CHAPTER XVI

THE LEGEND OF THE SACRIFICIAL PILGRIMAGE

Within the province of Mani the water-holes, the _satenejas_, were dry. For many weeks no rain had fallen and the growing corn had withered and died. The people were perishing of hunger and thirst and Ah Pula Xia, overlord of the province, saw that something must be done and swiftly or the tribe of Mani would be no more.

And so he caused the great summons to be sounded, the command to every man, women, and child in the whole province to appear before him—the command that had not been heard for twenty years. The _uliche_, drumsticks with heads of rubber, striking upon the _tunkul_, caused the earth to tremble with the loud booming of the summons, while swift-footed _holpopes_, or runners, carried the message to the most distant parts of the nation.

At the appointed time Ah Pula ascended to his kingly seat under the spreading shade of the great _yax-che_, the sacred tree of the Mayas, and grouped around him were his councilors and chiefs; the _ah-kin_, the high priest, the _kulel_, the aged prime minister, the _nacon_, chief of the warriors. Behind each of their leaders were grouped the officers of lesser grades, each clad in his richest vestments and holding the badge of his office. And flanking these nobles were the _tupiles_, or guardians of the law, in long lines; and each bore the white wand, insignia of their authority. Beyond, as far as the eye could see, clear to the horizon where the level plain met the forest, were massed the commoners, the whole nation of Mani.

Slowly Ah Pula, the _batab_, rose from his throne, and as he rose the tall lances, the great battle-swords, and the _hul-ches_ clashed together in one mighty salutation like the sound of giant trees crashing to earth in a hurricane.

The gaze of the _batab_ roved over the assembled multitude and with one hand upraised he commanded silence.

“O friends and councilors, sons and brothers! Those armed for war and ever ready to defend the province! Priests of the Sun, who bring to us the words of our gods and transmit to them our prayers! Listen to my words and listen closely, that your answering thoughts may be well chosen and weighty, light-bringing and life-giving. Thus and thus only may we survive the calamity that threatens.

“Five times have the seasons come and gone. Five times have we planted our fields of corn since the strange white men came to our land. We did not invite them nor seek them. They sought us, these strange white men coming in strange craft from a far land. They came and we did not welcome them as did the Cheles and the Peches, nor did we meet them as enemies when the Cupules, the Cochuahes, and the Cocomes fought against them. Three times while they were here we planted and gathered abundant harvests. Three times have we planted our fields since their departure. Twice we have failed to gather enough even for seed for the following season and the last planting, the third one, is now parched and dying.

“How, then, shall we feed our people? How shall we fill the breasts of the nursing mothers and warm the cooling blood of the aged and feeble? In this time of need even the wisest and strongest require the wisdom and counsel of their brothers.”

Ah Pula Xia the king sat once more upon his throne, that ancient seat of authority shaped in the form of a jaguar. Turning, he said to the _ah-kin_, the high priest, in measured words, “O Father of the Temple, Brother of the Sun, tell us from the store of thy sacred knowledge and from thy god-given wisdom, why have the gods been deaf to our prayers? What have we done that they have forsaken us and left us to be scourged so sorely?”

The pontiff, tall, spare, and lined of feature, with eyes burning bright in their deep sockets, rose from his seat and faced the king. His words came forth so clear and simply that even the youngest and the dullest of his hearers could not fail to hear and, hearing, understand:

“O Batab, ruler! O Halach Uinic, father of thy people, hear what the outraged gods say through my lips to thee and thy people:

“‘Unknown beings from a strange land and worshiping pagan gods have polluted this earth with their tread, have deafened our ears with their foreign tongue and defiled our temples with prayers to other gods. They have entered as guests into your towns and villages and you have received them. They have lived in your homes and you have suffered it. Your servants, at your command, have given them food and drink.

“‘The gods of our fathers are slow to wrath. They waited in patience your repentance, but you repented not. Then did the gods turn against you their wrath. With quarrels and dissensions they divided the evil white men. With pestilence and strange diseases they decimated them. Smitten by enemies, harassed by insects, and poisoned by reptiles, these white men faded in strength and numbers, until the few that still lived returned to the unknown land whence they came.

“‘All this was by the command of your gods, the gods that now you have forgotten. But though the serpent passes, his trail still remains. Because of these things that you have done the gods are punishing you. They have forbidden the clouds to form and they have forbidden the rain to fall. They have forbidden the grain to germinate and the roots to sprout in forest or field. They have caused hosts of insects to devastate your stores and eat up your substance. They have brought upon you terrible diseases that your wise men and physicians cannot cure.’

“You ask what can be done to appease the anger of the gods. Now, the knowledge has come to me, through the ancient records and writings handed down from high priest to high priest since time began, that once before in the history of our people was the wrath of the gods, and especially the wrath of Yum Chac, the Rain God, kindled against us when we forgot his precepts and disobeyed his teachings.

“In that olden time beautiful maidens were sent to him as messengers, to plead for his forgiveness and to carry with them rich offerings of viands, flowers, and precious jewels. Thus was his ire appeased and fecundity restored to this unhappy land.

“My words are these: ‘Let us follow the ancient example. Let us go in solemn procession with maidens as chaste and lovely as the opening buds of the white pitahaya, to carry our plea to the god, and with our prayers let us send food and drink in fine vessels, the ripest fruit, the fattest grain, and our richest jewels. Thus may we hope to avert the divine wrath and restore to life our starving nation.’”

The _kulel_, the prime minister, then stepped forward. His form was bent, his hair gray, and his face seamed with lines of deep thought. His voice, though low and calm, was heard distinctly amid the crowding ranks of the common people.

Said he, “O Batab, ruler of the people, we have listened to the words of our pontiff and his words befit his high office. We listen to them with the respect due him as high priest and as the mouthpiece of the gods. To hear these words and the command they convey, is to obey without question.

“He who is ordered by those above to go upon a journey, surely goes if he is faithful. But he who goes upon such a journey without due preparation is not a good servant, for, by reason of his unpreparedness, he may be delayed, led astray, or otherwise impeded in carrying out the will of his master.

“Therefore let us think what this act of expiation requires us to do, and then consider how to do it with the least delay and without waste of life and effort. What we seek to gain is evident, for we all feel the pangs of hunger and have seen our nearest and dearest fade away and die. We have seen the grain and the fruit wither. We have seen our scant stores devoured by clouds of insects. We have seen our people wander into the deep forest seeking food and they have never returned.

“What we most desire is to appease the dread anger of our gods, that we may have once again food and health and happiness.

“We are all agreed that we must make sacrifice at the Sacred Well, the Chen Ku of Chi-chen Itza. The question is, then, how shall we reach the Sacred Well and how shall we make our sacrifice? The way is long, full of thorns, and covered with sharp stones. The thorns are the lance-points and the stones the pointed darts of the Cocomes, the Cochuahes, and the Cupules, our ancient enemies, through whom we must pass to reach the well. Either we must gain their permission to pass in peace and friendship or we must push our way through them by force of arms.

“My voice is for peace with these our lifelong enemies. I have said.”

Then came the _nacon_, the chief of all the fighting men, powerful, thick-set and sturdy. As he arose the warriors clashed their weapons in a deafening roar and then all were silent, awaiting his words.

“O Batab, ruler,” he said, “we have listened with reverence to the words of our high priest, with awe and submission to the words of our gods that came from his lips. We have heard with respect the measured, temperate wisdom of our aged _kulel_. He has said that we must not delay our sacrifice and yet his voice is for peace.

“I, too, say that we must not delay, but why need we who are among the greatest and strongest in the land, ask of any one permission to sacrifice and worship? Who gave the Cocomes the right to say who may worship in the temples or make sacrifice at the Sacred Well? Is not Chi-chen Itza the holy city of the gods, our gods as well as theirs?

“Let us open wide the path to and from the Sacred City and keep it open with the points of our spears, the keen edges of our swords, and the swift terror of our _hul-ches_. I have spoken.”

The _batab_, with the _ah-kin_, the _kulel_, and the _nacon_ turned toward the assembled people and the _batab_ cried in tones that rolled over the thickly packed mass and beyond into the trees of the forest:

“What is your voice? What is the word of my people?”

With a noise like thunder came the mighty chorus:

“We want food! We are dying. We go into the forest to dig for roots to fill our empty stomachs and we find none. The land is accursed and even the birds no longer fly over it and the snakes even no longer burrow within it.”

The _batab_ pondered deeply and long, then raised his head and said:

“This we will do: We will first ask of the Cocomes that they allow our people to pass to make sacrifice at the Sacred Well. If they consent we will make a great pilgrimage and a sacrifice that shall be remembered through the ages to come, for it will be the seal of friendship and of peace between old and bitter enemies. If they refuse us their permission to pass freely and to make our sacrifice, we will then take that right, as they of old took it, by force, and by force we will hold it for all time.

“Now, this very night we will send the message to the Cocomes, so that we may know without delay what course to follow. Until then let each of you in his own way so prepare that whatever comes we shall be ready.

“At once, summon the swiftest runners to take the message to Nachi Cocom, Batab of Zotuta, and through him to his allies, the Cupules and the Cochuahes!”

Nachi Cocom, Batab of Zotuta, King of the Cocomes and leader of allied provinces, sat in his great council chamber. About him were his chiefs and nobles and those of his allies, the Cupules and the Cochuahes. Upon the high walls of the council chamber were war-banners and trophies of many hard-won battles. On broad wooden platforms, one at each end of the building, were heaped the captured weapons, war-masks, and armor of those who had fought against the Cocomes or their allies and lost.

Gathered around the entrance were keen-eyed warriors armed with lances and swords and _hul-ches_. Lounging but watchful, they first gave the warning, high-pitched and long, that echoed through the city and carried even to the houses nestled in the fringe of the forest: “_Hek-utal le macoboo!_ Here come strangers!” Down the winding path came the messengers from the Batab of Mani, carrying his word to Nachi Cocom, Batab of Zotuta.

The messengers were three brothers, picked men, _holpopes_ all three; good men to look upon and worthy of their office. For Mayas they were tall but well proportioned and lithe, as supple as young jaguars. Wide of brow and clear-eyed they were. None could doubt their fitness to be the messengers of the king. Striding up to where the Batab of Zotuta and those of his council sat, each fearlessly and proudly made his obeisance and gave his salute—the sign of a _holpope_ bringing a message. To the chief _holpope_, the eldest and tallest of the three brothers, the _batab_ said, “Welcome, _holpope_, and those with you. Speak!”

Said the chief _holpope_:

“To thee, O Batab of Zotuta, I bring a message from the Batab of Mani and thus runs the message:

“‘To the Batab of Zotuta and its provinces I, Batab of Mani and its provinces, send greeting.

“‘We are brothers, in that we were both born and are nourished from the same earth-mother, this land of Mayab. Therefore I, Ah Pula Xia, Batab of Mani, do now and by these my chosen messengers send to you, Nachi Cocom, Batab of Zotuta, this brotherly greeting and with it a brother’s request:

“‘The gods have smitten us sorely for our sins, you and me and all our people. I, Batab of Mani, with my people desire to make peace with our god by a pilgrimage of atonement and solemn rites of sacrifice, that we may once more receive the blessing of the Rain God, your god and ours.

“‘We have had our brothers’ quarrels, but the quarrels of brothers can be forgotten. We have had our hard-fought battles, but wars that have been fought are things of the past, things to forget. To-day we are scourged together, you and I and all our people. Let us, then, forget the past with its bitter memories and come together like brothers, forgiving and forgiven. Let us unite in a great and solemn pilgrimage of atonement and sacrifice to the angered god, in his temple at the Sacred Well of Chi-chen Itza. Thus will his wrath be appeased. The rains will follow the clouds in the heavens and fecundity will come once more to the earth, now sterile, baked, and dead.

“‘For this we ask your word and your promise that my people may pass undisturbed and unharmed to pray in the temples and to make sacrifice to the Rain God in the Sacred Well at Chi-chen Itza. I and my people await your answer.’”

Nachi Cocom sat motionless in thought, neither asking nor receiving counsel from those about him; and such was their fear and awe of this indomitable and cruel ruler that none dared speak as he sat with crafty eyes staring at the ground before him. At last he raised his head and fixed the messengers with his inscrutable gaze and said:

“Messengers from the Batab of Mani, listen closely and carefully that your words to him be my words to you.

“‘From the Batab of Zotuta to the Batab of Mani, greetings! You say that we are brothers, in that this land of Mayab is our common mother. You say that we are together and alike scourged by an outraged god. These things are true. The land, our common mother, has felt the curse of the white man’s tread. By this act was she violated and we, her sons, permitted it—you by acquiescence, I by impotence.

“‘But all this is past, you say, and we must now find means to avert the disaster which threatens to overwhelm us both—a calamity that can be avoided only by a pilgrimage and sacrifice to Noh-och Yum Chac at the Sacred Well of Chi-chen Itza.

“‘_Be wale!_—so let it be!

“‘You say that brothers quarrel and then forgive; that the war that is ended may be forgotten.’

“Now,” and here he bent forward and spoke in deep earnestness, while about his thin lips wreathed a twisted smile that made those who knew him well recoil in terror, “tell my brother, Ah Pula, Batab of Mani, to send his pilgrims, the maiden messengers, the sacrificial offerings, and the priests, when and how he wishes. When they come they will find me and my people ready and waiting to give them warm welcome. No spear shall be cast, no weapon raised against them. We will guard the pilgrims and send them on their way to worship and to make sacrifice to that god with whom they so urgently wish to make peace—to your god and our god, for are we not the offspring of a common mother?

“They will need to bring neither food nor arms, for I, Nachi Cocom, and my people will provide these things. Thus can your people come on more quickly to ask the forgiveness of the god for traitorous acts, snake-like deceptions, and cowardly submission to strange white men.

“I have spoken. Messengers of Mani, eat, drink, rest, and then speed back the word of Nachi Cocom to—” and here again he smiled sardonically—“to his brother Ah Pula Xia.”

Thereupon the _batab_ rose and departed, and his councilors likewise left the chamber.

But the chief councilor spoke in a whisper to his brother, leader of the warriors, and said:

“No man may know but the _batab_ himself what thoughts are deep buried in his mind, but I know and fear that thin-lipped smile, and as he spoke to the messengers of Mani a strange feeling came over me like _ek muyal_, the black cloud. I had a fear of something, intangible but terrible; something he is planning that will bring down upon us the annihilating wrath of the gods.”

“Brother,” his companion answered, “do not voice such thoughts nor even think them. I have forgotten that you spoke. Remember that the will of the _batab_ is supreme. We may not question it. I also felt your fear, but say no more!”

Swiftly, tirelessly the messengers of Mani sped on their homeward journey; over sunlit plains, threaded by the smooth worn paths of the jaguar and the wild boar; through cool forests whose shade beckoned enticingly; past wells of crystal-clear water where thirst cried to be quenched. But they stopped not at all until, as the sun sank slowly down into the west, they passed between the great parched corn-fields of Mani and at last reached the palace of the _batab_.

So quickly had the _holpopes_ returned that the _batab_ said of them, “They are birds, not men.”

And the _nacon_ answered: “If they are birds, then are they eagles, for these three _holpopes_ in the battle with the Uitzes killed three warriors and took three prisoners.”

The _batab_ cast an approving glance at the deep-chested, thin-flanked young _holpopes_ and said:

“Let it be proclaimed from the temple that for their services in time of peace and for their brave acts in battle these three brothers shall henceforth be of the eagles and shall bear the regalia and wear the mask of the eagle in the sacred rites.” And so it was from that time on. The three brothers, known as the Three Eagles, wore the feathers and mask of the eagle in the sacred festivals and until after the coming of the later white men the figures of the Three Eagles were to be seen carved upon the walls of a temple in Mani.

Great was the enthusiasm and greater the joy at the message sent by the Batab of Zotuta to the Batab of Mani and the tale of the warm welcome given to the _holpopes_ and the warmer one promised to the pilgrims.

Ah! could they but have seen the venomous look and the twisted smile that was hidden behind the unctuous softness of those pleasant-sounding words!

In the province of the Cocomes great preparation was made for the expected guests. At frequent intervals along their destined path from one village to another were placed arches made of saplings tied together and bent to the ground. Those at the entrance of each village were adorned with fresh vines and bright flowers until the curve of the arch was a solid mass of green leaves and fragrant blossoms. There were scarlet clusters of _cutz-pol_, or turkey-head, white _sac-nute_ blooms, the frail blue jungle morning-glory, and the golden trumpets of the _xkan-tol_ flower.

As the pilgrims reached each new village the head men and the most beautiful maids of the district came to meet and welcome them, the head men with the symbols of their authority and the maidens with gourds of cool _sacca_ to quench the thirst of the travelers. And with songs of welcome they invited the tired but happy pilgrims to rest and then to feast in the village. As they neared Zotuta, where dwelt the _batab_, he and his councilors came forth to welcome them. The whole city, even to its most distant outskirts, was seething with the hum of preparation. Wild turkeys, wild pigs, green corn, big tubers, white, flaky, and succulent—all were being cooked underground with heated stones and surrounded with fragrant herbs after the manner and custom handed down from ancient times.

On came the pilgrims, heralded by groups of children and women singing and chanting words of welcome. At the feet of the pilgrims were strewn clusters of flowers and along the way were bowls of incense, so that the fragrant smoke pleased their nostrils. First came the priests and the nobles. Then came the lovely maidens chosen to be the messengers to the great god at the bottom of the Sacred Well, and these girl brides of the god were carried upon litters richly adorned and smoothly transported by trained bands of bearers. After them came the devotees, their arms filled with rich offerings. And last came captive warriors, men of fighting renown, esteemed for their valor to be worthy of sacrifice to the Rain God.

Thus with solemn joy and chanted welcome the pilgrims entered Zotuta, not only as pilgrims on a sacred mission but as an embassy bearing offerings of peace and good-will between brothers long estranged but now reconciled and reunited by the god to whom they would soon offer prayer and joint sacrifice at the Sacred Well.

Soon came the feasting, the religious games, and at last the solemn ritual of the Sacred Dance. The hours passed too pleasantly and sweetly to be heeded, until drooping lids could no longer stay open and the pilgrims were conducted to the group of houses that had been set aside for their use.

In the cool darkness that precedes the first gleam of dawn, that time when the whole world sleeps, the Cocomes in the houses beyond the palm-thatched dwellings where the pilgrims lay and the pilgrims themselves—all were buried deep and sound in slumber. Then silent, shadowy forms swiftly surrounded the quiet houses where the pilgrims rested in fancied security.

Red tongues of flame, smokeless because of the dry materials upon which they fed, shot up from each house corner and like snakes crawled along the thatched roofs. Before the sleepers could arouse to their danger the big structures were roaring and crackling, each a huge funeral pyre.

Shrill shrieks of women, hoarse cries of men, choking, gasping moans, frenzied prayers, imprecations, and inarticulate sounds filled the morning air and the barred doors and burning roof-poles were shaken furiously.

The voice of Nachi Cocom of the crafty eyes and the thin-lipped cruel smile was heard above the crackling of the flames and the shrieks of the dying pilgrims. His black eyes glittered venomously, like the eyes of a deadly serpent when it strikes home its fangs, but his voice was smooth and oily as he said:

“_Ehen!_ pilgrims, brothers, brothers of a common mother! How fares it? It would seem to me, standing here and looking on, that you have changed your minds and that you are making sacrifice to Yum Kax, god of fire, and not to Yum Chac, god of rain! But what does it matter, brothers of a common mother? Both are gods and both are worshiped by brothers that spring from a common mother. You are now saved the trouble of visiting the Sacred Well.”

As he said these words, as if by a common signal, the blazing roofs sank slowly in, the cries of agony ceased, and shortly all was still.

Once again the _batab_ spoke and the twisted smile was on his lips as he said:

“Rest now in peace, brothers. This is the warm welcome that I promised you. Long years ago, I promised you such a welcome, but you had forgotten. And Nachi Cocom never forgets.”

The _batab_ turned and strode from the place, the baleful glitter still in his eyes, but the populace—people of Zotuta and those from distant villages, drawn by the pilgrimage and the feasting—fled from the city, and many rushed into the jungles and were never seen again. Only the soldiers of the _batab_, with callous obedience to their orders, remained to watch over the smoldering funeral pyres.

It is said that the Rain God, incensed at this act, deserted the Sacred Well with all his court and, leaving the land and the people to their fate, made his home in a far distant and unknown region. The people, abandoned by their god, ended by fighting with one another like rabid animals. The shrine on the brink of the Sacred Well was no longer carefully tended, and it fell gradually into ruins, piece by piece. The beautiful carved cornices and roof-stones were wedged apart by the growing roots of trees and toppled into the still, dark waters below. When, in after years, the white men came again they found a few miserable Mayas living in carelessly made huts under the shadow of the great ruined city, and these natives shunned the Sacred Well and believed it to be haunted.

Thus passed the power and majesty of mighty chieftains and thus died the Maya nations.