CHAPTER VIII.
THE PABA'S ANGEL.
If I were writing a tale less true, or were at all accomplished in thecharming art of the story-teller, which has come to be regarded as butlittle inferior to that of the poet, possibly I could have disguised theincidents of the preceding chapters so as to have checked anticipation.But many pages back the reader no doubt discovered that the Cu in whichthe page took shelter was that of Quetzal'; and now, while to believe Icould, by any arrangement or conceit consistent with truth, agreeablysurprise a friend, I must admit that he is a dull witling who failed, atthe parting of the curtain as above given, to recognize the child of thepaba,--Tecetl, to whom, beyond peradventure, the memory of all whofollow me to this point has often returned, in tender sympathy for thevictim of an insanity so strange or--as the critic must decide--aphilosophy so cruel.
Now, however, she glides again into the current of my story, one ofthose wingless waifs which we have all at one time or another seen, andwhich, if not from heaven, as their purity and beauty suggest, are, atleast, ready to be wafted there.
I stop to say that, during the months past, as before, her life had gonesweetly, pleasantly, without ruffle or labor or care or sickness, ordivision, even, into hours and days and nights,--a flowing onward, liketime,--an existence so serenely perfect as not to be a subject ofconsciousness. Her occupation was a round of gentle ministrations to thepaba. Her experience was still limited to the chamber, its contents andexpositions. If the philosophy of the venerable mystic--that ignoranceof humanity is happiness--was correct, then was she happy as mortal canbe, for as yet she had not seen a human being other than himself. Herpleasure was still to chatter and chirrup with the friendly birds; or togather flowers and fashion them into wreaths and garlands to be offeredat the altar of the god to whom she herself had been so relentlesslydevoted; or to lie at rest upon the couch, and listen to the tinklingvoices of the fountain, or join in their melody. And as I do not knowwhy, in speaking of her life, I should be silent as to that part whichis lost in slumber, particularly when the allusion will help meillustrate her matchless innocency of nature, I will say, further, thatsleep came to her as to children, irregularly and in the midst of play,and waking was followed by no interval of heaviness, or brooding over adaily task, or bracing the soul for a duty. In fact, she was still achild; though not to be thought dealing with anything seraphic, I willadd, that in the months past she had in height become quite womanly,while the tone of her voice had gained an equality, and her figure afulness, indicative of quick maturity.
Nor had the "World" undergone any change. The universal exposition onthe walls and ceiling remained the same surpassing marvel of art. Atstated periods, workmen had come, and, through the shaft constructed forthe purpose, like those in deep mines, lifted to the _azoteas_ suchplants and shrubs as showed signs of suffering for the indispensablesun; but as, on such occasions, others were let down, and rolled to thevacant places, there was never an abatement of the garden freshness thatprevailed in the chamber. The noise of the work disturbed the birds, butnever Tecetl, whose spirit during the time was under the mesmeric Willof the paba.
There was a particular, however, in which the god who was supposed tohave the house in keeping had not been so gracious. A few days beforethe page appeared at the door,--exactness requires me to say the day ofthe paba's last interview with Guatamozin,--Mualox came down from thesanctuary in an unusual state of mind and body. He was silent andexhausted; his knees tottered, as, with never a smile or pleasant word,or kiss in reply to the salutation he received, he went to the couch tolie down. He seemed like one asleep; yet he did not sleep, but lay withhis eyes fixed vacantly on the ceiling, his hand idly stroking hisbeard.
In vain Tecetl plied all her little arts; she sang to him, caressed him,brought her vases and choicest flowers and sweetest singing-birds, andasked a thousand questions about the fair, good Quetzal',--a topictheretofore of never-failing interest to the holy man.
She had never known sickness,--so kindly had the god dealt by her. Heracquaintance with infirmity of any kind was limited to the fatigue ofplay, and the weariness of tending flowers and birds. Her saddestexperience had been to see the latter sicken and die. All her furtherknowledge of death was when it came and touched a plant, withering leafand bud. To die was the end of such things; but they--the paba andherself--were not as such: they were above death; Quetzal' was immortal,and, happy souls! they were to serve him for ever and ever. Possessed ofsuch faith, she was not alarmed by the good man's condition; on thecontrary, taking his silence as a wish to be let alone, she turned andsought her amusements.
And as to his ailment. If there be such a thing as a broken heart, hiswas broken. He had lived, as noticed before, for a single purpose, hopeof which had kept him alive, survivor of a mighty brotherhood. That hopethe 'tzin in the last interview took away with him; and an old manwithout a hope is already dead.
Measuring time in the chamber by its upper-world divisions, noon andnight came, and still the paba lay in the dismal coma. Twice the slavehad appeared at the door with the customary meals. Tecetl heard andanswered his signals. Meantime,--last and heaviest of misfortunes,--thefire of the temple went out. When the sacred flame was first kindled isnot known; relighted at the end of the last great cycle of fifty-twoyears, however, it had burned ever since, served by the paba. Year afteryear his steps, ascending and descending, had grown feebler; now theyutterly failed. "Where is the fire on the old Cu?" asked thenight-watchers of each other. "Dead," was the answer. "Then is Mualoxdead."
And still another day like the other; and at its close the faded handsof the sufferer dropped upon his breast. Many times did Tecetl come tothe couch, and speak to him, and call him father, and offer him food anddrink, and go away unnoticed. "He is with Quetzal'," she would say toherself and the birds. "How the dear god loves him!"
Yet another, the fourth day; still the sleep, now become a likeness ofdeath. And Tecetl,--she missed his voice, and the love-look of his greateyes, and his fondnesses of touch and smile; she missed his presence,also. True, he was there, but not with her; he was with Quetzal'.Strange that they should forget her so long! She hovered around thecouch, a little jealous of the god, and disquieted, though she knew notby what. She was very, very lonesome.
And in that time what suspense would one familiar with perils havesuffered in her situation! If the paba dies, what will become of her? Weknow somewhat of the difficulties of the passages in the Cu. Can shefind the way out alone? The slave will, doubtless, continue to bringfood to the door, so that she may not starve; and at the fountain shewill get drink. Suppose, therefore, the supplies come for years, and shelive so long; how will the solitude affect her? We know its results uponprisoners accustomed to society; but that is not her case: she neverknew society, its sweets or sorrows. With her the human life of thegreat outside world is not a thing of conjecture, or of dreams, hopes,and fears, as the future life with a Christian; she does not even knowthere is such a state of being. Changes will take place in the chamber;the birds and plants, all of life there besides herself, will die; thebody of the good man, through sickening stages of decay, will return tothe dust, leaving a ghastly skeleton on the couch. Consequently, herswill come to be a solitude without relief, without amusement oroccupation or society, and with but few memories, and nothing to rest ahope upon. Can a mind support itself, any more than a body? In otherwords, if Mualox dies, how long until she becomes what it were charityto kill? Ah, never mortal more dependent or more terribly threatened!Yet she saw neither the cloud nor its shadow, but followed her pastimesas usual, and sang her little songs, and slept when tired,--asimple-hearted child.
I am not an abstractionist; and the reader, whom I charitably take to bewhat I am in that respect, has reason to be thankful; for the thought ofthis girl, so strangely educated,--if the word may be so applied,--thispretty plaything of a fortune so eccentric, opens the gates of many amisty field of metaphysics. B
ut I pass them by, and, following the leadof my story, proceed to say that, in the evening of the fourth day ofthe paba's sickness, the bell, as usual, announced the last meal at thedoor of the chamber. Tecetl went to the couch, and, putting her armsaround the sleeper's neck, tried to wake him; but he lay still, his eyesclosed, his lips apart,--in appearance, he was dying.
"Father, father, why do you stay away so long?" she said. "Comeback,--speak to me,--say one word,--call me once more!"
The dull ear heard not; the hand used to caressing was still.
Tenderly she smoothed the white beard upon his breast.
"Is Quetzal' angry with me? I love him. Tell him how lonely I am, andthat the birds are not enough to keep me happy when you stay so long;tell him how dear you are to me. Ask him to let you come back now."
Yet no answer.
"O Quetzal', fair, beautiful god! hear me," she continued. "Your fingeris on his lips, or he would speak. Your veil is over his eyes, or hewould see me. I am his child, and love him so much; and he is hungry,and here are bread and meat. Let him come for a little while, and I willlove you more than ever."
And so she prayed and promised, but in vain. Quetzal' was obdurate. Withtears fast flowing, she arose, and stood by the couch, and gazed uponthe face now sadly changed by the long abstinence. And as she looked,there came upon her own face a new expression, that which the very youngalways have when at the side of the dying,--half dread, halfcuriosity,--wonder at the manifestation, awe of the power that invokesit,--the look we can imagine on the countenance of a simple soul in thepresence of Death interpreting himself.
At last she turned away, and went to the door. Twice she hesitated, andlooked back. Wherefore? Was she pondering the mystery of the deep sleep,or expecting the sleeper to awake, or listening to the whisper of apremonition fainter in her ears than the voice of the faintest breeze?She went on, nevertheless; she reached the door, and drew the curtain;and there, in the full light, was Orteguilla.
That we may judge the impression, let us recall what kind of youth thepage was. I never saw him myself, but those who knew him well have toldme he was a handsome fellow; tall, graceful, and in manner and featureessentially Spanish. He wore at the time the bonnet and jaunty feather,and the purple mantle, of which I have spoken, and under that a closeblack jerkin, with hose to correspond; half-boots, usual to the period,and a crimson sash about the waist, its fringed ends hanging down theleft side, completed his attire. Altogether, a goodly young man; not asgay, probably, as some then loitering amongst the _alamedas_ of Seville;for rough service long continued had tarnished his finery and abused hiscomplexion, to say nothing of the imprints of present suffering; yet hewas enough so to excite admiration in eyes older than Tecetl's, and morefamiliar with the race.
The two gazed at each other, wonder-struck.
"Holy Mother!" exclaimed Orteguilla, the bread in his hand. "Into whatworld have I been brought? Is this a spirit thou hast sent me?"
In his eyes, she was an angel; in hers, he was more. She went to him,and knelt, and said, "Quetzal', dear Quetzal',--beautiful god! You arecome to bring my father back to me. He is asleep by the fountain."
In her eyes, the page was a god.
The paba's descriptions of Quetzal' had given her the ideal of a youthlike Orteguilla. Of late, moreover, he had been constantly expected fromTlapallan, his isle of the blest; indeed, he had come,--so the fathersaid. And the house was his. Whither would he go, if not there? So, fromtradition oft repeated, from descriptions colored by passionate love,she knew the god; and as to the man,--between the image and his makerthere is a likeness; so saith a book holier than the _teoamoxtli_.
The page, as we have seen, was witty and shrewd, and acquainted wellwith the world; his first impression went quickly; her voice assured himthat he was not come to any spirit land. The pangs of hunger, for themoment forgotten, returned, and I am sorry to say that he at onceyielded to their urgency, and began to eat as heroes in romances neverdo. When the edge of his appetite was dulled, and he could think ofsomething else, an impulse of courtesy moved him, and he said,--
"I crave thy pardon, fair mistress. I have been so much an animal as toforget that this food is thine, and required to subsist thee, and,perhaps, some other inhabiting here. I admit, moreover, that ordinarilythe invitation should proceed from the owner of the feast; but claim thyown, and partake with me; else it may befall that in my great hunger thyshare will be wanting. Fall to, I pray thee."
Still kneeling, she stared at him, and, folding her hands upon herbreast, replied, "Quetzal' knows that I am his servant. Let him speak sothat I may understand."
"_Por cierto!_--it is true! What knoweth she of my mother tongue?"
And thereupon, in the Aztecan, he asked her to help herself.
"No," said she. "The house and all belong to you. I am glad you havecome."
"Mine? Whom do you take me for?"
"The good god of my father, to whom I say all my prayers,--Quetzal'!"
"Quetzal', Quetzal'!" he repeated, looking steadily in her face; then,as if assured that he understood her, he took one of the goblets ofchocolate, and tried to drink, but failed; the liquid had been beateninto foam.
"In the world I come from, good girl," he said, replacing the cup,"people find need of water, which, just now, would be sweeter to mytongue than all the honey in the valley. Canst thou give me a drink?"
She arose, and answered eagerly, "Yes, at the fountain. Let us go. Bythis time my father is awake."
"So, so!" he said to himself. "Her father, indeed! I have eaten hissupper or dinner, according to the time of day outside, and he may notbe as civil as his daughter. I will first know something about him." Andhe asked, "Your father is old, is he not?"
"His beard and hair are very white. They have always been so."
Again he looked at her doubtingly. "Always, said you?"
"Always."
"Is he a priest?"
She smiled, and asked, "Does not Quetzal' know his own servant?"
"Has he company?"
"The birds may be with him."
He quit eating, and, much puzzled by the answer, reflected.
"Birds, birds! Am I so near daylight and freedom? Grant it, O BlessedMother!" And he crossed himself devoutly.
Then Tecetl said, earnestly, "Now that you have eaten, good Quetzal',come and let us go to my father."
Orteguilla made up his mind speedily: he could not do worse than go backthe way he came; and the light here was so beautiful, and the darknessthere so terrible: and here was company. Just then, also, as a furtherinducement, he heard the whistle of a bird, and fancied he distinguishedthe smell of flowers.
"A garden," he said, in his soul,--"a garden, and birds, and liberty!"The welcome thought thrilled him inexpressibly. "Yes, I will go"; and,aloud, "I am ready."
Thereupon she took his hand, and put the curtains aside, and led himinto the paba's World, never but once before seen by a stranger.
This time forethought had not gone in advance to prepare for thevisitor. The master's eye was dim, and his careful hand still, in thesleep by the fountain. The neglect that darkened the fire on the turretwas gloaming the lamps in the chamber; one by one they had gone out, asall would have gone but for Tecetl, to whom the darkness and the shadowswere hated enemies. Nevertheless, the light, falling suddenly upon eyesso long filled with blackness as his had been, was blinding bright,insomuch that he clapped his hand over his face. Yet she led him oneagerly, saying,--
"Here, here, good Quetzal'. Here by the fountain he lies."
All her concern was for the paba.
And through the many pillars of stone, and along a walk bounded byshrubs and all manner of dwarfed tropical trees, half blinded by thelight, but with the scent of flowers and living vegetation in hisnostrils, and the carol of birds in his ears, and full of wonderunspeakable, he was taken, without pause, to the fountain. At sight ofthe sparkling jet, his fever of thirst raged more intensely than ever.
"Here he is. S
peak to him,--call him back to me! As you love him, callhim back, O Quetzal'?"
He scarcely heard her.
"Water, water! Blessed Mother, I see it again! A cup,--quick,--a cup!"
He seized one on the table, and drank, and drank again crying betweeneach breath, "To the Mother the praise!" Not until he was fullysatisfied did he give ear to the girl's entreaty.
Looking to the couch, whither she had gone, he saw the figure of thepaba stretched out like a corpse. He approached, and, searching theface, and laying his hand upon the breast over the heart, asked, in alow voice, "How long has your father been asleep?"
"A long time," she replied.
"_Jesu Christo!_ He is dead, and she does not know it!" he thought,amazed at her simplicity.
Again he regarded her closely, and for the first time was struck by herbeauty of face and form, by the brightness of her eyes, by the hair,wavy on the head and curling over the shoulders, by the simple, childishdress, and sweet voice; above all, by the innocence and ineffable purityof her look and manner, all then discernible in the full glare of thelamps. And with what feeling he made discovery of her loveliness may bejudged passably well by the softened tone in which he said, "Poor girl!your father will never, never wake."
Her eyes opened wide.
"Never, never wake! Why?"
"He is dead."
She looked at him wistfully, and he, seeing that she did not understand,added, "He is in heaven; or, as he himself would have said, in the Sun."
"Yes, but you will let him come back."
He took note of the trustful, beseeching look with which she accompaniedthe words, and shook his head, and, returning to the fountain, took aseat upon a bench, reflecting.
"What kind of girl is this? Not know death when he showeth so plainly!Where hath she been living? And I am possessed of St. Peter's keys. Iopen Heaven's gate to let the heathen out! By the bones of the saints!let him get there first! The Devil hath him!"
He picked up a withered flower lying by the bowl of the fountain, andwent back to Tecetl.
"You remember how beautiful this was when taken from the vine?"
"Yes."
"What ails it now?"
"It is dead."
"Well, did you ever know one of these, after dying, to come back tolife?"
"No."
"No more can thy father regain his life. He, too, is dead. From what yousee, he will go to dust; therefore, leave him now, and let us sit by thefountain, and talk of escape; for surely you know the way out of this."
From the flower, she looked to the dead, and, comprehending theillustration, sat by the body, and cried. And so it happened thatknowledge of death was her first lesson in life.
And he respected her grief, and went and took a bench by the basin, andthought.
"Quetzal', Quetzal',--who is he? A god, no doubt; yes, the one of whomthe king so liveth in dread. I have heard his name. And I am Quetzal'!And this is his house--that is, my house! A scurvy trick, by St. James!Lost in my own house,--a god lost in his own temple!"
And as he could then well afford, being full-fed, he laughed at theabsurd idea; and in such mood, fell into a revery, and grew drowsy, andfinally composed himself on the bench, and sunk to sleep.