At Play in the Fields of the Lord (2 page)

She reached and patted Martin on his breast pocket and turned away from him, aware that he still gazed at her.
“Oh, that airplane scared me so,” she said, not looking at him.

She was ashamed of noticing his ugliness.
Yes, she instructed herself, we are surely entering the realm of Satan; we must prepare every defense; we must … Why, take Madre de Dios!
Just imagine giving such a name to
any
place!
That’s those Catholics for you!
Billy had told all his friends in school that he was off to Mother of God.
Martin had laughed, but suppose some Catholic had come along and changed the name of Chippewa Flats to Mother of God, North Dakota?

Despite herself, this idea made her giggle.
Well, it isn’t funny, Hazel Quarrier; no, it isn’t.
Frowning, she spanked and tugged her skirt, as if to prepare it against foreign matter.

Now young Mr.
Huben had taken her husband by the elbow and led him off; she followed them promptly, clutching Billy by the hand, and behind them came several desperadoes in old pajamas, carrying the luggage.
The little priest trailed the party, an amused expression on his face, his hands folded behind his back.
Every few minutes Hazel turned and frowned, to show these men that she was on to them and that any attempt to rifle a bag, much less make off with it, would be dealt with harshly.
But the halfbreeds were not laughing or conniving; padding hurriedly on their bare feet, they looked less murderous than thin and tired.

Ahead of her, the sweat stains grew under the arms of Martin’s jacket; typically, he had forgotten his summer suit and wore the Sunday serge of his own climate.
Beside him, Leslie Huben walked with springy step; she regarded the man’s abbreviated garb, his long bare legs, with mixed emotions.
The God-given beauty of Leslie Huben made her feel defensive about Martin; she was not certain how she should react to Huben’s “modernism,” to the brown legs and hula-hula shirt.

In the New Fields Mission, this young man was already a legend.
A former star in college basketball, he had been called from a lucrative job in the real-estate and insurance business to emulate St.
Paul:
“Be ye followers of me,”
he had told the Tiro Indians,
“even as I also am of Christ.”
This moving event had been described in his first letter to
Mission Fields
, the monthly publication of the New Fields Mission.
He became a regular contributor, and his fervent accounts of the dark jungle won high praise.
Soon he announced his intention of carrying the Word to the savage Niaruna.
“I am enjoying the profits of a business deal I entered into with the Lord,” he wrote in the May issue.
“Invest to Gain.
The Lord has impressed upon Andy and the Undersigned the command to Go.”
Andy was Huben’s pretty wife, by far the prettiest face in the pages of the magazine, and there were those faint hearts among the readership at home who wanted to stay Leslie and Andy from trying to contact this fiercest of all peoples in the jungle.
Mission Fields
exhorted its readers: “Pray much for Leslie and Andy Huben in their brave efforts to call the Niaruna unto the communion of Jesus Christ.
Let your hearts be with this young couple in Jesus, for a greater harvest of souls in the days ahead.”
In the August issue Huben thanked his sponsors for their prayers: “The Lord has surely opened up this work: our Uyuyu has renounced his contact with the darkness and corruption of the Opposition, and
this very day
has led a band of Niaruna to our door!
We have thrilled to see this fellow Uyuyu grow so rapidly in the Lord …”

Despite Huben’s modest tone, it was quite clear that he had not only contacted the Niaruna but had administered a stinging
defeat to the Forces of Rome.
Funds were found almost immediately to sponsor another missionary pair to help him; as Huben wrote gratefully at Christmas, “A tremendous outward evidence of the Lord’s working things out to open the doors to this tribe was the sending of the Mart Quarrier Family.
The day that we meet this fine Christian couple at the jungle airstrip will surely be a glad, glad day for Jesus!”

Peering about her at the scraggy lots walled in by jungle—why, it was just like living in a hole!—Hazel recalled with slight discomfort this first mention of themselves in print.
She was glad of Martin’s opportunity to work with such a man, yet afraid that Leslie Huben might not understand him.
Martin’s history of failure was as notable as Huben’s swift success—suppose this little Mrs.
Huben gave herself airs?
It would be too mortifying!
And all the worse because Martin was a missionary son of missionaries, an honors graduate of Moody Bible, and Leslie’s senior in experience by many years.
Despite his record, he was generous and industrious and very bright—perhaps
too
bright; could that have been the trouble?—and it did not seem fair that he had been transferred after ten long years at the Sioux mission, and just when he had shown some progress.
Why, some of those poor people were still called “red niggers” by the ranchers, and had been living in junked automobiles when Martin got there!

Well, the Indians had been ungrateful when it came time for conversions, that’s all there was to it.
They were like all reservation Indians, as people said—too proud to work and too proud to take.
Leslie Huben would have done no better.

Although the morning was still new, the heat had settled for the day, a humid breathless heat that seeped from the green walls, from the pale mists.
That plane trip had exhausted her.
As they neared the village outskirts, her nostrils were assailed by drastic odors: the redolence of tropic plants which filled the yards: sweet whiffs of pig dung, garbage and strange cooking; the reek of stale water and excrement from weedy ditches; and an overlying pall that smelled like vomit, which Leslie said came from the sawmills on the river.

Billy had fallen far behind, attended by dirty-looking children and a yellow dog beset by mange.
The children tugged at Billy’s shirt, saying,
“Ay, gringuito—qué tal?
S-ss-t!
Gringuito!”
Fearing nameless infections, she wanted to slap them away, but Billy accepted their attentions cheerfully.
Billy said, “You kids ever seen any Niarunas?”
and they jeered at him, mimicking: “Yoo kit ever sin Aniaruna?”
Billy laughed with the children, though soon he came running and took her hand, smiling up at her in a bewilderment that wrung her heart—how could they have brought a child to such a place!
But a moment later he was cheerful once again.
“Ma, did you like Father Xantes too?
I think the father is a very interesting person.”
She did not bother to point out that the interesting person, who was still trailing them, had not opened his mouth in front of Billy except to pronounce his name.

The children ran to alert the streets, but the dog still followed her and Billy.
He announced that he had named the dog New Walter, in honor of a friend in North Dakota named Walter Hubbell.
Then Billy ran off into an alley, followed by the dog; the animal dodged a kick or two and caught a third.
She hated the cheerful cruelty in the faces, the laughter as the dog, legs tangling in its haste to round the corner, fell on its chest and yelped.
She hurried after Billy, hoping that Martin would see them disappear and wait for her.

By a small fire, three Indian women in coarse blouses of soiled cotton, black wrap-around skirts, nose ornaments and ankle thongs were cooking some sort of mealy cakes laid on the embers.
They were attended by two men in ragged store clothes.
One of these men, very drunk, was lying on his side, his head clutched between his hands, while his companion, swaying weakly, was urinating on the ground just behind the women.
The women paid no attention to either one; they gazed impassively at the child and at the large white woman following him.

“Niarunas!”
Billy said.
“See them?
Niarunas!”

A townsman, passing, laughed contemptuously.
“Niarunas!”
he said to Hazel.
“No son Niarunas!
Son indios mansos, son Mintipos.”
This halfbreed was drunk also; he leaned over Billy, shouting,
“Ay, chico?
No son Niarunas, entiendes?
Los Niarunas son salvajes, indios bravos.
Éstos”
—he pointed—
“son indios mansos.”

The Mintipo man turned the arc of his urine in a slow circle, and regarded the halfbreed with a grin of fear and anger.
His face was swollen and his eyes yellow.
Thickly he said,
“Y tú?
Mestizo.”
Almost falling, he gestured violently at the gathering onlookers, while his women stared into the fire and his fallen friend clutched his head still tighter and drew his knees up toward his chest.
“Caballeros,”
he jeered.
“
Caballeros mestizos
.”
He pointed at the dog.
“
Otro mestizo
,” he said.
When he clutched at his crotch and shook it, Hazel dragged Billy away, and the people laughed, not at the Mintipo man but at the gringos.

“Dead drunk!
And at this hour of the morning!”
Hazel Quarrier exclaimed; she felt slapped across the face.
But her remark struck her as silly and scared—not that she would have described herself as “sensible and effectual and courageous,” yet she knew she was regarded in this way by those who knew her on her own home grounds, where good sense and diligence and moral courage meant something.
In this place such qualities must be totally unfamiliar, much less effective.

“What does
mestizo
mean?”
Billy asked her.
“That Indian guy called Walter a
mestizo
.”

“I suppose he meant ‘mongrel,’ ” Hazel said.
“Now come along.”

Billy looked down at the dog with new interest.
“He’s a real mongrel?”
he said.
He fell to his knees to pat the dog, which shied sideways.
“C’mere, Walter,” Billy said.
“I thought you were an Indian dog.
I never even
heard
of mongrels.”
When the dog came up on its belly, whining, and Billy pressed his face to it, Hazel yanked him to his feet—what could she be thinking of, letting the child play in this filthy street, with vultures and pigs and diseased dogs!
In a place like this, for all she knew, human
beings could catch hog cholera.
She would have to be constantly on guard.
When Billy clutched at Walter, she drove the dog off with her foot.

At the mouth of the alley the little priest watched over them discreetly, his arms folded behind his back.

She had not recovered when, at the next corner, they were accosted by a bearded man with huge dark glasses and a gold earring; he had a henchman in attendance, and like everyone else in this awful place, he was intoxicated.
At the sight of Billy his beard cracked wide in a leering grin; lurching backward, he raised his arms.
“C’mere!”
he said, and Billy, churning forward, hurled himself onto the man’s chest, crying, “You want to look at Walter?
This is my dog Walter!”
The man tossed him up into the air, laughing insanely.
“Wall-ter,” the man babbled, “Wall-ter!
This is beautiful, man!
So how’s wit’ you, Stud?
How’s things in the old U.S.
and A.?”

Hazel did not realize at first that the man was talking English.
She was tempted to declare aloud, Some people don’t care
how
they go about the streets!
And if the ruffian responded rudely, as he must, she would then say, And you call yourself an American!
Humph!
The idea of saying things like this amused her and she looked forward to the exchange, but just then the man’s companion said something she did not catch.
The bearded one lowered Billy to the ground, eying her the while in an evil and suggestive manner.

“Oh yeah,” he nodded.
“The God Squad, huh?”
He had his hand on Billy’s shoulder; when Billy retreated toward his mother, the hand fell disgustedly to his side.

“You’re a very rude man,” Hazel said.
“And you call yourself an American!
Humph!”
But as she passed, her eye was caught by the face of the other man; though his face was calm, his cold eyes chilled her to the soul.
Even worse, he had sniffed out her private joke and—why, look at that—he was winking at her!