the Garden Of Eden (1963)

by Brand, Max

"You grew these grapes in your valley?" he repeated softly.

  "This very bottle we are drinking," said David, warming to the talk. "I remember when the grapes of this vintage were picked; I was a boy, then."

  "I believe it," answered Connor solemnly, and he raised the cup with a reverent hand, so that the sun filtered into the red and filled the liquid with dancing points of light.

  "It is a full twenty years old."

  "It is twenty-five years old," said David calmly, "and this is the best vintage in ten years." He sighed. "It is now in its perfect prime and next year it will not be the same. You shall help me finish the stock, Benjamin."

  "You need not urge me," smiled Connor.

  He shook his head again.

  "But that is one wine I could have vowed I knew--MTdoc. At least, I can tell you the soil it grows in."

  The brows of the host raised; he began to listen intently.

  "It is a mixture of gravel, quartz and sand," continued Connor.

  "True!" exclaimed David, and looked at his guest with new eyes.

  "And two feet underneath there is a stone for subsoil which is a sort of sand or fine gravel cemented together."

  David struck his hands together, frankly delighted.

  "This is marvelous," he said, "I would say you have seen the hills."

  "I paid a price for what I know," said Connor rather gloomily. "But north of Bordeaux in France there is a strip of land called the MTdoc--the finest wine soil in the world, and there I learned what claret may be--there I tasted ChGteau Lafite and ChGteau Datour. They are both grown in the commune of Pauillac."

  "France?" echoed David, with the misty eyes of one who speaks of a lost world. "Ah, you have traveled?"

  "Wherever fine horses race," said Connor, and turned back to the chicken.

  "Think," said David suddenly, "for five years I have lived in silence.

  There have been voices about me, but never mind; and now you here, and already you have taken me at a step halfway around the world.

  "Ah, Benjamin, it is possible for an emptiness to be in a manlike hunger, you understand, and yet different--and nothing but a human voice can fill the space."

  "Have you no wish to leave your valley for a little while and see the world?" said Connor, carelessly.

  He watched gloomily, while an expression of strong distaste grew on the face of David. He was still frowning when he answered:

  "We will not speak of it again."

  He jerked his head up and cleared away his frown with an effort.

  "To speak with one man in the Garden--that is one thing," he went on, "but to hear the voices of two jabbering and gibbering together--grinning like mindless creatures--throwing their hands out to help their words, as poor Joseph does--bah, it is like drinking new wine; it makes one sick. It made me so five times."

  "Five times?" said Connor. "You have traveled a good deal, then?"

  "Too much," sighed David. "And each time I returned from Parkin Crossing I have cared less for what lies outside the valley."

  "Parkin Crossing?"

  "I have been told that there are five hundred people in the city," said David, pronouncing the number slowly. "But when I was there, I was never able to count more than fifty, I believe."

  Connor found it necessary to cough.

  "And each time you have left the valley you have gone no farther than Parkin Crossing?" he asked mildly, his spirits rising.

  "And is not that far enough?" replied the master, frowning. "It is a ride between dawn and dark."

  "What is that in miles?"

  "A hundred and thirty miles," said David, "or thereabout."

  Connor closed his eyes twice and then: "You rode that distance between dawn and dark?"

  "Yes."

  "Over these mountains most of the way?" he continued gently.

  "About half the distance," answered David.

  "And how long"--queried Connor hoarsely--"how long before your horse was able to make the trip back after you had ridden a hundred and thirty miles in twelve hours?"

  "The next day," said David, "I always return."

  "In the same time?"

  "In the same time," said David.

  To doubt that simple voice was impossible. But Connor knew horses, and his credence was strained to the breaking point.

  "I should like very much," he said, "to see a horse that had covered two hundred and sixty miles within forty-eight hours."

  "Thirty-six," corrected David.

  Connor swallowed.

  "Thirty-six," he murmured faintly.

  "I shall send for him," said the master, and struck the little gong which stood on one side of the table. Isaac came hurrying with that light step which made Connor forget his age.

  "Bring Glani," said David.

  Isaac hurried across the patio, and David continued talking to his guest.

  "Glani is not friendly; but you can see him from a distance."

  "And yet," said Connor, "the other horses in the Garden seem as friendly as pet dogs. Is Glani naturally vicious?"

  "His is of other blood," replied David. "He is the blood of the great mare Rustir, and all in her line are meant for one man only. He is more proud than all the rest."

  He leaned back in his chair and his face, naturally stern, grew tender.

  "Since he was foaled no hand has touched him except mine; no other has ridden him, groomed him, fed him."

  "I'll be glad to see him," said Connor quietly. "For I have never yet found a horse which would not come to my hand."

  As he spoke, he looked straight into the eyes of David, with an effort, and at the same time took from the pocket of his coat a little bulbous root which was always with him. A Viennese who came from a life half spent in the Orient had given him a small box of those herbs as a priceless present. For the secret was that when the root was rubbed over the hands it left a faint odor on the skin, like freshly cut apples; and to a horse that perfume was irresistible. They seemed to find in it a picture of sweet clover, blossoming, and clean oats finely headed; yet to the nostrils of a man the scent was barely perceptible. Under cover of the table the gambler rubbed his hands swiftly with the little root and dropped it back into his pocket. That was the secret of the power over Abra which had astonished the two old men at the gate. A hundred times, in stable and paddock, Connor had gone up to the most intractable race horses and looked them over at close hand, at his leisure. The master seemed in nowise disturbed by the last remark of Connor.

  "That is true of old Abraham, also," he said. "There was never a colt foaled in the valley which Abraham had not been able to call away from its mother; he can read the souls of them all with a touch of his withered hands. Yes, I have seen that twenty times. But with Glani it is different. He is as proud as a man; he is fierce as a wolf; and Abraham himself cannot touch the neck of my horse. Look!"

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Under the arch of the entrance Connor saw a gray stallion, naked of halter or rope, with his head raised. From the shadow he came shining into the sunlight; the wind raised his mane and tail in ripples of silver. Ben Connor rose slowly from his chair. Horses were religion to him; he felt now that he had stepped into the inner shrine.

  When he was able to speak he turned slowly toward David. "Sir," he said hoarsely, "that is the greatest horse ever bred."

  It was far more than a word of praise; it was a confession of faith which surrounded the moment and the stallion with solemnity, and David flushed like a proud boy.

  "There he stands," he said. "Now make him come to your hand."

  It recalled Connor to his senses, that challenge, and feeling that his mind had been snatched away from him for a moment, almost that he had been betrayed, he looked at David with a pale face.

  "He is too far away," he said. "Bring him closer."

  There was one of those pauses which often come before crises, and Connor knew that by the outcome of this test he would be judged either a man or a cheap boaster.

 
"I shall do this thing," said the master of the Garden of Eden. "If you bring Glani to your hand I shall give him to you to ride while you stay in the valley. Listen! No other man had so much as laid a hand on the withers of Glani, but if you can make him come to you of his own free will--"

  "No," said Connor calmly. "I shall make him come because my will is stronger than his."

  "Impossible!" burst out David.

  He controlled himself and looked at Connor with an almost wistful defiance.

  "I hold to this," he said. "If you can bring Glani to your hand, he is yours while you stay in the Garden--for my part, I shall find another mount."

  Connor slipped his right hand into his pocket and crushed the little root against the palm.

  "Come hither, Glani," commanded the master. The stallion came up behind David's chair, looking fearlessly at the stranger.

  "Now," said David with scorn. "This is your time."

  "I accept it," replied Connor.

  He drew his hand from his pocket, and leaning over the table, he looked straight into the eye of the stallion. But in reality, it was only to bring that right hand closer; the wind was stirring behind him, and he knew that it wafted the scent of the mysterious root straight to Glani.

  "That is impossible," said David, following the glance of Connor with a frown. "A horse has no reasoning brain. Silence cannot make him come to you."

  "However," said Connor carelessly, "I shall not speak."

  The master set his teeth over unuttered words, and glancing up to reassure himself, his face altered swiftly, and he whispered:

  "Now, you four dead masters, bear witness to this marvel! Glani feels the influence!"

  For the head of Glani had raised as he scented the wind. Then he circled the table and came straight toward Connor. Within a pace, the scent of strange humanity must have drowned the perfume of the root; he sprang away, catlike and snorted his suspicion.

  David heaved a great sigh of relief.

  "You fail!" he cried, and snatching up a bottle of wine, he poured out a cup. "Brave Glani! I drink this in your honor!"

  Every muscle in David's strong body was quivering, as though he were throwing all the effort of his will on the side of the stallion.

  "You think I have failed?" asked Connor softly.

  "Admit it," said David.

  His flush was gone and he was paler than Connor now; he seemed to desire with all his might that the test should end; there was a fiber of entreaty in his voice.

  "Admit it, Benjamin, as I admit your strange power."

  "I have hardly begun. Give me quiet."

  David flung himself into his chair, his attention jerking from Glani to Connor and back. It was at this critical moment that a faint breeze puffed across the patio, carrying the imperceptible fragrance of the root straight to Glani. Connor watched the stallion prick his ears, and he blessed the quaint old Viennese with all his heart.

  The first approach of Glani had been in the nature of a feint, but now that he was sure, he went with all the directness of unspoiled courage straight to the stranger. He lowered the beautiful head and thrust out his nose until it touched the hand of Connor. The gambler saw David shudder.

  "You have conquered," he said, forcing out the words.

  "Take Glani; to me he is now a small thing. He is yours while you stay in the Garden. Afterward I shall give him to one of my servants."

  Connor stood up, and though at his rising Glani started back, he came to Connor again, following that elusive scent. To David it seemed the last struggle of the horse before completely submitting to the rule of a new master. He rose in turn, trembling with shame and anger, while Connor stood still, for about this stranger drifted a perfume of broad green fields with flowering tufts of grass, the heads well-seeded and sweet.

  And when a hand touched his withers, the stallion merely turned his head and nuzzled the shoulder of Connor inquisitively.

  With his hand on the back of the horse, the gambler realized for the first time Glani's full stature. He stood at least fifteen-three, though his perfect proportions made him seem smaller at a distance. No doubt he was a giant among the Eden Grays, Connor thought to himself. The gallop on Abra the night before had been a great moment, but a ride on Glani was a prospect that took his breath. He paused. Perhaps it was the influence of a forgotten Puritan ancestor, casting a shade on every hope of happiness. With his weight poised for the leap to the back of the stallion, Connor looked at David. The master was in a silent agony, and the hand of Connor fell away from the horse. He was afraid.

  "I can't do it," he said frankly.

  "Jump on his back," urged David bitterly. "He's no more to you than a yearling to the hands of Abraham."

  Connor realized now how far he had gone; he set about retracing the wrong steps.

  "It may appear that way, but I can't trust myself on his back. You understand?"

  He stepped back with a gesture that sent Glani bounding away.

  "You see," went on Connor, "I never could really understand him."

  The master seized with eagerness upon this gratifying suggestion.

  "It is true," he said, "that you are a little afraid of Glani. That is why none of the rest can handle him."

  He stopped in the midst of his self-congratulation and directed at Connor one of those glances which the gambler could never learn to meet.

  "Also," said David, "you make me happy. If you had sat on his back I should have felt your weight on my own shoulders and spirit."

  He laid a hand on Connor's shoulder, but the gambler had won and lost too often with an impenetrable face to quail now. He even managed to smile.

  "Hearken," said David. "My masters taught me many things, and everything they taught me must be true, for they were only voices of a mind out of another world. Yet, in spite of them," he went on kindly, "I begin to feel a kinship with you, Benjamin. Come, we will walk and talk together in the cool of the morning. Glani!"

  The gray had wandered off to nibble at the turf; he whirled and came like a thrown lance.

  "Glani," said David, "is usually the only living thing that walks with me in the morning; but now, my friend, we are three."

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  In the mid-afternoon of that day Connor rested in his room, and David rested in the lake, floating with only his nose and lips out of water.

  Toward the center of the lake even the surface held the chill of the snows, but David floated in the warm shallows and looked up to the sky through a film of water. The tiny ripples became immense air waves that rushed from mountain to mountain, dashed the clouds up and down, and then left the heavens placid and windless.

  He grew weary of this placidity, and as he turned upon one side he heard a prolonged hiss from the shore. David rolled with the speed of a water moccasin and headed in with his arm flashing in a powerful stroke that presently brought him to the edge of the beach. He rose in front of old Abraham.

  A painter should have seen them together--the time-dried body of the old man and the exuberant youth of the master. He looked on the servant with a stern kindness.

  "What are you doing here without a covering for your head while the sun is hot? Did they let you come of their own accord, Abraham?"

  "I slipped away," chuckled Abraham. "Isaac was in the patio, but I went by him like a hawk-shadow. Then I ran among the trees. Hat? Well, no more have you a hat, David."

  The master frowned, but his displeasure passed quickly and he led the way to the lowest terrace. They sat on the soft thick grass, with their feet in the hot sand of the beach, and as the wind stirred the tree above them a mottling of shadow moved across them.

  "You have come to speak privately with me," said David. "What is it?"

  But Abraham embraced his skinny knees and smiled at the lake, his jaw falling.

  "It's not what it was," he said, and wagged his head. "It's a sad lake compared to what it was."

  David controlled his impatience.

  "Tell me how it
is changed."

  "The color," said the old man. "Why, once, with a gallon of that blue you could have painted the whole sky." He shaded his face to look up, but so doing his glance ventured through the branches and close to the white-hot circle of the sun. His head dropped and he leaned on one arm.

  "Look at the green of the grass," suggested David. "It will rest your eyes."

  "Do you think my eyes are weak? No, I dropped my head to think how the world has fallen off in the last fifty years. It was all different in the days of John. But that was before you came to the valley."

  "The sky was not the same?" queried the master.

  "And men, also," said Abraham instantly. "Ho, yes! John was a man; you will not see his like in these days."

  David flushed, but he held back his first answer. "Perhaps."

  "There is no 'perhaps.'"

  Abraham spoke with a decision that brought his jaw close up under his nose.

  "He is my master," insisted Abraham, and, smiling suddenly, he whispered: "Mah ol' Marse Johnnie Cracken!"

  "What's that?" called David.

  Abraham stared at him with unseeing eyes. A mist of years drifted between them, and now the old man came slowly out of the past and found himself seated on the lawn in a lonely valley with great, naked mountains piled around it.

  "What did you say?" repeated David.

  Abraham hastily changed the subject.

  "In those days if a stranger came to the Garden of Eden he did not stay.

  Aye, and in those days Abraham could have taken the strongest by the neck and pitched him through the gates. I remember when the men came over the mountains--long before you were born. Ten men at the gate, I remember, and they had guns. But when my master told them to go away they looked at him and they looked at each other, but after a while they went away."

  Abraham rocked in an ecstasy.

  "No man could face my master. I remember how he sat on his horse that day."

  "It was Rustir?" asked David eagerly.

  "She was the queen of horses," replied the old man indirectly, "and he was the king of men; there are no more men like my master, and there are no more horses like Rustir."

  There was a pause, then David spoke.

  "John was a good man and a strong man," he said, looking down at his own brown hands. "And Rustir was a fine mare, but it is foolish to call her the best."