Happy Valley

HAPPY VALLEY By Dorothy Cathryn Retsloff It was the morning of John Graystcin's thirty-first birthday. His head was throbbing so furiously that the ticking of the small clock on the bureau, beside his bed, sounded like the booming of cannon. He rose, his eyes smarting, his throat parching, his feet like leaden weights. He dressed and half staggered out into the early sunshine. He crossed the road and sat down on a boulder underneath a wide spread- ing oak tree. The sunrise of pink and gray, the chirp of the crickets, the call of the waking birds meant nothing to him. He held his head in his hands. "Why," he muttered, "why is it always so? Why do people turn from me? Why do little chil- dren run at my approach? Everyone has a smile for Terry Blake and he a half wit. It is, yes it is because I have a hump on my back — I'm a cripple — an ugly, mis-shapen clod. Curses on this hunched body! curses, curses! Curses on the whole human race — I hate every living soul!" Presently he heard voices. Turning slightly he saw two women dipping water from the little creek that laved the feet of the live oak. "Happy Valley," said the elder of the two, "Yes, that's the name of the place. It is just across the mountains," she pointed north- ward. The other turned her head and looked at the distant hills blush- ing pink in the early sun-rays. "Why do they call it Happy Valley?" "Because," he leaned forward to hear the answer, but the women had filled their buckets and passed on. A bird in the branches called to his mate — the little creek sang as it hurried between its fern bordered banks — the leaves flashed their diamonds of dew, but John Graystein neither saw nor heard. "Happy Valley," the words had aroused his curiosity. "And it is just across the mountains, if there is such a place in this world I'd like to see it. I don't believe there is. It is a lie. All humans are liars." He looked to the hills, warm and glowing where the sun had chased away the grayness of dawn. "I never could climb them, never, never, with my crippled back. What's the use in thinking about such a place?" "But try as he would, the words kept ringing in his ears, "Happy Valley, Happy Valley." That evening at sundown, when the wonderful shadows on the

48 IMPROVEMENT ERA hills were deepening, when the mauves and lavenders were changing to black, John Graystein started toward the north. Painfully he limped — the twilight threw itself into the velvety arms of night — then he stretched himself under the drooping branches of a way-side tree. His head throbbed, his muscles ached, a fever burned in his veins. "What a fool I am, a silly fool, getting excited over a few words uttered by a blabbing woman. I don't believe there is any Happy Valley! It is a humbug — I believe I am beginning to hate even myself. Life is a lie, people are a sham. Curses on everything!" When he opened his eyes it was morning, the light came faint from the east. The sky showing between the branches looked freshly laundered. A saucy squirrel frisked on the limb above him and higher up in the tree a bird called, "Over-there, over-there!" "Crazy blue-jay!" John Graystein threw a stone at the bird, "I 'spose it is 'over there,' if it is any where. I've a notion to turn around and go back the way I came." He opened his bag and took from it a piece of bread and cheese; as he ate and grumbled, he heard a rattling sound. From around the hazelnut thicket came a two wheeled cart drawn by a small donkey. Beside the cart limped a gnarled old woman and a little black dog. "Morning to you, young man," she nodded cheerfully and waved her stick. "I see there are others who love the dewy morning as well as Jolly and I. Say 'Good-morning' to the young man, Jolly." She spoke to the dog. "Bow-wow, bow-wow," Jolly wagged his stump of a tail and his eyes searched the face of John Graystein. "Stop, Cheerful, let that bush alone, you had your breakfast an hour ago." The donkey, obedient as the dog, quit his browsing and stood with drooping head. "Came far?" a smile at the corners of her mouth, followed the question. "Since yesterday, at sunset," there was something in the old woman's smile that quickened the beating of his pulse, and he re- sented it. "We have been traveling for a month, but are almost at our journey's end, just over there," she lifted her wrinkled face and let her gaze rest on the mountains. He flung his arms out impatiently, "Do you mean that you and that donkey and that dog are going to try to cross those?" The woman rested both hands on her stick, "We want to get to Happy Valley, the only way is over those mountains — with every foot we climb, they will grow less, by and by they will be mole-hills." A cynical smile played over John Graystein' s face, "Happv Valley? Are you, too, deluded by the idea that there is such a place?" "There certainly is such a place," she tapped, the cart wheel with

HAPPY VALLEY 49 her stick. "Why not? Come with us and prove it to your own sat- isfaction. I know just how it looks — a long narrow valley tucked between the mountain ranges. One end is stopped by a blue-green sea, the other where a high wall, with a water-fall, joins the two rows of mountains. There are green trees and mossy nooks and long fields with waving grain. There are wide sunny places, and a warm wind laden with contentment blows every day." The hunchback shrugged. "Fairy tales, fairy tales!" She waved him to silence. "Follow us." "I can't cross the mountains." He began to feel irritated. "Nonsense," she said. "You a healthy young man, can't cross those hills? When we understand that good underlies everything, there is nothing that we cannot do." "But I'm a cripple, was born one. Don't you see the hump on my back? If there was a Happy Valley, no one would want me there, I'd spoil its beauty." He had an impulse to turn away — to listen no longer. She moved her stick back and forth, pushing the pebbles in the road-way: "That is no reason, don't think about your personal defects. Try to see yourself as God sees you. Will you come?" The donkey moved forward, the old woman and Jolly limping at the rear of the cart. Half sullenly John Graystein followed, never close to them, yet never so far behind that he lost the rattle of the rickety wheels. One morning a week later, the sun peering behind a boulder awakened John Greystein. He got up from the ground and looked down into a valley. He saw the blue-green sea at one end and the waterfall at the other. "Is the mountain top making a fool of me?" He swayed like a poplar, "or is it really Happy Valley?" He gave no thought to the old woman and her dumb com- panions. He stumbled down the mountain side. An impertinent rabbit hopped across his path, ran up on a moss-flecked rock and gravely stared at him. "What place is this?" he inquired of the first man he met. "Happy Valley." "Who lives here?" He searched the man's face with his dark eyes. "All who love. No one with hate in his heart can live in Happy Valley." John Graystein started toward the village, men working in the fields greeted him courteously, although he was a stranger. Little children stopped their play and ran to meet him — no child had ever smiled into his face before — women from windows and open doors nodded pleasantly. He turned down a side street. As he was passing a small rose vined cottage, he heard some. grie singing. There

50 IMPROVEMENT ERA was something in the voice unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was like wind playing among whispering pines — like water rip- pling over smooth pebbles. He listened: "I do all for my love of Thee, Thou hast done so much for me. Love begets love in humanity." He drew a long breath, the singer continued: "The beautiful life is full of love, Reflected from the One above, I do all for my love of Thee So love begets love in humanity." "Humanity," he muttered. "What has any one ever done for me? I've never had a friend in my life. Who ever gave me a cheer- ful word? No one. Curses on humanity!" "If you would win the greatest prize, Keep the love light in your eyes." "Bosh!" there was a ring of impatience in his tone. "This love business is beginning to grow tiresome." He moved close to the cot- tage and parted the vines from over the open window. He looked in, a young woman sat in a chair. She had a bundle of splints at her side. She was weaving a basket. In another instant he discovered that she was blind. "There may be reefs on your brother's chart, It matters not if love fills your heart." John Graystein stepped back from the window, his foot struck a pebble, it rolled down the rocky path. The blind girl heard the noise, she laid aside her work and crossed the room. "Who comes?" her voice was even and unafraid. The man looked at her placid face and shining hair. "A passing stranger. I heard your song and the words attracted me. I wanted to see the face of the singer." She smiled, "Will you come in and rest?" "I will, and may I ask you a question?" With confident steps she returned to her seat, gathered her work in her hands, tipped her head gracefully and waited. John Graystein sat on a stool in the door-way. The wind swing- ing down the valley, rustled the rose vines on the cottage walls and shook the loose sweet smelling petals in a pink and white shower. He sighed — the keenly sensitive ear of the girl caught it, "Why do you sigh?" He pressed the palms of his hands together, "I sigh, because I am a hunchback — an unpleasant sight — people do not like me — my heart has a bitter taste in it, a taste that grows more bitter as the days pass." The sunlight beat against the rose vines, it found its way inside between the gaily moving leaves, it lay in patches of gold on her

HAPPY VALLEY 51 soft, white dress. It touched a wide-mouthed vase filled with fragrant lilies. The room was very quiet and peaceful. Tenderly she moved her tapering fingers over the splints. "Listen, why do you think unpleasant thoughts? Try to see yourself as God sees you. God sees beauty in every living thing. I have no sight, yet I am always happy." "Happy when you cannot see?" his voice was incredulous. "Thinking right thoughts, brings happiness. The bad taste in your heart is hate, drown hate and you will be happy. You will for- get your affliction." "How can I drown hate? Every one irritates me — I have not one friend in all the world. How can you say that God sees beauty in every thing? There is nothing beautiful about a hunchback?" There was defiance in his words. She sat upright, her nostrils quivered. He straightened and looked about the room. "Go," there was a soft note in her command, "go out among the people. Give them heart smiles, they will return them a hundred fold. Do some good every day. Learn to think right, for right thoughts save both time and trouble." "Where can I learn to think right?" his hands wandered ner- vously up and down the front of his coat. "In Love's school. Love is the source of all right thought. Love begets love. When one loves, everything in the world glows with beauty." She dipped her splints in a pan of water and prepared to begin her weaving. "Why do you work?" "When one loves one has to work. _ Fill your heart with love and you will be satisfied with your hump. God gave you life and is giving you days in which to gather understanding." A radiance resembling the glory of a new born dawn overspread her face, she held her head high, a silvery clearness vibrated in her voice. For the first time in his life John Graystein forgot his hump. He stood up, "You have turned my face toward the light. I will love my fellow men. I no longer hate myself." The ache he had carried so long in his heart, seemed to burst. All at once, he was lifted — as with a mighty wind — his feet were buoyant — his head clear — his eyes bright. He passed down the street with the words of the blind girl's song following him, clear and sweet like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. "The beautiful life is full of love, Reflected from the One above I do all for my love of Thee, So love begets love in humanity." San Diego, Calif.