Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 617
“Indeed I would, child.”
And so, during the leisure hours, that grew more and longer as the hot summer season advanced, Adam led Genie nearer to nature, always striving with his observations to teach the truth, however stern, and to instruct and stimulate her growing mind. All was not music of birds and perfume of flowers and serene summer content at the rosy dawns and the golden sunsets. The desert life was at work. How hard to reconcile the killing with the living! But when Adam espied an eagle swooping down from the mountain heights, its wings bowed, and its dark body shooting so wondrously, then he spoke of the freedom of the lonely king of birds, and the grace of his flight, and the noble spirit of his life.
Likewise when Adam heard the honk of wild geese he made haste to have Genie see them winging wide and triangular flight across the blue sky, to the north. He told her how they lived all the winter in the warm south, and when spring came a wonderful instinct bade them rise and fly far northward, to the reedy banks of some lonely lake, and there gobble and honk and feed and raise their young.
On another day, and this was in drowsy June when all the air seemed still, he was roused from his siesta by cries of delight from Genie. She knelt before him on the sand, and in one hand she held a beautiful horned toad, and the other hand she stretched out to Adam.
“Look! Oh, look!” she cried, ecstatically, and her eyes then rivalled the jewelled eyes of the desert reptile. Some dark-red drops of bright liquid showed against the brown of Genie’s hand. “There! It’s blood. I picked him up as I had all the others, so many hundreds of times. Only this time I felt something warm and wet. I looked at my hand. There! He had squirted the drops of blood! And, oh, I was quick to look at his eyes! One was still wet, bloody. I know he squirted the drops of blood from his eyes!”
Thus Adam had confirmed for him one of the mysteries of the desert. Dismukes had been the first to tell Adam about the strange habit of horned toads ejecting blood from their eyes. One other desert man, at least, had corroborated Dismukes. But Adam, who had seldom passed a horned toad without picking it up to gaze at the wondrous colouration, and to see it swell and puff, had never come upon the peculiar phenomenon. And horned toads on his trails had been many. To interest Genie, he built her a corral of flat stones in the sand, and he scoured the surrounding desert for horned toads. What a miscellaneous collection he gathered! They all had the same general scalloped outlines and tiny horns, but the colour and design seemed to partake of the physical characteristics of the spot where each was found. If they squatted in the sand and lay still, it was almost impossible to see them, so remarkable was their protective colouration. Adam turned the assortment over to Genie with instruction to feed them, and play with them, and tease them in the hope that one might sometime eject drops of blood from his eyes. When it actually happened, Genie’s patience was rewarded.
Adam’s theory that the reward of the faithful desert watcher would always come was exemplified in more than one way. Genie had never seen or heard of a tarantula wasp. She had noticed big and little tarantulas, but of the fierce, winged, dragon-fly hawk of the desert — the tarantula wasp — she had no knowledge. Adam, therefore, had always kept a keen lookout for one.
They were up in the canyon on a hot June day, resting in the shade of the rustling palms. A stream babbled and splashed over the stones, and that was the only sound to break the dreaming silence of the canyon. All at once Adam heard a low whirr like the hum of tiny wings. As he turned his head the sound became a buzz. Then he espied a huge tarantula wasp. Quickly he called to Genie, and they watched. It flew around and around about a foot from the ground, a fierce-looking, yet beautiful creature, with yellow body and blue gauzy wings. It was fully two inches and more long.
“He sees a tarantula. Now watch!” whispered Adam.
Suddenly the wasp darted down to the edge of a low bush, into some coarse grass that grew there. Instantly came a fierce whiz of wings, like the buzz of a captured bumblebee, only much louder and more vibrant. Adam saw the blades of grass tumble. A struggle to the death was going on there. Adam crawled over a few yards, drawing Genie with him; and they saw the finish of a terrific battle between the wasp and a big hairy tarantula.
“There! It’s over, and the tarantula is dead,” said Adam. “Genie, I used to watch this kind of a desert fight, and not think much more about it. But one day I made a discovery. I had a camp over here, and I watched a tarantula wasp kill a tarantula. I didn’t know it then, but this wasp was a female, ready to lay her eggs. Well, she rolled, the big spider around until she found a place that suited her. Then she dug a hole, rolled him into it, covered him over, and flew away. I wondered then why she did that. I went away from that camp, and after a while I came back. Then one day I remembered about the wasp burying the tarantula. And so, just for fun and curiosity, I found the grave — it was near the end of a stone — and I opened it up. What do you think I discovered?”
“Tell me!” exclaimed Genie, breathlessly.
“I found the tarantula almost eaten up by a lot of tiny wasps, as much like worms as wasps! Then I understood. That tarantula wasp had killed the tarantula, laid her eggs inside his body, tumbled him into his grave and covered him over. By and by those eggs hatched, and the little wasps ate the tarantula — lived and grew, and after a while came out full-fledged tarantula wasps like their mother.”
CHAPTER XXIV
TIME PASSED. THE days slipped by to make weeks, and weeks merged into months. Summer with its hot midday hours, when man and beast rested or slept, seemed to shorten its season by half. No human creature ever entered a desert oasis without joy, nor left it without regret. As time went fleeting by Adam now and then remembered Dismukes, and these memories were full of both gladness and pathos. He tried to visualise the old prospector in the new role of traveller, absorber of life, spendthrift, and idler. Nevertheless, Adam could never be sure in his heart that Dismukes would find what he sought.
But for the most part of the still, hot, waking hours, Adam, when he was not working or sleeping, devoted himself to Genie. The girl changed every day — how, he was unable to tell. Most wondrous of all in nature was human life, and beyond all sublimity was the human soul!
Every morning at sunrise Genie knelt by her mother’s grave with bowed head and clasped hands, and every evening at sunset or in the golden dusk of twilight she again knelt in prayer.
“Genie, why do you kneel there — now?” asked Adam once, unable to contain his curiosity. “You did not use to do it. Only the last few weeks or month.”
“I forgot I’d promised mother,” she replied. “Besides, could I pray when I wanted to die?”
“No, I suppose not. It would be hard,” replied Adam, gravely. “Please don’t think me curious. Tell me, Genie, what do you pray for?”
“I used to pray ‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’ as mother taught me when I was little. But now I make up my own prayers. I ask God to keep the souls of mother and father in heaven. I pray I may be good and happy, so when they look down and see me they will be glad. I pray for you, and then for every one in the world.”
Slow, strong unrest, the endless moving of contending tides, heaved in Adam’s breast.
“So you pray for me, Genie?...Well, it is good of you. I hope I’m worthy...But, why do you pray?”
She pondered the question. Thought was developing in Genie. “Before mother died I prayed because she taught me. Since then — lately — it — it lifts me up — it takes away the sorrow here.” And she put a hand over her heart.
“Genie, then you believe in God — the God who is supposed to answer your prayers?”
“Yes. And He is not a god like Taquitch — or the beasts and rocks that the Indians worship. My God is all around me, in the sunshine, in the air, in the humming bees and whispering leaves and murmuring water. I feel him everywhere, and in me, too!”
“Genie, tell me one prayer, just one of yours or your mother’s that was truly answered,” appealed Adam, with earnest feeling.
“We prayed for some one to come. I know mother prayed for some one to save me from being alone — from starving. And I prayed for some one to come and help her — to relieve her terrible dread about me...And you came!”
Adam was silenced. What had he to contend with here? Faith and fact were beyond question, as Genie represented them. What little he knew! He could not even believe that a divine guidance had been the spirit of his wandering steps. But he was changing. Always the future — always the unknown calling — always the presentiment of sterner struggle, of larger growth, of ultimate fulfilment! His illusion, his fetish, his phantasmagoria rivalled the eternal and inexplicable faith of his friend Dismukes.
Andreas Canyon was far from the camp under the cottonwoods, but Adam and Genie, having once feasted their eyes upon its wildness and beauty and grandeur, went back again and again, so that presently the distance in the hot sun was no hindrance, and the wide area of white, glistening, terrible cholla cactus was no obstacle.
For that matter the cactus patch was endurable because of its singular beauty. Adam could not have told why cholla fascinated him, and, though Genie admitted she liked to look at the frosty silver-lighted cones and always had an impulse to prick her fingers on the cruel thorns, she could not explain why.
“Genie, the Yaqui Indians in Sonora love this cholla,” said Adam. “Love it as they hate Mexicans. They will strip a Mexican naked, tear the skin off the soles of his feet, and drive him through the cholla until he’s dead. It wouldn’t take long!...All prospectors hate cholla. I hate it, yet I — I guess I’m a little like the Yaquis. I often prick my finger on cholla just to feel the sting, the burn, the throb. The only pain I could ever compare to that made by cholla is the sting of the sharp horn of a little catfish back in Ohio Oh! I’ll never forget that! A poison, burning sting!...But cholla is terrible because the thorns stick in your flesh. When you jerk to free yourself the thorns leave the cones. Each thorn has an invisible barb and it works deeper and deeper into flesh.”
“Don’t I know!” exclaimed Genie, emphatically. “I’ve spent whole hours digging them out of my feet and legs. But how pretty the cholla shines! Only it doesn’t tell the truth, does it, Wanny?”
“Child, please don’t call me Wanny. It’s so — so silly,” protested Adam.
“It’s not. No sillier than your calling me child! I’m nearly fifteen. I’m growing right out of my clothes.”
“Call me Adam.”
“No, I don’t like that name. And I can’t call you mister or father or brother.”
“But what’s wrong with Adam?”
“I read in mother’s Bible about Adam and Eve. I hated her when the devil got into her. And I didn’t like Adam. And I don’t like the name Adam. You’d never have been driven from heaven.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Adam, ruefully. “Genie, I was wicked when I was a — a young man.”
“You were! Well, I don’t care. You’d never be tempted to disobey the Lord — not by Eve with all her stolen apples!”
“All right, call me Wanny,” returned Adam, and he made haste to change the subject. There were times when Genie with her simplicity, her directness, her curiosity, and her innocence, caused Adam extreme perplexity, not to say embarrassment. He remembered his own bringing up. It seemed every year his childhood days came back closer. And thrown as he was in constant companionship with this child of nature, he began to wonder if the sophisticated education of children, especially girls, as it had been in his youth, was as fine and simple and true to life as it might have been.
Andreas Canyon yawned with wide mouth and huge yellow cliffs. Just beyond the mouth of the canyon and across the wide space from cliff to slope bloomed the most verdant and beautiful oasis of that desert region. Huge grey boulders, clean and old, and russet with lichen, made barricade for a clear stream of green water, as if to protect it from blowing desert sand. Yet there were little beaches of white sand, lined by coloured pebbles. Green rushes and flags grew in the water. Beyond the stream, on the side of the flat-rocked slope, lay a many-acred thicket of mesquite, impenetrable except for birds and beasts. The green of the leaves seem dominated by bronze colours of the mistletoe.
The oasis proper, however, was the grove of cottonwoods, sycamores, and palms. How bright green the foliage of cottonwoods — and smooth white the bark of sycamores! But verdant and cool as it was under their shade, Adam and Genie always sought the aloof and stately palms, wonderful trees not native there, planted years and years before by the Spanish padres.
“Oh, I love it here!” exclaimed Genie. “Listen to the palms whisper!”
They stood loftily, with spreading green fanlike leaves at the tops, and all the trunks swathed and bundled apparently in huge cases of straw. These yellow sheaths were no less than the leaves that had died. As the palms grew the new leaves kept bursting from the tufted tops, and those leaves lowest down died and turned yellow.
“Genie, your uncle seems a long time coming back for you,” remarked Adam.
“I hope he never comes,” she replied.
Adam was surprised and somewhat disconcerted at her reply, and yet strangely pleased.
“Why?” he asked.
“Oh, I never liked him and I don’t want to go away with him.”
“Your mother said he was a good man — that he loved you.”
“Uncle Ed was good, and very kind to me. I — I ought be ashamed,” replied Genie. “But he drank, and when he drank he kissed me — he put his hands on me. I hated that.”
“Did you ever tell your mother?” inquired Adam.
“Yes. I told her. I asked her why he did that. And she said not to mind — only to keep away from him when he drank.”
“Genie, your uncle did wrong, and your mother did wrong not to tell you so,” declared Adam, earnestly.
“Wrong? What do you mean — wrong? I only thought I didn’t like him.”
“Well, I’ll tell you some day...But now, to go back to what you said about leaving — you know I’m going with you when your uncle comes.”
“Wanny, do you want that time to come soon?” she asked, wistfully.
“Yes, of course, for your sake. You’re getting to be a big girl. You must go to school. You must get out to civilisation.”
“Oh! I’m crazy to go!” she burst out, covering her face. “Yet I’ve a feeling I’ll hate to leave here...I’ve been so happy lately.”
“Genie, it relieves me to hear you’re anxious to go. And it pleases me to know you’ve been happy lately. You see I’m only a — a man, you know. How little I could do for you! I’ve tried. I’ve done my best. But at that best I’m only a poor old homeless outcast — a desert wanderer! I’m—”
“Hush up!” she cried, with quick, sweet warmth. Swiftly she enveloped him, hugged him close, and kissed his cheek. “Wanny, you’re grand!...You’re like Taquitch — you’re my Taquitch with face like the sun! And I love you — love you as I never loved anyone except my mother! And I hope Uncle Ed never comes, so you’ll have to take care of me always.”
Adam gently disengaged himself from Genie’s impulsive arms, yet, despite his embarrassment and confused sense of helplessness, he felt the better for her action. Natural, spontaneous, sincere, it warmed his heart. It proved more than all else what a child she was.
“Genie, let me make sure you understand,” he said, gravely. “I love you, too, as if you were my little sister. And if your uncle doesn’t come I’ll take you somewhere — find you a home. But I never — much as I would like to — never can take care of you always.”
“Why?” she flashed, with her terrible directness.
Adam had begun his development of Genie by telling the truth; he had always abided by it; and now, in these awakening days for her, he must never veer from the truth.
“If I tell you why — will you promise never to speak of it — so long as you live?” he asked, solemnly.
“Never! I promise. Never, Wanny!”
“Genie, I am an outcast. I am a hunted man. I can never go back to civilisation and stay.”
Then he told her the story of the ruin of his life. When he finished she fell weeping upon his shoulder and clung to him. For Adam the moment was sad and sweet — sad because a few words had opened up the dark, tragic gulf of his soul; and sweet because the passionate grief of a child assured him that even he, wanderer as he was, knew something of sympathy and love.
“But, Wanny, you — could — go and — be — punished — and then — come back!” she cried, between sobs. “You’d — never — have to — hide — any more.”
Out of her innocence and simplicity she had spoken confounding truth. What a terrible truth! Those words of child wisdom sowed in Adam the seed of a terrible revolt. Revolt — yea, revolt against this horrible need to hide — this fear and dread of punishment that always and forever so bitterly mocked his manhood. If he could find the strength to rise to the heights of Genie’s wisdom — divine philosophy of a child! — he would no longer hate his shadowed wandering steps down the naked shingles and hidden trails of the lonely desert. But, alas! whence would come that strength? Not from the hills! Not from the nature that had made him so strong, so fierce, so sure to preserve his life! It could only come from the spirit that had stood in the dusky twilight beside a dying woman’s side. It could come only from the spirit to whom a child prayed while kneeling at her mother’s grave. And for Adam that spirit held aloof, illusive as the spectres of the dead, beyond his grasp, an invisible medium, if indeed it was not a phantom, that seemed impossible of reality in the face of the fierce, ruthless, inevitable life and death and decay of the desert. Could God be nature — that thing, that terrible force, light, fire, water, pulse — that quickening of plant, flesh, stone, that dying of all only to renew — that endless purpose and progress, from the first whirling gas globe of the universe, throughout the ages down to the infinitesimal earth so fixed in its circling orbit, so pitiful in its present brief fertility? The answer was as unattainable as to pluck down the stars, as hopeless as to think of the fleeting of the years, as mysterious as the truth of where man came from and whence he was to go.
