The Way of the Symbols
THERE is little more to tell, for our adventures really ended when we
crossed the Bridge of Light. I had come through the Cave of the Bats
in the dark, blindly, wandering, lost. By merest luck I had found the
exit where Itza and I now stood. But this time I had enough excellent
torches to burn for hours, and lighting one of these, I held it up
and peered about in its ruddy glare. I had no idea of the direction
whence I had come, whether I had turned, doubled, run in circles or had
followed a reasonably straight course on my former trip. I was not by
any means sure how far I had come nor how much time I had spent in the
cavern. Hence I had decided that the safest and surest--even if not
the shortest--way of finding the entrance by which I had come would be
to follow the wall of the cave. I felt confident there were no other
exits, for had such existed the people would not have devoted so much
care and labor to concealing the entrance by means of the great tilting
idol. But we had not proceeded fifty feet--with Itza clinging to me and
trembling with vague fears of the dismal place--when I found that my
scheme was wholly impracticable.
There was no wall. Huge stalactites and stalagmites joined to form
innumerable columns in the labyrinth of grottoes, narrow passages,
galleries and corridors leading for unknown distances. The mountain was
literally honeycombed with a maze of tunnels and caves. Any one of the
countless openings might lead to the entrance, and to explore them all
would take months--perhaps years. More than ever I realized how fortune
or fate or Providence had guided my footsteps before. And more than
ever I realized how difficult we would find it to cross the cave and
reach the entrance we sought.
I halted, tried to collect my thoughts, to reason calmly, to
concentrate upon the matter. The opening through which we had come
was still visible, the morning sun streaming into it. As nearly as I
could calculate, it faced southeast. I revisualized the surroundings
of the tilting idol at the other entrance, and felt sure it faced the
north. I have a rather remarkable sense of direction and I felt certain
that I was not mistaken in this. In that case, one entrance would
be almost directly opposite the other. Of course it might be far to
one side or the other, far to the east or west, but if we followed a
straight course towards the north, we must eventually reach the limits
of the cavern, and even if we did not see the light that indicated the
opening, we could move east or west until we located it. And it would
not be difficult to follow a straight line. By noting some peculiarity
of a stone column ahead of us, and sighting back to the still visible
entrance, we could move forward. Then we could select another column
ahead, smudge the one beside which we stood with smoke, and move to the
next. There were so many columns that it would be easy to align our
course even after we lost sight of the entrance behind us.
Chatting to Itza to encourage her, and explaining my scheme to her, we
started on. It was slow work. We had to use care, but all seemed to be
going well. We had proceeded for at least an hour. I felt that at any
time we might catch a glimpse of the light in the entrance ahead, when
Itza uttered a surprized exclamation: “The symbol!” she cried. “See,
Itzimin, there on the stone!”
* * * * *
[Illustration: “The Symbol,” she cried. “See, Itzimin, there on the
stone”]
* * * * *
I peered at the spot she indicated. She was right. Clearly outlined on
the surface of an upjutting mass of rock was the deeply-cut symbol of
Kukulcan with the reed and foot. But it pointed at right angles to the
course we were following!
I was puzzled. Had we lost our way, had we become confused and was the
symbol right, or did the symbol point the way to another entrance?
Should we follow it--perhaps to find that in the ages that had passed
since it had been cut, the entrance it led to had been blocked by
débris? Or should we ignore it and continue on our course? Then I
remembered that, in the vision I had seen, the same symbol was cut
there in the valley near the giant tilting idol. That then must be
the only exit; the symbol must lead to it. But how, where could we
find the next mark? If we left the spot, if we wandered about hunting
here, there and everywhere for the next symbol and failed to locate
it, could we ever find our way back to the place where we stood, and
could we again proceed in the straight line we were following? My torch
illuminated only a small area of the cavern, we would have to search
very carefully, very slowly for the mark, and there was the chance--the
certainty almost--that many, if not most of the symbols, had been
covered with the stalactitic material during the countless centuries.
Suddenly memory of Nohul Voh’s enigmatical words flashed across my
mind, the words he had uttered when he had given me the bamboo tube
that had served me so well and so mysteriously in the temple: “It may
serve you well within that Cavern of the Bats.” Strange that I should
have forgotten it. What had the old sorcerer meant? Had he merely
uttered generalities, meaning it might answer as a torch to light our
way, or was there a deeper, hidden meaning?
Personally I couldn’t see how the thing would help us any in our
present quandary, but Itza--who was ever in awe of Nohul Voh and his
strange knowledge and seemingly mystic powers--insisted that it would.
Curious to see what the result would be, I dug it out of my pack,
unstoppered the end, and flashed its rays upon the rock with the carved
symbol. As the strange red glare suffused the stone, I jumped as if I
had sat on a lively hornet, and stood gaping in amazement. The symbol
stood out in brilliant green light, and leading from it down the side
of the rock, across the cavern floor, and disappearing between the
stone columns in the blackness, was a row of shining green arrows!
Itza cried out with delight and clapped her hands at my surprise
and her own triumph. Hadn’t she said so? Hadn’t she known Nohul Voh
had spoken the truth? We hurried on, following the arrows. Suddenly
I burst into a peal of laughter. It all seemed so ridiculously
familiar--“Follow the green arrows”--I could almost imagine myself in
the subway at Times Square, in New York, glancing at the green line as
I hurried towards the Lexington Avenue trains! But of course I couldn’t
explain this to Itza, and she glanced apprehensively at me wondering if
I had suddenly lost my senses.
* * * * *
AS we followed the arrows and the symbols that appeared from time to
time, I realized how little chance we would have had, had we tried to
find the entrance by moving in a direct line across the cavern. The
marks turned, twisted, zig-zagged; swung to left, to right; doubled. I
lost all sense of direction, but at last, far ahead, a patch of light
showed in the blackness, and a moment later we stood at the entrance.
Nothing had changed. The stones and the log I had placed there months
before were still in position, and, passing through the opening beneath
the idol, we stood once more in the blessed sunshine in the fair, green
valley.
I looked up at the great image leaning far forward as if about to
fall upon its knees. A question was in my mind. Should I leave the
entrance open, so that any man who passed that way might enter and find
Mictolan, so those within the valley might have free egress in case
they ever deserted Mictolan? Or should I remove the props, swing the
idol back in place and close the entrance?
Visions of Mictolan, of the peaceful happy life of its people rose
before me. I saw Azcopil ruling the people wisely and well, I saw the
lofty temples, heard the pealing of the great bell. Then I visualized
the valley overrun with strangers, exploited by rough, unprincipled
miners, the Mayas degraded, oppressed, debauched with the rum and
vices of the white man. Better by far that they should always remain
in their hidden valley, that Mictolan should remain forever unknown,
inaccessible to the rest of the world.
Cautiously I removed the wedges and the logs. Carefully I clamored up
the mighty image, studying it, examining it, testing it, until at last
I found the secret of its mechanism and slowly, smoothly, with a slight
jar it swung into place, sealing the entrance to the Cavern of the Bats.
There was little difficulty in finding the symbol on the rock beside
the stream. My memory of that mysterious vision in the house of Nohul
Voh was very vivid. I recognized every landmark I had seen in that
mystic smoke. The rushing brook was exactly as I had seen it. There was
the placid shaded pool, and even before we saw the sculptured symbol,
I felt sure it would be there, cut deeply into the water-worn surface
of the ledge. Beside the pool we decided to rest for the afternoon
and night. My nerves were still a bit shaky, and I knew that Itza,
unaccustomed to long walks with a pack upon her shoulders, was tired,
although she would not admit it. She was so delighted with everything,
that I doubt if she knew whether she was tired or not.
Even this first glimpse of the outside world was fascinatingly strange
to her. The verdure, the rolling green hills, the distant hazy-blue
mountains, the dense jungle, all were different from anything in her
native valley. She insisted on bathing in the clear calm pool. It was
an inviting-looking spot with its crystal water, its bottom of white
and red pebbles, its little crescent of sandy beach. I longed for a
swim myself and, having assured myself that there were no alligators
or other dangerous inhabitants in the pool, we plunged in, and for an
hour or more dove, swam, frolicked, splashed and had a glorious time.
Refreshed, and with keen appetites, we emerged at last. I was anxious
to conserve our slender stock of food for emergencies that might arise,
and I felt certain that there were fish in the stream. So, while Itza
dried herself--like the golden statue of a Dryad--in the sunshine, I
tried my luck with my hand-made hooks and line. No skill was needed to
capture the denizens of that brook, they seemed anxious to be caught,
and in almost as many minutes I had half a dozen beauties flapping on
the grass. We dined royally and, having rested and smoked, I busied
myself rigging up a palm-leaf shelter for the night.
As we were doing this--for Itza was more expert at such matters than I
was--she touched my arm and pointed silently to where an unsuspicious
deer had stepped from the jungle and stood looking at us curiously.
That night we dined on broiled venison, and spent the evening
“haricotting” the rest of the meat over a smoky fire. We now had
plenty of food to last us for several days, even if no other game was
obtainable and I had no further fear of going hungry for some time to
come. The sun was just topping the mountains when we set off the next
morning, following the course of the stream, happy and light-hearted.
By noonday, when we stopped again to rest and eat, the brook had
widened to a fair-sized river and, remembering the vision or whatever
it was, that I had seen in the sorcerer’s smoke, I looked about for
material with which to construct a raft or boat of some sort.
Then for the first time, I realized that I was unconsciously assuming
that I actually _had_ looked into the future, or at least had, by some
mysterious means, been enabled to view the route we were following.
Nonsense! I said to myself. How could I have seen a place I had never
visited? By some form of hypnosis or auto-suggestion Nohul Voh might
have caused me to _think_ I saw the valley near the cliff with the
great idol. I _had_ seen that before. But I had surely never been here
by this broad stream. Yet there was the symbol on the rock by the pool.
There was the stream. Try as I might to argue against it, I felt in my
heart and innermost mind that everything would eventuate precisely as I
had seemed to see it back in Mictolan. And at any rate, it would be far
easier and quicker to travel down river by boat or raft than to follow
the winding course of the stream afoot.
In the tropics, it is usually a simple matter to make some sort of
a craft that is buoyant, easily handled and capable of supporting
considerable weight in fairly calm water. There are always bamboos or
the cork-like Balsa trees within easy reach when in jungle country, and
where there are lakes or back-waters, there are the hollow reeds that,
tied into bundles and lashed together, may be used to construct those
light, seaworthy but strange crafts known as “balsas” by the Indians,
who use them exclusively to navigate the waters of Lake Titicaca. And
here, close to the stream, were bamboos, cork-like balsa[4] trees and
plenty of reeds. Itza fell to with a will and worked like a beaver.
Her endurance and strength always surprised me. She did not give the
impression of being a particularly strong woman, but the soft curves
and contours of her body and limbs covered muscles that were almost
equal to my own, and she possessed the remarkable endurance of her
race. And when it came to performing any task that called for primitive
methods or native skill, she was immeasurably superior to me, despite
the fact that I always prided myself upon my knowledge and experience
of woodcraft.
[4] A tropical wood of extreme lightness.
With her help we soon had several good-sized balsa logs ready, and by
sundown we had practically finished a sort of combination raft and
catamaran that would, I felt sure, serve us on the stream as long as
we did not meet rapids or falls. The next morning we embarked, and
thereafter, for days, we drifted swiftly, easily, down river without
adventure, without effort.
* * * * *
TWICE, as we swept past cliffs, we saw the symbols pointing ever
onward, and despite myself I, was forced to admit that, regardless of
how it had been done, old Nohul Voh had revealed the truth to me when
he had showed me the “Way of the Symbols.” So, being now convinced that
it was so, I kept a sharp lookout for the precipice in whose base was
the black tunnel through which the river flowed in the vision. Each
day, as we drifted on, the mountains receded and became lower. Each
day the river broadened, and I was constantly expecting to see Indian
huts or villages and was as constantly surprised to find the country
apparently uninhabited. Game was abundant, the stream was filled with
fish, and though Itza missed the vegetable food to which she had always
been accustomed, still she made no complaint and remained well and
strong.
Often she laughingly twitted me on having pictured such bugbears of
dangers and hardships. Since leaving the Cave of the Bats it had all
been easy, safe, glorious fun to her. But we were not at the end of our
journey yet, I told her.
Then, at last, one day we saw the expected mountain side stretching
across the valley ahead, and presently, as we drew near, the black
archway at its base was visible, exactly as I had seen it in my vision.
By now I had become so thoroughly convinced of the accuracy of that
glimpse into the unknown, that I felt perfectly sure that we would
pass through the tunnel and emerge on the farther side in safety. But
unfortunately the smoke-screen had not shown me the craft in which I
was voyaging. Still, our balsa wood raft had proved most efficient,
there was no sign of rapids or falls ahead--although the current
increased and ran swiftly into the tunnel. But I was not taking any
unnecessary chances. Running the raft ashore, I made it fast, and, with
no little difficulty, made my way down stream until within a few feet
of the opening in the cliff. But though we both listened intently, we
could hear nothing that sounded like rapids or a fall--just a low,
rushing, steady roar. Only one peril, I felt, remained. Could I feel
sure that there was space enough between the surface of the stream and
the roof of the tunnel for our craft and ourselves to pass? Fully ten
feet of space showed at the entrance, but could I be certain it did not
decrease within?
Then I noticed that the high water-mark--the highest point reached by
the river in the rainy season--was not within four feet of the top of
the opening. That settled it. The tunnel must be large enough to permit
the whole volume of the river in the wet season to pass without backing
up, and it was now the height of the dry season. Moreover, hadn’t I
seen myself floating safely on the lake at the farther end of the
tunnel? I cast all doubts and fears aside, overhauled the raft, added
lashings, strengthened it, and having lit two torches, we embarked,
cast the raft free and were swept into the black hole. It was a strange
weird scene with our torches casting a ruddy glare upon the swirling
waters and the damp rocky walls. But within five minutes the walls
vanished. No sign of rock could be seen to right, left or overhead, and
I laughed aloud at my misgivings. Instead of becoming lower, the tunnel
had opened into a vast cavern--vast indeed as I knew from the echo of
my laughter. And it was not long. We seemed hardly to have entered the
place--the arch was still outlined against the sunshine behind--when
ahead we saw the glimmer of light. It increased rapidly in size, and
more quickly than it takes to tell it, we swept out from the cavern
and rocked gently upon the surface of a good-sized lake. As if I had
known the place all my life, I turned instinctively and peered at a
rocky islet a few hundred feet distant. Though I had expected it, yet,
when I saw the familiar symbol cut into the rock, I uttered a surprised
ejaculation, and a peculiar sensation--as I imagine one might feel who
sees or _thinks_ he see a ghost--caused a tingling of my spine. But
Itza’s eyes were sharper, quicker than mine.
“Look, look, Itzimin mine!” she cried excitedly. “Houses! People!”
I shaded my eyes and stared incredulously. But there was no doubt of
it. Less than half a mile distant a village stood at the edge of the
lake, and people were moving back and forth upon the beach.
That they would be Indians was certain. But would they prove hostile
or friendly? However, there was nothing we could do. The natives had
already seen us and several canoes were coming swiftly towards us. As
they drew near, I was relieved to see that they wore hats, that they
were dressed in coarse native cotton shirts and--yes, there was no
doubt about it--one fellow had on a pair of pants!
That settled it. I had no further fears. In fact, as the Indians drew
near they were far more afraid of us than we had been of them. I
shouted to them in Zutugil, but that appeared only to scare them the
more. Then I tried Spanish, and with shouts of delight they replied in
the same tongue. They were friendly, half-civilized, simple, harmless
people, and ten minutes later we were in the village, objects of the
most intense curiosity on the part of the villagers. But when, by
chance, they caught a glimpse of the tattooed symbol on my chest,
their curiosity changed instantly to wonder and adoration. They might
be Spanish-speaking, degenerate, semi-Christianized, half-civilized
members of their race, but they still recognized the mark of the
ancient Mayan priest-kings and revered those who bore it. At this
juncture, Itza bent towards me and whispered a question that brought
roars of laughter from my lips.
“Are these people of your race, Itzimin?” she asked.
To me there was something extremely ludicrous in her query, in her
mistaking members of her own race for Anglo Saxons. But after all, why
not? They were no more like the people of Mictolan than--well, I was
about to say than like me, but honestly, of the two, I verily believe
that, being a civilized man “gone native” as one might say, I looked
far more like their kinsman than any man in Mictolan.
For a moment Itza looked hurt at my merriment over her quite natural
and innocent question, but when I had explained, she regarded it as a
good joke and laughed gaily herself. And as the Indians felt that there
must be something funny, and that it would be discourtesy to their
distinguished guest not to show appreciation of it, they, too, burst
into peals and roars of laughter.
* * * * *
THEY were good-natured, simple folk, and in reply to my questions,
informed me there was a white man in a village three days’ walk to
the south. He was, they added, a Padre, though why I, a member of the
exalted, almost sacred Titul Zius clan, should want to find a white
man or civilization was quite incomprehensible to them. That I was
within three days of a village where there was a priest was not so
surprising to me as it might seem. It is a remote Indian village indeed
that is too far away to have its Padre, and that we had come far and
deviously from the valley of Mictolan I knew. The hidden city might be
two hundred, three hundred miles distant, and in that wilderness of
unexplored mountain ranges such a place as Mictolan might well remain
hidden forever, even though within one hundred miles of settlements and
even of railways.
“And how is this village called, wherein dwells the Padre?” I asked my
informant, who appeared to be the Cacique of the village by the lake.
“It is called the village of Xibaltango, my lord,” he replied.
I gasped, speechless with surprise. Xibaltango within three days’
march of where I sat! Jolly, good-hearted, roly-poly old Padre José
barely sixty miles distant! I could scarcely believe my ears. But very
possibly there was more than one Xibaltango.
“And know you not how he calls himself, the Padre?” I queried.
“Of a truth, most certainly, my lord,” declared the Indian. “All the
world knows that; all know him as the Padre José.”
There was no doubt about it. By some whim of fate, of chance or of
Providence the ‘Way of the Symbol’ had led us to--well, relatively
speaking, to the front door of Padre José.
Three days later we stood before him, and the amazed, incredulous,
utterly flabbergasted expression that came over his ruddy jovial face
when he recognized me, is beyond words to describe.
“_Santisima Madre!_” he cried, devoutly crossing himself at his
involuntary exclamation. “It is the Señor Americano! It is the Señor
who had the codex and who went to Katchilcan! But, Señor, it is
impossible, it is a miracle, it is an apparition! He--the Señor--you,
were killed, destroyed, murdered by the Indios Bravos! I had word from
Katchilcan--your--his--the Señor’s bearers returned with the tale.
I have said masses, prayers; have burned candles for the repose of
your--the Señor Americano’s soul. I have done penance for having sent
you--him--into the wilderness.
“Dios mio, it cannot be so, Señor, it is not--tell me it _is_ true!”
I assured him that it was true, that I was very much alive, that I had
never been killed.
He heaved an immense sigh of vast relief. Then, with a twinkle in his
eye. “And the Señorita, Señor? Is she--the pretty one--also real or is
she perhaps an apparition?”
“She, also, is most real _mi_ Padre,” I assured him. “It is a long,
long story and greatly, I know, it will interest and amaze you. But
first of all, would I ask that you convince yourself that we are both
of flesh and blood by making us man and wife.”
He pursed his lips and whistled. Placing the tips of his pudgy fingers
together, cocking his head first on one side and then the other, he
surveyed us critically. Then he burst out laughing.
“_Señor Americano!_” he exclaimed. “Many, very many and very strange
things have I heard of you _Norte-Americanos_. Much that I could not
believe; but the very strangest, the most incredible of all is what I
hear from your own lips. You come to me with a so-strange codex. I send
you to learn the Zutugil. From there you journey to see Katchilcan. He
tells you some story, you vanish in the wilderness. You are killed,
destroyed. I pray for the repose of your soul--though for all I know
you are heretic--the months pass. Suddenly, from nowhere, a spirit, a
ghost, an apparition, you appear. You have been transformed; no longer
are you the _Señor Americano_. You are, you have become a savage, an
Indio, and--_Madre de Dios_, yes, _si_, an ancient Maya--a figure from
that so-strange codex. By your hand you lead a girl, an India, a most
beautiful _muchacha_. An India such as I, who thought I knew all the
tribes, have never seen. Do you tell me where you have been, Señor? Do
you relate your tale? Do you explain why you still live? Do you speak
of your codex? No, no indeed! Your first words are--‘Marry me to this
maiden!’ It is sublime, marvelous! If I had doubts before, I could have
none now. Never--not for one moment! No one but an Americano, a Yanqui
could be so mad! But I am impatient to hear your story. I am aflame
with curiosity. So I _will_ marry you, will baptize you, will make you
both _Catolicos_ so I may do so. Only in that way can I get the story,
Señor. That I can see. But,” he added as if to himself, “very much do I
doubt if in the eyes of God you will be any more man and wife than you
are now.”
To Itza that extemporaneous baptism, the short ceremony that made
us legally man and wife, was all a most impressive, mysterious and
wonderful affair.
Aside from myself, Padre José was the only white man she had ever seen,
and having never seen me save bearded, unkempt, tanned, the fat, jolly,
smooth-faced priest appeared like a being of a totally different race.
To her, too, the little adobe church must have appeared a most poor
and tawdry “temple.” And though, for her benefit, Padre José used the
Zutugil dialect in the ceremony, she went through it as though in a
daze or a dream, and I doubt if she really understood what it all meant
or what it was about. In fact, much later, she confided to me that at
the time she thought it some mystic rite that all my race went through
when they returned from distant places, and that the ring--that the
priest produced from the Lord only knows where--was placed upon her
finger as a mark to show she was my property. But there was one thing
she _did_ understand. She recognized the cross above the little altar,
she realized that the figure of the Saviour was an image of my people’s
God. Falling upon her knees before it, she murmured the Lord’s prayer I
had taught her, and then, switching to her own tongue, gave thanks to
Kukulcan.
Greatly touched was the jolly Padre at this, though he placed his hand
over his mouth and his merry eyes crinkled at the corners when--like
the little heathen she was--she addressed herself to Kukulcan.
* * * * *
SO we came to the end of our wanderings. Pages I might write describing
Itza’s wonder at all she saw, at the people, the cities, the railways,
the steamships, the motor cars--at everything. But all that is apart
from the story.
By the time we were back in New York Itza, ever adaptable and quick
to learn--was, outwardly, as much the product of twentieth century
civilization and fashions as any of the thousands of women upon the
streets and avenues of the metropolis. In a city where all the races of
the world mingle, her glowing golden skin and lustrous hair attracted
no attention, but many an admiring and envious glance was cast at
her unusual features, her wonderful eyes and her superb figure. But
the great cities had no more charms for her than for myself. They
amazed, astounded and terrified her. She longed for sunshine, verdure,
mountains and quiet; the surroundings, the home, I had so often dreamed
of. And at last, thanks to the codex that had by merest accident come
into my hands in far off Vigo, and that had led me through such strange
adventures, I found myself in a position to make those dreams come
true. No wonder old Katchilcan had said he would give the half of his
life to possess the Book of Kukulcan. How true had proved his words as
I recalled them: ‘To him who has the Book, and comes by it by honest
means, his way shall be made easy and he shall gain great peace and
happiness, and he shall abide forevermore with the gods.’
And as I prepare to lay aside my pen, and Itza rises and with smiling
lips and eyes comes towards me, I know that, for me, at least, the
promise of the ancient prophecy has been borne out in full--beyond even
my wildest expectations.
Epilogue
SINCE writing the above story of my adventures and experiences in the
city of Mictolan, I have read it to Itza. “Why!” she exclaimed, “You
have left out some of the most important facts. You haven’t explained
about the Bridge of Light or Nohul Voh’s tube or the light in his
house. And after all the trouble and time you and your friends have
devoted to studying them!”
To my surprise, I discovered she was right. I _had_ mentioned the
ideas and theories I had formed in Mictolan, but these, I had later
found, were not entirely correct. Fortunately I had preserved the
bamboo tube, and my friend Dr. Farrabee had written a special treatise
on it. Its contents were, he found, an entirely new element related
to radium but possessing several unique properties. Thus, while lead
is (to all intents and purposes) a radium insulator, it offers no
resistance to the rays of this new element that Dr. Farrabee has named
Nohulite at my request. But remarkably enough, any cellulose tissue or
fibre completely isolates Nohulite. As is well known, radium destroys
organic tissue and affects bone. But Nohulite appears to have no effect
upon bone itself, though it destroys animal fat almost instantly. Its
most remarkable property, however, is that in the presence of metals
it discharges rays or electrons in inconceivable quantities without
appreciable loss of energy or bulk to itself. Although this discharge,
this fusillade, if I may use the term, is quite invisible to the human
eye, yet the instant it comes into contact with a metallic element
it produces an intense heat and a colored glow, the amount of heat
and the color of the glow depending upon the metal and its purity.
This phenomenon, according to Dr. Farrabee’s exhaustive monograph,
is due to resistance. In other words, just as current of electricity
passing through a resistant material, such as iron, will cause that
material to become incandescent, so the discharge of electronic energy
from Nohulite, striking a resistant material, produces heat and an
incandescent glow. But contrary to what one would expect, the purer
the metal the greater the resistance. Hence, when, in the passages
of the temple, I turned the ray upon the rocks, a red glow--due to
the presence of iron--resulted with comparatively little heat. But
when it was turned upon gold--or pure copper--a tremendous amount
of heat was generated instantly. Even the mysterious and seemingly
inexplicable manner in which the rays had revealed the otherwise green
arrows in the Cave of the Bats has been explained by Dr. Farrabee’s
experiments. Chromium oxides glow brilliant green under the rays, and
no doubt the arrows were either cut into the rock, and filled with
chrome--which would be indistinguishable by the naked eye from the rest
of the stone--or they had been painted with some chromium oxide upon
the rocks. Even if they were completely covered with a thin layer of
limestone--as they probably were--they would still be revealed by the
ray of Nohulite.
Unfortunately I brought back no samples of the other materials I
had seen in the valley, and there were only my observations and
descriptions of the various phenomena to aid in formulating theories
and hypotheses. I had assumed that the Bridge of Light was a jet
of vapor or gas ionized by contact with radium or some radioactive
mineral. But neither Dr. Farrabee, Professor Le Conte nor Sir William
Lille agree with me. They are unanimous in declaring that, in their
opinions, the vapor was in itself sufficiently solid to support the
weight of human beings. At first this sounds incredible, for we
invariably think of vapors or gases as thin, fluid and incapable of
supporting solid objects. But it must be borne in mind that the terms
“fluid” and “solid” are relative only. In comparison with air or
helium gas, water is a “solid.” In comparison with water, mercury is
a “solid.” Air will not support wood, but water will; water will not
support iron, but mercury will. Conversely, compared to iron, mercury
is a liquid; compared to wood, water is a liquid. And whether or not
any material--so-called fluid or liquid--will support a given object
depends entirely upon the relative weight--per cubic inch--of the
two. Hence, if we can imagine a gas or vapor weighing more per cubic
inch than a human body, that gas would support a man. And there is no
scientific or other reason why there should not be gases heavy enough
to do so; why there should not be gases as much heavier than water
as helium or hydrogen gas is lighter than water. That the Bridge of
Light glowed in various colors was perhaps (these eminent scientists
admit) caused by radioactive minerals. In fact, such a stream of vapor,
undoubtedly containing metallic elements or particles, if passing
through rock containing Nohulite, would almost certainly glow with the
various colors of the metallic elements produced by the Nohulite rays.
Also, the scientists I have mentioned, as well as Professor Nordstrom,
the world renowned authority on rare earths, seem to be fairly well
convinced that Nohul Voh’s light (as well as the various other lights
of Mictolan) was produced by a use of the same remarkable Nohulite.
Dr. Farrabee’s experiments, as I have said, have proved that each
metal, and metallic salt or solution, produces a distinct color under
the Nohulite action. But so far he has been unable to find a single
known metal that reacts with a white glow. The nearest he has come to
this is by the use of a mixture of thorium and potassium. This gives
a very brilliant but soft yellow light. Indeed, if any considerable
quantity of Nohulite were available, had I in fact brought out a few
hundred pounds of the material, I would have been a multimillionaire,
and the artificial lighting systems of the world would have been
revolutionized. So remarkable are the properties of the mineral, so
insignificant its loss of energy that, ever since I have returned from
Mictolan--and Dr. Farrabee completed his studies--a period of more
than two years, his home and my home have been illuminated from top
to bottom with Nohulite lamps. Each contains less than one-tenth of a
gram of Nohulite, and each produces light of practically one hundred
candlepower. And yet, so far, no diminution can be detected either in
amount of light or the quantity of Nohulite.
Finally there is the strange, ever-rotating green sphere that so
puzzled me in Nohul Voh’s room. But no scientist has yet been able to
formulate a more satisfactory or more reasonable theory to explain it
than that which I decided upon myself.
There is one more paragraph I must add. I have hesitated hitherto to
write this story of Mictolan. I realized that to do so would be to
attract the attention of promoters, speculators, exploiters. And I
realized that even if I had closed the entrance to the Cave of the
Bats, even if the Bridge of Light never again spanned the chasm, even
if I refused to divulge the exact location of the valley, it would
be found as soon as the world learned of the riches of the place. An
airplane could locate it easily; no matter how inaccessible it might be
overland, airplanes could land in the valley. And for the same reason
I had pledged my scientific friends to absolute secrecy regarding the
origin of the priceless Nohulite.
But now all is changed. Mictolan, I feel sure, has forever vanished
from the face of the world. Soon after the terrific and disastrous
earthquakes that shook Guatemala four months ago, a government
airplane, carrying relief to one of the stricken cities, reported
passing over an immense lake filling what was apparently the crater
of an enormous extinct volcano. The lake, so the observer reported,
showed indications of having recently been formed. Dead and uprooted
trees still floated upon its surface and, projecting a few feet above
the surface of the water were the summits of two ancient Mayan temples.
In every detail the description and the location of the lake coincide
with Mictolan, and I am absolutely convinced that Mictolan, with all
its people, was completely destroyed, completely submerged by the great
cataclysm of nature.
THE END.
Transcriber’s Note:
This etext was transcribed from Amazing Stories Quarterly, Fall 1929
(vol. 2, no. 4, pp. 436–505).
Obvious errors in spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been
silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies and
archaic forms have been retained as printed. Some illustrations have
been moved to fit the story. The title “INTRODUCTION” has been added.