THE CURSE OF ZIBALBAY
Thankful enough was I to rise from the ground feeling my life whole
in me.
“Death has been near to us,” said the señor with something between a
sob and a laugh, as we followed Zibalbay and Maya into the
guard-house.
“He is near to us still,” I answered, “but at least, unless Tikal
changes his mind, we have won some days of respite.”
“Thanks to her,” he said, nodding towards Maya, and as he spoke we
entered the guard-house, a small chamber with a massive door, somewhat
roughly furnished.
So soon as we were in, the door was shut upon us, and we found
ourselves alone. Zibalbay sat himself down, and, fixing his eyes upon
the wall, stared at it as though it offered no hindrance to his sight,
but the rest of us stood together near the door, listening to the
turmoil of the multitude without. Clearly argument ran high among
them, for we could hear the sound of angry voices, of shouting, and of
the hurrying footfalls of the people leaving the pyramid by way of the
great stair.
“You have saved our lives for a while, for which we owe you thanks,”
said the señor to Maya presently, “but tell me, what will they do
with us now?”
“I cannot say,” she answered, “but in this pyramid are chambers where
we shall be hidden away until our day of trial. At the least I think
so, for they dare not let us out among the people, lest we should
cause a tumult in the city.”
Before the words had left her lips the door was opened, and through it
came Tikal, Mattai, and other of the great lords who were hostile to
Zibalbay.
“What is your pleasure with us?” asked Zibalbay, awaking from his
dream.
“That you should follow me,” answered Tikal sternly, “you and the
others,”--adding, with a low bow to Maya, “forgive me, Lady, that I
must exercise this violence towards you and your father, but I have no
other choice if I would save you from the vengeance of the people.”
“It is not the vengeance of the people that we have to fear, Tikal,”
she answered quietly, “but rather your hate.”
“Which it is in your power to appease, lady,” he said in a low voice.
“It may be in my power, but it is not in my will,” she answered,
setting her lips. “Come, cousin, take us to the dungeon that you have
prepared for us.”
“As you wish,” he said; “follow me.” And he led the way across the
guard-house, through a sleeping-chamber of the priests that lay behind
it, to the further wall that was hidden by a curtain.
This curtain, on being drawn, revealed a small stone door, which
Mattai, having first lit some lamps that stood ready in the chamber,
unlocked with a key which hung at his girdle. One by one we passed
through the door, Tikal preceding us, and Mattai, with others of the
great lords, to the number of six, following after us. Beyond the door
lay a flight of twenty steps, then came a gate of copper bars. On the
further side of this gate were flight upon flight of steps, joined
together by landings, and running, now in this direction now in that,
into the bowels of the mighty pyramid. At length, when my limbs were
weary of descending so many stairs, we found ourselves in front of
other gates, larger and more beautifully worked than those that we had
already passed. Presently they clanged behind us, and we stood in a
vast apartment or hall that was built in the heart of the pyramid. It
would seem that this hall had been made ready for our coming, for it
was lighted with many silver lamps, and in one part of it rugs were
laid and on them stood tables and seats. So great was the place that
the light of the lamps shone in it only as stars shine in the sky,
still, as we passed down it, we saw that its roof was vaulted, and
that its walls and floor were of white marble finely polished. Once,
as we learned afterwards, it had served as the assembly-rooms for the
priests of the temple, but now that they were so few it was not used,
except from time to time as a prison for offenders of high rank. At
intervals along its length were doors leading to sleeping and other
chambers. Some of the doors were open, and as we passed them Mattai
told us that these were to be our bed-chambers. Then, having announced
that food would be brought to us, the nobles, headed by Tikal,
withdrew, and we heard the copper gates clash and the echo of their
footsteps die into nothingness upon the endless stairs.
For a while we stood staring at each other in silence. It was Zibalbay
who broke it, and his voice rang strangely in the vaulted place.
“It is his hour now,” he said, shaking his fists towards the stair by
which Tikal had left us, “but let him pray that mine may never come,”
and suddenly he turned and, walking to a couch, flung himself upon it
and buried his face in his hands.
Maya followed him and, bending down, strove to comfort him, but he
waved her away and she came back to us.
“This is a gloomy place,” said the señor, in a half whisper, for here
one scarcely dared to speak aloud because of the echoes that ran about
the walls, “but, dark though it is, it seems safer than the summit of
the pyramid, where sword-points are so many,” and he pointed to a
little cut upon his throat.
“It is safe enough,” Maya answered, with a bitter laugh, “and safely
will it keep our bones till the world’s end, for through those gates
and the men that guard them there is no escape, and the death that
threatened us in the sunshine shall overtake us in the shadow. Did I
not warn you against this mad quest and the seeking of the city of my
people? I warned you both, and you would not listen, and now the
trouble is at hand and your lives will pay the forfeit for your folly
and my father’s.”
“What must be, must be,” answered the señor with a sigh, “but for my
part I hope that the worst is past and that they will not kill us. It
was your father’s rashness which brought these evils on us, and
perhaps misfortune may teach him wisdom.”
“Never,” she answered, shaking her head, “for they are right; on this
matter he is mad, as you, Ignatio, are mad also. Come, let us look at
our prison, for I have not seen it till this hour,” and, taking one of
the hand-lamps that stood near, she walked down the length of the
hall. At its further end were gates similar to those by which we had
entered, and through them came a draught of air.
“Where do they lead?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she answered, “perhaps to the Sanctuary by a secret
way. At least the pyramid is full of these chambers, that in old days
were used for many things, such as the storage of corn and weapons,
and the burying-places of priests, thousands of whom are at rest
within it. Now they are empty and deserted.”
As we walked back again I stopped before a wooden door that stood
ajar, leading into one of the chambers of which I have spoken.
“Let us go in,” said Maya, pushing it open, and we entered, to find
ourselves in a small room lined with shelves. On these shelves, each
of which was numbered, lay hundreds of rolls thickly covered with
dust. Maya took up one of them at a hazard and unrolled the parchment,
revealing a manuscript beautifully executed in the picture-painting of
the Indians.
“This must be nearly a thousand years old,” she said; “I know it by
the style of the painting. Well, we shall not lack history to read
while we sojourn here,” and she threw the priceless roll back on to
its shelf and left the chamber.
A few steps further on we came to another room of which the door was
closed, but so rotten was the woodwork with age that a push freed it
from its fastenings, and we entered. Here also there were shelves,
packed some of them with yellow and some with white bars of metal.
“Copper and lead,” said the señor glancing at them.
“Not so,” answered Maya with a laugh, “but that which you white men
covet, gold and silver. Look what is painted above the shelves,” and
she held up the lamp and read: “Pure metal from the southern mines,
set apart for the service of the Temple of the Heart, and of the
Temples of the East and West. Of gold--such a weight; of silver--such
a weight.”
I stared and my eyes grew greedy, for here in this one room, neglected
and forgotten, was enough wealth to carry out my purpose three times
over, stored there by the forefathers of this strange rust-eaten race.
Ah, if only I could see one half of it safe across the mountains, how
great might be my future and that of the people which I lived to
serve.
“Perhaps you may win it after all, Ignatio,” said Maya, interpreting
my thoughts, “but, to be frank, I fear that you will gain nothing
except a sepulchre in these gloomy vaults.”
After this we visited several chambers that were empty, or filled only
with the wreck of moth-eaten tapestries and curious furnitures, till
at length we came to a room, or rather a large cupboard, piled from
floor to ceiling with golden vessels of the most quaint and ancient
workmanship, which had been discarded by the priests and cast aside as
worthless,--why, I do not know. In front of this gleaming pile stood a
chest, unlocked, that the señor opened. It was packed with priestly
ornaments of gold, set with great emeralds. Maya picked out a belt
from the box and gave it to me, saying:
“Take it, Ignatio, since you love such trinkets. It will set off that
robe of yours.”
I took it and put it on, not over my robe, but beneath it. My friend,
it is the clasp of that belt, which now is yours, that I showed you a
while ago, and with the price of the other gems in it I bought this
_hacienda_ and all its lands.
Wearied at length by the sight of so much useless treasure, we
returned to Zibalbay, who was seated as we had left him, lost in
thought.
At this moment the gates of our prison were opened, and men came
through them, escorted by captains of the guard, bringing with them
food in plenty, which they set upon the table, waiting on us while we
ate, but speaking no word, good or bad. Our meal finished, they
cleared away the fragments, and, having replenished the lamps and
prepared the chambers for us to sleep in, they bowed and left us. For
a while we sat round the table, Zibalbay and I in silence, and Maya
and the señor talking together in a low voice, till at length the
dreariness of the place overcame us, and, as though by a common
impulse, we rose and sought the sleeping-vaults, there to rest, if we
might.
We slept, and woke, and rose again, though whether it was night or day
here, where no light came, we could not tell; indeed, as time went on,
our only means of distinguishing the one from the other was by the
visits of those who brought our food and waited on us.
I think it must have been in the early afternoon of the day following
that on which we were imprisoned, that Tikal visited us, accompanied
only by four guards.
“A small band,” said the señor as he watched them advance, “but
enough to put us to death, who are unarmed” (for all our weapons had
been taken from us), “if such should be their will.”
“Have no fear, friend,” said Maya, “they will not do murder so
openly.”
By now Tikal stood before us, bowing, and Zibalbay, who as usual was
seated brooding at the table, looked up and saw him.
“What do you seek, traitor?” he asked angrily, the blood flushing
beneath his withered skin. “Would you kill us? If so, slay on, for
thus shall I come the sooner to the bosom of that god whose vengeance
I call down upon you.”
“I am no murderer, Zibalbay,” answered Tikal with dignity. “If you
die, it will be by the command of the law that you have broken, and
not by mine. I am here to speak with you, if you will come apart with
me.”
“Then speak on before these others, or leave your words unsaid,” he
answered, “for not one step will I stir with you, who doubtless seek
some opportunity to stab me in the back.”
“Yet it is necessary that you should hear what I have to say,
Zibalbay.”
“Say on then, traitor, or go.”
Tikal thought for a while, looking doubtfully at Maya, from whose fair
face, indeed, he rarely took his eyes.
“Is it your wish that I should withdraw?” she asked shortly.
“It is not mine,” said Zibalbay; “stay where you are, daughter.”
Now Tikal hesitated no longer, but, bidding the guards who had
accompanied him to fall back out of earshot, he said:
“Listen, Zibalbay; yesterday, before the gathering on the pyramid, I
saw your daughter, the Lady Maya, and spoke with her, telling her that
now, as always, I loved her, although, believing her to be dead, for
reasons of state I had taken another woman to be my wife. Then I made
her this offer: That if she would consent to become my wife I would
put away Nahua, whom I had married. Moreover, I added this, that I
would give up my place as _cacique_ to you, Zibalbay, whose it is by
right, to hold for so long as you should live, and would not oppose
you or your policy in any matter. I told her, on the other hand, that
if she refused to become my wife, I would surrender nothing, but would
put out my strength to crush you and her and these strangers, your
friends. She answered me with contempt, saying that I might do my
worst, but she would have naught to say to me. What happened
afterwards you know, Zibalbay, and you know also the danger in which
you stand to-day, now that power has left you, and your very life
trembles in the balance.”
He paused, and Zibalbay, who had been listening to his words amazed,
turned to Maya and said sternly:
“Does this man speak lies, daughter?”
As she was about to answer,--though what she meant to say I do not
know,--Tikal broke in:
“What is the use of asking her, Zibalbay? Is it to be thought that she
will answer you truly, though that I speak truth this wanderer who
stands at your side can bear witness, for he was present and heard my
words. This offer I made to her, and, that it may be put beyond a
doubt, now I make it to her and to you again. If she will take me in
marriage, for her sake I will put away Nahua; I will lay down my rule
and set you in your place again, with liberty, so long as you shall
live, to work such follies as the gods may suffer. All these things I
will do because I love her to whom I have been affianced from my youth
up, better than them all, because she is as the light to mine eyes and
the breath to my nostrils, and without her I have no joy in life, as I
have had none since I believed her to be dead.”
Zibalbay heard, and, rising, lifted his hand to the vault above him,
and said:
“I thank thee, O god, who, in answer to my prayers, hast shown me a
way of escape from the troubles that beset me. Tikal, it shall be as
you wish, and we will swear our peace upon the altar of the Heart.
Doubtless there will be trouble with Mattai and some of his following,
but if we stand together they can be overcome. Rejoice with me,
Ignatio, my friend, for now the seed that we have planted with so much
labour shall bring forth golden fruit.”
Here I heard the señor groan with doubt and wrath behind me, and knew
that, like so many others, this vision which filled my mind with glory
must be brought to nothing because of the fancy of a woman.
“Your pardon, Zibalbay,” I interrupted, “the Lady Maya has not
spoken.”
“Spoken!” he exclaimed. “Why, what should she say?”
“What I said to my cousin Tikal yesterday,” she answered, setting her
lips, and speaking very low,--“that I will have nothing to do with
him.”
“Nothing to do with him, girl! Nothing to do with him! Why he is your
affianced; you do not understand?”
“I understand well, father, but for naught that can be offered to me
upon the earth will I give myself in marriage to a man who has treated
you and me as my cousin Tikal has done,--a man who could not keep his
oath to you, or wait for me one single year.”
“Cease to be foolish,” said Zibalbay. “Tikal has erred, no doubt; but
now he would make atonement for his error, and if I can forgive him,
so can you. Think no more of the girl’s folly, Tikal, but send for ink
and parchment and let us set down our contract, for I am old and have
little time to lose; and perhaps, before another year is gone, that
which you would have snatched by force shall come to you by right.”
“I have the paper here, lord,” said Tikal, drawing a roll from his
breast; “but, pardon me, does the Lady Maya consent?”
“Aye, aye, she consents.”
“I do _not_ consent, father, and if you drag me to the altar with
yonder man, I will cry out to the people to protect me, or, failing
their aid, I will seek refuge in death,--by my own hand if need be.”
Now Zibalbay turned upon his daughter, trembling with rage, but,
checking himself of a sudden, he said:
“Tikal, for the moment this girl of mine is mad; leave us, and come
back in some few hours, when you shall find her of another mind. Go
now, I pray, before words are said that cannot be forgotten.”
Tikal turned and went, and, until the gates at the far end of the hall
had clashed behind him and his guards, there was silence.
Then Zibalbay spoke to his daughter.
“Girl,” he said, “I know your heart and that your lips spoke a lie,
when you told us that it was because of Tikal’s forgetfulness of his
vow and troth that you will not marry him. There is another reason of
which you have not spoken. This white man, who in his own country is
named James Strickland, is the reason. You have suffered yourself to
look on him with longing, and you cannot pluck his image from your
breast. Do I not speak truth?”
“You speak truth, father,” she answered, placing her hand in that of
the señor as she said the words. “To you, at least, I will not lie.”
“I thank you, daughter. Now, hear me; I am sorry for your plight and
for that of the white man, if indeed he would make of you anything
more than his toy, but here your wishes must give way to the common
good. Who and what are you that your whims should stand between me and
the fulfilment of my lifelong desire, between your people and their
redemption? Must all these things come to nothing because of the
fancies of a love-sick girl, whose poor beauty, as it chances by
favour of the gods, can avail to bring them about?”
“It seems so, father,” she said, “seeing that in this matter my duty
to myself and to him who loves me, and whom I love, is higher than my
duty to you and to your scheme. Everything else you, who are my
father, may require of me, even to my life, but my honour is my own.”
“What shall I say to this headstrong girl?” gasped Zibalbay. “Speak,
White Man, and tell me that you renounce her, for surely your heart is
not so wicked that it will lead you to consent to this folly, and to
your own undoing to stand between her and her destiny.”
Now all eyes were fixed upon the señor, who turned pale in the
lamplight and answered slowly:
“Zibalbay, I grieve to vex you, but your daughter’s destiny and mine
are one, nor can I command her to forsake me and give herself in
marriage to a man she hates.”
“Yet it seems that you could command her to break her plighted troth
for your sake, O most honourable White Man,” said Zibalbay with a
bitter laugh. “Hearken, friend Ignatio, for you at least are not in
love, tell your brother there and this rebellious girl which way their
duty lies. Teach them that we are sent here to dwell upon the earth
for higher ends than the satisfying of our own desires. Stay, before
you speak, remember that with this matter your own fate is interwoven.
Remember how you have suffered and striven for many years, remember
all you have undergone to win what to-day lies in your grasp, the
wealth that shall enable you to carry out your purposes. There, in
those vaults, it lies to your hand, and if that be not enough I will
give you more. Take it, Ignatio, take it to bribe your enemies and pay
your armies, and become a king, a righteous king, crowned by heaven to
complete the destinies of our race. Say such words as shall bend this
girl and her lover to our will, and triumph; or fail to say them, and
some few days hence meet the end of a thief at the hands of Tikal. Now
speak.”
I heard him, and my heart stood still within me. Alas! his words were
true, and now was the turning-point of my fate. If the girl would give
herself to Tikal, who was mad with love of her, all would be well, and
within three years the dream of my race might be fulfilled, and the
vengeance of generations accomplished upon the spawn of the accursed
Spaniard. There in those vaults, useless and forgotten, lay the
treasures that I needed, and yonder in Mexico were men in thousands
who by their means might be armed and led; but between me and them
stood the desire of this woman and the folly of my friend. Oh! truly
had my heart warned me against her when first I learned to know her
lovely face, having foreknowledge of the evil that she should bring
upon me. With her I could do nothing, for who can turn a woman from
her love or hate? But with my friend it was otherwise; he would listen
to me if I pleaded with him, seeing that not only my hopes but my very
life hung upon his answer, and no true man has the right to bring
others to their death in order that he may fulfil the wishes of his
heart. Also, it would be better that he should be separated from this
girl, who was not of his blood and colour, and whose love soon or late
would be his undoing. Surely I should do well to pray him to let her
go to the man whose affianced she had been, and he would do well to
hearken to me. Almost the entreaty was upon my lips when Maya, reading
my thought, touched me on the arm and whispered:
“Remember your oath, Ignatio.” Then I called to mind what I had
promised yonder in the desert, when by her courage she had saved her
lover’s life, and knew that once again a woman must be my ruin, since
it is better to lose all than to break such vows as this.
“Zibalbay,” I said, “I cannot plead your cause and mine, though not to
do so be our destruction, seeing that I have sworn that, come what
may, I will not stand between these two. To-day, for the second time
in my life, my plans are brought to nothing by the passion of a woman.
Well, so it is fated, and so let it be!”
Zibalbay did not answer me, but, turning to the señor, he said:
“White Man, you have heard from your friend words that should touch
you more deeply than any prayer. Will you still cling to your purpose,
and take advantage of my daughter’s madness? If so, know that your
triumph shall be short, for when, in some few hours, Tikal comes
again, I will tell him all and give you over to his keeping to deal
with as he wishes. Then Heaven help you, wanderer, for he is vengeful
by nature, nor is that life likely to be long which bars the way
between a ruler of men and the woman he would wed. Answer then, and
for the last time: Do you choose life or death?”
“I choose death,” he said, boldly, “if the price of life be the
breaking of my troth and the surrender of my bride to another man. I
am sorry for you, Zibalbay; and for you, Ignatio, my friend, I am
still more sorry: but it is fate and not I that has brought these
evils on you. If Ignatio here cannot forget his oath, how much less
can I forget mine, which I have sworn with this lady. Moreover, worse
fortune even than to-day’s would come upon us if I did, seeing that
such cowardice could breed no luck. Therefore, till the Lady Maya
renounces me, for good or for evil, in death or in life, I will cleave
to her.”
“And in death or in life I will cleave to you, beloved,” she said.
“Take such vengeance as you wish upon us, my father, yes, if you wish,
give over this man, to whom my heart drew me across the mountains and
the desert, to die at the hands of Tikal; but know that he will hold
me faster dead than he did while he was alive, for into the valley of
death I shall follow him swiftly.”
Now at last the rage of Zibalbay broke loose, and it was terrible.
Rising from his seat he shook his clenched hands above his daughter’s
head and cursed her, till in her fear she shrank away from him to her
lover’s breast.
“As with my last breath,” he cried, “I pray that the curse of your
gods, of your country, of your ancestors, and of me, your father, may
rest upon you and your children. May your desire turn to ashes in your
mouth, and may death rob you of its fruit; may your heart break by
inches for remorse and sorrow, and your name become a hissing and a
shame. Oh! I seem to see the future, and I tell you, daughter, that
you shall win him for whose sake you brought your father to death and
ruin. By fraud shall you win him, and for a while he shall lie at your
side, and this is the price that shall be asked of you, and that you
shall pay,--the doom of your race, and its destruction at your
hands--”
He paused, gasping for breath, and Maya fell at his knees, sobbing:
“Oh! father, unsay those words and spare me. Have you no pity for a
woman’s heart?”
“Ay!” he said, “so much pity as you have for my sorrows and grey hair.
Why should I spare you, girl, who have not spared me, your father. My
curse is spoken, and I will add this to it, that it shall break your
heart at last, ay! and the heart of that man who has robbed me of your
duty and your love.”
Then suddenly he ceased speaking, his eyes grew empty, he stretched
out his arms and fell heavily to the floor.