He asked: How did this come to you?
It was this way, father. I was with the police when they shot him. It was in a village the other side. He picked up a [171] child to act as a screen, but, of course, the soldiers didn't pay any attention. It was only an Indian. They were both shot, but he escaped.
Then how ... ?
It was this way, father. He positively prattled. It appeared that he was afraid of the lieutenant-who resented the fact that the priest had escaped, and so he planned to slip across the border, out of reach. He got his chance at night, and on the way-it was probably on this side of the state line, but who knew where one state began or another ended?-he came on the American. He had been shot in the stomach. …
How could he have escaped then?
Oh, father, he is a man of superhuman strength. He was dying, he wanted a priest ...
How did he tell you that?
It only needed two words, father. Then, to prove the story, the man had found enough strength to write this note, and so … the story had as many holes in it as a sieve. But what remained was this note, like a memorial stone you couldn't overlook.
The half-caste bridled angrily again. You don't trust me, father.
Oh, no, the priest said. I don't trust you.
You think I'm lying.
Most of it is lies.
He pulled the mule up and sat thinking, facing south. He was quite certain that this was a trap-probably the half-caste had suggested it: he was after the reward. But it was a fact that the American was there, dying. He thought of the deserted banana station where something had happened and the Indian child lay dead on the maize: there was no question at all that he was needed. A man with all that on his soul ... The oddest thing of all was that he felt quite cheerfuclass="underline" he had never really believed in this peace. He had dreamed of it so often on the other side that now it meant no more to him than a dream. He began to whistle a tune-something he had heard somewhere once. I found a rose in my field : it was time he woke up. It wouldn't really have been a good dream-that confession in Las Casas when he had to admit, as well as everything else, that he had refused confession to a man dying in mortal sin.
[172] He said: Will the man still be alive?
I think so, father, the half-caste caught him eagerly up.
How far is it?
Four-five hours, father.
You can take it in turns to ride the other mule.
The priest turned his mule back and called out to the guide. The man dismounted and stood inertly there, while he explained. The only remark he made was to the half-caste, motioning him into the saddle: Be careful of that saddle-bag. The father's brandy's there.
They rode slowly back: Miss Lehr was at her gate. She said: You forgot the sandwiches, father.
Oh, yes. Thank you. He stole a quick look round-it didn't mean a thing to him. He said: Is Mr. Lehr still asleep?
Shall I wake him?
No, no. But you will thank him for his hospitality?
Yes. And perhaps, father, in a few years we shall see you again? As you said. She looked curiously at the half-caste, and he stared back through his yellow insulting eyes.
The priest said: It's possible, glancing away with a sly secretive smile.
Well, good-bye, father. You'd better be off, hadn't you? The sun's getting high.
Good-bye, my dear Miss Lehr. The mestizo slashed impatiently at his mule and stirred it into action.
Not that way, my man, Miss Lehr called.
I have to pay a visit first, the priest explained, and breaking into an uncomfortable trot he bobbled down behind the mestizo's mule towards the village. They passed the whitewashed church-that too belonged to a dream. Life didn't contain churches. The long untidy village street opened ahead of them. The schoolmaster was at his door and waved an ironic greeting, malicious and horn-rimmed. Well, father, off with your spoils?
The priest stopped his mule. He said to the half-caste: Really ... I had forgotten ...
You did well out of the baptisms, the schoolmaster said. It pays to wait a few years, doesn't it?
Come on, father, the half-caste said. Don't listen to him. He spat. He's a bad man.
[173] The priest said: You know the people here better than anyone. If I leave a gift, will you spend it on things that do no harm-I mean food, blankets-not books?
They need food more than books.
I have forty-five pesos here ...
The mestizo wailed: Father, what are you doing...?
Conscience money? the schoolmaster said.
Yes.
All the same, of course, I thank you. It's good to see a priest with a conscience. It's a stage in evolution, he said, his glasses flashing in the sunlight, a plump embittered figure in front of his tin-roofed shack, an exile.
They passed the last houses, the cemetery, and began to climb. Why, father, why? the half-caste protested.
He's not a bad man, he does his best, and I shan't need money again, shall I? the priest asked, and for quite a while they rode without speaking, while the sun came blindingly out, and the mules' shoulders strained on the steep rocky paths, and the priest began to whistle again- I have a rose -the only tune he knew. Once the half-caste started a complaint about something: The trouble with you, father, is ... but it petered out before it was defined, because there wasn't really anything to complain about as they rode steadily north towards the border.
Hungry? the priest asked at last.
The half-caste muttered something that sounded angry or derisive.
Take a sandwich, the priest said, opening Miss Lehr's packet.
Chapter Two
THERE, the half-caste said, with a sort of whinny of triumph, as though he had lain innocently all these seven hours under the suspicion of lying. He pointed across the barranca to a group of Indian huts on a peninsula of rock jutting out across [174] the chasm. They were perhaps two hundred yards away, but it would take another hour at least to reach them, winding down a thousand feet and up another thousand.
The priest sat on his mule watching intently: he could see no movement anywhere. Even the look-out, the little platform of twigs built on a mound above the huts, was empty. He said: There doesn't seem to be anybody about. He was back in the atmosphere of desertion.
Well, the half-caste said, you didn't expect anybody, did you? Except him. He's there. You'll soon find that. Where are the Indians?
There you go again, the man complained. Suspicion. Always suspicion. How should I know where the Indians are? I told you he was quite alone, didn't I?
The priest dismounted. What are you doing now? the half-caste cried despairingly.
We shan't need the mules any more. They can be taken back.
Not need them? How are you going to get away from here?
Oh, the priest said. I won't have to think about that, will I? He counted out forty pesos and said to the muleteer: I hired you for Las Casas. Well, this is your good luck. Six days' pay.
You don't want me any more, father?
No, I think you'd better get away from here quickly. Leave you-know-what behind.
The half-caste said excitedly: We can't walk all that way, father. Why, the man's dying.
We can go just as quickly on our own hoofs. Now, friend, be off. The mestizo watched the mules pick their way along the narrow stony path with a look of wistful greed: they disappeared round a shoulder of rock-crack, crack, crack, the sound of their hoofs contracted into silence.
Now, the priest said briskly, we won't delay any more, and he started down the path, with a small sack slung over his shoulder. He could hear the half-caste panting after him: his wind was bad: they had probably let him have far too much beer in the capital, and the priest thought, with an odd touch of contemptuous affection, of how much had happened to them both since that first encounter in a village of which he [175] didn't even know the name: the half-caste lying there in the hot noonday rocking his hammock with one naked yellow toe. If he had been asleep at that moment, this wouldn't have happened. It was really shocking bad luck for the poor devil that he was to be burdened with a sin of such magnitude. The priest took a quick look back and saw the big toes protruding like slugs out of the dirty gym shoes: the man picked his way down, muttering all the time-his perpetual grievance didn't help his wind. Poor man, the priest thought, he isn't really bad enough. ...