21
Chapter Twenty-One
It was so dark by this time I could hardly see the trail, but I must hurry. I was almost running, putting my feet down recklessly and wrenching my ankles as I tripped on the broken clods of clay. It had never seemed such a long way home. I strained toward the town, pulling it toward me, running and running, trying to push the mountain away behind, pushing the little mud hut back and back.
“Follow the Shepherd, Margaret. He knows the way.”
It was too late now. My eyes strained through the dark, trying to light the lamps of the town somewhere there below me. Where was the trail? The turn onto the cobblestone road? Was it here? Hurry.
Somewhere nearby I heard the bleat of a sheep. I was out of breath and something about the feel of the road beneath my feet was not quite familiar. Every rut and rock was known to me on the usual route. I had better stop. But there isn’t time. There’s no time to stop. The animal look, the wild shriek, the implacable corpse—were they actually following me? No. They were back in the hut, far up the mountain now. Stop. You’ve lost your way.
I stood still on the trail and tried to listen, but found that I was panting and my legs were trembling and it took a minute before I could hear the silence around me. The night was still and frigid the stars, like fearsome watchers, hovered close above me. I should by this time have reached the turn onto my road, but somewhere I had missed it. A sheep cried again—a forsaken, human cry and I remembered the place where the sheep lived. I was not far from my road. I knew now which way to turn. Hurry. Better start running again.
The light of the stars was not enough to enable me to see anything that I recognized, but to my right, like a jagged orange tear in the fabric of the dark, a fire glowed on the hills. It must be far away, I decided, so it must be to the east. I was going north, then, where I wanted to go. Some Indian must be burning his pasture land. The fire was like a thin dragon, trembling and creeping across the night.
I started to walk again, quickly, and in a few moments I heard a dog bark, then I saw a light, then two lights, and the trail dropped to the cobblestone road. I ran as fast as I could. Perhaps there would still be time.
Time for what? I reached my gate, jerked at the latch and fumbled with it in the dark, wanting to tear it from its screws. It came open, and I ran to the door, but my hands were shaking so that the key would not fit into the lock.
“Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God.” Still with me? Still my God? No. It was too late. There. The key turned, the door opened, and I rushed into the house, turned on all the lights, and sank down by the table.
Everything was exactly as I had left it. The rag rug on the floor, the awkward chairs that had long since lost their awkwardness in my eyes, the flowered tablecloth and the teapot, the Swiss clock. But the clock had stopped. Had I forgotten to wind it, or had there actually been, as I seemed to sense, some cosmic change that marked the end of something? I picked up the clock, wound it and shook it, then listened. It was not ticking. Good, I thought, and set it down on the table. That gives me time, then. Time to begin again, slowly, carefully, to sort things out.
Surely there is a way to make it come right. This can’t be it. It isn’t finished yet. Go back and do it the other way this time. Do it right. For God’s sake, do it right this time.
Was it the medicine? Would streptomycin have worked? No, no. You have to go back much farther than that. It was something else. There must have been a call that you didn’t hear—or was it that you disobeyed? A dozen accusations confronted me. No. I refuse to capitulate. How could I have foiled to hear the call that was meant for me? What kind of a shepherd would allow that? No one had ever listened more intently, praying, beseeching, entreating God to guide, to show the way. The call had come, the way had opened, the work had begun. Had I disobeyed? Had I? Where could it have been? Is God through with me now, is He saying, “Get out”? The Indians are through with me. Rosa had stabbed me with her hatred.
These four walls—they are still here. My home. My quiet place to come back to after visiting the Indians. The house is still here. They can’t reach me here. Nobody can reach me here. But God can. Where is the refuge from Him? I was going to sacrifice this home for You! What of the sacrifices I have already made—did You toy with them? O ineffable, sardonic God who toys with our sacrifices and smashes to earth the humble, hopeful altars we have built for a place to put Your name! Do You mock me? Why did You let him die? Why did You let me kill him? O God! I came to bring him life—Your life—and I destroyed him in Your name.
A donkey clopped by on the road outside and I could hear the sound of a whip and an Indian voice. Then there was silence. I looked at the Bible on the table in front of me and started to pick it up. My hand dropped again. I could not find answers there any more. Nothing had worked for me as I had thought it would work. God had nothing to say to me now. Where was He, anyway?
The question, which in my mind was tantamount to declaring myself an atheist, found me sitting there at the table waiting for an answer. Who would answer? Who, if not God Himself? Well, I would wait for Him. Perhaps He would strike me dead. No, that is unlikely. He could hardly bother with me to that extent now. Probably He has forgotten. Or He could answer me out of the whirlwind, vindicate Himself, explain. No, I have probably gone too far astray ever to hear Him again.
What shall I do now? Make some tea. Do something. See if anything works—does water boil as before? This silence! How can things be the same? How can the house stand so smugly as it stood this morning, nothing changed, everything in its place, quiet, neat, oblivious? Only the clock has stopped.
The beginning and the end. I have come to the end of my work. God’s work, I thought it was—I came here for Him. I ventured to believe He had given it to me to do, and I staked my life on it. I entered into it in faith and now. . . the end. And omega. God! My God!
“Señorita!” I jumped in my chair. It was Pava outside the door. “Señorita Margarita!”
I stumbled to the door and opened it “Pava!”
“Mama says have you any candles to give us for the wake for Father?”
Candles. A wake for Father. My mind teetered to find its balance again, confronted with two specifics. Did I have any candles?
“Yes, Pava, I think I have. Come in. I will look for them.” I found some candles in the kitchen cupboard and brought them out. As though my heart had been hit with a hammer, I realized that had it not been for me they would not have needed candles. Pedro would not have been dead.
“Well, good night señorita,” said Pava. “May God pay you.” She turned to go.
“Good night, Pava.” I opened the door for her, and saw that Romero was waiting in the dark. She would not have to go home alone. I started to close the door and Romero called, “Señorita.”
“What is it, Romero?”
“Señorita—we are having a wake and Mama wanted to . . . Mama said would you come and sit with us?”
Yes, I thought I can do that. I can go and sit with them.