Free The Long Valley by John Steinbeck Page B

sun was plunging down toward the ocean. They sat on the doorsteps and watched the big white moon come over the mountaintops.
    Mama said, “He is now at the house of our friend Mrs. Rodriguez. She will give him nice things to eat and maybe a present.”
    Emilio said, “Some day I too will ride to Monterey for medicine. Did Pepé come to be a man today?”
    Mama said wisely, “A boy gets to be a man when a man is needed. Remember this thing. I have known boys forty years old because there was no need for a man.”
    Soon afterwards they retired, Mama in her big oak bed on one side of the room, Emilio and Rosy in their boxes full of straw and sheepskins on the other side of the room.
    The moon went over the sky and the surf roared on the rocks. The roosters crowed the first call. The surf subsided to a whispering surge against the reef. The moon dropped toward the sea. The roosters crowed again.
     
    The moon was near to the water when Pepé rode on a winded horse to his home flat. His dog bounced out and circled the horse yelping with pleasure. Pepé slid off the saddle to the ground. The weathered little shack was silver in the moonlight and the square shadow of it was black to the north and east. Against the east the piling mountains were misty with light; their tops melted into the sky.
    Pepé walked wearily up the three steps and into the house. It was dark inside. There was a rustle in the comer.
    Mama cried out from her bed. “Who comes? Pepé, is it thou?”
    “ Sí, Mama.”
    “Did you get the medicine?”
    “ Sí , Mama.”
    “Well, go to sleep, then. I thought you would be sleeping at the house of Mrs. Rodriguez.” Pepé stood silently in the dark room. “Why do you stand there, Pepé? Did you drink wine?”
    “ Sí, Mama.”
    “Well, go to bed then and sleep out the wine.”
    His voice was tired and patient, but very firm. “Light the candle, Mama. I must go away into the mountains.”
    “What is this, Pepé? You are crazy.” Mama struck a sulphur match and held the little blue burr until the flame spread up the stick. She set light to the candle on the floor beside her bed. “Now, Pepé, what is this you say?” She looked anxiously into his face.
    He was changed. The fragile quality seemed to have gone from his chin. His mouth was less full than it had been, the lines of the lips were straighter, but in his eyes the greatest change had taken place. There was no laughter in them any more, nor any bashfulness. They were sharp and bright and purposeful.
    He told her in a tired monotone, told her everything just as it had happened. A few people came into the kitchen of Mrs. Rodriguez. There was wine to drink. Pepé drank wine. The little quarrel—the man started toward Pepé and then the knife—it went almost by itself. It flew, it darted before Pepé knew it. As he talked, Mama’s face grew stem, and it seemed to grow more lean. Pepé finished. “I am a man now, Mama. The man said names to me I could not allow.”
    Mama nodded. “Yes, thou art a man, my poor little Pepé. Thou art a man. I have seen it coming on thee. I have watched you throwing the knife into the post, and I have been afraid.” For a moment her face had softened, but now it grew stem again. “Come! We must get you ready. Go. Awaken Emilio and Rosy. Go quickly.”
    Pepé stepped over to the comer where his brother and sister slept among the sheepskins. He leaned down and shook them gently. “Come, Rosy! Come, Emilio! The mama says you must arise.”
    The little black ones sat up and rubbed their eyes in the candlelight. Mama was out of bed now, her long black shirt over her nightgown. “Emilio,” she cried. “Go up and catch the other horse for Pepé. Quickly, now! Quickly.” Emilio put his legs in his overalls and stumbled sleepily out the door.
    “You heard no one behind you on the road?” Mama demanded.
    “No, Mama. I listened carefully. No one was on the road.”
    Mama darted like a bird about the room. From a nail on