THE FINDING OF THE DATE-STONE
“Always in my earlier days in my City of the Sacred Well,” says Don
Eduardo, “the question was in my mind as to the age of the city. Every
carved stone I found, I scanned eagerly for some clue and I should say,
perhaps, right here, that while we can often gain only an inkling of
the meaning of the Maya hieroglyphs and in some cases no understanding
at all, the date-glyphs are plain sailing. We can read them, I think,
as readily as we would read dates written in English. With but a little
training any one may do this.
“But though I looked on engraved stones by the hundreds, there were
no dates. Again and again I questioned the natives: ‘When do you think
these buildings were erected and who built them?’ Invariably came the
patient answer, ‘_Quien sabe?_’—‘Who knows?’
“Among these Indians was an old fellow whose face hauntingly reminds
me of an ancient picture of a Hebrew patriarch that I have seen in
some forgotten place. One day we were clearing the brush from a gentle
terrace to make ready for the planting of corn. I called the attention
of my overseer to several mounds upon a large near-by terrace, telling
him that we must surely dig into them as soon as we could find time,
to see if they contained any relics. Suddenly my grizzled patriarch
straightened up and gazed at the mounds and then came over to me,
saying as he pointed to the tallest of the mounds, ‘That one has in it
a stone book written by my fathers.’ Here at last was something, of
no value, possibly, but better far than the eternal ‘_Quien sabe?_’
Eagerly I asked him how he came by this idea and he said that in the
days of his great, great grandfather this temple mound was known as
Mul-huun-tunich, the Hill of the Stone Book. He said that he had been
told this by his father and his grandsire had told his father and a
high priest had so told his grandfather. I could get no more out of
him, but he stuck doggedly to this brief tale.
“I had passed the mound several times and now I gazed at it with fresh
interest. It was covered with a tangled growth of vines and thicket
and well-grown trees, reminding me of what some philosopher has so
truly said—that the most perfect works of men are soon covered by
forests which grow an inch a day. If this mound had ever been a stately
edifice, all semblance had long since passed. The bat or serpent might
find a cavity in its ruined space, but if any carving of god or hero
were to be found, it was well hidden from my prying eyes.
“At once I began the task of clearing away the young growth and the
stumps of what had been sizable trees and beneath these were other
decaying tree stumps. In this ruined area, which is perhaps three
thousand feet to the south of the Great Pyramid of El Castillo, is a
terrace, rising about twenty feet above the general level. On this
terrace, which once had smooth, sloping sides, are ruined buildings
with a bit here and there still standing, surrounded with shapeless
heaps of fallen stone. The hill of the stone book, as it was called by
my old Indian, was on the northeastern edge of this terrace, pyramidal
in form and sharply defined.
“My better judgment told me I was wasting time in heeding the vaporings
of the old Indian while more important tasks waited, but my interest
and curiosity were touched and I urged my men to strenuous effort,
resisting with difficulty the temptation to dig at once into the
center of the mound. We cleared the undergrowth in patches and burned
it, so that the valuable timber would not be injured by the heat, nor
the stones in the mound calcined. While most of the men were thus
engaged I selected a few picked workers and we began the excavation
of the pyramidal mound. We found not only trees growing above buried
stumps, but charred stumps even below these. My old Indian examined
carefully the cuts upon these deep-buried stumps and logs and said that
these marks had not been made by ax, hatchet, machete, or any modern
implement that he had ever seen. In all probability this earliest
felling was done before the coming of the white man with his cutting
edges of metal.
“I wondered who could have cut down the big trees around the pyramid.
How could trees have been permitted to grow here or have been burned
so close to buildings inhabited or in use? Evidently the burning and
cutting, ancient as it might have been, had yet been done many, many
years after the structure was abandoned.
“At last we had a space cleared all around the base of the mound and we
sorted over the loose stones, looking for inscriptions, but came across
nothing of unusual interest. We found the mound to be four-sided and
truncated, with broad steps leading up all four sides and with the
principal stairway facing the west. The pyramid was in ruins and the
upper outline obliterated. Close to the base of the main stairway we
uncovered a semi-recumbent stone figure, part man and part animal, of
the so-called Chac Mool type. It was still firmly cemented in place
and, like the stairway, faced the west. Just in front of this stone
figure we unearthed a small elaborately carved stone urn of pineapple
pattern, and a similar urn was dug up just to the rear of the Chac Mool
figure. The Chac Mool and the incense urns were much marred and pitted
by erosion, and the finding of charcoal in fragments and granules all
about indicated that a deliberate effort had been made to destroy these
priceless things.
“Gradually we cleared the earth and fallen stones and mortar from the
main staircase. Many nests of lovely mauve-colored wood-doves were
destroyed as we felled the trees. We saved as many as we could, but for
several hours the mournful cries of the bereaved feathered creatures
sounded from the neighboring forest like the wails of the departed
spirits of those who had lived and died beside this old, old temple.
“On the southern slope a huge _chaib_, a species of boa-constrictor,
beautifully marked with splashes of green and brown, was awakened from
its slumbers deep in some rocky cavity of the pyramid and came surging
down the mound with watchful head held high and graceful body bending
the bushes in its path as it disappeared into the thicket below.
“The bees of Yucatan are kindly and have no sting, but the wasps
more than make up for the impotence of the bees. The most venomous
wasps, the _x-hi-chac_, build flat nests that cling as closely and
unobtrusively to the tree trunks as porous plasters. One of the trees
we felled contained such a nest. Lightning is slow compared with
the speed of these insects, and I, personally, would just about as
willingly be struck by lightning as to encounter the sting of the
_x-hi-chac_. I think lightning would be less painful. Several of the
men were badly stung and while I gave them first aid by applying
ammonia to their hurts, and provided drinks of a refreshing nature, the
victims spent a sleepless, feverish night. They were weak and in low
spirits in the morning, but we resumed our task nevertheless.
“Clearing the way a step at a time, we finally reached a level,
well-built platform at a height of thirty feet. At the rear of the
platform was the jagged outlined wall of what had been a small temple
and directly before it were two large Atlantean figures of unusual
type. I had seen many squat stone figures in and about the city but
never before such large ones or figures carved with such fierce
grandeur of expression. They were intricately carved and highly
conventionalized. Each was garbed in an embossed head-dress, breast
pendants, loincloth, and sandals. Every detail was clearly worked, even
to the carved strands of rope holding the sandals—sandals bearing
a striking resemblance to those worn by the prehistoric or archaic
Gauchos of the Canary Islands, which again suggests the plausibility of
Plato’s Lost Atlantis.
“And as we cleared the debris away it became evident that these massive
figures, so stiff and majestic, had originally sustained the front
or façade of the temple. My curiosity and excitement had now reached
a point where every slight delay was nerve-racking and the two grim
guardians seemed to me like silent keepers of age-old secrets, ready
to come to life and destroy the prying humans who dared invade their
sacred domain.
“Little by little we removed the earth and rubbish. Slowly we
progressed between the colossal figures, excavating with great
difficulty the compacted mortar and stone which had fallen and become
almost as a single stone. About three feet back of the statues was a
huge stone covered with inscriptions. Was it the stone book? I cast
aside all philosophic calmness and dropped to my knees, clawing away
with my bare hands at the debris which obscured the inscriptions, until
my nails were broken and my fingers bleeding.
“Here indeed was the Huun-tunich, the Stone Book, the Rosetta Stone of
my ancient, lovely, and forgotten City of the Sacred Well! I am not
ashamed of the fever of excitement which possessed me and communicated
itself to my wondering Indians, who had not the slightest idea why the
mad white man should become so wrought up over the finding of merely
another stone with queer writings on it. But, then, what matter! White
men are always a little insane, anyway, and one never knows what folly
they will attempt next.
“With sharpened twigs I cleaned out all the incised lines, until the
inscription on the exposed face stood forth clearly. Not till then did
I attempt to read it. And there, among the glyphs I could not at once
decipher, my eye caught a date-sign fairly jumping out to meet me.
Cycle Ten, Katun Two, Tun Nine, Uinal One—in other words, 600 A.
D.!
“It had been my secret hope that somewhere, somehow, I should be able
to find an authentic date in Chi-chen Itza, some inscription which had
eluded the eyes of other searchers. The Chronicles mention various
dates in connection with the ancient city, but this added proof was
needed to carry us over the threshold from probability into the realm
of incontrovertible fact, just as the finds in the Sacred Well proved
for us the veracity of the legends.
“This date-stone does not by any means indicate that the city was
founded in 600 A. D., but that this particular temple,
whatever its purpose may have been, was built or dedicated at that
time. Imagine some terrible catastrophe befalling the United States,
wiping out all our people and leaving our cities to fall in ruins and
become covered with forests with the passing of hundreds of years. Then
imagine an archæologist, even one as mad as myself, digging into these
ruins and coming upon that block of granite which now stands over the
entrance to the New York Corn Exchange and tells us in unmistakable
terms when the building was erected. His find would be of tremendous
historical value—a definite date standing out clearly from the misty
past. But still he would not know nor have any clear idea of the date
of the founding of New Amsterdam and no clue to the interesting history
of those sturdy Dutch patroons who first built a village at the mouth
of the Hudson.
“And so it is with my Sacred City. There is not in all the world a
metropolis living or dead more mysterious, more dowered with romance.
Its age, its origin, even the racial identity of its builders, are
each and all sunk in mystery so profound that I doubt if we shall ever
fathom them.
“I was so elated over my discovery that I at once promised double pay
to each man for the month and declared that we would have a fiesta
that all would remember for miles around and describe in later years
to their sons. I tried to tell them how important was our find, but
the double pay and the fiesta were much more eloquent to them than any
words I could utter. I singled out the old Indian whose great, great
grandfather had passed down the tale of the stone book. His face was
as impassive as the faces of the stone gods about us, as befitted his
dignity, but I could see it cost him a tremendous effort not to shout
with glee and dance about like a small boy, and he gloried in the fact
that he had not led me astray. Drawing his bent frame erect, he said,
‘Did I not say so and did my great grandfather ever lie?’
“Careful measurements showed that the stone had been the lintel of the
doorway. Each end had rested upon and was securely cemented to the
heads and supporting upraised arms of the huge Atlantean figures, thus
forming an integral portion of the main temple entrance. This is not an
unusual Mayan arrangement and, as previously mentioned, there is in the
Akzab Tzib, or House of the Writing in the Dark, a similar lintel but
without a date.
“A very long time must have elapsed since the abandonment of this
temple. A seed of the _chac-te_ tree was carried by the winds or the
birds and dropped in the entrance, a little to one side of the center.
This tree is of extremely hard wood and it grows slowly. It grew to a
sapling and at last into a big tree whose roots by their upward thrust
toppled over the central portion of the façade. The lintel fell to the
ground, but its fall was softened by the pile of powdered mortar and
stone which had already sifted down, and fortunately the priceless
relic was unbroken. Time passed; the big tree died and decayed. All
this we know by the casts of the gnarled roots left in the grouting
beneath the temple platform. Once again fertile Nature planted a seed
under the tablet, carried to its earthy bed down under the fallen
stones by some rodent or fruit-eating bat. And this was the seed of the
_yax-nic_—a tree as hard as iron and as long-lived as its predecessor.
It too grew to great size and its roots tilted the stone tablet to one
side and, finally dying, left its epitaph written in root-casts or
molds. Again ever-vigilant Mother Nature planted a seed, this time of
a tree of soft, quick-growing wood, and the roots encircled the tablet
as in a mighty hand; and thus we found it when we cut down the tree.
Fortunately, the previous trees, which exude an acidic sap, had done
the tablet no harm and the last tree had by its clasp rather protected
the tablet than harmed it. And how easily Nature might have contrived,
with her cycles of life, for the destruction of this treasure!
“The day passed and darkness came, but I could not leave the spot. I
dismissed my Indians and took the photographic cloth from my camera and
covered the tablet and then piled over it some pliant boughs of trees.
But, like the youth who lingers over his adieus to his sweetheart, I
uncovered the stone again and sat beside it until the moon was bright
overhead. My vagrant fancy carried me back over the centuries and I
saw smooth highways crossing and recrossing, and along these highways
populous cities with the towering outlines of massive temples and the
carved edifices of kings and nobles. I could hear the soft, silvery
laughter of women bearing water-jugs, as they met in groups along the
tree-shaded avenues, and there were merchants and bearers of burdens
traveling to and fro from the market-places, and resplendent warriors
and haughty peers and solemn priests. And there was the scent of
incense smoke and a high, clear voice was chanting the invocation to
Kukul Can....
“I was aroused by the voice of one of my Indians, a quaint fellow who
always addressed me as Ah Kin (High Priest)—why I do not know. ‘Ah
Kin,’ said he, ‘Master, the voices of the birds are stilled; your
food is cold and untasted; I beseech you to come and eat.’ I arose
and went with him, but I could not eat; and all night, as I tossed
in my hammock, I saw the tablet and its every inscription as clearly
as though it were actually before my eyes, and early in the morning
I was back at its resting-place. That day we carefully raised it and
replaced it firmly upon the heads and upraised arms of the impassive
stone guardians—serene, majestic figures that have witnessed a mighty
civilization and its passing into the dust of oblivion. Once again
their arms hold the graven tablet as of old, but their mute lips which
might tell so much are silent and in their changeless gaze is the
haunting, immutable introspection of the Sphinx.”