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

CHAPTER XIII.
THE SEARCH FOR QUETZAL’

By and by he returned, and standing by the couch, passed his hand several times above her face. Silent as the movements were, she awoke, and threw her arms around his neck.

“You have been gone a long while,” she said, in a childish voice. “I waited for you; but the lamps burned down low, and the shadows, from their hiding among the bushes, came creeping in upon the fountain, and I slept.”

“I saw you,” he answered, playing with her hair. “I saw you; I always see you.”

“I tried to paint the fountain,” she went on; “but when I watched the water to catch its colors, I thought its singing changed to voices, and, listening to them, they stole my thoughts away. Then I tried to blend my voice with them, and sing as they sung; but whenever mine sank low enough, it seemed sad, while they went on gayer and more ringing than ever. I can paint the flowers, but not the water; I can sing with the birds, but not with the fountain. But you promised to call me,—that you would always call me.”

“I knew you were asleep.”

“But you had only to think to waken me.”

He smiled at this acknowledgment of the power of his will. Just then a bell sounded faintly through the chamber; hastening away, he shortly returned with breakfast on a great shell waiter; there were maize bread and honey, quails and chocolate, figs and oranges. Placing them on a table, he rolled up an ottoman for the girl; and, though she talked much and lightly, the meal was soon over. Then he composed himself upon the couch, and in the quiet, unbroken save by Tecetl, forgot the night and its incidents.

His rest was calm; when he awoke, she was sitting by the basin of the fountain talking to her birds gleefully as a child. She had given them names, words more of sound pleasant to the ear than of signification; so she understood the birds, whose varied cries were to her a language. And they were fearless and tame, perching on her hand, and courting her caresses; while she was as artless, with a knowledge as innocent, and a nature as happy. If Quetzal’ was the paba’s idol in religion, she was his idol in affection.

He watched her awhile, then suddenly sat up; though he said not a word, she flung her birds off, and came to him smiling.

“You called me, father.”

He laid his hand upon her shoulder, all overflowed with the dark hair, and said in a low voice, “The time approaches when Quetzal’ is to come from the home of the gods; it may be he is near. I will send you over the sea and the land to find him; you shall have wings to carry you into the air; and you shall fly swifter than the birds you have been talking to.”

Her smile deepened.

“Have you not told me that Quetzal’ is good, and that his voice is like the fountain’s, and that when he speaks it is like singing? I am ready.”

He kissed her, and nearer the basin rolled the couch, upon which she sat reclined against a heap of cushions, her hands clasped over her breast.

“Do not let me be long gone!” she said. “The lamps will burn low again, and I do not like to have the shadows come and fold up my flowers.”

The paba took a pearl from the folds of his gown, and laid it before her; then he sat down, and fixed his eyes upon her face; she looked at the jewel, and composed herself as for sleep. Her hands settled upon her bosom, her features grew impassive, the lips slowly parted; gradually her eyelids drooped, and the life running in the veins of her cheeks and forehead went back into her heart. Out of the pearl seemed to issue a spell that stole upon her spirits gently as an atomy settles through the still air. Finally, there was a sigh, a sob, and over the soul of the maiden the will of Mualox became absolute. He took her hand in his.

“Wings swifter than the winds are yours, Tecetl. Go,” he said, “search for the god; search the land.”

She moved not, and scarcely breathed.

“Speak,” he continued; “let me know that I am obeyed.”

The will was absolute; she spoke, and though at first the words came slowly, yet he listened like a prophet waiting for revelation. She spoke of the land, of its rivers, forests, and mountains; she spoke of the cities, of their streets and buildings, and of their people, for whom she knew no name. She spoke of events transpiring in distant provinces, as well as in Tenochtitlan. She went into the temples, markets, and palaces. Wherever men travelled, thither her spirit flew. When the flight was done, and her broken description ceased, the holy man sighed.

“Not yet, Tecetl; he is not found. The god is not on the land. Search the air.”

And still the will was absolute, though the theme of the seer changed; it was not of the land now, but of the higher realm; she spoke of the sunshine and the cloud, of the wind rushing and chill, of the earth far down, and grown so small that the mountains levelled with the plains.

“Not yet, not yet,” he cried; “the god is not in the air. Go search the sea!”

In the hollow of his hand he lifted water, and sprinkled her face; and when he resumed his seat she spoke, not slowly as before, but fast and free.

“The land is passed; behind me are the cities and lakes, and the great houses and blue waters, such as I have seen in my pictures. I am hovering now, father, where there is nothing before me but waves and distance. White birds go skimming about careless of the foam; the winds pour upon me steadily; and in my ear is a sound as of a great voice. I listen, and it is the sea; or, father, it may be the voice of the god whom you seek.”

She was silent, as if waiting for an answer.

“The water, is it? Well, well,—whither shall I go now?”

“Follow the shore; it may lead where only gods have been.”

“Still the waves and the distance, and the land, where it goes down into the sea sprinkled with shells. Still the deep voice in my ear, and the wind about me. I hurry on, but it is all alike,—all water and sound. No! Out of the waves rises a new land, the sea, a girdle of billows, encircling it everywhere; yet there are blue clouds ascending from the fields, and I see palm-trees and temples. May not thy god dwell here?”

“No. You see but an island. On!”

“Well, well. Behind me fades the island; before me is nothing but sheen and waves and distance again; far around runs the line separating the sea and sky. Waste, all waste; the sea all green, the sky all blue; no life; no god. But stay!”

“Something moves on the waste: speak, child!”

But for a time she was still.

“Speak!” he said, earnestly. “Speak, Tecetl!”

“They are far off,—far off,” she replied, slowly and in a doubting way. “They move and live, but I cannot tell whether they come or go, or what they are. Their course is unsteady, and, like the flight of birds, now upon the sea, then in air, a moment seeming of the waves, then of the sky. They look like white clouds.”

“You are fleeter than birds or clouds,—nearer!” he said, sternly, the fire in his eyes all alight.

“I go,—I approach them,—I now see them coming. O father, father! I know not what your god is like, nor what shape he takes, nor in what manner he travels; but surely these are his! There are many of them, and as they sweep along they are a sight to be looked at with trembling.”

“What are they, Tecetl?”

“How can I answer? They are not of the things I have seen in my pictures, nor heard in my songs. The face of the sea is whitened by them; the largest leads the way, looking like a shell,—of them I have heard you speak as coming from the sea,—a great shell streaked with light and shade, and hollow, so that the sides rise above the reach of the waves,—wings—.”

“Nay, what would a god of the air with wings to journey upon the sea!”

“Above it are clouds,—clouds white as the foam, and such as a god might choose to waft him on his way. I can see them sway and toss, but as the shell rushes into the hollow places, they lift it up, and drive it on.”

A brighter light flashed from his eyes. “It is the canoe, the canoe!” he exclaimed. “The canoe from Tlapallan!”

“The canoe, father! The waves rush joyously around it; they lift themselves in its path, and roll on to meet it; then, as if they knew it to be a god’s, in peace make way for its coming. Upon the temples in my pictures I have seen signs floating in the air—”

“You mean banners,—banners, child,” he said, tremulously.

“I remember now. Above the foremost canoe, above its clouds, there is a banner, and it is black—”

“’Tis Quetzal’s! ’Tis Quetzal’s!” he muttered.

“It is black, with golden embroidery, and something picture-written on it, but what I cannot tell.”

“Look in the canoe.”

“I see—O, I know not what to call them.”

“Of what shape are they, child?”

“Yours, father.”

“Go on: they are gods!” he said, and still the naming of men was unheard in the great chamber.

“There are many of them,” she continued; “their garments flash and gleam; around one like themselves they are met; to me he seems the superior god; he is speaking, they are listening. He is taller than you, father, and has a fair face, and hair and beard like the hue of his banner. His garments are the brightest of all.”

“You have described a god; it is Quetzal’, the holy, beautiful Quetzal’!” he said, with rising voice. “Look if his course be toward the land.”

“Every canoe moves toward the shore.”

“Enough!” he cried. “The writing on the wall is the god’s!” And, rising, he awoke the girl.

As Tecetl awake had no recollection of her journey, or of what she had seen in its course, she wondered at his trouble and excitement, and spoke to him, without answer.

“Father, what has Tecetl done that you should be so troubled?”

He put aside her arms, and in silence turned slowly from the pleasant place, and retraced his steps back through the halls of the Cû to the court-yard and azoteas.

The weight of the secret did not oppress him; it rested upon him lightly as the surplice upon his shoulders; for the humble servant of his god was lifted above his poverty and trembling, and, vivified by the consciousness of inspiration, felt more than a warrior’s strength. But what should he do? Where proclaim the revelation? Upon the temple?

“The streets are deserted; the people are in the theatre; the king is there with all Anahuac,” he muttered. “The coming of Quetzal’ concerns the Empire, and it shall hear the announcement: so not on the temple, but to the tianguez. The god speaks to me! To the tianguez!”

In the chapel he exchanged his white surplice for the regalia of sacrifice. Never before, to his fancy, wore the idol such seeming of life. Satisfaction played grimly about its mouth; upon its brow, like a coronet, sat the infinite Will. From the chapel he descended to the street that led to the great square. Insensibly, as he hurried on, his steps quickened; and bareheaded and unsandalled, his white beard and hair loose and flowing, and his face beaming with excitement, he looked the very embodiment of direful prophecy. On the streets he met only slaves. At the theatre the entrance was blocked by people; soldiery guarded the arena: but guard and people shrunk at his approach; and thus, without word or cry, he rushed within the wall of shields, where were none but the combatants, living and dead.

Midway the arena he halted, his face to the king. Around ran his wondrous glance, and, regardless of the royalty present, the people shouted, “The paba, the paba!” and their many voices shook the theatre. Flinging the white locks back on his shoulders, he tossed his arms aloft; and the tumult rose into the welkin, and a calm settled over the multitude. Montezuma, with the malediction warm on his lips, bent from his couch to hear his words.

“Woe is Tenochtitlan, the beautiful!” he cried, in the unmeasured accents of grief. “Woe to homes, and people, and armies, and king! Why this gathering of dwellers on the hills and in the valleys! Why the combat of warriors? Quetzal’ is at hand. He comes for vengeance. Woe is Tenochtitlan, the beautiful! * * * * This, O king, is the day of the fulfilment of prophecy. From out the sea, wafted by clouds, even now the canoes of the god are coming. His power whitens the waves, and the garments of his warriors gleam with the light of the sky. Woe is Tenochtitlan! This day is the last of her perfect glory; to-morrow Quetzal’ will glisten on the sea-shore, and her Empire vanish forever. * * * * People, say farewell to peace! Keepers of the temples, holy men, go feed the fires, and say the prayer, and sacrifice the victim! And thou, O king! summon thy strong men, leaders in battle, and be thy banners counted, and thy nations marshalled. In vain! Woe is Tenochtitlan! Sitting in the lake, she shines lustrously as a star; and though in a valley of gardens, she is like a great tree shadowing in a desert. But the ravager comes, and the tree shall be felled, and the star go out darkling forever. The fires shall fade, the bones of the dead kings be scattered, altars and gods overthrown, and every temple levelled with the streets. Woe is Tenochtitlan! Ended,—ended forever is the march of Azatlan, the mighty!”

His arms fell down, and, without further word, his head bowed upon his breast, the prophet departed. The spell he left behind him remained unbroken. As they recovered from the effects of his bodement, the people left the theatre, their minds full of indefinite dread. If perchance they spoke of the scene as they went, it was in whispers, and rather to sound the depths of each other’s alarm. And for the rest of the day they remained in their houses, brooding alone, or collected in groups, talking in low voices, wondering about the prescience of the paba, and looking each moment for the development of something more terrible.

The king watched the holy man until he disappeared in the crowded passage; then a deadly paleness overspread his face, and he sunk almost to the platform. The nobles rushed around, and bore him to his palanquin, their brave souls astonished that the warrior and priest and mighty monarch could be so overcome. They carried him to his palace, and left him to a solitude full of unkingly superstitions.

Guatamozin, serene amid the confusion, called the tamanes, and ordered the old Othmi and the dead removed. The Tezcucan still breathed.

“The reviler of the gods shall be cared for,” he said to himself. “If he lives, their justice will convict him.”

Before the setting of the sun, the structure in the tianguez was taken down and restored to the temples, never again to be used. Yet the market-place remained deserted and vacant; the whole city seemed plague-smitten.

And the common terror was not without cause, any more than Mualox was without inspiration. That night the ships of Cortes, eleven in number, and freighted with the materials of conquest, from the east of Yucatan, came sweeping down the bay of Campeachy. Next morning they sailed up the Rio de Tabasco, beautiful with its pure water and its banks fringed with mangroves. Tecetl had described the fleet, the sails of which from afar looked like clouds, while they did, indeed, whiten the sea.

Next evening a courier sped hotly over the causeway and up the street, stopping at the gate of the royal palace. He was taken before the king; and, shortly after, it went flying over the city how Quetzal’ had arrived, in canoes larger than temples, wafted by clouds, and full of thunder and lightning. Then sank the monarch’s heart; and, though the Spaniard knew it not, his marvellous conquest was half completed before his iron shoe smote the shore at San Juan de Ulloa.²⁷

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER I.
WHO ARE THE STRANGERS?

March passed, and April came, and still the strangers, in their great canoes, lingered on the coast. Montezuma observed them with becoming prudence; through his lookouts, he was informed of their progress from the time they left the Rio de Tabasco.

The constant anxiety to which he was subjected affected his temper; and, though roused from the torpor into which he had been plunged by the visit to the golden chamber, and the subsequent prophecy of Mualox, his melancholy was a thing of common observation. He renounced his ordinary amusements, even totoloque, and went no more to the hunting-grounds on the shore of the lake; in preference, he took long walks in the gardens, and reclined in the audience-chamber of his palace; yet more remarkable, conversation with his councillors and nobles delighted him more than the dances of his women or the songs of his minstrels. In truth, the monarch was himself a victim of the delusions he had perfected for his people. Polytheism had come to him with the Empire; but he had enlarged upon it, and covered it with dogmas; and so earnestly, through a long and glorious reign, had he preached them, that, at last, he had become his own most zealous convert. In all his dominions, there was not one whom faith more inclined to absolute fear of Quetzal’ than himself.

One evening he passed from his bath to the dining-hall for the last meal of the day. Invigorated, and, as was his custom, attired for the fourth time since morning in fresh garments, he walked briskly, and even droned a song.

No monarch in Europe fared more sumptuously than Montezuma. The room devoted to the purpose was spacious, and, on this occasion, brilliantly lighted. The floor was spread with figured matting, and the walls hung with beautiful tapestry; and in the centre of the apartment a luxurious couch had been rolled for him, it being his habit to eat reclining; while, to hide him from the curious, a screen had been contrived, and set up between the couch and principal door. The viands set down by his steward as the substantials of the first course were arranged upon the floor before the couch, and kept warm and smoking by chafing-dishes. The table, if such it may be called, was supplied by contributions from the provinces, and furnished, in fact, no contemptible proof of his authority, and the perfection with which it was exercised. The ware was of the finest Cholulan manufacture, and, like his clothes, never used by him but the once, a royal custom requiring him to present it to his friends.²⁸

When he entered the room, the evening I have mentioned, there were present only his steward, four or five aged councillors, whom he was accustomed to address as “uncles,” and a couple of women, who occupied themselves in preparing certain wafers and confections which he particularly affected. He stretched himself comfortably upon the couch, much, I presume, after the style of the Romans, and at once began the meal. The ancients moved back several steps, and a score of boys, noble, yet clad in the inevitable nequen, responding to a bell, came in and posted themselves to answer his requests.

Sometimes, by invitation, the councillors were permitted to share the feast; oftener, however, the only object of their presence was to afford him the gratification of remark. The conversation was usually irregular, and hushed and renewed as he prompted, and not unfrequently extended to the gravest political and religious subjects. On the evening in question he spoke to them kindly.

“I feel better this evening, uncles. My good star is rising above the mists that have clouded it. We ought not to complain of what we cannot help; still, I have thought that when the gods retained the power to afflict us with sorrows, they should have given us some power to correct them.”

One of the old men answered reverentially, “A king should be too great for sorrows; he should wear his crown against them as we wear our mantles against the cold winds.”

“A good idea,” said the monarch, smiling; “but you forget that the crown, instead of protecting, is itself the trouble. Come nearer, uncles; there is a matter more serious about which I would hear your minds.”

They obeyed him, and he went on.

“The last courier brought me word that the strangers were yet on the coast, hovering about the islands. Tell me, who say you they are, and whence do they come?”

“How may we know more than our wise master?” said one of them.

“And our thoughts,—do we not borrow them from you, O king?” added another.

“What! Call you those answers? Nay, uncles, my fools can better serve me; if they cannot instruct, they can at least amuse.”

The king spoke bitterly, and looking at one, probably the oldest of them all, said,—

“Uncle, you are the poorest courtier, but you are discreet and honest. I want opinions that have in them more wisdom than flattery. Speak to me truly: who are these strangers?”

“For your sake, O my good king, I wish I were wise; for the trouble they have given my poor understanding is indeed very great. I believe them to be gods, landed from the Sun.” And the old man went on to fortify his belief with arguments. In the excited state of his fancy, it was easy for him to convert the cannon of the Spaniards into engines of thunder and lightning, and transform their horses into creatures of Mictlan mightier than men. Right summarily he also concluded, that none but gods could traverse the dominions of Haloc,²⁹ subjecting the variant winds to their will. Finally, to prove the strangers irresistible, he referred to the battle of Tabasco, then lately fought between Cortes and the Indians.

Montezuma heard him in silence, and replied, “Not badly given, uncle; your friends may profit by your example; but you have not talked as a warrior. You have forgotten that we, too, have beaten the lazy Tabascans. That reference proves as much for my caciques as for your gods.”

He waved his hand, and the first course was removed. The second consisted for the most part of delicacies in the preparation of which his artistes delighted; at this time appeared the choclatl, a rich, frothy beverage served in xicaras, or small golden goblets. Girls, selected for their rank and beauty, succeeded the boys. Flocking around him with light and echoless feet, very graceful, very happy, theirs was indeed the service that awaits the faithful in Mahomet’s Paradise. To each of his ancients he passed a goblet of choclatl, then continued his eating and talking.

“Yes. Be they gods or men, I would give a province to know their intention; that, uncles, would enable me to determine my policy,—whether to give them war or peace. As yet, they have asked nothing but the privilege of trading with us; and, judging them by our nations, I want not better warrant of friendship. As you know, strangers have twice before been upon our coast in such canoes, and with such arms;³⁰ and in both instances they sought gold, and getting it they departed. Will these go like them?”

“Has my master forgotten the words of Mualox?”

“To Mictlan with the paba!” said the king, violently. “He has filled my cities and people with trouble.”

“Yet he is a prophet,” retorted the old councillor, boldly. “How knew he of the coming of the strangers before it was known in the palace?”

The flush of the king’s face faded.

“It is a mystery, uncle,—a mystery too deep for me. All the day and night before he was in his Cû; he went not into the city even.”

“If the wise master will listen to the words of his slave, he will not again curse the paba, but make him a friend.”

The monarch’s lip curled derisively.

“My palace is now a house of prayer and sober life; he would turn it into a place of revelry.”

All the ancients but the one laughed at the irony; that one repeated his words.

“A friend; but how?” asked Montezuma.

“Call him from the Cû to the palace; let him stand here with us; in the councils give him a voice. He can read the future; make of him an oracle. O king, who like him can stand between you and Quetzal’?”

For a while Montezuma toyed idly with the xicara. He also believed in the prophetic gifts of Mualox, and it was not the first time he had pondered the question of how the holy man had learned the coming of the strangers; to satisfy himself as to his means of information, he had even instituted inquiries outside the palace. And yet it was but one of several mysteries; behind it, if not superior, were the golden chamber, its wealth, and the writing on the walls. They were not to be attributed to the paba: works so wondrous could not have been done in one lifetime. They were the handiwork of a god, who had chosen Mualox for his servant and prophet; such was the judgment of the king.

Nor was that all. The monarch had come to believe that the strangers on the coast were Quetzal’ and his followers, whom it were vain to resist, if their object was vengeance. But the human heart is seldom without its suggestion of hope; and he thought, though resistance was impossible, might he not propitiate? This policy had occupied his thoughts, and most likely without result, for the words of the councillor seemed welcome. Indeed, he could scarcely fail to recognize the bold idea they conveyed,—nothing less, in fact, than meeting the god with his own prophet.

“Very well,” he said, in his heart. “I will use the paba. He shall come and stand between me and the woe.”

Then he arose, took a string of pearls from his neck, and with his own hand placed it around that of the ancient.

“Your place is with me, uncle. I will have a chamber fitted for you here in the palace. Go no more away. Ho, steward! The supper is done; let the pipes be brought, and give me music and dance. Bid the minstrels come. A song of the olden time may make me strong again.”