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

“A garden,” he said, in his soul,—“a garden, and birds, and liberty!” The welcome thought thrilled him inexpressibly. “Yes, I will go”; and, aloud, “I am ready.”

Thereupon she took his hand, and put the curtains aside, and led him into the paba’s World, never but once before seen by a stranger.

This time forethought had not gone in advance to prepare for the visitor. The master’s eye was dim, and his careful hand still, in the sleep by the fountain. The neglect that darkened the fire on the turret was gloaming the lamps in the chamber; one by one they had gone out, as all would have gone but for Tecetl, to whom the darkness and the shadows were hated enemies. Nevertheless, the light, falling suddenly upon eyes so long filled with blackness as his had been, was blinding bright, insomuch that he clapped his hand over his face. Yet she led him on eagerly, saying,—

“Here, here, good Quetzal’. Here by the fountain he lies.”

All her concern was for the paba.

And through the many pillars of stone, and along a walk bounded by shrubs and all manner of dwarfed tropical trees, half blinded by the light, but with the scent of flowers and living vegetation in his nostrils, and the carol of birds in his ears, and full of wonder unspeakable, he was taken, without pause, to the fountain. At sight of the sparkling jet, his fever of thirst raged more intensely than ever.

“Here he is. Speak to him,—call him back to me! As you love him, call him back, O Quetzal’?”

He scarcely heard her.

“Water, water! Blessed Mother, I see it again! A cup,—quick,—a cup!”

He seized one on the table, and drank, and drank again crying between each breath, “To the Mother the praise!” Not until he was fully satisfied did he give ear to the girl’s entreaty.

Looking to the couch, whither she had gone, he saw the figure of the paba stretched out like a corpse. He approached, and, searching the face, and laying his hand upon the breast over the heart, asked, in a low voice, “How long has your father been asleep?”

“A long time,” she replied.

“Jesu Christo! He is dead, and she does not know it!” he thought, amazed at her simplicity.

Again he regarded her closely, and for the first time was struck by her beauty of face and form, by the brightness of her eyes, by the hair, wavy on the head and curling over the shoulders, by the simple, childish dress, and sweet voice; above all, by the innocence and ineffable purity of her look and manner, all then discernible in the full glare of the lamps. And with what feeling he made discovery of her loveliness may be judged passably well by the softened tone in which he said, “Poor girl! your father will never, never wake.”

Her eyes opened wide.

“Never, never wake! Why?”

“He is dead.”

She looked at him wistfully, and he, seeing that she did not understand, added, “He is in heaven; or, as he himself would have said, in the Sun.”

“Yes, but you will let him come back.”

He took note of the trustful, beseeching look with which she accompanied the words, and shook his head, and, returning to the fountain, took a seat upon a bench, reflecting.

“What kind of girl is this? Not know death when he showeth so plainly! Where hath she been living? And I am possessed of St. Peter’s keys. I open Heaven’s gate to let the heathen out! By the bones of the saints! let him get there first! The Devil hath him!”

He picked up a withered flower lying by the bowl of the fountain, and went back to Tecetl.

“You remember how beautiful this was when taken from the vine?”

“Yes.”

“What ails it now?”

“It is dead.”

“Well, did you ever know one of these, after dying, to come back to life?”

“No.”

“No more can thy father regain his life. He, too, is dead. From what you see, he will go to dust; therefore, leave him now, and let us sit by the fountain, and talk of escape; for surely you know the way out of this.”

From the flower, she looked to the dead, and, comprehending the illustration, sat by the body, and cried. And so it happened that knowledge of death was her first lesson in life.

And he respected her grief, and went and took a bench by the basin, and thought.

“Quetzal’, Quetzal’,—who is he? A god, no doubt; yes, the one of whom the king so liveth in dread. I have heard his name. And I am Quetzal’! And this is his house—that is, my house! A scurvy trick, by St. James! Lost in my own house,—a god lost in his own temple!”

And as he could then well afford, being full-fed, he laughed at the absurd idea; and in such mood, fell into a revery, and grew drowsy, and finally composed himself on the bench, and sunk to sleep.

CHAPTER IX

LIFE IN THE PABA’S WORLD

When the page awoke, after a long, refreshing sleep, he saw the fountain first, and Tecetl next. She was sitting a little way off, upon a mat stretched on the floor. A number of birds were about her, whistling and coquetting with each other. One or two of very beautiful plumage balanced themselves on the edge of the basin, and bathed their wings in the crystal water. Through half-shut eyes, he studied her. She was quiet,—thinking of what? Of what do children think in their waking dreams? Yet he might have known, from her pensive look and frequent sighs, that the fountain was singing to deaf ears, and the birds playing their tricks before sightless eyes. She was most probably thinking of what he had so lately taught her, and nursed the great mystery as something past finding out; many a wiser head has done the same thing.

Now, Orteguilla was very sensible of her loveliness; he was no less sensible, also, that she was a mystery out of the common way of life; and had he been in a place of safety, in the palace of Axaya’, he would have stayed a long time pretending sleep, in order to study her unobserved. But his situation presently rose to mind; the yellow glow of the lamps suggested the day outside; the birds, liberty; the fountain and shrubbery, the world he had lost; and the girl, life,—his life, and all its innumerable strong attachments. And so, in his mind, he ran over his adventures in the house. He surveyed all of the chamber that was visible from the bench. The light, the fountain, the vegetation, the decorated walls,—everything in view dependent upon the care of man. Where so much was to be done constantly, was there not something to be done at once,—something to save life? There were the lamps: how were they supplied? They might go out. And, Jesu Christo! the corpse of the paba! He sat up, as if touched by a spear: there it was, in all the repulsiveness of death.

The movement attracted the girl’s attention; she arose, and waited for him to speak.

“Good morning,—if morning it be,” he said.

She made no reply.

“Come here,” he continued. “I have some questions to ask.”

She drew a few steps nearer. A bird with breast of purple and wings of snow flew around her for a while, then settled upon her hand, and was drawn close to her bosom. He remembered, from Father Bartolomé’s reading, how the love of God once before took a bird’s form; and forthwith his piety and superstition hedged her about with sanctity. What with the white wings upon her breast, and the whiter innocency within, she was safe as if bound by walls of brass.

“Have no fear, I pray you,” he said, misinterpreting her respectful sentiment. “You and I are two people in a difficult strait, and, if I mistake not, much dependent upon each other. A God, of whom you never heard, but whom I will tell you all about, took your father away, and sent me in his stead. The road thither, I confess, has been toilsome and dreadful. Ah me, I shudder at the thought!”

He emphasized his feelings by a true Spanish shrug of the shoulders.

“This is a strange place,” he next said. “How long have you been here?”

“I cannot say.”

“Can you remember coming, and who brought you?”

“No.”

“You must have been a baby.” He looked at her with pity. “Have you never been elsewhere?”

“No, never.”