Little children come bringing loaves to place at the feet of St. Dominic, who stands benignly in the silver and green shadowland of his bower in the village street. He seems to be listening to something. He is altogether remote from this time. He is thinking of something else, trying to remember something. But be that so or no, little loaves have been placed in front of him, and outside the shrine in an astonishing frenzy the dance goes on.
The beautiful Indian girls, so young, so dark and jewel-like, lift all their naked feet in perfect time, in a hypnotic time, and balance their bodies, balance to the rhythm of the great dance with half-closed eyes.
The Rio Grande, away below, rolls on in red waves from Colorado to the sea. The clouds that are above are merely messengers, fleet-footed Mercuries whose message is not to be delivered here.
And yet, what is that which is forming away to the North; surely a thundercloud. The mountains have stopped the clouds. It is raining. The clouds are broadening and enveloping.
"Ukky-ukky-you-you," the old men clamor, and point back to their crops. "Ukky-ukky-yah-yah" don't stop for a moment, "ukky-ukky-yum-yum."
The Koshare become the spirits of the storm, making the most astonishing leaps, and crying out and pulling the rain out of the heavens toward them. The ardor of the dance redoubles and there is no rest. And the heat, as of an oven, is not tempered by the breeze. Suddenly glimmering white ribbons are pulled through the clouds and it is lightning, a sign at least that the prayers are being heard.
These people know how to pray for rain. No idle "May it please Thee, O Lord" sitting on plush, but a terrific dynamic appeal by one force in nature to another. What wonder if year after year the Santo Domingo dance brings rain!
But what a drama! It rakes one's soul. You are torn by it. Will it rain, will it rain? See the dance, see the clouds approaching, see the old men, see the waving fields of green flowering corn, see the maidens like jewels, see the young men like princes, see the dreadful and marvelous Koshare all gray and stove-black with masklike faces, grimacing and simpering and yet somehow compelling! See the emblems of Christ, see the Church, see the Kiva, white magic and black magic, altogether, all toned up, all compelling, throb-throb-throb, dum-dum-dum, ukky-yah-yah, ukky-ukky-you-you!
Ah it comes, yes, a spot, a wind-carried token of a storm somewhere else, a black tooth-mark in the pueblo dust. See the Koshare drop to it, lick it up with their tongues, dust and all, and cry, "More, more, all hands to the sky, all hands to the earth, ukky-ukky-you-you, ukky-ukky-yah-yah!"
But it does not rain. It rains all around; it will rain. Cool airs creep in. The dance ends at last, and all who danced in it are exhausted. Candles on long poles are lit. St. Dominic is raised again, and he and the little gold dog are borne away to the church.