STORY-TELLERS OF YUCATAN
In wet weather the archæologist may take either a well-earned rest or
he may busy himself with cataloguing and packing the trophies of his
trusty pick and shovel.
“One day when the rain and the Evil Wind conspired to keep us indoors,”
says Don Eduardo, “I found it much more interesting to listen to the
yarns of the Indians than to work at routine tasks. All I can say in
self-defense is that in Yucatan the subtle contagion of ‘mañana’ does
get into one’s blood.
“My Indians are all very superstitious. They believe whole-heartedly in
witches and elves, and if one digs deep enough he finds a good deal of
veneration for several deities not mentioned in the Bible. One of these
is Balam, the jaguar, known in ancient times as the lord and protector
of the fields.
“These simple folk believe in ghosts which walk amid the ruins of the
Sacred City, and they believe in all manner of fortune-telling and
divination. They are particularly partial to crystal-gazing, using a
crystal called _zaz-tun_.
“Among my Indians was Bat Buul, a little old fellow with twinkling
eyes black as the seeds of the _jabin_ fruit, and ears that actually
wagged when he became excited in telling a story. His big thick-lipped,
sensual mouth was ever ready to laugh heartily at a joke, even though
the joke chanced to be on Bat Buul himself. Old as he was, he had still
the supple quickness of a boy.
“Bat Buul, whose name means ‘bean ax,’ was a native of the neighboring
village of Pisté and he was famous as a raconteur in a land where good
tellers of stories are highly esteemed. More often than not he was the
hero of the stories he told, and as he warmed up to the telling, he
would become tremendously excited and his black eyes would snap and
burn with the intensity of his narration.
“One of his best stories, that of the _xtabay_ or forest lorelei, has
the sweet flavor of those wonderful old Greek myths of nymphs and
satyrs and of gods come down from Mount Olympus for a holiday.
“Often one sees glimmering gossamer flecks twisting, twirling as
they scurry onward, aimlessly borne by a vagrant breeze. They look
like a flock of diaphanous butterflies, but in reality they are the
flying seeds of a climbing vine. The vine bears a slender, delicate,
snowy flower and the seed-case is an olive-green oval pod filled
with thousands of seeds. The seed mass is bisected within the pod by
a light, silky membrane. As the ripening progresses the pod becomes
chestnut in color and at last bursts open. The membrane with the seeds
clinging to it falls out, but is brought up short in its descent by
a thin filament that remains attached to the lower end of the pod.
The fall detaches the seeds from the membrane, or they are soon blown
clear, to be carried at the will of the wind. Each of the tiny seeds
has a transparent wing or tissue.
“Curiously, the two halves of the dried seed-pod are perfect natural
combs, which are much used by native women, who believe that use of
these combs supplied by Nature herself preserves the natural color and
luster of the hair. The natives far and wide speak of them as the combs
of the _xtabay_—forest nymphs, dryads, or lorelei—and many, like Bat
Buul, claim to have seen the nymphs combing their silken tresses. In
the old days, also, the native belles used the combs, thinking thereby
to capture some of the elusive beauty of the mythical forest maidens.
“Before I proceed with Bat Buul’s story there is one other explanation
necessary to a full understanding of the tale. Far in the hinterlands
of Yucatan are Maya Indians still called the Unbaptized Ones and these
natives wear always about their necks chains of gold and in their ears
big hoops of gold wondrously adorned with filagree. The men, even
more commonly than the women, wear these ornaments, which is strange,
for among those natives who are at all civilized the men seldom wear
ear-rings or neck-chains, though these adornments are popular with the
women.
“But the belief is common over the whole peninsula that by wearing a
gold chain with a sacred relic or crucifix pendent from it one will be
protected from danger. Men engaged in hazardous occupations such as the
making of fireworks for fiestas and religious celebrations; butchers,
and those who work with mad white men digging in haunted cities
will tell you that such a chain is a potent charm against evil and
sudden danger. Gallants occasionally wear chains of this sort, as do
goldsmiths—rather out of vanity than for defense against ill-fortune.
Always, when worn by men, the neck chains are hidden under the shirt.
“Bat Buul, who, on his own admission, has tried his hand at almost
everything, is a goldsmith by trade, a maker of rockets when and
if these are required, and a beau gallant at all times. Naturally,
then, he wears a solid-gold chain of extra length and weight, with a
solid-gold cross at the end which has been blessed by the Archbishop of
Yucatan in the cathedral of Mérida.
“On this rainy day Bat Buul was resting luxuriously, ensconced upon a
_cauche_ in the store of Monica, in his natal village of Pisté. As I
entered the store after my three-mile ride in the rain from Chi-chen
Itza, Bat Buul was holding forth to an eager group of listeners. In
his hand was a thimble glass of that aromatic beverage _xtavantum_
and evidently it was not his first. He nodded to me as I joined the
audience, but did not pause in his talk. It was evident that he
determined to outdo himself for my benefit, being reasonably certain
that if pleased, I would do the gentlemanly thing in the way of
refreshment for all hands. As we would say in Americanese, ‘He was
going strong.’ I give you his story as nearly as I can in his own words:
“‘I, Bat Buul, am a man of great will-power. I say it—yes, and it is
so. I am not large of body, but I am great of heart and very strong.
There are those who have sought to prove my strength and they have
found it to be so. I do not say these things boastfully, for only vain
and cackling fools do that, and if I do say it, I am no fool. No man
can deceive me long—no, and no woman, either. Many have tried, but few
have succeeded, albeit most of those who have succeeded have been women.
“‘But it is not given to man that he should be hard of heart and
unbelieving toward women. No; many women have liked me; some have loved
me, and because of this my heart is ever soft to all women; that is—’
here Bat Buul swallowed an entire thimble tumblerful of the perfumed
liquor and gazed at us benevolently—‘that is, toward all _handsome_
women.
“‘Well, sir, one day I started for the deepest part of the forest where
I had some _chac-ti_ logs that I had cut and left to dry for charcoal
which I needed to make powder for my rockets. I had nearly reached the
point on the road to Chi-chen Itza where one turns to enter the deep
forest, when I noticed that I was beside the place where grow the ghost
flowers which come up in the night and wither in a day. I stopped for a
moment to look at them, for have I not told you many times that I love
the beautiful things of the forest? Then it was I heard a soft, sweet
sound like the notes of a bird very, very far away calling to its mate
or like a reed flute played by one who is sad.’
“The old man paused and deliberately rolled and lighted a corn-husk
cigarette. No one spoke. I have learned that it never pays to urge the
native story-teller to get on with his narrative; story-telling is a
rite which must be performed just so, and the artistic temperament
resents any interruption not of its own making.
“At length Bat Buul resumed:
“‘I looked around me and saw a beautiful woman sitting under a tree.
She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and she was crooning
to herself, and all the while she was combing her long, shining black
hair. Suddenly she looked up and saw me with her big, velvet eyes
that held a brightness like some deep, cool forest pool upon which the
sunlight falls between the leaves. But she said nothing and continued
to sing softly in that sweet, far-away voice of hers, while her rounded
arms slowly rose and fell as the comb slipped through her glorious
hair, so soft and fine that the little breezes one could scarcely feel
rippled and floated its tendrils.
“‘I went slowly closer to her and said quietly, in a way that I have
of my own, “My handsome one, why are you out here so lonely and all by
yourself?” I meant to say more, but she rose and moved a little away
from me. Yet her eyes shone more brightly and she stopped singing and
said ever so softly and sweetly, “Oh, Bat Buul!” Then she moved farther
away. She was—how shall I say?—not thin, not fat, but plump like the
wild partridge, and she moved as lightly as feather down. Yes, she
seemed to float, so effortless was her retreat. Well, have I not said
that my heart is soft toward a handsome woman? And so I followed her,
even though she led me quite away from where my _chac-ti_ logs were
drying in the sun.
“‘She said nothing, but again began to hum a tiny, wistful, haunting
melody and as she glided on she turned her head this way and that to
glance at a plant or to inhale the perfume of a flower. And ever she
kept an eye on me that seemed to invite me on and on.
“‘Farther and farther we went from my logs, and deeper and deeper into
the forest, and she seemed to grow more lovely at each step. Suddenly
I found that I had walked right into a thorny clump of _tynbins_ and
the _tynbin_ ants were swarming over me with their stings like the
pricking of red-hot needles, while she, on the other side, was as cool
and fresh as though she had but stepped from her morning bath.
“‘And then I began to wonder, although the pain of the stings was
very great. And when a man begins to wonder he is safe, for then he
usually finds out why he is in trouble. “Ah,” I thought, “when I first
saw this lovely maid she was sitting under a tree, combing her hair,
and she called to me.” And I remembered it was a _benote_, the tree
that the _xtabays_ ever seek for shade as they sit and sing and comb
their lovely hair and try to bring venturesome men to an awful death.
“And so the Xtabay of Pisté has tried to play with Bat Buul this day.
Poor thing! we shall see!” But all of this I said very softly to
myself, for I am a wily man when dealing with women. Then, as if still
unsuspecting, I worked my way out of the thicket. As she turned to
elude me again, quick as lightning I slipped my long gold chain from
my neck, hiding the crucifix in the palm of my hand. I know women and,
after all, the _xtabay_ is a woman, and a good-looking one at that.
“‘Then I stopped as if in surprise and said as I held up the chain,
“I wonder who dropped this beautiful chain.” The _xtabay_ stopped
singing and looked back at me. Just then a ray of sunlight touched the
chain and made it glitter. And the sweet creature came up to me with
unsuspecting curiosity and leaned close to look at the chain. Ah, I am
the one who knows women! So quickly that she hardly saw the flash, I
tossed the loop of the chain over her head so that it rested about her
neck, and then held up the sacred cross so that she could see it. For a
whole minute she stood perfectly still, then she began to tremble. Her
eyes filled with big, glistening tears and she looked at me piteously
and said with a sighing sob, “Oh, Bat Buul!”
“‘I felt sorry for her, for I am not heartless and she was one to melt
even the hardest heart, _xtabay_ or no _xtabay_. Yet I gave her only
an unrelenting look and an answer that left her hopeless, for I said
to her: “Things found by the roadside and unclaimed belong to him who
finds them there. That is the law and the custom; and, pray, who is
there to claim you from me?” She made no answer, but only bowed her
head and cried the harder. Then I gave a little tug at the chain and
said, “Come on home,” and she followed without a word of protest and
with great glistening tears dripping from her lovely eyes.
“‘And leading her in this fashion, I passed the big _tanauha_ where
all the animals of the forest drink their fill even in the driest
season. I passed the rock where little Pol Mis was slain by Ek Balam,
the jaguar—black pagan that he is! And we came to the _benote_ tree
with its green fruit like big arrow-heads standing sharp against the
sky—the very tree where I first saw this entrancing nymph who now
followed me like a dog on a leash. When we reached the tree she stopped
and looked at me with pleading agony in her eyes, such a look as I
never hope to see again upon the face of any woman and she said, “Oh,
Bat Buul!” and then again, “Oh, Bat Buul!” and in her voice was the
sound of strangled tears. A man does not like that sound, ever, for it
either hardens his heart and makes him more cruel than he should be or
it turns his heart to water and causes him to be more gentle than is
just and right.
“‘So I stopped and looked at her. I did not want to, but I could not
help it; and as I looked I knew that she was more beautiful than any
woman that ever lived, even though she were an _xtabay_ and without a
soul, as the priest tells us. She was marvelously formed—not thin, not
fat. Her flesh was as soft as a child’s, yet she was graceful and quick
in her movements. She was all that a woman should be. She seemed like
a bird just ready to fly. And, as I looked, I thought, “What will my
friends say and what will the priest say and do?” Her eyes, filled with
terror, pleaded with me more strongly than any words could have done.
“‘Ah, Señor, I have the big heart! I took off the chain of gold and
covered the crucifix in the palm of my hand and released her. For a
moment she did not move and I thought she hesitated and looked at me
as though she were really sorry to be free. I was a young man then and
not bad-looking, and even an _xtabay_ may know what it is to love. She
began to move slowly away, with light gliding steps. Then she stopped
and said to me in the voice of the wood-dove talking to its mate,
“Good-by, my Bat Buul.”
“‘I could not move, but stood there spellbound and looked at her, and
soon she reached the _benote_ tree where the shadows now lay thick and
dark. Here she paused and looked at me long and tenderly; and there
was no longer terror in her eyes, but, it seemed to me, only regret at
our parting. And the sun, which was just slipping beneath the horizon,
cast for a long moment a spell of gold that gleamed upon her glossy
hair like the sheen of light on polished ebony or the glint of many
tiny bits of bright metal; and this is queer, for her hair was like my
_chac-ti_ wood after it has been burned very long.
“‘Deeper and longer grew the shadows, and at last I could no longer see
her. I leaned a little forward and I was conscious that I was breathing
hard as though I had run a long distance, and still I seemed to hear
faintly the low, sweet song that she had crooned when first I saw her;
and at last even that faded into stillness. I do not know how long I
stood there, but it was almost dusk when I turned to retrace my steps.
I was a long way from home. As I slowly turned about, I saw something
at my feet that shone like dark metal. It was the seed-pod of the
_xtabay_ plant, which women sometimes use to comb their hair, and I was
about to kick it carelessly aside when I heard a voice, “Oh, Bat Buul!”
Just a whisper it was from far off in the forest. Then I knew it was
_her_ comb and I put it in my pocket, for she was a handsome woman and
I could not throw the comb away. I have the comb to-day, although this
happened long ago, when I was young and foolish.’
“Bat Buul paused and sat very still, his eyes seeming to look beyond
us and back into the past. He did not touch the refilled glass beside
him, even though he knew that the patron was paying for it and that by
drinking it speedily he might quickly obtain another. At last he said,
with a twinkle in his eye and more to himself than to his audience:
“‘I should like to see that _xtabay_ again; perhaps I should act
differently. And, then, perhaps I should act the same, for my heart is
still kind to women, especially if they are handsome women.’
• • • • •
“As I have said before, one of the most interesting things I have
encountered in Yucatan is the native custom of story-telling. Usually
the teller of stories is an old man or an old woman with a wide
repertoire of folk-lore. Ghosts, giants, fairies; mythical animals such
as white jaguars; miraculous humans, and the ancient gods—all appear
in these tales, which are told with amazing skill. A little group of
Indians will gather about the story-teller almost anywhere, in the
courtyard of a house or in the public square of a town, and they will
sit by the hour as the speaker goes on without pause from one weird
tale to another.
“I understand that in the near-by hamlet of Dzitas there is now a
motion-picture theater and the telling of stories has been largely
supplanted by the ‘movies,’ more’s the pity.
“The children are, of course, eager for stories, and nearly every
village has some kindly old woman willing to entertain the children
with oft-told tales. Such was X’Leut Cauich. X’Leut Cauich was old,
very old, and yet, even though the outer wrappings, the casings of her
mind and soul, were wrinkled with age, her mind and seemingly her soul
remained undeniably very young.
“‘T is ever said that youth seeks youth as sparks fly upward, and the
saying is a true one. Just so surely as old X’Leut seated herself
comfortably before the _koben_, or three-stone fireplace, in her
_na_ (palm-thatched house) and started to make with colored threads
and shining needle, on snow-white cotton cloth, the beautiful native
embroidery “_xoc-bui-chui_,” just so surely would the children of
the neighborhood spring up as if by magic from the very ground about
her and beg for a story. And old X’Leut, because she was a born
story-teller, never dreamed of denying them.
“Bit Euan; Phil Canul with his three brothers, all seemingly of an
age; Pol Cocom with his big, soft eyes and harelip; Pablo Perez and
his sister, white of skin, children of the Spanish storekeeper—all
sat crouching, cross-legged, sprawling, each after the manner of his
people, around old X’Leut, listening, motionless, with eager eyes and
intent expression, to the words slowly spoken, clearly uttered, as they
fell from her aged lips.
“For them, and for old X’Leut as well, the outer world—the prosaic
world about the palm-thatched _na_—no longer existed—only the Wizard
Potters as they worked, with swiftly moving hands and fingers, the
magic clay, making the enchanted vessels of an ancient people.
“She told them of Aluxob ‘The Little People,’ how they searched in
the deep-down caves for the _kat_, the _kut_, and the _ki_, the tiny
crystals and the clays that the Wizard Potters used in the making
of the ancient vessels. She talked with her eyes, her lips, and her
hands. With agile feet alternately moving she showed how the ancient
people revolved the shallow wooden disks as the potters of other lands
work, with their hands, their revolving wheels. She told them of these
vessels—vessels with magic worked into their very substance so that
at night they changed into living things called Burro Kat and Hunab
Pob; living things that tormented by their doings late night wanderers,
thieves and drunkards; bad people generally; even children who,
disobeying their parents, stayed out late at night or ran away from
home.
“Then, as X’Leut finished, rolled up her _xoc-bui-chui_, poked the
fire in the three-stone fireplace, and started the water to boiling in
the earthen kettle, each man-child, introspectively brooding, hurried
homeward to ask of his astonished mother if there was anything that he
could do to put the house in order before night came. Ah! a guileful
woman was old X’Leut, with her ever-young soul and nimble hand! A joy
to the children and a solace to the tired mothers.”