CHAPTER III

The Valley of Death

OLD Katchilcan seemed to take it as a matter of course that I would set out to carry the codex to Mictolan. That, however, was only natural, for he believed implicitly in the prophecy, the legend and the codex, and so believing, he had equal faith in my being the chosen means of carrying the foreordained word to the hidden people. In fact, as the days passed, I became absolutely convinced myself that there was far more than a foundation of fact in the priest’s story. There was the codex. If I could obtain the key to it from Katchilcan, I could decipher much of it myself. In fact, now that I examined it from the new viewpoint, I marveled that one of the many experts who had studied it, had not deciphered it. To be sure they had come very close to solving the riddle. They had recognized it as dealing with Kukulcan, they had declared it a record of a migration and a place, they had decided that it was a combination of religious, historical and geographical symbols, and they had even suggested that it was a key to some other codex. And in these surmises they had been correct. It dealt with all--Kukulcan, a migration, a locality, a prophecy, and it _was_ a key or a symbol, though the most important part of that symbol--the location of the hidden city of Mictolan, was missing.

I would have given a lot to have had that missing edge of the papyrus, but there was no sense in bemoaning its loss. And as I studied the codex, and, in the light of Katchilcan’s reading of it, understood it better and better, I realized why the scientists had been so puzzled over its peculiar features, its resemblance to both Aztec and Mayan codices, for it dealt with a prophecy common to both races. Kukulcan and the Aztec Quetzalcoatl were identical, and I was convinced that the precious document was prepared in the style of the picture records of the semi-mythical Toltecs, so that, in case it came into the hands of either Aztecs or Mayas, its meaning and importance would be equally plain. Now that I was sure of the immense scientific and monetary value of the codex, I was determined that no harm should befall it, and for several days I busied myself making a very accurate copy. I then packed the original in a wrapping of oiled silk and sealed it in an aluminum container.

Meanwhile, I had made every possible enquiry regarding the district to the northwest and, with the aid of Katchilcan, had secured the services of several Indians who claimed to be familiar with the country and all routes leading into the district. But they confessed that their knowledge was limited to a comparatively short distance. Beyond that all was unknown, unexplored, and regarded with superstitious fear by the natives. Indeed, I was surprised that I could find any Indians who would accompany me, but no doubt the old priest had had a hand in it. In all probability he assured them that I was under the direct protection of their gods, perhaps he had even hinted that I was on a sacred mission. At last all was in readiness. Supplies of maize, cacao, cassava and dried venison had been prepared, and hammocks had been made. These, with the outfit which I had brought, were enough to see my party through an expedition of at least two months, by which time I would either have succeeded, or failing, would return to the village. So, having written a long letter to Fray José, in which I told him of the results of my visit to Katchilcan and of my hare-brained undertaking, I left the village with Katchilcan’s blessing, and headed for the distant mountains.

For several days it was fairly easy traveling. There were many trails, the country was fairly level, and the forests were open. But the district seemed absolutely uninhabited. Then, as we began to ascend the foothills, the trails became fewer and at last vanished; the country became wilder, and we were obliged to go entirely by the general direction and the easiest route. Often large streams, deep ravines or impassable cliffs barred our way, and we were forced to make long detours. But ever nearer and nearer the great mountains loomed ahead, and ever steeper became our way. Then one day we came suddenly upon the ruins of what had once been a great temple. I became hopeful again. Here was proof that the district had once been inhabited, that the Mayas had been here. Carefully I examined the sculptured lintels of the massive doorways searching for date-glyphs.[3] The few that had remained unobliterated by time were chipped, flaked and partly effaced, but among them I found two that bore dates that proved the building to go back to the Old Empire. That was reassuring. If there was any truth in the old legend, if the Mayas had migrated this way towards the hidden city, it was reasonable to suppose that their migration took years to accomplish, that they erected temples and monuments on the way. And almost daily we came upon monuments; sometimes rudely carved rocks; sometimes stellae covered with figures and symbols; and at other times remains of buildings. And as I examined these, as I realized what stupendous labor must have gone into the cutting of the great stone blocks, the time that must have been expended upon carving the intricate ornate decorations that covered every inch of their surfaces, the ever present mystery of how it was accomplished came back to me with redoubled force.

[3] Engraved characters disclosing or registering dates.

By what means, by what magic had the ancient people accomplished feats in stone-cutting, in sculpture that we, with modern methods and steel tools, could not duplicate in years of unremitting labor? Was I fated to solve that riddle? What a scientific triumph it would be if I did succeed in finding an isolated city of the Mayas, a spot where they still carried on their ancient arts, where I could actually watch the process by which they accomplished their wonderful feats?

Filled with such conjectures, possessed with a strange feeling of assurance, I led my Indians onward.

* * * * *

IT was the nineteenth day after leaving Katchilcan’s village, and we had been toiling-steadily up a steep mountain side. Suddenly the forest ended and we halted in amazement. Before us the fiat mountain top had been cleared, and in the centre stood a low, massive building of a type I had never before seen. Filled with scientific interest, at the time giving no thought to the peculiar fact that the vegetation had been cleared away, I hurried forward, intent only on examining the strange temple. It was in remarkably good condition and, anxious to examine its interior, I stepped through the huge doorway flanked by carved stone columns representing conventionalized jaguars with serpents’ heads. A strange odor filled the interior. Sniffing suspiciously, trying to identify the smell, I stood motionless, waiting for my eyes to become accustomed to the semi-darkness. Then it came to me; it was the odor of burning flesh. What did it mean? Was it possible that?--yes, it must be--the temple must have been recently used. Memory of the clearing, of the condition of the building, swept over me. The temple was still in use; somewhere, very recently, a sacrifice had been made upon an altar within the building. Somewhere in the vicinity there must be Indians, who still worshipped their gods at the ancient temple. I glanced about. Opposite to where I stood was another doorway. I stepped forward towards it. The smell of burning flesh was stronger. I reached the doorway, peered within and halted in my tracks, staring agape at what I saw. On a raised dais was the gigantic image of the god Zotzilaha, grotesque, hideous, with his death’s head, his outspread bat-like wings, his misshapen body. Before him upon a sacrificial altar of polished jasper was the half-consumed body of a girl resting on the dull red embers of a fire. But I scarcely saw the god of the sacrifice, for prostrate before the image and the altar were dozens of naked Indians.

To enter that sacred spot would be to meet with instant death. Only the fact that the savages’ attentions were riveted upon the god had prevented me from being seen. At any instant I might be discovered. Quickly, with fast beating heart, I stepped back. My elbow knocked against the wall, a bit of dislodged masonry rattled to the ground. Instantly every Indian turned in my direction; a savage shout came from their throats, and leaping to their feet, they rushed at me. Why I was not struck down, killed instantly and offered as a sacrifice to their outraged god, I shall never know. Perhaps they preferred to capture me alive, to torture me. Perhaps I was the first white man they had ever seen and they were in some awe or fear of me. Whatever the reason, I was not harmed. I was overpowered before I could resist, though to have attempted to resist would have been hopeless. I was bound, trussed up, and with triumphant shouts was borne into the room and thrown upon the floor before the altar with its gruesome sacrifice.

Was this to be the end of my quest? Was I to be sacrificed upon that altar? Even in my extremity and my terror--for I admit I was terrified--I found myself wondering about the identity of my captors. In fact, I began to wonder whether they might not be the people I had come to find; if, through the centuries, they had not degenerated, reverted to semi-savagery, and if the hidden city was not a myth and the old temple all that remained of what had once been a real town. My speculations were cut short by one who appeared to be the priest or chief. He wore numerous gold ornaments, a feather headdress, and, if anything, was more savage-looking than his fellows. He addressed me angrily, but I could not understand a word of what he said. I tried him with Zutugil, with Spanish, with Nahuatl; all without success. He grew impatient, shook me by the shoulders, and as he did so, the copy of my codex fell from the breast pocket of my coat. As he pounced upon it, I mentally thanked Heaven that it was not the original. For an instant, the savage stared at the strip of paper. Then, with a wild cry, he leaped forward, a long-bladed obsidian dagger gleaming in his upraised hand. I felt sure my last minute had come. But instead of plunging the weapon into my breast, he slashed through the cords that bound me, and prostrated himself before me. I glanced about, rose to my feet. Everywhere the Indians were on their knees, their foreheads touching the ground. Whoever they were, whatever their race, they knew the meaning of the codex. The Book of Kukulcan had saved me.

Slowly they rose, glancing apprehensively at me, regarding me as they would a superior being--which is exactly what I seemed to them. But I had no mind to remain in that chamber of human sacrifice. Picking up the codex, I strode to the door and into the open air, followed by the silent, half-terrified, half-wondering, but wholly subdued savages.

To my dismay, my Indians were nowhere to be seen. Nothing remained but my bags and packages, which were where they were dropped. No doubt they had heard the savage yells from the temple, and having no desire to become martyrs on my behalf, they had taken to their heels.

What was I to do? Without porters to transport my outfit, I could not go on. For that matter, I could not turn back. I was stranded, deserted among these wild Indians of the mountains.

* * * * *

THE chief solved the problem for me. Timidly approaching me, he pointed to my abandoned dunnage; by graphic gestures, he indicated the flight of my men. Then he pointed at his companions, grinned, again pointed at the baggage, and swinging about, waved his hands in the direction of the higher mountains. No one could have misunderstood him. He realized what had occurred and he was offering to send his men with me as porters. Probably he felt that he was being greatly honored by serving me; very likely he felt that he must make amends for treating me as he had. At any rate, I indicated my acceptance. Springing forward, the chief himself shouldered the largest package as his fellows almost fought for the chance of carrying the others. I did not know where those savages lived; whether they had a village near, whether they came from afar; or whether they dwelt in huts in the forest and visited the temple only to make sacrifices to the ancient Mayan god. Neither did I know how they knew my purpose or my route, unless the chief deciphered the codex, but they seemed to know the direction to follow and, thinking that possibly they had some inkling of the location of the city of the Book of Kukulcan, I followed after.

For three days we climbed mountains, descended precipitous slopes, waded rushing streams, struggled through jungles. I could not converse with the Indians except by signs, but we managed to get along. They made the camps, secured game, caught fish, cooked the food and carried the burdens. And when, on one occasion, we came suddenly upon a tapir, and whipping out my revolver I shot the beast, I had ample evidence that they had never before been in contact with white men. With wild cries they dropped their loads, fell flat upon the ground, and fairly grovelled at my feet. And when, after some difficulty, I got them up and they examined the dead tapir, they instantly prostrated themselves a second time. They had never seen or heard firearms--of that I was certain--and I had but to touch the butt of my pistol to cause them to shake with terror and bob their heads to the earth. To them it seemed supernatural; I controlled the thunder and lightning, and for the first time in all my wanderings and my experiences among Indians, I fully realized how the old Dons must have felt, and what power they must have had over the Indians, by virtue of their firearms.

Two days after this incident, we topped a rise, and looming clear against the horizon, I saw two great conical peaks. For a moment I gazed at them, and then, as a thin column of vapor drifted from the one on the right, the words of old Katchilcan came vividly to my mind. In enumerating the dangers that must be met in order to reach the city of Mictolan, he had mentioned the “two blazing mountains.” Was it possible that the two volcanoes on the distant horizon were these? Was I on the right track? Was I nearing my goal? My hopes rose. Unless the old priest had actual knowledge, how had he guessed that there were two

## active volcanoes here? He had declared it was written in the codex,

but I had not noticed symbols of volcanoes. I examined the paper again while the Indians at sight of it dropped to the earth. The priest was right! Yes, there, half-hidden by involved decorations and symbols, were the two cones topped with conventionalized flames like scarlet tobacco leaves. I think my heart skipped a beat or two as I recognized them. I _was_ on the right track; if there was any truth in the Book of Kukulcan, the hidden city lay just beyond those smoking peaks.

But what of the other perils? Were they also actualities? Was there a Valley of Death, a Tunnel of Serpents, a Pit of Alligators and all the rest? I laughed at myself for even speculating on such nonsense. No doubt they were all fanciful allegories. How could there be eight deserts in this well-watered, forested land? How could there be raging whirlwinds, demons and fiends? Volcanoes, snakes, alligators, caves, bridges, yes; but the others--nonsense!

Two days later, half the Indians deserted me in the night. But the chief remained. Ever since he had seen the codex, he had acted as though he were my slave. He fairly shook with terror when he tried to explain that he had no part in the desertion of his men, and to show his anxiety to make up for it, he ordered his remaining men to carry double loads, and loaded his own back until he was bent nearly double. It was impossible to go on in that way. No matter how willing the Indians were, no human beings could traverse the country with such overloads. A few hours proved it. One of the men tripped, fell, and unable to recover himself with his burden, he plunged over the verge of a cliff into the roaring torrent in the depths of the ravine below. And each moment the traveling was getting worse, more difficult, more dangerous. The loss of the load carried by the unfortunate Indian was serious. With him had gone my hammocks, most of my supplies. It was far better to abandon half the baggage and carry the other half in safety, than to lose a whole load at a time. I ordered the men to halt, unpacked the bags and bundles, redistributed the contents, and repacked enough to load the men to the limit of what could be carried in safety. It left me short, but not so badly off as I would have been with my Mayas along. These savages could live off the country; I had only my own wants to look after, and I felt so confident that I would either find my goal or would know the city did not exist, when I reached the volcanoes, that I felt little worry about running short of necessities.

The ravine into which the Indian had fallen to his death was impassable, and, hoping to find a spot where we could descend, we followed along its brink. At last, after miles of walking, we came to a spot where, during some period of heavy rains, a tree had been uprooted, and the water, rushing into the cavity left by its fall, had cut away the soil and had formed a gulley leading down the side of the ravine. Slipping, stumbling, sliding, we made the descent to the depths of the narrow cañon nearly two hundred feet below. But we were no better off. The opposite side was utterly impassable. There was nothing to do but to follow along beside the roaring, rushing river until an exit could be found. In the semi-twilight of the cañon we toiled on. Often wading, sometimes up to our waists in the water, we made our slow and weary way upstream. Sundown found us still within the cañon whose sides seemed higher, more precipitous than ever. It was a dismal, an oppressive spot, and I could see that the Indians were nervous and ill at ease. But there was no other course than to pass the night where we were--to camp in the cañon.

* * * * *

A FEW yards above the level of the stream we found a large cave-like recess where an immense boulder had fallen from the canon’s side, and in this we prepared to pass the night. There were plenty of dry branches scattered along the brink of the stream; a cheery fire was soon blazing; fish that the Indians had shot with their arrows were soon broiling, and the Indians’ first fears seemed forgotten. With the roar of the stream in my ears, I fell asleep. How long I slept I do not know, but I was awakened by a blinding flash and a deafening report.

Again came the vivid flash; a thunderstorm was raging on the land far above our heads, and even above the roar of the river I could hear the thrashing of wind and the torrential downpour of rain. Then to my ears came a louder, a new sound; a dull, steady rumble that seemed momentarily to increase. For a moment I was at a loss. Then it dawned upon me and with realization came deadly gripping fear. A flood was descending upon us! The stream, swollen with the heavy rain, had risen in the narrow confines of the cañon and was sweeping towards us. In a moment more we would be engulfed, swallowed up, utterly destroyed. The Indians realized their peril instantly. With wild cries of terror some leaped from the shelter of the cave and dashed madly down stream. In vain I shouted to them, trying to make them understand that their act was suicidal. My voice was drowned in the reverberating claps of thunder and the ever-louder roar of the oncoming flood. Others of the Indians, digging their toes into crevices in the cliff, clinging with fingers, struggled to climb beyond the reach of the hungry waters. But the cliff side was slippery, water-soaked.

With heartrending screams they fell back, rolled down the bank and were lost in the blackness of the canon’s depths. Only the chief remained. Gabbling at me, gesturing wildly, he tried to make me understand something, some message that to him seemed vital. Then, finding it impossible, he sprang forward, tapped my coat, and slipping his hand into my pocket, drew out the codex. I was dazed, frightened, my mind in a turmoil, striving vainly to formulate some plan, some faint chance of saving myself from seemingly certain death, and I scarcely noticed the chief’s action.

* * * * *

[Illustration: I saw with amazement that in his outstretched hands he held my copy of the codex]

* * * * *

Then, as the thunder of the flood drowned all other sounds and I realized all was lost, my mind suddenly calmed and functioned, and I saw the chief as though in a dream. He was standing at the front of the cavern, his lips moved, and though I could hear no sound, I knew that he was shouting--chanting his death song, I thought vaguely. By the momentary gleam of a flash of lightning, I saw with amazement, that in his outstretched hands he held my copy of the codex. Instantly I divined his purpose. He was about to sacrifice it, to cast it into the rising, boiling stream, with the superstitious belief that it would calm the flood. I half-started to spring forward and seize the paper. Then I laughed hoarsely, hysterically. Let him sacrifice it! It would be of no further use to me; in a moment more we would both be swept to our deaths.

Still he held the codex. Why did he wait? Fascinated, I watched him. The air vibrated to the terrific flood that was now raging in the cañon, the very ground shook. In the darkness, the upflung, boiling waves loomed white and ghastly. Now the hissing, raging maelstrom was curling about the chief’s feet. Still he remained there, shouting or chanting or praying--I know not which. A moment more and the irresistible tide would boil into the cavern, would overwhelm us. And then a strange thing happened. Below the Indian’s outstretched hands, with the paper spread between them, the water seemed suddenly to recede; the roar diminished, the thunder died in the distance. Slowly but surely the rushing torrent dropped back towards the river bed. The deafening turmoil died to the normal rush of the stream, and the chief, turning, folded the codex and returned it to me. We were saved, saved as if by a miracle. No doubt it was a mere coincidence; certainly the codex and the chief’s invocations had nothing to do with it. The flood had reached its apex before it could wash into the cave and destroy us. But to the Indian’s mind the Book of Kukulcan was responsible. Even the forces of nature must bow to the will of the Plumed Serpent god. And somehow, despite my common sense and my reasoning, there was something about it that even to me savored of the supernatural.

Morning dawned at last, dawned to find us two alone, marooned in the cañon, with only a fraction of our supplies remaining. We were in a desperate situation. Our only course, our only chance was to go back, to return whence we had come. Soon we found that even that was impossible.

The gulley down which we had come had vanished; only a smooth precipice remained. The chief seemed unperturbed. Perhaps he still had sublime faith in the power of the Book of Kukulcan to safeguard us; perhaps it was merely the stoicism of his race. Gesturing in the direction of down-stream he shouldered his load and led the way. A mile farther on we came upon the body of one of the Indians, battered, mangled, the flesh torn in shreds from the bones. Three others were found later, and as we passed the last, for we could not bury the bodies in the bare rocky cañon, a sudden thought flashed through my mind. The Valley of Death! Was this it? Were the words of Katchilcan being borne out? I shivered a bit at the thought. His words came vividly back to me: “But for him who holds the Book of Kukulcan, the way will be made easy.” Surely, if ever a place could be called the Valley of Death, this terrible cañon was it, and assuredly to me and to the chief who had held the codex in his hands above the raging waters, the way had “been made easy” as compared with the fate of the four Indians. But would the “way be made easy” for the rest of our journey? Would we eventually find a way out?

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