NATIVITY
_Kate's Narrative_
Jesse allowed that the upper forest does look "sort of wolfy." He would
post relays of ponies along the outward trail, so that he and McGee
could ride the eighty miles back in a single march. If the doctor
survived that, he would be here in forty-eight hours, perhaps in time.
I made Jesse take his revolver, yes, loaded it myself, and he promised a
signal shot from the rim-rock to give me the earliest news of his
return. He put out the light, he kissed me good-by, and was gone.
From the inner edge of the bed I could see through the window, and
watched Orion rising behind the cliffs. The night turned pale, then for
a long time the great gaunt precipice was revealed in tender primrose
light and amber shade. I heard our riders saddle, mount, and canter away
for the day's work. The two Chinamen went off also on some domestic
errand. The sunrise caught the pines upon the rim-rock into points of
flame. I heard a distant shot, and fell asleep.
The widow had stumped about nearly all night, weary to the tip of her
wooden leg, poor soul, so when I woke again and crept to the lean-to
door, it was a relief to find that she had gone to sleep. She had left
me a saucepan full of bread and milk which I warmed, and it warmed me
nicely.
Mrs. O'Flynn asleep is like peace after war. Dressing in stealth, I
prayed for peace in our time, then with a sweet enjoyment of fresh
guilt, stole out into the sunshine.
Instead of Jesse's whistling, Mick's barking, the altercations in the
new ram-pasture where our cow-boys live, the snuffles of old Jones, our
yard was filled with the exact opposite. Of course each sound has its
opposite, its shadow, making a gap in the chorus of things heard, and
when all the homely voices are replaced by gaps, one feels the
desolation of the high lonesome. Yet I fled away lest the widow's
vengeful stump should overtake me. I was so tired of being in bed.
The silver spring, the glade of marigolds, the brier-rose brake, are all
most necessary before one ventures into the cathedral grove, for it is
not well to pass direct from any worldly home into a holy place. And yet
I felt that something was badly wrong, for evil persons must have come
in the night and stretched the trail to double its usual length. I was
very angry, and I shall tell my husband.
I reached the grove, at this cool hour so like a green lagoon where
coral piers branch up to some ribbed vault. The waves of incense, the
river's organ throb, the glory in the windows, gave me peace, but the
choir of the winds had gone away, and for once in that sweet solitude I
was lonely. My sitting is at the root of the governess tree, and Jesse's
under the great father pine. If he were only there, how it would ease
the pain. I needed him so badly as I sat there, trying to make him
present in my thoughts. He had gone away, and the squirrel who lives in
the widow tree, had taken even his match ends. Only the cigar stubs were
left, which would, of course, be bad for the squirrel's children. I
wasn't well enough to call but I left my nut.
Close by is the terrific verge of the inner canyon, and sitting at the
very edge of death I saw into the mists.
It was so foolish, why should I be frightened of death, such a coward in
bearing pain? And yet I had better confess the truth, that presently I
ran away screaming, my skirt torn by brambles, my feet caught in the
roots. Only when I passed the place where by anemones live, and beyond
the east door of the grove came out into full sunlight, I could go no
farther but fell to the ground exhausted. Yes, it was very silly, and
that blind panic shamed me as I looked up at the crescent of silvery
birch trees who hold court at the foot of the upper cliff.
Something small and black was coming toward me, a clergyman too, and
nervous, because he twiddled his little hat.
"Are you in pain?" he asked.
"Are you a fairy?" I answered, wondering. I couldn't think of anything
else at the moment, for our lost ranch is so far from everywhere.
"No, madam," he said quite gravely. "I'm only a curate. May I sit down?"
My heart went out to him, for he was so little, so old, English like me,
but with the manner of the great world. When he sat down he took care
not to hurt one of my flowers.
"I fear I'm trespassing," he said, "in your royal gardens. May I
introduce myself? My name is Nisted--Jared Nisted, once an army
chaplain, now a tourist."
Was he real, or had I imagined him? "My name is Kate," I answered. "My
husband would be ever so pleased to make you welcome. But he's away."
"And are you lonely?"
"Not now." Somehow the pain and fear were gone as though they dared not
stay in the serene presence of this dear old saint. "Are you sure," I
ventured, "that you're not a--"
"Fairy? Believe me, dear lady, I'm a very commonplace little person.
"A humble admirer of yours, one Tearful George, has been kind enough to
bring me here in his buck-board, which has complaining wheels, a creaky
body, and such a wheezy horse. He, Tearful George I mean, contracted for
seventy-five dollars to bring me to paradise and back; but as we creaked
our passage through that weird black forest, I feared my guide had taken
the pathway which leads to the other place. I confess, the upper forest
frightened me, and now, having come to paradise, I don't want to go
back." He sighed. "George," he added, "is making camp up yonder. Mrs.
Smith, will you laugh at me very much if I tell you a fairy tale? It's
quite a nice one."
"Oh, do!" I begged.
"Well," he began, "you know where the three birch trees are all using a
single pool as their mirror?"
Of course these were the Three Graces. Mrs. O'Flynn and I had known for
months past that the spot was haunted.
"Each of them," said my visitor, "seems to think the others quite
superfluous."
That was true. I asked him if any one was there.
"A lady, yes."
"That's the minx," I whispered. "She's a fairy. But don't tell my
husband. You know he laughs at me for being so superstitious."
"Indeed. Fact is, Mrs. Smith, she was bathing, and George insisted, most
stupidly I think, on watering his horse at that pool. I mounted guard,
with my back turned, of course, and tried to persuade the good man to
water his horse elsewhere. He couldn't see any sanguinary lady in the
rosy pool, and you know the poor fellow has but a very meager choice of
words. He reviled me, and my progenitors, and if you'll believe me, my
dear mother was not at all the sort of person George described. He made
me feel so plain, too, with his candor about my personal appearance. And
all that time, while George made my flesh creep with his comments, the
lady in the pool was splashing me. I'm still quite damp."
"Did the horse see?"
"Do horses wink, Mrs. Smith? Do they smile? Can they blush? The Graces
shook their robes above our heads, the squirrels gossiped, the rippled
pool caught glints from the rising sun, and a flight of humming-birds
came whirring, as though they had been thrown in George's face. Them
sanguinary birds, he said, was always getting in the ruddy way. As to
the old horse, he kicked up his heels and pranced off sidewise down the
glen, and the man followed, rumbling benedictions."
I explained that my dear husband can not see the minx, that my servant
dare not look.
"I doubt," said Father Jared, with regret, "that very few fairies
nowadays are superstitious enough to believe in us poor mortals."
For that I could have kissed him.
"They used," the dear old man went on, "to believe in our forefathers,
but there is a very general decline of faith. It is not for us to blame
them. What fairy, for example, could be expected to believe in Tearful
George? He chews tobacco."
"Oh, tell me more about her. Did she speak to you? She's fearfully
dangerous. We had a ranch-hand here who went quite fey, possessed, I
think. I'm frightened of her now."
"She thinks," he retorted, "that you're a wicked woman."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. She said you would run away, and you did. I am to tell you
that's very unwise."
"Please tell the minx to mind her own business."
"What is her business?" he asked mildly.
"Being a fairy, I suppose. I'll never forgive her for what she did to
Billy. Besides," I added, "she makes fun of us."
"No wonder, for we humans are so stupid."
"She's full of mischief."
"Of course." The old man's eyes twinkled and blinked as though--I can't
set words to fit that puzzled memory. He had told me twice that he was
not a fairy. "I am to tell you from my lady, that she is not the minx.
Winds, waves, and living things," he said, "are full of mischief and
laughter. The sun has room to sparkle even in a tear, and Heaven touches
our lips with every smile, for joy is holy. Spirits, angels, fairies,
are only thoughts which have caught the light celestial, mirror-thoughts
which shine in Heaven's glory. Children, and happy people see that
light, which never shines on any clouded soul."
"My soul is clouded. Help me."
"I wonder," he smiled with his old kind eyes. "Have you a sense of
humor? Ah,--there. Then you need never worry, or run away. As sunshine
and rain are to the dear earth, so are laughter and tears to every
living soul. Humor, dear, is the weather in which the spirit lives."
"But sorrow and tears?"
"Why, how can the sun make rainbows without rain?"
"You'll praise pain next!"
"That is a sacrament," he answered gravely, "the outward sign of inward
grace. For how else can God reach through selfishness down to the soul
in need?"
My pain had come back, but it was welcome now.
On the left were the solemn pines, and at their feet white flowers; on
the right were my fair birch trees; and the glade between lay in warm
sunshine.
"Lift up your hearts," whispered the priest, and I saw my trees, which
in winter storm and summer sun alike show their brave faces to the
changing sky.
"We lift them up unto the Lord," they seemed to answer.
"It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty," he responded, then
looked as it seemed into my very soul.
I saw the dear priest's face through tears, but when I brushed them away
the mist remained. He seemed remote, awful, and beautiful.
"There is a place," he said, "where souls awaiting incarnation, rest,
and from that place they come, borne by messengers. A messenger was
waiting in these woods, no evil spirit, my daughter, but one who came
bearing a child to you. She stands august and lovely at your back, and
in her arms the soul of a man-child, just on the verge of incarnation,
waits at the boundary of the spirit land.
"'The light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.'
"That light is all around you, and I must go. This very ground is holy.
Fare you well."
* * * * *
Two days had passed since my dear Jesse left, then through the long day
I waited in the house, and the blue gloom of night swept up the glowing
cliff. It was then I heard the signal shot from the rim-rock, and told
my baby David that his father was coming home.