This etext was transcribed from Amazing Stories Quarterly, Fall 1929
(vol. 2, no. 4, pp. 436–505).
The BRIDGE _of_ LIGHT
_By_
A. Hyatt Verrill
_Author of: “Through the Crater’s Rim,”
“Death from the Skies,” etc._
_Illustrated by_
WESSO
* * * * *
[Illustration: _With a contemptuous toss of her head she stepped
forward--stepped over the verge of that terrible chasm!_]
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION
_MR. VERRILL says--and we must agree with him--that to be a good
ethnologist, one must also be well versed in geology, zoology,
physics, archeology--in fact in all the sciences. Mr. Verrill is not
only an ethnologist of note, he is also a writer of wide reputation.
It is hardly any wonder, therefore, that he should be one of the
favorite authors of_ AMAZING STORIES _readers. In “The Bridge of
Light” the author builds a story based on the various folklore that
he has heard during his numerous expeditions through the wildernesses
and ruins of old Mayan tradition, each of which probably has some
basis of fact. Many astounding stories of prehistoric times might
well be uncovered when some of the engraved hieroglyphics which have
been found are deciphered. It is not impossible that the ancient
Indians had made astounding discoveries in the use of some minerals
of which we have just recently become cognizant. How else can some
of the remarkable relics which are unearthed from time to time be
explained?_
_Perhaps when flying becomes a more common mode of travel, there will
be more scientists venturing into the wilds of unexplored countries,
because then a good many of the hardships and inevitable risks of
going through jungles and dangerous country will be eliminated. We
may well look forward to amazing finds in the near future--some
inklings of which we are given here. We know you will agree with us
after you have read it, that “The Bridge of Light” is one of Mr.
Verrill’s best._
CHAPTER I
A Strange Find
LOOKING back upon it now I can scarcely believe it ever happened, and
find it difficult to convince myself that I actually passed through
such amazing and almost incredible experiences. Yet I have but to look
at my left arm and see the scars that cover it in order to bring it all
vividly back. And there is the tattooed symbol upon my chest. And if I
needed further confirmation of the actuality of it all, there is Itza.
Surely she is very real, and should occasion arise she could confirm
the greater portion of the story. Even as I am writing, I have but to
glance up from my table to see her, seated in the hammock swung on the
porch, her dark head bent over some delicate bit of handiwork, her
rounded cheek and the curve of her neck glowing like old gold in the
diffused light--even in her conventional surroundings--as exotic as an
orchid flower. But I find I am digressing--as I invariably do when I
see or think of Itza.
It all began in a most ordinary way at Vigo. I was returning to England
from an expedition to South America, and as my ship was to remain
several hours at Vigo, I decided to stretch my sea-weary legs by a
stroll through the quaint Spanish port and, incidentally, have a look
at some of the second-hand shops where, on more than one occasion, I
had picked up some very interesting old books and other curios.
Crossing the quay, and with a few sharp words in their own tongue
quickly silencing the importunities of the piratical-looking boatmen,
the bandit-like taxi drivers, the loathsome beggars and the swarm of
would-be guides, I ascended the steep Calle San Sebastian, reached
the Avenida Principal with its rush of traffic, its swarms of
fashionably-attired women and men, its smart shops and its honking
automobiles, and turning to the right, entered a narrow, dark alley. A
moment later I passed under a mediæval archway and found myself in the
Plazuela de Tres Santos. Within five hundred feet of where I stood was
the hustling, noisy, modern avenue, but it might have been five hundred
miles distant. When I passed under the old arch, I stepped into old
Spain. About the tiny flagged plaza, scarcely larger than a courtyard,
were ancient, sagging, time-aged houses with outjutting balconies,
iron-grilled windows and shady, mysterious patios. Olive-skinned
señoritas lounged on the balcony rails gazing half-curiously,
half-coquettishly at the stranger who had entered the plazuela; older
women in their bright rebosas and flaring, gaudy skirts sat on stools
outside their doorways, stringing onions, weaving on crude hand-looms
or gossiping with their neighbors; swarthy, fiercely-mustached men
besashed, and wearing berets, lounged about or played idly upon
guitars; and everywhere swarmed children as happy, as dirty and nearly
as naked as the pigs and puppies that were equally as numerous.
But all this was an old story to me. Scarcely glancing to left or
right, I picked my way across the court to where a once gorgeous
signboard informed all who were interested that one, Miguel José
Salceda, was the proprietor of the ramshackle shop wherein were to be
found antiques, second-hand articles, books, native handiwork, cigars,
tobacco and onions--a strange assortment truly, but quite the usual
thing in the confines of the plazuela. The shop itself was a mere cubby
hole in the massive stone wall of what had once been a monastery, but
Miguel José had the entire plazuela at his disposal, and he had taken
possession of several square yards of it. On boxes, tables and upon the
stone flagging the overflow of his stock was spread and piled--looking
for all the world as though the shop had spilled itself into the
square--and, seated in the midst of the aggregation of everything
imaginable in the shape of junk and odds and ends, was the _don_
himself. Propped against the wall in the sunshine, his touseled gray
head sagging forward on his bare hairy chest, his hands clasped across
his paunch, Señor Salceda was enjoying his afternoon siesta--as his
raucous snores testified to all the world.
Having no need to disturb his slumbers, I moved about among his wares,
examining the litter of battered and dust-covered books upon a rough
deal table. Presently, Salceda raised his head, yawned prodigiously,
stretched himself and, slowly and reluctantly opening his single eye,
caught sight of me.
Instantly, and with surprising agility for a man of his build, he
sprang to his feet and hurried forward, grinning until his leathery,
unshaven cheeks resembled a relief-map of his native Pyrennes, and
exposing two yellow tusks in his otherwise toothless gums.
“Gracias a Dios, ’tis the Señor Ingles again!” he cried, patting me
on the back, embracing me in Spanish fashion and exuding an almost
overpowering odor of garlic. “And how is the illustrious Señor, and his
dear Mamá and his most lovely Señora, and his four--no, I mistake, it
is five--niñitos?”
“No, Don Miguel,” I replied with a laugh, “it is not the English Señor
but the Americano, and unfortunately, as I have neither mother, wife
nor children--either four or five--I cannot tell you how they may fare.
Personally, amigo, I am in excellent health. And how is Don Miguel and
his family?”
* * * * *
THE old fellow grinned wider than ever. “Si, I remember,” he muttered
as he rolled a cigarette. “But of what importance, Señor, whether
Americano or Ingles? They are the same species; all are rich, all are
fond of old books, and all will have their little joke. And as for the
others--Valgame Dios--if you have no mother now, you had one once--may
her soul rest in peace; and such a simpatico Señor should have a lovely
Señora and the four--nay five--little ones. _Bien pues!_ What would
you? But of a truth I am overcome with joy and happiness to find your
highness well. Permit me, Señor, to offer you a sip of wine.”
To refuse would be to jeopardize friendship and the chance of a good
bargain, and as I had by now selected two rare old volumes that I
greatly wanted, a good bargain was desirable. Besides, Salceda always
had most excellent wine.
Good fellowship having been thus established, I asked the old fellow
the price of the two books. One was a scarce edition of “Don Quixote,”
the other a copy of a quaint work on the Antilles, and both were
battered, stained, their covers torn and warped, but in good condition
within. Salceda, I knew, had no knowledge of the true value of his
stock, but priced articles in accordance with the status of the
purchaser and his desire to acquire them. So, scarcely looking at the
two volumes, he glanced appraisingly at my face and informed me that
they were worth twenty pesetas.
“Not to me,” I assured him, tossing the books upon the table. As I did
so, one of the books slipped to the pavement, and as Miguel stooped to
recover it, a piece of folded, stained and frayed paper dropped from
between the leaves.
“Bueno, then, how much will your excellency pay?” he asked, as he
glanced at the paper in his hand and replaced the book.
“Ten pesetas, no more,” I declared.
“It is nothing, nothing for such fine old books,” he exclaimed, “but
the Señor Ingles--or is it Americano--knows what he can pay. So ten
pesetas it is, your excellency.” As I counted out the money, Salceda
half-unfolded the piece of paper he still held, and then, evidently
deciding it worthless, turned as if to toss it into a pile of rubbish.
But something about the thing had attracted me. I had caught a glimpse
of figures, of dull red, blue and green upon it, and, thinking it might
be an old map, I stayed his hand.
“Hold on,” I exclaimed. “That belongs to the book.”
“No, Señor, I think not,” he said, as he squinted at it with his
one good eye, “but perhaps a map, or some old picture left in the
book by mistake. Of no value, your excellency; but the illustrious
Americano--or is it Ingles--cares for old things, and this is very old.
Si,” as he again focused his bulging eye upon it and cocked his head
on one side. “Si, of a truth, I should say it is antediluvian!” He
chuckled at his own humor. “So,” he continued, “if the Señor desires
it--well, perhaps a peso or two.”
He was a sharp old Gallego--none sharper--and the bit of stained and
colored paper that a moment before had been condemned to the rubbish
pile had suddenly acquired a value. Not much to be sure, but better
than nothing by a long shot. Very possibly, I thought, it really
belonged with the rubbish. But I was curious to learn what it was and,
handing Don Miguel two pesos in addition to the price of the books,
I slipped the paper into one of the volumes and departed with his
fervent, “May you go with God, Señor,” in my ears. Little did I dream,
as I made my way back to the ship, what a strange investment I had made
or through what amazing experiences and remarkable places that ragged,
folded paper would lead me.
Indeed, at the time, I gave it so little thought that I completely
forgot about it, until we were well at sea, when, in my cabin after
dinner, I opened the “Explorations, Discoveries, Strange Sights and
Remarkable Adventures in the Indies, etc,” by imaginative old Sebastian
Gomez, and once more came upon my two-peso purchase. Unfolding it
carefully, for it was creased and old, I actually gasped, staring
incredulously at what I had revealed. My first glance at the fresher,
cleaner inner surface of the sheet was enough. It was a codex--one
of those strange pictographic records kept by the ancient Aztecs and
Mayas! Less than a dozen originals, I knew, were in existence. Could
this be an original? Could it be one of the lost Codices? If so it
was priceless, irreplaceable, and with trembling fingers, almost
reverently, I examined it and studied the texture of the material
through my lens. The material was unquestionably ancient papyrus! The
color, the technique of the green, red, blue and yellow figures proved
it no copy! The old Spaniard had spoken more truly than he had imagined
when he had jokingly called it “antediluvian.”
Incredulously I studied the codex that, by sheerest good fortune, had
come into my possession. I puzzled my brain to decipher or decode it,
to recognize the figures of conventionalized human beings, of gods and
other objects. I was familiar with Aztec pictographs, familiar with
Mayan glyphs, but somehow this did not appear like either. And yet, of
the two it was far more Mayan than Aztec. A hope rose in my breast, a
hope that I had stumbled upon one of the long-lost, missing codices of
the Mayas. Only three Mayan codices were known, yet there must have
been hundreds, and in all probability many had been taken back to
Spain as curios by the returning conquerors. Was it therefore beyond
the bounds of possibility--even of probability--that some of these
might still be preserved, their value unknown to their owners, perhaps
regarded as worthless scraps of old maps, and that one of these should
have been tucked between the pages of the ancient volume I had bought?
The more I thought of it the more reasonable it seemed. And if the
bit of papyrus should prove to be a missing record of the Mayas,
then I had stumbled on a bit of luck. Not only would it be of
inestimable scientific interest, but it would possess a very tangible
value in pounds sterling or dollars and cents. That, to me, I must
confess, was a very important factor. Scientists must live and,
like most scientists--more especially those devoted to ethnology
and archeology--I was not overburdened with worldly goods. My last
expedition had drained my resources, and even when I had disposed of
my collections--a slow and uncertain procedure--I would be little
better off than when I had started. But if the ancient scrap of paper
before me actually proved to be a Mayan codex, I need have little worry
over my future. I chuckled to myself as my thoughts dwelt on this
possibility. How strange are the whims of Fate. Here I had devoted
years to explorations in far-off lands, had undergone hardships, had
had my share of sufferings, had risked health and life a thousand
times, and (if my hopes proved true) had made a greater find in a
second-hand shop in Vigo, Spain, than in all my wanderings.
* * * * *
I BROUGHT myself back to earth with an effort. I was building castles
in the air with no tangible basis to work on. The thing might be
comparatively worthless, a copy or perhaps even a codex made subsequent
to the Spanish conquest. Until I could have its origin, its age and its
value established by experts, I would dismiss it from my mind.
My first act, when I had reached London and had established myself
in my apartment in Eardly Crescent, was to visit the British Museum
with my find. For once my old friend, Dr. Joyce, lost his habitual
nonchalance as he examined the codex. He uttered an ejaculation of
amazement, his eyes sparkled, and he became obviously excited.
“Extraordinary!” he exclaimed. “What a jolly find! Of course I cannot
be positive of its identity on such a superficial examination,” he
continued, “but it is unquestionably a codex, and I should surmise of
Mayan origin. The cartouches and date symbols are assuredly Mayan,
but there are other details, other features that excite doubt. But of
course we know so little about Mayan codices. And it seems to bear
certain Nahua characteristics. Possibly it is a codex of one of the
independent Mayan states that came under Nahua influence. But we should
be able to ascertain its age--these date symbols are very clear.”
He studied it closely. “Ah, here it is!” he cried jubilantly. “If I am
not greatly mistaken this glyph reads 8 Ahau 12--no 13, or is it? Well,
either 12 or 13. The unit symbols are difficult because they are so
highly decorated and involved. But 8 Ahau and either 12 or 13 Ceh in
the Calendar-round. There appears to be an Initial Series date also.
However, the Calendar-round will place it approximately. Let me see,
that would be about 90–94 B. C.”
I gasped. The codex, if my friend was right, and Dr. Joyce is perhaps
the greatest living authority on the subject--was more than two
thousand years old! But to my disappointment Dr. Joyce could make
little more of the ancient document than I could. And before I could
realize on it, before it had any real scientific or monetary value, I
would be compelled to find someone who could establish its origin, its
identity and its relationship. At Dr. Joyce’s suggestion I next visited
Oxford and called on Professor McLeod, who, as everyone knows, has made
a life study of ancient American glyphs and symbols. But this visit
gave no more definite results than before.
Following this I made the rounds of nearly all the archeologists and
students of pre-Columbian American art and writings in Great Britain,
but without result.
All agreed that my discovery was a codex, all agreed that it bore the
earmarks of Mayan origin, all agreed on the date symbols, and all
agreed that it was so at variance with all the previously known Mayan
and Aztec codices that it was an insoluble puzzle to them. They all
agreed, also, that if its origin could be established, it would be
the most valuable codex in existence, and readily saleable for many
thousands of pounds.
Possibly, in the United States, they suggested, I might be able to
succeed where I had failed in England and, very sensibly, added Dr.
Joyce, as it would unquestionably be eventually purchased in America,
why not submit it to the American experts?
But when I reached the country of my birth and called on various
archeologists, I found that they could give me little more information
than I had obtained from the British scientists. The American Museum
in New York, the Museum of the American Indian, the Peabody Museum
of Cambridge, the Pennsylvania State Museum and scores of others
were visited in turn. But neither Dr. Whistler, Professor Saville,
Dr. Spinden, Dr. Gregory, Dr. Mason nor any other of the scores of
authorities on the subject dared express a definite opinion. The codex
was genuine, it was remarkable, it was priceless, and its date was
established. But whether it was entirely Mayan, whether it was Aztec
with Mayan addenda or vice versa, or whether it was the work of some
undetermined independent, state of Mexico or Central America, no one
could state. It was, in fact, the greatest puzzle that had confronted
the world’s most prominent archeologists in many years.
But I _did_ secure some information. Dr. Whistler of the American
Museum established the fact that the codex recorded some very important
historical event and a migration. Professor Saville of the Heye Museum
was positive it recorded a myth or a prophecy and identified the symbol
of Kukulcan, the Mayan hero-god or “plumed serpent” as the dominating
figure, and Professor Henderson discovered and partially deciphered
symbols indicating that the codex embodied the features of a map and
gave a description of some location. Several also suggested that it
might prove to be a copy of a more ancient codex, or possibly an
abbreviated or condensed form of several, or that it might be a codex
index or key referring to some more elaborate codex.
By this time my interest increased, and I determined to take my
treasure to Mexico and consult the authorities in the Museo Nacional.
* * * * *
PROFESSOR ALESSANDRO CERVANTES received me with Spanish American
cordiality and enthusiasm. I had not seen him for many years, and
we had much to talk over, but all else was forgotten when he saw my
codex. He was tremendously excited, declared positively it was genuine,
announced that it was unquestionably Mayan, and unhesitatingly placed
it as belonging to the Old Empire period of the Mayan civilization, and
therefore of Guatemalan origin.
“But _amigo mio!_” he exclaimed. “Of a truth it is most wonderful,
most astounding. In all the world there is no such another. All others
are of the New Empire. It is beyond price, _amigo_. If it can be
deciphered it will solve many mysteries. _Por Dios_, yes, _amigo_. It
will probably prove to be the key to much that we have puzzled over
for years. It deals with Kukulcan, as my good friend Saville says; it
tells of a prophecy and of a migration both, and it is historical,
symbolical, religious and mythological all in one. But,” he shrugged
his shoulders and spread his hands, “my poor knowledge is inadequate to
decipher it. However,” he continued as he noticed my disappointment, “I
have a very good friend who, I feel sure, can succeed where all others
have failed. He dwells not here in Mexico. No, amigo, his home is in
the little town of Xibaltango in Guatemala.”
“In that case,” I assured him, “I shall go to Guatemala. Can you give
me a letter of introduction to your friend?”
“Most gladly!” he declared with enthusiasm. “He is but a poor priest--a
most holy and devoted Padre, who gives his last centavo to the poor
Indios of his parish and goes hungry that they may eat, and when I
scold him for so doing, what answer does Fray José make me? That it is
the duty of all Spaniards, and of priests in particular, to make what
amends they may for the cruelties and wrongs inflicted upon the Indios
by the Spaniards in the past. _Caramba, amigo_, what reasoning! Were
I, with the blood of the Aztecs in my veins, to go in rags and in bare
feet and with empty stomach, would it bring Montezuma back to life;
would it ease the sufferings of Guatemozin on the rack under Cortes?
But Padre José is, as I say, most holy and, _amigo_, most wise and a
deep student of all the past of his country. Si, Señor, he speaks a
dozen of the native dialects, he knows the myths and the legends of the
Indios as well as they themselves do; he takes part in their _fiestas_,
and he is beloved by them all. And he reads the ancient Mayan glyphs as
easily as he reads his own Castilian or the Latin of his office. Si,
amigo, Fray José is the one man who may solve the riddle of your most
wonderful codex.”
* * * * *
I FOUND Fray José in his modest quarters adjoining the ancient church
in the tiny Indian village of Xibaltango. I had expected to find a
cowled and tonsured priest, a gray ascetic, bent with years and seamed
with the marks of self-denial, fasting and a rigorous life; in fact, I
expected to find the living counterpart of a saint or martyr. Instead,
the man who greeted me was short, rather corpulent, with a round,
brown face, merry gray eyes, and in place of cassock and cowl he wore
a suit of native homespun cotton. If, as Professor Cervantes had said,
he starved that his Indians might eat, then most assuredly he thrived
on starvation, for he looked the picture of health. He was as jolly
and merry as his features implied, and he welcomed me most cordially,
apologizing for his home but assuring me, in the usual Spanish fashion,
that it was all mine.
“But what would you, Señor?” he cried, dusting off an antique leather
chair with his berretta and proffering it to me. “What would you? I
am remote, alone, in the wilderness, among Indios, and Señor mio, I
see not one white man, one stranger in many years. Yet, Señor, I am
not lonely. I am happy, I love the Indios, though, of a truth I must
admit it--my labors are of little avail, si. They are all Christians;
all come to my little church, all are baptized, all are christened
and married and buried according to the rites of the Church; but--as
the illustrious Señor knows--they are pagans at heart. Not one there
is, I am sure, who does not in secret worship the old gods, who does
not follow out the old religion. They are Christians to please me, to
gain what they may, and because they feel not too certain whether the
Christian or the pagan God is the more powerful. Ay de mi, Señor, the
longer I dwell among the Indios, the more I feel that never will they
be other than pagan at heart. But they are good children, Señor, kind
and simple and lovable and generous, and I find life not dull between
my religious duties and studying the ancient traditions and striving
ever to unravel the mysteries of the past. And my very good friend,
the Professor Alessandro, tells me in his letter you have a codex even
he cannot decipher. I fear me, Señor, that if he has failed, my poor
knowledge will be of little service.”
But Padre José deprecated his ability and his knowledge. “Wonderful!”
he cried as he looked at the codex. “It is of the Old Empire; it is a
sacred codex, a religious myth and a history dealing with Kukulcan.
But, Señor, it is unlike anything else. It is Señor, I am sure, a codex
in cipher. Often, on the monuments, I have found inscriptions that I
feel sure are cipher, and in this so wonderful codex I see some of the
same symbols. That, Señor is why no one has been able to read it. One
must know the key, the code, to unravel its meaning or--hold--perchance
this is the key by means of which the Mayan ciphers were read. Ah, mi
Señor, you may possess that which will solve the manifold mysteries
of the Mayas. But, though I regret to admit it, only a Mayan of the
priest-cult could decipher it.”
I was terribly disappointed. I had traveled thousands of miles; had
wasted months of time and exhausted my resources, only to find that I
had accomplished nothing. I laughed derisively. “In that case,” I said
bitterly, “the codex will never be deciphered. It is worth only its
value as a specimen, curio. In order to find the man who could read
it, I would have to go back several centuries and be here before the
conquest. The Mayan priests are a thing of the past.”
* * * * *
FRAY JOSE’S eyes twinkled and he chuckled. “Perhaps, my son,” he said,
“I may be able to help you to go back those several centuries. Would
you care to do so and meet one of the long-dead priest clan?”
“What do you mean!” I exclaimed. “Do some still exist?”
He nodded. “Many things exist of which the outside world knows
nothing,” he declared. “Many of the Indios still worship in the ancient
temples of their ancestors, and to do so they must have priests of the
ancient faith. Though it is kept a secret, yet the old priest-clans
still survive. I alone of all white men have learned something of them.
The Indios trust me, and I devoutly believe, love me for what little
I have done for them, and have confided in me to some extent. Si,
Señor, I know of temples wherein they still worship, and I know of one
priest of the cult of Xibalba who might reveal to you the contents of
the codex. Could I in person go to him, then I feel sure he would do
so, but that, Señor, I cannot do, for my duty is here; however, I will
give to you that which will win his confidence and mayhap--with your
knowledge of the Indios’ ways, you may induce him to aid you. _Quien
sabe?_”
I was elated. Even if I accomplished nothing in regard to the codex, I
would have an opportunity of studying the ancient priest clan, anyhow,
and I felt confident that the scientific discoveries I would make would
repay me. But I soon learned that my visit to the Mayan priest was not
to be accomplished as easily as I had thought.
“Katchilcan speaks only his own Zutugil dialect,” Fray José informed
me. “No doubt he understands some Spanish--perhaps he may even be
able to converse in Spanish, but he won’t do it. If you are to visit
his village, in fact if you are to journey through the country, you
must learn the Mayan tongue. But that, to you who have learned so
many dialects of the Indios, will not be difficult nor will it take a
great time, my son. My own knowledge is not accurate enough to enable
me to teach you, though before you start I can aid you somewhat by
imparting a knowledge of the most useful words and phrases. But I have
a friend--a native Indio who cares for the little chapel at Totil--who
speaks the Spanish and is most intelligent. It was he who himself
taught me, and if the Señor will not mind the time and the journey, he
can stop at Totil and from Pedro acquire the knowledge of the Zutugil.
Totil is on the way to the village of Katchilcan.”
Once having made up my mind to exhaust every chance of deciphering the
codex or of establishing its identity beyond question, I was not to be
balked by the obstacle of learning a new Indian dialect, and a few days
later, I bade Fray José farewell and started for the distant village of
Totil.