[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Misti. But there was no time to break down shyness, or even to speak.
The boy was scooping brine from the holes the men dug when Cusi went by him, packed with salt to take the home- ward
trail. The boy looked up, and his eyes met Cusi's. They were not Indian eyes; they were Spanish- eyes. He could not talk with
me even if there was time, Cusi thought. He would not know my Indian language. Never in my whole life have I talked with a
boy, Cusi thought with despair. He looked back once, but the boy was bent over the salt hole, dipping salt brine.
It was night again when they arrived at Condor Kuncca, the Indian shelter. Cusi had thought that surely this time he could
make friends with the small children there. But they were asleep. In a clay bed not much larger than a shelf they were rolled
in little knots, noisily sleeping. Cusi looked at them. How cunning they were, and little and brown. Brothers and sisters!
Family!
The boy slept again near the Llama corral while Chuto and the other men talked.
Early next morning they were far along the trail before the sun rose and Chuto put down his pack to greet it with his ancient
prayer.
The way home was uneventful. There was no one at all at the hut where the woman had been threshing pigweed. The place
had a lonely, unfriendly look. Cusi was glad when Chuto did not stop.
It was mid afternoon when they reached the place of the tree-tied ladder. Cusi was surprised when Chuto put down his pack
and prepared to stay. The boy had thought that if they hurried they could be home not too long after dark. He could see Misti,
and yellow-Ears and the rest of the flock. He could hear Suncca whine. He could tell the minstrel all the things that had
happened on the journey. He could be home for the night. Now that he was so close he wanted to go on, to be really home
again.
Chuto said, "No," and then to the boy's look of disappointment added, "The swinging bridge needs not the shadows of
evening but the brightness of day for its crossing."
Cusi was not pleased. He set his pack down with a thud. He sat himself down and wound his arms around his knees and tried
to see around the cliff and along the trail and over the rapids to home.
Home. What a wonderful place it was. He would never leave it again, or if he did it would be for a short time only.
Chuto sighed. "Is your heart going back over the trail your feet have traveled?" he asked tiredly.
Cusi shook his head. "That way," he said, pointing his lips on the way toward home. Chuto laughed, and his laughter held the
precious tones of gladness.
9. AMAUTA COMES
After a week of being home again Cusi had difficulty in making himself believe he had ever been outside Hidden Valley. He
would sit in the meadow watching his hock to see that no harm came, to them and drink over and over and over all that had
happened lately. He would put the things in order carefully: the family coming to the valley below, the minstrel coming,
walking the swinging bridge over the roaring rapids, climbing the ladder across the cliff face, crawling through the narrow
dark tunnel, the jungle trail, the family at Condor Kuncca, the Inca Baths, the Salt Pit, and all that he had seen and heard
while he was there.
He strung them along on a string of thinking, each happening a knot on the string, each knot a memory.
He remembered so vividly. He remembered every movement, every color, every feeling, and every sound. But it was a dream
remembered. It must not have happened. It could not have happened. It was a part of a world that never was.
Cusi would come up from the depths of his dreaming to look around. He saw the mountains crowded close together to hide,
to guard his valley. He saw the pointed snow peaks above the ragged clouds. He saw the snow fields, their white flatness
sparkling with iridescent lights. He saw the clusters of stunted, misshapen trees and the sharp, out jutting boulders. He saw
the stone corral and the grass-thatched roof of his shelter. He saw the moss-green ychu grass and the Llamas grazing.
This was reality. This was fact. This was the world he lived in. These were the things he could touch and smell. These were
the things he could hear and see. These were the things that were real.
Only in memory could he see the foaming rapids tossing their crystal spray. Only in memory could he smell the heavy rich
earth mold smell of the jungle trail. Only in memory could he hear the minstrel's song and the pipes of Pan.
Cusi sighed. More than anything he missed the minstrel. It was so sadly silent now that he had gone. Chuto was quiet these
days. He was kind. He was patient. He was always near to show and to help, but he tailed so little. Did Chuto miss the world
outside of Hidden Valley? Did he miss the minstrel's song? Cusi asked himself these questions, but only the whining of the
timid Suncca and the humming of the Llamas answered him.
Soon it was shearing time. The boy was glad of the activity. He was glad for something to do. He was glad of the roughness
and the toughness of the world each day and the tiredness of his body as he crawled to sleep each night.
The two Indians worked from gray dawn to gray dusk. It takes two to shear a Llama. Llamas resent being sheared. Chuto
would throw, then hold, a Llama flat on its side. Cusi's work was to cut short, but not too short, the matted, coarse outside
hair and the long silky hair next to the llama's body. The boy used an old-fashioned shepherd's knife, and it was very dull. He
had to stop often to whet it on nearby stones. Then he had to cut faster than ever because Chuto could not hold the Llama
down for long. One side sheared Cusi and Chuto would turn the Llama over. Cusi would sharpen his knife and shear some
more. Then another Llama would be caught and thrown and sheared, and another and another.
Sometimes while he was shearing Cusi would have time to look at the animal he was working on. He would look at it with
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]