CHAPTER II
Stones and Dreams
WILL you take hold, you damned scoundrels?” A hearty curse followed these rough words, and then the round face of the speaker shone in friendly benevolence. Five powerful men were leaning so hard on the crowbar that the iron bent. But the immense stone did not budge. “Never mind, Patson!” A clear, fresh voice sounded above the panting of the men. “We can't get it that way!”
Patson looked up with a snort. Sweat was dripping from his massive forehead, now glistening with moisture. “It's a shame, Mr. Burns! With a couple of sturdy Irish lads we could heave that block up to the moon, if necessary. But these lazy Indians haven't any muscles in their arms. What they can't carry on their heads stays put. These chaps are limp and lazy, so that——”
“Be careful, Pat!” whispered Burns to his angry comrade. “Even if it's a blessing that your chubby angel face doesn't match your moods, you can never tell how much these people know of our language.”
Patson grunted and again turned to the stubborn block. The four laborers stood around in dull indifference and stared stupidly at the crowbar with their deep-set black eyes. They were ragged, dark brown figures with brutish faces almost unrecognizable from dirt with very prominent cheek bones and wide low foreheads.
“The thing to do,” said Sir William Burns, “is to have the earth dug away all around the block. It seems to have sunk pretty deep into the soft ground.”
Pat scratched his head. “I guess that'll be the best way, sir, but it'll be the longest.”
“Well! Just take care when you turn it over that the inscriptions don't get scratched. Of course the block had to fall with the inscription side down, worse luck!”
The archaeologist walked slowly around the immense stone and carefully measured it. “The dimensions agree exactly. This block must be the missing central piece of the cornice of King Koh's altar.”
Pat leaned carelessly on his crowbar. “I guess good Queen Moh never dreamed chaps like these gallows-birds would some day be fingering the altar of her murdered brother and royal consort!”
“How long will it take you to get the stone free?
“At least an hour, I should say, sir.”
Burns looked at his watch. “Then I'll take a look at the temple at the southeast corner in the meantime. It seems to be an exact copy of the step-pyramid of Cholula.” He turned to go. “One more thing, Pat. If I'm delayed,'just take an impression of the inscription while you're waiting. Good-bye.”
The slender, youthful figure of the scientist vanished at once among the confused heaps of ancient
Slowly, pacing the distances, Sir William Bums strode around the steep pyramid.
“Thirty meters on a side at the base,” he murmured at the second corner. He wrote down the number and went on. At the next corner he stopped in surprise. The road was blocked by a high wall overgrown with moss, which apparently enclosed a temple court adjoining the main structure. Thick and impenetrable cactus growth made it impossible to follow the wall.
He drew back a short distance and gazed at the vast structure, the five stories of which were in terrace formation, each successive one being smaller than the one below. In the lowest story he could see no opening by which he could reach the interior. The numerous windows of the upper stories could be reached only by way of the rotten ladders leading from the first platform.
At the north side the shrubbery surrounding the foot of the pyramid was thicker and formed a sort of network which would probably support a man. It was so high that if he stood on it he might perhaps be able to grasp the edge of the terrace and climb up to it. With quick decision Burns began climbing the slender, swaying branches.
Swinging in the insecure network of wild sycamores and creepers, he extended his arm. He was within a few inches of the projecting cornice, when the twigs gave way. He could get no adequate hold on the rough stones. For a moment he kept his balance high up in the air, then came crashing down, tearing his hands on thorns and jagged edges of stones and striking the ground violently.
For a while he lay as though stunned. Then consciousness returned. He looked about in confusion. He was wedged in between the base of the wall and the thick hedge which adjoined it, and every movement entangled him still more in the maze of thorns and tore his clothing to shreds.
He bent down and cautiously crawled a little way in the narrow space between the wall and the hedge, seeking eagerly for a more open space, where he might cut his way out with his pocket-knife. In passing his hand along the wall at his right, he suddenly found a hole! There was a low opening in the wall, large enough to admit a man!
Without hesitation he crept into the dark hole. He found himself in a damp passage-way, just high enough to allow him to walk in a stooping position. He carefully groped his way forward by feeling of the side walls. The slippery ground made a sudden descent, then ran level for about twenty meters, and again descended steeply to the opening. On looking up Burns saw a gleam of light before him, revealing the exit.
“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, as he emerged into the light of day. He stood rooted to the spot, his eyes wide with wonder as he gazed fixedly at the magic picture before him.
The Tree of Life
IN the center of the almost empty court stood an immense evergreen oak—in itself a rarity in these hot lowlands. The strange silhouette of the age-old gnarled tree contrasted sharply with the bright stone buildings standing about it. Just below the thick, rounded top two great stumps of branches stood out at the same height, like mighty arms which sought to support the leafy roof. It was a natural cross! No fresh growth had budded on the dried-up cross-bar which was shaded by the thick tree-top.
“The tree of life!” whispered Burns in sudden uneasiness. “The cross of the Toltecs!”
At the foot of the oak lay a woman. Half kneeling, she was clasping with both arms the weather-beaten trunk. Her eyes were turned aside, as though she listened to spirit voices from the depths. She lay motionless, with parted lips, a figure as gracefully slender as a gazelle. The sunbeams cast a bright bluish gleam on her long black hair, making her bare shoulders shine like bronze, and caressing the slender hands and tiny feet which peeped from beneath the folds of her garment.
Burns stood breathless, his eyes devouring the beautiful brown woman at the foot of the tree of life. She seemed to him a mere phantom, the product of his fevered imagination, a fairy dream, which would vanish if he moved.
“Moh, the fabulous brown Queen Moh, has arisen and returned to her native land!”
Had he merely thought it or had he spoken aloud? The woman started and raised her splendid head to listen. Almost at the same moment a short, sharp cry rang out over the ruins and died away after echoing across the brilliant sunlit court. The brown woman had perceived the intruder. She sprang up and waited like a cat,, ready to leap. There was fire in her great black eyes.
Burns walked slowly forward, while the Indian woman drew back.
“Has beautiful Queen Moh returned from the distant land of the Nile?” he said slowly, as though under a charm. He spoke the language of the Maya Indians of Yucatan.
“Queen Moh lies at the bottom of the great ocean!”
What a resonance there was in this splendid voice from the past! There was a scale of tones in every word, cooing like the love-notes of the wild doves.
An irresistible desire to hear more of this voice impelled the Englishman to speak further. “Then the stones must lie!” he said.
“What do the stones tell you of the Queen of the Mayas?”
The ringing words, the proud and yet pliant and feline attitude of the speaker confused and excited Burns. This Indian woman produced an unaccountable effect on him. He replied as though in a dream:
“The stones in the land of the red children of Zeos tell the same story as the stones in the realm of Ammon-Ra: the hapless Queen Moh, grieving over the murder of her brother and husband, King Koh, fled from the peninsula of Yucatan across the wide sea and after a long journey reached the fertile land of the Nile. There she erected to the memory of her lamented consort a splendid monument exactly like the tomb of Chichen-Itza. Both are surmounted by stone leopards with human faces.”
“Do the dead stones tell you all this?”
“They tell even more! Queen Moh brought to the nations far over the sea the art of Chichen-Itza and Uxmal. Therefore she was highly honored in Egypt, and was later even adored as the goddess Isis.”
The girl shook her head. “You are mistaken. Queen Moh sailed out over the sea to seek the land of Mu, which lay far to the east, and from which formerly the white savior had come to us. She did not find it, for the beautiful land of Mu had already been engulfed by the waves. Good Queen Moh sank with her ships into the depths of the ocean. She never reached the land of the whites.”
The assurance with which the Indian girl spoke embarrassed the scientist. Strange to say, he was unable to regard her story as merely a legend. He felt that
the conviction of this beautiful creature must be well founded. But how?
“How does the lovely flower of Uxmal know all this?”
“Stones lie—dreams alone are true!” replied the girl, reflectively.
“Then you have dreamed of Queen Moh?” asked Burns in amazement.
“I—I don't know. My mother tells me much, day by day.”
“Where does your mother live?”
“In the fields of Zeos. Her body has long been resting in the earth.”
“And still she speaks to you?” The scientist drew back a step in astonishment.
“She often speaks to me. I don't hear her words, but I understand what she says to me. I have forgotten much of it. Many times it awakes again in my soul and then vanishes anew. My mother's words come and go—I do not know.”
“Didn't she also tell you of the beautiful and fertile land of Mu, which the poor queen sought and did not find?”
“The land of Mu?” The Indian woman hesitated, as though searching in her mind. “From the land of Mu came Quetzalcoati, the white savior, to the Mayas and Toltecs, when there was still eternal springtime, and no rainy season and dry season divided the year. His face was white, and from his cheeks flowed a long yellow beard. On his brow shone the sacred sign of life. He was as noble as the sun, and he taught the red children of Zeos to build stone temples and houses. But the frightful war-god Huitzilopochtii hated him and aroused the mountain tribes against him. The white savior had no love for battle, and left the land of the Mayas. But before he returned to his own land of Mu, he performed a miracle. With a throw of his hand he cast a great dart into an ancient oak, in such way that its end stood out on both sides of the trunk. The two ends of the dart at once swelled out and became as thick as the trunk itself. Thus originated the sacred sign of the cross, which came from the land of Mu.”
“And the land of Mu itself?”
“Of the land of Mu I know nothing. One day, when the dart in the tree of life begins to sprout, the white savior will return again, and will bring peace to all nations. Then, too, the land of Mu shall rise again from the bottom of the sea.”
Sir William Is Perplexed
THE scientist looked thoughtfully at the thousand-year old tree, which bore in its trunk the dart of Quetzalcoati, in the form of the sacred sign of the cross. This oak might of course have owed its unusual shape to accident and the imagination uf the simple people might have woven the touching story about it. A tree from dim primitive times, from the time of Quetzalcoati, could not possibly exist anywhere on earth. And yet—the Indian girl's story agreed in many respects with his basic investigation of inscriptions.
Could it really be mere chance that almost all civilized nations on earth know and honor the cross? The tree of life of the Mayas, the cross of Christ, the Nile-key of the Pharaohs, the hieroglyph of life, the holy sign of the Brahmins—could all these have resulted from merely playful fancy? And if these multiform signs, all of which have in common the basic figure of the cross, pointed to one and the same source, what was this source? Was it Quetzalcoati, the emissary of the fabulous land of Mu, swallowed up by the ocean? Burns kept hitting again and again upon the same thought, however little it could be proved on the basis of concrete discovery. But what of those words; “Stones lie, dreams alone are true?”
“Who are you, strange maid of the primeval forest?” he asked, with unconcealed astonishment in his eyes.
“My mother called me Tuxtla.”*
There was a soft sound to the word “Tuxtla”, as it came from the woman's lips.
“And who is your father?”
“He was a white man, like yourself, sir! I am a Ladina.”
She was a mestiza then, the daughter of a white Mexican and a native woman. Burns had suspected it. The well-developed figure and the keen mind of Tuxtla suggested a blending of races.
“Where do you live, Tuxtla, and what are you doing here in the ruins of Uxmal?”
“I cannot tell you that. Ask no more questions, sir, and withdraw from the place of the sacred tree!”
This command, expressed in a tone of entreaty, allowed no contradiction. But, Burns could not refrain from asking one more question.
“Just tell me, Tuxtla, is there in the neighborhood a hacienda in which I and my five men can find shelter for a few days?”
“Are you one of those Englishmen who are stirring up the graves of Uxmal?” A harsh vertical furrow appeared on Tuxtla's beautiful brow.
“I am Sir William Burns—from the Archaeological Institute in
* Pronounced Tuch-tla.
London!” he added. Then he suddenly felt the ridiculousness of a formal introduction to this mestiza.
“Go back the way you came! At the edge of the forest you will find a game-run, which will take you through the woods to an open grove, of sycamores. Go half a league to the south from there, and you will see shining in the distance the white house of Don Pedro de la Cosa.”
“Thank you, Tuxtla, thank you! But—when and where shall I see you again?”
“”Do not seek me, sir, and then you will find me! Now go!”
There was a strange and almost mockingly cruel smile on the intoxicatingly beautiful face. An imperative gesture bade the Englishman depart. And he obeyed.
At the opening of the passage he turned again. The mighty tree of life stood silent. The thick shadow of a high wall fell across the trunk, which stretched out the stumps of its branches menacingly, as though the cross were waiting the patient Redeemer.
A sudden uneasiness came over the scientist. “Tuxtla!” he cried in a low, anxious voice.
Nothing stired. The mestiza had vanished without leaving a trace.