Gerald Kersh - The Best of Gerald Kersh

A priest came out to greet me. He radiated benevolence when he saw that I was wearing a complete suit of clothes, a watch-chain, and boots, however down at heel. In reply to his polite inquiry as to what he could do for me, I said: ‘Why, padre, you can direct me out of this charming village of yours, if you will.’ Knowing that nothing is to be got without ready cash, I gave him half a dollar, saying: ‘For the poor of your parish – if there are any poor in so delightful a place. If not, burn a few candles for those who have recently died of want. Meanwhile, if you will be so good as to direct me to some place where I can find something to eat and drink, I shall be infinitely obliged.’

‘Diego’s widow is clean and obliging,’ said he, looking at my coin. Then: ‘You are an American?’

‘I have that honour.’

‘Then you will, indeed, be well advised to move away from here as soon as you have refreshed yourself, because there is a rumour that Zapata is coming – or it may be Villa – what do I know?’

‘Presumably, the secrets of the Infinite, padre, judging by your cassock. Certainly,’ I said, ‘the secrets of Oxoxoco. Now, may I eat and drink and go on my way?’

‘I will take you to Diego’s widow,’ said he, with a sigh. ‘Up there,’ said he, pointing to the mountain slope, ‘you will certainly be safe from Villa, Zapata, and any other men in these parts. No one will go where I am pointing, señor – not the bravest of the brave. They are a superstitious people, my people.’

‘Not being superstitious yourself, padre, no doubt you have travelled that path yourself?’

Crossing himself, he said: ‘Heaven forbid!’ and hastily added: ‘But you cannot go on foot, señor ?’

‘I’d rather not, padre. But how else should I go?’

His eyes grew bright as he replied: ‘As luck will have it, Diego’s widow has a burro to sell, and he knows the way anywhere. Come with me and I will take you to Diego’s widow. She is a virtuous woman, and lives two paces from here.’

The sun seemed to flare like oil, and at every step we were beset by clouds of flies which appeared not to bother the good priest who seemed inordinately concerned with my welfare. His ‘two paces’ were more like a thousand, and all the way he catechized me, only partly inspired (I believe) by personal curiosity.

‘ Señor , why do you want to go up there ? True, you will be safe from bad men. But there are other dangers, of which Man is the least.’

‘If you mean snakes, or what not——’ I began.

‘– Oh no,’ said he, ‘up there is too high for the reptiles and the cats. I see, in any case, that you carry a pistol and a gun. Oh, you will see enough snakes and cats when you pass through the Oxoxoco jungle on your way. That, too, is dangerous; it is unfit for human habitation.’

‘Padre,’ said I, ‘I have lived in London.’

Without getting the gist or the point of this, he persisted: ‘It is my duty to warn you, señor – it is very bad jungle.’

‘Padre, I come from San Francisco.’

‘But señor ! It is not so much the wild beasts as the insects that creep into the eyes, señor, into the ears. They suck blood, they breed fever, they drive men mad——’

‘– Padre, padre, I have been connected with contributors to the popular press!’

‘Beyond the second bend in the river there are still surviving, unbaptized, certain Indians. They murder strangers slowly, over a slow fire, inch by inch——’

‘– Enough, padre; I have been married and have had a family.’

His pace lagged as we approached the house of Diego’s widow, and he asked me: ‘Do you understand the nature of a burro, a donkey?’

‘Padre, I attended the Kentucky Military Institute.’

‘I do not grasp your meaning, but they are perverse animals, bless them. Tell them to advance, and they halt. Urge them forward, they go sideways.’

‘Padre, I was drummer-boy with the Ninth Indiana Infantry.’

‘Ah well, you will have your way. Here is Diego’s widow’s house. She is a good woman.’ And so he led me into a most malodorous darkness, redolent of pigs with an undertone of goat.

The widow of Diego, as the padre had said, was unquestionably a good woman, and a virtuous one. With her looks, how could she have been other than virtuous? She had only three teeth, and was prematurely aged, like all the women hereabout. As for her cleanliness, no doubt she was as clean as it is possible to be in Oxoxoco. A little pig ran between us as we entered. The padre dismissed it with a blessing, and a hard kick, and said: ‘Here is a gentleman, my daughter, who requires refreshment and wants a burro. He is, of course, willing to pay.’

‘There is no need of that,’ said the widow of Diego, holding out a cupped hand. When I put a few small pieces of money into her palm she made them disappear like a prestidigitator, all the while protesting: ‘I could not possibly accept,’ etcetera, and led me to a pallet of rawhide strips where I sat, nursing my aching head.

Soon she brought me a dish of enchiladas and a little bottle of some spirits these people distil, at a certain season, from the cactus. I ate – although I knew that the hot, red pepper could not agree with my asthma; and drank a little, although I was aware that this stuff might be the worst thing in the world for my rheumatism. The flies were so numerous and the air so dense and hot that I felt as one might feel who has been baked in an immense currant bun, without the spice. She gave me a gourd of goat’s milk and, as I drank it, asked me: ‘The señor wants a burro ? I have a burro .’

‘So the reverend father told me,’ said I, ‘and I hear no good of him.’

‘I have never seen such a burro ,’ said she. ‘He is big and beautiful – you will see for yourself – almost as big as a mule, and all white. You can have him for next to nothing. Five silver dollars.’

‘Come now,’ said I, ‘what’s wrong with this animal that has all the virtues in the world and goes for next to nothing? I have lived a very long time in all parts of the world, señora, and one thing I have learned – never trust a bargain. Speak up, what’s the matter with the beast? Is he vicious?’

‘No, señor, he is not vicious, but the good people in Oxoxoco are afraid of him, and nobody will buy him. They called him a ghost burro, because his hair is white and his eyes and nose are red.’

‘In other words, an albino donkey,’ I remarked.

At the unfamiliar word, she crossed herself and continued: ‘… And what need have I for a burro, señor ? A few goats, a pig or two, a little corn – what more do I want? Come, caballero, you may have him for four dollars, with a halter and a blanket thrown in.’

‘Well, let me see this famous burro, widow. I have ridden many a ghost in my time, and have been ridden by them in my turn.’

So she led me to a shady place near-by where stood a large white donkey, or burro as they call them, haltered, still, and seemingly contemplative. ‘Where did you get him?’ I asked.

The question seemed to embarrass her, but she replied: ‘He strayed from up there –’ pointing to the mountain ‘– and since no one has claimed him in three years I have the right to call him mine.’

‘Well,’ said I, ‘I am going up there. No doubt someone will recognise him and claim him, and I’ll be short one donkey. But give me the blanket and the halter, and I will give you three dollars for the lot.’

Diego’s widow agreed readily. I could see what was passing in her mind: the burro was economically valueless, and if Villa broke through, which seemed likely, his commissariat would take the donkey away to carry ammunition or, perhaps, to eat. She could not hide a donkey, but she could hide three dollars. Hence, she produced an old Indian blanket and a rawhide halter. Also, she filled my canteen with water and offered me a stirrup-cup of mescal, and pressed into my pockets some cakes wrapped in leaves. ‘ Vaya con Dios , stranger,’ she said, ‘go with God. When you pass the bend in the river and find yourself in the jungle, look to your rifle. But where the path forks, where the trees get thin, turn left, not right .’ Then she threw over my head a little silver chain, attached to which was a small silver crucifix. I felt somewhat like the man in young Bram Stoker’s Dracula (which might have been an excellent novel if he could have kept up to the quality of the first three or four chapters), but I thanked her, and offered her another dollar which she refused. Perhaps, after all, she really was a good woman, as the priest had said?