The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins

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.

Passing the kitchen, and descending the last flight of steps, they came to the trap-door in the passage, beside which lay the ladder of ropes.

“Be of courage a little longer, O king,” said Mualox, flinging the ladder through the doorway. “We are almost there.”

And the paba, leaving the lamp above, committed himself confidently to the ropes and darkness below. A suspicion of his madness occurred to the king, whose situation called for consideration; in fact, he hesitated to follow farther; twice he was called to; and when, finally, he did go down, the secret of his courage was an idea that they were about to emerge from the dusty caverns into the freer air of day; for, while yet in the passage, he heard the whistle of a bird, and fancied he detected a fragrance as of flowers.

“Your hand now, O king, and Mualox will lead you into his world.”

The motives that constrained the holy man to this step are not easily divined. Of all the mysteries of the house, that hall was by him the most cherished; and of all men the king was the last whom he would have voluntarily chosen as a participant in its secrets, since he alone had power to break them up. The necessity must have been very great; possibly he felt his influence and peculiar character dependent upon yielding to the pressure; the moment the step was resolved upon, however, nothing remained but to use the mysteries for the protection of the abode; and with that purpose he went to prepare the way.

Much study would most of us have required to know what was essential to the purpose; not so the paba. He merely trimmed the lamps already lighted, and lighted and disposed others. His plan was to overwhelm the visitor by the first glance; without warning, without time to study details, to flash upon him a crowd of impossibilities. In the mass, the generality, the whole together, a god’s hand was to be made apparent to a superstitious fancy.

CHAPTER V

THE MASSACRE IN CHOLULA

Inside the hall, scarcely a step from the curtain, the monarch stopped bewildered; half amazed, half alarmed, he surveyed the chamber, now glowing as with day. Flowers blooming, birds singing, shrubbery, thick and green as in his own garden. Whence came they? how were they nurtured down so far? And the countless subjects painted on the ceiling and walls, and woven in colors on the tapestry,—surely they were the work of the same master who had wrought so marvellously in the golden chamber. The extent of the hall, exaggerated by the light, impressed him. Filled with the presence of what seemed impossibilities, he cried out,—

“The abode of Quetzal’!”

“No,” answered Mualox, “not his abode, only his temple,—the temple of his own building.”

And from that time it was with the king as if the god were actually present.

The paba read the effect in the monarch’s manner,—in his attitude, in the softness of his tread, in the cloudy, saddened expression of his countenance, in the whisper with which he spoke; he read it, and was assured.

“This way, O king! Though your servant cannot let you see into the Sun, or give you the sign required, follow him, and he will bring you to hear of events in Cholula even as they transpire. Remember, however, he says now that the Cholulans and the twenty thousand warriors will fail, and the night bring you but sorrow and repentance.”

Along the aisles he conducted him, until they came to the fountain, where the monarch stopped again. The light there was brighter than in the rest of the hall. A number of birds flew up, scared by the stranger; in the space around the marble basin stood vases crowned with flowers; the floor was strewn with wreaths and garlands; the water sparkled with silvery lustre; yet all were lost on the wondering guest, who saw only Tecetl,—a vision, once seen, to be looked at again and again.

Upon a couch, a little apart from the fountain, she sat, leaning against a pile of cushions, which was covered by a mantle of plumaje. Her garments were white, and wholly without ornament; her hair strayed lightly from a wreath upon her head; the childish hands lay clasped in her lap; upon the soft mattress rested the delicate limbs, covered, but not concealed, the soles of the small feet tinted with warmth and life, like the pink and rose lining of certain shells. So fragile, innocent, and beautiful looked she, and so hushed and motionless withal,—so like a spirituality,—that the monarch’s quick sensation of sympathy shot through his heart an absolute pain.

“Disturb her not; let her sleep,” he whispered, waving his hand.

Mualox smiled.

“Nay, the full battle-cry of your armies would not waken her.”

The influence of the Will was upon her, stronger than slumber. Not yet was she to see a human being other than the paba,—not even the great king. A little longer was she to be happy in ignorance of the actual world. Ah, many, many are the victims of affection unwise in its very fulness!

Again and again the monarch scanned the girl’s face, charmed, yet awed. The paba had said the sleep was wakeless; and that was a mystery unreported by tradition, unknown to his philosophy, and rarer, if not greater, than death. If life at all, what kind was it? The longer he looked and reflected, the lovelier she grew. So completely was his credulity gained that he thought not once of questioning Mualox about her; he was content with believing.

The paba, meantime, had been holding one of her hands, and gazing intently in her face. When he looked up, the monarch was startled by his appearance; his air was imposing, his eyes lighted with the mesmeric force.

“Sit, O king, and give ear. Through the lips of his child, Quetzal’ will speak, and tell you of the day in Cholula.”

He spoke imperiously, and the monarch obeyed. Then, disturbed only by the chiming of the fountain, and sometimes by the whistling of the birds, Tecetl began, and softly, brokenly, unconsciously told of the massacre in the holy city of Cholula. Not a question was asked her. There was little prompting aloud. Much did the king marvel, never once doubted he.

“The sky is very clear,” said Tecetl. “I rise into the air; I leave the city in the lake, and the lake itself; now the mountains are below me. Lo, another city! I descend again; the azoteas of a temple receives me; around are great houses. Who are these I see? There, in front of the temple, they stand, in lines; even in the shade their garments glisten. They have shields; some bear long lances, some sit on strange animals that have eyes of fire and ring the pavement with their stamping.”

“Does the king understand?” asked Mualox.

“She describes the strangers,” was the reply.

And Tecetl resumed. “There is one standing in the midst of a throng; he speaks, they listen. I cannot repeat his words, or understand them, for they are not like ours. Now I see his face, and it is white; his eyes are black, and his cheeks bearded; he is angry; he points to the city around the temple, and his voice grows harsh, and his face dark.”

The king approached a step, and whispered, “Malinche!”

But Mualox replied with flashing eyes, “The servant knows his god; it is Quetzal’!”

“He speaks, I listen,” Tecetl continued, after a rest, and thenceforth her sentences were given at longer intervals. “Now he is through; he waves his hand, and the listeners retire, and go to different quarters; in places they kindle fires; the gates are open, and some station themselves there.”

“Named she where this is happening?” asked Montezuma.

“She describes the strangers; and are they not in Cholula, O king? She also spoke of the azoteas of a temple—”

“True, true,” replied the king, moodily. “The preparations must be going on in the square of the temple in which Malinche was lodged last night.”

Tecetl continued. “And now I look down the street; a crowd approaches from the city—”

“Speak of them,” said Mualox. “I would know who they are.”

“Most of them wear long beards and robes, like yours, father,—robes white and reaching to their feet; in front a few come, swinging censers—”

“They are pabas from the temples,” said Mualox.

“Behind them I see a greater crowd,” she continued. “How stately their step! how beautiful their plumes!”

“The twenty thousand! the army!” said Mualox.

“No, she speaks of them as plumed. They must be lords and caciques going to the temple.” While speaking, the monarch’s eyes wandered restlessly, and he sighed, saying, “Where can the companies be? It is time they were in the city.”

So his anxiety betrayed itself.

Then Mualox said, grimly, “Hope not, O king. The priests and caciques go to death; the army would but swell the flow of blood.”

Montezuma clapped his hands, and drooped his head.

“Yet more,” said Tecetl, almost immediately; “another crowd comes on, a band reaching far down the street; they are naked, and come without order, bringing—”

“The tamanes,” said Mualox, without looking from her face.

“And now,” she said, “the city begins to stir. I look, and on the house-tops and temples hosts collect; from all the towers the smoke goes up in bluer columns: yet all is still. Those who carry the censers come near the gate below me; now they are within it; the plumed train follows them, and the square begins to fill. Back by the great door, on one of the animals, the god—”

“Quetzal’,” muttered Mualox.