Green branches and dry rattles carried by the koshare. They walked slowly, now that their work was done, towards the kiva. Beyond the houses they came into sight again, climbing the hard white steps to the roof, pausing against that green sky as they started down the ladder into the round little house. Red shirts and blue shirts followed with the drums, and a low singing went with them.
“But as Gwen says,” Lucy finished, “there are times when Isobel is so vague that God knows what really did happen. She’ll never tell the real story.”
Mary stood up and put her glasses back into her bag.
“I’ll never forget it,” she said. “A most beautiful picture. Absolutely inspiring.”
CHAPTER SIX
Again evening had overtaken Santa Fé before anything happened. Every morning Blake woke with a furious desire to get out of the house and down to town, so that he would not miss anything. He never knew what it was that he expected, and day after day developed into the same uneventful solar round. Nevertheless every morning brought with it a tense expectation, a silent waiting.
Tonight he wondered fretfully why the fever was not allayed. It had been a full day, exciting and tiring. The whole town was tired. The drums were still beating in his ears: when he closed his eyes he tried to see the rows of stamping people and the waving branches: but instead he kept thinking of the crowds that filled the village plaza; old ladies in felt hats sitting on the roofs, their fat legs dangling over, their fat hands waving to other old ladies on the opposite roofs....
“Missing so much and so much,” he murmured, and felt a little revenged.
And the keen young people so greatly to be envied, who knew everything—hatless, collar-less, sparsely bearded young men with folded arms and languid looks; wispy, eager young women; officious, anxious, sweating couriers in jangling silver. And the broad khaki backs of the motor tourists. Around and between them the frantic, shocking, stunning leaps of the ghost-men appearing through the gaps. The drumming in his ears; he was shaken and irritated and cheated: he wanted to cry.
“But our lot crawls between dry ribs to keep its metaphysics warm.” Did that have anything to do with it? “Always the appropriate thing.” In a gust of fury he kicked a pebble far up the pavement, spinning and skipping.