by Scott O'Dell
The dwarf touched the carved lid. “It is too heavy for my poor strength, alas. The both of us, perhaps, can pry it open.”
I said nothing, revolted by the thought.
“There is no telling what lies beneath,” he persisted. “What jewels—emeralds, rubies, jade, turquoise, pearls.”
I turned away.
Abandoning his idea, he circled around and faced me, shining the torchlight over the room. “I have dug into the walls,” he said, “all four of them. Do you know their thickness? No?” He held up a hand and separated his thumb from his index finger. “Two inches thick, at least. We are surrounded by a shipload of gold!”
As he glanced up at me, in awe of his own words, the silence was broken by the resounding boom of a drum, followed by a second boom and a third.
I was to learn later that it was the Maya way of denoting time. Their days, like ours, were divided into twenty-four hours. The drum, located in the god house, sounded six times during that period—at the rising of the star Venus, in midmorning, at high noon, in the middle of the afternoon, which was the present hour, at dusk, and at midnight.
The dwarf stirred himself. “I have proven to you that treasure abounds. But let us proceed. There is more.”
We stumbled out of the crypt and into the corridor, where I retrieved the horse, and set off along a steep in cline.
The last echoes of the temple drum died away. The torchlight now shone far ahead, then flickered and disappeared and shone again. A massive door rose sud denly out of the gloom. The dwarf stood knocking upon it with his feathered cane. It was slowly opened by two young men who at the sight of the cavorting horse turned and fled.
An abandoned garden lay before me. A weed-grown path led to an empty pool where a pack of hairless dogs, similar to those that had bothered me when I lived be side the volcano, sat watching us. Cats of every color peered out from rocky crevices.
A huge strangler tree shadowed the pool, its gnarled, gray roots, larger than my arm, looped along the ground like tentacles, as if to seek out something to grasp and throttle, be it stone or human.
Beyond the garden was a vast, weather-stained edifice built upon a rectangular platform twice my height. An open terrace that ran along its two sides was reached by a flight of stairs bordered by broken columns.
Trees pushed up wildly through the terrace stones and creepers climbed the walls, which once had been blood red but over the centuries had faded to a sickly pink.
The dwarf dropped his torch. “The palace,” he said.
“Palace?”
“Yours,” he replied. “The palace you are to occupy.”
There was a long silence while I tried to fit together the thoughts that crowded in upon me. From the strait when we had approached the harbor, during my tri umphant ride through the streets, from the lofty terrace, I had formed the impression that it was a place of gran deur.
However, during our journey through the temple’s endless corridors, strewn with rubble, alive with creep ing vermin and birds of prey, I had been visited by sec ond thoughts. Now, as I looked up at the ruined palace, these doubts overwhelmed me.
The dwarf was disappointed at my lack of enthusi asm.
Pointing toward the jungle that stood close at hand, he said, “If you look you’ll see what seems to be a hill. If you look closer you will see that it is not a hill, but a mound. Then if you look closer yet, you will see at the top of the mound a glimmer of red.”
“A roof,” I said.
“The roof of a palace, perhaps. The palace that stands before you looked exactly the same, engulfed by bushes, trees, and countless creepers. Three days ago, after we had completed our bargain and I left you on the beach, I gathered a thousand farmers, more than a thousand. They toiled two days and two nights. They slashed and dug and burned. They removed a jungle that has grown here for three hundred years as you might remove the husk from a nut. There are a few trees left to be hauled away. Broken columns to replace, walls to plaster and paint. But these things will be taken care of in time.”
Cantú paused, waiting for the praise that he felt was due. In truth, it was surely a prodigious feat that he and his workmen had accomplished. I told him so in fulsome phrases.
“Of course,” he continued, “the interior of the palace is not commodious. Yet more so than the hut in which you have been living. We have hauled out the accumulated rubble of many centuries. Also, we have gotten rid of an army of rats, snakes, and tarantulas. Not to mention a swarm of coatimundis. That reminds me—you said today that you wished me to gather up your pet. Are you still of the same mind? Hundreds of these pests are running around here, as I have told you. About the girl, Ceela, and her grandfather and grandmother and the two aunts, do you still wish to send for them?”
Gazing up at the ruined palace, imagining what it must be like inside, I said, “Let us wait until things are settled.”
Rain began to fall, large drops like musket shot that dug holes in the dust. But the dwarf made no move to seek shelter. He gathered his feathered cloak around him and again pointed toward the tower.
“Beyond that red roof,” he said, “lie other mounds. They extend in a line for a distance of two leagues. In some of them we’ll find the tombs of ancient lords, untouched from ancient days to this, like the one you have just seen.”
I was struck with the thought of a city smothered by trees.
What ancient people, what antiguos, had built the road of pure white stone that led from the harbor to the Temple of Kukulcán? Who had built the towering tem ple itself and the palace, as long and as wide as the great cathedral of Seville, and the edifices that lay beneath the mounds that stretched away for leagues into the blue jungle? And having built a beautiful city, why had they left it? And why had their descendants, the people who were now chanting my name, returned to live among the ruins?
“Tell me, Cantú, what you know about this city and its dwellers. I learned a little from my friend Ceela, but I must know more.”
The dwarf was walking back and forth on his short legs. He was not interested in answering questions. In deed, I doubt that he heard me. His gaze was fixed upon the red roof that could be seen jutting out above the trees.
“We need workmen to unearth these mounds,” he said. “I used farmers to work on the palace. But they had to go back to their fields. We need prisoners. Slaves. A lot of them. A thousand!”
“Why not restore the temples that already have been unearthed?” I said. “The one we have just left, for instance, with its mountainous piles of rubble?”
“You don’t understand. There’s a surplus of temples. One for every day of the month. I mean to tunnel into the mounds and locate the burial crypts. You’ve already seen what treasures are hidden in these secret cham bers.”
He removed his jaguar mask. There was a glint in his eyes that I was familiar with. It was the same hot glint that I had often seen in the eyes of Don Luis de Arroyo, Duke of Cantavara y Llorente. As well as in the ugly orbs of Baltasar Guzmán, whose bones now lay, picked clean by fish, in fathoms of the nearby sea.
“All we lack are workers,” he said.
“To set them digging in the mounds like a flock of demented ferrets...?”
The dwarf blinked. He stepped back as if I had struck him a blow on the head.
“The temples are sacred to the Indians,” I said. “It is well enough to unearth them. And this we shall do. With God’s help we will make them into Christian churches, beautiful to behold. But we will not rifle them for trea sure. We are not grave robbers.”
“Already, señor, you speak like the Lord Ruler him self.”
“I am the Lord Ruler.”
The dwarf gave me an injured look from his dark, yellow-flecked eyes, which were much too beautiful for a man.
“Not two hours ago,” he said, “you stood upon the terrace trembling in your knees, fearful it would be dis covered that you are Julián Escobar, a beardless semi narian from an obscure village in Spain. That in tr
uth, you are a common castaway from a wrecked ship, and not the returning god Kukulcán.”
“My knees did not tremble two hours ago,” I said. “And they do not tremble now.”
The dwarf curled his upper lip, which was as thin as a line drawn with a fresh-cut pen. “Do we travel this road together,” he asked, “or do you wish to travel it alone?”
I waited a few moments before answering, to give him a chance to listen again to the roars of the people. They were everywhere—on all sides of the temple, in the fields beyond the palace. Their voices rose on the wind and faded away and rose once more like waves crashing on the shore.
“Answer, amigo,” he said impatiently. “Is it together or alone?”
“Together,” I said. “But you will understand that it is I who am the god, not you.”
Cantú rubbed his chin with his fat little fist. It seemed as if he was about to cry. I did not relent.
“On the beach three days ago you threw a saddle on my back as if I were a donkey, beat me with a stick, and now are riding me down a dangerous road. It is time for us to pause and remove the saddle.”
A tear, round as a pearl, rolled down his cheek. I waited once more while the sound of the chanting came to us on the wind.
“And further, let me remind you again to address me by my proper name—Lord Kukulcán—and not by just anything that happens to come to mind, like señor or amigo.”
More tears glistened in his beautiful eyes. I had the suspicion that this Cantú from the city of Seville could laugh or cry as he wished. Yet I hesitated to push him further.
“Tell me,” I said, speaking of a matter that had long been with me, indeed since the day the caravel sank be neath the waves. “Do you think there’s a chance we can float the Santa Margarita?”
The dwarf smiled, showing two perfect rows of small white teeth. “You told me this morning that the ship lies in about three fathoms of water?” “More or less.”
“How? In what position?”
“On her side. Her bow wedged between two arms of a reef.”
“She’s been down how long?”
“Four months and more.”
“Then she’s still sound. Our divers, who are experi enced in diving for pearls, can dismantle the ship—decks and ribs and planking. Then we’ll put her back to gether again on the beach.”
“You’re an engineer of great promise, señor.’’
The dwarf laughed, “He, he, he.”
“This Luis de Arroyo,” he said soberly, “this duke who owned the Santa Margarita and settled over on the mainland in Tikan after the wreck, tell me more about him.”
“I said that he is ruthless, a man without fear.”
“Capable of fighting a war against us?”
“Fully capable.”
“While you were living there on the beach, did you see anyone nosing about the reef where the Santa Margarita went down?”
“Nobody.”
“Did it surprise you that Don Luis de Arroyo never came back to investigate the wreck?”
“No, because I had no idea that he was still alive. He was clinging to a piece of timber, fighting for his life, when I saw him last.”
“How much gunpowder will we find in the Santa Margarita? ”
“Ten kegs at least.”
“Sealed tight?”
“Sealed with tar, as tight as the kegs that drifted ashore. Some of the powder you used this morning when we landed.”
“And cannon?”
“A dozen.”
The dwarf laughed again and did his little dance.
I decided to say nothing to him of the treasure piled high in the sunken hold of the Santa Margarita the tons of gold Don Luis de Arroyo had harvested by laying waste to the village on Isla del Oro, by killing scores of its people and enslaving the rest.
CHAPTER 3
MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF THE PALACE PROVED CORRECT. AFTER centuries of neglect it was, alas, in a ruinous state. Innu merable rooms opened into two long corridors that ended in a desolate garden where fountains once had played but now were silent. The throne room was in a separate wing, a vast, high-vaulted room whose stained walls and ceiling were covered with serpent figures, some erect, some coiled, all of them crowned with feath ers, symbols of the god Kukulcán.
To enter this cavern I had to pass through a doorway fashioned in the shape of a yawning mouth, neither beast nor human, a mammoth fanged jaw painted red that might have been the entrance to hell itself. I was in the palace only one day before I had it torn down and had two wooden crosses erected in its place, one on each side of the wide doorway.
My chamber was large but bare, except for an elabo rate stone bench and a sleeping mat. Its one small win dow looked upon a field knee-high in weeds. The stallion occupied the next two rooms to mine, one for a stall and one for grass. Guards were on hand to care for his needs.
My first meal was served by white-gowned women who appeared in relays, walking silently on bare feet, with eyes downcast and trays of food balanced on their heads.
Appearing from somewhere deep within the palace, they brought forth silver bowls heaped with pink frijoles and stacks of maize cakes, red yams, and vegetables I had never seen before; huge portions of steaming meats I did not recognize; a long, carved stick upon which were perched, as upon the limb of a tree, a row of small, roasted birds; trays of fruits; and a brown, frothy drink, of which the dwarf drank two full pitchers. I ate little.
That night I prayed on my knees for guidance. I walked the floors of the vast throne room. From the terrace I had heard the cries of the throng, proclaiming me Lord and Ruler of the Maya, Kukulcán, Kukulcán!
But whom did I rule? Whom besides the multitude that had left the temple square and now on this night still were chanting my name from the fields around the palace? Would I rule the lords and elders and the hun dreds of priests? If so, how? Was my power endless or limited, religious or secular?
These questions were settled the following day.
At my request, the dwarf called together the Council of Elders. They came down the long passageway and into the throne room to the music of flutes, three small men in headdresses larger than they were, followed by a band of retainers.
They came forward, making gestures as if to kiss the floor, and halted before me with downcast eyes. In hushed tones, placing their feathered canes—badges of authority—at my feet, they then stepped backward, making gestures of kissing the floor as they left.
The three old men did all this without a word and with a clear air of relief. They had quarreled for more than a year in an effort to find a successor to a dead king. The quarrel was over. Their pride preserved, they edged between the two crosses and retreated down the rubblestrewn hallway.
Prompted by Cantú, mounting the stallion, I followed them to the terrace and watched while they made ready to leave.
As they climbed into their litters, a mighty blast of gunpowder—set off by the dwarf to prove once again that it was the stallion speaking—shook the stones. It crumbled plaster from the face of the palace, toppled pedestals, and sent rats and coatimundis scurrying.
The dwarf jumped with glee as the three elders were hastily borne away through a cloud of yellow dust.
“I have three beautiful canes carved with venomous snakes and festooned with the plumage of rare birds,” I said. “But what is their use?”
“They are symbols of power. They are to be used to rule the city.”
“How? What is to be done?”
“Do nothing…” The dwarf was about to address me as hidalgo, noble, then changed his mind and said, “Lord Serpent, affairs of the city such as the assessing of fines for misbehavior, the collection of taxes and of garbage, such things will be taken care of as in the past. You will have nothing to do with these common matters. Dwell silently in your palace and give thought to the larger issues of which we have spoken.”
Two days later I met with the three high priests.
I expected the suppor
t of Hexo and Xipan, who had accepted me at once, before I even came to the city. I also expected the enmity of Chalco, the Aztecatl, and I found it again, though he was most anxious to declare his own devotion, as well as that of his hundreds of fol lowers who swarmed over the temple and through the streets in their black gowns, their black hair matted with the blood of those slain upon the sacrificial stones. Though he was most resolute in his promise that against all enemies, especially the Emperor Moctezuma and his many vassals, he would wait upon my command.
I had learned from the dwarf that Chalco was born in the province of Chalca, near the Azteca capital, Tenochtitlán. It was rumored that he had insinuated himself into the Mayan priesthood by a large payment of gold and further strengthened his position by marriage to the homely and only daughter of a powerful Mayan lord.
The dwarf thought that he was a road weasel, a spy sent to the island by the Azteca, to burrow into its core and thus be ready to deliver it to Moctezuma when the emperor spoke the word.
The meeting went smoothly, save for a slight interruption just before the priests took their leave.
They had touched their heads to the floor and were backing away when Hexo let out a cry and rushed toward the bench I sat upon. Reaching down with a feath ered cane, he prodded from beneath me a snake half the length of his arm, one of the deadly coral vipers, and ground it under foot.
There was general excitement and a search for its mate, since these jungle snakes were known to travel in pairs.
The only calm person in the room was Chalco, the Aztecatl. He paused and glanced up at me. In his eyes was the same look I had seen once before, when he stood on the terrace beside the sacrificial stone, obsidian knife in hand. And yet I felt sure that he had had nothing to do with the serpent that lay under my chair.
At the end of three days I had gained a fair idea of my powers, what I could expect from the Council of Elders and from the high priests and their retainers.
There were some fifty lords in the city, but from all that I could learn, they were interested in little else than gambling. Apparently they gambled on anything that struck their fancy—how much it would rain when it rained, how many pups would be born to one of their dogs, how many prisoners would be sacrificed on a given day, the outcome of a ball game. I need give no thought to them, at least for the moment.
