Paul was back again in his quiet dining-room, seated at the table and
waited on by his mother. Fortunately there was now something they dare
talk about and the flight of King Nicodemus was being discussed. Having
hastily deposited the silver amphora and other things taken out for the
rite and doffed his red cope, Antiochus had run off to collect news.
The first time he came back it was with a strange report; the old man
had disappeared and his relations were said to have carried him off in
order to get possession of his money.
“They say that his dog and his eagle came down and carried him off
themselves!” corrected some sceptic jestingly.
“I don’t believe in the dog,” said one of the old men, “but the eagle
is no joke. I remember that when I was a boy, one carried off a heavy
sheep from our yard.”
Then Antiochus came back with the further news that the sick man had
been overtaken half-way up to the mountain plateau, where he wished to
die. The last upflickering of his fever lent him a fictitious strength
and the dying hunter walked like a somnambulist to the place where he
longed to be, and in order not to worry him and make him worse, his
relatives had accompanied him and seen him safely to his own hut.
“Now sit down and eat,” said the priest to the boy.
Antiochus obeyed and took his place at the table, but not without first
glancing inquiringly at the priest’s mother. She smiled and signed to
him to do as he was bidden and the boy felt that he had become one of
the family. He could not know, innocent child, that the other two,
having exhausted the subject of the old hunter, were afraid of being
alone together. The mother would see her son’s uneasy wandering eyes
arrested suddenly, as though upon some unseen object, with a stony,
sombre gaze, o’ershadowed by the darkness of his mind, and he in turn
would start from his preoccupation, aware that she was observing him
and divining his inward grief. But when she had placed the meal on the
table she left the room and did not return.
With the bright noonday the wind rose again, but now it was a soft
west wind that scarcely stirred the trees upon the ridge; the room was
flooded with sunshine chequered by the dancing of the leaves outside
the window, and white clouds drifted across the sky like harp-strings
whereon the wind played its gentle music.
The charm was broken suddenly by a knock at the door and Antiochus ran
to open. A pale young widow with frightened eyes stood on the threshold
and asked to see the priest. By the hand she held fast a little girl,
with small, livid face and a red scarf tied over her untidy black
hair; and, as the child dragged and struggled from side to side in her
efforts to free herself, her eyes blazed like a wild cat’s. “She is
ill,” said the widow, “and I want the priest to read the gospel over
her to drive out the evil spirit that has taken possession of her.”
Puzzled and scared, Antiochus stood holding the door half open: this
was not the time to worry the priest with such matters, and moreover
the girl, who was twisting herself all to one side and trying to bite
her mother’s hand as she could not escape, was truly an object of both
fear and pity.
“She is possessed, you see,” said the widow, turning red with shame. So
then Antiochus let her in immediately and even helped her to push in
the child, who clung to the jamb of the door and resisted with all her
might.
On hearing what was the matter and that this was already the third day
on which the little victim had behaved so strangely, always trying to
escape, deaf and dumb to all persuasions, the priest had her brought in
to him, and taking her by the shoulders he examined her eyes and her
mouth.
“Has she been much in the sun?” he inquired.
“It’s not that,” whispered the mother. “I think she is possessed by
an evil spirit. No,” she added, sobbing, “my little girl is no longer
alone!”
Paul rose to fetch his Testament from his room, then stopped and sent
Antiochus for it. The book was placed open on the table, and with his
hand upon the burning head of the child, clasped tightly in the arms of
her kneeling mother, he read aloud:
“And they arrived at the country of the Gadarenes, which is over
against Galilee. And when he went forth to land, there met him out
of the city a certain man which had devils a long time, and ware no
clothes, neither abode in any house, but in the tombs. When he saw
Jesus he cried out and fell down before him, and with a loud voice
said, ‘What have I to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of God most high? I
beseech thee, torment me not.’”
Antiochus turned over the page of the book and his eyes strayed to the
priest’s hand which rested on the table; at the words, “What have I
to do with thee,” he saw the hand tremble, and looking up quickly he
perceived that Paul’s eyes were full of tears. Then, overcome by an
irresistible emotion, the boy knelt down beside the widow, but still
keeping his arm stretched out to touch the book. And he thought to
himself:
“Surely _he_ is the best man in all the world, for he weeps when he
reads the word of God!” And he did not venture to raise his eyes again
to look at Paul, but with his free hand he pulled the little girl’s
skirt to keep her quiet, though not without a secret fear that the
demons who were being exorcised from her body would enter into his own.
The possessed child had ceased throwing herself about and stood up
straight and stiff, her thin brown neck stretched to its full length,
her little chin stuck forward over the knot of her kerchief and her
eyes fixed upon the priest’s face. Gradually her expression changed,
her mouth relaxed and opened, and it seemed as if the words of the
Gospel, the murmuring of the wind and the rustle of the trees on the
ridge were working upon her as a charm. Suddenly she tore her skirt
from Antiochus’s restraining hand and fell on her knees beside him, and
the priest’s hand which had rested upon her head remained outstretched
above it, as his tremulous voice continued reading:
“Now the man out of whom the devils were departed besought him that he
might be with him: but Jesus sent him away, saying, Return to thine
own house and show how great things God hath done unto thee....”
He ceased reading and withdrew his hand. The child was now perfectly
quiet and had turned her face wonderingly towards the boy, and in the
silence that succeeded the Gospel words nothing was audible save the
trees rustling in the breeze and the faint tap-tap of the stone-breaker
by the roadside.
Paul was suffering acutely. Not for one moment had he shared the
widow’s superstition that the girl was possessed by a devil and he
felt, therefore, that he had been reading the Gospel without belief.
The only devil which existed was the one within himself, and this one
would not be driven forth. And yet there had been a moment when he had
felt nearer to God: “What have I to do with thee?” And it seemed to him
that those three believers in front of him, and his own mother kneeling
at the kitchen door, were bowed, not before his power, but before
his utter wretchedness. Yet when the widow bent low to kiss his feet
he drew back sharply: he thought of his mother, _who knew all_, and
feared lest she should misjudge him.
The widow was so overwhelmed with mortification when she raised her
head that the two children began to laugh, and even Paul’s distress
relaxed a little.
“That’s all right, get up now,” he said, “the child is quiet.”
They all rose to their feet and Antiochus ran to open the door, at
which now somebody else was knocking. It was the keeper with his dog on
the leash, and Antiochus burst out instantly, his face beaming with joy:
“A miracle has just happened! He has driven out the devils from the
body of Nina Masia!”
But the keeper did not believe in miracles; he stood a little away from
the door and said:
“Then let us make room for them to escape!”
“They will enter into the body of your dog,” cried Antiochus.
“They cannot enter because they are there already,” replied the keeper.
He spoke in jest, but maintained his usual gravity. On the threshold
of the room he drew himself up and saluted the priest without
condescending even to glance at the women.
“Can I speak to you in private, sir?”
The women withdrew into the kitchen and Antiochus carried the Testament
upstairs. When he came down, although still full of excitement at the
miracle, he stopped to listen to what the keeper was saying:
“I beg your pardon for bringing this animal into the house, but he is
quite clean and he will give no trouble because he understands where
he is.” (The dog, in fact, was standing motionless, with lowered eyes
and hanging tail.) “I’ve come about the matter of old Nicodemus Pania,
nicknamed King Nicodemus. He is back in his hut and has expressed the
wish to see you again and to receive extreme unction. In my humble
opinion...”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the priest impatiently, but the next instant
he was filled with childish joy at the thought of going up to the
mountain plateau and by physical exertion banishing for a time the
perplexities that tormented him.
“Yes, yes,” he added quickly, “and I shall want a horse. What is the
road like?”
“I will see about the horse and the road,” said the keeper, “that is my
duty.”
The priest offered him a drink. On principle the keeper never accepted
anything from anyone, not even a glass of wine, but on this occasion he
felt that his own civil functions and the priest’s religious functions
were so much each a part of the other that he accepted the invitation;
so he drank, and emptied the last drops of wine on the ground (since
the earth claims her share of whatever man consumes), and expressed his
thanks with a military salute. Then the great dog wagged his tail and
looked up at Paul with an offer of friendship in his eyes.
Antiochus was ready to open the door again and then returned to the
dining-room to await orders. He was sorry for his mother, waiting in
vain for the priest in the little room behind the bar, which had been
specially cleaned up for the occasion and the tray with glasses placed
ready for the guest; but duty before all things and the visit would
obviously be impossible that day.
“What must I prepare?” he asked, imitating the keeper’s solemn tones.
“Shall we take the umbrella?”
“What are you thinking of! I am going on horseback and you need not
come at all. I could take you up behind me, however.”
“No, I will walk, I am never tired,” urged the boy, and in a few
minutes he was ready, with a little box in his hand and his red cope
folded over his arm. As far as he was concerned, he would have liked to
take the umbrella too, but he was obliged to obey superior orders.
Whilst he was waiting for the priest in front of the church all the
ragged urchins who made of the square their regular playground and
battlefield gathered round him curiously without venturing too near,
and regarded the box with respect not unmixed with terror.
“Let’s go nearer,” said one.
“You keep your distance, or I’ll let loose the keeper’s dog at you!”
shouted Antiochus.
“The keeper’s dog? Why, you daren’t go within ten miles of him!” jeered
the urchins.
“Daren’t I?” said Antiochus with magnificent scorn.
“No, you daren’t! And you think you’re as good as the Lord Himself
because you’re carrying the holy oil!”
“If I were you,” advised one open-minded youth, “I should make off with
that box and perform all kinds of sorceries with the holy oil.”
“Be off, you horse-fly! The devil that came out of Nina Masia’s body
has entered into yours!”
“What’s that? The devil?” cried the boys in chorus.
“Yes,” said Antiochus solemnly, “this very afternoon _he_ drove out a
devil from the body of Nina Masia. Here she comes.”
The widow, leading the little girl by the hand, was just coming out of
the presbytery; the boys all rushed to meet her and in one moment the
news of the miracle spread through the village. Then occurred a scene
which recalled that which had taken place on the first arrival of the
priest. The whole population assembled together in the square and Nina
Masia was placed by her mother on the top step before the church door,
where she sat, thin and brown-skinned, with her green eyes and the red
kerchief over her head, looking like some primitive idol set up to be
worshipped by those simple and credulous country folk.
The women began to weep and all wanted to touch the girl. Meanwhile
the keeper had arrived on the scene with his dog, and then the priest
crossed the square on horseback. The crowd immediately collected around
him and made a procession to follow him, but whilst he waved his hand
to them and turned from side to side acknowledging their greetings,
his annoyance at what had happened was even greater than his distress.
When he reached the top of the hill he reined in his horse and seemed
about to speak, then suddenly put spurs to the animal and rode rapidly
down the road. He had a desperate craving to gallop furiously away,
to escape through the valley and lose himself and his whole being
somewhere in that wide horizon spread out before his gaze.
The wind was freshening: the afternoon sun shone warmly on the thickets
and bushes, the river reflected the blue sky and the spray thrown up
by the mill-wheel sparkled like diamonds. The keeper with his dog and
Antiochus with his box descended the hill soberly, fully conscious of
their office, and presently Paul drew rein and rode along quietly.
After crossing the river the road became a mere path and wound upwards
towards the plateau, bordered by stones and low walls, rocks and
stunted trees, and the west wind blew sweet and warm, heavy-laden with
perfume, as though it had gathered all the thyme flowers and wild roses
it had found upon its way and was now strewing them again upon the
earth.
The path wound ever upwards: when they turned round the side of the
hill and lost sight of the village, the world seemed nothing but wind
and stones, and white vapours that on the horizon linked earth and sky
in one. From time to time the dog barked, and the echo in the hills
seemed to bring him answers from other dogs all around.
When they were half-way to their destination the priest offered to
take Antiochus up behind him on the horse, but the boy refused, and
only very unwillingly yielded up the box. And only then did he permit
himself to open a conversation with the keeper; a vain attempt,
however, for the keeper never forgot his own imaginary importance for
one moment. Every now and then he would stop, with a portentous frown,
and drawing the peak of his cap low over his eyes he would inspect the
landscape on every side, as though the whole world belonged to him and
were threatened with some imminent peril. Then the dog would stop too,
rigid on his four paws, snuffing the wind and quivering from ears to
tail. Luckily all was serene on that windy afternoon, the only moving
things in sight being the agile goats climbing on distant rocks, black
silhouettes against the blue sky and rosy clouds.
At last they came to a sort of declivity covered with masses of
granite, a regular waterfall of rocks balanced one upon another with
marvellous precision. Antiochus recognized the place, as he had once
been there with his father, and whilst the priest kept to the path,
which wound some considerable way round, and the keeper followed him
as in duty bound, the boy scrambled down from rock to rock and was the
first to reach the hut of the old hunter.
The hut was a ramshackle erection of logs and boughs surrounded by a
partly natural enclosure of great boulders, against which the old man,
in order to complete this sort of prehistoric fortress, had piled other
stones in large numbers. The sun slanted down into this enclosure as
into a well: the view was completely shut in on three sides, and only
on the right, between two rocks, a silver streak in the blue distance,
might be discerned the sea.
On hearing steps the old man’s grandson thrust his curly black head out
of the hut door.
“They are coming,” announced Antiochus.
“Who are coming?”
“The priest and the keeper.”
The man sprang out, as agile and hairy as his own goats, and swore
roundly at the keeper for always interfering in other people’s business.
“I’ll break all his bones for him!” he growled threateningly, but when
he saw the dog he drew back, while the old man’s dog ran forward to
sniff at and greet the visitor.
Antiochus took charge of the box again and sat down on a stone facing
the opening in the rocks. All around were an immense number of
wild-boar-skins, striped black and grey, and of marten skins flecked
with gold, spread out on the rocks to dry. Inside the hut he could see
the form of the old man lying on a heap of other skins, his dark face,
framed in the white hair and beard, already set in the composure of
approaching death. The priest was bending down to interrogate him, but
the dying man made no reply, and lay with closed eyes and a drop of
blood trembling on his violet lips. A little way off, on another stone,
sat the keeper with his dog stretched at his feet and his eyes also
fixed on the interior of the hut. He was indignant because the dying
man was disobeying the law in not declaring what was his last will
and testament, and as Antiochus turned his mischievous eyes in that
direction he thought somewhat maliciously that the keeper would have
liked to set his dog on the stubborn old hunter as on a thief.