"THERE," the half-caste said, with a sort of whinny of triumph, as though he had lain innocently all these seven hours under the suspicion of lying. He pointed1 across the barranca to a group of Indian huts on a peninsula of rock jutting2 out across [174] the chasm3. They were perhaps two hundred yards away, but it would take another hour at least to reach them, winding4 down a thousand feet and up another thousand.
The priest sat on his mule5 watching intently: he could see no movement anywhere. Even the look-out, the little platform of twigs6 built on a mound7 above the huts, was empty. He said: "There doesn't seem to be anybody about." He was back in the atmosphere of desertion.
"Well," the half-caste said, "you didn't expect anybody, did you? Except him. He's there. You'll soon find that." "Where are the Indians?"
"There you go again," the man complained. "Suspicion. Always suspicion. How should I know where the Indians are? I told you he was quite alone, didn't I?"
The priest dismounted. "What are you doing now?" the half-caste cried despairingly.
"We shan't need the mules8 any more. They can be taken back."
"Not need them? How are you going to get away from here?"
"Oh," the priest said. "I won't have to think about that, will I?" He counted out forty pesos and said to the muleteer: "I hired you for Las Casas. Well, this is your good luck. Six days' pay."
"You don't want me any more, father?"
"No, I think you'd better get away from here quickly. Leave you-know-what behind."
The half-caste said excitedly: "We can't walk all that way, father. Why, the man's dying."
"We can go just as quickly on our own hoofs9. Now, friend, be off." The mestizo watched the mules pick their way along the narrow stony10 path with a look of wistful greed: they disappeared round a shoulder of rock—crack, crack, crack, the sound of their hoofs contracted into silence.
"Now," the priest said briskly, "we won't delay any more," and he started down the path, with a small sack slung11 over his shoulder. He could hear the half-caste panting after him: his wind was bad: they had probably let him have far too much beer in the capital, and the priest thought, with an odd touch of contemptuous affection, of how much had happened to them both since that first encounter in a village of which he [175] didn't even know the name: the half-caste lying there in the hot noonday rocking his hammock with one naked yellow toe. If he had been asleep at that moment, this wouldn't have happened. It was really shocking bad luck for the poor devil that he was to be burdened with a sin of such magnitude. The priest took a quick look back and saw the big toes protruding12 like slugs out of the dirty gym shoes: the man picked his way down, muttering all the time—his perpetual grievance13 didn't help his wind. Poor man, the priest thought, he isn't really bad enough. ...
And he wasn't strong enough either for this journey. By the time the priest had reached the bottom of the barranca he was fifty yards behind. The priest sat down on a boulder14 and mopped his forehead, and the half-caste began to complain long before he was down to his level: "There isn't so much hurry as all that." It was almost as though the nearer he got to his treachery the greater the grievance against his victim became. "Didn't you say he was dying?" the priest asked.
"Oh, yes, dying, of course. But that can take a long time."
"The longer the better for all of us," the priest said, "Perhaps you are right. I'll take a rest here."
But now, like a contrary child, the half-caste wanted to start again. He said: "You do nothing in moderation. Either you run or you sit."
"Can I do nothing right?" the priest teased him, and then he put in sharply and shrewdly: "They will let me see him, I suppose?"
"Of course," the half-caste said and immediately caught himself up. "They, they. Who are you talking about now? First you complain that the place is empty, and then you talk of they." He said with tears in his voice: "You may be a good man. You may be a saint for all I know, but why won't you talk plainly, so that a man can understand you? It's enough to make a man a bad Catholic."
The priest said: "You see this sack here. We don't want to carry that any farther. It's heavy. I think a little drink will do both good. We both need courage, don't we?"
"Drink, father?" the half-caste said with excitement, and watched the priest unpack15 a bottle. He never took his eyes away while the priest drank. His two fangs16 stuck greedily out, [176] quivering slightly on the lower lip. Then he too fastened on the mouth. "It's illegal, I suppose," the priest said with a giggle17, "on this side of the border—if we are this side." He had another draw himself and handed it back: it was soon exhausted—he took the bottle and threw it at a rock and it exploded like shrapnel. The half-caste started. He said: "Be careful. People might think you'd got a gun."
"As for the rest," the priest said, "we wont18 need that."
"You mean there's more of it?"
"Two more bottles—but we can't drink any more in this heat. We'd better leave it here."
"Why didn't you say it was heavy, father? I'll carry it for you. You've only to ask me to do a thing. I'm willing. Only you just won't ask."
They set off again, up-hill, the bottles clinking gently: the sun shone vertically19 down on the pair of them. It took them the best part of an hour to reach the top of the barranca. Then the watch tower gaped20 over their path like an upper jaw21 and the tops of the huts appeared over the rocks above them. Indians do not build their settlements on a mule path: they prefer to stand aside and see who comes. The priest wondered how soon the police would appear: they were keeping very carefully hidden.
"This way, father." The half-caste took the lead, scrambling22 away from the path up the rocks to the little plateau. He looked anxious, almost as if he had expected something to happen before this. There were about a dozen huts: they stood quiet, like tombs against the heavy sky. A storm was coming up.
The priest felt a nervous impatience23: he had walked into this trap, the least they could do was to close it quickly, finish everything off. He wondered whether they would suddenly shoot him down from one of the huts. He had come to the very edge of time: soon there would be no tomorrow and no yesterday, just existence going on for ever; he began to wish he had taken a little more brandy. His voice broke uncertainly when he said: "Well, we are here. Where is this Yankee?"
"Oh, yes, the Yankee," the half-caste said, jumping a little. It was as if for a moment he had forgotten the pretext24. He stood there, gaping25 at the huts, wondering too. He said: "He was over there when I left him."
[177] "Well, he couldn't have moved, could he?"
If it hadn't been for that letter he would have doubted the very existence of the American—and if he hadn't seen the dead child too, of course. He began to walk across the little silent clearing towards the hut: would they shoot him before he got to the entrance? It was like walking a plank26 blindfold27: you didn't know at what point you would step off into space for ever. He hiccupped once and knotted his hands behind his back to stop their trembling. He had been glad in a way to turn away from Miss Lehr's gate—he had never really believed that he would ever get back to parish work and the daily Mass and the careful appearance of piety28; but all the same you needed to be a little drunk to die. He got to the door—not a sound anywhere; then a voice said: "Father."
He looked round. The mestizo stood in the clearing with his face contorted: the two fangs jumped and jumped: he looked frightened.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Nothing, father."
"Why did you call me?"
"I said nothing," he lied. The priest turned and went in.
The American was there all right. Whether he was alive was another matter. He lay on a straw mat with his eyes closed and his mouth open and his hands on his belly29, like a child with stomach-ache. Pain alters a face—or else successful crime has its own falsity like politics or piety. He was hardly recognizable from the news picture on the police-station wall: that was tougher, arrogant30, a man who had made good. This was just a tramp's face. Pain had exposed the nerves and given the face a kind of spurious intelligence.
The priest knelt down and put his face near the man's mouth, trying to hear the breathing. A heavy smell came up to him—a mixture of vomit31 and cigar smoke and stale drink: it would take more than a few lilies to hide this corruption32. A very faint voice close to his ear said in English: "Beat it, father." Outside the door, in the heavy stormy sunlight, the mestizo stood, staring towards the hut, a little loose about the knees.
"So you're alive, are you?" the priest said briskly. "Better hurry. You haven't got long."
[178] "Beat it, father."
"You wanted me, didn't you? You're a Catholic?"
"Beat it," the voice whispered again, as if those were the only words it could remember of a lesson it had learnt some while ago.
"Come now," the priest said. "How long is it since you went to confession33?"
The eyelids34 rolled up and astonished eyes looked up at him. The man said in a puzzled voice: "Ten years, I guess. What are you doing here anyway?"
"You asked for a priest. Come now. Ten years is a long time."
"You got to beat it, father," the man said. He was remembering the lesson now—lying there flat on the mat with his hands folded on his stomach, any vitality35 that was left accumulated in the brain: he was like a reptile36 crushed at one end. He said in a strange voice: "That bastard37 ..." The priest said furiously: "What sort of a confession is this? I make a five hours' journey ... and all I get out of you is evil words." It seemed to him horribly unfair that his uselessness should return with his danger—he couldn't do anything for a man like this. "Listen father ..." the man said,
"I am listening."
"You beat it out of here quick. I didn't know ..."
"I haven't come all this way to talk about myself," the priest said. "The sooner your confession's done, the sooner I will be gone."
"You don't need to trouble about me. I'm through."
"You mean damned?" the priest said angrily.
"Sure. Damned," the man said, licking blood away from his lips.
"You listen to me," the priest said, leaning closer to the stale and nauseating38 smell, "I have come here to listen to your confession. Do you want to confess?"
"No."
"Did you when you wrote that note ...?"
"Maybe."
"I know what you want to tell me. I know it, do you understand? Let that be. Remember you are dying. Don't depend too much on God's mercy. He has given you this chance: He may [179] not give you another. What sort of a life have you led all these years? Does it seem so grand now? You've killed a lot of people—that's about all. Anybody can do that for a while, and then he is killed too. Just as you are killed. Nothing left except pain."
"Father."
"Yes?" The priest gave an impatient sigh, leaning closer. He hoped for a moment that at last he had got the man started on some meagre train of sorrow.
"You take my gun, father. See what I mean? Under my arm"
"I haven't any use for a gun."
"Oh, yes, you have." The man detached one hand from his stomach and began to move it slowly up his body. So much effort: it was unbearable39 to watch. The priest said sharply: "Lie still. It's not there." He could see the holster empty under the armpit: it was the first definite indication that they and the half-caste were not alone.
"Bastards," the man said, and his hand lay wearily where it had got to, over his heart; he imitated the prudish40 attitude of a female statue: one hand over the breast and one upon the stomach. It was very hot in the hut: the heavy light of the storm lay over them.
"Listen, father ..." The priest sat hopelessly at the man's side: nothing now would shift that violent brain towards peace: once, hours ago perhaps, when he wrote the message—but the chance had come and gone. He was whispering now something about a knife. There was a legend believed by many criminals that dead eyes held the picture of what they had last seen—a Christian41 could believe that the soul did the same, held absolution and peace at the final moment, after a lifetime of the most hideous42 crime: or sometimes pious43 men died suddenly in brothels unabsolved and what had seemed a good life went out with the permanent stamp on it of impurity44. He had heard men talk of the unfairness of a deathbed repentance—as if it was an easy thing to break the habit of a life whether to do good or evil. One suspected the good of the life that ended badly—or the viciousness that ended well. He made another desperate attempt. He said: "You believed once. Try and understand—his is your chance. At the last moment. Like [180] the thief. You have murdered men—children perhaps," he added, remembering the little black heap under the cross. "But that need not be so important. It only belongs to this life, a few years—it's over already. You can drop it all here, in this hut, and go on for ever ..." He felt sadness and longing45 at the vaguest idea of a life he couldn't lead himself ... words like peace, glory, love.
"Father," the voice said urgently, "you let me be. You look after yourself. You take my knife ..." The hand began its weary march again—this time towards the hip46. The knees crooked47 up in an attempt to roll over, and then the whole body gave up the effort, the ghost, everything.
The priest hurriedly whispered the words of conditional48 absolution, in case, for one second before it crossed the border, the spirit had repented—but it was more likely that it had gone over still seeking its knife, bent49 on vicarious violence. He prayed: "O merciful God, after all he was thinking of me, it was for my sake ..." but he prayed without conviction. At the best, it was only one criminal trying to aid the escape of another—whichever way you looked, there wasn't much merit in either of them.
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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18
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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vertically
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| adv.垂直地 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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34
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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