THE FEAST OF RAYMI
“Well, anyhow, our three day fast is over,” Cliff yawned as Bill shook
him awake, long before dawn. He was sleepy; but he was more hungry than
he was drowsy. They had decided to carry out all of the rites of this,
the greatest festival of the Inca religion; it began with three fast
days which were now past.
“I wonder what has happened to Mr. Whitley,” Tom said as he drew on his
robe.
“I hope he comes back before the ceremony gets to the place where we
have to try to stop the sacrifice,” Nicky whispered. “I don’t know
whether the Inca’s son can stop it or not, even if Cliff reminds him of
his promise.”
“Nor I,” said Bill. “His pa would probably back him up to give comrade
Cliff any gold or maybe,” and his eyes would have been seen to be
twinkling in a better light than that of their torch, “or, maybe, a
dozen wives for the youth with the shining locks.”
“Wives!” Cliff said it disgustedly. “What would I ask for wives for?”
“You might ask for Caya, anyway,” Nicky said mischievously. The girl who
had been assigned to serve Nicky had transferred all her attention to
Cliff since Nicky had whispered, against Bill’s advice, the hint that
Chasca would save her sister from the sacrifice.
“She does act like a girl getting ready to ‘love, honor and disobey’ her
lord and master,” chuckled Bill.
Cliff shrugged his shoulders. She was a nice Indian girl, but his mind
was not set on girls. He looked forward to the moment when he could see
his father. “I’ll ask for her for you, Nicky,” he challenged, “you seem
to be broken hearted about her.”
Nicky stopped just in time—he had been about to fling a golden cup at
Cliff: Challcuchima came in after knocking at the doorway of the
anteroom in which they slept.
“All is ready,” he greeted, seriously, “come.”
They followed him into the great square. The dawn had not yet come: just
a faint streak of light gray cut the darkness in the East.
“The greatest crowd I ever saw here!” exclaimed Nicky, “Look how they
pack the square!” He was right. With torches that lit the place with
weird gleams and deep shadows, probably every human being who could walk
was there. Challcuchima led the party to a spot just beyond the crowd,
in front of the Inca’s home: there they were greeted seriously and in a
low tone by the high priest and the Inca.
“I don’t see the stranger—the fellow we think is Sancho Pizzara,” Cliff
whispered. Bill shook his head.
“I wonder what he came to tell them—and where he is?” Nicky said under
his breath. Since no one knew he got no reply.
The torches were gradually extinguished as the stragglers filled every
available bit of room. Gradually the light was growing in the East; from
pale gray it went through the slow changes of dull green, then brighter
green, altering to greenish yellow and brighter lemon; then dashes of
crimson came, like lances of fire flung across the sky.
A low murmur began; constantly it increased in volume and in eagerness;
for it was a chant of triumph and greeting to the orb of day which they
worshipped as the visible sign that their god smiled upon them.
Watching, Cliff saw the first rim of the sun peep up over the peaks.
There rose a vast, throaty roar of triumph and the mass of people bowed
themselves toward the symbol of their deity.
“What would they do if it turned out cloudy?” Nicky wondered.
“They would take it as a bad sign for the coming year,” Bill told him.
He looked around anxiously. “I wish I knew where John Whitley keeps
himself.”
“So do I!” Tom whispered.
Challcuchima touched Cliff’s arm. They were silent.
Along the great square moved the Inca, slowly, majestically. He was clad
in a gorgeous robe of the beautiful woven fleece of the vicuna, with
gorgeously dyed patterns of vivid colors running through it; on his head
was the borla, that crimson fringe carrying two feathers from the sacred
bird, the caraquenque—sacred to the purpose of supplying feathers for
the Inca’s head-dress. He wore many rich ornaments, laden with jewels,
mostly emeralds, set in lavishly cut and worked golden shapes; from each
earlobe hung the massive ornaments which, in years of wear, had drawn
his earlobes down almost to his shoulders. Challcuchima was dressed as
beautifully but he wore his yellow fringed and tasseled head-dress and
his ears still were pierced by the golden bodkins which had been put
there during his own festival, to remain until the flesh healed and left
holes for the ornaments he might wear later on.
“We are bound for the Temple of the Sun,” Bill told them. It proved to
be true: outside the great temple, its golden cornice glowing brightly
in the newly risen sun’s rays, the procession halted. The people became
silent. The priests and nobles drew aside and so did all but the Inca
and Huamachaco, the high priest. Removing their sandals these two
proceeded into the Temple of the Sun. No others were permitted in that
sacred edifice except for purposes of cleaning and certain rites.
“I wish you’d look!” whispered Tom. From their stand they could see
through the wide, open doorway. Within, the level rays of the sun made
it very bright. Such marvels of gold, of ornamentation, such glorious
tapestries and vivid colors had never before greeted the eyes of the
four who stared, awed.
At the extreme end, where it faced the rising sun, was set a huge golden
placque, a plate of gold many feet square. Its center was so carved and
ornamented that it presented a rude semblance of a human face, eyes,
nose, mouth: from the sides of its circle spread in every direction
golden rays. It was a marvel of workmanship and of treasure.
After the Inca and his companion had performed certain rites they came
out and more chants marked the resumption of the processional. They
moved only a short way off, stopping again. Where they paused was an
altar, a sinister object to Cliff and his comrades: they shuddered.
The chief priest advanced with some chant on his lips and began to use a
strange curved mirror with which he concentrated the rays of the hot sun
upon some prepared material on the altar.
“They have no fires burning during the fast days,” Bill told his
friends, “now the priest kindles the sacred fire with his mirror and
some of it is given to certain Virgins of the Sun to guard. It is mighty
serious for them if they ever dare to let the fire go out during the
coming year.”
The priest succeeded in securing smoking embers and then a blaze. He
turned and made a sign and as he did so Cliff grew tense.
From a little distance a figure was led, heavily covered with white
garments and a long, tissue-like veil.
Cliff caught Challcuchima’s arm and gripped it tightly.
“What—what?” he stammered, and could not finish. He knew.
Challcuchima spoke quietly. They seldom made human sacrifices, to Raymi,
but their corn was being destroyed; they hoped by this unusual proof of
their religious ardor to placate the angry god.
“Remember,” Cliff’s voice shook and he could hardly recall the dialect
he must use, “when we wrestled—you made a promise!”
Challcuchima seemed to guess what was coming. He drew back.
“I claim that promise, now—fulfil your promise,” gasped Cliff.
The high priest heard the raised voice. He paused in the work he did
with the fire, and walked quickly to Challcuchima. The Inca, also,
turned and frowned at Cliff.
Cliff, his dialect forgotten, spoke in English.
“You shan’t!” he cried, his head high, arms thrown upward as if he were
veritably the young god he represented to them. “It is criminal! Chally,
you promised me anything I’d ask. I ask for that innocent girl’s life.
Spare it—or——” He made a menacing gesture.
The high priest glowered and the Inca scowled. Challcuchima drew further
away from Cliff.
“What does he say?” he asked of the priest.
Cliff, in vivid sunlight, stared at Bill. To his amazement, Bill was
scratching his left ear with his middle finger!