The Salvation of Pisco Gabar and Other Stories (3 page)

The track dived off the ridge into a last valley and then began to climb the irregular ravine that separated the height of Huanca from its neighbor, which was, he supposed, Chiquibamba. The llamas quickened their pace towards the undecorated horizon of their desires.

Pisco, plodding ahead of his animals, was fascinated by the track. What the Indians had told him about it was true. It had a purposefulness lacking in the familiar paths of the Montaña. The latter scuttered from cover to cover like the savages who had made them. They had been widened and deepened by
arrieros
and their pack animals, but they preserved their inconsequential lines. The track which he now followed was narrow and rough, but it struck out boldly along the contour lines and had a certain air of triumph in surmounting rather than circumventing the minor obstacles in its path. Pisco was aware of pride in it. It was not the absurd self-satisfaction of an American arrogating to himself, merely by virtue of living on the same continent, the achievements of a people without the remotest relationship to him in blood or culture, but a pride of closer parentage. Pisco was unconscious of his Indian blood when he was dealing with white civilization or forest savages, yet he felt a community of thought and interest, which did not at all fit his habitual conception of himself, with the builders of this road.

The trees had given place to low scrub when he came to the little patch of bog which José-Maria had described. He was right up against the main escarpment. The ravine rose sharply ahead of him in a tumble of rocks. A natural platform which the hand of man had certainly aided by leveling and facing overhung the bog, and two paths led off it, at right angles to the track up which he had come. The right-hand path, leading to Huanca, looked a hair-raising piece of mountaineering. It followed the foot of the cliff while the slope beneath it grew steeper and steeper until the path was a mere ledge on a sheer face of rock. Pisco decided to tackle it in the morning and camped on the platform.

With the rising sun throwing its angle into stronger relief, the path clung more firmly to the mountainside. It was definitely, though primitively, engineered, paved here and there with massive stones and cut a little back into the cliffs where the natural slopes and ledges were not wide enough for easy passage. After leading him up for some two thousand feet, the track turned on to the northern shoulder of the mountain. At the bend was a niche in the rock marked, so that no traveler should miss it, with a black cross. A three-foot cow's horn hung from a hook within the niche. Pisco Gabar had seen a similar horn in the Argentine Andes and knew its use. It invited the passer-by to give warning of his approach, since the path was about to become so narrow that two mules could not pass abreast. He put it to his lips and blew a doleful blast that might have proceeded from the cow itself. Then he waited twenty minutes, in case an
arriero
should be already on the path, meanwhile tightening the girths of his three animals.

Gabar found the track spectacular rather than alarming, for he had as good a head for heights as his own llamas. It was about three feet wide with a slope on the inner side which, while not quite perpendicular, was quite unclimbable, and a sheer drop on the outer side. The path, varying little in width, clung to the edge of this precipice for a full mile. Then it opened out, passed another horn for the use of descending travelers, and wound up a wind-swept slope of scanty turf and gravel which continued as far as the wall of Huanca del Niño.

There were no pure whites in Huanca, though half the population of the pueblo had a little white blood. They preferred to speak Quechua, but, if Spanish were required, they spoke it with a perfect accent, an archaic diction, and a very limited vocabulary. Gabar was welcomed with grave, unquestioning hospitality, and then, when he said he had come by invitation of Don José-Maria, with frank curiosity and good-fellowship. There was a drink-shop which called itself an inn and was used as one when an occasional trader or
arriero
visited Huanca. Gabar was given the room of honor, which had been prepared for the diocesan inspector a year earlier with furniture lent by the whole pueblo. Since they were not a little proud of the room and it was easier to leave the furniture where it was than to take it back, the place had remained a permanent exhibition of their treasures. It would have been pretty clean had not the chickens adopted two Talavera chamber pots as nesting places.

Every evening the patio of the inn became a shop where all the inhabitants congregated whether or not they had gold to see. Business was accompanied by leisurely drinking and interminable stories. There was plenty of gold. Tiny quantities of dust were even used as an internal currency, as small change to adjust the equitable exchange of commodities. After a week Gabar had traded goods worth about £40 in Arequipa, including one of his llamas, for over a pound and a half of gold dust—which meant that he had more than trebled his outlay. Finding that he had then exhausted the market, he decided to try his luck at Chiquibamba. He left Huanca in the early afternoon, intending to camp for the night at the natural platform above the bog.

Pisco Gabar swung down the path in an excellent humor. Huanca del Niño could make him a nice little fortune, especially if he visited it after the rainy season when the inhabitants would work their gravel bank intensively and hold the proceeds for his coming. At the same time he was treated by the pueblo as a benefactor and even as an easy mark for keen traders, for he haggled no more than was necessary to gain their respect. He had not a care in the world. All of three senses were thoroughly satisfied. The smell of the animals, of leather and mountain air, tickled his nostrils. His belly regurgitated a pleasing flavor of rice, roast kid, and alcohol. His fingers toyed with the wash-leather bags in his belt, squeezing the soft, heavy dust. The mule and the llama tripped confidently after him. At this moment, rounding a bend in the path, he came face to face with Don José-Maria.

“
Padre de mi alma!
How are you?”

José-Maria looked at him with mingled fear and pleasure.

“Don Manuel! I am glad to see you! That goes without saying. But what are we going to do? How was I to know you were on the way down?”

Gabar awoke to a sense of his surroundings.

“
Condenado
that I am! I forgot to blow the horn!”

He strung together some blazing jewels of oaths which ended before completing their rhythmical pattern, partly from respect for Don José-Maria and partly because Gabar had suddenly looked down past his left knee and become aware of the emptiness beyond.

“And you, padre! You did not blow the horn either!”

“I blew it, my son. But it was not very loud. I have been so long in the lowlands that my breath does not come as easily as it did. Yet you would have heard had you waited and listened.”

“The fault is mine,” admitted Gabar. “And now, how are we going to pass?”

They stood facing one another like a metope carved on the face of the rock. The two men formed the high and central point of the design. Behind José-Maria were a mule, carrying his tin trunk, and a donkey for riding; behind Gabar, his pack-mule and the remaining llama.

“We cannot pass,” answered José-Maria simply.

“Let us sit down,” Gabar said. “There is nothing impossible.”

The two sat down on the path with their backs against the rock and their heels overhanging two hundred feet of sheer cliff. Ten thousand feet below the Montaña spread out its tumble of hills mapped into orderliness by the occasional gleaming threads of water. In the far distance the green of the forest faded away into the blue of tropical haze. It was utterly silent except for the tinkle of bridles and bits and the occasional snatches of wind that sung and stabbed like giant insects.

“A cigarette?” suggested Gabar.

“Thank you, my son.”

“And a pisco, perhaps?”

“With pleasure. I have not eaten nor drunk since morning.”

Gabar stood up to fetch a bottle from the mule's pack. The full realization of their position came to him when he found that he could not get at the straps. The inner pack was jammed against the rock, and the mule refused to be forced any closer to the edge. The outer pack could be reached by pushing the mule's head to the rock and standing alongside its neck. But it was by no means a healthy position. One's life depended on the uncertain patience of the mule.

“It seems we must go thirsty, padre,” said Gabar unconcernedly.

He pulled his heavy poncho over his head and wrapped himself in its folds before sitting down again. He looked perfectly prepared to spend the night where he was, and thus in the master position for any bargaining there might be. Both knew that the only solution was for one of them to sacrifice his mule. But neither was yet ready to admit it. There was no hurry.

“How is it you are alone, padre?” asked Gabar.

“I hired my guide only as far as the Inambari, Don Manuel. He was a Montaña man and did not wish to climb to the altiplano.”

“And the animals are yours?”

“They belong to the Church, Don Manuel, and were lent to me in Cuzco. I have become very fond of them. This one”—he reached up and stroked the mule's muzzle—“is almost a Christian.”

“This one,” said Gabar, waving a hand at his mule, “has a soul like mine. He eats when there is food and fasts when there is none.”

Don José-Maria also drew on his poncho and made no reply. For half an hour they sat side by side without a word. Finally the priest said reproachfully:—

“You did not blow the horn, Don Manuel.”

“I did not blow the horn,” Gabar agreed, stating it as a matter of fact, without a shade of guilt or regret in his voice. “Shall I roll you another cigarette?”

“Thank you, Don Manuel. You are very courteous.”

José-Maria preserved silence till he had smoked it. Then he murmured:—

“It is a shame you are not a Christian.”

“Why?”

“Because—” José-Maria hesitated, feeling that he had been forced on to dangerous ground—“because you would give way to a priest.”

“Equally I might cut his throat,” said Gabar, “and give him a little push and a little push to each of his animals. There are plenty of Christians who would do so.”

“But you would not,” answered José-Maria calmly.

“You are right. Instead of that I shall offer to buy your mule.”

“It is not mine to sell. It belongs to the Church.”

“Then give the money to the Church.”

“I have no authority, Don Manuel. And I love this mule like a son. You must give way to me, for you did not blow the horn. Kill your own mule.”

“I will not. I should lose half my goods with him. You saw for yourself that I could not get the pack off. Sell me your mule and name your price.”

“No, my son. God will decide between us.”

The pack animals pawed and fussed impatiently. The sun had passed westwards over the brow of the mountain and it was turning cold. Gabar got up and endeavored to force his mule back along the path, though he knew it was a hopeless task. The mule backed three yards willingly, two resentfully, put down a hind leg in space, reared, and refused to budge. Gabar sat down again, and rolled some more cigarettes.

“Reverend padre,” he said, “when I was at school the priests taught me that Christians should sacrifice themselves.”

Don José-Maria groaned.

“So I have said to myself for two hours past. But I find that I am not a saint.”

“I will pay well for your mule,” Gabar repeated. “To you or to the Church, as you wish.”

“Well, perhaps I will let you buy him. But, Don Manuel, all I possess is in that trunk. All I have ever possessed. You must get it off first.”

“I doubt if I can.”

“Then—nothing!”

“I will see,” said Gabar.

He edged past José-Maria and seized the mule by the bridle. He had to brace one leg firmly against the rock in order to send mule and trunk over the precipice, and the movement was enough to show José-Maria his intention. The priest with astonishing swiftness snatched his other leg from under him, leaving him hanging to the mule's neck for support.

“Do not fear! I have you fast, Don Manuel,” he said quickly. “But you must not throw my trunk over!”

“Let me go!” yelled Gabar. “I swear I will not!”

“It is well,” said the priest, allowing him to recover his balance. “And now stand aside and let me unrope the trunk!”

“You can't, priest of the devil!” exclaimed Gabar. “It's suicide.”

“At least I will try,” José-Maria answered. “I am in my own country now, Don Manuel. I shall do what I like!”

He stood on the foot of ground between the mule's neck and empty air, holding the bridle with his right hand and casting off the lashings with his left. The trunk slipped downwards and outwards, supported only by the prominence of José-Maria's stomach. Gabar caught his bridle hand and hung on.

“Everything is lost,” said José-Maria mildly, resigning himself to the inevitable. “If I move, it will fall.
Bueno!
Then we will be content to save what is not mine. Hold me fast, Don Manuel!”

Gabar, amazed at his obstinacy, tautened his grip on the priest's right hand. With his left, José-Maria felt for the catch, opened the trunk, and extracted a flat cardboard box marked with the name of a Buenos Aires department store. As soon as he stepped back, the trunk slid off the mule's back, hit the edge of the path with one corner, and vanished into space. José-Maria sadly leaned over the cliff to watch the funeral of all his transportable possessions. Long before the trunk reached the distant tree-line there was left no part of it large enough to follow with the eyes.

“After all, you are a saint, padre,” said Gabar consolingly.

“I do not want flattery, my son—especially from you who would not know a saint if he stood before you in the very robes of heaven. We will now speak of the price of my mule. How much is it worth in Cuzco?”