The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins
“A teule!” he said, in a low voice.
“A man,—only a man!” exclaimed Guatamozin, so sternly that the monarch shrank as if the blue lips of the dead had spoken to him. “Ask yourself, O king, Do the gods die?”
Montezuma smiled, either at his own alarm or at the ghastly argument.
“Whence came the trophy?” he asked.
“Have you not heard of the battle of Nauhtlan?”
“Surely; but tell it again.”
“When the strangers marched to Tlascala,” the ’tzin began, “their chief left a garrison behind him in the town he founded. I was then on the coast. To convince the people, and particularly the army, that they were men, I determined to attack them. An opportunity soon occurred. Your tax-gatherers happening to visit Nauhtlan, the township revolted, and claimed protection of the garrison, who marched to their relief. At my instance, the caciques drew their bands together, and we set upon the enemy. The Totonaques fled at our first war-cry; but the strangers welcomed us with a new kind of war. They were few in number, but the thunder seemed theirs, and they hailed great stones upon us, and after a while came against us upon their fierce animals. When my warriors saw them come leaping on, they fled. All was lost. I had but one thought more,—a captive taken might save the Empire. I ran where the strangers clove their bloody way. This”—and he pointed to the head—“was the chief, and I met him in the rout, raging like a tiger in a herd of deer. He was bold and strong, and, shouting his battle-cry, he rushed upon me. His spear went through my shield. I wrenched it from him, and slew the beast; then I dragged him away, intending to bring him alive to Tenochtitlan; but he slew himself. So look again! What likeness is there in that to a god? O king, I ask you, did ever its sightless eyes see the glories of the Sun, or its rotting lips sing a song in heaven? Is Huitzil’ or Tezca’ made of such stuff?”
The monarch, turning away, laid his hand familiarly on the ’tzin’s arm, and said,—
“Come, I am content. Let us go.”
And they started for the landing.
“The strangers, as I have said, my son, are marching to Cholula. And Malinche—so their chief is called—now says he is coming to Tenochtitlan.”
“To Tenochtitlan! In its honored name, in the name of its kings and gods, I protest against his coming!”
“Too late, too late!” replied Montezuma, his face working as though a pang were at his heart. “I have invited him to come.”
“Alas, alas!” cried Guatamozin, solemnly. “The day he enters the capital will be the commencement of the woe, if it has not already commenced. The many victories will have been in vain. The provinces will drop away, like threaded pearls when the string is broken. O king, better had you buried your crown,—better for your people, better for your own glory!”
“Your words are bitter,” said the monarch, gloomily.
“I speak from the fulness of a heart darkened by a vision of Anahuac blasted, and her glory gone,” returned the ’tzin. Then in a lament, vivid with poetic coloring, he set forth a picture of the national ruin,—the armies overthrown, the city wasted, the old religion supplanted by a new. At the shore where the canoe was waiting, Montezuma stopped, and said,—
“You have spoken boldly, and I have listened patiently. One thing more: What does Guatamozin say the king should do?”
“It is not enough for the servant to know his own place; he should know his master’s also. I say not what the king should do, but I will say what I would do if I were king.”
Rising from the obeisance with which he accompanied the words, he said, boldly,—
“Cholula should be the grave of the invaders. The whole population should strike them in the narrow streets where they can be best assailed. Shut up in some square or temple, hunger will fight them for us, and win. But I would not trust the citizens alone. In sight of the temples, so close that a conch could summon them to the attack, I would encamp a hundred thousand warriors. Better the desolation of Cholula than Tenochtitlan. If all things else failed, I would take to the last resort; I would call in the waters of Tezcuco and drown the city to the highest azoteas. So would I, O king, if the crown and signet were mine.”
Montezuma looked from the speaker to the lake.
“The project is bold,” he said, musingly; “but if it failed, my son?”
“The failure should be but the beginning of the war.”
“What would the nations say?”
“They would say, ‘Montezuma is still the great king.’ If they do not that—”
“What then?”
“Call on the teotuctli. The gods can be made speak whatever your policy demands.”
“Does my son blaspheme?” said Montezuma, angrily.
“Nay, I but spoke of what has happened. Long rule the good god of our fathers!”
Yet the monarch was not satisfied. Never before had discourse been addressed to him in strain so bold.
“They see all things, even our hearts,” he said, turning coldly away. “Farewell. A courier will come for you when your presence is wanted in the city.”
And so they separated, conscious that no healing had been brought to their broken friendship. As the canoe moved off, the ’tzin knelt, but the king looked not that way again.
CHAPTER III
LOVE ON THE LAKE
“What can they mean? Here have they been loitering since morning, as if the lake, like the tianguez, were a place for idlers. As I love the gods, if I knew them, they should be punished!”
So the farmer of the chinampa heretofore described as the property of the princess Tula gave expression to his wrath; after which he returned to his employment; that is, he went crawling among the shrubs and flowers, pruning-knife in hand, here clipping a limb, there loosening the loam. Emerging from the thicket after a protracted stay, his ire was again aroused.
“Still there! Thieves maybe, watching a chance to steal. But we shall see. My work is done, and I will not take eyes off of them again.”
The good man’s alarm was occasioned by the occupants of a canoe, which, since sunrise, had been plying about the garden, never stationary, seldom more than three hundred yards away, yet always keeping on the side next the city. Once in a while the slaves withdrew their paddles, leaving the vessel to the breeze; at such times it drifted so near that swells, something like those of the sea when settling into calm, tumbled the surface; far to the south, however, he discerned the canoe, looking no larger than a blue-winged gull.
“It is coming; I see the prow this way. Is the vase ready?”
“The vase! You forget; there are two of them.”
Hualpa looked down confused.
“Does the ’tzin intend them both for Tula?”
Hualpa was the more embarrassed.
“Flowers have a meaning; sometimes they tell tales. Let me see if I cannot read what the ’tzin would say to Tula.”
And Io’ went forward and brought the vases, and, placing them before him, began to study each flower.
“Io’,” said Hualpa, in a low voice, “but one of the vases is the ’tzin’s.”
“And the other?” asked the prince, looking up.
Hualpa’s face flushed deeper.
“The other is mine. Have you not two sisters?”
Io’s eyes dilated; a moment he was serious, then he burst out laughing.
“I have you now! Nenetzin,—she, too, has a lover.”
The hunter never found himself so at loss; he played with the loops of his escaupil, and refused to take his eyes off the coming canoe. Through his veins the blood ran merrily; in his brain it intoxicated, like wine.
“And pleasanter yet to be made noble and master of a palace over by Chapultepec,” Io’ answered. “But see! Yonder is a canoe.”
“From the city?”
“It is too far off; wait awhile.”
But Hualpa, impatient, leaned over the side, and looked for himself. At the time they were up in the northern part of the lake, at least a league from the capital. Long, regular he could see the voyageurs reclining in the shade of the blue canopy, wrapped in escaupils such as none but lords or distinguished merchants were permitted to wear.
The leisurely voyageurs, on their part, appeared to have a perfect understanding of the light in which they were viewed from the chinampa.
“There he is again! See!” said one of them.
The other lifted the curtain, and looked, and laughed.
“Ah! if we could send an arrow there, just near enough to whistle through the orange-trees. Tula would never hear the end of the story. He would tell her how two thieves came to plunder him; how they shot at him; how narrowly he escaped—”
“And how valiantly he defended the garden. By Our Mother, Io’, I have a mind to try him!”
Hualpa half rose to measure the distance, but fell back at once. “No. Better that we get into no difficulty. We are messengers, and have these flowers to deliver. Besides, the judge is not to my liking.”
“Tula is merciful, and would forgive you for the ’tzin’s sake.”
“I meant the judge of the court,” Hualpa said, soberly. “You never saw him lift the golden arrow, as if to draw it across your portrait. It is pleasanter sitting here, in the shade, rocked by the water.”
“I have heard how love makes women of warriors; now I will see,—I will see how brave you are.”
“Ho, slaves! Put the canoe about; yonder are those whom I would meet,” Hualpa shouted.
The vessel was headed to the south. A long distance had to be passed, and in the time the ambassador recovered himself. Lying down again, and twanging the chord of his bow, he endeavored to compose a speech to accompany the delivery of the vase to Tula. But his thoughts would return to his own love; the laugh with which Io’ received his explanation flattered him; and, true to the logic of the passion, he already saw the vase accepted, and himself the favored of Nenetzin. From that point the world of dreams was but a step distant; he took the step, but was brought back by Io’.
“They recognize us; Nenetzin waves her scarf!”
The approaching vessel was elegant as the art of the Aztecan shipmaster could make it. The prow was sculptured into the head and slender, curved neck of a swan. The passengers, fair as ever journeyed on sea wave, sat under a canopy of royal green, above which floated a panache of long, trailing feathers, colored like the canopy. Like a creature of the water, so lightly, so gracefully, the boat drew nigh the messengers. When alongside, Io’ sprang aboard, and, with boyish ardor, embraced his sisters.
“What has kept you so?”
“We stayed to see twenty thousand warriors cross the causeway,” replied Nenetzin.
“Where can they be going?”
“To Cholula.”
The news excited the boy; turning to speak to Hualpa, he was reminded of his duty.
“Here is a messenger from Guatamozin,—the lord Hualpa, who slew the tiger in the garden.”
The heart of the young warrior beat violently; he touched the floor of the canoe with his palm.
And Tula spoke. “We have heard the minstrels sing the story. Arise, lord Hualpa.”
“The words of the noble Tula are pleasanter than any song. Will she hear the message I bring?”
She looked at Io’ and Nenetzin, and assented.
“Guatamozin salutes the noble Tula. He hopes the blessings of the gods are about her. He bade me say, that four mornings ago the king visited him at his palace, but talked of nothing but the strangers; so that the contract with Iztlil’, the Tezcucan, still holds good. Further, the king asked his counsel as to what should be done with the strangers. He advised war, whereupon the king became angry, and departed, saying that a courier would come for the ’tzin when his presence was wanted in the city; so the banishment also holds good. And so, finally, there is no more hope from interviews with the king. All that remains is to leave the cause to time and the gods.”
A moment her calm face was troubled; but she recovered, and said, with simple dignity,—
“I thank you. Is the ’tzin well and patient?”
“He is a warrior, noble Tula, and foemen are marching through the provinces, like welcome guests; he thinks of them, and curses the peace as a season fruitful of dishonor.”
Nenetzin, who had been quietly listening, was aroused.
“Has he heard the news? Does he not know a battle is to be fought in Cholula?”
“Such tidings will be medicine to his spirit.”
“A battle!” cried Io’. “Tell me about it, Nenetzin.”
“I, too, will listen,” said Hualpa; “for the gods have given me a love of words spoken with a voice sweeter than the flutes of Tezca’.”
The girl laughed aloud, and was well pleased, although she answered,—
“My father gave me a bracelet this morning, but he did not carry his love so far as to tell me his purposes; and I am not yet a warrior to talk to warriors about battles. The lord Maxtla, even Tula here, can better tell you of such things.”
“Of what?” asked Tula.
“Io’ and his friend wish to know all about the war.”
The elder princess mused a moment, and then said gravely, “You may tell the ’tzin, as from me, lord Hualpa, that twenty thousand warriors this morning marched for Cholula; that the citizens there have been armed; and to-morrow, the gods willing, Malinche will be attacked. The king at one time thought of conducting the expedition himself; but, by persuasion of the paba, Mualox, he has given the command to the lord Cuitlahua.”
Io’ clapped his hands. “The gods are kind; let us rejoice, O Hualpa! What marching of armies there will be! What battles! Hasten, and let us to Cholula; we can be there before the night sets in.”
“What!” said Nenetzin. “Would you fight, Io’? No, no; come home with us, and I will put my parrot in a tree, and you may shoot at him all day.”
The boy went to his own canoe, and, returning, held up a shield of pearl and gold. “See! With a bow I beat our father and the lord Hualpa, and this was the prize.”
“That a shield!” Nenetzin said. “A toy,—a mere brooch to a Tlascalan, I have a tortoise-shell that will serve you better.”
The boy frowned, and a rejoinder was on his lips when Tula spoke.
“The flowers in your vases are very beautiful, lord Hualpa. What altar is to receive the tribute?”
Nenetzin’s badinage had charmed the ambassador into forgetfulness of his embassy; so he answered confusedly, “The noble Tula reminds me of my duty. Before now, standing upon the hills of Tihuanco, watching the morning brightening in the east, I have forgotten myself. I pray pardon—”
Tula glanced archly at Nenetzin. “The morning looks pleasant; doubtless, its worshipper will be forgiven.”
And then he knew the woman’s sharp eyes had seen into his inner heart, and that the audacious dream he there cherished was exposed; yet his confusion gave place to delight, for the discovery had been published with a smile. Thereupon, he set one of the vases at her feet, and touched the floor with his palm, and said,—
“I was charged by Guatamozin to salute you again, and say that these flowers would tell you all his hopes and wishes.”
As she raised the gift, her hand trembled; then he discovered how precious a simple Cholulan vase could become; and with that his real task was before him. Taking the other vase, he knelt before Nenetzin.
“I have but little skill in courtierly ways,” he said. “In flowers I see nothing but their beauty; and what I would have these say is, that if Nenetzin, the beautiful Nenetzin, will accept them, she will make me very happy.”
The girl looked at Tula, then at him; then she raised the vase, and, laughing, hid her face in the flowers.
But little more was said; and soon the lashings were cast off, and the vessels separated.
On the return Hualpa stopped at Tenochtitlan, and in the shade of the portico, over a cup of the new beverage, now all the fashion, received from Xoli the particulars of the contemplated attack upon the strangers in Cholula; for, with his usual diligence in the fields of gossip, the broker had early informed himself of all that was to be heard of the affair. And that night, while Io’ dreamed of war, and the hunter of love, the ’tzin paced his study or wandered through his gardens, feverishly solicitous about the result of the expedition.
“If it fail,” he repeated over and over,—“if it fail, Malinche will enter Tenochtitlan as a god!”
CHAPTER IV
THE KING DEMANDS A SIGN OF MUALOX
Next morning Mualox ascended the tower of his old Cû. The hour was so early that the stars were still shining in the east. He fed the fire in the great urn until it burst into cheery flame; then, spreading his mantle on the roof, he laid down to woo back the slumber from which he had been taken. By and by, a man, armed with a javelin, and clad in cotton mail, came up the steps, and spoke to the paba.
“Does the servant of his god sleep this morning?”
Mualox arose, and kissed the pavement.
“Montezuma is welcome. The blessing of the gods upon him!”
“Of all the gods, Mualox?”
“Of all,—even Quetzal’s, O king!”
“Arise! Last night I bade you wait me here. I said I would come with the morning star; yonder it is, and I am faithful. The time is fittest for my business.”
Mualox arose, and stood before the monarch with bowed head and crossed hands.
“Montezuma knows his servant.”
“Yet I seek to know him better. Mualox, Mualox, have you room for a perfect love aside from Quetzal’? What would you do for me?”
“Ask me rather what I would not do.”
“Hear me, then. Lately you have been a counsellor in my palace; with my policy and purposes you are acquainted; you knew of the march to Cholula, and the order to attack the strangers; you were present when they were resolved—”
“And opposed them. Witness for me to Quetzal’, O king!”
“Yes, you prophesied evil and failure from them, and for that I seek you now. Tell me, O Mualox, spake you then as a prophet?”
The paba ventured to look up and study the face of the questioner as well as he could in the flickering light.
“I know the vulgar have called me a magician,” he said, slowly; “and sometimes they have spoken of my commerce with the stars. To say that either report is true, were wrong to the gods. Regardful of them, I cannot answer you; but I can say—and its sufficiency depends on your wisdom—your slave, O king, is warned of your intention. You come asking a sign; you would have me prove my power, that it may be seen.”
“By the Sun—”
“Nay,—if my master will permit,—another word.”
“I came to hear you; say on.”
“You spoke of me as a councillor in the palace. How may we measure the value of honors? By the intent with which they are given? O king, had you not thought the poor paba would use his power for the betrayal of his god; had you not thought he could stand between you and the wrath—”
“No more, Mualox, no more!” said Montezuma. “I confess I asked you to the palace that you might befriend me. Was I wrong to count on your loyalty? Are you not of Anahuac? And further; I confess I come now seeking a sign. I command you to show me the future!”
“If you do indeed believe me the beloved of Quetzal’ and his prophet, then are you bold,—even for a king.”
“Until I wrong the gods, why should I fear? I, too, am a priest.”
“Be wise, O my master! Let the future alone; it is sown with sorrows to all you love.”
“Have done, paba!” the king exclaimed, angrily. “I am weary,—by the Sun! I am weary of such words.”
The holy man bowed reverently, and touched the floor with his palm, saying,—
“Mualox lays his heart at his master’s feet. In the time when his beard was black and his spirit young, he began the singing of two songs,—one of worship to Quetzal’, the other of love for Montezuma.”
These words he said tremulously; and there was that in the manner, in the bent form, in the low obeisance, which soothed the impatience of the king, so that he turned away, and looked out over the city. And day began to gild the east; in a short time the sun would claim his own. Still the monarch thought, still Mualox stood humbly waiting his pleasure. At length the former approached the fire.
“Mualox,” he said, speaking slowly, “I crossed the lake the other day, and talked with Guatamozin about the strangers. He satisfied me they are not teules, and, more, he urged me to attack them in Cholula.”
“The ’tzin!” exclaimed Mualox, in strong surprise.
Montezuma knew the love of the paba for the young cacique rested upon his supposed love of Quetzal’; so he continued,—
“The attack was planned by him; only he would have sent a hundred thousand warriors to help the citizens. The order is out; the companies are there; blood will run in the streets of the holy city to-day. The battle waits on the sun, and it is nearly up. Mualox,”—his manner became solemn,—“Mualox, on this day’s work bides my peace. The morning comes: by all your prophet’s power, tell me what the night will bring!”
Sorely was the paba troubled. The king’s faith in his qualities as prophet he saw was absolute, and that it was too late to deny the character.
“Does Montezuma believe the Sun would tell me what it withholds from its child?”
“Quetzal’, not the Sun, will speak to you.”
“But Quetzal’ is your enemy.”
Montezuma laid his hand on the paba’s. “I have heard you speak of love for me; prove it now, and your reward shall be princely. I will give you a palace, and many slaves, and riches beyond count.”
Mualox bent his head, and was silent. Enjoyment of a palace meant abandonment of the old Cû and sacred service. Just then the wail of a watcher from a distant temple swept faintly by; he heard the cry, and from his surplice drew a trumpet, and through it sung with a swelling voice,—
“Morning is come! Morning is come! To the temples, O worshippers! Morning is come!”
And the warning hymn, the same that had been heard from the old tower for so many ages, heard heralding suns while the city was founding, given now, amid the singer’s sore perplexity, was an assurance to his listening deity that he was faithful against kingly blandishments as well as kingly neglect. While the words were being repeated from the many temples, he stood attentive to them, then he turned, and said,—
“Montezuma is generous to his slave; but ambition is a goodly tree gone to dust in my heart; and if it were not, O king, what are all your treasures to that in the golden chamber? Nay, keep your offerings, and let me keep the temple. I hunger after no riches except such as lie in the love of Quetzal’.”
“Then tell me,” said the monarch, impatiently,—“without price, tell me his will.”
“I cannot, I am but a man; but this much I can—” He faltered; the hands crossed upon his breast closed tightly, and the breast labored painfully.
“I am waiting. Speak! What can you?”
“Will the king trust his servant, and go with him down into the Cû again?”
“To talk with the Morning, this is the place,” said the monarch, too well remembering the former introduction to the mysteries of the ancient house.
“My master mistakes me for a juggling soothsayer; he thinks I will look into the halls of the Sun through burning drugs, and the magic of unmeaning words. I have nothing to do with the Morning; I have no incantations. I am but the dutiful slave of Quetzal’, the god, and Montezuma, the king.”
The royal listener looked away again, debating with his fears, which, it is but just to say, were not of harm from the paba. Men unfamiliar with the custom do not think lightly of encountering things unnatural; in this instance, moreover, favor was not to be hoped from the god through whom the forbidden knowledge was to come. But curiosity and an uncontrollable interest in the result of the affair in Cholula overcame his apprehensions.
“I will go with you. I am ready,” he said.
The old man stooped, and touched the roof, and, rising, said, “I have a little world of my own, O king; and though without sun and stars, and the grand harmony which only the gods can give, it has its wonders and beauty, and is to me a place of perpetual delight. Bide my return a little while. I will go and prepare the way for you.”
Resuming his mantle, he departed, leaving the king to study the new-born day. When he came back, the valley and the sky were full of the glory of the sun full risen. And they descended to the azoteas, thence to the court-yard. Taking a lamp hanging in a passage-door, the holy man, with the utmost reverence, conducted his guest into the labyrinth. At first, the latter tried to recollect the course taken, the halls and stairs passed, and the stories descended; but the thread was too often broken, the light too dim, the way too intricate. Soon he yielded himself entirely to his guide, and followed, wondering much at the massiveness of the building, and the courage necessary to live there alone. Ignorant of the zeal which had become the motive of the paba’s life, inspiring him with incredible cunning and industry, and equally without a conception of the power there is in one idea long awake in the soul and nursed into mania, it was not singular that, as they went, the monarch should turn the very walls into witnesses corroborant of the traditions of the temple and the weird claims of its keeper.
