The Valley of Death
OLD Katchilcan seemed to take it as a matter of course that I would set
out to carry the codex to Mictolan. That, however, was only natural,
for he believed implicitly in the prophecy, the legend and the codex,
and so believing, he had equal faith in my being the chosen means
of carrying the foreordained word to the hidden people. In fact, as
the days passed, I became absolutely convinced myself that there was
far more than a foundation of fact in the priest’s story. There was
the codex. If I could obtain the key to it from Katchilcan, I could
decipher much of it myself. In fact, now that I examined it from
the new viewpoint, I marveled that one of the many experts who had
studied it, had not deciphered it. To be sure they had come very
close to solving the riddle. They had recognized it as dealing with
Kukulcan, they had declared it a record of a migration and a place,
they had decided that it was a combination of religious, historical and
geographical symbols, and they had even suggested that it was a key to
some other codex. And in these surmises they had been correct. It dealt
with all--Kukulcan, a migration, a locality, a prophecy, and it _was_
a key or a symbol, though the most important part of that symbol--the
location of the hidden city of Mictolan, was missing.
I would have given a lot to have had that missing edge of the papyrus,
but there was no sense in bemoaning its loss. And as I studied the
codex, and, in the light of Katchilcan’s reading of it, understood it
better and better, I realized why the scientists had been so puzzled
over its peculiar features, its resemblance to both Aztec and Mayan
codices, for it dealt with a prophecy common to both races. Kukulcan
and the Aztec Quetzalcoatl were identical, and I was convinced that
the precious document was prepared in the style of the picture records
of the semi-mythical Toltecs, so that, in case it came into the hands
of either Aztecs or Mayas, its meaning and importance would be equally
plain. Now that I was sure of the immense scientific and monetary value
of the codex, I was determined that no harm should befall it, and for
several days I busied myself making a very accurate copy. I then packed
the original in a wrapping of oiled silk and sealed it in an aluminum
container.
Meanwhile, I had made every possible enquiry regarding the district to
the northwest and, with the aid of Katchilcan, had secured the services
of several Indians who claimed to be familiar with the country and
all routes leading into the district. But they confessed that their
knowledge was limited to a comparatively short distance. Beyond that
all was unknown, unexplored, and regarded with superstitious fear by
the natives. Indeed, I was surprised that I could find any Indians
who would accompany me, but no doubt the old priest had had a hand in
it. In all probability he assured them that I was under the direct
protection of their gods, perhaps he had even hinted that I was on
a sacred mission. At last all was in readiness. Supplies of maize,
cacao, cassava and dried venison had been prepared, and hammocks had
been made. These, with the outfit which I had brought, were enough to
see my party through an expedition of at least two months, by which
time I would either have succeeded, or failing, would return to the
village. So, having written a long letter to Fray José, in which I told
him of the results of my visit to Katchilcan and of my hare-brained
undertaking, I left the village with Katchilcan’s blessing, and headed
for the distant mountains.
For several days it was fairly easy traveling. There were many trails,
the country was fairly level, and the forests were open. But the
district seemed absolutely uninhabited. Then, as we began to ascend the
foothills, the trails became fewer and at last vanished; the country
became wilder, and we were obliged to go entirely by the general
direction and the easiest route. Often large streams, deep ravines
or impassable cliffs barred our way, and we were forced to make long
detours. But ever nearer and nearer the great mountains loomed ahead,
and ever steeper became our way. Then one day we came suddenly upon the
ruins of what had once been a great temple. I became hopeful again.
Here was proof that the district had once been inhabited, that the
Mayas had been here. Carefully I examined the sculptured lintels of
the massive doorways searching for date-glyphs.[3] The few that had
remained unobliterated by time were chipped, flaked and partly effaced,
but among them I found two that bore dates that proved the building
to go back to the Old Empire. That was reassuring. If there was any
truth in the old legend, if the Mayas had migrated this way towards the
hidden city, it was reasonable to suppose that their migration took
years to accomplish, that they erected temples and monuments on the
way. And almost daily we came upon monuments; sometimes rudely carved
rocks; sometimes stellae covered with figures and symbols; and at other
times remains of buildings. And as I examined these, as I realized
what stupendous labor must have gone into the cutting of the great
stone blocks, the time that must have been expended upon carving the
intricate ornate decorations that covered every inch of their surfaces,
the ever present mystery of how it was accomplished came back to me
with redoubled force.
[3] Engraved characters disclosing or registering dates.
By what means, by what magic had the ancient people accomplished feats
in stone-cutting, in sculpture that we, with modern methods and steel
tools, could not duplicate in years of unremitting labor? Was I fated
to solve that riddle? What a scientific triumph it would be if I did
succeed in finding an isolated city of the Mayas, a spot where they
still carried on their ancient arts, where I could actually watch the
process by which they accomplished their wonderful feats?
Filled with such conjectures, possessed with a strange feeling of
assurance, I led my Indians onward.
* * * * *
IT was the nineteenth day after leaving Katchilcan’s village, and we
had been toiling-steadily up a steep mountain side. Suddenly the forest
ended and we halted in amazement. Before us the fiat mountain top had
been cleared, and in the centre stood a low, massive building of a type
I had never before seen. Filled with scientific interest, at the time
giving no thought to the peculiar fact that the vegetation had been
cleared away, I hurried forward, intent only on examining the strange
temple. It was in remarkably good condition and, anxious to examine its
interior, I stepped through the huge doorway flanked by carved stone
columns representing conventionalized jaguars with serpents’ heads.
A strange odor filled the interior. Sniffing suspiciously, trying to
identify the smell, I stood motionless, waiting for my eyes to become
accustomed to the semi-darkness. Then it came to me; it was the odor of
burning flesh. What did it mean? Was it possible that?--yes, it must
be--the temple must have been recently used. Memory of the clearing,
of the condition of the building, swept over me. The temple was still
in use; somewhere, very recently, a sacrifice had been made upon
an altar within the building. Somewhere in the vicinity there must
be Indians, who still worshipped their gods at the ancient temple.
I glanced about. Opposite to where I stood was another doorway. I
stepped forward towards it. The smell of burning flesh was stronger.
I reached the doorway, peered within and halted in my tracks, staring
agape at what I saw. On a raised dais was the gigantic image of the god
Zotzilaha, grotesque, hideous, with his death’s head, his outspread
bat-like wings, his misshapen body. Before him upon a sacrificial altar
of polished jasper was the half-consumed body of a girl resting on the
dull red embers of a fire. But I scarcely saw the god of the sacrifice,
for prostrate before the image and the altar were dozens of naked
Indians.
To enter that sacred spot would be to meet with instant death. Only
the fact that the savages’ attentions were riveted upon the god had
prevented me from being seen. At any instant I might be discovered.
Quickly, with fast beating heart, I stepped back. My elbow knocked
against the wall, a bit of dislodged masonry rattled to the ground.
Instantly every Indian turned in my direction; a savage shout came from
their throats, and leaping to their feet, they rushed at me. Why I was
not struck down, killed instantly and offered as a sacrifice to their
outraged god, I shall never know. Perhaps they preferred to capture me
alive, to torture me. Perhaps I was the first white man they had ever
seen and they were in some awe or fear of me. Whatever the reason, I
was not harmed. I was overpowered before I could resist, though to have
attempted to resist would have been hopeless. I was bound, trussed up,
and with triumphant shouts was borne into the room and thrown upon the
floor before the altar with its gruesome sacrifice.
Was this to be the end of my quest? Was I to be sacrificed upon
that altar? Even in my extremity and my terror--for I admit I was
terrified--I found myself wondering about the identity of my captors.
In fact, I began to wonder whether they might not be the people I had
come to find; if, through the centuries, they had not degenerated,
reverted to semi-savagery, and if the hidden city was not a myth and
the old temple all that remained of what had once been a real town. My
speculations were cut short by one who appeared to be the priest or
chief. He wore numerous gold ornaments, a feather headdress, and, if
anything, was more savage-looking than his fellows. He addressed me
angrily, but I could not understand a word of what he said. I tried
him with Zutugil, with Spanish, with Nahuatl; all without success. He
grew impatient, shook me by the shoulders, and as he did so, the copy
of my codex fell from the breast pocket of my coat. As he pounced upon
it, I mentally thanked Heaven that it was not the original. For an
instant, the savage stared at the strip of paper. Then, with a wild
cry, he leaped forward, a long-bladed obsidian dagger gleaming in his
upraised hand. I felt sure my last minute had come. But instead of
plunging the weapon into my breast, he slashed through the cords that
bound me, and prostrated himself before me. I glanced about, rose to
my feet. Everywhere the Indians were on their knees, their foreheads
touching the ground. Whoever they were, whatever their race, they knew
the meaning of the codex. The Book of Kukulcan had saved me.
Slowly they rose, glancing apprehensively at me, regarding me as they
would a superior being--which is exactly what I seemed to them. But I
had no mind to remain in that chamber of human sacrifice. Picking up
the codex, I strode to the door and into the open air, followed by the
silent, half-terrified, half-wondering, but wholly subdued savages.
To my dismay, my Indians were nowhere to be seen. Nothing remained but
my bags and packages, which were where they were dropped. No doubt they
had heard the savage yells from the temple, and having no desire to
become martyrs on my behalf, they had taken to their heels.
What was I to do? Without porters to transport my outfit, I could not
go on. For that matter, I could not turn back. I was stranded, deserted
among these wild Indians of the mountains.
* * * * *
THE chief solved the problem for me. Timidly approaching me, he pointed
to my abandoned dunnage; by graphic gestures, he indicated the flight
of my men. Then he pointed at his companions, grinned, again pointed at
the baggage, and swinging about, waved his hands in the direction of
the higher mountains. No one could have misunderstood him. He realized
what had occurred and he was offering to send his men with me as
porters. Probably he felt that he was being greatly honored by serving
me; very likely he felt that he must make amends for treating me as he
had. At any rate, I indicated my acceptance. Springing forward, the
chief himself shouldered the largest package as his fellows almost
fought for the chance of carrying the others. I did not know where
those savages lived; whether they had a village near, whether they came
from afar; or whether they dwelt in huts in the forest and visited
the temple only to make sacrifices to the ancient Mayan god. Neither
did I know how they knew my purpose or my route, unless the chief
deciphered the codex, but they seemed to know the direction to follow
and, thinking that possibly they had some inkling of the location of
the city of the Book of Kukulcan, I followed after.
For three days we climbed mountains, descended precipitous slopes,
waded rushing streams, struggled through jungles. I could not converse
with the Indians except by signs, but we managed to get along. They
made the camps, secured game, caught fish, cooked the food and carried
the burdens. And when, on one occasion, we came suddenly upon a tapir,
and whipping out my revolver I shot the beast, I had ample evidence
that they had never before been in contact with white men. With wild
cries they dropped their loads, fell flat upon the ground, and fairly
grovelled at my feet. And when, after some difficulty, I got them up
and they examined the dead tapir, they instantly prostrated themselves
a second time. They had never seen or heard firearms--of that I was
certain--and I had but to touch the butt of my pistol to cause them to
shake with terror and bob their heads to the earth. To them it seemed
supernatural; I controlled the thunder and lightning, and for the
first time in all my wanderings and my experiences among Indians, I
fully realized how the old Dons must have felt, and what power they
must have had over the Indians, by virtue of their firearms.
Two days after this incident, we topped a rise, and looming clear
against the horizon, I saw two great conical peaks. For a moment I
gazed at them, and then, as a thin column of vapor drifted from the one
on the right, the words of old Katchilcan came vividly to my mind. In
enumerating the dangers that must be met in order to reach the city of
Mictolan, he had mentioned the “two blazing mountains.” Was it possible
that the two volcanoes on the distant horizon were these? Was I on
the right track? Was I nearing my goal? My hopes rose. Unless the old
priest had actual knowledge, how had he guessed that there were two
active volcanoes here? He had declared it was written in the codex,
but I had not noticed symbols of volcanoes. I examined the paper again
while the Indians at sight of it dropped to the earth. The priest was
right! Yes, there, half-hidden by involved decorations and symbols,
were the two cones topped with conventionalized flames like scarlet
tobacco leaves. I think my heart skipped a beat or two as I recognized
them. I _was_ on the right track; if there was any truth in the Book of
Kukulcan, the hidden city lay just beyond those smoking peaks.
But what of the other perils? Were they also actualities? Was there
a Valley of Death, a Tunnel of Serpents, a Pit of Alligators and all
the rest? I laughed at myself for even speculating on such nonsense.
No doubt they were all fanciful allegories. How could there be eight
deserts in this well-watered, forested land? How could there be raging
whirlwinds, demons and fiends? Volcanoes, snakes, alligators, caves,
bridges, yes; but the others--nonsense!
Two days later, half the Indians deserted me in the night. But the
chief remained. Ever since he had seen the codex, he had acted as
though he were my slave. He fairly shook with terror when he tried
to explain that he had no part in the desertion of his men, and to
show his anxiety to make up for it, he ordered his remaining men to
carry double loads, and loaded his own back until he was bent nearly
double. It was impossible to go on in that way. No matter how willing
the Indians were, no human beings could traverse the country with such
overloads. A few hours proved it. One of the men tripped, fell, and
unable to recover himself with his burden, he plunged over the verge
of a cliff into the roaring torrent in the depths of the ravine below.
And each moment the traveling was getting worse, more difficult, more
dangerous. The loss of the load carried by the unfortunate Indian was
serious. With him had gone my hammocks, most of my supplies. It was
far better to abandon half the baggage and carry the other half in
safety, than to lose a whole load at a time. I ordered the men to halt,
unpacked the bags and bundles, redistributed the contents, and repacked
enough to load the men to the limit of what could be carried in safety.
It left me short, but not so badly off as I would have been with my
Mayas along. These savages could live off the country; I had only my
own wants to look after, and I felt so confident that I would either
find my goal or would know the city did not exist, when I reached the
volcanoes, that I felt little worry about running short of necessities.
The ravine into which the Indian had fallen to his death was
impassable, and, hoping to find a spot where we could descend, we
followed along its brink. At last, after miles of walking, we came
to a spot where, during some period of heavy rains, a tree had been
uprooted, and the water, rushing into the cavity left by its fall, had
cut away the soil and had formed a gulley leading down the side of the
ravine. Slipping, stumbling, sliding, we made the descent to the depths
of the narrow cañon nearly two hundred feet below. But we were no
better off. The opposite side was utterly impassable. There was nothing
to do but to follow along beside the roaring, rushing river until an
exit could be found. In the semi-twilight of the cañon we toiled on.
Often wading, sometimes up to our waists in the water, we made our slow
and weary way upstream. Sundown found us still within the cañon whose
sides seemed higher, more precipitous than ever. It was a dismal, an
oppressive spot, and I could see that the Indians were nervous and ill
at ease. But there was no other course than to pass the night where we
were--to camp in the cañon.
* * * * *
A FEW yards above the level of the stream we found a large cave-like
recess where an immense boulder had fallen from the canon’s side,
and in this we prepared to pass the night. There were plenty of dry
branches scattered along the brink of the stream; a cheery fire was
soon blazing; fish that the Indians had shot with their arrows were
soon broiling, and the Indians’ first fears seemed forgotten. With the
roar of the stream in my ears, I fell asleep. How long I slept I do not
know, but I was awakened by a blinding flash and a deafening report.
Again came the vivid flash; a thunderstorm was raging on the land far
above our heads, and even above the roar of the river I could hear
the thrashing of wind and the torrential downpour of rain. Then to my
ears came a louder, a new sound; a dull, steady rumble that seemed
momentarily to increase. For a moment I was at a loss. Then it dawned
upon me and with realization came deadly gripping fear. A flood was
descending upon us! The stream, swollen with the heavy rain, had risen
in the narrow confines of the cañon and was sweeping towards us. In
a moment more we would be engulfed, swallowed up, utterly destroyed.
The Indians realized their peril instantly. With wild cries of terror
some leaped from the shelter of the cave and dashed madly down stream.
In vain I shouted to them, trying to make them understand that their
act was suicidal. My voice was drowned in the reverberating claps of
thunder and the ever-louder roar of the oncoming flood. Others of the
Indians, digging their toes into crevices in the cliff, clinging with
fingers, struggled to climb beyond the reach of the hungry waters. But
the cliff side was slippery, water-soaked.
With heartrending screams they fell back, rolled down the bank and were
lost in the blackness of the canon’s depths. Only the chief remained.
Gabbling at me, gesturing wildly, he tried to make me understand
something, some message that to him seemed vital. Then, finding it
impossible, he sprang forward, tapped my coat, and slipping his hand
into my pocket, drew out the codex. I was dazed, frightened, my mind in
a turmoil, striving vainly to formulate some plan, some faint chance of
saving myself from seemingly certain death, and I scarcely noticed the
chief’s action.
* * * * *
[Illustration: I saw with amazement that in his outstretched hands he
held my copy of the codex]
* * * * *
Then, as the thunder of the flood drowned all other sounds and I
realized all was lost, my mind suddenly calmed and functioned, and I
saw the chief as though in a dream. He was standing at the front of
the cavern, his lips moved, and though I could hear no sound, I knew
that he was shouting--chanting his death song, I thought vaguely. By
the momentary gleam of a flash of lightning, I saw with amazement, that
in his outstretched hands he held my copy of the codex. Instantly I
divined his purpose. He was about to sacrifice it, to cast it into the
rising, boiling stream, with the superstitious belief that it would
calm the flood. I half-started to spring forward and seize the paper.
Then I laughed hoarsely, hysterically. Let him sacrifice it! It would
be of no further use to me; in a moment more we would both be swept to
our deaths.
Still he held the codex. Why did he wait? Fascinated, I watched him.
The air vibrated to the terrific flood that was now raging in the
cañon, the very ground shook. In the darkness, the upflung, boiling
waves loomed white and ghastly. Now the hissing, raging maelstrom was
curling about the chief’s feet. Still he remained there, shouting
or chanting or praying--I know not which. A moment more and the
irresistible tide would boil into the cavern, would overwhelm us. And
then a strange thing happened. Below the Indian’s outstretched hands,
with the paper spread between them, the water seemed suddenly to
recede; the roar diminished, the thunder died in the distance. Slowly
but surely the rushing torrent dropped back towards the river bed. The
deafening turmoil died to the normal rush of the stream, and the chief,
turning, folded the codex and returned it to me. We were saved, saved
as if by a miracle. No doubt it was a mere coincidence; certainly the
codex and the chief’s invocations had nothing to do with it. The flood
had reached its apex before it could wash into the cave and destroy us.
But to the Indian’s mind the Book of Kukulcan was responsible. Even the
forces of nature must bow to the will of the Plumed Serpent god. And
somehow, despite my common sense and my reasoning, there was something
about it that even to me savored of the supernatural.
Morning dawned at last, dawned to find us two alone, marooned in the
cañon, with only a fraction of our supplies remaining. We were in
a desperate situation. Our only course, our only chance was to go
back, to return whence we had come. Soon we found that even that was
impossible.
The gulley down which we had come had vanished; only a smooth precipice
remained. The chief seemed unperturbed. Perhaps he still had sublime
faith in the power of the Book of Kukulcan to safeguard us; perhaps
it was merely the stoicism of his race. Gesturing in the direction of
down-stream he shouldered his load and led the way. A mile farther on
we came upon the body of one of the Indians, battered, mangled, the
flesh torn in shreds from the bones. Three others were found later, and
as we passed the last, for we could not bury the bodies in the bare
rocky cañon, a sudden thought flashed through my mind. The Valley of
Death! Was this it? Were the words of Katchilcan being borne out? I
shivered a bit at the thought. His words came vividly back to me: “But
for him who holds the Book of Kukulcan, the way will be made easy.”
Surely, if ever a place could be called the Valley of Death, this
terrible cañon was it, and assuredly to me and to the chief who had
held the codex in his hands above the raging waters, the way had “been
made easy” as compared with the fate of the four Indians. But would the
“way be made easy” for the rest of our journey? Would we eventually
find a way out?