CHAPTER I
A Strange Find
LOOKING back upon it now I can scarcely believe it ever happened, and find it difficult to convince myself that I actually passed through such amazing and almost incredible experiences. Yet I have but to look at my left arm and see the scars that cover it in order to bring it all vividly back. And there is the tattooed symbol upon my chest. And if I needed further confirmation of the actuality of it all, there is Itza. Surely she is very real, and should occasion arise she could confirm the greater portion of the story. Even as I am writing, I have but to glance up from my table to see her, seated in the hammock swung on the porch, her dark head bent over some delicate bit of handiwork, her rounded cheek and the curve of her neck glowing like old gold in the diffused light--even in her conventional surroundings--as exotic as an orchid flower. But I find I am digressing--as I invariably do when I see or think of Itza.
It all began in a most ordinary way at Vigo. I was returning to England from an expedition to South America, and as my ship was to remain several hours at Vigo, I decided to stretch my sea-weary legs by a stroll through the quaint Spanish port and, incidentally, have a look at some of the second-hand shops where, on more than one occasion, I had picked up some very interesting old books and other curios.
Crossing the quay, and with a few sharp words in their own tongue quickly silencing the importunities of the piratical-looking boatmen, the bandit-like taxi drivers, the loathsome beggars and the swarm of would-be guides, I ascended the steep Calle San Sebastian, reached the Avenida Principal with its rush of traffic, its swarms of fashionably-attired women and men, its smart shops and its honking automobiles, and turning to the right, entered a narrow, dark alley. A moment later I passed under a mediæval archway and found myself in the Plazuela de Tres Santos. Within five hundred feet of where I stood was the hustling, noisy, modern avenue, but it might have been five hundred miles distant. When I passed under the old arch, I stepped into old Spain. About the tiny flagged plaza, scarcely larger than a courtyard, were ancient, sagging, time-aged houses with outjutting balconies, iron-grilled windows and shady, mysterious patios. Olive-skinned señoritas lounged on the balcony rails gazing half-curiously, half-coquettishly at the stranger who had entered the plazuela; older women in their bright rebosas and flaring, gaudy skirts sat on stools outside their doorways, stringing onions, weaving on crude hand-looms or gossiping with their neighbors; swarthy, fiercely-mustached men besashed, and wearing berets, lounged about or played idly upon guitars; and everywhere swarmed children as happy, as dirty and nearly as naked as the pigs and puppies that were equally as numerous.
But all this was an old story to me. Scarcely glancing to left or right, I picked my way across the court to where a once gorgeous signboard informed all who were interested that one, Miguel José Salceda, was the proprietor of the ramshackle shop wherein were to be found antiques, second-hand articles, books, native handiwork, cigars, tobacco and onions--a strange assortment truly, but quite the usual thing in the confines of the plazuela. The shop itself was a mere cubby hole in the massive stone wall of what had once been a monastery, but Miguel José had the entire plazuela at his disposal, and he had taken possession of several square yards of it. On boxes, tables and upon the stone flagging the overflow of his stock was spread and piled--looking for all the world as though the shop had spilled itself into the square--and, seated in the midst of the aggregation of everything imaginable in the shape of junk and odds and ends, was the _don_ himself. Propped against the wall in the sunshine, his touseled gray head sagging forward on his bare hairy chest, his hands clasped across his paunch, Señor Salceda was enjoying his afternoon siesta--as his raucous snores testified to all the world.
Having no need to disturb his slumbers, I moved about among his wares, examining the litter of battered and dust-covered books upon a rough deal table. Presently, Salceda raised his head, yawned prodigiously, stretched himself and, slowly and reluctantly opening his single eye, caught sight of me.
Instantly, and with surprising agility for a man of his build, he sprang to his feet and hurried forward, grinning until his leathery, unshaven cheeks resembled a relief-map of his native Pyrennes, and exposing two yellow tusks in his otherwise toothless gums.
“Gracias a Dios, ’tis the Señor Ingles again!” he cried, patting me on the back, embracing me in Spanish fashion and exuding an almost overpowering odor of garlic. “And how is the illustrious Señor, and his dear Mamá and his most lovely Señora, and his four--no, I mistake, it is five--niñitos?”
“No, Don Miguel,” I replied with a laugh, “it is not the English Señor but the Americano, and unfortunately, as I have neither mother, wife nor children--either four or five--I cannot tell you how they may fare. Personally, amigo, I am in excellent health. And how is Don Miguel and his family?”
* * * * *
THE old fellow grinned wider than ever. “Si, I remember,” he muttered as he rolled a cigarette. “But of what importance, Señor, whether Americano or Ingles? They are the same species; all are rich, all are fond of old books, and all will have their little joke. And as for the others--Valgame Dios--if you have no mother now, you had one once--may her soul rest in peace; and such a simpatico Señor should have a lovely Señora and the four--nay five--little ones. _Bien pues!_ What would you? But of a truth I am overcome with joy and happiness to find your highness well. Permit me, Señor, to offer you a sip of wine.”
To refuse would be to jeopardize friendship and the chance of a good bargain, and as I had by now selected two rare old volumes that I greatly wanted, a good bargain was desirable. Besides, Salceda always had most excellent wine.
Good fellowship having been thus established, I asked the old fellow the price of the two books. One was a scarce edition of “Don Quixote,” the other a copy of a quaint work on the Antilles, and both were battered, stained, their covers torn and warped, but in good condition within. Salceda, I knew, had no knowledge of the true value of his stock, but priced articles in accordance with the status of the purchaser and his desire to acquire them. So, scarcely looking at the two volumes, he glanced appraisingly at my face and informed me that they were worth twenty pesetas.
“Not to me,” I assured him, tossing the books upon the table. As I did so, one of the books slipped to the pavement, and as Miguel stooped to recover it, a piece of folded, stained and frayed paper dropped from between the leaves.
“Bueno, then, how much will your excellency pay?” he asked, as he glanced at the paper in his hand and replaced the book.
“Ten pesetas, no more,” I declared.
“It is nothing, nothing for such fine old books,” he exclaimed, “but the Señor Ingles--or is it Americano--knows what he can pay. So ten pesetas it is, your excellency.” As I counted out the money, Salceda half-unfolded the piece of paper he still held, and then, evidently deciding it worthless, turned as if to toss it into a pile of rubbish. But something about the thing had attracted me. I had caught a glimpse of figures, of dull red, blue and green upon it, and, thinking it might be an old map, I stayed his hand.
“Hold on,” I exclaimed. “That belongs to the book.”
“No, Señor, I think not,” he said, as he squinted at it with his one good eye, “but perhaps a map, or some old picture left in the book by mistake. Of no value, your excellency; but the illustrious Americano--or is it Ingles--cares for old things, and this is very old. Si,” as he again focused his bulging eye upon it and cocked his head on one side. “Si, of a truth, I should say it is antediluvian!” He chuckled at his own humor. “So,” he continued, “if the Señor desires it--well, perhaps a peso or two.”
He was a sharp old Gallego--none sharper--and the bit of stained and colored paper that a moment before had been condemned to the rubbish pile had suddenly acquired a value. Not much to be sure, but better than nothing by a long shot. Very possibly, I thought, it really belonged with the rubbish. But I was curious to learn what it was and, handing Don Miguel two pesos in addition to the price of the books, I slipped the paper into one of the volumes and departed with his fervent, “May you go with God, Señor,” in my ears. Little did I dream, as I made my way back to the ship, what a strange investment I had made or through what amazing experiences and remarkable places that ragged, folded paper would lead me.
Indeed, at the time, I gave it so little thought that I completely forgot about it, until we were well at sea, when, in my cabin after dinner, I opened the “Explorations, Discoveries, Strange Sights and Remarkable Adventures in the Indies, etc,” by imaginative old Sebastian Gomez, and once more came upon my two-peso purchase. Unfolding it carefully, for it was creased and old, I actually gasped, staring incredulously at what I had revealed. My first glance at the fresher, cleaner inner surface of the sheet was enough. It was a codex--one of those strange pictographic records kept by the ancient Aztecs and Mayas! Less than a dozen originals, I knew, were in existence. Could this be an original? Could it be one of the lost Codices? If so it was priceless, irreplaceable, and with trembling fingers, almost reverently, I examined it and studied the texture of the material through my lens. The material was unquestionably ancient papyrus! The color, the technique of the green, red, blue and yellow figures proved it no copy! The old Spaniard had spoken more truly than he had imagined when he had jokingly called it “antediluvian.”
Incredulously I studied the codex that, by sheerest good fortune, had come into my possession. I puzzled my brain to decipher or decode it, to recognize the figures of conventionalized human beings, of gods and other objects. I was familiar with Aztec pictographs, familiar with Mayan glyphs, but somehow this did not appear like either. And yet, of the two it was far more Mayan than Aztec. A hope rose in my breast, a hope that I had stumbled upon one of the long-lost, missing codices of the Mayas. Only three Mayan codices were known, yet there must have been hundreds, and in all probability many had been taken back to Spain as curios by the returning conquerors. Was it therefore beyond the bounds of possibility--even of probability--that some of these might still be preserved, their value unknown to their owners, perhaps regarded as worthless scraps of old maps, and that one of these should have been tucked between the pages of the ancient volume I had bought?
The more I thought of it the more reasonable it seemed. And if the bit of papyrus should prove to be a missing record of the Mayas, then I had stumbled on a bit of luck. Not only would it be of inestimable scientific interest, but it would possess a very tangible value in pounds sterling or dollars and cents. That, to me, I must confess, was a very important factor. Scientists must live and, like most scientists--more especially those devoted to ethnology and archeology--I was not overburdened with worldly goods. My last expedition had drained my resources, and even when I had disposed of my collections--a slow and uncertain procedure--I would be little better off than when I had started. But if the ancient scrap of paper before me actually proved to be a Mayan codex, I need have little worry over my future. I chuckled to myself as my thoughts dwelt on this possibility. How strange are the whims of Fate. Here I had devoted years to explorations in far-off lands, had undergone hardships, had had my share of sufferings, had risked health and life a thousand times, and (if my hopes proved true) had made a greater find in a second-hand shop in Vigo, Spain, than in all my wanderings.
* * * * *
I BROUGHT myself back to earth with an effort. I was building castles in the air with no tangible basis to work on. The thing might be comparatively worthless, a copy or perhaps even a codex made subsequent to the Spanish conquest. Until I could have its origin, its age and its value established by experts, I would dismiss it from my mind.
My first act, when I had reached London and had established myself in my apartment in Eardly Crescent, was to visit the British Museum with my find. For once my old friend, Dr. Joyce, lost his habitual nonchalance as he examined the codex. He uttered an ejaculation of amazement, his eyes sparkled, and he became obviously excited.
“Extraordinary!” he exclaimed. “What a jolly find! Of course I cannot be positive of its identity on such a superficial examination,” he continued, “but it is unquestionably a codex, and I should surmise of Mayan origin. The cartouches and date symbols are assuredly Mayan, but there are other details, other features that excite doubt. But of course we know so little about Mayan codices. And it seems to bear certain Nahua characteristics. Possibly it is a codex of one of the independent Mayan states that came under Nahua influence. But we should be able to ascertain its age--these date symbols are very clear.”
He studied it closely. “Ah, here it is!” he cried jubilantly. “If I am not greatly mistaken this glyph reads 8 Ahau 12--no 13, or is it? Well, either 12 or 13. The unit symbols are difficult because they are so highly decorated and involved. But 8 Ahau and either 12 or 13 Ceh in the Calendar-round. There appears to be an Initial Series date also. However, the Calendar-round will place it approximately. Let me see, that would be about 90–94 B. C.”
I gasped. The codex, if my friend was right, and Dr. Joyce is perhaps the greatest living authority on the subject--was more than two thousand years old! But to my disappointment Dr. Joyce could make little more of the ancient document than I could. And before I could realize on it, before it had any real scientific or monetary value, I would be compelled to find someone who could establish its origin, its identity and its relationship. At Dr. Joyce’s suggestion I next visited Oxford and called on Professor McLeod, who, as everyone knows, has made a life study of ancient American glyphs and symbols. But this visit gave no more definite results than before.
Following this I made the rounds of nearly all the archeologists and students of pre-Columbian American art and writings in Great Britain, but without result.
All agreed that my discovery was a codex, all agreed that it bore the earmarks of Mayan origin, all agreed on the date symbols, and all agreed that it was so at variance with all the previously known Mayan and Aztec codices that it was an insoluble puzzle to them. They all agreed, also, that if its origin could be established, it would be the most valuable codex in existence, and readily saleable for many thousands of pounds.
Possibly, in the United States, they suggested, I might be able to succeed where I had failed in England and, very sensibly, added Dr. Joyce, as it would unquestionably be eventually purchased in America, why not submit it to the American experts?
But when I reached the country of my birth and called on various archeologists, I found that they could give me little more information than I had obtained from the British scientists. The American Museum in New York, the Museum of the American Indian, the Peabody Museum of Cambridge, the Pennsylvania State Museum and scores of others were visited in turn. But neither Dr. Whistler, Professor Saville, Dr. Spinden, Dr. Gregory, Dr. Mason nor any other of the scores of authorities on the subject dared express a definite opinion. The codex was genuine, it was remarkable, it was priceless, and its date was established. But whether it was entirely Mayan, whether it was Aztec with Mayan addenda or vice versa, or whether it was the work of some undetermined independent, state of Mexico or Central America, no one could state. It was, in fact, the greatest puzzle that had confronted the world’s most prominent archeologists in many years.
But I _did_ secure some information. Dr. Whistler of the American Museum established the fact that the codex recorded some very important historical event and a migration. Professor Saville of the Heye Museum was positive it recorded a myth or a prophecy and identified the symbol of Kukulcan, the Mayan hero-god or “plumed serpent” as the dominating figure, and Professor Henderson discovered and partially deciphered symbols indicating that the codex embodied the features of a map and gave a description of some location. Several also suggested that it might prove to be a copy of a more ancient codex, or possibly an abbreviated or condensed form of several, or that it might be a codex index or key referring to some more elaborate codex.
By this time my interest increased, and I determined to take my treasure to Mexico and consult the authorities in the Museo Nacional.
* * * * *
PROFESSOR ALESSANDRO CERVANTES received me with Spanish American cordiality and enthusiasm. I had not seen him for many years, and we had much to talk over, but all else was forgotten when he saw my codex. He was tremendously excited, declared positively it was genuine, announced that it was unquestionably Mayan, and unhesitatingly placed it as belonging to the Old Empire period of the Mayan civilization, and therefore of Guatemalan origin.
“But _amigo mio!_” he exclaimed. “Of a truth it is most wonderful, most astounding. In all the world there is no such another. All others are of the New Empire. It is beyond price, _amigo_. If it can be deciphered it will solve many mysteries. _Por Dios_, yes, _amigo_. It will probably prove to be the key to much that we have puzzled over for years. It deals with Kukulcan, as my good friend Saville says; it tells of a prophecy and of a migration both, and it is historical, symbolical, religious and mythological all in one. But,” he shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands, “my poor knowledge is inadequate to decipher it. However,” he continued as he noticed my disappointment, “I have a very good friend who, I feel sure, can succeed where all others have failed. He dwells not here in Mexico. No, amigo, his home is in the little town of Xibaltango in Guatemala.”
“In that case,” I assured him, “I shall go to Guatemala. Can you give me a letter of introduction to your friend?”
“Most gladly!” he declared with enthusiasm. “He is but a poor priest--a most holy and devoted Padre, who gives his last centavo to the poor Indios of his parish and goes hungry that they may eat, and when I scold him for so doing, what answer does Fray José make me? That it is the duty of all Spaniards, and of priests in particular, to make what amends they may for the cruelties and wrongs inflicted upon the Indios by the Spaniards in the past. _Caramba, amigo_, what reasoning! Were I, with the blood of the Aztecs in my veins, to go in rags and in bare feet and with empty stomach, would it bring Montezuma back to life; would it ease the sufferings of Guatemozin on the rack under Cortes? But Padre José is, as I say, most holy and, _amigo_, most wise and a deep student of all the past of his country. Si, Señor, he speaks a dozen of the native dialects, he knows the myths and the legends of the Indios as well as they themselves do; he takes part in their _fiestas_, and he is beloved by them all. And he reads the ancient Mayan glyphs as easily as he reads his own Castilian or the Latin of his office. Si, amigo, Fray José is the one man who may solve the riddle of your most wonderful codex.”
* * * * *
I FOUND Fray José in his modest quarters adjoining the ancient church in the tiny Indian village of Xibaltango. I had expected to find a cowled and tonsured priest, a gray ascetic, bent with years and seamed with the marks of self-denial, fasting and a rigorous life; in fact, I expected to find the living counterpart of a saint or martyr. Instead, the man who greeted me was short, rather corpulent, with a round, brown face, merry gray eyes, and in place of cassock and cowl he wore a suit of native homespun cotton. If, as Professor Cervantes had said, he starved that his Indians might eat, then most assuredly he thrived on starvation, for he looked the picture of health. He was as jolly and merry as his features implied, and he welcomed me most cordially, apologizing for his home but assuring me, in the usual Spanish fashion, that it was all mine.
“But what would you, Señor?” he cried, dusting off an antique leather chair with his berretta and proffering it to me. “What would you? I am remote, alone, in the wilderness, among Indios, and Señor mio, I see not one white man, one stranger in many years. Yet, Señor, I am not lonely. I am happy, I love the Indios, though, of a truth I must admit it--my labors are of little avail, si. They are all Christians; all come to my little church, all are baptized, all are christened and married and buried according to the rites of the Church; but--as the illustrious Señor knows--they are pagans at heart. Not one there is, I am sure, who does not in secret worship the old gods, who does not follow out the old religion. They are Christians to please me, to gain what they may, and because they feel not too certain whether the Christian or the pagan God is the more powerful. Ay de mi, Señor, the longer I dwell among the Indios, the more I feel that never will they be other than pagan at heart. But they are good children, Señor, kind and simple and lovable and generous, and I find life not dull between my religious duties and studying the ancient traditions and striving ever to unravel the mysteries of the past. And my very good friend, the Professor Alessandro, tells me in his letter you have a codex even he cannot decipher. I fear me, Señor, that if he has failed, my poor knowledge will be of little service.”
But Padre José deprecated his ability and his knowledge. “Wonderful!” he cried as he looked at the codex. “It is of the Old Empire; it is a sacred codex, a religious myth and a history dealing with Kukulcan. But, Señor, it is unlike anything else. It is Señor, I am sure, a codex in cipher. Often, on the monuments, I have found inscriptions that I feel sure are cipher, and in this so wonderful codex I see some of the same symbols. That, Señor is why no one has been able to read it. One must know the key, the code, to unravel its meaning or--hold--perchance this is the key by means of which the Mayan ciphers were read. Ah, mi Señor, you may possess that which will solve the manifold mysteries of the Mayas. But, though I regret to admit it, only a Mayan of the priest-cult could decipher it.”
I was terribly disappointed. I had traveled thousands of miles; had wasted months of time and exhausted my resources, only to find that I had accomplished nothing. I laughed derisively. “In that case,” I said bitterly, “the codex will never be deciphered. It is worth only its value as a specimen, curio. In order to find the man who could read it, I would have to go back several centuries and be here before the conquest. The Mayan priests are a thing of the past.”
* * * * *
FRAY JOSE’S eyes twinkled and he chuckled. “Perhaps, my son,” he said, “I may be able to help you to go back those several centuries. Would you care to do so and meet one of the long-dead priest clan?”
“What do you mean!” I exclaimed. “Do some still exist?”
He nodded. “Many things exist of which the outside world knows nothing,” he declared. “Many of the Indios still worship in the ancient temples of their ancestors, and to do so they must have priests of the ancient faith. Though it is kept a secret, yet the old priest-clans still survive. I alone of all white men have learned something of them. The Indios trust me, and I devoutly believe, love me for what little I have done for them, and have confided in me to some extent. Si, Señor, I know of temples wherein they still worship, and I know of one priest of the cult of Xibalba who might reveal to you the contents of the codex. Could I in person go to him, then I feel sure he would do so, but that, Señor, I cannot do, for my duty is here; however, I will give to you that which will win his confidence and mayhap--with your knowledge of the Indios’ ways, you may induce him to aid you. _Quien sabe?_”
I was elated. Even if I accomplished nothing in regard to the codex, I would have an opportunity of studying the ancient priest clan, anyhow, and I felt confident that the scientific discoveries I would make would repay me. But I soon learned that my visit to the Mayan priest was not to be accomplished as easily as I had thought.
“Katchilcan speaks only his own Zutugil dialect,” Fray José informed me. “No doubt he understands some Spanish--perhaps he may even be able to converse in Spanish, but he won’t do it. If you are to visit his village, in fact if you are to journey through the country, you must learn the Mayan tongue. But that, to you who have learned so many dialects of the Indios, will not be difficult nor will it take a great time, my son. My own knowledge is not accurate enough to enable me to teach you, though before you start I can aid you somewhat by imparting a knowledge of the most useful words and phrases. But I have a friend--a native Indio who cares for the little chapel at Totil--who speaks the Spanish and is most intelligent. It was he who himself taught me, and if the Señor will not mind the time and the journey, he can stop at Totil and from Pedro acquire the knowledge of the Zutugil. Totil is on the way to the village of Katchilcan.”
Once having made up my mind to exhaust every chance of deciphering the codex or of establishing its identity beyond question, I was not to be balked by the obstacle of learning a new Indian dialect, and a few days later, I bade Fray José farewell and started for the distant village of Totil.
##