by Zane Grey
Just under the skin of every man and every woman, perhaps stronger in one than another, flowed red blood in which primitive instincts still lived and would always live. That was the secret of the desert. The lonely, desolate land, the naked sand and rock-ribbed hills, the wilderness of silence and solitude stirred the instinctive memory of a primitive day. Men watched and listened unthinkingly in the wastelands, for what they knew not, but it was for the fleeting trancelike transformation back to savage nature. There were many reasons for which men became wanderers in the wastelands—love of gold; the need to forget or to remember; passion and crime and wanderlust; the appeal of beauty and sublimity—but what nailed them to the forbidding and inhospitable desert was the instinct of the savage. That was the secret of the spell of the desert. Men who had been confined to cities, chained to dull and humdrum toils, stagnating in the noisy haunts, sore and sick and deflated, standing for some impossible end, when let loose in the grey, iron-walled barrens of the desert were caught by a subtle and insidious enchantment that transfigured some, made beasts of most, and mysteriously bound all. Travellers passing across could not escape it and they must always afterward remember the desert with a thrill of strange pleasure and of vague regret. Women who had been caught by circumstance and nailed to homes along the roads or edges of the desert must feel that nameless charm, though they hated the glaring, desolate void. Magdalene Virey, resigned to her doom in Death Valley, had responded to the nature that was in her.
Through this thing Adam saw the almost inconceivable progress of men upward. If progress had not been slow, nature would never have evolved him. And it seemed well that something of the wild and the primitive must forever remain instinctive in the human race. If the primitive were eliminated from men there would be no more progress. All the gladness of the senses lived in this law. The sweetness of the ages came back in thoughtless watching. The glory of the sunrise, the sadness of the sunset, the whisper of the wind and the murmur of the stream, the music of birds and their beauty—the magic of these came back from the dim, mystic dreamland of the primal day, from the childhood of the race. Nature was every man’s mother. Nevertheless, the wonder and the splendour of life was the age-long progress of man toward unattainable perfection, the magnificent victory of humanity over mastery by primal instincts. And the fact that this seemed true to Adam made him wonder if the spirit of this marvellous life was not God.
The sun was westering when he descended the long, zigzag trail. He walked slowly, tired from his mental strain. And when he got down, the sun was just tipping the ramparts above, flooding the canyon with golden haze and ruddy rays. Adam thought that Genie, weary from long waiting, would be asleep on the sand, or at least reading, and that he could slip into the glade to surprise her. They played a game of this sort, and to her had gone most of the victories.
Like a panther he slid through the grasping mesquite boughs, and presently, coming to the denser brush, he stooped low to avoid making a rustle. As he moved along, bending so that he touched the sand with his hands, he came upon two fat beetles wagging and contesting over possession of some little particle. Scooping up a handful of sand, he buried them, and then, as they so ludicrously scrambled out, he gathered them up, intending, if he could get behind Genie unobserved, to drop them on her book or bare feet.
Thus it happened that he did not look ahead until after he had straightened up inside the glade. All before him seemed golden gleams and streaks of sunset rose. The air was thick with amber haze. Genie stood naked, ankle-deep in the bubbling spring. Like an opal her slender white body caught glimmer and sheen. Wondrously transparent she looked, for the sunlight seemed to shine through her! The red-gold tints of her hair burned like a woven cord of fire in bronze. Glistening crystal drops of water fell from her outstretched hands and her round arms gleamed where the white met the line of tan. The light of the sun shone upon her pensive, beautiful face, as she stood wholly unaware of intrusion. Then she caught the sound of Adam’s stifled gasp. She saw him. She burst into a scream of startled, wild laughter that rang with a trill through the dell.
Adam, breaking the spell of that transfixed instant, rushed headlong away.
CHAPTER XXVI
Gaining the open, Adam strode swiftly down the trail to where the canyon spread wide and ended in the boulder-strewn desert.
The world in which he moved seemed transfigured, radiant with the last glow of dying day, with a glory of golden gleam. His heart pounded and his blood flooded to and fro, swelling his veins. Life on the earth for him had been shot through and through with celestial fire. His feet were planted on the warm sands and his hands reached to touch the grey old boulders. He needed these to assure himself that he had not been turned into the soft, cool wind or the slanting amber rays so thickly glistening with particles of dust, or the great, soaring king of the eagles. Adam crushed a bunch of odorous sage to his face, smelled it, breathed it, tasted it; and the bitter sweetness thrilled his senses. It was real. It was a part of the vast and glowing desert, of the wonderful earth, of the infinite universe that he yearned to incorporate into his being. The last glorious rays of the setting sun shone upon him and magnified his stature in a long, purple shadow. How the last warmth seemed to kiss his cheek as it sank behind the rim of the range! The huge boulders were warm and alive under his hands. He pricked his fingers upon the cholla thorns just to see the ruddy drops of his life’s current; and there was strange joy in the sting which proved him flesh and blood and nerve. He stood alone, as he had many thousands of times on the grey old desert, his feet on the sand, his knees in the sage; but the being alone then was inexpressibly different It was as if he had, like the tarantula wasp, been born from a cocoon stage in a dark, dead cell, into a beautiful world of light, of freedom, of colour, of beauty, of all that was life. He felt the glory of his beating heart, his throbbing pulse, his sight and all his sense. He turned his face to the cool, sweet sage-scented breeze, and then he lifted it to the afterglow of sunset. Ah! the new, strange joy of life—the incalculable force of the natural man!
The luminous desert stretched before him, valley and mountain, and beyond them was other range and other valley, leading to the sea, and across its heaving bosom were other lands; and above him was the vast, deep-blue sky with its pale evening star, and beyond them began the infinite.
Adam felt himself a part of it all. His ecstasy was that he lived. Nature could not deny him. He stood there, young and strong and vital.
Then he heard Genie calling him. With a start he turned to answer. She was running down the trail. How swift, how lithe, how light! The desert had given her the freedom, the grace, the suppleness of its wild denizens. Like a fawn she bounded over the stones, and her hair caught the last gleams of glowing sunlight. When she neared Adam she checked her flying steps, pattering to a halt, one brown hand over her breast.
“Wheooo!” she burst out, panting. “I—couldn’t—find—you. Why’d—you come—so far?”
The something that had come between Adam’s sight and the desert now surrounded Genie. Immeasurably she was transformed, and the change seemed a mystery.
“We must hurry back. It’ll soon be dark. Come,” he replied.
With step as free and swift as his she kept pace with him. “Wanny, you stole up on me—tried to scare me—while I was bathing,” she said, with arch reproach.
“Genie, it was an accident,” he returned, hurriedly, and how strangely the blood tingled in his face! “I meant to scare you—yes. But I—I never thought—I never dreamed...Genie, I give you my word...Please say you believe me!”
“Why, Wanny,” she said, in surprise, “of course I believe you! It’s nothing to mind about. I didn’t mind.”
“Thank you. I—I’m glad you take it that way,” replied Adam. “I’m sorry I was so—so stupid.”
“How funny you are!” she exclaimed, and her gay laugh pealed out. “What’s there to be sorry about?...You see, I forgot it was getting late...Ooooo how good the water felt! I
just couldn’t get enough...You did scare me just a little. I heard you—and was scared before I looked...Wanny, I guess I was imagining things—dreaming, you call it. I was all wet, and looking at myself in the sunlight. I’d never seen myself like that. I’d read of mermaids with shining scales of gold, and nymphs of the woods catching falling blossoms. And I guess I thought I was them—and everything.”
Then Adam scorned the old husk of worldliness that had incased his mind in his boyhood, and clung round it still. This child of nature had taught him many a thought-provoking lesson, and here was another, somehow elevating and on a level with his mental progress of the day. Genie had never lived in the world, nor had she been taught many of its customs. She was like a shy, wild young fawn; she was a dreaming, exuberant girl. Genie had been taught to write and study and read, and was far from being ignorant; but she had not understood the meaning of Adam’s apology. What struck Adam so deeply and confounded him again was the fact that her innocent and sweet smile now, as she gazed up at him, was little different from the one upon her face when she saw him staring at her nude. She had been surprised at his concern and had laughed at his contrition. And that low, rippling laugh, so full of vital and natural life, seemed to blow, as the desert wind blew worn and withered leaves, all of Adam’s recalled sophistications back into the past whence they had come.
Adam and Genie walked hand in hand down the long boulder-strewn slope to the valley floor, where the cholla shone paling silver in gathering twilight, and the delicate crucifixion tree deceived the eye. The lonely November twilight deepened into night. The stars shone bright. The cool wind blew. The sage rustled.
Sleep did not soon woo Adam’s eyelids this night, with the consequence that he awoke a little later than his usual hour. The rose of the dawn had bloomed.
Then Adam, on his knees, by the brown running stream, in the midst of his ablutions, halted to stare at the sunrise. Had it ever before been so strangely beautiful? During his sleep the earth had revolved, and, lo! here was the sun again. Wonderful and perennial truth! Not only had it revolved, but it had gone on its mysterious journey, hurtling through space at inconceivable rapidity. While he slept! Again he had awakened. A thousand years ago he had awakened just like this, so it seemed, to the sunrise, to the loneliness of lonely places, to the beauty of nature, to the joy of life. He sensed some past state, which, when he thought about it, faded back illusively and was gone. But he knew he had lived somewhere before this. All of life was in him. The marvellous spirit he felt now would never die.
There dawned upon Adam a sudden consciousness of Genie’s beauty. She was the last realised and the most beautiful creation of the desert around him.
It came to him as a great surprise. She, too, knelt at the stream, splashing the cool water, bathing her face, wetting the dark, gold-tinted locks and brushing them back. Curiously and absorbingly Adam gazed at her, with eyes from which some blinding shutter had fallen. Yes, she was beautiful. It seemed a simple fact that he had overlooked, yet it was amazing. It distracted him.
“Wanny, you’re all eyes,” cried Genie, gaily. “What’s the matter with me? Why do you look so?”
“Genie, you’re growing up,” he replied, soberly.
“Well, you’d have known that before if you’d seen me sewing,” she said.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Guess I’m nearly seventeen,” she said, and the words brought back the dreams.
“Why, you’re a young lady!” ejaculated Adam. “And—and—” He had been about to add that she was beautiful, but he held his tongue.
“I guess that, too...Hold out your arm.”
Adam complied, and was further amazed to see, as she walked under his outstretched arm, that the glossy, wavy crown of her head almost touched it. She was as tall and slim and graceful as an arrow-weed.
“There! I’ll have you know you’re a mighty big man,” she said. “And if you weren’t so big I’d come clear up to your shoulder.”
“Genie, don’t you want to leave this desert?” he queried, bluntly.
“Oh no,” she replied, instantly. “I love it. And—and—please don’t make me think of towns, of lots of people. I want to run wild like a road runner. I’d be perfectly happy if I didn’t have to spend half the day mending these old clothes...Wanny, if they get any worse they’ll fall off me—and then I’ll have to run around like you saw me yesterday!...Oh, but for the thorns, that’d be grand!” Her light, rippling laugh rang out, sweet and gay.
Adam waited for her later, in the shade of Taquitch Canyon, where from the topmost of a jumble of boulders he watched a distant waterfall, white and green as it flashed over a dark cliff.
He watched her coming. Her ragged boy’s garb with its patches and rents no longer hid her femininity and her charm from his eyes. He saw anew. The litheness of her, the round and graceful figure from flying feet to glinting hair, cried aloud to the loneliness of Adam’s heart the truth of her. An enchantment hung upon her very movements. She travelled from rock to rock, poising, balancing, leaping, and her curly hair danced on her head. Quick as those of a wildcat were her leaps. And her gay, sweet call or cry, birdlike and wild, echoed from the cliffs.
She was coming to Adam across the great jumble of rocks—a girl wonderful as a sprite. And her coming was suddenly realised as fulfilment of dreams. Adam faced the truth of some facts about his dreaming. Lonely hours on lonely slopes, of waiting and watching, had created the shadow of a woman or a girl gliding in the golden glow of the afternoon sunlight, coming to charm away forever the silence and solitude. So innumerable times he had dreamed, but never realised till now those dreams. She was coming, and the sleepy shade awoke to a gleam and a voice. The lacey waterfall shone white and its murmur seemed music of many streams. A canyon swallow twittered.
Adam thought how passing strange had been the tortures, the awakenings, and changings of his desert experience. And here was a vague dream fulfilled! This realisation was unutterably sweet—so sweet because these years had been barren of youth, steeped in unconscious growing worship of beauty, spent alone with pains and toils. He watched her coming. Fresh as the foam of the waterfall, clean as the winds of the heights, wild as the wild young fawn—so she seemed! Youth and gaiety—beauty and life!
But suddenly Adam seemed struck by an emotion, if not of terror, then of dread at some inconceivable and appalling nature of her presence. That emotion was of the distant past as was the vague peril of her approach. A girl—a woman creature—mystery of the ages—the giver of life as the sun gave heat—had come to him, out of the clouds or the desert sands, and the fatality of her coming was somewhat terrible.
Genie reached the huge boulder upon which Adam sat, and like a squirrel she ran up its steep side, to plump herself breathless and panting down against his knees.
“Ah! Old Taquitch—here’s another—Indian maiden—for you to steal,” she said, roguishly. “But before you—carry me up to the clouds—duck me under the waterfall!”
All the accumulated thought and emotion of recent hours concentrated in the gaze he fixed upon her face.
Her trilling laugh pealed out. She thought he was playing Taquitch, god of the heights. He was teasing her with his piercing eyes.
“Look! Look at me, O Taquitch!” she cried, with deep pretended solemnity. “I am Ula, princess of the Coahuilas. I have left my father’s house. I have seen the sun shining in your face, oh, god of the lightnings! And I love—I love—I love with all the Indian’s heart. I will go with you to the peaks. But never—nevermore shall you steal another maiden!”
Adam scarcely heard Genie. He was piercing through eyes and face to the mind and soul and life and meaning of her beauty. Her skin was creamy, golden brown, transparent, with tiny tracery of veins underneath and faint tints of rose. The low forehead and level brows showed moist and soft and thoughtful under the dark, damp curls with their amber glints. A hint of desert leanness hid in the contour of her oval face. Her mouth was strong,
with bowed upper lip, the under sensitive and sad—a red, sweet mouth, like a flower. And her eyes, now meeting his so frankly, losing the mock solemnity and the fun, became deep-brown, crystal gulfs of light and shade, of thought and feeling, beautiful with the beauty of exquisite colour, but lovelier for the youth, the joy and wonder of life, the innocence of soul.
“Wanny—are you—playing?” she asked, tremulously, and her warm little hand clasped his.
That changed the spell of her. To look at her beauty was nothing comparable with the warm throb of her young pulsing life. Out of Adam’s slow and painful and intense thought at last evolved a nucleus of revelation. But those clear eyes strangely checked this growing sense of a truth about to overwhelm him. They made him think, and thought had begun to waver and pale beside some subtler faculty of his being. Thus he realised the slow preponderance of feeling over thought, of body over soul, of physical over spiritual. And in this realisation of unequal conflict he divined the meaning of his strange sense of peril in Genie’s presence. The peril lay in the sophistication of his mind, not in Genie’s beauty. Naturally as the mating of the birds he wanted her. That was all. It was like her simplicity, inevitable as life itself, and true to nature! But in his thoughts, flashing after comprehension, the simple fact loomed with staggering, overwhelming significance.
Bidding Genie rest or amuse herself, Adam climbed to a ledge above the waterfall, and there, with the mighty mass of mountain crowding out the light, he threw himself upon the bare stone.
Not long did he torment himself with wonder and fury and bewilderment over an indubitable fact. Almost at once he sank into a self-accusing state which grew from bad to worse, until he was sick, sore, base, and malignant in his arraignment of self. Again the old order of mind, the habit of youthful training, the learned precepts and maxims and laws, flooded back to augment his trouble. And when they got their sway he cursed himself, he hated himself, he beat his breast in the shame of an abasement terribly and inevitably and irretrievably true at that hour.