Because the road led north, they traveled north. Week after week, month
after month, sometimes by hard, long stretches where water was scarce,
sometimes lingering where pasturage was good, sometimes halting to let a
fever run its course, they pushed northward. The farther they went, the
more barren became the wilderness. The feudal mansions of the wealthy
coffee-planters gave way to the miserable abodes of a land of drought.
But houses were never far between, and wherever there were houses, there
was cane rum. It was so cheap it was often given away for a smile.
Twice in the long months Shenton had eluded his watchful father, once by
slipping his saddle-cloth and going back to pick it up, and once by
riding ahead on a misty morning. Each time he stole back with hanging
and drooping shoulders. The look of utter despondency and gloomy despair
in his eyes wrung his parents' hearts, held back his father's hand from
wrath.
Of them all, Shenton suffered most from fever. There came a time when he
could no longer ride. Natalie, grown pale and thin, but strong withal,
took his place on the pony and he hers on the wagon. There he lay long
hours in his mother's arms.
When all the storms of life had swept over her, Ann Leighton looked back
upon those days as the abiding-place of her dearest memories. Safe
within the circle of her arms lay her boy. There no evil could reach
him, no gnawing temptation ravage his child's will. Her watchful love
warded off the gloomy hour. His prattle of childish things warmed her
heart until it swelled to an exquisite agony of content.
One day they awoke to a new presence on the flat horizon. Far, far away
rose a mountain from the plain. It was wonderfully symmetrical, rising
to a single peak. All day long they traveled toward it. All day long
Shenton kept his somber eyes fixed upon it. Toward evening he raised his
face to his mother's. She leaned over him.
"Mother," he whispered, "I should like to reach the mountain."
Tears welled from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She held
Shenton's curly head against her face so that he could not see. She
stifled a sob and whispered back:
"My boy, you will reach the mountain."
The next day a man of the country joined them. He was dressed in a suit
and hat of deerskin. On his feet were sandals. Across one shoulder he
carried a stick from which dangled a bundle. His quick, springy stride
carried him easily beside the cavalcade.
"The blessing of God be upon your Mercies," was his greeting. "Whence do
you come and whither do you go? Tell him who so rudely asks, I beg you.
I am John, the Courier."
Ann and the Reverend Orme looked vaguely at each other. They had no
answer. But Shenton spoke.
"Friend," he said, "we come from the South. We journey to yonder
mountain. What is it called?
"It is called the Sorcerer."
"The Sorcerer?" cried Shenton. "That is a strange-name."
"It is called the Sorcerer," said the man, "because it deceives. It is a
landmark in the wilderness, but it shows no man the way. So equal are
its sides, that it points neither east nor west nor south nor north.
Upon, its summit is a single tree, planted by no human hands."
"I see the tree," said Shenton. "Mother, do you see the tree? It is like
the steeple on a church." Then he turned to the courier. "Friend, the
mountain points upward."
They camped at the foot of the mountain, for fever had laid its final
grip upon Shenton. He was too weak to stand the jolting of the wagon.
One night, while lying in his mother's arms, he slipped away from life.
Leighton looked upon his boy's face, still alight with content at having
reached the mountain, upon his white, blue-veined body, so pitifully
frail, and marveled that a frame so weak, so tender, so peaceful, had
been only now a mighty battle-field.
He gathered up the body in his arms, and calling roughly to Lewis to
bring an ax, he started up the barren mountainside.
Ann, dumb and tearless, stood before the tent, and watched him with
unseeing eyes. Natalie, crying, clutched her skirt. At her feet sat
mammy, her face upturned, tears flowing, her body swaying to her sobs.
Up and up climbed Leighton with Lewis panting behind him. They reached
the towering summit of the mountain.
A great rock stood at the foot of the lonely tree. Beneath it Leighton
dug with ax and hands. He tore branches from the tree and spread them
within. Upon the fresh, green couch he laid the body of his boy. He fell
upon his knees before it and tried to pray, but could not.
"O, Death," he groaned, "to this young soul hast thou been kind." Then
with many stones they closed the tomb.
Leighton looked wistfully about him. He was seized by the primitive
desire of man to leave some visible sign of overwhelming grief. His eyes
rose above the rock to the lonely tree. Grasping the ax, he climbed the
tree. High above the mountain-top he cut its stem. Then limb after limb
fell crashing to the earth until only two were left. Out one and then
the other he clambered and cut them off. The lonely tree was no more; in
its place stood a mighty cross.
From far away across the plain, John, the Courier, looked back. His keen
eyes fell upon the mountain. He stopped and stared.
"Ah, Sorcerer," he murmured, "hast thou now a heart? What power has
crowned thy brow with the holy cross? Behold! one arm points to the
rising sun and one to its setting. I shall no longer call thee Sorcerer,
for thou art become the Guide."
At the edge of the plain stretched a line of hills. Within them was a
little valley that looked toward the distant mountain. Leighton
purchased the valley from its owner, Dom Francisco, who prized it
lightly beside his vast herds of cattle.
At the top of the valley, and facing the mountain, Leighton built his
new abode, four walls and a roof of homemade tiles. When it was
finished, he looked upon its ugliness and said, "The Lord hath crushed
my heart to infinite depths. Let us call this place Nadir."