Long Live the King
ITZA was unconscious but unharmed. She had fainted and had been spared
the maddening horror of lying on the altar and the awful suspense of
awaiting sacrifice. Swiftly I tore away the choking gag that bruised
her lips, and slashed through the cords that cut into her poor wrists
and ankles.
Lifting her limp body tenderly, I carried her into the house of the
Virgins of the Sun, and when presently her senses returned, she found
herself in my arms and looked into my eyes which, like her own, were
dim with tears of happiness.
Almost as happy as myself, the prince smiled down at her, while all
about us the Virgins of the Sun hovered half-timidly and murmured soft
words of sympathy and delight, for having been told of Kinchi Haman’s
death and assured that the sacrifices to the Sun God were at an end,
they had forgotten their fears and had ministered to Itza, chafing her
hands and bathing her forehead.
For a space we were oblivious to everything but our own great joy. We
were in a world of our own, a world unknown to all but reunited lovers,
until Itza noticed my bleeding, lacerated arm--which I had quite
forgotten myself--and instantly she was all pity and solicitude. By the
time the wounds had been washed and bandaged, Itza declared herself as
strong and well as ever, and accompanied by the freed girls--who now
would never become brides of Kinich Ahau--we retraced our way through
the hidden passages of the temple.
As we passed once more through that circular room with its monstrous
image of the Sun God, I delayed a moment and having swung the massive
idol into place, I turned the gift of Nohul Voh upon the golden disc on
the statue’s chest. Before the amazed and wondering eyes of all, the
metal fused and melted and forever closed the only way that led to the
dismal well that formed the grave of Kinchi Haman. Out from the temple
and into the waning sunlight of the afternoon we came at last, to find
our men, cowering, shamefaced, surrounded by the awed, half-curious,
half-terrified crowd awaiting they knew not what. From the lips of our
wild-eyed men they had heard of what had transpired, of our having
entered the holy of holies, of my desecration of the sacred image,
and had Kinich Ahau appeared in the flesh to wreak vengeance upon
us, had the sun itself descended in righteous wrath, had the temple
crumpled to bits to bury us beneath its ruins, the people would not
have been surprised. But surprise and inexpressible wonder was theirs
when they saw us emerge, unharmed, with Itza, and accompanied by the
Virgins of the Sun. For a moment every sound, every voice was hushed,
and then from thousands of throats a mighty cheer arose and with one
accord the people prostrated themselves before us. And as the released
maidens sought relatives and loved ones, and spread the news of the
high priest’s end, shouts of joy, cries of delight mingled in a bedlam
of sound. It was as if a terrible incubus had been lifted from the
city, and as the joyful people pressed about us, we were compelled to
call upon our guards to force a way through which we could pass to the
palace.
Behind us rose the great silent temple; from its summit the lambent
banners of fire beckoned to me to be gone, pointed towards the spot
where I knew the Bridge of Light still spanned the chasm. The way was
clear; I was impatient to be gone. I knew that at any time the flaming
signal might fade, the bridge might vanish, yet I could not leave. I
was utterly exhausted, done. I had been under a terrific strain, my
wounded arm ached and throbbed, and the reaction, now that it was all
over and Itza was safe and in no further danger, left me weak, unnerved
and utterly spent.
And there was Itza. Hardships, suffering, dangers known and unknown
must be faced and overcome if we fled the valley and forced a way
out to civilization, even though we found the way of the Symbols. A
woman of my own race would have had no chance of getting through, and
even Itza, a Maya, an Indian, would find it so difficult, would have
to endure so much that, at times, I had abandoned all thoughts of
attempting it and had resigned myself to remaining forever in Mictolan.
And she had suffered, had been under a strain that had left her as
unfitted for such an undertaking as myself. Until we had rested, had
regained strength and nerves, nothing could be done. Better to remain
for the rest of my life in Mictolan with Itza than to lose her and
perish in the unknown wilderness.
But there was one thing I _was_ determined I would do before I
threw my weary, aching body upon my couch and sought the rest, the
blessed unconsciousness of sleep, that my throbbing head and burning
eyes craved beyond all else. It was the eve of Tonalmatl, the most
sacred, most holy day of the year, and the people would be gathering,
hopefully, faithfully, expectantly awaiting the ceremony of the Setting
Sun on this last evening of the dying year. If I failed them at this
critical moment, who could say what dire results might follow.
They were restless, keyed up, in that tense psychological state where
riot, revolt, unreasoning mob violence might leap into flame at the
first spark. Within the past few hours their traditions, their beliefs,
their superstitions--even their religion--had been turned topsy-turvy.
Their greatest temple had been desecrated, their Sun God defied, their
high priest killed. Events had occurred too rapidly, revolutionary
inexplicable things had followed one another too quickly for the people
to be able to collect their thoughts, to reason, to fully realize what
had happened. They were confused, astounded, amazed, frightened. They
were for us at the moment, though in their superstitious minds they
regarded me as the all-powerful, incarnated representative of the
mighty Kukulcan, and felt relieved that the bloody tyrannical priest
Kinich Ahau had been destroyed. Yet they might swing the other way on
the slightest provocation.
If I failed to appear upon the temple, if I failed to maintain my power
and my ascendancy, they might turn again to their Sun God. They might
reason that their gods had deserted them, that Kinich Ahau was angered
at the death of his priest and at being cheated of his virginal brides,
and they might seek to appease him by wholesale sacrifices--even by
seizing Itza.
Moreover--though I am loath to admit it--though I may lay myself open
to charges of blasphemy and paganism, I felt a strong desire to stand
before that lofty altar and give thanks to my God for His guidance and
His protection, for His infinite mercy in having restored my beloved
Itza safe and unharmed to my arms. No doubt, to many, to those who
have never been in such a situation, who are accustomed to praying in
the dim sanctity of their churches, who regard any faith but their
own as infidel, the mere thought of offering prayers and thanks to
God before a pagan altar and at the feet of a pagan idol will be
horrifying, blasphemous. But to one who has dwelt long among those of
other religions than his own, to one who has learned how deep-seated,
how sublime is their faith, how rigorously, unalterably they strive to
live up to its tenets, how absolute their trust in their own gods, one
religion seems about as good as another.
And though I had no tendency to lean towards the religion and the gods
of Mictolan, though I had no faith in Kukulcan nor in Kinich Ahau,
yet I realized that, to the people of the valley, the temple was as
hallowed, as sacred as our own churches and cathedrals were to us.
A Protestant may not believe in the Roman Catholic Church, a Hebrew
may not believe in Christ, an Atheist may not believe in Almighty
God, a Christian may not believe in Mahomet, a Mohammedan may not
believe in Buddha, yet each respects the places of worship of the
others. Each--though in his heart he may scoff at--revile the others’
faith--feels, when he enters the church, mosque or temple of the others
that he is in a sacred spot; despite himself, he is impressed, awed;
so it was with me when I stood above the city before the altar of the
temple of the Plumed Serpent.
* * * * *
THERE was something inexpressibly impressing and sublime about the
place. Standing there on the narrow terrace of that towering pile that
had been erected centuries before the dawn of Christianity, whose gods
had been worshipped by millions before the birth of Moses, one seemed
apart from the world, lifted above the petty things of life, exalted,
nearer to one’s Creator, closer to God. And so, as with weary steps
I toiled up the ascent and at last stood at the temple top bathed in
the glory of the setting sun, and gazed across that fair green valley
and the silent, peaceful city, and looked down upon the shadowy sea
of upturned expectant faces, a great peace came to me. The world for
all its faults was very, very beautiful; it was good to be alive, to
feel that there was one you loved and who loved you in return; that
there were those to whom you were very dear, to whom you meant so much.
Dropping to my knees, I poured out my thanks to God, prayed that He
might guide and protect us and besought His blessings and His mercy
for the coming year. Then, rising, I addressed the hushed and silent
crowd below. Tomorrow, I reminded them, would be the day of Tonalmatl.
The cruel sacrifices of Kinich Ahau were done away with forever, the
inhuman priest had been swallowed up in his own accursed well. The
gods had forsaken him as all knew. They had shown that his rituals,
his sacrifices were wrong--and I pointed dramatically to the silent,
deserted Temple of the Sun where no priest stood outlined in the glare
of the wavering, lambent flames at the summit.
“O, people of Mictolan,” I cried. “Let peace and happiness come to all
with the dawning of the Tonalmatl! Let this be a day of thanksgiving
and of joy. Forget the past and Kinchi Haman, and celebrate the coming
of the New Year by placing the Prince Azcopil upon the throne of
Mictolan.”
For a moment there was absolute silence. Then a thunderous cheer
arose, and as the last crimson glow of the sunset faded from the sky,
I descended the temple stairs, reached the plaza, and staggered like
a drunken man towards my waiting litter. A dozen willing, eager arms
caught me, lifted me. Dimly as in a dream I felt myself sink among
the soft robes and cushions, I felt the swaying, lulling motion of my
hurrying bearers and then--oblivion.
* * * * *
WHEN I again opened my eyes, nearly twenty-four hours had passed. Itza
was beside me--starry-eyed, beautiful, watchfully tender. I drew her to
me and for long lay there, silent, perfectly at peace, sublimely happy
in the presence of her yielding body, the gentle throbbing of her heart
against my breast, the warm sweet touch of her lips.
At last, gently releasing herself, she spoke, asking me how I felt, if
my wounded arm pained me, if I were rested, if I was not hungry. For
answer I sprang up, seized her with my good arm, hugged her until she
begged for mercy, and told her I was hungry enough to eat her up. I
felt like a new man. I was rested, strong; my nerves were as steady as
ever, and I ate ravenously--like a famished wolf. And though my wounded
left arm still pained and throbbed it was far better, and I could use
it to some extent. Had I slept long? I asked between mouthfuls. Where
was the prince? Had Nohul Voh been around? Had anything occurred while
I had been lost to the world?
Itza laughed gaily, merrily, and her eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Had anything occurred?” she reiterated. “Did her Itzimin think then
that the whole world awaited his awakening with bated breath? Did he
think he could sleep from sundown until the next afternoon without
anything occurring?” Then, snuggling close and ceasing her teasing,
she chattered all the news. Yes, Nohul Voh had been there. He had
dressed my arm, had assured Itza that it would be healed and well
in a few days, and had promised to come again. The prince; well the
prince had been far too busy to call. But she forgot; there was no
longer any prince. It was King Azcopil now. The people had obeyed my
wishes, they had demanded that Azcopil should become their ruler, and
though he begged that they should wait until I could be present at the
coronation, they insisted that as I had called upon them to make him
king on the morning of the Tonalmatl, they must obey me or Kukulcan
might be offended. The coronation of a king in Mictolan was not, it
appeared, a very formal, complicated nor long-drawn-out ceremony. It
was, however, spectacular, as vividly described by Itza, and I rather
regretted I could not have been present. But I was glad they did not
wait.
When dealing with Indians, delays are dangerous, there is nothing like
striking while the iron is hot, and, as Itza prattled on--her sentences
punctuated by kisses--I was delighted to learn that the new king had
already asserted his authority in the right direction. He had announced
that with the beginning of his reign, Kukulcan should be the paramount
god of Mictolan. That the people would be free to worship Kinich Ahau
and that the priests of the Sun God’s cult might hold their ceremonies
in their temple, but that all the old practices were at an end. There
should be no secrets within it. It must be open to the public. No human
sacrifices of any sort should be held.
These were drastic measures, and Azcopil alone might have met with
strong opposition, or worse. But he had made old Nohul Voh his Prime
Minister, and the people were in superstitious awe of the sorcerer.
They feared him and his mysterious powers, next to the gods themselves,
and the old fellow took full advantage of his authority. He had ever
been an enemy of Kinchi Haman. Being of the House of Cocome Voh, and
of the Titul Zius clan, he was preëminently, by descent, by tradition
and by faith of the cult of the Plumed Serpent, and he regarded Kinich
Ahau as a secondary lesser deity--indeed as scarcely a deity at all.
As he had told me, Mictolan had been originally dedicated to Kukulcan;
for generations its tutelar deity was the Plumed Serpent, and not until
Kinchi Haman rose to power, by his own machinations and ruthless acts,
had the Sun God been raised to prominence. And finally, to be revered
as the Supreme God.
From the beginning I had suspected that Nohul Voh’s underlying purpose
had been to restore the old order of things, and now that Kinchi Haman
had met his deserved end, now that the legitimate king ruled over the
valley, and now that the old sorcerer found himself the right hand
man of the king, he asserted himself. He had thundered at the people,
had related the prophecies, had declared that my coming had been to
reestablish the supremacy of Kukulcan, that the death of the hunchback
priest had been his punishment at the hands of the Plumed Serpent.
He had assured the people that I had destroyed the Monster of
Sacrifices, that Kinchi Haman had hoodwinked and deceived them, that
while posing as a priest of the Sun God he had secretly offered
sacrifices to the false gods of people who had occupied the valley
before the coming of the Mayas, and he had ended by foretelling the
most dire calamities and most awful results to all, if the people
failed to obey their new king.
As Itza told of this I began to feel that I had become hopelessly
entangled in the net of circumstances that I had helped to weave.
I had become, willy-nilly, the high-priest of Kukulcan. The only
other devotees of the Plumed Serpent god were the acolytes and
lay-brothers--if I may use the term--of the temple, and if Kukulcan
was to be _the_ god of the people, they would naturally expect to
have the ceremonies continued with pomp and regularity. And I had no
desire and no intention of devoting my life to acting as a Mayan high
priest. Within a few days I planned to leave the valley--if Itza were
willing--and I began to wonder if I would not meet with opposition on
the part of Azcopil and Nohul Voh.
* * * * *
I WAS still puzzling my brain as to how I could manage matters when the
newly-crowned king arrived with the old sorcerer. They repeated all
that Itza had told me, with even more minute details, and complimented
me upon my rapid recovery and my appearance. That Azcopil could have
gone through so much without a sign of physical exhaustion and, with a
few hours sleep, could have gone through with the ceremonies and duties
of the day, amazed me more than anything else. But he had not been
under the mental strain I had suffered, and he had the wiry, tireless
almost incredible endurance of the Indian. Of course I congratulated
him upon his coronation and voiced my approval of the new rules he had
promulgated.
Old Nohul Voh smiled and chuckled. “He but followed out thy desires,
O, Itzimin Chac,” he declared. “Did not my son tell us of the one God
of his faith? Did he not give the rituals of his own faith upon the
temple, though the people thought he spoke in the secret tongue of the
cult, and I alone--with perhaps the maiden Itza--know it was not so?
And did not my lord overthrow the power of Kinich Ahau and destroy the
Kinchi Haman with his thunder tube, and defy the Sun God even within
the sanctity of his own temple?
“The wise man, O, Itzimin, observes and gives thought; the fool stubs
his toe against the rock. Does not the farmer nurture the sweetest
melon? Does not he remove the thorn vine that tears his flesh? Does the
woodsman stand in the path of the falling tree and command it to fall
aside? Does not one know that when the sun shines the rain will cease?
And can one man, O my son, serve two masters? Nay, Itzimin Chac. Always
in the world is one thing stronger or better than another. Always there
is the good and the bad. Always there is the right and the wrong.
Always one must bow to someone more powerful. And though the wrong may
endure for a time, though the bad may be so twisted as to seem good,
always in the end that which is good, that which is right, that which
is strong, shall endure. Much have you told me of your people--much
that seems beyond belief did I not know by the prophecies that it was
so. Safely you have come through the dangers that barred the way to
Mictolan, though you are not of the race of Kitche Maya. And you have
triumphed over the Kinchi Haman, and through you, King Azcopil is ruler
over Mictolan. Only in one way could you have done all this, my son;
only by the help of that one God you worship. And so Nohul Voh, who is
wise and has lived through many Katuns, and Azcopil, my king, who knows
your heart, know that your God is the greatest god and that to us He is
known as Kukulcan.”
I was a bit dazed and tremendously astonished at this long and most
surprising declaration of the old sorcerer. That he had become
convinced that I was under divine protection, that he--as well as
others--should have concluded that my God must be most powerful to
have safeguarded me from the vengeance of Kinich Ahau, would not
have been surprising. Indeed, it would have been exactly in line with
their psychology. But that they--that Nohul Voh, should have decided
to adopt the God I worshipped, that they should have practically cast
down their ancient, supreme Sun God and thus completely revolutionize
their religion and their mythology, and that, by some incomprehensible
manner of reasoning they should have identified the Plumed Serpent as
God Almighty, was actually astounding. To a missionary--to good jolly
old Padre José in fact--it would have been most gratifying to learn
that the people had been so won over from their heathen practices and
multiplicity of pagan gods. But I was no missionary; my religious
activities had been forced upon me, and my only interest in their
spiritual past, present or future lay in whether or not I had been
appointed the head of their new church without being consulted in the
matter; whether I was expected to continue to act the part of a priest,
or whether I were free to follow my own inclinations in the matter. I
was, in fact, about to put the question and settle it then and there
when Nohul Voh’s next words answered it for me.
He had examined my arm, had dressed the cuts, which were already
healing, and he had declared that in three days more it would be as
well as ever. Then, as he turned to go, he glanced keenly at me. “My
son,” he said, “though the Monster of Sacrifices will never more devour
a maiden of Mictolan, yet the flames still stream from the temple. The
Bridge of Light spans the chasm. The Way of the Symbols is open.”
There was no doubt as to the meaning of his words. The hint was broad,
plain enough. I was free to go--in fact the old fellow seemed anxious
to have me go. What did it mean? Had he read my thoughts? Did he merely
remember that I had wished to leave the valley with Itza and so realize
that I could never be happy here? Or had he decided that my presence in
Mictolan was not wholly desirable?
I couldn’t say, and I didn’t care. If Itza was willing, if she still
wanted to leave her home and with me attempt to reach the outside
world, we would start as soon as possible. But if she hesitated, if
she wavered, I would remain, would abandon all thoughts of leaving. I
would far rather remain in the valley forever than to make her unhappy,
to cause her to pine for Mictolan and her people, to have her regret
ever having left the valley. It would not be much of a hardship for me
to remain there. I had Itza, I would have plenty to occupy my mind, to
keep me busy and interested, I would be well-to-do, I would occupy a
far higher and more important position than I could ever hope for among
my own people.
Why, after all, did I want to leave? I really could not explain it
myself. It was not homesickness, not a desire to be among my own race.
I had been too much of a wanderer, had made my home in too many lands,
among too many diverse and alien people, to miss the companionship of
those of my race, to have any sentimental or patriotic longings. In
fact I had no real home. To be sure I was an American by birth, but I
had spent but a comparatively small portion of my life in the States.
London, Madrid, Lima, Mexico, La Paz; the wild heights of the Andes,
the silent jungles of the Amazon, the deserts of Peru; the Gran Chaco,
the Llanos; Broadway, Piccadilly, the Prado of Havana, the Plazas de
Armas of scores of Latin cities were all equally familiar, equally dear
or equally unimportant to me. Nowhere had I a family or relations,
nowhere but in Mictolan had I a heart interest, or truer, dearer
friends.
Whatever it was, it was there. As long as the flames rose above the
temple they would beckon me, urge me to be gone, and I hoped and prayed
that if Itza decided she preferred to remain, the Bridge of Light might
vanish forever, thus putting an end to my longings and my hopes.
But Itza was as anxious to go as I was to have her. Indeed, she was,
if anything, more enthusiastic. I knew the dangers, the hardships,
the sufferings that faced us. I could foresee the weary miles, the
dense jungles, the terrific mountains, the impassable streams, the
vast wilderness that we would be forced to traverse. Even if we found
that semi-mythical Way of the Symbols--in which I confess I had little
faith--it would be no child’s play, no picnic to wander for days
through the unexplored country to some remote outpost of civilization.
But Itza knew nothing of this. She had no kith or kin in Mictolan;
she was an orphan, she had no ties other than me to bind her or hold
her, and to tell the truth, her experiences had not been conducive to
developing any great fondness for her native valley or her own people.
In vain I tried--now that she had expressed her willingness and desire
to go--to dissuade her. I pointed out all the difficulties, the
dangers. I tried to picture her life among strangers, aliens. I dilated
on the dreary winters, the bitter cold of the north. But the more I
said the more--woman like--she was determined to go. She would enjoy
it, she was sure. With me to love her and to be loved by her she could
be happy anywhere. Hardships, dangers meant nothing. Had she not been
through far worse dangers, through greater sufferings? She wanted to
see all the marvelous things I had related to her. She wanted to dwell
among my people, to speak my language, to see the oceans. And after all
I could not blame her. All her life--short as it was--had been spent in
this one valley. All she knew, all she could imagine of the world was
what she could see, hear and know in Mictolan. Beyond the valley was
another world, a vast, unknown, undreamed of universe, as fascinating,
as filled with real and imaginary wonders as another planet would have
been to me.
* * * * *
I WOULD have set out that very day had my arm been fully recovered. At
any moment, at any time the flames might disappear, the bridge might
vanish. But that was a chance that had to be taken. To start off with
a bad arm would have been more than foolhardy even on an ordinary
expedition into the jungles. And to set forth on such a perilous,
desperate venture as ours, with the handicap of a partly disabled arm
would have been nothing short of suicidal. So, resigning myself to
fate, I waited for the days to pass until my wounds were fully healed
and my arm was again strong and whole. Each morning at dawn I gazed,
half-fearfully, at the temple top; a dozen times a day my eyes turned
to it; often in the night I would steal from Itza’s side and peer into
the soft effulgent light to assure myself the flames were still there.
As Nohul Voh had said, the wounds healed in three days--his knowledge
of herbs, drugs and cures was profound indeed, but it was ten days
before full strength had returned to my lacerated arm.
Meanwhile I had kept my mind busy. I had spent many hours with Nohul
Voh. I had been much with Azcopil, who with his queen were still our
closest, dearest friends, and I had devoted no little time to adding
to the mechanical advancement of the people. One thing I had done
that pleased the people and amazed them immensely was to cast a large
bronze bell for the temple. It was not a difficult job. The people
were excellent metal workers, there was plenty of copper and silver,
and it was merely a matter of making a mould and of smelting enough
of the copper-silver alloy in several hundred crucibles at one time.
Bells of small size and of the sleigh-bell type were common, they were
made of copper, silver and gold, but no one had ever before seen a
large bell or a bell of the conventional type. Hence they had no idea
what they were making, and, in order to surprise and impress them, I
kept the matter a profound secret until the bell was finished. Then
with infinite trouble and labor, it had been hauled and hoisted up the
temple and hung beside the altar.
When all was in readiness and, standing upon the altar, I seized the
heavy copper maul I had provided, and with all my strength swung it
against the bell and the deep melodious tones rang out across the
valley, the people rushed crowding to the streets and stared in dumb
wonder.
Many could not at first locate the sound, and jumped and stared about
and shaded their eyes and peered into the sky, striving to see the
thing that emitted the strange, unknown sound. But presently all knew,
and with wild shouts of joy, cried that their god was now speaking to
them. Indeed, to them, this ringing, musical voice of their god was far
more impressive, more convincing than any prayers or rituals I or any
other priest had ever uttered. That they could not interpret the sounds
made no difference; they were no more unintelligible than my words had
been, and to have the deity speak to them directly, instead of through
the medium of a human being, impressed them beyond belief. Moreover,
it solved the problem of finding a priest to take my place, a problem
that Nohul Voh, Azcopil and I had discussed at length, for the sorcerer
and the king both knew that as soon as my arm was strong, I planned to
leave them. But now there was no need of another priest. Any acolyte or
temple attendant could mount to the great bell and pound upon it with
the maul at sunrise and sunset.
* * * * *
ONLY once more did I ascend to the temple altar.
Perhaps I did wrong, perhaps I may be severely criticized. But however
that may be, the idea struck me to plant the symbol of the Christian
faith on the spot where I had recited Christian prayers so often. And
I have often wondered since, what would be thought if, at some distant
time, explorers or archeologists should penetrate to Mictolan, and upon
the deserted forgotten temple of the Plumed Serpent, they should find
a bronze bell and a Christian cross beside the great stone idol of
Kukulcan.
There was nothing now to delay our going. My arm was as strong as ever,
the flames still streamed from the temple of Kinich Ahau, the Bridge of
Light still spanned the chasm at the Cave of the Bats. We planned to
leave secretly, to slip away without attracting the attention of the
people, without their knowledge.
There were three reasons for this. In the first place, the people
might object to my deserting them. In the second place, there was the
prophecy foretelling that the bearer of the Book of Kukulcan would lead
the people from Mictolan to reestablish the ancient empire of their
race, and they might insist on accompanying me; while in the third
place, as Nohul Voh naively suggested, my mysterious disappearance
would be quite in keeping with my supposedly divine character and would
do much to strengthen the people’s faith in Kukulcan.
So, accompanied by the king and the old sorcerer, who insisted on
seeing us off, we left the palace before dawn, and silently and unseen,
hurried along that broad straight avenue down which I had come with
Itza so many months before. How the others felt as we walked through
the chill air on that memorable morning I do not know. But I for
one felt more excited, more keyed up than ever in my life before. I
was starting on a strange, a perilous adventure, and with me I was
taking Itza into dangers no one could foresee. And as I gazed about
at the well-known scene, at the silent, flat-roofed houses, at the
green fields and gigantic vegetation, at the frowning encircling
mountains that hid the valley’s secret from all the world, at the lofty
temples spectral in the morning mist, a lump rose in my throat and I
felt--strange thought as it was--much as I imagine a man must feel when
he is going to his execution. I was leaving all this forever. Suddenly
all seemed very dear to me, even the spidery windmills--incongruous
things in this isolated valley--seemed like old familiar friends, and
had Itza at that moment changed her mind, I would willingly have turned
back. But she was all excitement, all gaiety, all agog with the spirit
of adventure.
At last we reached the entrance to the tunnel. I glanced back. Yes,
the flames were rising above the Temple of the Sun, streaming straight
upward in the still morning air. From where I had secreted them in a
crevice of the rocks, I took my torches, my pack of provisions, and
strapped them on my back. And then, to my amazement, Itza, with a merry
laugh, rolled aside a rock and dragging out a second pack, adjusted
it on her own lovely shoulders. In vain I protested. It was nothing,
she declared. She hardly felt it. And we might need it. Why should her
Itzimin carry all the burden? Was she not to eat her share of food? Why
then should she not carry her share? Nohul Voh and Azcopil stood by
her. It was useless to argue against three, and so, with a kiss and a
caress, I gave in. A dozen paces more and before us was the black chasm
spanned by the dazzling, iridescent, wondrous bridge of light. Fear,
distrust, doubt filled me. I had crossed it before, yet try as I might
I could not force myself to step from the firm hard stone onto that
transparent, tenuous glow.
But Itza had no such fears. Swiftly she embraced King Azcopil, she
threw her arms about Nohul Voh and planted a farewell kiss upon
his cheek, and with a merry laugh and a wave of her hand stepped
confidently from the verge of the rock. My heart skipped a beat, I
uttered an involuntary cry as she did so. It seemed impossible that she
would not be dashed to death in the abyss. But no. She might have been
treading solid metal. Lightly she ran forward, calling me to follow.
With a last clasp of my hand I stammered farewells to my two friends,
and with gritted teeth and summoning all my courage, I stepped onto the
incredible bridge and hurried after Itza.
A moment more and she sprang upon the ledge on the farther side.
Turning, she waved her hand to the two men. Ten feet, five, three,
separated me from her. Another stride and I would be beside her. And
then, suddenly, without warning, the thing vanished under my feet.
As if in a horrible nightmare I felt dropping into eternity. A wild
despairing shriek came from my lips. I clutched wildly. My fingers
gripped the rock, my toes dug into a crevice. With all my strength I
fought to drag myself up. But the precipice was undercut and I could
exert no leverage. I felt myself slipping, going. Then hands gripped
my hair, my scalp seemed about to be torn from my head. With a last
convulsive kick, a supreme effort, I felt my chest upon the ledge.
Faint, half-senseless, with half my body and my legs dangling over the
awful chasm, I was powerless to move another inch. But Itza’s fingers
were twisted firmly in my long hair. She had braced herself against an
outjutting ledge, and she was by no means a puny weakling. Panting,
tugging--each jerk bringing agonized groans from my lips--she dragged
me to safety at last. I had escaped an awful death by the narrowest
margin. Had the Bridge of Light failed ten, five seconds--even one
second sooner, nothing could have prevented me from being hurled to
the depths of the abyss. I shuddered as I thought of it, shuddered
still more at thought of what would have happened had the bridge ceased
while Itza was crossing, if it had vanished with Itza on one side and
myself on the other. And I thanked God that my left arm had not gone
back on me. But I owed my life to Itza, to Itza whom I had thought too
weak to withstand the dangers to be faced! She had dropped beside me
and, woman-like now that the peril was past, she had burst into tears,
sobbing out how terrified she had been, begging me to tell her if I
were injured, pleading she was so sorry she had hurt me.
Controlling my shaken nerves, pulling myself together with an effort,
I scrambled to my feet, raised her tenderly, and laughing at her fears
stifled her sobs with kisses. Steeling myself to see that horrible
chasm, I looked across to where Azcopil and Nohul Voh still stood.
Then, waving our hands to them, shouting that all was well, we turned
and entered the Cave of the Bats.
We had left Mictolan forever. There was no going back.