Carmen Ariza Part 40

"But it is just because they think so that they get well, isn't it?"

the girl continued.

"I guess it is, child."

"And if they thought right they would be cured without this--is it not so, Padre dear?"

"I am sure of it--now," replied the priest. "In fact, if they always kept their thoughts right I am sure they would never be sick."

"You mean, if they always thought about G.o.d," the child amended.

"Yes--I mean just that. If they knew, _really knew_, that G.o.d is everywhere, that He is good, and that He never makes people sick, they would always be well."

"Of course, Padre. It is only their bad thoughts that make them sick.

And even then they are not really sick," the child concluded. "They think they are, and they think they die--and then they wake up and find it isn't so at all."

Had the child made this remark to him a few weeks before, he had crushed it with the dull, lifeless, conventional formulae of human belief. To-day in penitent humility he was trying to walk hand in hand with her the path she trod. For he was learning from her that righteousness is salvation. A few weeks ago he had lain at death's door, yearning to pa.s.s the portal. Yesterday he believed he had again seen the dark angel, hovering over the stricken Rosendo. But in each case _something_ had intervened. Perhaps that "something not ourselves that makes for righteousness," the unknown, almost unacknowledged force that ceases not to combat evil in the human consciousness.

Clinging to his petty egoisms; hugging close his shabby convictions of an evil power opposed to G.o.d; stuffed with worldly learning and pride of race and intellect, in due season, as he sank under the burden of his imaginings, the veil had been drawn aside for a fleeting moment--and his soul had frozen with awe at what it beheld!

For, back of the density of the human concept, the fleeting, inexplicable medley of good and evil which const.i.tutes the phenomenon of mortal existence, _he had seen G.o.d_! He had seen Him as all-inclusive mind, omnipotent, immanent, perfect, eternal. He had caught a moment's glimpse of the tremendous Presence which holds all wisdom, all knowledge, yet knows no evil. He had seen a blinding flash of that "something" toward which his life had strained and yearned. With it had come a dim perception of the falsity of the testimony of physical sense, and the human life that is reared upon it. And though he counted not himself to have apprehended as yet, he was struggling, even with thanksgiving, up out of his bondage, toward the gleam. The shafts of error hissed about him, and black doubt and chill despair still felled him with their awful blows. But he walked with Carmen. With his hand in hers, he knew he was journeying toward G.o.d.

On the afternoon before his departure Rosendo entered the parish house in apprehension. "I have lost my _escapulario_, Padre!" he exclaimed.

"The string caught in the brush, and the whole thing was torn from my neck. I--I don't like to go back without one," he added dubiously.

"Ah, then you have nothing left but Christ," replied Jose with fine irony. "Well, it is of no consequence."

"But, Padre, it had been blessed by the Bishop!"

"Well, don't worry. Why, the Holy Father himself once blessed this republic of ours, and now it is about the most unfortunate country in the whole world! But you are a good Catholic, Rosendo, so you need not fear."

Rosendo was, indeed, a good Catholic. He accepted the faith of his fathers without reserve. He had never known any other. Simple, superst.i.tious, and great of heart, he held with rigid credulity to all that had been taught him in the name of religion. But until Jose's advent he had feared and hated priests. Nevertheless, his faith in signs and miracles and the healing power of blessed images was child-like. Once when he saw in the store of Don Mario a colored chromo of Venus and Cupid, a cheap print that had come with goods imported from abroad, he had devoutly crossed himself, believing it to be the Virgin Mary with the Christ-child.

"But I will fix you up, Rosendo," said Jose, noting the man's genuine anxiety. "Have Dona Maria cut out a cloth heart and fasten it to a stout cord. I will take it to the church altar and bless it before the image of the Virgin. You told me once that the Virgin was the Rincon family's patron, you know."

"_Bueno!_" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the pleased Rosendo, as he hastened off to execute the commission.

Several times before Rosendo went back to Guamoco Jose had sought to draw him into conversation about his illness, and to get his view of the probable cause of his rapid recovery. But the old man seemed loath to dwell on the topic, and Jose could get little from him. At any mention of the episode a troubled look would come over his face, and he would fall silent, or would find an excuse to leave the presence of the priest.

"Rosendo," Jose abruptly remarked to him as he was busy with his pack late the night before his departure, "will you take with you the quinine that Juan brought?"

Rosendo looked up quickly. "I can not, Padre."

"And why?"

"On account of Carmen."

"But what has she to do with it, _amigo_?" Jose asked in surprise.

Rosendo looked embarra.s.sed. "I--_Bien_, Padre, I promised her I would not."

"When?"

"To-day, Padre."

Jose reflected on the child's unusual request. Then:

"But if you fell sick up in Guamoco, Rosendo, what could you do?"

"_Quien sabe_, Padre! Perhaps I could gather herbs and make a tea--I don't know. She didn't say anything about that." He looked at Jose and laughed. Then, in an anxious tone:

"Padre, what can I do? The little Carmen asks me not to take the quinine, and I can not refuse her. But I may get sick. I--I have always taken medicine when I needed it and could get it. But the only medicine we have in Simiti is the stuff that some of the women make--teas and drinks brewed from roots and bark. I have never seen a doctor here, nor any real medicines but quinine. And even that is hard to get, as you know. I used to make a salve out of the livers of _mapina_ snakes--it was for the rheumatism--I suffered terribly when I worked in the cold waters in Guamoco. I think the salve helped me. But if I should get the disease now, would Carmen let me make the salve again?"

He bent over his outfit for some moments. "She says if I trust G.o.d I will not get sick," he at length resumed. "She says I must not think about it. _Caramba!_ What has that to do with it? People get sick whether they think about it or not. Do you believe, Padre, this new _escapulario_ will protect me?"

The man's words reflected the strange mixture of mature and childish thought typical of these untutored jungle folk, in which longing for the good is so heavily overshadowed by an educated belief in the power of evil.

"Rosendo," said Jose, finding at last his opportunity, "tell me, do you think you were seriously ill day before yesterday?"

"_Quien sabe_, Padre! Perhaps it was only the _terciana_, after all."

"Well, then," pursuing another tack, "do you think I was very sick that day when I rushed to the lake--?"

"_Caramba_, Padre! But you were turning cold--you hardly breathed--we all thought you must die--all but Carmen!"

"And what cured me, Rosendo?" the priest asked in a low, steady voice.

"Why--Padre, I can not say."

"Nor can I, positively, my friend. But I do know that the little Carmen said I should not die. And she said the same of you when, as I would swear, you were in the fell clutches of the death angel himself."

"Padre--" Rosendo's eyes were large, and his voice trembled in awesome whisper--"is she--the little Carmen--is she--an _hada_?"

"A witch? _Hombre!_ No!" cried Jose, bursting into a laugh at the perturbed features of the older man. "No, _amigo_, she is not an _hada_! Let us say, rather, as you first expressed it to me, she is an angel--and let us appreciate her as such.

"But," he continued, "I tell you in all seriousness, there are things that such as you and I, with our limited outlook, have never dreamed of; and that child seems to have penetrated the veil that hides spiritual things from the material vision of men like us. Let us wait, and if we value that '_something_' which she seems to possess and know how to use, let us cut off our right hands before we yield to the temptation to place any obstacle in the way of her development along the lines which she has chosen, or which some unseen Power has chosen for her. It is for you and me, Rosendo, to stand aside and watch, while we protect her, if haply we may be privileged some day to learn her secret in full. You and I are the unlearned, while she is filled with wisdom. The world would say otherwise, and would condemn us as fools. Thank G.o.d we are out of the world here in Simiti!"

He choked back the inrush of memories and brushed away a tear.

"Rosendo," he concluded, "be advised. If Carmen told you not to think of sickness while in Guamoco, then follow her instructions. It is not the child, but a mighty Power that is speaking through her. Of that I have long been thoroughly convinced. And I am as thoroughly convinced that that same Power has appointed you and me her protectors and her followers. You and I have a mighty compact--"

"_Hombre!_" interrupted Rosendo, clasping the priest's hand, "my life is hers--you know it--she has only to speak, and I obey! Is it not so?"

"a.s.suredly, Rosendo," returned Jose. "And now a final word. Let us keep solely to ourselves what we have learned of her. Our plans are well formulated. Let us adhere to them in strict silence. I know not whither we are being led. But we are in the hands of that 'something'

that speaks and works through her--and we are satisfied. Are we not?"

They clasped hands again. The next morning Rosendo set his face once more toward the emerald hills of Guamoco.

As the days pa.s.sed, Jose became more silent and thoughtful. But it was a silence bred of wonder and reverence, as he dwelt upon the things that had been revealed to him. Who and what was this unusual child, so human, and yet so strangely removed from the world's plane of thought?

A child who understood the language of the birds, and heard the gra.s.s grow--a child whom Torquemada would have burnt as a witch, and yet with whom he could not doubt the Christ dwelt.