considering it their father’s particular way of saying grace after supper.
He might just as well have prayed that he would like to be given one thousand doubloons, for there was not the faintest likelihood that he would ever come into the possession of roast chicken, let alone a heavy roast turkey whose meat no child of his had ever tasted.
His wife, the most faithful and the most abnegating companion a man would wish for, had every reason to consider him a very good man. He never beat her; he worked as hard as any man could. On Saturday nights only he would take a three-centavo’s worth nip of mezcal, and no matter how little money she had, she would never fail to buy him that squeeze of a drink. She would buy it at the general store because he would get less than half the size for the same money if he bought the drink in the village tavern.
Realizing how good a husband he was, how hard he worked to keep the family going, how much he, in his own way, loved her and the children, the wife began saving up any penny she could spare of the little money she earned doing odd jobs for other villagers who were slightly better off than she was.
Having thus saved penny by penny for three long years, which had seemed to her an eternity, she at last could lay her hands on the heaviest turkey brought to the market.
Almost exploding with joy and happiness, she took it home while the children were not in. She hid the fowl so that none would see it. Not a word she said when her husband came home that night, tired, worn out and hungry as always, and as usual praying to heaven for his roast turkey.
The children were sent to bed early. She feared not that her husband might see what she was about, for he had already fallen asleep at the table and, as always, half an hour later he would drowsily rise and drag himself to his cot upon which he would drop as if clubbed down.
If there ever was prepared a carefully selected turkey with a true feeling of happiness and profound joy guiding the hands and the taste of a cook, this one certainly was. The wife worked all through the night to get the turkey ready before sunrise.
Macario got up for his day’s work and sat down at the table for his lean breakfast. He never bothered saying good morning and was not used to hearing it said by his wife or anybody in the house.
If something was amiss on the table or if he could not find his machete or the ropes which he needed for tying up the chopped wood, he would just mumble something, hardly opening his lips. As his utterings were few and these few always limited to what was absolutely necessary, his wife would understand him without ever making a mistake.
Now he rose, ready to leave.
He came out, and while standing for a few seconds by the door of his shack looking at the misty gray of the coming day, his wife placed herself before him as though in his way. For a brief moment he gazed at her, slightly bewildered because of that strange attitude of hers. And there she handed him an old basket in which was the roast turkey, trimmed, stuffed and garnished, all prettily wrapped up in fresh green banana leaves.
“There now, there, dear husband, there’s the roast turkey you’ve been praying for during so many long years. Take it along with you to the deepest and densest part of the woods where nobody will disturb you and where you can eat it all alone. Hurry now before the children smell it and get aware of that precious meal, for then you could not resist giving it to them. Hurry along.”
He looked at her with his tired eyes and nodded. Please and thanks were words he never used. It did not even occur to him to let his wife have just one little bite of that turkey because his mind, not fit to handle more than one thought at a time, was at this instant exclusively occupied with his wife’s urging to hurry and run away with his turkey lest the children get up before he could leave.
He took his time finding himself a well-hidden place deep in the woods and as he, because of so much wandering about, had become sufficiently hungry by now, he was ready to eat his turkey with genuine gusto. He made his seat on the ground very comfortable, washed his hands in a brook near-by, and everything was as perfect as it should be at such a solemn occasion—that is, the fulfillment of a man’s prayer said daily for an almost uncountable number of years.
With a sigh of utter happiness, he leaned his back against the hollow trunk of a heavy tree, took the turkey out of the basket, spread the huge banana leaves before him on the ground and laid the bird upon them with a gesture as if he were offering it to the gods. He had in mind to lie down after the meal and sleep the whole day through and so turn this day, his saint’s day, into a real holiday—the first in his life since he could think for himself.
On looking at the turkey so well prepared and taking in that sweet aroma of a carefully and skillfully roasted turkey, he muttered in sheer admiration: “I must say this much of her, she’s a great and wonderful cook. It is sad that she never has the chance to show her skill.”
That was the most profound praise and the highest expression of thanks he could think of. His wife would have burst with pride and she would have been happy beyond words had he only once in his life said that in her presence. This, though, he would never have been able to do, for in her presence such words would simply refuse to pass his lips.
Holding the bird’s breast down with his left hand, he firmly grabbed with his right one of the turkey’s thick legs to tear it off.
And while he was trying to do so, he suddenly noted two feet standing right before him, hardly two yards away.
He raised his eyes up along the black, tightly fitting pants which covered low riding boots as far down as the ankles and found, to his surprise, a Charro in full dress, watching him tear off the turkey’s leg.
The Charro wore a sombrero of immense size, richly trimmed with gold laces. His short leather coat was adorned with the richest gold, silver and multicolored silk embroidery one could imagine. To the outside seams of the Charro’s black trousers, and reaching from the belt down to where they came to rest upon the heavy spurs of pure silver, a row of gold coins was sewn. A slight move the Charro would make now and then while he was speaking to Macario caused these gold coins to send forth a low, sweet-sounding tinkle. He had a black moustachio, the Charro had, and a beard lik
e a goat’s. His eyes were pitch black, very narrow and piercing, so that one might virtually believe them needles.
When Macario’s eyes reached his face, the stranger smiled, thin-lipped and somewhat malicious. He evidently thought his smile a most charming one, by which any human, man or woman, would be enticed beyond help.
“What do you say, friend, about a fair bite of your tasty turkey for a hungry horseman,” he said in a metallic voice. “See, friend, I’ve had a long ride all through the night and now I’m nearly starved and so, please, for hell’s sake, invite me to partake of your lunch.”
“It’s not lunch in the first place,” Macario corrected, holding onto his turkey as if he thought that bird might fly away at any moment. “And in the second place, it’s my holiday dinner and I won’t part with it for anybody, whoever he may be. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t. Look here, friend, I’ll give you my heavy silver spurs just for that thick leg you’ve grabbed,” the Charro bargained, moistening his lips with a thin dark red tongue which, had it been forked, might have been that of a snake.
“I have no use for spurs whether they are of iron, brass, silver or gold trimmed with diamonds all over, because I have no horse to ride on.” Macario judged the value of his roast turkey as only a man would who had waited for that meal for many years.
“Well then, friend, if it is worth that much to you, I’ll cut off all these gold coins which you see dangling from my trousers and I’ll give them to you for a half breast of that turkey of yours. What about that?”