The electric light in Sayula was as inconstant as everything
else. It would come on at half-past six in the
evening, and it might bravely burn till ten at night, when
the village went dark with a click. But usually it did
no such thing. Often it refused to sputter into being till
seven, or half-past, or even eight o’clock. But its worst
trick was that of popping out just in the middle of supper,
or just when you were writing a letter. All of a sudden,
the black Mexican night came down on you with a thud.
And then everybody running blindly for matches and
candles, with a calling of frightened voices. Why were
they always frightened? Then the electric light, like a
wounded thing, would try to revive, and a red glow would
burn in the bulbs, sinister. All held their breath—was it
coming or not? Sometimes it expired for good, sometimes
it got its breath back and shone, rather dully, but better
than nothing.
Once the rainy season had set in, it was hopeless. Night
after night it collapsed. And Kate would sit with her
weary, fluttering candle, while blue lightning revealed the
dark shapes of things in the patio. And half-seen people
went swiftly down to Juana’s end of the patio, secretly.
On such a night Kate sat on her verandah facing the
deepness of the black night. A candle shone in her desert
salon. Now and again she saw the oleanders and the
papaya in the patio garden, by the blue gleam of lightning
that fell with a noiseless splash into the pitch darkness.
There was a distant noise of thunders, several storms prowling
round like hungry jaguars, above the lake.
And several times the gate clicked, and crunching steps
came along the gravel, someone passed on the gravel walk,
saluting her, going down to Juana’s quarters, where the
dull light of a floating oil wick shone through the grated
window-hole. Then there was a low, monotonous sound
of a voice, reciting or reading. And as the wind blew
and the lightning alighted again like a blue bird among
the plants, there would come the sharp noise of the round
cuentas falling from the cuenta tree.
Kate was uneasy and a bit forlorn. She felt something
was happening down in the servants’ corner, something
secret in the dark. And she was stranded in her isolation
on her terrace.
But after all, it was her house, and she had a right to
know what her own people were up to. She rose from
her rocking chair and walked down the verandah and round
the dining-room bay. The dining-room, which had its
own two doors on the patio, was already locked up.
In the far corner beyond the well, she saw a group sitting
on the ground, outside the doorway of Juana’s kitchen-hole.
Out of this little kitchen-shed shone the light of the
floating-wick lamp, and a voice was slowly intoning, all
the faces were looking into the dim light, the women dark-hooded
in rebozos, the men with their hats on, their
sarapes over their shoulders.
When they heard Kate’s footsteps, the faces looked her
way, and a voice murmured in warning. Juana struggled
to her feet.
“It is the Niña!” she said. “Come, then, Niña, you
poor innocent all alone in the evening.”
The men in the group rose to their feet—she recognized
the young Ezequiel, taking his hat off to her. And there
was Maria del Carmen, the bride. And inside the little
shed, with the wick-lamp on the floor, was Julio, the bridegroom
of a few weeks ago. Concha and little Maria were
there, and a couple of strangers.
“I could hear the voice—” said Kate. “I didn’t know
it was you, Julio. How do you do?—And I wondered so
much what it was.”
There was a moment’s dead silence. Then Juana
plunged in.
“Yes, Niña! Come! It’s very nice that you come.
Concha, the chair for the Niña!”
Concha got up rather unwillingly, and fetched the little
low chair which formed Juana’s sole article of furniture,
save the one bed.
“I don’t disturb you?” said Kate.
“No, Niña, you are a friend of Don Ramón, verdad?”
“Yes,” said Kate.
“And we—we are reading the Hymns.”
“Yes?” said Kate.
“The Hymns of Quetzalcoatl,” said Ezequiel, in his barking
young voice, with sudden bravado.
“Do go on! May I listen!”
“You hear! The Niña wants to listen. Read, Julio,
read! Read then.”
They all sat down once more on the ground, and Julio
sat down by the lamp, but he hung his head, hiding his face
in the shadow of his big hat.
“Entonces!—Read then,” said Juana.
“He is afraid,” murmured Maria del Carmen, laying
her hand on the young man’s knee. “However, read,
Julio! Because the Niña wants to hear.”
And after a moment’s struggle, Julio said in a muffled
voice:
“Do I begin from the beginning.”
“Yes, from the beginning! Read!” said Juana.
The young man took a sheet of paper, like an advertisement
leaflet, from under his blanket. At the top it had
the Quetzalcoatl symbol, called the Eye, the ring with the
bird-shape standing in the middle.
He began to read in a rather muffled voice:
“I am Quetzalcoatl with the dark face, who lived in
Mexico in other days.
“Till there came a stranger from over the seas, and his
face was white, and he spoke with strange words. He
showed his hands and his feet, that in both there were holes.
And he said: ‘My name is Jesus, and they called me Christ.
Men crucified me on a Cross till I died. But I rose up out
of the place where they put me, and I went up to heaven
to my Father. Now my Father has told me to come to
Mexico.’
“Quetzalcoatl said: You alone?
“Jesus said: My mother is here. She shed many tears
for me, seeing me crucify. So she will hold the Sons of
Mexico on her lap, and soothe them when they suffer, and
when the women of Mexico weep, she will take them on her
bosom and comfort them. And when she cries to the
Father for her people, He will make everything well.
“Quetzalcoatl said: That is well. And Brother with the
name Jesus, what will you do in Mexico?
“Jesus said: I will bring peace into Mexico. And on
the naked I will put clothes, and food between the lips of
the hungry, and gifts in all men’s hands, and peace and
love in their hearts.
“Quetzalcoatl said: It is very good. I am old. I could
not do so much. I must go now. Farewell, people of Mexico.
Farewell, strange brother called Jesus. Farewell, woman
called Mary. It is time for me to go.
“So Quetzalcoatl looked at his people; and he embraced
Jesus, the Son of Heaven; and he embraced Maria, the
Blessed Virgin, the Holy Mother of Jesus, and he turned
away. Slowly he went. But in his ears was the sound
of the tearing down of his temples in Mexico. Nevertheless
he went on slowly, being old, and weary with much living.
He climbed the steep of the mountain, and over the white
snow of the volcano. As he went, behind him rose a cry
of people dying, and a flame of places burning. He said to
himself: Surely those are Mexicans crying! Yet I must not
hear, for Jesus has come to the land, and he will wipe the
tears from all eyes, and his Mother will make them all glad.
“He also said: Surely that is Mexico burning. But
I must not look, for all men will be brothers, now Jesus
has come to the land, and the women will sit by the blue
skirts of Mary, smiling with peace and with love.
“So the old god reached the top of the mountain, and
looked up into the blue house of heaven. And through a
door in the blue wall he saw a great darkness, and stars and
a moon shining. And beyond the darkness he saw one great
star, like a bright gateway.
“Then fire rose from the volcano around the old Quetzalcoatl,
in wings and glittering feathers. And with the
wings of fire and the glitter of sparks Quetzalcoatl flew up,
up, like a wafting fire, like a glittering bird, up, into the
space, and away to the white steps of heaven, that lead to
the blue walls, where is the door to the dark. So he
entered in and was gone.
“Night fell, and Quetzalcoatl was gone, and men in the
world saw only a star travelling back into heaven, departing
under the low branches of darkness.
“Then men in Mexico said: Quetzalcoatl has gone. Even
his star has departed. We must listen to this Jesus, who
speaks in a foreign tongue.
“So they learned a new speech from the priests that came
from upon the great waters to the east. And they became
Christians.”
Julio, who had become absorbed, ended abruptly, as the
tale of the leaflet was ended.
“It is beautiful,” said Kate.
“And it is true!” cried the sceptical Juana.
“It seems to me true,” said Kate.
“Señora!” yelled Concha. “Is it true that heaven is
up there, and you come down steps like clouds to the
edge of the sky, like the steps from the mole into the lake?
Is it true that El Señor comes and stands on the steps and
looks down at us like we look down into the lake to see the
charales?”
Concha shoved up her fierce swarthy face, and shook her
masses of hair, glaring at Kate, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t know everything,” laughed Kate. “But it
seems to me true.”
“She believes it,” said Concha, turning her face to her
mother.
“And is it true,” asked Juana, “that El Señor, El
Cristo del Mundo, is a gringo, and that He comes from your
country, with His Holy Mother?”
“Not from my country, but from a country near.”
“Listen!” exclaimed Juana, awestruck. “El Señor is
a gringito, and His Holy Mother is a gringita. Yes, one
really knows. Look! Look at the feet of the Niña! Pure
feet of the Santísima! Look!” Kate was barefoot,
wearing sandals with a simple strap across the foot. Juana
touched one of the Niña’s white feet, fascinated. “Feet
of the Santísima. And She, the Holy Mary is a gringita.
She came over the sea, like you, Niña?”
“Yes, she came over the sea!”
“Ah! You know it?”
“Yes. We know that.”
“Think of it! The Santísima is a gringita, and She
came over the Sea like the Niña, from the countries of the
Niña!” Juana spoke in a wicked wonder, horrified,
delighted, mocking.
“And the Lord is a Gringito—pure Gringito?” barked
Concha.
“And Niña—It was the gringos who killed El Señor?
It wasn’t the Mexicans? It was those other gringos who
put Him on the Cross?”
“Yes!” said Kate. “It wasn’t the Mexicans.”
“The gringos?”
“Yes, the gringos.”
“And He Himself was a Gringo?”
“Yes!” said Kate, not knowing what else to say.
“Look!” said Juana, in her hushed, awed, malevolent
voice. “He was a Gringo, and the gringos put him on the
Cross.”
“But a long time ago,” said Kate hastily.
“A long time ago, says the Niña,” echoed Juana, in
her awed voice.
There was a moment of silence. The dark faces of the
girls and men seated on the ground were turned up to Kate,
watching her fixedly, in the half light, counting every word.
In the outer air, thunder muttered in different places.
“And now, Niña,” came the cool, clear voice of Maria
del Carmen, “El Señor is going back again to His Father,
and our Quetzalcoatl is coming back to us?”
“And the Santísima is leaving us?” put in the hurried
voice of Juana. “Think of it! The Santísima is leaving
us, and this Quetzalcoatl is coming! He has no mother,
he!”
“Perhaps he has a wife,” said Kate.
“Quien sabe!” murmured Juana.
“They say,” said the bold Concha, “that in Paradise
he has grown young.”
“Who?” asked Juana.
“I don’t know how they call him,” muttered Concha,
ashamed to say the word.
“Quetzalcoatl!” said Ezequiel, in his barking strong
young voice. “Yes, he is young. He is a god in the
flower of life, and finely built.”
“They say so! They say so!” murmured Juana.
“Think of it!”
“Here it says so!” cried Ezequiel. “Here it is written.
In the second Hymn.”
“Read it then, Julio.”
And Julio, now nothing loth, took out a second paper.
“I, Quetzalcoatl, of Mexico, I travelled the longest
journey.
“Beyond the blue outer wall of heaven, beyond the bright
place of the Sun, across the plains of darkness where the
stars spread out like trees, like trees and bushes, far away
to the heart of all the worlds, low down like the Morning
Star.
“And at the heart of all the worlds those were waiting
whose faces I could not see. And in voices like bees they
murmured among themselves: This is Quetzalcoatl whose
hair is white with fanning the fires of life. He comes
alone, and slowly.
“Then with hands I could not see, they took my hands,
and in their arms that I could not see, at last I died.
“But when I was dead, and bone, they cast not my bones
away, they did not give me up to the four winds, nor to the
six. No, not even to the wind that blows down to the
middle of earth, nor to him that blows upward like a finger
pointing, did they give me.
“He is dead, they said, but unrelinquished.
“So they took the oil of the darkness, and laid it on my
brow and my eyes, they put it in my ears and nostrils and
my mouth, they put it on the two-fold silence of my breasts,
and on my sunken navel, and on my secret places, before
and behind: and in the palms of my hands, and on the
mounds of my knees, and under the tread of my feet.
“Lastly, they anointed all my head with the oil that
comes out of the darkness. Then they said: He is sealed
up. Lay him away.
“So they laid me in the fountain that bubbles darkly at
the heart of the worlds, far, far behind the sun, and there
lay I, Quetzalcoatl, in warm oblivion.
“I slept the great sleep, and dreamed not.
“Till a voice was calling: Quetzalcoatl!
“I said: Who is that?
“No one answered, but the voice said: Quetzalcoatl!
“I said: Where art thou?
“So! he said. I am neither here nor there. I am thyself.
Get up.
“Now all was very heavy upon me, like a tomb-stone of
darkness.
“I said: Am I not old? How shall I roll this stone away?
“How art thou old, when I am new man? I will roll
away the stone. Sit up!
“I sat up, and the stone went rolling, crashing down the
gulfs of space.
“I said to myself: I am new man. I am younger than
the young and older than the old. Lo! I am unfolded on
the stem of time like a flower, I am at the midst of the
flower of my manhood. Neither do I ache with desire,
to tear, to burst the bud; neither do I yearn away like a
seed that floats into heaven. The cup of my flowering is
unfolded, in its middle the stars float balanced with array.
My stem is in the air, my roots are in all the dark, the sun
is no more than a cupful within me.
“Lo! I am neither young nor old, I am the flower unfolded,
I am new.
“So I rose and stretched my limbs and looked around.
The sun was below me in a daze of heat, like a hot humming-bird
hovering at mid-day over the worlds. And
his beak was long and very sharp, he was like a dragon.
“And a faint star was hesitating wearily, waiting to
pass.
“I called aloud, saying: ‘Who is that?’
“I caught the sun and held him, and in my shade the
faint star slipped past, going slowly into the dark reaches
beyond the burning of the sun. Then on the slope of silence
he sat down and took off his sandals, and I put them on.
“‘How do they wear the wings of love, Jesus, the
Mexican people?’
“‘The souls of the Mexican people are heavy for the
wings of love, they have swallowed the stone of despair.’
“‘Where is your Lady Mother in the mantle of blue, she
with comfort in her lap?’
“‘Her mantle faded in the dust of the world, she was
weary without sleep, for the voices of people cried night
and day, and the knives of the Mexican people were sharper
than the pinions of love, and their stubbornness was stronger
than hope. Lo! the fountain of tears dries up in the eyes
of the old, and the lap of the aged is comfortless, they look
for rest. Quetzalcoatl, Sir, my mother went even before
me, to her still white bed in the moon.’
“‘She is gone, and thou are gone, Jesus, the Crucified.
Then what of Mexico?’
“‘The images stand in their churches, Oh Quetzalcoatl,
they don’t know that I and my Mother have departed. They
are angry souls, Brother, my Lord! They vent their
anger. They broke my Churches, they stole my strength
they withered the lips of the Virgin. They drove us away,
and we crept away like a tottering old man and a woman,
tearless and bent double with age. So we fled while they
were not looking. And we seek but rest, to forget forever
the children of men who have swallowed the stone of
despairs.’
“Then said I: It is good, pass on. I, Quetzalcoatl, will
go down. Sleep thou the sleep without dreams. Farewell
at the cross-roads, Brother Jesus.
“He said: Oh, Quetzalcoatl! They have forgotten thee.
The feathered snake! The serpent—silent bird! They are
asking for none of thee.
“I said: Go thy way, for the dust of earth is in thy eyes
and on thy lips. For me the serpent of middle-earth sleeps
in my loins and my belly, the bird of the outer air perches
on my brow and sweeps her bill across my breast. But I,
I am lord of two ways. I am master of up and down. I am
as a man who is a new man, with new limbs and life, and the
light of the Morning Star in his eyes. Lo! I am I! The
lord of both ways. Thou wert lord of the one way. Now
it leads thee to the sleep. Farewell!
“So Jesus went on towards the sleep. And Mary the
Mother of Sorrows lay down on the bed of the white moon,
weary beyond any more tears.
“And I, I am on the threshold. I am stepping across the
border. I am Quetzalcoatl, lord of both ways, star between
day and the dark.”
There was silence as the young man finished reading.
