Part 18

“Adios, señor!” said the artist.

And with a proud, white look of joy in his face, he turned again to his work.

Ramón visited the adobe house, its yard fenced with cane and overshadowed by a great mango tree, where Manuel and his wife and children, and two assistants, were spinning and weaving. Two little girls were assiduously carding white wool and brown wool under a cluster of banana trees: the wife and a young maiden were spinning fine, fine thread. On the line hung dyed wool, red, and blue, and green. And under the shed stood Manuel and a youth, weaving at two heavy hand-looms.

“How is it going?” called Don Ramón.

“_Muy bien! Muy bien!_” answered Manuel, with that curious look of transfiguration glistening in his black eyes and in the smile of his face. “It is going well, very well, _Señor_!”

Ramón paused to look at the fine white serape on the loom. It had a zigzag border of natural black wool and blue, in little diamonds, and the ends a complication of blackish and blue diamond-pattern. The man was just beginning to do the centre--called the _boca_, the mouth: and he looked anxiously at the design that was tacked to the loom. But it was simple: the same as the iron symbol the smith was making: a snake with his tail in his mouth, the black triangles on his back being the outside of the circle: and in the middle, a blue eagle standing erect, with slim wings touching the belly of the snake with their tips, and slim feet upon the snake, within the hoop.

Ramón went back to the house, to the upper terrace, and round to the short wing where his room was. He put a folded serape over his shoulder, and went along the terrace. At the end of this wing, projecting to the lake, was a square terrace with a low, thick wall and a tiled roof, and a coral-scarlet bignonia dangling from the massive pillars. The terrace, or loggia, was strewn with the native palm-leaf mats, _petates_, and there was a drum in one corner, with the drum-stick upon it. At the far inner corner, went down an enclosed stone staircase, with an iron door at the bottom.

Ramón stood a while looking out at the lake. The clouds were dissolving again, the sheet of water gave off a whitish light. In the distance he could see the dancing speck of a boat, probably Martin with the two women.

He took off his hat and his blouse, and stood motionless, naked to the waist. Then he lifted the drum-stick, and after waiting a moment or two, to become still in soul, he sounded the rhythmic summons, rather slow, yet with a curious urge in its strong-weak, one-two rhythm. He had got the old barbaric power into the drum.

For some time he stood alone, the drum, or tom-tom, lifted by its thong against his legs, his right hand drumming, his face expressionless. A man entered, bareheaded, running from the inner terrace. He was in the white cotton clothes, snow white, but with a dark serape folded on his shoulder, and he held a key in his hand. He saluted Ramón by putting the back of his right hand in front of his eyes for a moment, then he went down the stone stairway and opened the iron door.

Immediately men were coming up, all dressed alike, in the white cotton clothes and the huaraches, each with a folded serape over his shoulder. But their sashes were all blue, and their sandals blue and white. The sculptor came too, and Mirabal was there, also dressed in the cotton clothes.

There were seven men, besides Ramón. At the top of the stairs, one after another, they saluted. Then they took their serapes, dark brown, with blue eyes filled with white, along the edges, and threw them down along the wall, their hats beside them. Then they took off their blouses, and flung them on their hats.

Ramón left the drum, and sat down on his own serape, that was white with the blue and black bars, and the scarlet fringe. The drummer sat down and took the drum. The circle of men sat cross-legged, naked to the waist, silent. Some were of a dark, ruddy coffee-brown, two were white, Ramón was of a soft creamy brown. They sat in silence for a time, only the monotonous, hypnotic sound of the drum pulsing, touching the inner air. Then the drummer began to sing, in the curious, small, inner voice, that hardly emerges from the circle, singing in the ancient falsetto of the Indians:

“Who sleeps--shall wake! Who sleeps--shall wake! Who treads down the path of the snake shall arrive at the place; in the path of the dust shall arrive at the place and be dressed in the skin of the snake--”

One by one the voices of the men joined in, till they were all singing in the strange, blind infallible rhythm of the ancient barbaric world. And all in the small, inward voices, as if they were singing from the oldest, darkest recess of the soul, not outwards, but inwards, the soul singing back to herself.

They sang for a time, in the peculiar unison like a flock of birds that fly in one consciousness. And when the drum shuddered for an end, they all let their voices fade out, with the same broad, clapping sound in the throat.

There was silence. The men turned, speaking to one another, laughing in a quiet way. But their daytime voices, and their daytime eyes had gone.

Then Ramón’s voice was heard, and the men were suddenly silent, listening with bent heads. Ramón sat with his face lifted, looking far away, in the pride of prayer.

“There is no Before and After, there is only Now,” he said, speaking in a proud, but inward voice.

“The great Snake coils and uncoils the plasm of his folds, and stars appear, and worlds fade out. It is no more than the changing and easing of the plasm.

“_I always am_, says his sleep.

“As a man in a deep sleep knows not, but is, so is the Snake of the coiled cosmos, wearing its plasm.

“As a man in a deep sleep has no to-morrow, no yesterday, nor to-day, but only _is_, so is the limpid, far-reaching Snake of the eternal Cosmos, Now, and forever Now.

“Now, and only Now, and forever Now.

“But dreams arise and fade in the sleep of the Snake.

“And worlds arise as dreams, and are gone as dreams.

“And man is a dream in the sleep of the Snake.

“And only the sleep that is dreamless breathes _I Am_!

“In the dreamless Now, _I Am_.

“Dreams arise as they must arise, and man is a dream arisen.

“But the dreamless plasm of the Snake is the plasm of a man, of his body, his soul, and his spirit at one.

“And the perfect sleep of the Snake _I Am_ is the plasm of a man, who is whole.

“When the plasm of the body, and the plasm of the soul, and the plasm of the spirit are at one, in the Snake _I Am_.

“I am Now.

“Was-not is a dream, and shall-be is a dream, like two separate, heavy feet.

“But Now, I Am.

“The trees put forth their leaves in their sleep, and flowering emerge out of dreams, into pure I Am.

“The birds forget the stress of their dreams, and sing aloud in the Now, I Am! I Am!

“For dreams have wings and feet, and journeys to take, and efforts to make.

“But the glimmering Snake of the Now is wingless and footless, and undivided, and perfectly coiled.

“It is thus the cat lies down, in the coil of Now, and the cow curves round her nose to her belly, lying down.

“In the feet of a dream the hare runs uphill. But when he pauses, the dream has passed, he has entered the timeless Now, and his eyes are the wide I Am.

“Only man dreams, dreams, and dreams, and changes from dream to dream, like a man who tosses on his bed.

“With his eyes and his mouth he dreams, with his hands and his feet, with phallos and heart and belly, with body and spirit and soul, in a tempest of dreams.

“And rushes from dream to dream, in the hope of the perfect dream.

“But I, I say to you, there is no dream that is perfect, for every dream has an ache and an urge, an urge and an ache.

“And nothing is perfect, save the dream pass out into the sleep, I Am.

“When the dream of the eyes is darkened, and encompassed with Now.

“And the dream of the mouth resounds in the last I Am.

“And the dream of the hands is a sleep like a bird on the sea, that sleeps and is lifted and shifted, and knows not.

“And the dreams of the feet and the toes touch the core of the world, where the Serpent sleeps.

“And the dream of the phallos reaches the great I Know Not.

“And the dream of the body is the stillness of a flower in the dark.

“And the dream of the soul is gone in the perfume of Now.

“And the dream of the spirit lapses, and lays down its head, and is still with the Morning Star.

“For each dream starts out of Now, and is accomplished in Now.

“In the core of the flower, the glimmering, wakeless Snake.

“And what falls away is a dream, and what accrues is a dream. There is always and only Now, Now and I Am.”

There was silence in the circle of men. Outside, the sound of the bullock-wagon could be heard, and from the lake, the faint knocking of oars. But the seven men sat with their heads bent, in the semi-trance, listening inwardly.

Then the drum began softly to beat, as if of itself. And a man began to sing, in a small voice:

“The Lord of the Morning Star Stood between the day and the night: As a bird that lifts its wings, and stands With the bright wing on the right And the wing of the dark on the left, The Dawn Star stood into sight.

Lo! I am always here! Far in the hollow of space I brush the wing of the day And put light on your face. The other wing brushes the dark. But I, I am always in place.

Yea, I am always here. I am Lord In every way. And the lords among men See me through the flashing of wings. They see me and lose me again. But lo! I am always here Within ken.

The multitudes see me not. They see only the waving of wings, The coming and going of things. The cold and the hot.

But ye that perceive me between The tremors of night and the day, I make you the Lords of the Way Unseen.

The path between gulfs of the dark and the steeps of the light; The path like a snake that is gone, like the length of a fuse to ignite The substance of shadow, that bursts and explodes into sight.

I am here undeparting. I sit tight Between wings of the endless flight, At the depths of the peace and the fight.

Deep in the moistures of peace, And far down the muzzle of the fight You shall find me, who am neither increase Nor destruction, different quite.

I am far beyond The horizons of love and strife. Like a star, like a pond That washes the lords of life.”

“Listen!” said Ramón, in the stillness. “We will be masters among men, and lords among men. But lords of men, and masters of men we will not be. Listen! We are lords of the night. Lords of the day and night. Sons of the Morning Star, sons of the Evening Star. Men of the Morning and the Evening Star.

“We are not lords of men: how can men make us lords? Nor are we masters of men, for men are not worth it.

“But I am the Morning and the Evening Star, and lord of the day and the night. By the power that is put in my left hand, and the power that I grasp in my right, I am lord of the two ways.

“And my flower on earth is the jasmine flower, and in heaven the flower Hesperus.

“I will not command you, nor serve you, for the snake goes crooked to his own house.

“Yet I will be with you, so you depart not from yourselves.

“There is no giving, and no taking. When the fingers that give touch the fingers that receive, the Morning Star shines at once, from the contact, and the jasmine gleams between the hands. And thus there is neither giving nor taking, nor hand that proffers nor hand that receives, but the star between them is all, and the dark hand and the light hand are invisible on each side. The jasmine takes the giving and the receiving in her cup, and the scent of the oneness is fragrant on the air.

“Think neither to give nor to receive, only let the jasmine flower.

“Let nothing spill from you in excess, let nothing be reived from you.

“And reive nothing away. Not even the scent from the rose, nor the juice from the pomegranate, nor the warmth from the fire.

“But say to the rose: Lo! I take you away from your tree, and your breath is in my nostrils, and my breath is warm in your depths. Let it be a sacrament between us.

“And beware when you break the pomegranate; it is sunset you take in your hands. Say: I am coming, come thou. Let the Evening Star stand between us.

“And when the fire burns up and the wind is cold and you spread your hands to the blaze, listen to the flame saying: Ah! Is it thou? Comest thou to me? Lo, I was going the longest journey, down the path of the greatest snake. But since thou comest to me, I come to thee. And where thou fallest into my hands, fall I into thine, and jasmine flowers on the burning bush between us. Our meeting is the burning bush, whence the jasmine flowers.

“Reive nothing away, and let nothing be reived from you. For reiver and bereaved alike break the root of the jasmine flower, and spit upon the Evening Star.

“Take nothing, to say: _I have it!_ For you can possess nothing, not even peace.

“Nought is possessible, neither gold, nor land nor love, nor life, nor peace, nor even sorrow nor death, nor yet salvation.

“Say of nothing: It is mine.

“Say only: It is with me.

“For the gold that is with thee lingers as a departing moon, looking across space thy way, saying: Lo! We are beholden of each other. Lo! for this little while, to each other thou and I are beholden.

“And thy land says to thee: Ah, my child of a far-off father! Come, lift me, lift me a little while, that poppies and wheat may blow on the level wind that moves between my breast and thine! Then sink with me, and we will make one mound.

“And listen to thy love saying: Beloved! I am mown by thy sword like mown grass, and darkness is upon me, and the tremble of the Evening Star. And to me thou art darkness and nowhere. Oh thou, when thou risest up and goest thy way, speak to me, only say: The star rose between us.

“And say to thy life: Am I thine? Art thou mine? Am I the blue curve of day around thine uncurved night? Are my eyes the twilight of neither of us, where the star hangs? Is my upper lip the sunset and my lower lip the dawn, does the star tremble inside my mouth?

“And say to thy peace: Ah! risen, deathless star! Already the waters of dawn sweep over thee, and wash me away on the flood!

“And say to thy sorrow: Axe, thou art cutting me down!

“Yet did a spark fly from out of thy edge and my wound!

“Cut then, while I cover my face, father of the Star.

“And say to thy strength: Lo, the night is foaming up my feet and my loins, day is foaming down from my eyes and my mouth to the sea of my breast. Lo, they meet! My belly is a flood of power, that races in down the sluice of bone at my back, and a star hangs low on the flood, over a troubled dawn.

“And say to thy death: Be it so! I, and my soul, we come to thee, Evening Star. Flesh, go thou into the night. Spirit, farewell, ’tis thy day. Leave me now. I go in last nakedness now to the nakedest Star.”

CHAP: XII. THE FIRST WATERS.

The men had risen and covered themselves, and put on their hats, and covered their eyes for a second, in salute before Ramón, as they departed down the stone stair. And the iron door at the bottom had clanged, the doorkeeper had returned with the key, laid it on the drum, and softly, delicately departed.

Still Ramón sat on his serape, leaning his naked shoulders on the wall, and closing his eyes. He was tired, and in that state of extreme separateness which makes it very hard to come back to the world. On the outside of his ears he could hear the noises of the hacienda, even the tinkle of tea-spoons, and the low voice of women, and later, the low, labouring sound of a motor-car struggling over the uneven road, then swirling triumphantly into the courtyard.

It was hard to come back to these things. The noise of them sounded on the outside of his ears, but inside them was the slow, vast, inaudible roar of the cosmos, like in a sea-shell. It was hard to have to bear the contact of commonplace daily things, when his soul and body were naked to the cosmos.

He wished they would leave him the veils of his isolation awhile. But they would not: especially Carlota. She wanted him to be present to her: in familiar contact.

She was calling: “Ramón! Ramón! Have you finished? Cipriano is here.” And even so, in her voice was fear, and an over-riding temerity.

He pushed back his hair and rose, and very quickly went out, as he was, with naked torso. He didn’t want to dress himself into everyday familiarity, since his soul was unfamiliar.

They had a tea-table out on the terrace, and Cipriano, in uniform, was there. He got up quickly, and came down the terrace with outstretched arms, his black eyes gleaming with an intensity almost like pain, upon the face of the other man. And Ramón looked back at him with wide, seeing, yet unchanging eyes.

The two men embraced, breast to breast, and for a moment Cipriano laid his little blackish hands on the naked shoulders of the bigger man, and for a moment was perfectly still on his breast. Then very softly, he stood back and looked at him, saying not a word.

Ramón abstractly laid his hand on Cipriano’s shoulder, looking down at him with a little smile.

“Que tal?” he said, from the edge of his lips. “How goes it?”

“Bien! Muy bien!” said Cipriano, still gazing into the other man’s face with black, wondering, childlike, searching eyes, as if he, Cipriano, were searching for _himself_, in Ramón’s face. Ramón looked back into Cipriano’s black, Indian eyes with a faint, kind smile of recognition, and Cipriano hung his head as if to hide his face, the black hair, which he wore rather long and brushed sideways, dropping over his forehead.

The women watched in absolute silence. Then, as the two men began slowly to come along the terrace to the tea-table, Carlota began to pour tea. But her hand trembled so much, the teapot wobbled as she held it, and she had to put it down and clasp her hands in the lap of her white muslin dress.

“You rowed on the lake?” said Ramón abstractedly, coming up.

“It was lovely!” said Kate. “But hot when the sun came.”

Ramón smiled a little, then pushed his hand through his hair. Then, leaning one hand on the parapet of the terrace wall, he turned to look at the lake, and a sigh lifted his shoulders unconsciously.

He stood thus, naked to the waist, his black hair ruffled and splendid, his back to the women, looking out at the lake. Cipriano stood lingering beside him.

Kate saw the sigh lift the soft, quiescent, cream-brown shoulders. The soft, cream-brown skin of his back, of a smooth, _pure_ sensuality, made her shudder. The broad, square, rather high shoulders, with neck and head rising steep, proudly. The full-fleshed, deep chested, rich body of the man made her feel dizzy. In spite of herself, she could not help imagining a knife stuck between those pure, male shoulders. If only to break the arrogance of their remoteness.

That was it. His nakedness was so aloof, far-off and intangible, in another day. So that to _think_ of it was almost a violation, even to look at it with prying eyes. Kate’s heart suddenly shrank in her breast. This was how Salome had looked at John. And this was the beauty of John, that he had had; like a pomegranate on a dark tree in the distance, naked, but not undressed! Forever still and clothe-less, and with another light about it, of a richer day than our paltry, prying, sneak-thieving day.

The moment Kate had imagined a knife between his shoulders, her heart shrank with grief and shame, and a great stillness came over her. Better to take the hush into one’s heart, and the sharp, prying beams out of one’s eyes. Better to lapse away from one’s own prying, assertive self, into the soft, untrespassing self, to whom nakedness is neither shame nor excitement, but clothed like a flower in its own deep, soft consciousness, beyond cheap awareness.

The evening breeze was blowing very faintly. Sailing boats were advancing through the pearly atmosphere, far off, the sun above had a golden quality. The opposite shore, twenty miles away, was distinct, and yet there seemed an opalescent, spume-like haze in the air, the same quality as in the filmy water. Kate could see the white specks of the far-off church towers of Tuliapan.

Below, in the garden below the house, was a thick grove of mango trees. Among the dark and reddish leaves of the mangoes, scarlet little birds were bustling, like suddenly-opening poppy-buds, and pairs of yellow birds, yellow underneath as yellow butterflies, so perfectly clear, went skimming past. When they settled for a moment and closed their wings, they disappeared, for they were grey on top. And when the cardinal birds settled, they too disappeared, for the outside of their wings was brown, like a sheath.

“Birds in this country have all their colour below,” said Kate.

Ramón turned to her suddenly.

“They say the word _Mexico_ means _below this_!” he said, smiling, and sinking into a rocking chair.