To a God Unknown

by John Steinbeck

  "Yes," Juanito said "His prayer is through the Virgin. He can get what he prays for."

  Joseph leaned back against his saddle again, and suddenly he chuckled. "I will go," he said. "I will take every means. Look, Juanito. You know this place, and your ancestors knew this place. Why did none of your people come here when the drought started? This was the place to come."

  "The old ones are dead," Juanito said soberly. "The young ones may have forgotten. I only remember because I came here with my mother. The moon is going down.

  Won't you sleep, senor?"

  "Sleep? No, I won't sleep. I can't waste the water."

  "I will watch it for you while you sleep. Not a drop will get away."

  "No, I won't sleep," Joseph said. "Sometimes I sleep a little in the daytime when the bucket is filling. That's enough. I'm not working." He stood up to get the bucket, and suddenly he bent over exclaiming, "Look, Juanito!"

  He lighted a match and held it close to the stream. "It is so. The water is increasing. Your coming brought it. Look, it flows around the pegs. It's up half an inch." He moved excitedly to the rock and leaned into the cave, and lighted another match to look at the spring. "It's coming faster," he cried. "Build up a fire, Juanito."

  "The moon is down," Juanito said. "Go to sleep, senor. I will watch the water. You will be needing sleep."

  "No, build up the fire for light. I want to watch the water." And he said, "Maybe something good has happened where the water comes from. Maybe the stream will grow, and we shall move outward from here and take back the land. A ring of green grass, and then a bigger ring." His eyes glittered. "Down the hillsides and into the flat from this center--Look, Juanito, it is more than half an inch above the peg! It is an inch!"

  "You must sleep," Juanito insisted. "You need the sleep. I see how the water is coming up. It will be safe with me." He patted Joseph's arm and soothed him. "Come, you must sleep."

  And Joseph let himself be covered with the blankets, and in relief at the rising stream, he fell into a heavy sleep.

  Juanito sat in the dark and faithfully emptied the water on the rock when the bucket was filled. This was the first unbroken rest that Joseph had taken for a long time. Juanito conserved his little flame of twigs and warmed his hands, while the frost that had been in the air all night settled a white gauze on the ground. Juanito gazed at Joseph sleeping. He saw how lean and dry he had grown and how his hair was turning grey. The terse Indian stories his mother had told him came into his mind, stories of the great misty Spirit, and the jokes he played on man and on other gods. And then, while he looked at Joseph's face, Juanito thought of the old church in Nuestra Senora, with its thick adobe walls and mud floors. There was an open space at the eaves, and the birds flew in sometimes, during the mass. Often there were bird droppings on Saint Joseph's head, and on the blue mantle of Our Lady. The reason for his thought came slowly out of the picture. He saw the crucified Christ hanging on His cross, dead and stained with blood. There was no pain in His face, now He was dead, but only disappointment and perplexity, and over these, an infinite weariness. Jesus was dead and the Life was finished. Juanito built a tall blaze to see Joseph's face clearly, and the same things were there, the disappointment and the weariness. But Joseph was not dead. Even in his sleep his jaw was resistingly set. Juanita crossed himself and walked to the bed and pulled up the covers around the sleeping man. And he stroked the hard shoulder. Juanito loved Joseph achingly. He watched on while the dawn came, and he tossed the water on the rock again and again.

  The water had increased a little during the night. It washed around the peg Joseph had set and made a little swirl. The cold sun came up at last and shone through the forest. Joseph awakened and sat up. "How is the water?" be demanded.

  Juanito laughed with pleasure at his message. "The stream is bigger," he said. "It grew while you slept."

  Joseph kicked off the blankets and went to look. "It is," he said. "There's a change somewhere." He felt the mossy rock with his hand. "You've kept it well wet, Juanito. Thank you. Does it seem greener to you this morning?"

  "I could not see the color in the night," Juanito said. They cooked their breakfast then, and sat beside the fire drinking their coffee. Juanito said, "We will go to Father Angelo today."

  Joseph shook his head slowly. "It would be too much water lost. Besides, there's no need to go. The stream is coming up."

  Juanito answered without looking up, for he didn't want to see Joseph's eyes. "It will be good to see the priest," he insisted. "You come away from the priest feeling good. Even if it is only a little thing confessed, you feel good."

  "I don't belong to that church, Juanito. I couldn't confess."

  Juanito puzzled over that. "Anyone can see Father Angelo," he said at last. "Men who have not been to church since they were little children come back at last to Father Angelo, like wild pigeons to the water holes in the evening."

  Joseph looked back at the rock. "But the water is coming up," he said. "There is no need to go now."

  Because Juanito thought the church might help Joseph, he struck slyly. "I have been in this country since I was born, senor, and you have lived here only a little while. There are things you do not know."

  "What things?' Joseph asked.

  Juanita looked him full in the eyes then. "I have seen it many times, senor," he said in compassion. "Before a spring goes dry it grows a little."

  Joseph looked quickly at the stream. "This is a sign of the end, then?"

  "Yes, senor. Unless God interferes, the spring will stop."

  Joseph sat in silence for several minutes, pondering. At last he stood up and lifted his saddle by the horn. "Let's go to see the priest," he said harshly.

  "Maybe he can't help," Juanita said.

  Joseph was carrying the saddle to the tethered horse. "I can't let any chance go by," he cried.

  When the horses were saddled, Joseph threw one more bucket of water over the rock. "I'll be back before it can get dry," he said. They cut a straight path across the hills and joined the road far on their way. A dust cloud hung over their trotting horses. The air was chilled and stinging with frost. When they were half way to Nuestra Senora, the wind came up and filled the whole valley with the dust cloud, and spread the dirt in the air until it was a pale yellow mist that obscured the sun. Juanito turned in his saddle and looked to the west, from whence the wind came.

  "The fog is on the coast," he said.

  Joseph did not look. "It's always there. The coast has no danger as long as the ocean lasts."

  Juanito said hopefully, "The wind is from the west, senor."

  But Joseph laughed bitterly. "In any other year we would thatch the stacks and cover the woodpiles. The wind has often been in the west this year."

  "But some time it must rain, senor."

  "Why must it?" The desolate land was harping on Joseph's temper. He was angry with the bony hills and stripped trees. Only the oaks lived, and they were hiding their life under a sheet of dust.

  Joseph and Juanito rode at last into the quiet street of Nuestra Senora. Half the people had gone away, had gone to visit relatives in luckier fields, leaving their houses and their burned yards and their empty chikenpens. Romas came to his door and waved without speaking, and Mrs. Gutierrez peered at them from her window. There were no customers in front of the saloon. When they rode up the street to the squat mud church, the evening of the short winter day was approaching. Two black little boys were playing in the ankle-deep dust of the road. The horsemen tied their beasts to an ancient olive tree.

  "I will go into the church to burn a candle," Juanito said. "Father Angelo's house is behind. When you are ready to go back, I will be waiting at the house of my father-in-law." He turned into the church, but Joseph called him back.

  "Listen, Juanito. You must not go back with me."

  "I want to go, senor. I am your friend."

  "No," Joseph said finally. "I do not want you there. I want to be alone."

  Juanit
o's eyes dulled with rebellion and hurt. "Yes, my friend," he said softly, and he went into the open door of the church.

  Father Angelo's little whitewashed house stood directly behind the church. Joseph climbed the steps and knocked at the door, and in a moment Father Angelo opened it. He was dressed in an old cassock over a pair of overalls. His face was paler than it had been, and his eyes were bloodshot with reading. He smiled a greeting. "Come in," he said.

  Joseph stood in a tiny room decorated with a few bright holy pictures. The corners of the room were piled with thick books, bound in sheepskin, old books, from the missions. "My man, Juanita, told me to come," Joseph said. He felt a tenderness emanating from the priest, and the soft voice soothed him.

  "I thought you might come some time," Father Angelo said. "Sit down. Did the tree fail you, finally?"

  Joseph was puzzled. "You spoke about the tree before. What did you know about the tree?"

  Father Angelo laughed. "I'm priest enough to recognize a priest. Hadn't you better call me Father? That's what all the people do."

  Joseph felt the power of the man before him. "Juanito told me to come, Father."

  "Of course he did, but did the tree fail you at last?"

  "My brother killed the tree," Joseph said sullenly.

  Father Angelo looked concerned. "That was bad. That was a stupid thing. It might have made the tree more strong."

  "The tree died," Joseph said. "The tree is standing dead."

  "And you've come to the Church at last?"

  Joseph smiled in amusement at his mission. "No, Father," he said. "I've come to ask you to pray for rain. I am from Vermont, Father. They told us things about your church."

  The priest nodded. "Yes, I know the things."

  "But the land is dying," Joseph cried suddenly. "Pray for rain, Father! Have you prayed for rain?"

  Father Angelo lost some of his confidence, then. "I will help you to pray for your soul, my son. The rain will come. We have held mass. The rain will come. God brings the rain and withholds it of his knowledge."

  "How do you know the rain will come? Joseph demanded. "I tell you the land's dying."

  "The land does not die," the priest said sharply.

  But Joseph looked angrily at him. "How do you know? The deserts were once alive. Because man is sick often, and each time gets well, is that proof that he will never die?"

  Father Angelo got out of his chair and stood over Joseph. "You are ill, my son," he said. "Your body is ill, and your soul is ill. Will you come to the church to make your soul well? Will you believe in Christ and pray help for your soul?"

  Joseph leaped up and stood furiously before him. "My soul? To Hell with my soul! I tell you the land is dying. Pray for the land!"

  The priest looked into his glaring eyes and felt the frantic fluid of his emotion. "The principal business of God has to do with men," he said, "and their progress toward heaven, and their punishment in Hell."

  Joseph's anger left him suddenly. "I will go now, Father," he said wearily. "I should have known. I'll go back to the rock now, and wait."

  He moved toward the door, and Father Angelo followed him. "I'll pray for your soul, my son. There's too much pain in you."

  "Goodbye, Father, and thank you," and Joseph strode away into the dark.

  When he had gone, Father Angelo went back to his chair. He was shaken by the force of the man. He looked up at one of his pictures, a descent from the cross, and he thought, "Thank God this man has no message. Thank God he has no will to be remembered, to be believed in." And, in sudden heresy, "else there might be a new Christ here in the West." Father Angelo got up then, and went into the church. And he prayed for Joseph's soul before the high altar, and he prayed forgiveness for his own heresy, and then, before he went away, he prayed that the rain might come quickly and save the dying land.

  25

  JOSEPH tightened his cinch and untied the hair rope from the old olive tree. And then he mounted his horse and turned him in the direction of the ranch. The night had fallen while he was in the priest's house. It was very dark before the moonrise. Along the street of Our Lady a few lights shone from the windows, blurred by the moisture on the insides of the glass. Before Joseph had gone a hundred feet into the cold night, Juanito rode up beside him.

  "I want to go with you, senor," he said firmly.

  Joseph sighed. "No, Juanito, I told you before."

  "You've had nothing to eat. Alice has supper for you, waiting and hot."

  "No, thank you," Joseph said. "I'll be riding on."

  "But the night is cold," insisted Juanito. "Come in and have a drink, anyway."

  Joseph looked at the dull light shining through the windows of the saloon. "I will have a drink," he said. They tied their horses to the hitching post and went through the swinging doors. No one was there but the bartender sitting on a high stool behind the bar. He looked up as the two entered, and climbed from his stool and polished a spot on the bar.

  "Mr. Wayne," he said in greeting. "I haven't seen you for a long time."

  "I don't get in to town often. Whiskey."

  "And whiskey for me," Juanito said.

  "I heard you saved some of your cows, Mr. Wayne?'

  "Yes, a few."

  "You're better off than some. My brother-in-law lost every single head." And he told how the ranches were deserted and the cattle all dead, and he told how the people had gone away from the town of Our Lady. "No business now," he said. "I don't sell a dozen drinks a day. Sometimes a man comes in for a bottle. People don't like to drink together now," he said. "They take a bottle home, and drink alone."

  Joseph tasted his empty glass and set it down. "Fill it," he said. "I guess we'll be having a desert from now on. Have one yourself."

  The bartender filled his glass. "When the rain comes, they'll all be back. I'd set a barrel of whiskey in the road, free, if the rain would come tomorrow."

  Joseph drank his whiskey and stared at the bartender questioningly. "If the rain doesn't come at all, what then?" he demanded.

  "I don't know, Mr. Wayne, and I won't know. If it doesn't come pretty soon, I'll have to go too. I'd put a whole barrel of whiskey out on the porch, free for everyone, if the storms would come."

  Joseph put down his glass. "Good-night," he said. "I hope you get your wish."

  Juanito followed him closely. "Alice has the dinner hot for you," he said.

  Joseph stopped in the road and lifted his head to look at the misty stars. "The drink has made me hungry. I'll go."

  Alice met them at the door of her father's house. I'm glad you came," she said. "The dinner is nothing but it will be a change. My father and mother have gone visiting to San Luis Obispo since Juanito is back." She was excited at the importance of her guest. In the kitchen she seated the two men at a snow-white table and served them with red beans and red wine, and thin tortillas and fluffy rice. "You haven't eaten my beans, Mr. Wayne, since--oh, for a long time."

  Joseph smiled. "They are good. Elizabeth said they were the best in the world."

  Alice caught her breath. "I am glad you speak of her." Her eyes filled with tears.

  "Why should I not speak of her?"

  "I thought it might give you too much pain."

  "Be silent, Alice," Juanito said gently. "Our guest is here to eat."

  Joseph ate his plate of beans and wiped up the juice with a tortilla, and accepted another helping.

  "He will see the baby?" Alice asked timidly. "His grandfather calls him Chango, but that is not his name."

  "He is asleep," Juanito said. "Wake him and bring him here."

  She carried out the sleepy child and stood him in front of Joseph. "See," she said. "His eyes will be grey. That's blue for Juanito and black for me."

  Joseph looked at the child searchingly. "He is strong and handsome. I am glad of that."

  "He knows the names of ten trees, and Juanito is going to get him a pony when the good years come."

  Juanito nodded with pleasure. "He is
a Chango," he said self-consciously.

  Joseph stood up from the table. "What is his name?"

  Alice blushed, and then she took up the sleepy baby. "He is your namesake," she said. "His name is Joseph. Will you give him a blessing?"

  Joseph looked at her incredulously. "A blessing? From me? Yes," he said quickly. "I will." He took the little boy in his arms and brushed back the black hair from the forehead. And he kissed the forehead. "Grow strong," he said. "Grow big and strong."

  Alice took the baby back as though he were not quite her own anymore. "I'll put him to bed, and then we will go to the sitting-room."

  But Joseph strode quickly to the door. "I must go now," he said. "Thank you for dinner. Thank you for my name sake."

  And when Alice started to protest, Juanito silenced her. He followed Joseph to the yard and felt the cinch for him and put the bit in the horse's mouth. "I am afraid to have you go, senor," Juanito protested.

  "Why should you be afraid? See, the moon is coming up."

  Juanito looked and cried excitedly, "Look, there's a ring around the moon!"

  Joseph laughed harshly and climbed into the saddle. "There is a saying in this country, I learned it long ago: 'In a dry year all signs fail.' Good-night, Juanito."

  Juanito walked a moment beside the horse. "Goodbye, senor. See you take care." He patted the horse and stepped back. And he looked after Joseph until he had disappeared into the dim moonlit night.

  Joseph turned his back on the moon and rode away from it, into the west. The land was unsubstantial under the misty, strained light, the dry trees seemed shapes of thicker mist. He left the town and took the river road, and his contact with the town dropped behind him. He smelled the peppery dust that arose under the horse's hoofs, but he couldn't see it. Away in the dark north there was a faint flicker of aurora borealis, rarely seen so far south. The cold stony moon rose high and followed him. The mountains seemed edged with phosphorus, and a pale cold light like a glow-worm's light seemed to shine through the skin of the land. The night had a quality of memory. Joseph remembered how his father had given him the blessing. Now he thought of it, he wished he had given the same blessing to his namesake. And he remembered that there had been a time when the land was drenched with his father's spirit so that every rock and bush was close and dear. He remembered how damp earth felt and smelled, and how the grass roots wove a fabric just under the surface. The horse plodded steadily on, head down, resting some of his head's weight on the bridle. Joseph's mind went wearily among the days of the past, and every event was colored like the night. He was aloof from the land now. He thought, "Some change is beginning. It will not be long before some new thing is on the way." And as he thought it, the wind began to blow. He heard it coming out of the west, heard it whisking a long time before it struck him, a sharp steady wind, carrying the refuse of dead trees and bushes along the ground. It was acrid with dust. The tiny rocks it carried stung Joseph's eyes. As he rode, the wind increased and long veils of dust swept down the moonlit hills. Ahead, a coyote barked a staccato question, and another answered from the other side of the road. Then the two voices drew together into a high shrieking giggle that rode down the wind. A third sharp question, from a third direction, and all three giggled. Joseph shivered a little. "They're hungry," he thought, "there's so little carrion left to eat." Then he heard a calf moan in the high brush beside the road, and he turned his horse and spurred it up and broke through the brittle bushes. In a moment he came to a little clearing in the brush. A dead cow lay on its side and a skinny calf butted frantically to find a teat. The coyotes laughed again, and went away to wait. Joseph dismounted and walked to the dead cow. Its hip was a mountain peak, and its ribs were like the long water-scars on the hillsides. It had died, finally, when bits of dry brush would not support it any more. The calf tried to get away, but it was too weak with hunger. It stumbled and fell heavily and floundered on the ground, trying to get up again. Joseph untied his riata and roped the skinny legs together. Then he lifted the calf in front of the saddle and mounted behind it. "Now come for your dinner," he called to the coyotes. "Eat the cow. Pretty soon there will be no more to eat." He glanced over his shoulders at the bone-white moon, sailing and hovering in the blown dust. "In a little while," he said, "it will fly down and eat the world." As he rode on, his hand explored the lean calf, his fingers followed the sharp ribs and felt the bony legs. The calf tried to rest its head against the horse's shoulder, and its head bobbed weakly with the movement. At last they topped the rise and Joseph saw the houses of the ranch, bleached and huddled. The blades of the windmill shone faintly in the moonlight. It was a view half obscured, for the white dust filled the air, and the wind drove fiercely down the valley. Joseph turned up the hill to avoid the houses, and as he went up toward the black grove, the moon sank over the western hills and the land was blotted out of sight. The wind howled down from the slopes and cried in the dry branches of the trees. The horse lowered its head against the wind. Joseph could make out the pine grove darkly as he approached it, for a streak of dawn was coming over the hills. He could hear the tossing branches and the swish of the needles combing the wind, and the moan of limbs rubbing together. The black branches tossed against the dawn. The horse walked wearily in among the trees and the wind stayed outside. It seemed quiet in the grey place, more so because of the noise around it. Joseph climbed down and lifted the calf to the ground. And he unsaddled the horse and put a double measure of rolled barley in the feed-box. At last he turned reluctantly to the rock.