Tuesday's Serial: "Ubirajara: lenda tupy" by José de Alencar (in Portuguese) - the end

 

Capítulo IX — A união dos arcos

Os tapuias voltaram, com elles vinha Agniná á frente de sua nação, para vingar a morte de Canicran, seu irmão.

Era grande a multidão dos guerreiros: e maior a tornavam a sanha da vingança e a fama do chefe que a conduzia.

Não eram tantos os tocantins; mas bastaria seu valor para igualal-os, não lhes faltasse a cabeça, que rege o corpo.

A poderosa nação estava como o bando de caitetús que perdeu o pai e desgarra-se pela floresta, correndo sem rumo.

Os mais valentes moacaras, chefes das tribus, esperavam pelo grande chefe da nação, para lhes abrir o caminho da guerra.

Os abarés meditaram. Elles não podiam inventar um guerreiro capaz de succeder a Itaquê; mas não se resignavam a abater a gloria da nação, trocando o arco invencivel do grande Tocantim por outro arco mais leve, que Pojucan manejasse.

Tambem Pojucan annunciára que não podendo brandir o arco de Itaquê, jámais empunharia outro arco chefe, menos glorioso do que o do grande Tocantim.

Abarés, chefes, moacaras, guerreiros, toda a nação se reuniu em torno do heróe cégo.

Daquelle que durante tantas luas defendera a nação com a forca de seu braço e a protegera com o terror de seu nome, esperavam ainda a salvação.

O velho ouviu a voz dos abarés, a voz dos chefes, a voz dos moacaras, a voz dos guerreiros, e disse:

— Itaquê ainda póde combater e morrer por sua nação; mas sem a luz do céo, elle não póde mais abrir a seus filhos o caminho da victoria.

«O braço de Itaquê defendeu sempre a nação tocantim; quer ella ser defendida agora pela palavra daquelle, que não tem mais para dar-lhe sinão a experiência de sua velhice?

«Pensem os abarés, os chefes, os moacaras e os guerreiros».

Guaribú respondeu:

— A nação pensou. Falla e todos obedecerão á tua palavra, como obedeciam ao braço de Itaquê.

— A voz do coração diz ao neto de Tocantim que a gloria da nação que elle gerou não se póde extinguir. O sangue de Itaquê, passando pelo seio de Aracy, se unirá a outro sangue generoso para brotar maior e mais illustre.

«Assim a terra onde nasceu uma floresta, de acajás, recebe o limo do rio e gera nova floresta mais frondosa que a outra.

«Jacamim, chama Aracy, a filha de nossa velhice. E vós abarés, chefes, moacaras e guerreiros, segui-me.»

O velho heróe atravessou a taba guiado por Aracy.

A nação o seguia em silencio.

Quando o guerreiro cégo passava com a mão no hombro da virgem formosa que dirigia o seu passo incerto, os guerreiros lembravam-se do tronco já morto que a rama do maracajú ainda sustenta de pé junto ao penedo.

Os cantores iam adiante; e entoavam um canto de paz.

 

Um mensageiro de Itaquê o precedera no campo dos araguayas.

Ubirajara, cercado de seus abatés, chefes, moacaras e guerreiros, veiu ao encontro do morubixaba dos tocantins.

A alma do grande chefe araguaya encheu-se de alegria de vêr Aracy; mas elle retirou os olhos da esposa, para que o amor não perturbasse a serenidade do varão.

— Ubirajara está em face de Itaquê; para combatel-o si trouxe a guerra; para abraçal-o si trouxe a paz.

— Nunca Itaquê pediu a paz ao inimigo que trouxe-lhe a guerra, antes de o vencer; nem teria vivido tanto para commetter essa fraqueza. Elle vem trazer-te a victoria para que tu a repartas com seu povo.

O velho heróe avançou o passo:

— Chefe dos araguayas, tu levaste a guerra á taba dos tocantins para conquistar Aracy, a filha de minha velhice.

«Por teu heroismo, e ainda mais pela nobreza com que restituiste a liberdade a Pojucan, tu merecias uma esposa do sangue de Tocantim.

«Mas desde que tu ameaçaste tomal-a pela força de teu braço, Itaquê não podia mais conceder-te a filha de sua velhice, sinão depois que abatesse teu orgulho.

«Elle prepara va-se para te combater, e á tua nação; mas fugiu-lhe dos olhos a luz que dirige a setta da guerra; e não ha entre seus guerreiros um que possa brandir o arco do grande Tocantim.»

Quando pronunciou estas palavras, a voz do velho guerreiro sossobrou-lhe no peito:

— O arco de Itaquê é como o gavião que perdeu as azas e não póde mais levar a morte ao inimigo. As andorinhas zombam de suas garras.

«Empunha o arco de Itaquê, chefe dos araguayas e tu conquistarás por teu heroismo uma esposa e uma nação.

«Á esposa farás mãi de cem guerreiros como Itaquê; e á nação conservarás a gloria que ella conquistou quando o filho de Javary a conduzia á guerra.

«Tupan dará a teu braço esta força para que o sangue de Itaquê brote mais vigoroso e os netos de Tocantim dominem as florestas.»

Ubirajara sorriu:

— Chefe dos tocantins, teus olhos não podem ver o grande arco da nação araguaya: mas pergunta á tua mão si o arco que Camacan brandia invencivel e agora empunha Ubirajara cede ao arco de Itaquê.

O velho heróe palpou o arco chefe dos araguayas e vergou-lhe a ponta ao hombro, como si a haste fosse de taquary.

Ubirajara travou do arco de Itaquê e desdenhando fincal-o no chão, elevou-o acima da fronte; flecha ornada de pennas de tocano partiu.

O semblante de Itaquê remoçou, ouvindo o zunido que lhe recordava o tempo de seu vigor. Era assim que elle brandia o arco outr'ora, quando as luas cresciam augmentando a forca de seu braço.

O velho inclinou a fronte para escutar o sibillo de sua flecha que talhava o azul do céo. Os cantores não tinham para elle mais doce harmonia do que essa.

Ubirajara largou o arco de Itaquê para tomar o arco de Camacan. A flecha araguaya também partiu e foi atravessar nos ares a outra que tornava a terra.

As duas settas desceram traspassadas uma pela outra como os braços do guerreiro quando se cruzam ao peito para exprimir a amizade.

Ubirajara apanhou-as no ar:

— Este é o emblema da união. Ubirajara fará a nação tocantim tão poderosa como a nação araguaya. Ambas serão irmãs na gloria e formarão uma só, que ha de ser a grande nação de Ubirajara, senhora dos rios, montes e florestas.

O chefe dos chefes ordenou que três guerreiros araguayas e três guerreiros tocantins ligassem com o fio do crautá as hastes dos dois arcos.

Quando o arco de Camacan e o arco de Itaquê não fizeram mais que um, Ubirajara o empunhou na mão possante e mostrou-o ás nações:

— Abarés, chefes, moacaras e guerreiros de minhas nações, aqui está o arco de Ubirajara, o chefe dos grandes chefes. Suas flechas são gemeas, como as duas nações, e voam juntas.

Ambas as cordas brandiram a um tempo.

A setta araguaya e a setta tocantim partiram de novo como duas aguias que par a par remontam as nuvens.

Quando calou-se a pocema do triumpho, Ubirajara caminhou para a filha de Itaquê:

— Aracy, estrella do dia, tu pertences a Ubirajara, que te conquistou pela força de seu braço. Agora que é senhor, elle espera tua vontade.

A formosa virgem rompeu a liga vermelha que lhe cingia a perna e atou-a ao pulso de seu guerreiro.

Ubirajara tomou a esposa aos hombros e levou-a á cabana do casamento.

O jasmineiro semeava de flores perfumadas a rêde do amor.

 

O outro sol rompia, quando os tapuias estenderam pela campina a multidão de seus guerreiros.

Na frente assomava Agniná a montanha dos guerreiros, ainda mais feroz do que o irmão, o terrivel Canicran.

De um lado e do outro seguiam-se os chefes, cada um á frente de seus guerreiros.

Ubirajara escolheu mil guerreiros araguayas e mil guerreiros tocantins, com que saiu ao encontro dos tapuias.

Depois que desdobrou sua batalha pela campina o chefe dos chefes caminhou só para o inimigo.

Quando chegava a meio do campo, os tapuias levantaram a pocema de guerra, que atroou os ares, como o estrepito da cachoeira.

Um turbilhão de settas crivou o longo escudo do heróe, que ficou semelhante ao grosso tronco da Jussara, irriçado de espinhos.

Ubirajara embraçou o escudo na altura do hombro, e com o pé brandiu sete vezes a corda do grande arco gemeo.

As settas vermelhas e amarellas subiram direitas ao céo e perderam-se nas nuvens.

Quando voltaram, Agniná e os chefes que obedeciam a seu arco tinham cada um fincado na cabeça o desafio do formidável guerreiro.

Enfurecidos mais pelo insulto, do que pela dôr, arremessaram-se contra o inimigo que os esperava coberto com seu vasto escudo. Agniná era o primeiro na corrida, e o primeiro na sanha. Apoz elle vinham os outros, a dois e dois, luctando na rapidez.

Quando o esposo de Aracy viu que elles se estendiam pela campina, como dois ribeiros que se aproximam para confundir suas aguas, o heróe empunhou a lança de duas pontas, e soltou seu grito de guerra, que era como o bramir do jaguar, senhor da floresta.

Seu pé devorou o espaço; e a lança de duas pontas girou em sua mão, como a serpente que se enrosca nos ares silvando.

Caiu Agniná do primeiro bote; apoz elle caíram aos dois os chefes tapuias, como caem os juncos talhados pelo dente afiado da capivara.

Então o heróe soltou seu grito de triumpho, que era como o rugido do vento no deserto:

— Eu sou Ubirajara, o senhor da lança, o guerreiro invencível que tem por arma uma serpente.

«Eu sou Ubirajara, o senhor das nações, o chefe dos chefes, que varre a terra, como o vento do deserto.»

O heróe estendeu a vista pela campina, e não descobriu mais o inimigo, que se sumia na poeira.

Ubirajara lençou-lhe seus guerreiros, que tinham fome de vingança; porém o terror de de sua lança dava azas aos fugitivos.

Desde esse dia nunca mais um tapuia pisou as margens do grande rio.

Ubirajara voltou á cabana, onde o esperava Aracy.

A esposa despiu as armas de seu guerreiro, enxugou-lhe o corpo com o macio cotao da monguba, e cobriu-o do balsamo fragrante da embaiba.

Depois encheu de generoso cauim a taça vermelha feita do coco da sapucaia; e aplacou a sede do combate.

Emquanto nas grandes tabas se preparava a festa do triumpho, e o heróe repousava na rêde, Aracy foi ao terreiro e voltou conduzindo Jandyra pela mão.

— Aracy, tua esposa, é irmã de Jandyra. Ubirajara é o chefe dos chefes, senhor do arco das duas nações. Elle deve repartir seu amor por ellas, como repartiu a sua força.

A virgem araguaya poz no guerreiro seus olhos de corsa.

— Jandyra é serva de tua esposa; seu amor a obrigou a querer o que tu queres. Ella ficará em tua cabana para ensinar a tuas filhas como uma virgem araguaya ama seu guerreiro.

Ubirajara cingiu ao peito, com um e outro braço, a esposa e a virgem.

— Aracy é a esposa do chefe tocantim; Jandyra será a esposa do chefe araguaya; ambas serão as mãis dos filhos de Ubirajara, o chefe dos chefes e o senhor das florestas.

As duas nações, dos araguayas e dos tocantins, formaram a grande nação dos Ubirajaras, que tomou o nome do heróe.

Foi esta poderosa nação que dominou o deserto.

Mais tarde, quando vieram os caramurús, guerreiros do mar, ella campeava ainda nas margens do grande rio.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Private Life of Captain America!" by Bill Finger (in English)

 art by Mike Sekowsky - Captain America Comics #59 - Marvel, November 1946.

 

 

Good Reading: "Guy" by Ralph W. Emerson (in English)

Mortal mixed of middle clay,
Attempered to the night and day,
Interchangeable with things,
Needs no amulets nor rings.
Guy possessed the talisman
That all things from him began;
And as, of old, Polycrates
Chained the sunshine and the breeze,
So did Guy betimes discover
Fortune was his guard and lover;
In strange junctures, felt, with awe,
His own symmetry with law;
That no mixture could withstand
The virtue of his lucky hand.
He gold or jewel could not lose,
Nor not receive his ample dues.
Fearless Guy had never foes,
He did their weapons decompose.
Aimed at him, the blushing blade
Healed as fast the wounds it made.
If on the foeman fell his gaze,
Him it would straightway blind or craze,
In the street, if he turned round,
His eye the eye 't was seeking found.
It seemed his Genius discreet
Worked on the Maker's own receipt,
And made each tide and element
Stewards of stipend and of rent;
So that the common waters fell
As costly wine into his well.
He had so sped his wise affairs
That he caught Nature in his snares.
Early or late, the falling rain
Arrived in time to swell his grain;
Stream could not so perversely wind
But corn of Guy's was there to grind:
The siroc found it on its way,
To speed his sails, to dry his hay;
And the world's sun seemed to rise
To drudge all day for Guy the wise.
In his rich nurseries, timely skill
Strong crab with nobler blood did fill;
The zephyr in his garden rolled
From plum-trees vegetable gold;
And all the hours of the year
With their own harvest honored were.
There was no frost but welcome came,
Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame.
Belonged to wind and world the toil
And venture, and to Guy the oil.

Friday's Sung Word: "Vejo Amanhecer" by Noel Rosa and Francisco Alves (in Portuguese)

Vejo amanhecer
Vejo anoitecer
E não me sais
Do pensamento, ó mulher!
Vou para o trabalho
Passo em tua porta
Me metes o malho
Mas que bem me importa

De esperar a minha amada
A minh'alma não se cansa
Pois até quem não tem nada
Tem ainda a esperança
Esperança nos ilude
Ajudando a suportar
Do destino o golpe rude
Que eu não canso de esperar

Amanhece e anoitece
Sem parar o meu tormento
Por saber que quem me esquece
Não me sai do pensamento
Já não durmo, já não sonho
De pensar fugiu-me a paz
No passado tão risonho
Que não volta nunca mais

 

You can listen "Vejo Amanhecer" sung by Francisco Alves here.

Thursday's Serial: “The Light of Western Stars” by Zane Grey (in English) - XII

 

XV. The Mountain Trail

As Stewart departed from one door Florence knocked upon another; and Madeline, far shaken out of her usual serenity, admitted the cool Western girl with more than gladness. Just to have her near helped Madeline to get back her balance. She was conscious of Florence's sharp scrutiny, then of a sweet, deliberate change of manner. Florence might have been burning with curiosity to know more about the bandits hidden in the house, the plans of the cowboys, the reason for Madeline's suppressed emotion; but instead of asking Madeline questions she introduced the important subject of what to take on the camping trip. For an hour they discussed the need of this and that article, selected those things most needful, and then packed them in Madeline's duffle-bags.

That done, they decided to lie down, fully dressed as they were in riding-costume, and sleep, or at least rest, the little remaining time left before the call to saddle. Madeline turned out the light and, peeping through her window, saw dark forms standing sentinel-like in the gloom. When she lay down she heard soft steps on the path. This fidelity to her swelled her heart, while the need of it presaged that fearful something which, since Stewart's passionate appeal to her, haunted her as inevitable.

Madeline did not expect to sleep, yet she did sleep, and it seemed to have been only a moment until Florence called her. She followed Florence outside. It was the dark hour before dawn. She could discern saddled horses being held by cowboys. There was an air of hurry and mystery about the departure. Helen, who came tip-toeing out with Madeline's other guests, whispered that it was like an escape. She was delighted. The others were amused. To Madeline it was indeed an escape.

In the darkness Madeline could not see how many escorts her party was to have. She heard low voices, the champing of bits and thumping of hoofs, and she recognized Stewart when he led up Majesty for her to mount. Then came a pattering of soft feet and the whining of dogs. Cold noses touched her hands, and she saw the long, gray, shaggy shapes of her pack of Russian wolf-hounds. That Stewart meant to let them go with her was indicative of how he studied her pleasure. She loved to be out with the hounds and her horse.

Stewart led Majesty out into the darkness past a line of mounted horses.

“Guess we're ready?” he said. “I'll make the count.” He went back along the line, and on the return Madeline heard him say several times, “Now, everybody ride close to the horse in front, and keep quiet till daylight.” Then the snorting and pounding of the big black horse in front of her told Madeline that Stewart had mounted.

“All right, we're off,” he called.

Madeline lifted Majesty's bridle and let the roan go. There was a crack and crunch of gravel, fire struck from stone, a low whinny, a snort, and then steady, short, clip-clop of iron hoofs on hard ground. Madeline could just discern Stewart and his black outlined in shadowy gray before her. Yet they were almost within touching distance. Once or twice one of the huge stag-hounds leaped up at her and whined joyously. A thick belt of darkness lay low, and seemed to thin out above to a gray fog, through which a few wan stars showed. It was altogether an unusual departure from the ranch; and Madeline, always susceptible even to ordinary incident that promised well, now found herself thrillingly sensitive to the soft beat of hoofs, the feel of cool, moist air, the dim sight of Stewart's dark figure. The caution, the early start before dawn, the enforced silence—these lent the occasion all that was needful to make it stirring.

Majesty plunged into a gully, where sand and rough going made Madeline stop romancing to attend to riding. In the darkness Stewart was not so easy to keep close to even on smooth trails, and now she had to be watchfully attentive to do it. Then followed a long march through dragging sand. Meantime the blackness gradually changed to gray. At length Majesty climbed out of the wash, and once more his iron shoes rang on stone. He began to climb. The figure of Stewart and his horse loomed more distinctly in Madeline's sight. Bending over, she tried to see the trail, but could not. She wondered how Stewart could follow a trail in the dark. His eyes must be as piercing as they sometimes looked. Over her shoulder Madeline could not see the horse behind her, but she heard him.

As Majesty climbed steadily Madeline saw the gray darkness grow opaque, change and lighten, lose its substance, and yield the grotesque shapes of yucca and ocotillo. Dawn was about to break. Madeline imagined she was facing east, still she saw no brightening of sky. All at once, to her surprise, Stewart and his powerful horse stood clear in her sight. She saw the characteristic rock and cactus and brush that covered the foothills. The trail was old and seldom used, and it zigzagged and turned and twisted. Looking back, she saw the short, squat figure of Monty Price humped over his saddle. Monty's face was hidden under his sombrero. Behind him rode Dorothy Coombs, and next loomed up the lofty form of Nick Steele. Madeline and the members of her party were riding between cowboy escorts.

Bright daylight came, and Madeline saw the trail was leading up through foothills. It led in a round-about way through shallow gullies full of stone and brush washed down by floods. At every turn now Madeline expected to come upon water and the waiting pack-train. But time passed, and miles of climbing, and no water or horses were met. Expectation in Madeline gave place to desire; she was hungry.

Presently Stewart's horse went splashing into a shallow pool. Beyond that damp places in the sand showed here and there, and again more water in rocky pockets. Stewart kept on. It was eight o'clock by Madeline's watch when, upon turning into a wide hollow, she saw horses grazing on spare grass, a great pile of canvas-covered bundles, and a fire round which cowboys and two Mexican women were busy.

Madeline sat her horse and reviewed her followers as they rode up single file. Her guests were in merry mood, and they all talked at once.

“Breakfast—and rustle,” called out Stewart, without ceremony.

“No need to tell me to rustle,” said Helen. “I am simply ravenous. This air makes me hungry.”

For that matter, Madeline observed Helen did not show any marked contrast to the others. The hurry order, however, did not interfere with the meal being somewhat in the nature of a picnic. While they ate and talked and laughed the cowboys were packing horses and burros and throwing the diamond-hitch, a procedure so interesting to Castleton that he got up with coffee-cup in hand and tramped from one place to another.

“Heard of that diamond-hitch-up,” he observed to a cowboy. “Bally nice little job!”

As soon as the pack-train was in readiness Stewart started it off in the lead to break trail. A heavy growth of shrub interspersed with rock and cactus covered the slopes; and now all the trail appeared to be uphill. It was not a question of comfort for Madeline and her party, for comfort was impossible; it was a matter of making the travel possible for him. Florence wore corduroy breeches and high-top boots, and the advantage of this masculine garb was at once in evidence. The riding-habits of the other ladies suffered considerably from the sharp spikes. It took all Madeline's watchfulness to save her horse's legs, to pick the best bits of open ground, to make cut-offs from the trail, and to protect herself from outreaching thorny branches, so that the time sped by without her knowing it. The pack-train forged ahead, and the trailing couples grew farther apart. At noon they got out of the foothills to face the real ascent of the mountains. The sun beat down hot. There was little breeze, and the dust rose thick and hung in a pall. The view was restricted, and what scenery lay open to the eye was dreary and drab, a barren monotony of slow-mounting slopes ridged by rocky canyons.

Once Stewart waited for Madeline, and as she came up he said:

“We're going to have a storm.”

“That will be a relief. It's so hot and dusty,” replied Madeline.

“Shall I call a halt and make camp?”

“Here? Oh no! What do you think best?”

“Well, if we have a good healthy thunder-storm it will be something new for your friends. I think we'd be wise to keep on the go. There's no place to make a good camp. The wind would blow us off this slope if the rain didn't wash us off. It'll take all-day travel to reach a good camp-site, and I don't promise that. We're making slow time. If it rains, let it rain. The pack outfit is well covered. We will have to get wet.”

“Surely,” replied Madeline; and she smiled at his inference. She knew what a storm was in that country, and her guests had yet to experience one. “If it rains, let it rain.”

Stewart rode on, and Madeline followed. Up the slope toiled and nodded the pack-animals, the little burros going easily where the horses labored. Their packs, like the humps of camels, bobbed from side to side. Stones rattled down; the heat-waves wavered black; the dust puffed up and sailed. The sky was a pale blue, like heated steel, except where dark clouds peeped over the mountain crests. A heavy, sultry atmosphere made breathing difficult. Down the slope the trailing party stretched out in twos and threes, and it was easy to distinguish the weary riders.

Half a mile farther up Madeline could see over the foothills to the north and west and a little south, and she forgot the heat and weariness and discomfort for her guests in wide, unlimited prospects of sun-scorched earth. She marked the gray valley and the black mountains and the wide, red gateway of the desert, and the dim, shadowy peaks, blue as the sky they pierced. She was sorry when the bleak, gnarled cedar-trees shut off her view.

Then there came a respite from the steep climb, and the way led in a winding course through a matted, storm-wrenched forest of stunted trees. Even up to this elevation the desert reached with its gaunt hand. The clouds overspreading the sky, hiding the sun, made a welcome change. The pack-train rested, and Stewart and Madeline waited for the party to come up. Here he briefly explained to her that Don Carlos and his bandits had left the ranch some time in the night. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a faint wind rustled the scant foliage of the cedars. The air grew oppressive; the horses panted.

“Sure it'll be a hummer,” said Stewart. “The first storm almost always is bad. I can feel it in the air.”

The air, indeed, seemed to be charged with a heavy force that was waiting to be liberated.

One by one the couples mounted to the cedar forest, and the feminine contingent declaimed eloquently for rest. But there was to be no permanent rest until night and then that depended upon reaching the crags. The pack-train wagged onward, and Stewart fell in behind. The storm-center gathered slowly around the peaks; low rumble and howl of thunder increased in frequence; slowly the light shaded as smoky clouds rolled up; the air grew sultrier, and the exasperating breeze puffed a few times and then failed.

An hour later the party had climbed high and was rounding the side of a great bare ridge that long had hidden the crags. The last burro of the pack-train plodded over the ridge out of Madeline's sight. She looked backward down the slope, amused to see her guests change wearily from side to side in their saddles. Far below lay the cedar flat and the foothills. Far to the west the sky was still clear, with shafts of sunlight shooting down from behind the encroaching clouds.

Stewart reached the summit of the ridge and, though only a few rods ahead, he waved to her, sweeping his hand round to what he saw beyond. It was an impressive gesture, and Madeline, never having climbed as high as this, anticipated much.

Majesty surmounted the last few steps and, snorting, halted beside Stewart's black. To Madeline the scene was as if the world had changed. The ridge was a mountain-top. It dropped before her into a black, stone-ridged, shrub-patched, many-canyoned gulf. Eastward, beyond the gulf, round, bare mountain-heads loomed up. Upward, on the right, led giant steps of cliff and bench and weathered slope to the fir-bordered and pine-fringed crags standing dark and bare against the stormy sky. Massed inky clouds were piling across the peaks, obscuring the highest ones. A fork of white lightning flashed, and, like the booming of an avalanche, thunder followed.

That bold world of broken rock under the slow mustering of storm-clouds was a grim, awe-inspiring spectacle. It had beauty, but beauty of the sublime and majestic kind. The fierce desert had reached up to meet the magnetic heights where heat and wind and frost and lightning and flood contended in everlasting strife. And before their onslaught this mighty upflung world of rugged stone was crumbling, splitting, wearing to ruin.

Madeline glanced at Stewart. He had forgotten her presence. Immovable as stone, he sat his horse, dark-faced, dark-eyed, and, like an Indian unconscious of thought, he watched and watched. To see him thus, to divine the strange affinity between the soul of this man, become primitive, and the savage environment that had developed him, were powerful helps to Madeline Hammond in her strange desire to understand his nature.

A cracking of iron-shod hoofs behind her broke the spell. Monty had reached the summit.

“Gene, what it won't all be doin' in a minnut Moses hisself couldn't tell,” observed Monty.

Then Dorothy climbed to his side and looked.

“Oh, isn't it just perfectly lovely!” she exclaimed. “But I wish it wouldn't storm. We'll all get wet.”

Once more Stewart faced the ascent, keeping to the slow heave of the ridge as it rose southward toward the looming spires of rock. Soon he was off smooth ground, and Madeline, some rods behind him, looked back with concern at her friends. Here the real toil, the real climb began, and a mountain storm was about to burst in all its fury.

The slope that Stewart entered upon was a magnificent monument to the ruined crags above. It was a southerly slope, and therefore semi-arid, covered with cercocarpus and yucca and some shrub that Madeline believed was manzanita. Every foot of the trail seemed to slide under Majesty. What hard ground there was could not be traveled upon, owing to the spiny covering or masses of shattered rocks. Gullies lined the slope.

Then the sky grew blacker; the slow-gathering clouds appeared to be suddenly agitated; they piled and rolled and mushroomed and obscured the crags. The air moved heavily and seemed to be laden with sulphurous smoke, and sharp lightning flashes began to play. A distant roar of wind could be heard between the peals of thunder.

Stewart waited for Madeline under the lee of a shelving cliff, where the cowboys had halted the pack-train. Majesty was sensitive to the flashes of lightning. Madeline patted his neck and softly called to him. The weary burros nodded; the Mexican women covered their heads with their mantles. Stewart untied the slicker at the back of Madeline's saddle and helped her on with it. Then he put on his own. The other cowboys followed suit. Presently Madeline saw Monty and Dorothy rounding the cliff, and hoped the others would come soon.

A blue-white, knotted rope of lightning burned down out of the clouds, and instantly a thunder-clap crashed, seeming to shake the foundations of the earth. Then it rolled, as if banging from cloud to cloud, and boomed along the peaks, and reverberated from deep to low, at last to rumble away into silence. Madeline felt the electricity in Majesty's mane, and it seemed to tingle through her nerves. The air had a weird, bright cast. The ponderous clouds swallowed more and more of the eastern domes. This moment of the breaking of the storm, with the strange growing roar of wind, like a moaning monster, was pregnant with a heart-disturbing emotion for Madeline Hammond. Glorious it was to be free, healthy, out in the open, under the shadow of the mountain and cloud, in the teeth of the wind and rain and storm.

Another dazzling blue blaze showed the bold mountain-side and the storm-driven clouds. In the flare of light Madeline saw Stewart's face.

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, simply.

Then the thunderbolt racked the heavens, and as it boomed away in lessening power Madeline reflected with surprise upon Stewart's answer. Something in his face had made her ask him what she considered a foolish question. His reply amazed her. She loved a storm. Why should he fear it—he, with whom she could not associate fear?

“How strange! Have you not been out in many storms?”

A smile that was only a gleam flitted over his dark face.

“In hundreds of them. By day, with the cattle stampeding. At night, alone on the mountain, with the pines crashing and the rocks rolling—in flood on the desert.”

“It's not only the lightning, then?” she asked.

“No. All the storm.”

Madeline felt that henceforth she would have less faith in what she had imagined was her love of the elements. What little she knew! If this iron-nerved man feared a storm, then there was something about a storm to fear.

And suddenly, as the ground quaked under her horse's feet, and all the sky grew black and crisscrossed by flaming streaks, and between thunderous reports there was a strange hollow roar sweeping down upon her, she realized how small was her knowledge and experience of the mighty forces of nature. Then, with that perversity of character of which she was wholly conscious, she was humble, submissive, reverent, and fearful even while she gloried in the grandeur of the dark, cloud-shadowed crags and canyons, the stupendous strife of sound, the wonderful driving lances of white fire.

With blacker gloom and deafening roar came the torrent of rain. It was a cloud-burst. It was like solid water tumbling down. For long Madeline sat her horse, head bent to the pelting rain. When its force lessened and she heard Stewart call for all to follow, she looked up to see that he was starting once more. She shot a glimpse at Dorothy and as quickly glanced away. Dorothy, who would not wear a hat suitable for inclement weather, nor one of the horrid yellow, sticky slickers, was a drenched and disheveled spectacle. Madeline did not trust herself to look at the other girls. It was enough to hear their lament. So she turned her horse into Stewart's trail.

Rain fell steadily. The fury of the storm, however, had passed, and the roll of thunder diminished in volume. The air had wonderfully cleared and was growing cool. Madeline began to feel uncomfortably cold and wet. Stewart was climbing faster than formerly, and she noted that Monty kept at her heels, pressing her on. Time had been lost, and the camp-site was a long way off. The stag-hounds began to lag and get footsore. The sharp rocks of the trail were cruel to their feet. Then, as Madeline began to tire, she noticed less and less around her. The ascent grew rougher and steeper—slow toil for panting horses. The thinning rain grew colder, and sometimes a stronger whip of wind lashed stingingly in Madeline's face. Her horse climbed and climbed, and brush and sharp corners of stone everlastingly pulled and tore at her wet garments. A gray gloom settled down around her. Night was approaching. Majesty heaved upward with a snort, the wet saddle creaked, and an even motion told Madeline she was on level ground. She looked up to see looming crags and spires, like huge pipe-organs, dark at the base and growing light upward. The rain had ceased, but the branches of fir-trees and juniper were water-soaked arms reaching out for her. Through an opening between crags Madeline caught a momentary glimpse of the west. Red sun-shafts shone through the murky, broken clouds. The sun had set.

Stewart's horse was on a jog-trot now, and Madeline left the trail more to Majesty than to her own choosing. The shadows deepened, and the crags grew gloomy and spectral. A cool wind moaned through the dark trees. Coyotes, scenting the hounds, kept apace of them, and barked and howled off in the gloom. But the tired hounds did not appear to notice.

As black night began to envelop her surroundings, Madeline marked that the fir-trees had given place to pine forest. Suddenly a pin-point of light pierced the ebony blackness. Like a solitary star in dark sky it twinkled and blinked. She lost sight of it—found it again. It grew larger. Black tree-trunks crossed her line of vision. The light was a fire. She heard a cowboy song and the wild chorus of a pack of coyotes. Drops of rain on the branches of trees glittered in the rays of the fire. Stewart's tall figure, with sombrero slouched down, was now and then outlined against a growing circle of light. And by the aid of that light she saw him turn every moment or so to look back, probably to assure himself that she was close behind.

With a prospect of fire and warmth, and food and rest, Madeline's enthusiasm revived. What a climb! There was promise in this wild ride and lonely trail and hidden craggy height, not only in the adventure her friends yearned for, but in some nameless joy and spirit for herself.

"What an aggressive, paradoxical imitation of Christ!" by Archbishop Hector Aguer (in English)

 

"Stupor" is the word that rises to my lips upon learning the contents of the 50 pages of the Instrumentum laboris, for the Synod that has been "democratically" programmed since 2021. La Prensa of Buenos Aires headlines the news as follows:

 

"The Vatican published the thorny road map for the next Synod". The document includes the claim of a "profound need to imitate our Master and Lord in terms of the ability to live an apparent paradox: aggressively proclaiming his authentic teaching, while at the same time serving as a witness for radical inclusion and acceptance."

 

What an aggressive, paradoxical imitation of Christ! This purpose is unusual: the synodal Church formulates a progressive gloss on the Gospel. The Instrumentum Laboris sets out how to ecclesially assume the globalist Agenda 2030. It is admirable how the pontifical monarchy makes the "synodal democracy" say just what it wants this "democracy" to say. It is something like throwing a stone and hiding the hand.

The itinerary of the future Assembly, which has already been two years in preparation, makes the "crowd" speak and vote -- especially and novelly the feminine one. This is what I implied with the well-known example of the stone. When the design of this other Church is completed, the Supreme Pontiff, faced with the criticisms that will not be lacking, will be able to say: "I did not do it"!

The document that I have been commenting on, in taking up the result of the path followed since 2021, addresses the question of a new ecclesiology: Synodality. A digression: "synod", "synodal", means "to walk with" (from the Greek syn and hodós) but does not express "towards where". The goal, then, can be the new progressive Church, at cross purposes with the great ecclesial Tradition. Let us all go there together!

One of the topics on the agenda, which quickly attracts attention, is "how can the Church be more responsive to LGBTQ+ people". It is noteworthy that the expression "persons with homosexual tendencies", which appears in several Roman documents, and in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, is no longer used. Nor is the name of other "collectives" mentioned, which have felt marginalized or ignored. It continues to affirm that the poor "occupy a central place"; new areas are introduced, such as climate change, and migratory movements, to which pontifical preaching frequently refers.

In the projected Synod, 75 percent of the bishops will participate, and 25 percent of the laity, including women, with the right to speak and vote. If I read correctly, it seems to me that priests are ignored, which is very striking, and points out how their numbers are continually decreasing in all dioceses. Priestly vocations are no longer a priority. Once again, "the hour of the laity" has arrived.

The text goes on to indicate that "there are those who do not feel accepted in the Church, such as the divorced and remarried, people in marriages that used to be called irregular, or LGBTQ+ people, and there are forms of racial, ethnic, class or caste discrimination that lead some to feel less important, or less welcome within the community". The purpose of overcoming is formulated, then: "How can we create spaces in which those who feel hurt by the Church, and rejected by the community can feel acknowledged, not judged, and free to ask questions? And what concrete steps are needed to reach out to people who feel excluded from the Church because of their affectivity and sexuality?" These will be questions to be asked by the Synod Assembly.

I risk an interpretation: objective truth and the recognition of precepts by which virtue, and sin, are judged and recognized no longer count. What matters now is how those who consider themselves excluded feel; it is their feeling that matters, not the objective state in which they find themselves.

Another key point is the need "for women's participation in governance, decision-making, mission and ministries to be addressed at all levels of the Church, with the support of appropriate structures so that this does not remain a mere general aspiration." As can be seen, the program does not dare to raise the possibility of "female priesthood." This specific remark about "adequate structures" returns to the well-worn aspirations for structural change.

Although it may seem curious to observe, the Catholic Church is belatedly beginning to follow the path opened by the Protestant Reformation, at a time when Protestantism has long since been swallowed up by the world. This is the moment to quote what a Danish Lutheran who was a great Christian philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard, wrote in his Diary in 1848: "Just now, when there is talk of reorganizing the Church, it is clear how little Christianity there is in it" (IX A 264). On the same page he speaks of "the unfortunate illusion of 'Christianity', which replaces being Christian with being human."

It is this unfortunate illusion that now deceives the Catholic Church. The synodal program, like that of the German Synod, designs another Church, heterogeneous with respect to the great and unanimous Tradition. How will faithful Catholics react? In various countries, a reaction is already happily taking shape that is usually disqualified as "conservative" by official progressivism. The Providence of the Bridegroom and Lord of the katholiké inspires and illuminates that contemporaneity with Christ that expresses the fulfillment of the Gospel promise: "I will be with you always (every day) until the end of the world" (Mt 28:20). The Greek text says: until the synteléias of the cosmos. The formula "end of the world" is an ambiguous translation; the fulfillment is the completion of History, according to the mysterious plans of Providence. In the mysterious sphere of divine Providence is inscribed the play of second causes, which it orders according to inscrutable designs. In Providence, the justice and mercy of God alike are manifested. This Providence, then, includes the dialectic of second causes, and for this reason it can be said that it permits evil.

The designs of the authors of the Synod are those second causes, free to do evil.

How dare I express myself in these terms! I recognize and venerate Francis as the Successor of Peter, Vicar of Christ. But Francis is still Jorge Bergoglio. Now, I have known Jorge Bergoglio for 45 years. He is a "second cause." That explains what has been said... and even much more that could be said.

 

+ Hector Aguer

Archbishop Emeritus of La Plata

July 4, 2023