Heart of the World

Chapter XVII The Curse of Zibalbay

Thankful enough was I to rise from the ground feeling my life whole in me.

"Death has been near to us," said the señor with something between a sob and a laugh, as we followed Zibalbay and Maya into the guard–house.

"He is near to us still," I answered, "but at least, unless Tikal changes his mind, we have won some days of respite."

"Thanks to her," he said, nodding to Maya, and as he spoke we entered the guard–house, a small chamber with a massive door, somewhat roughly furnished.

So soon as we were in, the door was shut upon us, and we found ourselves alone. Zibalbay sat himself down, and, fixing his eyes upon the wall, stared at it as though it offered no hindrance to his sight, but the rest of us stood together near the door, listening to the turmoil of the multitude without. Clearly argument ran high among them, for we could hear the sound of angry voices, of shouting, and of the hurrying footfalls of the people leaving the pyramid by way of the great stair.

"You have saved our lives for a while, for which we owe you thanks," said the señor to Maya presently, "but tell me, what will they do with us now?"

"I cannot say," she answered, "but in this pyramid are chambers where we shall be hidden away until our day of trial. At the least I think so, for they dare not let us out among the people, lest we should cause a tumult in the city."

Before the words had left her lips the door was opened, and through it came Tikal, Mattai, and other of the great lords who were hostile to Zibalbay.

"What is your pleasure with us?" asked Zibalbay, awaking from his dream.

"That you should follow me," answered Tikal sternly, "you and the others"—adding, with a low bow to Maya, "forgive me, Lady, that I must exercise this violence towards you and your father, but I have no other choice if I would save you from the vengeance of the people."

"It is not the vengeance of the people that we have to fear, Tikal," she answered quietly, "but rather your hate."

"Which it is in your power to appease, lady," he said in a low voice.

"It may be in my power, but it is not in my will," she answered, setting her lips. "Come, cousin, take us to the dungeon that you have prepared for us."

"As you wish," he said; "follow me." And he led the way across the guard–house, through a sleeping–chamber of the priests that lay behind it, to the further wall that was hidden by a curtain.

This curtain, on being drawn, revealed a small stone door, which Mattai, having first lit some lamps that stood ready in the chamber, unlocked with a key which hung at his girdle. One by one we passed through the door, Tikal preceding us, and Mattai, with others of the great lords, to the number of six, following after us. Beyond the door lay a flight of twenty steps, then came a gate of copper bars. On the further side of this gate were flight upon flight of steps, joined together by landings, and running, now in this direction now in that, into the bowels of the mighty pyramid. At length, when my limbs were weary of descending so many stairs, we found ourselves in front of other gates, larger and more beautifully worked than those that we had already passed. Presently they clanged behind us, and we stood in a vast apartment or hall that was built in the heart of the pyramid. It would seem that this hall had been made ready for our coming, for it was lighted with many silver lamps, and in one part of it rugs were laid and on them stood tables and seats. So great was the place that the light of the lamps shone in it only as stars shine in the sky, still, as we passed down it, we saw that its roof was vaulted, and that its walls and floor were of white marble finely polished. Once, as we learned afterwards, it had served as the assembly–rooms for the priests of the temple, but now that they were so few it was not used, except from time to time as a prison for offenders of high rank. At intervals along its length were doors leading to sleeping and other chambers. Some of the doors were open, and as we passed them Mattai told us that these were to be our bed–chambers. Then, having announced that food would be brought to us, the nobles, headed by Tikal, withdrew, and we heard the copper gates clash and the echo of their footsteps into nothingness upon the endless stairs.

For a while we stood staring at each other in silence. It was Zibalbay who broke it, and his voice rang strangely in the vaulted place.

"It is his hour now," he said, shaking his fist towards the stair by which Tikal had left us, "but let him pray that mine may never come," and suddenly he turned and, walking to a couch, flung himself upon it and buried his face in his hands.

Maya followed him and, bending down, strove to comfort him, but he waved her away and she came back to us.

"This is a gloomy place," said the señor, in a half whisper, for here one scarcely dared to speak aloud because of the echoes that ran about the walls, "but, dark though it is, it seems safer than the summit of the pyramid, where sword–points are so many," and he pointed to a little cut upon his throat.

"It is safe enough," Maya answered, with a bitter laugh, "and safely will it keep our bones till the world's end, for through those gates and the men that guard them there is no escape, and the death that threatened us in the sunshine shall overtake us in the shadow. Did I not warn you against this mad quest and the seeking of the city of my people? I warned you both, and you would not listen, and now the trouble is at hand and your lives will pay the forfeit for your folly and my father's."

"What must be, must be," answered the señor with a sigh, "but for my part I hope that the worst is past and that they will not kill us. It was your father's rashness which brought these evils on us, and perhaps misfortune may teach him wisdom."

"Never," she answered, shaking her head, "for they are right; on this matter he is mad, as you, Ignatio, are mad also. Come, let us look at our prison, for I have not seen it till this hour," and, taking one of the hand–lamps that stood near, she walked down the length of the hall. At its further end were gates similar to those by which we had entered, and through them came a draught of air.

"Where do they lead?" I asked.

"I do not know," she answered, "perhaps to the Sanctuary by a secret way. At least the pyramid is full of these chambers, that in old days were used for many things, such as the storage of corn and weapons, and the burying–places of priests, thousands of whom are at rest within it. Now they are empty and deserted."

As we walked back again I stopped before a wooden door that stood ajar, leading into one of the chambers of which I have spoken.

"Let us go in," said Maya, pushing it open, and we entered, to find ourselves in a small room lined with shelves. On these shelves, each of which was numbered, lay hundreds of rolls thickly covered with dust. Maya took up one of them at a hazard and unrolled the parchment, revealing a manuscript beautifully executed in the picture–painting of the Indians.

"This must be nearly a thousand years old," she said; "I know it by the style of the painting. Well, we shall not lack history to read while we sojourn here," and she threw the priceless roll back on to its shelf and left the chamber.

A few steps further on we came to another room of which the door was closed, but so rotten was the woodwork with age that a push freed it from its fastenings, and we entered. Here also there were shelves, packed some of them with yellow and some with white bars of metal.

"Copper and lead," said the señor glancing at them.

"Not so," answered Maya with a laugh, "but that which you white men covet, gold and silver. Look what is painted upon the shelves," and she held up the lamp and read: "Pure metal from the southern mines, set apart for the services of the Temple of the Heart, and of the Temples of the East and West. Of gold—such a weight; of silver—such a weight."

I stared and my eyes grew greedy, for here in this one room, neglected and forgotten, was enough wealth to carry out my purpose three times over, stored there by the forefathers of this strange rust–eaten race. Ah, if only I could see one half of it safe across the mountains, how great might be my future and that of the people which I lived to serve.

"Perhaps you may win it after all, Ignatio," said Maya, interpreting my thoughts, "but, to be frank, I fear that you will gain nothing except a sepulchre in these gloomy vaults."

After this we visited several chambers that were empty, or filled only with the wreck of moth–eaten tapestries and curious furnitures, till at length we came to a room, or rather a large cupboard, piled from floor to ceiling with golden vessels of the most quaint and ancient workmanship, which had been discarded by the priests and cast aside as worthless—why, I do not know. In front of this gleaming pile stood a chest, unlocked, that the señor opened. It was packed with priestly ornaments of gold, set with great emeralds. Maya picked out a belt from the box and gave it to me, saying:

"Take it, Ignatio, since you love such trinkets. It will set off that robe of yours."

I took it and put it on, not over my robe, but beneath it. My friend, it is the clasp of that belt, which now is yours, that I showed you a while ago, and with the price of the other gems in it I bought this hacienda and all its lands.

Wearied at length by the sight of so much useless treasure, we returned to Zibalbay, who was seated as we had left him, lost in thought.

At this moment the gates of our prison were opened, and men came through them, escorted by captains of the guard, bringing with them food in plenty, which they set upon the table, waiting on us while we ate, but speaking no word, good or bad. Our meal finished, they cleared away the fragments, and, having replenished the lamps and prepared the chambers for us to sleep in, they bowed and left us. For a while we sat round the table, Zibalbay and I in silence, and Maya and the señor talking together in a low voice, till at length the dreariness of the place overcame us, and, as though by a common impulse, we rose and sought the sleeping–vaults, there to rest, if we might.

We slept, and woke, and rose again, though whether it was night or day here, where no light came, we could not tell; indeed, as time went on, our only means of distinguishing the one from the other was by the visits of those who brought our food and waited on us.

I think it must have been in the early afternoon of the day following that on which we were imprisoned, that Tikal visited us, accompanied only by four guards.

"A small band," said the señor as he watched them advance, "but enough to put us to death, who are unarmed" (for all our weapons had been taken from us), "if such should be their will."

"Have no fear, friend," said Maya, "they will not do murder so openly."

By now Tikal stood before us, bowing, and Zibalbay, who as usual was seated brooding at the table, looked up and saw him.

"What do you seek, traitor?" he asked angrily, the blood flushing beneath his withered skin. "Would you kill us? If so, slay on, for thus shall I come the sooner to the bosom of that god whose vengeance I call down upon you."

"I am no murderer, Zibalbay," answered Tikal with dignity. "If you die, it will be by command of the law that you have broken, and not by mine. I am here to speak with you, if you will come apart with me."

"Then speak on before these others, or leave your words unsaid," he answered, "for not one step will I stir with you, who doubtless seek some opportunity to stab me in the back."

"Yet it is necessary that you should hear what I have to say, Zibalbay."

"Say on then, traitor, or go."

Tikal thought for a while, looking doubtfully at Maya, from whose fair face, indeed, he rarely took his eyes.

"Is it your wish that I should withdraw?" she asked shortly.

"It is not mine," said Zibalbay; "stay where you are, daughter."

Now Tikal hesitated no longer, but, bidding the guards who had accompanied him to fall back out of earshot, he said:

"Listen, Zibalbay; yesterday, before the gathering on the pyramid, I saw your daughter, the Lady Maya, and spoke with her, telling her that now, as always, I loved her, although believing her to be dead, for reasons of state I had taken another woman to be my wife. Then I made her this offer: That if she would consent to become my wife I would put away Nahua, whom I had married. Moreover, I added this, that I would give up my place as cacique to you, Zibalbay, whose it is by right, to hold for so long as you should live, and would not oppose you or your policy in any matter. I told her, on the other hand, that if she refused to become my wife, I would surrender nothing, but would put out my strength to crush you and her and these strangers, your friends. She answered me with contempt, saying that I might do my worst, but she would have naught to say to me. What happened afterwards you know, Zibalbay, and you know also the danger in which you stand to–day, now that power has left you, and your very life trembles in the balance."

He paused, and Zibalbay, who had been listening to his words amazed, turned to Maya and said sternly:

"Does this man speak lies, daughter?"

As she was about to answer—though what she meant to say, I do not know—Tikal broke in:

"What is the use of asking her, Zibalbay? Is it to be thought that she will answer you truly, though that I speak truth this wanderer who stands at your side can bear witness, for he was present and heard my words. This offer I made to her, and, that it may be put beyond a doubt, now I make it to her and to you again. If she will take me in marriage, for her sake I will put away Nahua; I will lay down my rule and set you in your place again, with liberty, so long as you shall live, to work such follies as the gods may suffer. All these things I will do because I love her to whom I have been affianced from my youth up, better than them all, because she is as the light to mine eyes and the breath to my nostrils, and without her I have no joy in life, as I have had none since I believed her to be dead."

Zibalbay heard, and, rising, lifted his hand to the vault above him, and said:

"I thank thee, O god, who, in answer to my prayers, hast shown me a way of escape from the troubles that beset me. Tikal, it shall be as you wish, and we will swear our peace upon the altar of the Heart. Doubtless there will be trouble with Mattai and some of his following, but if we stand together they can be overcome. Rejoice with me, Ignatio, my friend, for now the seed that we have planted with so much labour shall bring forth golden fruit."

Here I heard the señor groan with doubt and wrath behind me, and knew that, like so many others, this vision which filled my mind with glory must be brought to nothing because of the fancy of a woman.

"Your pardon, Zibalbay," I interrupted, "the Lady Maya has not spoken."

"Spoken!" he exclaimed. "Why, what should she say?"

"What I said to my cousin Tikal yesterday," she answered, setting her lips and speaking very low—"that I will have nothing to do with him."

"Nothing to do with him, girl! Nothing to do with him! Why he is your affianced; you do not understand?"

"I understand well, father, but for naught that can be offered to me upon the earth will I give myself in marriage to a man who has treated you and me as my cousin Tikal has done—a man who could not keep his oath to you, or wait for me one single year."

"Cease to be foolish," said Zibalbay. "Tikal has erred, no doubt; but now he would make atonement for his error, and if I can forgive him, so can you. Think no more of the girl's folly, Tikal, but send for ink and parchment and let us set down our contract, for I am old and have little time to lose; and perhaps, before another year is gone, that which you would have snatched by force shall come to you by right."

"I have the paper here, lord," said Tikal, drawing a roll from his breast; "but, pardon me, does the Lady Maya consent?"

"Aye, aye, she consents."

"I do not consent, father, and if you drag me to the altar with yonder man, I will cry out to the people to protect me, or, failing their aid, I will seek refuge in death—by my own hand if need be."

Now Zibalbay turned upon his daughter, trembling with rage, but, checking himself of a sudden, he said:

"Tikal, for the moment this girl of mine is mad; leave us, and come back in some few hours, when you shall find her of another mind. Go now, I pray, before words are said that cannot be forgotten."

Tikal turned and went, and, until the gates at the far end of the hall had clashed behind him and his guards, there was silence.

Then Zibalbay spoke to his daughter.

"Girl," he said, "I know your heart and that your lips spoke a lie, when you told us that it was because of Tikal's forgetfulness of his vow and troth that you will not marry him. There is another reason of which you have not spoken. This white man, who in his own country is named James Strickland, is the reason. You have suffered yourself to look on him with longing, and you cannot pluck his image from your breast. Do I not speak truth?"

"You speak truth, father," she answered, placing her hand in that of the señor as she said the words. "To you, at least, I will not lie."

"I thank you, daughter. Now, hear me; I am sorry for your plight and for that of the white man, if indeed he would make of you anything more than his toy, but here your wishes must give way to the common good. Who and what are you that your whims should stand between me and the fulfilment of my lifelong desire, between your people and their redemption? Must all these things come to nothing because of the fancies of a love–sick girl, whose poor beauty, as it chances by favour of the gods, can avail to bring them about?"

"It seems so, father," she said, "seeing that in this matter my duty to myself and to him who loves me, and whom I love, is higher than my duty to you and to your scheme. Everything else you, who are my father, may require of me, even to my life, but my honour is my own."

"What shall I say to this headstrong girl?" gasped Zibalbay. "Speak, White Man, and tell me that you renounce her, for surely your heart is not so wicked that it will lead you to consent to this folly, and to your own undoing to stand between her and her destiny."

Now all eyes were fixed upon the señor, who turned pale in the lamplight and answered slowly:

"Zibalbay, I grieve to vex you, but your daughter's destiny and mine are one, nor can I command her to forsake me and give herself in marriage to a man she hates."

"Yet it seems that you could command her to break her plighted troth for your sake, O most honourable White Man," said Zibalbay with a bitter laugh. "Hearken, friend Ignatio, for you at least are not in love, tell your brother there and this rebellious girl which way their duty lies. Teach them that we are sent here to dwell upon the earth for higher ends than the satisfying of our own desires. Stay, before you speak, remember that with this matter your own fate is interwoven. Remember how you have suffered and striven for many years, remember all you have undergone to win what to–day lies in your grasp, the wealth that shall enable you to carry out your purposes. There, in those vaults, it lies to your hand, and if that be not enough I will give you more. Take it, Ignatio, take it to bribe your enemies and pay your armies, and become a king, a righteous king, crowned by heaven to complete the destinies of our race. Say such words as shall bend this girl and her lover to our will, and triumph; or fail to say them, and some few days hence meet the end of a thief at the hands of Tikal. Now speak."

I heard him, and my heart stood still within me. Alas! his words were true, and now was the turning–point of my fate. If the girl would give herself to Tikal, who was mad with love of her, all would be well, and within three years the dream of my race might be fulfilled, and the vengeance of generations accomplished upon the spawn of the accursed Spaniard. There in those vaults, useless and forgotten, lay the treasures that I needed, and yonder in Mexico were men in thousands who by their means might be armed and led; but between me and them stood the desire of this woman and the folly of my friend. Oh! truly had my heart warned me against her when first I learned to know her lovely face, having foreknowledge of the evil that she should bring upon me. With her I could do nothing, for who can turn a woman from her love or hate? But with my friend it was otherwise; he would listen to me if I pleaded with him, seeing that not only my hopes but my very life hung upon his answer, and no true man has the right to bring others to their death in order that he may fulfil the wishes of his heart. Also, it would be better that he should be separated from this girl, who was not of his blood and colour, and whose love soon or late would be his undoing. Surely I should do well to pray him to let her go to the man whose affianced she had been, and he would do well to hearken to me. Almost the entreaty was upon my lips when Maya, reading my thought, touched me on the arm and whispered:

"Remember your oath, Ignatio." Then I called to mind what I had promised yonder in the desert, when by her courage she had saved her lover's life, and knew that once again a woman must be my ruin, since it is better to lose all than to break such vows as this.

"Zibalbay," I said, "I cannot plead your cause and mine, though not to do so be our destruction, seeing that I have sworn that, come what may, I will not stand between these two. To–day, for the second time in my life, my plans are brought to nothing by the passion of a woman. Well, so it is fated, and so let it be!"

Zibalbay did not answer me, but, turning to the señor, he said:

"White Man, you have heard from your friend words that should touch you more deeply than any prayer. Will you still cling to your purpose, and take advantage of my daughter's madness? If so, know that your triumph shall be short, for when, in some few hours, Tikal comes again, I will tell him all and give you over to his keeping to deal with as he wishes. Then Heaven help you, wanderer, for he is vengeful by nature, nor is that life likely to be long which bars the way between a ruler of men and the woman he would wed. Answer then, and for the last time: Do you choose life or death?"

"I choose death," he said, boldly, "if the price of life be the breaking of my troth and the surrender of my bride to another man. I am sorry for you, Zibalbay; and for you, Ignatio, my friend, I am still more sorry: but it is fate and not I that has brought these evils on you. If Ignatio here cannot forget his oath, how much less can I forget mine, which I have sworn with this lady. Moreover, worse fortune even than to–day's would come upon us if I did, seeing that such cowardice could breed no luck. Therefore, till the Lady Maya renounces me, for good or for evil, in death or in life, I will cleave to her."

"And in death or in life I will cleave to you, beloved," she said. "Take such vengeance as you wish upon us, my father, yes, if you wish, give over this man, to whom my heart drew me across the mountains and the desert, to die at the hands of Tikal; but know that he will hold me faster dead than he did while he was alive, for into the valley of death I shall follow him swiftly."

Now at last the rage of Zibalbay broke loose, and it was terrible. Rising from his seat he shook his clenched hands above his daughter's head and cursed her, till in her fear she shrank away from him to her lover's breast.

"As with my last breath," he cried, "I pray that the curse of your gods, of your country, of your ancestors, and of me, your father, may rest upon you and your children. May your desire turn to ashes in your mouth, and may death rob you of its fruit; may your heart break by inches for remorse and sorrow, and your name become a hissing and a shame. Oh! I seem to see the future, and I tell you, daughter, that you shall win him for whose sake you brought your father to death and ruin. By fraud shall you win him, and for a while he shall lie at your side, and this is the price that shall be asked of you, and that you shall pay—the doom of your race, and its destruction at your hands―"

He paused, gasping for breath, and Maya fell at his knees, sobbing:

"Oh! father, unsay those words and spare me. Have you no pity for a woman's heart?"

"Ay!" he said, "so much pity as you have for my sorrows and grey hair. Why should I spare you, girl, who have not spared me, your father. My curse is spoken, and I will add to it, that it shall break your heart at last, ay! and the heart of that man who has robbed me of your duty and your love."

Then suddenly he ceased speaking, his eyes grew empty, he stretched out his arms and fell heavily to the floor.