Canaan's Tongue Read Online Free PDF

suspended. “What rank?”
    I hesitated a moment. “Prelate.”
    The Redeemer sat forward and whistled. “A
prelate
! Tidy house and garden attached to
that,
if I’m not mistaken.” He regarded me narrowly. “Am I mistaken?”
    “You are not.”
    He smiled at me. “Not much of a talker, are you, Kansas.”
    I shook my head, trying not to redden.
    “I assume that’s
your
church, then? Methodist?”
    I’d been expecting this question—been looking forward to it, in fact—and drew myself up with my best attempt at dignity. “I belong to
no
church, sir. I am a student of Spinoza and Descartes.”
    To my chagrin this entertained him mightily. “A
rationalist
! Well, I’ll be dipped in butter!” He studied me even more intently than before—: some new thought seemed to have crept into his mind. “A firm believer in
God-in-man,
then, I suppose?”
    “I am a believer, sir, in the scientific method.” I straightened in my seat, painfully aware of my sack-cloth shirt and britches.
    His gaze, if possible, grew even keener. “And nothing else besides?”
    “Nothing, sir. I consider myself a scholar.”
    “Been away from your books for some time, by the look of you.”
    I took a sip of whiskey. “Six years.”
    “Had much luck, have you, in that time? Got your little pile together?”
    I spread my arms. “You see before you, sir, the whole of my estate.”
    He clucked his tongue and nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me, Kansas. The teachings of Descartes are well and good for the
old
country—; but here they just don’t churn the butter. This nation was founded on belief—credulity pure and simple—just as the great French Republic was founded on skepticism. Faith, whatever clothes you put it in, is the corner-stone of our Union. You’re an American, sirrah—; not an Egyptian or a Swede. Without an understanding of belief—without a
sympathy
for it, a talent for it—you will never make your penny.” He shook his head. “No, my friend! The Enlightenment is not for us.”
    “Evidently,” I said faintly.
    The Redeemer held up a hand. “Not because it isn’t
interesting
—; don’t get peevish. I’m sure it’s a rare delight, this rationalism of yours. It’s just not useful—; not to me.” He leaned forward till his chin rested on the table. His voice, already mellow with drink, dropped to a satisfied whisper. “
Belief,
contrary-wise, is. Belief flows through this country like a river. There’s not a thing to match it. Compared to belief, Kansas, the Mississippi is a trickle down a pant-leg.”
    I smiled at this—; how could I help but smile? The Redeemer’s face, however, showed no hint of its earlier mischief. I took a careful sip of rye.
    “That’s all it’s ever been to me,” I said.
    He sat back on his bench and nodded, a nod that carried over at some point to a slight, nervous bobbing of the head. “Tell me something else, prelate’s boy,” he said after a time. He raised a finger tentatively, almost shyly, and pointed at my left eye. “Was it Papa knocked that eye-ball of yours crooked?” He took my cup from me and refilled it. “Was he no follower of Descartes?”
    This question, so simple and direct, made the floor shift subtly beneath my feet. I’d gone so long without thinking about my father that even his face had grown vague to me—; I hoped, one day, to forget it altogether. The Redeemer had asked the history of my eye, however, and I was helpless to refuse him. It took three cups more for me to tell it—; when at last I did, the words had a dry, uncertain sound, as though the years had leached the meaning out of them.
    “My father endeavored—to corrupt me, you might say. I refused to be corrupted.”
    “
Corrupt
you?” the bar-keeper said, leaning brazenly over the bar to gawk at me. “Come at you, did he? Come at you with his stiff little Muh!—Muh!—Methodist—”
    “I was born a doubter,” I said quickly. “I had no use for my father’s