and her white face in the frenzy of the old way.
“Lord! Lord!” she cried, in a strange ecstatic voice that froze Kate’s
bowels with horror: “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”
Carlota strangled in her ecstasy. And all the while, Ramón, the
living Quetzalcoatl, stood before the flickering altar with naked arm
upraised, looking with dark, inalterable eyes down upon the woman.
Throes and convulsions tortured the body of Carlota. She gazed
sightlessly upwards. Then came her voice, in the mysterious rhapsody of
prayer:
“Lord! Lord! Forgive!
“God of love, forgive! He knows not what he does.
“Lord! Lord Jesus! Make an end. Make an end, Lord of the world, Christ
of the cross, make an end. Have mercy on him, Father. Have pity on him!
“Oh, take his life from him now, now, that his soul may not die.”
Her voice had gathered strength till it rang out metallic and terrible.
“Almighty God, take his life from him, and save his soul.”
And in the silence after that cry her hands seemed to flicker in the
air like flames of death.
“The Omnipotent,” came the voice of Ramón, speaking quietly, as if to
her, “is with me, and I serve Omnipotence!”
She remained with her white clasped hands upraised, her white arms and
her white face showing mystical, like onyx, from her thin black dress.
She was absolutely rigid. And Ramón, with his arm too upraised, looked
down on her abstractedly, his black brows a little contracted.
A strong convulsion seized her body. She became tense again, making
inarticulate noises. Then another convulsion seized her. Once more she
recovered herself, and thrust up her clenched hands in frenzy. A third
convulsion seized her as if from below, and she fell with a strangling
moan in a heap on the altar steps.
Kate had risen suddenly and ran to her, to lift her up. She found her
stiff, with a little froth on her discoloured lips, and fixed, glazed
eyes.
Kate looked up in consternation at Ramón. He had dropped his arm, and
stood with his hands against his thighs, like a statue. But he remained
with his wide, absorbed dark eyes watching without any change. He met
Kate’s glance of dismay, and his eyes quickly glanced, like lightning,
for Cipriano. Then he looked back at Carlota, across a changeless
distance. Not a muscle of his face moved. And Kate could see that his
heart had died in its connection with Carlota, his heart was quite,
quite dead in him; out of the deathly vacancy he watched his wife.
Only his brows frowned a little, from his smooth, male forehead. His
old connections were broken. She could hear him say: _There is no star
between me and Carlota._--And how terribly true it was!
Cipriano came quickly, switched off his brilliant serape, wrapped
it round the poor, stiff figure, and picking up the burden lightly,
walked with it through the lane of women to the door, and out into the
brilliant sun; Kate following. And as she followed, she heard the slow,
deep voice of Ramón:
“I am the Living Quetzalcoatl.
Naked I come from out of the deep
From the place which I call my Father,
Naked have I travelled the long way round
From heaven, past the sleeping sons of God.
Out of the depths of the sky, I came like an eagle.
Out of the bowels of the earth like a snake.
All things that lift in the lift of living between earth and sky,
know me.
But I am the inward star invisible.
And the star is the lamp in the hand of the Unknown Mover.
Beyond me is a Lord who is terrible, and wonderful, and dark to me
forever.
Yet I have lain in his loins, ere he begot me in Mother space.
Now I am alone on earth, and this is mine.
The roots are mine, down the dark, moist path of the snake.
And the branches are mine, in the paths of the sky and the bird,
But the spark of me that is me is more than mine own.
And the feet of men, and the hands of the women know me.
And knees and thighs and loins, and the bowels of strength and seed
are lit with me.
The snake of my left-hand out of the darkness is kissing your feet
with his mouth of caressive fire,
And putting his strength in your heels and ankles, his flame in your
knees and your legs and your loins, his circle of rest in your
belly.
For I am Quetzalcoatl, the feathered snake,
And I am not with you till my serpent has coiled his circle of rest
in your belly.
And I, Quetzalcoatl, the eagle of the air, am brushing your faces
with vision.
I am fanning your breasts with my breath.
And building my nest of peace in your bones.
I am Quetzalcoatl, of the Two Ways.”
Kate lingered to hear the end of this hymn. Cipriano also had lingered
in the porch, with the strange figure in the brilliant serape in his
arms. His eyes met Kate’s. In his black glance was a sort of homage, to
the mystery of the Two Ways; a sort of secret. And Kate was uneasy.
They crossed quickly under the trees to the hotel, which was very near,
and Carlota was laid in bed. A soldier had gone already to find a
doctor; they sent also for a priest.
Kate sat by the bed. Carlota lay on the bed, making small, horrible
moaning noises. The drums outside on the church-roof started to roll,
in a savage, complicated rhythm. Kate went to the window and looked
out. People were streaming dazzled from the church.
And then, from the church-roof, came the powerful singing of men’s
voices, fanning like a dark eagle in the bright air; a deep relentless
chanting, with an undertone of passionate assurance. She went to the
window to look. She could see the men on the church-roof, the people
swarming down below. And the roll of that relentless chanting, with its
undertone of exultance in power and life, rolled through the air like
an invisible dark presence.
Cipriano came in again, glancing at Carlota and at Kate.
“They are singing the song of Welcome to Quetzalcoatl,” said he.
“Is that it?” said Kate. “What are the words?”
“I will find you a song-sheet,” he said.
He stood beside her, putting the spell of his presence over her. And
she still struggled a little, as if she were drowning. When she wasn’t
drowning, she wanted to drown. But when it actually came, she fought
for her old footing.
There was a crying noise from Carlota. Kate hurried to the bed.
“Where am I?” said the white-faced, awful, deathly-looking woman.
“You are resting in bed,” said Kate. “Don’t trouble.”
“Where was I?” came Carlota’s voice.
“Perhaps the sun gave you a touch of sunstroke,” said Kate.
Carlota closed her eyes.
Then suddenly outside the noise of drums rolled again, a powerful
sound. And outside in the sunshine life seemed to be rolling in
powerful waves.
Carlota started, and opened her eyes.
“What is that noise?”
“It is a fiesta,” said Kate.
“Ramón, he’s murdered me, and lost his own soul,” said Carlota. “He
has murdered me, and lost his own soul. He is a murderer, and one of
the damned. The man I married! The man I married! A murderer among the
damned!”
It was evident she no longer heard the sounds outside.
Cipriano could not bear the sound of her voice. He came quickly to the
side of the bed.
“Doña Carlota!” he said, looking down at her dulled hazel eyes, that
were fixed and unseeing: “Do not die with wrong words on your lips. If
you are murdered, you have murdered yourself. You were never married to
Ramón. You were married to your own way.”
He spoke fiercely, avengingly.
“Ah!” said the dying woman. “Ah! I never married Ramón. No! I never
married him! How could I? He was not what I would have him be. How
could I marry him? Ah! I thought I married him. Ah! I am so glad I
didn’t--so glad.”
“You are glad! You are glad!” said Cipriano in anger, angry with the
very ghost of the woman, talking to the ghost. “You are glad because
you never poured the wine of your body into the mixing-bowl! Yet in
your day you have drunk the wine of his body and been soothed with
his oil. You are glad you kept yours back? You are glad you kept back
the wine of your body and the secret oil of your soul? That you gave
only the water of your charity? I tell you the water of charity, the
hissing water of the spirit is bitter at last in the mouth and in the
breast and in the belly, it puts out the fire. You would have put out
the fire, Doña Carlota.--But you cannot. You shall not. You have been
charitable and compassionless to the man you called your own. So you
have put out your own fire.”
“Who is talking?” said the ghost of Carlota.
“I, Cipriano Viedma, am talking.”
“The oil and the wine! The oil and the wine and the bread! They are
the sacrament! They are the body and the blessing of God! Where is the
priest? I want the sacrament. Where is the priest? I want to confess,
and take the sacrament, and have the peace of God,” said the ghost of
Carlota.
“The priest is coming.--But you can take no sacrament, unless you give
it. The oil and the wine and the bread! They are not for the priest to
give. They are to be poured into the mixing-bowl, which Ramón calls the
cup of the star. If you pour neither oil nor wine into the mixing-bowl,
from the mixing-bowl you cannot drink. So you have no sacrament.”
“The sacrament! The bread!” said the ghost of Carlota.
“There is no bread. There is no body without blood and oil, as Shylock
found out.”
“A murderer, lost among the damned!” murmured Carlota. “The father of
my children! The husband of my body! Ah no! It is better for me to call
to the Holy Virgin, and die.”
“Call then, and die!” said Cipriano.
“My children!” murmured Carlota.
“It is well you must leave them. With your beggar’s bowl of charity
you have stolen their oil and their wine as well. It is good for you
to steal from them no more, you stale virgin, you spinster, you born
widow, you weeping mother, you impeccable wife, you just woman. You
stole the very sunshine out of the sky and the sap out of the earth.
Because back again, what did you pour? Only the water of dead dilution
into the mixing-bowl of life, you thief. Oh die!--die!--die! Die and be
a thousand times dead! Do nothing but utterly die!”
Doña Carlota had relapsed into unconsciousness; even her ghost refused
to hear. Cipriano flung his sinisterly-flaming serape over his
shoulders and his face, over his nose, till only his black, glittering
eyes were visible as he blew out of the room.
Kate sat by the window, and laughed a little. The primeval woman inside
her laughed to herself, for she had known all the time about the two
thieves on the Cross with Jesus; the bullying, marauding thief of the
male in his own rights, and the much more subtle, cold, sly, charitable
thief of the woman in _her_ own rights, forever chanting her beggar’s
whine about the love of God and the God of pity.
But Kate, too, was a modern woman and a woman in her own rights. So
she sat on with Carlota. And when the doctor came, she accepted the
obsequiousness of the man as part of her rights. And when the priest
came, she accepted the obsequiousness from him, just the same, as part
of her woman’s rights. These two ministers of love, what were they for,
but to be obsequious to her? As for herself, she could hardly be called
a thief, and a sneak-thief of the world’s virility, when these men came
forcing their obsequiousness upon her, whining to her to take it and
relieve them of the responsibility of their own manhood. No, if women
are thieves, it is only because men want to be thieved from. If women
thieve the world’s virility, it is only because men want to have it
thieved, since for men to be responsible for their own manhood seems to
be the last thing men want.
So Kate sat on in the room of the dying Carlota, smiling a little
cynically. Outside she heard the roll of the tom-toms and the deep
chanting of the men of Quetzalcoatl. Beyond, under the trees, in the
smoothed, cleared space before the church, she saw the half-naked
men dancing in a circle, to the drum; the round dance. Then later,
dancing a religious dance of the return of Quetzalcoatl. It was
the old, barefooted, absorbed dancing of the Indians, the dance of
downward-sinking absorption. It was the dance of these people too,
just the same: the dance of the Aztecs and Zapotecs and the Huicholes,
just the same in essence, indigenous to America; the curious, silent,
absorbed dance of the softly-beating feet and ankles, the body coming
down softly, but with deep weight, upon powerful knees and ankles, to
the tread of the earth, as when a male bird treads the hen. And women
softly stepping in unison.
And Kate, listening to the drums, and the full-throated singing, and
watching the rich, soft bodies in the dance, thought to herself a
little sceptically: Yes! For these it is easier. But all the white men,
of the dominant race, what are they doing at this moment?
In the afternoon there was a great dance of the _Welcome of
Quetzalcoatl_, Kate could only see a little of it, in front of the
church.
The drums beat vigorously all the time, the dance wound strangely to
the water’s edge. Kate heard afterwards that the procession of women
with baskets on their heads, filled with bread and fruits all wrapped
in leaves, went down to the shore and loaded the boats. Then dancers
and all got into the boats and _canoas_, and rowed to the island.
They made a feast on the island, and learned the dance of the _Welcome
of Quetzalcoatl_, which they would dance every year on that day. And
they learned the Song of the Welcome of Quetzalcoatl; which later
on Cipriano brought to Kate, as she sat in that dim room with the
unconscious woman, who made small, terrible, mechanical noises.
The doctor came hastening, and the priest came after a while. Neither
could do anything. They came in the afternoon again, and Kate walked
out and wandered on the half-deserted beach, looking at the flock
of boats drawing near the island, and feeling that life was a more
terrible issue even than death. One could die and have done. But living
was never done, it could never be finished, and the responsibility
could never be shifted.
She went back again to the sick-room, and with the aid of a woman she
undressed poor Carlota and put a nightdress on her. Another doctor came
from the city. But the sick woman was dying. And Kate was alone with
her again.
The men, where were they?
The business of living? Were they really gone about the great business
of living, abandoning her here to this business of dying?
It was nightfall before she heard the drums returning. And again that
deep, full, almost martial singing of men, savage and remote, to the
sound of the drum. Perhaps after all life would conquer again, and men
would be men, so that women could be women. Till men are men indeed,
women have no hope to be women. She knew that fatally enough.
Cipriano came to her, smelling of sun and sweat, his face darkly
glowing, his eyes flashing. He glanced at the bed, at the unconscious
woman, at the medicine bottles.
“What do they say?” he asked.
“The doctors think she may come round.”
“She will die,” he said.
Then he went with her to the window.
“See!” he said. “This is what they are singing.”
It was the Song-sheet of the _Welcome to Quetzalcoatl_.
Welcome to Quetzalcoatl.
We are not wasted. We are not left out.
_Quetzalcoatl has come!_
There is nothing more to ask for.
_Quetzalcoatl has come!_
He threw the Fish in the boat.
The cock rose, and crew over the waters.
The naked one climbed in.
_Quetzalcoatl has come!_
Quetzalcoatl loves the shade of trees.
Give him trees! Call back the trees!
We are like trees, tall and rustling.
_Quetzalcoatl is among the trees._
Do not tell me my face is shining.
_Quetzalcoatl has come!_
Over my head his noiseless eagle
Fans a flame.
Tie my spotted shoes for dancing,
The snake has kissed my heel.
Like a volcano my hips are moving
With fire, and my throat is full.
Blue daylight sinks in my hair.
The star comes out between the two
Wonders, shines out of everywhere,
Saying without speech: Look you!
Ah, Quetzalcoatl!
Put sleep as black as beauty in the secret of my belly.
Put star-oil over me.
Call me a man.
Even as she read, she could hear the people outside singing it, as the
reed-flutes unthreaded the melody time after time. This strange dumb
people of Mexico was opening its voice at last. It was as if a stone
had been rolled off them all, and she heard their voice for the first
time, deep, wild, with a certain exultance and menace.
“The naked one climbed in.
_Quetzalcoatl has come!_”
She could hear the curious defiance and exultance in the men’s voices.
Then a woman’s voice, clear almost as a star itself, went up the road
at the verse:
“Blue daylight sinks in my hair.
The star comes out between the two
Wonders....”
Strange! The people had opened hearts at last. They had rolled the
stone of their heaviness away, a new world had begun. Kate was
frightened. It was dusk. She laid her hand on Cipriano’s knee, lost.
And he leaned and put his dark hand against her cheek, breathing
silently.
“To-day,” he said softly, “we have done well.”
She felt for his hand. All was so dark. But oh, so deep, so deep and
beyond her, the vast, soft, living heat! So beyond her!
“Put sleep so black as beauty in the secret of my belly.
Put star-oil over me.”
She could almost feel her soul appealing to Cipriano for this sacrament.
They sat side by side in darkness, as the night fell, and he held his
hand loosely on hers. Outside, the people were still singing. Some
were dancing round the drum. On the church-towers, where the bells had
been, there were fires flickering, and white forms of men, the noise
of a heavy drum, then again, the chant. In the yard before the church
doors a fire was blazing, and men of Huitzilopochtli stood watching two
of their men, naked save for a breech-cloth and the scarlet feathers
on their head, dancing the old spear-dance, whooping challenge in the
firelight.
Ramón came in, in his white clothes. He pulled off his big hat, and
stood looking down at Carlota. She no longer made noises, and her eyes
were turned up horribly, showing the whites. Ramón closed his eyes a
moment, and turned away, saying nothing. He came to the window, where
Cipriano still sat in his impenetrable but living silence, that
satisfied where all speech had failed, holding Kate’s hand loosely. Nor
did he let go her hand.
Ramón looked out, at the fires in the church towers, the fire before
the church doors, the little fires on the beach by the lake; and the
figures of men in white, the figures of women in dark rebozos, with
full white skirts, the two naked dancers, the standing crowd, the
occasional scarlet serapes of Huitzilopochtli, the white and blue of
Quetzalcoatl, the creeping away of a motor-car, the running of boys,
the men clustering round the drum, to sing.
“It is life,” he said, “which is the mystery. Death is hardly
mysterious in comparison.”
There was a knocking. The doctor had come again, and a sister to nurse
the dying woman. Softly the sister paced round the room and bent over
her charge.
Cipriano and Kate went away in a boat over the dark lake, away from all
the fires and the noise, into the deep darkness of the lake beyond, to
Jamiltepec. Kate felt she wanted to be covered with deep and living
darkness, the deeps where Cipriano could lay her.
_Put sleep as black as beauty in the secret of my belly.
Put star-oil over me._
And Cipriano, as he sat in the boat with her, felt the inward sun rise
darkly in him, diffusing through him; and felt the mysterious flower of
her woman’s femaleness slowly opening to him, as a sea-anemone opens
deep under the sea, with infinite soft fleshliness. The hardness of
self-will was gone, and the soft anemone of her deeps blossomed for him
of itself, far down under the tides.
Ramón remained behind in the hotel, in the impenetrable sanctuary
of his own stillness. Carlota remained unconscious. There was a
consultation of doctors; to no effect. She died at dawn, before her
boys could arrive from Mexico; as a _canoa_ was putting off from the
shore with a little breeze, and the passengers were singing the Song of
Welcome to Quetzalcoatl, unexpectedly, upon the pale water.
CHAP: XXII. THE LIVING HUITZILOPOCHTLI.
They buried Doña Carlota in Sayula, and Kate, though a woman, went also
to the funeral. Don Ramón followed the coffin, in his white clothes and
big hat with the Quetzalcoatl sign. His boys went with him; and there
were many strangers, men, in black.
The boys looked odd young shoots, in their black suits with short
breeches and bare knees. They were both round-faced and creamy brown in
complexion, both had a touch of fairness. The elder, Pedro, was more
like Don Ramón; but his hair was softer, more fluffy than his father’s,
with a hint of brown. He was sulky and awkward, and kept his head
ducked. The younger boy, Cyprian, had the fluffy, upstanding brown hair
and the startled hazel eyes of his mother.
They had come in a motor-car with their aunt, from Guadalajara, and
were returning straight to town. In her will, the mother had named
guardians in place of the father, stating that the father would
consent. And her considerable fortune she had left in trust for the
boys. But the father was one of the trustees.
Ramón sat in his room in the hotel, overlooking the lake, and his two
boys sat on the cane settee opposite him.
“What do you want to do, my sons?” said Ramón. “To go back with your
Aunt Margarita, and return to school in the United States?”
The boys remained a while in sulky silence.
“Yes!” said Cyprian at last, his brown hair seeming to fluff up with
indignation. “That is what our mother wished us to do. So, of course,
we shall do it.”
“Very well!” said Ramón quietly. “But remember I am your father, and my
door, and my arms, and my heart will always be open to you, when you
come.”
The elder boy shuffled with his feet, and muttered, without looking up:
“We cannot come, papa!”
“Why not, child?”
The boy looked up at him with brown eyes as challenging as his own.
“You, papa, you call yourself The Living Quetzalcoatl?”
“Yes.”
“But, papa, our father is called Ramón Carrasco.”
“It is also true,” said Ramón, smiling.
“We,” said Pedro, rather heavily, “are not the children of the Living
Quetzalcoatl, papa. We are Carrasco y de Lara.”
“Good names both,” said Ramón.
“Never,” said the young Cyprian, his eyes flashing, “never can we love
you, papa. You are our enemy. You killed our mother.”
“No, no!” said Ramón. “That you must not say. Your mother sought her
own death.”
“Mama loved you much, much, much!” cried Cyprian, the tears rising to
his eyes. “Always she loved you and prayed for you--” He began to cry.
“And I, my son?” said Ramón.
“You hated her and killed her! Oh, mama! Mama! Oh, mama! I want my
mother!” he wept.
“Come to me, little one!” said Ramón softly, holding out his hands.
“No!” cried Cyprian, stamping his foot and flashing his eyes through
his tears. “No! No!”
The elder boy hung his head and was crying too. Ramón had the little,
perplexed frown of pain on his brow. He looked from side to side, as if
for some issue. Then he gathered himself together.
“Listen, my sons,” he said. “You also will be men; it will not be long.
While you are little boys, you are neither men nor women. But soon,
the change will come, and you will have to be men. And then you will
know that a man must be a man. When his soul tells him to do a thing,
he must do it. When you are men, you must listen carefully to your own
souls, and be sure to be true. Be true to your own souls; there is
nothing else for a man to do.”
“Je m’en fiche de ton âme, mon perè!” said Cyprian, with one of his
flashes into French. It was a language he often spoke with his mother.
“That you may, my boy,” said Ramón. “But I may not.”
“Papa!” put in the elder boy. “Is your soul different from mama’s soul?”
“Who knows?” said Ramón. “I understand it differently.”
“Because mama always prayed for your soul.”
“And I, in my way, pray for hers, child. If her soul comes back to me,
I will take it into my heart.”
“Mama’s soul,” said Cyprian, “will go straight into Paradise.”
“Who knows, child! Perhaps the Paradise for the souls of the dead is
the hearts of the living.”
“I don’t understand what you say.”
“It is possible,” said Ramón, “that even now the only Paradise for the
soul of your mother is in my heart.”
The two boys stared at him with open eyes.
“Never will I believe that,” said Cyprian.
“Or it may be in _thy_ heart,” said Ramón. “Hast thou a place in _thy_
heart for the soul of thy mother?”
The young Cyprian stared with bewildered hazel eyes.
“The soul of my mother goes direct to Paradise, because she is a
saint,” he asserted flatly.
“Which Paradise, my son?”
“The only one. Where God is.”
“And where is that?”
There was a pause.