Read Online At Play in the Fields of the Lord by Peter Matthiessen - Free Book Online

the savages behind those trees—how much faith will you have then?”
    “In God?”
    “In your own faith.”
    The missionary began to speak; he faltered and stopped short.
    “I’ll bet you’ve asked yourself that very thing quite a few times. Let me ask you something else. Did you earn your faith, or were you stuffed with it, like a big turkey?”
    “My faith is a question I’ll have to work out without your help.” The man got slowly to his feet. “I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Moon, but I see it’s impossible. Perhaps you could tell me where I could find your partner.”
    Moon picked up his glass and drank. “You want to see Wolfie, you’ll find him at the cat house. Only he hates being interrupted while he’s in the saddle, so while you’re waiting you can screw one of the pigs.” He finished his drink and stood up. The serenity in the missionary’s face incensed him; yet he wondered if he really knew what he was angry at. Was it the distemper he felt whenever he had talked too much, or was it only that flat ugly voice of Western white America that to this day he could not hear without a twitch of shame and hatred?
    One time, drunk, he had taunted his father for volunteering as a soldier in World War I, taunted him as a mongrel white. Alvin Moon had whipped him so badly that he had finally drawn a knife. They were in a saloon, the first and last time they ever had money enough to get drunk together. Alvin Moon told him to put down the knife, and he had done so without blustering. They returned to their bar stools and went right on drinking. After a while, when the onlookers had gone, Alvin Moon said, “That meanness.” He had it all thought out. “You tote that there meanness around with you just like you tote that big heavy old-time war knife that the old men give you. There ain’t no real use for a knife like that no more.”
    To the missionary he said, “South Dakota? Or Nebraska? New Tribes Mission? Far Tribes Mission? Or S.I.L.?”
    “North Dakota. Far Tribes Mission.” He paused. “Well, Mr. Moon—”
    “Lewis Moon.” He gave his hand.
    “My name is Martin Quarrier.”
    “Well, Martin, you got the call, is that right?” He closed his eyes, resting his face in his hands. “Care for some
ayahuasca?
”
    “If that stuff’s
ayahuasca
, you better be careful. That’s a poisonous narcotic drug. The Indians call it nipi. Why, it gives you hallucinations! It can kill you!”
    “That’s right,” Moon said. “Care to try some?” He sat back, stretched his arms, and sighed. Without bringing his arms down he opened his eyes and looked at Quarrier. “What can I do for you?” he said.
    “I’ve heard what you men are going to do. I hoped you would tell me it’s not true.”
    “To tell a lie,” Moon told him, “is a sin.”
    Quarrier’s laugh, though genuine, trailed off into a squawk of desperation. Moon laughed too, in drunken glee. “This Indian, Uyuyu—Is it true that he’s working both sides of the street? I mean, I was talking to the padre. Uyuyu’s a Protestant
and
a Catholic, isn’t he?”
    “Do you mean that Indian who was just here? The one we call Yoyo?”
    “Yeah—Yoyo.” Moon laughed softly, steadily. “That’s beautiful.”
    “Yes, he’s been both.”
    “What is he now, a Seventh-Day Adventist? A Jew, maybe?” Moon frowned. “Forget it, man.” He waved Quarrier off, or rather, Quarrier’s expression. The steady stupid honesty of the man’s face annoyed him; he felt somehow exposed. “Yoyo,” he muttered. “That’s beautiful. Who thought of that?”
    “Andy—Mrs. Huben. Leslie’s wife.”
    “Oh yeah, the one who sympathizes with my position. So that’s Leslie’s, huh? The pretty one.”
    Quarrier nodded, flushing.
    “Yours is the big girl, with black hair.”
    “Yes.”
    “You think Leslie’s little wife is pretty, too, I bet.” He studied Quarrier, then made a guess. “You think you’re in love with Leslie’s wife, is that