by David Bowles
Then Quetzalcoatl, now known across the sea-ringed world as Nacxitl, the Wayfarer, saw that his time on earth was coming to an end. In his heart he understood the nature of the land of the red and the black. One last mission remained before him, and then he would meet his destiny at last.
Gathering up his companions, he journeyed to Poyauhtecatl, that white peak formed in ages past by the giant eagle Orizaba. One last time he laughed and played with his sister and friends, sliding down those slopes on foot, bouncing along to its base. Then he made his stately way to the sea.
“My friends, Quetzalpetlatl and I must leave you now. But weep not, for I shall return one day to lead you once more. Until then, keep my memory alive. Remember my teachings. Hew close to the Toltec way, the path of creation. May the Divine Mother bless you all.”
Then, with his sister by his side, Quetzalcoatl stood upon that beach and gave a haunting whistle. Across the foam-topped waves came streaming a raft of feathered serpents. The holy siblings stepped onto the writhing backs and were borne away, disappearing over the eastern horizon.
The living raft deposited them in a distant land, a peninsula that thrust out into the rough blue of the sea. It was the Mayab, land of jungles and hills, ziggurats and cenotes.
The siblings trekked for a time through the broken hills of Puuc until they came across the small city of Uc Yabnal, recently conquered by the Itza—“Water Witches”—a mighty tribe that had traveled great distances looking for a new homeland. They had been drawn to Uc Yabnal due to the two massive cenotes or sinkholes that provided vital water in such an arid landscape.
Quetzalcoatl helped mediate between the natives and the newcomers, forging a long-lasting peace during which he led the expansion of the city. Called Kukulkan—a literal translation of “feathered serpent” into the Itza tongue—the incarnate god of creation worked with his new people to establish beneficial laws and technological advancements. The city he renamed Chichen Itza—“at the mouth of the well of the Water Witches.”
Through the wonders he worked, Kukulkan’s divine nature became clear to the Itza, and they began to renovate one of their pyramids in his honor, increasing its size and splendor. As this work was underway, the Feathered Serpent incarnate took his sister and a group of Itza to a spot some eight leagues distant, close to present-day Merida, some sixteen leagues from the sea. There they lifted a great circular wall with two principal gates, and they built temples and other edifices at the heart of the enclosed space.
“I name this city Mayapan,” Kukulkan declared upon its completion, “fusing your native tongue with mine. It means ‘banner of the Maya,’ and I intend for it to stand as a symbol of your greatness, my wise adopted people. My time on Earth nears an end. Remember what we have learned together. Live in peace and goodness, creating lovely works to please the heavens. It has been an honor to walk among you.”
Amid great weeping and outpourings of love, the siblings departed from that land, walking hand in hand toward the sea. A small retinue followed them—priests and healers and a scattering of aluxes. The mood was somber and restrained.
“The secret of the land of the black and the red,” Quetzalcoatl told his sister, “is that we choose where it lies and when we arrive. It is the final bundling and burning, the fulfillment of our purpose, our returning to the source.”
Quetzalpetlatl, though bereft at his words, knew great joy as well. Her lord was bound for his throne on high. They say that when Quetzalcoatl arrived at the water, the edge of the sea, he stopped and wept, arranged his clothes, strapped on his shield, his turquoise mask. And when he was fully prepared, he set himself ablaze, let fire eat his flesh. Hence the name of that land, Tlatlayan, “Place of the Burning,” where Quetzalcoatl self-immolated.
They say that when he was burning, his ashes lifted up into the air. In that cloud appeared many rare birds, spinning upwards through the sky: fire-red ibis, blue cotingas, tzinizcans, Great White Herons, yellow-headed parakeets, scarlet macaws, white-bellied parrots, and other precious birds.
Finally the wind had blown his ashes far, and behold! The heart of Quetzalcoatl leapt up from the ground and hurtled to the sky. The elders say it became the Morning Star: Venus appeared for the first time in years after the death of the Wayfarer. Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli they called him—Lord of the Dawn.
But first, they say, when he died, he disappeared for four whole days, slipping down to the Land of the Dead, shadowy Mictlan. During another four whole days he made himself many arrows with which to punish sin.
At the end of those eight days, a magnificent star began to gleam. The people named it Quetzalcoatl, sure that their earthly king had returned to his heavenly throne.
Tales of the Maya
Convocation
Shall we journey like Kukulkan to the dense jungles of southern Mesoamerica? Shall we wonder at the mighty cities, festooned with vines, imperial histories carved in glyphs upon towering steles?
Here are crumbling observatories where the ancients studied the stars. Here are complex notations of time, calendrical calculations that gave birth to zero.
Although the Maya have retreated from their failing kingdoms, nestling in towns amidst the verdant vegetation, they return to these sacred sites to pay tribute to the gods.
Can you feel their wonder, their awe? Does your pulse quicken with the same desire? Do you ache to wield the power that set stone upon stone in those inscrutable temples?
Ah, but look! The Feathered Serpent travels with his sister through the Mayab—the Yucatan and neighboring regions. His love of creation and order, beauty and complexity—they are contagious, snagging in the hearts of his followers.
So there, in the northern lowlands of the peninsula, the last kingdoms—guided by the example of Kukulkan—enjoy a fleeting period of glory and wealth, erecting sprawling religious and government complexes near holy cenotes: sinkholes whose waters sustain and sanctify the people.
But power and wealth open the mind to tyranny and greed, and Chaos was not long in swirling its black tendrils through the Mayab.
Tales of those conflicts were nearly effaced. Bishop Diego de Landa himself set the old books to burning, a vast auto-da-fe that darkened the land. Only three codices survived.
Oh, but take heart, my friends—the mind and heart endure. The people remember.
Can you hear the Maya priests, whispering those venerable words to their acolytes? Can you see the unbroken chain of holy memory, century after century?
Look now as Chilam Balam, sage priest of legend, takes up a quill and uses the alphabet of the Conquerors to record his people’s lore. Others will soon follow his example. We will have access to knowledge long thought erased.
Through the pages of the Books of Chilam Balam and the oral traditions of the Yucatec Maya themselves, we can peer into that mythic moment a thousand years past, a time when humans lived alongside elfin kin and sought to reclaim a glorious birthright.
We find ourselves at the beginning of the end.
The Dwarf King of Uxmal
During the Maya renaissance inspired by Kukulkan, in the city of Kabah, there lived a young x’men or witch who set out to find a sastun, that enchanted stone from which the powers of a shaman flow. She traveled into the Puuc Hills where lived the aluxes—mystic elfish beings descended from the sky bearers, protectors of nature and wielders of great magic. The aluxes, seeing goodness in her heart, appeared to the witch and guided her to the right sastun for her natural talents.
To her surprise, however, the aluxes also gifted her with a small tunkul drum and a soot rattle. “In the right hands,” they explained, “these instruments will announce the rightful king of Uxmal.”
Now, the witch knew there had not been a king in Uxmal for more than a hundred years, but she said nothing. One simply accepts the gifts of the aluxes. To question them is to court great danger.
Returning to her people, the witch became a valuable member of the community, interceding with the rain gods to en
sure bountiful harvests in that area, which lacked the precious cenotes with which so much of Maya lands are dotted. She also worked many other spells for the good of men, women, and children as year cycled into year.
Time passed. A king rose up in Uxmal, establishing a regional state. The new sovereign had a white limestone road, a sakbe, built across the eighteen kilometers that separated the capital from the city of Kabah, setting an arch at either end of the long highway. Down the sakbe flowed goods, rules, and priests—the witch and other practitioners of magic gradually found themselves replaced by the sorcerers of the new state.
The witch grew old and lonely, childless and increasingly shunned. As she wandered the Puuc Hills one day, however, she found an unusual egg in her path. Wrapping it in her shawl, she took it back to her humble home and placed it near the hearth where she had long ago hidden the gifts of the aluxes. Every day she watched for signs of its hatching, but she was not prepared for what finally emerged when the shell cracked open: a little boy, already able to walk and talk.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Why, I’m your grandmother, little one!” exclaimed the witch, embracing him and laughing delightedly.
For years she doted on the boy. He grew normally at first, but then stopped, though as time went on his voice began to deepen and his limbs thickened. The witch realized he was a dwarf of some sort, perhaps even an alux. Regardless of his true nature, she taught him the green magicks of leaf, tree, and root, the sacred prayers and rites that call down gentle showers in spring. She imagined he might become a great h’men one day, a wizard who could keep his community safe and healthy.
The dwarf loved his grandmother, but he was very curious and examined her every move for clues about himself. He noticed that each day, before starting a fire in the hearth, she would spend an unusual amount of time sweeping and adjusting the clay bricks and stones. Certain that the old woman was hiding something from him, the dwarf thought and thought about how to keep his grandmother away long enough for him to investigate.
Finally he hit on a plan: he made a small hole in the water jug she carried each day to their rain cistern. As the witch tried unsuccessfully to fill the clay container, the dwarf swept away the ashes and pried up several stones till he discovered the drum and rattle that had lain hidden for decades. Smiling, he struck the drum with the rattle.
The booming sound that thundered forth nearly knocked him to the ground. Its echoes reverberated throughout Kabah, into the Puuc Hills, along the white road, and all the way to the palace of the aging king in Uxmal, whose sorcerers had long ago prophesied that their ruler could only be usurped by one who could produce such an awesome noise.
Trembling with rage, he called to his guards. “Find the man who has made that sound, and bring him before me at once!”
Back in Kabah, the witch, who had just discovered the hole and patched it with a bit of mud and a quick spell, felt her heart soar as the hollow boom thrummed through the air. She rushed back to her humble home and found the dwarf staring at his hands in astonishment.
“That couldn’t have been me, Grandmother,” he whispered. “Such little instruments can’t possibly make such a big noise.”
“Oh, but it was you, my boy! And now you are destined to be king.”
The dwarf looked at her with solemn eyes. “King? Isn’t there already a king?”
The witch took the drum and rattle, replacing them in their hiding place. “Yes, and I’m sure his men will be here soon. We must get ready.”
“Ready? To do what?”
“To challenge him.”
Indeed, it did not take long for the guards to interview people along the sakbe until they had found the epicenter of the sound. They beat with their spears on the door until the witch opened.
“Yes?”
“We’re searching for the man who sounded that infernal drum. The king wishes to see him immediately.”
“Well, there is just me here. And my grandson.”
The dwarf stepped from behind her. “I sounded the drum, uncles. I’ll accompany you if my grandmother can come with us. She is old and should not be left alone.”
“Fine. Let’s move.”
They marched up the white road all day, arriving at sunset before the king, who demanded that the dwarf immediately hand over the drum he had played.
“Your Highness, I’m afraid I can’t. The prophecy, as we both know, is quite clear—you have the right to challenge me to three tests. If I complete them successfully, then you have to abdicate, and I become king.”
The king’s council and his sorcerers confirmed this point, so the king, though boiling with anger, had to agree.
“Very well. But if you fail, your life is forfeit, dwarf. Here is your first test. Do you see that ceiba tree in the courtyard? By morning you must tell me how many leaves are on its branches. Now be gone!”
Once they had emerged into the moonlit night, the dwarf groaned to his grandmother, “How am I supposed to count every leaf on that tree? It’s impossible.”
“Don’t you fret, my boy. We have friends aplenty that will help us. Use a summoning spell and call to the ants.”
The dwarf did as she instructed, and soon the ground was swarming.
“Go, little ones,” murmured the witch. “Climb into that ceiba and taste each lovely leaf. Then tell us how many there are, and I promise they will all be yours.”
The tiny insects agreed.
When the sun rose, a mass of spectators had already gathered in the courtyard to watch the tests. The old king had the dwarf and the witch brought before him.
“Tell me, then, how many leaves are on this tree.”
“There are exactly 121,919 of them,” replied the dwarf with a confident smile. The king had not quite expected such a response. To verify the number, he had a team of vassals pluck each leaf and deposit it in a stone receptacle, counting as they went. The task took three days, and in the end they confirmed the dwarf’s answer.
The king was livid. “Time for the next test,” he growled once the dwarf stood before him again. “You and I will both fashion figures and place them in the fire. Whichever of us crafts a figure that withstands the fire undamaged wins the throne.”
“Agreed.”
The king went off and had his artisans make him a figure of dense wood soaked in water and a figure of sturdy bronze. The witch, meanwhile, told her grandson to mold his of clay. They met in the plaza, where a blazing bonfire raged. The people of Uxmal had gathered once again.
When the king unfairly placed two small statues in the flames, the dwarf did not protest. He simply thrust his clay manikin alongside them.
Soon the wooden figure began hissing before blackening and burning up. The iron glowed red, then white, and finally melted. But the clay figure appeared unharmed when the flames died down to pale ashes.
Snatching up the dwarf’s handiwork, the king exclaimed, “A-ha! This figurine is not undamaged. You placed a soft clay object in the fire, and now it is as hard as a rock!”
The dwarf knew this was unfair, but he held his tongue.
“So neither of us wins,” the king continues. “On to the final test. My guards will now go gather cocoyoles, the hard fruit of those palm trees. They will then proceed to break three of the cocoyoles on your head, one at a time.”
The dwarf felt his stomach drop. There would be no surviving such a test.
“Excuse me,” said his grandmother, “but will you first agree that, if the boy passes your test, three cocoyoles will be smashed upon your head as well?”
“Yes, yes,” said the king impatiently.
“Then we will be ready for the test momentarily.”
The witch motioned for her frightened grandson to follow her. They walked a short distance away while the guards gathered the fruit.
“Don’t worry. You won’t be hurt.” She reached into her pouch of herbs and withdrew her sastun. Acting as if she were simply rubbing the dwarf’s head, she slid the sto
ne amidst the dense thicket of his black hair and whispered a sticking spell.
The trial began. First one, then another, then a third hard fruit was cracked upon the dwarf’s head. He staggered a little under each impact, but he was otherwise unharmed.
The king’s council and sorcerers now turned to their ruler. The guards approached, carrying the cocoyoles.
“Wait!” he cried. “I command you to wait!”
But the crowd hissed and howled in protest. Their ruler was seized and made to obey his oath. The first fruit came slamming down, but it did not crack. Instead, the king’s skull burst wide open, and he collapsed dead on the spot.
The dwarf was immediately crowned king to the joy of the spectators, who cheered his ascension. He became a very popular figure, adored by his subjects for his wisdom, goodness, and humility, not to mention his ever-increasing control of magicks that benefited his realm.
During the early years of his reign, he built his grandmother a wondrous palace that would come to be known as the Witch’s Pyramid or the House of the Old Woman. The dwarf king also added a new layer to the temple of the rain god that he and the witch so faithfully served: the temple was known everywhere as the Wizard’s Pyramid or the House of the Dwarf.
After a decade or so, the witch passed away, insisting with her last breath that the king respect the gods and rule justly. And so he did, for the better part of a century. It was a time of peace and enchantment in that small kingdom at the edge of the sea-ringed world. The aluxes descended from their hills and greeted the king, establishing treaties and trade. No drought ever touched the fields of Uxmal, and disease and blight seemed distant memories.
The common folk of the region took to fashioning figurines in the shape of their beloved king, clay statues they would fire till resistant and hard as stone. Even after the dwarf died and other nations controlled Uxmal, the tradition continued for generations.
