Your Sins and Mine

by Taylor Caldwell

  We reached the patch of grass. I had never been here at night, and I was astonished to see that here the yellow moonlight, which lay in ochre reflections on the broad leaves of the weeds surrounding the patch, was a gentle, cool silver. The tall grass was the most beautiful and comforting sight in the world, softly stirring in the night wind, touched with an illumination I had never thought to see again. Mr. Herricks and my father stepped down into its fragrant depths, and when their heels crushed some of the blades a sweet perfume rose from them, a perfume I remembered with sharp and nostalgic sorrow. Then I saw that the two men were looking at me expectantly, and I climbed down and stood beside them. Mr. Herricks was very pale in the moonlight. He held out his hands, and we took them, and then we knelt with him in the grass.

  He lifted his face without fear to the moon, and said aloud, in a clear strong voice, “Oh, Lord our God, we stand indicted before Thee as evil men, as guilty men, men without charity or mercy, men without wisdom or kindness. We have disdained Thy word, or mocked it; we are a generation without faith—savage, cruel, bloodthirsty. Though many generations have passed since the day when Thou didst climb the Mount of Calvary, never has there been a race like unto us. We have spread desolation on Thy gentle earth; we have devastated the life-giving fields, and crushed the homes of the helpless. We have taught our children hatred and lust, wars and wicked philosophies. We have never sought peace or conciliation, for these did not bring us profit. The world has not known our like before.”

  He raised his hand to the dark sky in which the moon was like a wound.

  “There is no man without guilt in this world, not even those dedicated to Thy service. We have been false shepherds. We have no defense. We have abandoned the Way of the Cross, we led our flocks not beside the green pastures and the still waters, but into death. We are the guilty. In our guilt is the guilt of all mankind.”

  He was weeping now without concealment. He stretched out his arms and cried: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”

  My father, kneeling there beside him, lifted up his own arms and prayed: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

  I thought of all the wild and blasphemous thoughts I had had since the day my child had died. I thought of the weapons I had held and how I had longed to use them in revenge. I was sick with self-loathing. I cried out: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”

  For a long time we knelt in the darkness, our heads bent, the sweet grass rustling about us. We thought our own wretched thoughts, and over and over we pleaded that mercy be extended to us, not that we might be permitted to live, but that we might be forgiven. Life was no longer of importance, nor physical suffering, nor the thought of death.

  We stood up at last, shaken and silent. But a great peace filled us, a sense of pardon, of consolation. We smiled at each other. There was no more terror in us, or dread. We had prayed, and we had been forgiven.

  Then Mr. Herricks uttered a great and ringing cry. He was pointing at the ground. And now we saw that the weeds had gone, utterly, completely, for as far as our eye could see in the moonlight. A field of soft and shallow green extended about us, silvery and living. The stench of death had been sucked away, and the blessed fragrance of life rose in the air.

  We began to run, crazily, crying aloud, bending to touch the new grass, the warm and crumbling earth. My father threw himself on his knees and kissed the grass and the ground; he fondled the blades in his big hands. He laughed and shouted and cried incoherently. We could not have enough of it. I rolled in it, without fear, knowing that no stinging death was hiding there. I grasped handfuls of the soil, let it sift slowly through my fingers. It was moist and fresh, eager for seed. Tomorrow I would plough it, tomorrow I would scatter the seed!

  Mr. Herricks stood in the midst of the grass and lifted his arms to the heavens. “Thou hast not abandoned Thy children! Blessed be the name of the Lord!” His voice rang over the field like an exultant bell. “Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning we discovered that our entire farm had been cleared of the malignant weeds, up to the very fences of our neighboring farms, to the roads, up to and including our orchards. It was incredible; my father and I walked over our soft and greening acres, dazed. Then the birds came, thousands of them screaming, whistling, singing, chattering excitedly, settling in the grass to hunt for worms. Everywhere endless hordes of them descended upon us, brushing our heads and shoulders, swinging in clouds against the sky, fluttering down in a storm of feathers. The rabbits came, and the foxes, and the squirrels and the woodchucks, running across our feet, staring at us with wild eyes of delight, gamboling in the grass, rolling and jostling each other. A starved buck and two does crept timidly out, glancing about them, then stopped to eat, voraciously. None feared us; they stood with us, and we with them. My father smiled, but tears ran down his face.

  We went to the orchard, and we saw the buds on the trees. They had appeared in a single night, thrusting and vigorous. Where the weeds had swarmed, the soil lay crumbling and rich. But when we reached the fences and looked at our neighbors’ land we saw again the arching weeds, rapacious and deadly, waving in the murky sunlight.

  Within two hours the farmers had gathered on our land. They came from everywhere. They stood and gazed in reverent awe at the greening sod, ran it through their fingers, wept, rubbed blades of grass between their palms, smelled it, holding it close to their noses to inhale the fragrance. They brought a few emaciated cattle to graze, and they laughed shakily to see the poor beasts snorting and chewing and trembling with joy. Then they questioned us. My father said: “Wait. You’ll hear about it later.” He glanced at me mysteriously.

  The newspapers sent out reporters with cameras. They came on tractors, and then walked carefully over the yielding earth. They talked eagerly to my father, and he repeated: “Wait.”

  My mother and the girls laughed together, and cried. They brought out Edward’s little boy, whose short memory did not extend back before the weeds. He toddled over the swift-growing grass, and laughed at the birds and the animals. He picked the first buttercups we saw, and ran to us with them, jabbering with excitement. We could actually see the grass grow, and the flowers between the blades. And then out of nowhere appeared swarms of bees, the lost bees we had forgotten. They hummed over the flowers and the grass, falling and rising in great golden clouds.

  All our land was filled with the birds and the beasts and the bees, and with strolling and praying farmers. At ten o’clock young Mr. Herricks arrived, pale and smiling. A few moments later Sheriff Black arrived, with deputies guarding the three strangers who had assaulted the Grange and had attempted to kill my father. The sheriff looked about him dumbly, forgetting his prisoners for a moment. Like the others, he knelt and touched the soil and looked at the bees and laughed shakily in order to keep himself from crying. Then he said to my father: “Well, George, I’ve brought the rascals, like you asked. What for? Look at them, sneering together, and so damned superior!”

  The three young men, scowling and whispering and smirking, stood at a distance with the deputies.

  A signal must have been exchanged between my father and Mr. Herricks. The young minister lifted up his hand and called to the farmers. They came, stepping softly over the grass; the sheriff herded his prisoners and deputies together. Mr. Herricks and my father and I stood in the midst of a wide circle, the newspaper men hovering about snapping photographs. And all around us the jubilant song of life rose in a quickening chorus.

  Mr. Herricks’ voice rang out over the busy acres, the perfumed acres. He said, and his face gleamed with exaltation: “Last night a miracle was performed, before my eyes. Last night our friend and neighbor, George, and his son, Peter, prayed with me. And immediately after we prayed God granted us the miracle we see about us now.”

  There was a sudden, absolute silence. Each man strained toward us, listening. And then Will Dowson, the man had shot my father, cried out: “Idiotic nonsense! What
chemical did you use? Why has it been withheld?”

  Mr. Herricks turned slowly and gaped at the prisoners. The farmers murmured in ugly undertones, but the minister lifted his hand and said: “The chemical of prayer, young man.”

  Dowson pushed closer to him, animated with scorn and anger. “You pious hypocrite. Somehow this farmer either manufactured a chemical himself, or it was secretly given to him for experimentation by an oppressive government—”

  “Shut up!” shouted a few farmers, and now the murmur had a murderous sound to it. But neither Mr. Herricks nor Dowson was distracted. They confronted each other steadfastly.

  “You will never believe anything kind or charitable about your neighbor,” said Mr. Herricks, sadly. “You are filled with hatred. It was your hatred for us, and our hatred for you, which evoked the wrath of God against all of us. It was our mutual hatred, our lack of compassion and understanding, which cursed the earth for our sakes. There was no end to our hatred. And there was no end to the death. Until today.”

  He approached Dowson until they stood face to face. “We are more guilty, even than you,” he said. “We, the shepherds, did not go out to find you in the barren desert where you lived. We just waited in our churches for you to come. We acceded to the demand of our enemies that the name of God be forbidden within the walls of your class-rooms. Lost and lonely in your concrete wilderness, where were you to go? The shepherd’s voice was absent; his rod and his staff lay hidden and idle in his church. There was no one to comfort you, or lead you to the green valleys of consolation. You were surrounded by ravening beasts, and we closed our eyes and pretended they did not exist.

  “For that we were punished, both victims together. For that, we must know and acknowledge our repentance. For that we must pray: God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

  He turned from Dowson and looked at all the farmers. “There is not a man here who is not guilty of the crimes of all of us, whether it be the crime of a government against its people, the crime of a pastor who deserted his flock, the crime of hatred against a neighbor. Where is the voice that cried: ‘Thou shalt not kill?’ Where is the man who had courage to say: ‘I shall not take arms against my brother?’

  “There was never such a voice, never such a man, in this day. For that we must repent, or we shall die. And after our repentance we must do penance. It is hard for us to love mankind, for mankind has demonstrated that it is unworthy of love. Yet, we must do the penance of loving our neighbors.

  “It is too late for lip service, the service of the Pharisee. God is deaf to such prayers. There must be an awakening in the hearts of man, true repentance, true penance. Not prayers that we be saved from the death of the body, but prayers that we be saved from the death of the spirit, which is hatred and lust and cruelty and materialism.”

  Now from the farmers rose a single deep and resonant voice: “Amen.”

  Will Dowson was no longer sneering, but his face was like stone. “Give me a demonstration,” he said. “Show me that a God exists.”

  Mr. Herricks turned to my father, who nodded. The pastor said: “Let us go to the next farm. Let us stand near the weeds. But let no man come with us who disbelieves, who is skeptical, except this one stranger among us.”

  We walked over the shining acres, a stream of pilgrims, in deep silence. We reached the east border of our farm. In spite of all that had happened, I was uneasy. Would God permit another miracle? I glanced back at the men behind me, at the newspaper reporters and photographers, who were almost dancing with excitement.

  Mr. Herricks walked fearlessly among the tearing weeds, and my father and I walked with him. We stood knee-deep among them. Mr. Herricks’ lips were moving, and he was very pale. He said, and his voice was loud and clear in the silence: “Let us pray together.”

  He lifted his hands to the sky: “Lord our God, Lord our Father, have mercy upon Your children. Look at our repentance, our tears. If it be Your will, we shall die humbly, in punishment for the sins which we acknowledge. But if it be Your will to grant us life, then we shall rejoice and shall teach our children Your name each day that we live, and we shall drive our hatred for each other out of our hearts, and shall lay down our arms and strive to love and understand each other.”

  The farmers listened and they cried, and they called again: “Amen!” But Will Dowson stood apart with a closed face, staring at the weeds.

  We waited in absolute silence. The loathsome vegetation stood in thick defiance as far as we could see. Endlessly it crackled and snapped. There would be no miracle. I looked at Mr. Herricks, who was gazing at the monstrous growth humbly, and with faith.

  Was it the wind that was stirring? We could hear movement, like a gale through dry brush. The heat was intense, the stench overpowering. A vast sulphurous exhalation almost smothered us.

  There would be no miracle.

  No one moved or spoke.

  The crackling grew louder until it sounded like a forest fire, and some of us looked about fearfully for wisps of smoke. Yes, the weeds were smoking; a drift of vapor moved over them, thickened, spread, until they were concealed in a whitish fog, in the folds of which the yellowish sunlight glimmered. Far and wide the vapor drifted under the saffron sky, billowing, swelling, streaming into the distance, hiding the weeds which I now knew were the visible manifestation of our universal hatred. It flowed about trees, climbed distant knolls, sank into small depressions, eddied and swirled. We watched it petrified, almost disbelieving.

  And then we shouted out in one single cry. The vapor nearest us was retreating like a silent, misty tide. And where it retreated the warm brown earth steamed, cleansed of its evil. It must have taken a long time, though we were all still and motionless after that one bursting cry. We could do nothing but watch as the nearer ground softened with a misty green and then seemed to run after the retreating fog in its own gentle tide of life.

  The farmers, unable to control themselves any longer, broke and ran, laughing and shouting, over the yielding earth, stopping to embrace each other for a quick instant before running again. Their voices echoed round and about. They bellowed for plows, for seed. A hysteria of joy and ecstasy possessed them. And we—Mr. Herricks, Father and myself, and Sheriff Black and Will Dowson—remained behind. The newspaper men pursued the delirious farmers, snapping pictures, questioning each other excitedly, leaping small furrows like children.

  Mr. Herricks turned to the prisoner, who stood in complete and disbelieving rigidity. His eyes were blank. When Mr. Herricks spoke he swung his head in his direction, and waited dumbly.

  “Here, in the sky, and here, in the earth, is your certitude,” said our pastor. “Here is that which you have sought all your life and never found. Your God, your Father.” He held out his hand and smiled. “Forgive me, brother.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Why sleep ye? Rise and pray.”

  The newspapers went mad with joy, amazement and wonder, as the clergy prayed among the weeds, their flocks about them, and as the earth miraculously cleared and the green tide of life flowed over the land and the trees blossomed and the sweetness of the new resurrection filled the air with fragrance. Scientists, disbelieving, toured the country, to return to Washington awed and humbled. The whole nation prayed with deep repentance and deep rejoicing, and the farmers set their crops and the wheat and the corn grew so rapidly and with such abundant power that it was almost possible to see them grow, shining in the untainted sunlight, glimmering under the moon. The livestock, too, as if seized by a mysterious creative power, reproduced in incredible numbers, and fattened, and reproduced again, even out of season.

  The news had spread rapidly to other nations, whose governments were at first skeptical and derisive, and whose newspapers spoke darkly of “a secret method invented by scientists in the United States to clear the land,” a secret, they declared, that the American “imperialists” would not divulge to other, desperate people. It was a plot, some of them hinted, to starve the rest of the world and leave the
United States as the sole living member of the family of nations.

  But the people, as usual, were wiser than their governments and their newspapers. In England, France, Germany, Italy, Canada, Scandinavia, South America, Australia, in almost every land of the world, the people, led by their pastors, boldly tramped through the monstrous weeds and lifted their eyes to the sky, and humbly confessed their guilt and prayed for forgiveness. And wherever they confessed and prayed, the land gushed into life and the weeds blew away in vapor and the trees blossomed and flying creatures returned, with all the living things which had hidden themselves from death and the cruelty of man.

  “We are Thy fold, and Thou art our shepherd!” men cried to the heavens. “Look, Thou in mercy on our sins and accept our tears and contrition, and wash our hearts clean of our hatred in the river of Thy love, and, if it be Thy will, permit us to live to speak of Thy glory and Thy compassion.”

  In nearly every land the clergy and the people prayed, and in India the monks in their saffron gowns led fearless multitudes into the very depths of the weeds and prayed for mercy, and confessed, in a great single voice, their sins and their faithlessness. And the weeds fled from mountains and the waters of the rivers ran clean and brilliant under a fresh sun, and the earth lifted her green face to God and man, smiling.

  It did not happen in a day, or a month. It happened slowly over nearly a year, except in Russia. The President of the United States declared a day of rejoicing, to be celebrated with humility and love and peace, and one by one the presidents and rulers of other nations followed his example. But Russia was silent, except for her newspapers, who raised the cry of a plot to destroy her. In the United Nations, to rows of sad and averted faces, she accused the delegates of other nations of refusing to give their secret to her in order that she might live.