To a God Unknown

by John Steinbeck

  When he had finished throwing water, he sat down beside the pool and washed his face and neck in the cold water and drank from his hat. After a while he leaned back against the rock and looked across at the protecting ring of black trees. He thought of the country outside the ring, the hard burned hills, the grey and dusty sage. "Here it is safe," he thought. "Here is the seed that will stay alive until the rain comes again. This is the heart of the land, and the heart is still beating." He felt the dampness of the watered moss soaking through his shirt, and his thought went on, "I wonder why the land seems vindictive, now it is dead." He thought of the hills, like blind snakes with frayed and peeling skins, lying in wait about this stronghold where the water still flowed. He remembered how the land sucked down his little stream before it had run a hundred yards. "The land is savage," he thought, "like a dog far gone in hunger." And he smiled at the thought because he nearly believed it. "The land would come in and blot this stream and drink my blood if it could. It is crazy with thirst." He looked down at the little stream stealing across the glade. "Here is the seed of the land's life. We must guard against the land gone crazy. We must use the water to protect the heart, else the little taste of water may drive the land to attack us."

  The afternoon was waning now; the shadow of the tree-line crossed the rock and closed on the other side of the circle. It was peaceful in the glade. "I came in time," Joseph said to the rock and to himself. "We will wait here, barricaded against the drought." His head nodded forward after a while, and he slept.

  The sun slipped behind the hills and the dust withdrew, and the night came before he awakened. The hunting owls were coasting in front of the stars and the breeze that always followed the night was slipping along the hills. Joseph awakened and looked into the black sky. In a moment his brain reeled up from sleep and he knew the place. "But some strange thing has happened," he thought. "I live here now." The farmhouses down in the valley were not his home any more. He would go creeping down the hill and hurry back to the protection of the glade. He stood up and kicked his sleeping muscles awake, and then he walked quietly away from the rock, and when he reached the outside he walked secretly, as though he feared to awaken the land.

  There were no lights in the houses to guide him this time. He walked in the direction of his memory. The houses were close before he saw them. And then he saddled his horse and tied blankets and a sack of grain and bacons and three hams and a great bag of coffee to the saddle. At last he crept away again, leading the packed horse. The houses were sleeping, the land rustled in the night wind. Once he heard some heavy animal walking in the brush and his hair pricked with fear, and he waited until the steps had died away before he went on.

  He arrived back at the glade in the false dawn. This time the horse did not refuse the path. Joseph tied it to a tree and fed it from the bag of rolled barley; then he went back to the rock and spread his blankets beside the little pool he had built. The light was coming when he lay down to sleep in safety beside the rock. A little tattered fragment of cloud, high in the air, caught fire from the hidden sun, and Joseph fell asleep while he watched it.

  24

  ALTHOUGH the year turned into autumn and the weeks built months, the summer's heat continued on, and at length withdrew so gradually that no change of season was perceptible. The doves, which flocked near water, were gone long ago, and the wild ducks flying over looked for their resting ponds in the evening and flew tiredly on, while the weaklings landed in dry fields and joined some new flock in the morning. It was November before the air cooled and the winter seemed really coming in, and by then the earth was tinder-dry. Even dry lichens bad scaled off the rocks.

  The hot weeks drew on, and Joseph lived in the circle of the pines and waited for the winter. His new life had built its habits. Each morning he carried water from the deep wide pool he had dug and flooded the mossy rock with it, and in the evening he watered it again. The moss had responded; it was sleek and thick and green. And in the whole land there was no other green thing. Joseph watched it closely to see that there was no sign of dryness. The stream decreased little by little, but winter was coming, and there was still plenty of water to keep the rock dripping with moisture.

  Every two weeks Joseph rode through the parched hills Nuestra Senora for his food supply. Early in the fall he found a letter waiting for him there.

  Thomas wrote only information: "There is grass here, we lost three hundred head of stock on the way over. What's left is fat. Rama is well, and the children The pasture rent is too high because of the dry years The children swim in the river."

  Joseph found Romas in town, and Romas told fully of the trip over the mountains. He told how the cows dropped, one by one, and did not get up under the goad, but only looked tiredly at the sky. Romas could tell their condition to an ounce of strength. He looked at their eyes, and then he shot the tired beasts, and the weary eyes set and glazed, but did not change. Little feed and little water--the moving herds filled the road and the farmers along the road were hostile. They patrolled their fence lines and shot any stock that broke through. The roads were lined with dust-covered carcasses and the path of travel stank from end to end with rotting flesh. Rams, afraid the children might sicken with the smell, kept their faces covered with wet handkerchiefs. The miles covered daily grew fewer and fewer, and the tired stock rested all night, and did not search for food. A rider was sent back, and then another, as the herd dwindled, but Romas stayed, and the two home men, until the little band came stiffly to the river and rested on their knees to eat all night. Romas smiled as he told it, and his voice had no inflection. When the account was finished he walked quickly away, calling over his shoulder, "Your brother paid me," and he went into the saloon, out of sight.

  While Joseph listened to the report a hollow pain came into his stomach, and he was glad when Romas went away. He bought his supplies and rode back to the barricade. For once he did not see the dry earth, cracked in long lightning lines. He did not feel the feeble tugging of the brittle brush as he rode through. His mind was a dusty road, and the weary cattle died in his brain. He was sorry be had heard, for now this new enemy would crowd up against the protecting pines.

  The underbrush of the grove was dead by now, but the straight trunks still guarded the rock. The drought crept along the ground first, and killed all the low vines and the shrubs, but the pine roots pierced to bedrock and still drank a little water, and the needles were still black-green. Joseph rode back to the glade and he felt the rock to be sure it was moist, and he studied the little stream of water. This was the first time he set markers on the water's edge to determine how quickly it diminished.

  In December the black frost struck the country. The sun rose and set redly and the north wind surged through the country every day, filling the air with dust, and tattering the dry leaves. Joseph went down to the houses and brought up a tent to sleep in. While he was among the quiet houses, he started the windmill and listened for a moment while it sucked air through the pipes, and then he turned the little crank that stopped the blades. He did not look back on the houses as he rode up the slope. He cut a wide path around the graves on the sidehill.

  That afternoon he saw the fog heads on the western range. "I might go back to the old man," he thought. "There may be more things he could tell me." But his thought was play. He knew he couldn't leave the rock, for fear the moss would wilt. He went back into the silent glade and spread his tent. He picked the bucket from his gear and walked over to throw water on the rock. Something had happened. The stream had receded from his marking pegs a good two inches. Somewhere under the earth the drought had attacked the spring. Joseph filled his bucket at the pool and threw water on the rock, and then filled again. And soon the pool was empty--he had to wait half an hour for the dying stream to fill it again. For the first time a panic fell upon him. He crawled into the little cave and looked at the fissure from which the water slowly trickled, and he crawled out again, covered with the moisture of the cave. He sat b
eside the stream and watched it flow into the pool. And he thought he could see it decrease while he looked. The wind ruffled the pine branches nervously.

  "It will win," Joseph said aloud. "The drought will get in at us." He was frightened.

  In the evening he walked out the path and watched the sun setting in the Puerto Suelo. The fog came out of the hidden sea and swallowed the sun. In the chill winter evening Joseph gathered an armful of dead pine twigs and a bag of cones for his evening's fire. He built his fire close to the pool this night, so that its light fell on the tiny stream. When his meager supper was finished, he leaned back against his saddle and watched the water, slipping noiselessly into the pool. The wind had fallen, and the pines were quiet. All around the grove Joseph could hear the drought creeping, slipping on dry scales over the ground, circling and exploring the edges of the grove. And he heard the dry frightened whisper of the earth as the drought passed over it. He stood up now and put his bucket in the pool, under the stream, and each time it filled he poured it over the rock and sat down to wait for the bucket to fill again. It seemed to take a longer time with each bucketful. The owls flew ceaselessly about in the air, for there were few little creatures to catch. Then Joseph heard a faint slow pounding on the earth. He stopped breathing to listen.

  "It's coming up the hill now. It will get in tonight." He took a new breath and listened again for the rhythmic pounding, and he whispered, "When it gets here, the land will be dead, and the stream will stop." The sound came steadily up the hill, and Joseph, trapped with the rock, listened to it coming. Then his horse lifted its head and nickered, and an answering nicker came back from the hillside below the grove. Joseph started up and stood by his little fire, waiting with his shoulders set and his head forward to resist the blow. In the dim night light he saw a horseman ride into the glade and pull up his horse. The horseman looked taller than the pines, and a pale blue light seemed to frame his head. But then his voice called softly, "Senor Wayne."

  Joseph sighed, and his muscles relaxed. "It is you, Juanito," he said tiredly. "I know your voice."

  Juanito dismounted and tied his horse and then he strode to the little fire. "I came first to Nuestra Senora. They told me there that you were alone. I went to the ranch, then, and the houses were deserted."

  "How did you know to look for me here?" Joseph asked. Juanito knelt by the fire and warmed his hands, throwing on twigs to make a fresh blaze. "I remembered what you told your brother once, senor. You said, 'This place is like cool water.' I came over the dry hills, and I knew where you'd be." Now that the blaze was leaping, he looked into Joseph's face. "You are not well, senor. You are thin and sick."

  "I am well, Juanito."

  "You look dry and feverish. You should see a doctor tomorrow."

  "No, I am well. Why did you come back, Juanito?"

  Juanito smiled at a remembered pain. "The thing that made me go was gone, senor. I knew when it was gone, and I wanted to come back. I have a little son, senor. I just saw him tonight. He looks like me, with blue eyes, and he talks a little. His grandfather calls him Chango, and he says it is a little piojo, and he laughs. That Garcia is a happy man." His face had grown bright with all this gladness, but he grew sad again. "You, senor. They told me about you and the poor lady. There are candles burning for her."

  Joseph shook his head a little against the memory. "There was this thing coming, Juanito. I felt it coming. I felt it creeping in on us. And now it is nearly through, just this little island left."

  "What do you mean, senor?"

  "Listen, Juanito, first there was the land, and then I came to watch over the land; and now the land is nearly dead. Only this rock and I remain. I am the land." His eyes grew sad. "Elizabeth told me once of a man who ran away from the old Fates. He clung to an altar where he was safe." Joseph smiled in recollection. "Elizabeth had stories for everything that happened, stories that ran alongside things that happened and pointed the way they'd end?"

  A silence fell upon them. Juanito broke up more sticks and threw them on the fire. Joseph asked, "Where did you go, Juanito, when you went away?"

  "I went to Nuestra Senora. I found Willie and took him away with me." He looked hard at Joseph. "It was the dream, senor. You remember the dream. He told me often. He dreamed he was on a hard dusty land which shone. There were holes in the ground. The men who came out of the holes pulled him to pieces like a fly. It was a dream. I took him with me, that poor Willie. We went to Santa Cruz and worked on a ranch nearby, in the mountains. Willie liked the big trees on the hills. The country was so different from that place in the dreams, you see." Juanito stopped and looked up into the sky at a half moon that showed its face over the treetops.

  "One moment," Joseph said, and he lifted the full bucket from the hole and flung the water on the rock.

  Juanito watched him and made no comment. "I do not like the moon any more," Juanito continued. "We worked there on the mountain, herding cattle among the trees, and Willie was glad. Sometimes he had the dream, but I was always there to help him. And after each time he dreamed, we went to Santa Cruz and drank whiskey and saw a girl." Juanito pulled his hat down to keep the moonlight from his face. "One night Willie had his dream, and the next night we went to town. There is a beach in Santa Cruz, and amusements, tents, and little cars to ride on. Willie liked those things. We walked along in the evening by the beach, and there was a man with a telescope, to see the moon. Five cents, it cost. I looked first, and then Willie looked." Juanito turned away from Joseph. "Willie was very sick," he said. "I carried him in front of me on my saddle and led his horse. But Willie couldn't stand it, and he hanged himself from a tree limb with a riata that night. It had been all right when he thought it was a dream, but when he saw the place was really there, and not a dream, he couldn't stand it to live. Those holes, senor, and that dry dead place. It was really there, you see. He saw it in the telescope." He broke some twigs and threw them in the fire. "I found him hanging in the morning."

  Joseph jerked upright. "Make up the fire, Juanito. I'll put some coffee to cook. It's cold tonight."

  Juanito broke more twigs and kicked a dry limb to pieces with his boot heel. "I wanted to come back, senor. I was lonely. Is the old thing gone from you?"

  "Yes, gone. It was never in me. There's nothing here for you. Only I am here."

  Juanito put out a hand as though to touch Joseph's arm, but then he drew it back. "Why do you stay? They say the cattle are gone, and all your family. Come with me out of this country, senor." Juanito watched Joseph's face in the firelight and saw the eyes harden.

  "There is only the rock and the stream. I know how it will be. The stream is going down. In a little while it will be gone and the moss will turn yellow, and then it will turn brown, and it will crumble in your hand. Then only I will be left. And I will stay." His eyes were feverish. "I will stay until I am dead. And when that happens, nothing will be left."

  "I will stay with you," Juanito said. "The rains will come. I'll wait here with you for the rains."

  But Joseph's head sank down. "I don't want you here," he said miserably. "That would make too much time to wait. Now there is only night and day and dark and light. If you should stay, there would be a thousand other intervals to stretch out the time, intervals between words, and the long time between striding steps. Is Christmas nearly here?" he demanded suddenly.

  "Christmas is past," Juanito said. "It will be the New Year in two days."

  "Ah." Joseph sighed and sank back against his saddle. He caressed iris beard jealousy. "A new year," he said softly. "Did you see any clouds as you rode up, Juanito?"

  "No clouds, senor. I thought there was a little mist, but see, the moon has no fringe."

  "There might be clouds in the morning," Joseph said. "It's so close to the new year, there might be clouds." He lifted his bucket again and threw the water over the rock.

  They sat silently before the fire, feeding it with twigs now and then, while the moon slipped over the circle of sky.
The frost settled down, and Joseph gave Juanito one of his blankets to wrap about his body, and they waited for the bucket to be slowly filled. Juanito asked no questions about the rock, but once Joseph explained, "I can't let any of the water go to waste. There isn't enough."

  Juanito roused himself. "You are not well, senor."

  "Of course I'm well. I do not work, and I eat little, but I am well."

  "Have you thought to see Father Angelo," Juanito asked suddenly.

  "The priest? No. Why should I see him?"

  Juanito spread his hands, as though to deprecate the idea. "I don't know why. He is a wise man and a priest. He is close to God."

  "What could he do?" Joseph demanded.

  "I don't know, senor, but he is a wise man and a priest. Before I rode away, after that other thing, I went to him and confessed. He is a wise man He said you were a wise man, too. He said, 'One time that man will come knocking at my door.' That is what Father Angelo said. 'One time he will come,' he said. 'It may be in the night. In his wisdom he will need strength.' He is a strange man, senor. He hears confession and puts the penance and then sometimes he talks, and the people do not understand. He looks over their heads and doesn't care whether they understand or not. Some of the people do not like it. They are afraid."

  Joseph was leaning forward with interest. "What could I want from him?" he demanded. "What could he give me that I need now?"

  "I don't know," Juanito said. "He might pray for you."

  "And would that be good, Juanito? Can he get what he prays for?"