The Delicate Prey Read Online Free PDF

the dialect was not equal to this sort of situation, the pastor wisely decided to begin again. “Hachakyum made the world. Is that true?”
    Nicolás nodded in agreement, and squatted down at the pastor’s feet, looking up at him, his eyes narrowed against the sun.
    â€œHachakyum made the sky,” the pastor began to point, “the mountains, the trees, those people there. Is that true?”
    Again Nicolás assented.
    â€œHachakyum is good. Hachakyum made you. True?” Pastor Dowe sat down again on the stump.
    Nicolás spoke finally, “All that you say is true.”
    The pastor permitted himself a pleased smile and went on. “Hachakyum made everything and everyone because He is mighty and good.”
    Nicolás frowned. “No!” he cried. “That is not true! Hachakyum did not make everyone. He did not make you. He did not make guns or Don Jesucristo. Many things He did not make!”
    The pastor shut his eyes a moment, seeking strength. “Good,” he said at last in a patient voice. “Who made the other things? Who made me? Please tell me.”
    Nicolas did not hesitate. “Metzabok.”
    â€œBut who is Metzabok?” cried the pastor, letting an outraged note show in his voice. The word for God he had always known only as Hachakyum.
    â€œMetzabok makes all the things that do not belong here,” said Nicolás.
    The pastor rose, took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “You hate me,” he said, looking down at the Indian. The word was too strong, but he did not know how to say it any other way.
    Nicolás stood up quickly and touched the pastor’s arm with’ his hand.
    â€œNo. That is not true. You are a good man. Everyone likes you.”
    Pastor Dowe backed away in spite of himself. The touch of the brown hand was vaguely distasteful to him. He looked beseechingly into the Indian’s face and said, “But Hachakyum did not make me?”
    â€œNo.”
    There was a long pause.
    â€œWill you come next time to my house and hear me speak?”
    Nicolás looked uncomfortable.
    â€œEveryone has work to do,” he said.
    â€œMateo says you want music,” began the pastor.
    Nicolás shrugged. “To me it is not important. But the others will come if you have music. Yes, that is true. They like music.”
    â€œBut what music?” cried the pastor in desperation.
    â€œThey say you have a bitrola.”
    The pastor looked away, thinking: “There is no way to keep anything from these people.” Along with all his other house-hold goods and the things left behind by his wife when she died, he had brought a little portable phonograph. It was somewhere in the storeroom piled with the empty valises and cold-weather garments.
    â€œTell them I will play the bitrola,” he said, going out the gate.
    The little girl ran after him and stood watching him as he walked up the road.
    On his way through the village the pastor was troubled by the reflection that he was wholly alone in this distant place, alone in his struggle to bring the truth to its people. He consoled himself by recalling that it is only in each man’s own consciousness that the isolation exists; objectively man is always a part of something.
    When he arrived home he sent Mateo to the storeroom to look for the portable phonograph. After a time the boy brought it out, dusted it and stood by while the pastor opened the case. The crank was inside. He took it out and wound the spring. There were a few records in the compartment at the top. The first he examined were “Let’s Do It,” “Crazy Rhythm,” and “Strike up the Band,” none of which Pastor Dowe considered proper accompaniments to his sermons. He looked further. There was a recording of A1 Jolson singing “Sonny Boy” and a cracked copy of “She’s Funny That Way.” As he looked at the labels he remembered how the music on