CHAPTER XII.
MAYA DESCENDS THE CUEVA
ONE evening—it was after we had left the forest country, and with much toil climbed the sierra till we reached the desert beyond, a desert that seemed to be boundless—we set our camp amongst a clump of great aloes that grew at the foot of a stony hill. This hill was marked on Zibalbay’s map as being the site of an underground reservoir, known as a cueva, whence in the old days, when this place was inhabited, the Indians drew their supply of water in the dry season from deep down in the bowels of the earth. That this particular cueva existed was proved by the fact that the ancient road, which here was plainly visible, ran through the ruins of a large town whereof the population must once have been supplied by it; but when Zibalbay and his daughter slept at the spot on their downward journey, they were spared the necessity of looking for it by the discovery of a rain-pool in the hollow of a rock. Now, however, no rain having fallen for weeks, after we had eaten, and drunk such water as remained in the water-skins, we determined to seek for the cueva in order to refill the skins and give drink to the thirsty mules.
Accordingly we began to examine the rocky hill, and presently found a stone archway, now nearly filled up with soil and half hidden by thorn bushes, which from its appearance and position we judged to be the entrance to the cueva. Having provided ourselves with an armful of torches made from the dead stems of a variety of aloe that grew around in plenty, we lit four of them, and I led the way through the hole to find myself in a cave where a great and mysterious wind blew and sighed in sudden gusts that almost extinguished our lights. Following this cave we came to a pit or shaft at the end of it, which evidently led to the springs of water. This shaft, of unknown depth, was almost if not quite as smooth and perpendicular as though it had been hollowed by the hand of man, but the strangest thing about it was the terrible stairway that the ancients had used to approach the water, consisting, as it did, of a double row of notches eight or ten inches deep, cut in the surface of the shaft. Up and down these notches the water-carriers must have passed for generations, for they were much worn, and a groove made by the feet of men ran to the top of this awful ladder. The señor, finding a fragment of rock, let it fall over the edge of the pit, and several seconds passed before a faint sound told us that it had touched the bottom.
“What a dreadful place!” he said. “I think that I had rather die of thirst than attempt to go down it.”
“Still people have gone down in the past,” answered Maya, “for look, this is where they stepped off the edge.”
“Perhaps they had a rope to hold by, lady,” I suggested. “When I was a young man I have descended mines almost as steep, with no other ladder than one made of tree-trunks—monkey-poles they are called—notched after this fashion, and set from side to side of the shaft, but now it would be my death to try, for such heights make me dizzy.”
“Come away,” said Zibalbay; “none of us here could take that road and live. The mules must go thirsty; five hours’ journey away there is a pool where they can drink to-morrow.”
Then we turned and left this cave of the winds and were glad to be outside of it, for the place had an unholy look, and, all the draught notwithstanding, was hot to suffocation.
Zibalbay walked to the camp, but we stayed to pluck some forage for the mules. Soon the others grew weary of this task and fell to talking as they watched the sunset, which was very beautiful on these lonely plains. Presently I heard the Lady Maya say:
“Pick me that flower, friend, to wear upon my breast,” and she pointed to a snow-white cactus-bloom that grew amongst some rocks.
The señor climbed to the place and stretched out his hand to cut the flower, when of a sudden I heard him utter an exclamation and saw him start.
“What is it?” I said, “have you pricked yourself or cut your hand?” He made no answer, but his eyes grew wide with horror, and he pointed at something grey that was gliding away among the stones, and as he pointed I saw a spot of blood appear upon his wrist. Maya saw it also.
“A snake has bitten you!” she cried in a voice of agony, and, springing at him before I guessed what she was about to do, she seized his arm with both hands and set her lips to the wound.
He tried to wrench it free, but she clung to him fiercely, then, calling to me to bring a stick, she tore a strip off her robe and made it fast round his wrist above the puncture. By now I was there with the stick, and, setting it in the loop of linen, I twisted it till the hand turned blue from the pressure.
“What snake was it?” I asked.
“The deadly grey sort,” he answered, adding: “Don’t look so frightened, Maya, I know a cure. Come to the camp, quick!”
In two minutes we reached it, and the señor had snatched a sharp knife and a powder-flask.
“Now, friend,” he said, handing me the knife, “cut deep, since it is life or death for me and there are no arteries in the top of the wrist.”
Seeing what had come about, Zibalbay held the señor’s hand and I cut twice. He never winced, but at each slash Maya groaned. Then, having let the blood fall till it would run no more, we poured powder into the wound, as much as will lie on a twenty cent piece, and fired it. It went off in a puff of white smoke, leaving the flesh beneath black and charred.
“Now, as we have no brandy, there is nothing more to be done except to wait,” said the señor, with an attempt at a smile; but Zibalbay, going to a bag, produced from it some cuca paste.
“Eat this,” he said, “it is better than any fire-water.”
The señor took the stuff and began to swallow it, till presently I saw that he could force no more down, for a paralysis seemed to be creeping over him; his throat contracted, and his eyelids fell as though weighed upon by irresistible sleep. Now, notwithstanding our remedies, seeing that the poison had got hold of him, we seized him by the arms and began to walk him to and fro, encouraging him at the same time to keep a brave heart and fight against death.
“I am doing my best,” he answered feebly; then his mind began to wander, and at length he fell down and his eyes shut.
A great fear and horror seized me, for I thought that he was about to die, and with them a kind of rage because I was impotent to save him. Already, to tell the truth, I was jealous of the Lady Maya, and now my jealousy broke out in bitter and unjust words.
“This is your fault,” I said.
“You are cruel,” she answered, “and you speak thus because you hate me.”
“Perhaps I am cruel, lady. Would not you be cruel if you saw the friend you love perishing through a woman’s folly?”
“Are you the only one that can love?” she whispered.
“Unless we can rouse him the white man will die,” said Zibalbay.
“Oh! awake,” cried Maya despairingly, placing her lips close to the señor’s ear. “They say that I have killed you, awake, awake!”
He seemed to hear her, for, though his eyes did not open, he smiled faintly and murmured, “I will try.” Then with our help he struggled from the ground and began to walk once more, but like a man who is drunk. Thrice he staggered backwards and forwards along the path our feet had worn. Then he fell again, and, putting our hands upon his breast, we could feel the contractions of his heart growing weaker every moment, till at last they seemed to die away. But of a sudden, when we had already abandoned hope, it pulsed violently, and from every pore of his skin, which till now had been parched and dry, there burst so profuse a perspiration that in the light of the rising moon we could see it running down his face.
“I think that the white man will live now; he has conquered the poison,” said Zibalbay quietly, and hearing his words I returned thanks to God in my heart.
Then we laid him in a hammock, piling blankets and serapes over him till at length the perspiration ceased, all the fluid in his body having evaporated, taking the venom with it.
For an hour or more he slept, then awoke and asked for water in a faint voice. We, who were watching, looked at each other in dismay, for we had not a single drop to give, and this we were obliged to tell him. He groaned and was silent for a while, then said:
“It would have been kinder to let me die of the poison, for this torment of thirst is more than I can bear.”
“Can we try the cueva?” faltered Maya.
“It is impossible,” answered her father. “We should all be killed.”
“Yes, yes,” repeated the señor, “it is impossible. Better that one should die than four.”
“Father,” said Maya, “you must take the best mule and ride forward to the pool where we should camp to-morrow. The moon shines, and with good fortune you may be back in eight or nine hours.”
“It is useless,” murmured the señor, “I can never live so long without drink, my throat is hot like a coal.”
Zibalbay shrugged his shoulders, he also thought that it was useless, but his daughter turned upon him fiercely and said:
“Are you going, or shall I ride myself?”
Then he went, muttering in his beard, and in a few minutes we heard the footsteps of the mule as it shambled forward into the desert.
“Fear not,” I said to the señor, “it is the poison that has dried you up, but thirst will not kill you so soon, and presently you will feel it less. Oh! that we had medicine here to make you sleep!”
He lay quiet for a space, giving no answer, but from the workings of his hands and face we could see that he suffered much.
“Maya,” he said at length, “can you find me a cool stone to put in my mouth?”
She searched and found a pebble which he sucked, but after a time it fell from his lips, and we saw that it was as dry as when it entered them. Then of a sudden his brain gave way, and he began to rave huskily in many languages.
“Are you devils,” he asked, “that you suffer me to die in torment for the want of a drink of water? Why do you stand there and mock me? Oh! have pity and give me water.”
For a while we bore it, though perhaps our agonies were greater than his own—then Maya rose and looked at his face. It was sunken as with a heavy illness, thick black rings had appeared beneath his blue eyes, and his lips were flecked with blood.
“I can endure this no more,” she said, in a dry voice; “watch your friend, Don Ignatio.”
“You are right,” I answered, “this is no place for a woman. Go and sleep yonder, so that I can wake you if there is need.”
She looked at me reproachfully, but went without answering, and sat down behind a bush about thirty yards away. Here it seems—for all this story she told me afterwards, and for the most part I do but repeat her words—she began to think. She was sure that without water the señor could not live through the night, and it was impossible that her father should return before dawn at the earliest. He was dying, and she felt as though her life were ebbing with his own, for now she knew that she loved him. Unless something could be done he must soon be dead, and her heart would be broken. Only one thing could save him—and her,—water. In the depths of yonder hill, within a few paces of her, doubtless it lay in plenty, but who would venture to seek it there? And yet the descent of the cueva must be possible, since the ancients used it daily, and why could she not do what they had done? She was young and active, and from childhood it had been a delight to her to climb in dangerous places about the walls and pyramids of the City of the Heart, nor had her head failed her however lofty they might chance to be. Why, then, should it fail her now when the life of the man she loved was at stake? And what would it matter if it did fail her, seeing that if he died she wished to die also?
Yes, she would try it!
When once she had made up her mind Maya set about the task swiftly. I was standing by the hammock praying to heaven to spare the life of my friend, who lay there beating his hands to and fro and moaning in misery, when I saw her creep up and look at him.
“You think you love him,” she said to me suddenly, “but I tell you that you do not know what love is. If I live, I, whom you despise, will teach you, Don Ignatio.”
I took no heed of her words, for I thought them foolish.
Then, unseen by me, Maya glided away to where the mules were picketed and provided herself with flint, steel, tinder, a rope, and a small water-skin of untanned hide, which she strapped upon her shoulders. In another minute she was running across the desert like a deer. At the entrance to the cueva she paused to gather up the aloe torches which had been thrown down there, and also to look for one moment at the familiar face of night, the night that she might never see again. Then she lit a torch and crept through the narrow opening.
The place had been awful in the evening when she visited it in the company of the rest of us. Now, alone and at night, it appalled her. Great winds roared round its vast recesses, sucked thither from the hollows of the earth, and in them could be heard sounds like to those of human voices, sobbing and making moan. Maya shivered, for she thought that these were the ghosts of dead antiguos bewailing their eternal griefs in this unearthly place, but she pressed forward boldly, notwithstanding her fears, till she stood on the brink of the pit. Here she halted to strip herself so that there might be as little as possible to impede her movements in climbing the stair, and twisted her hair into a knot. Next she tied the cord about her middle, and the water-skin, to which she fastened the flint and steel, upon her shoulders. Lighting two of the largest torches she fixed them slantingwise in crevices of the rock, so that their flame shone over the mouth of the shaft, down which she threw, first, a bundle of unlit torches, and, lastly, one on fire. This torch did not go out, as she half expected that it would, for presently, looking down the pit, she saw a spark of light shining a hundred and fifty feet or more beneath her.
Now all her preparations were complete, and nothing remained to be done except to descend and search for the water. For a moment Maya hesitated, looking at the spark of fire that gleamed so far below, and at the narrow niches cut in the smooth surface of the rock. Then, feeling that if she stood longer thus, her terrors would master her, she knelt down, and, holding to the rock with her hands, she thrust her leg over the edge of the pit, feeling at its side with her foot till she found the first niche. Resting her weight on this foot, she dropped the other till she reached the second niche, which was about eighteen inches lower and ten inches to the left of the first, for these niches were cut in a zig-zag fashion, No. 1 being above No. 3, No. 2 above No. 4 and so on. Now she must face one of the most terrible risks of the descent, for it was impossible for her to reach No. 3 niche without leaving go of the edge of the pit, nor could she get a hold of No. 1 with her hand until her foot was in No. 4, so that there was no alternative except to balance herself on one leg, and, placing her palms against the smooth rock, slide them down it till her foot rested on No. 4, and her fingers in No. 1.
Clinging thus like a fly to the rock, she stepped into No. 3, and, not daring to pause, began at once to feel for No. 4. In her anxiety she dropped her leg too low, and while drawing it back almost overbalanced herself. A thrill of horrible fear struck her, causing her spine to creep, but, resting her face against the rock, by a desperate effort she retained her presence of mind, and in another second was standing in No. 4 and holding to No. 1. Thenceforward the descent was easier, since all she had to do was to shift the grip of her hands from hole to hole and remember in which line she must search with her foot for the succeeding niche. So far from hindering her, the darkness proved a boon, since it prevented her from beholding the horror of the place.
By the time that she was a third of the way down the shaft her courage returned to her, and the only fear she felt was lest some of the niches should be broken. Fortunately this was not the case, although one of them was so much worn that her toes slipped out of it and for a second or two she hung by her hands. Recovering herself, she went on from step to step till at length she stood at the bottom of the shaft.
After a minute’s pause to get her breath, Maya found one of the dry aloe stems, and lit it at the embers of the torch which she had thrown down the pit. Then she looked round her, to find herself in a large natural cavern of no great height, which sloped gently downwards further than she could see. Turning her eyes to the floor, she searched for and discovered the path that had been hollowed out by the feet of the ancients, but now was half hidden in sand and dust. It ran straight down the cave, and she followed it for fifty paces or more, holding the light in one hand, and some spare torches under her arm. Here in this cave the atmosphere was so hot and still, that she was scarcely able to breathe, though even at a distance she could hear a strange eddying wind roaring in the shaft down which she had come. Presently the cavern began to decrease in size till it narrowed into a small passage, and Maya sighed aloud, fearing lest she should be coming to the mouth of a second shaft, for she had heard me say that the water in these cuevas was sometimes found at a depth of five or six hundred feet, whereas she had not descended more than two hundred.
When she had walked another ten or fifteen paces, however, the passage took a sudden turn and her doubts were set at rest, for there in the centre of a wonderful place, such as she had never seen before, gleamed the water which she had risked her life to reach.
How large the place where she found herself might be Maya never knew, since the feeble light of her torch did not pierce far into the gloom. All that she could see was a number of white columns—without doubt stalactites, though she imagined them to have been fashioned by man—rising from the floor of the cavern to its roof, and in the midst of them a circular pit, thirty feet or more across, in which lay the water. This water, though clear as crystal, was not still, for once in every few seconds a great bubble three or four feet in diameter rose in the centre of the pool, to burst on its surface and send a ring of ripples to the rocky sides. So beautiful was this bubble and so regular its appearance that for some minutes Maya watched it; then, remembering that she had no time to spare, she set herself to get the water, only to learn that she was confronted by a new difficulty and one which but for her foresight might have proved insuperable. The rock bank of the pool was so smooth, and sloped so steeply to the water, that it was quite impossible for anyone to keep a footing on it. The ancients had overcome the trouble by means of a wooden staircase, as was evident from the places hollowed in the rock to receive the uprights, but this structure had long since rotted away. At the head of where this staircase had stood, a hole was bored in the rock, doubtless to receive a rope by which the water-bearers supported themselves while they filled their jars, and the sight of this hole gave Maya a thought. Untying the cord which she had brought with her, she made it fast through the hole, and, having fixed the torch into one of the spaces hollowed to hold the timbers of the stairway, she slid down the bank till she stood breast high in the water.
So beautiful was this bubble... that for some minutes Maya watched it.
For a minute or more she remained thus, drinking her fill and enjoying the coolness of her bath, which was pleasant after the stupefying heat of the caves, then, first having taken care to remove the tinder that was tied to it, she slipped the water-skin from her shoulder, washed it out, filled and replaced it. Next, she dragged herself up the bank, and by the light of a new torch started for the foot of the shaft.
Here Maya rested awhile, gathering up her energies, then, feeling that once more she began to grow afraid, she commenced the ascent. There were a hundred and one of the notches, for she had counted them as she came down, and now again she began to count, so that she might know her exact position in the shaft, of which she could see nothing because of the intense darkness. Before she had ascended fifty steps she was dismayed to find a feeling of weariness taking possession of her, which forced her to pause awhile hanging to the face of the pit. Then she went on again and with great efforts reached the seventy-fifth step, where once more she was obliged to hang, gaining breath, till a pain in her right leg, upon which most of her weight rested, warned her that she must stay no longer. For the third time she struggled upwards, desperately and despairingly dragging her feet from niche to niche. Her breath came in gasps, the straps of the heavy water-skin cut into her tender flesh, and her brain began to reel.
Now there were but ten more steps. It came into her mind that she might save herself by loosing the burden of water from her shoulders, to fall to the bottom of the pit, but this she would not do. Now only three niches remained and the goal would be won, but now also her brain was giving. Darker and more bewildered it grew, yet by a desperate effort she kept some fragment of her sense. Her foot was in the topmost hole, her body was balanced upon the edge of the pit, and, pulled down by the choking weight of the water, she was like to fall backwards. Then it seemed that a voice called her, and for the last time she struggled, writhing forward as does a wounded snake, till darkness closed in upon her mind.
When Maya recovered, a while later, she found that she was lying on the edge of the shaft, over which her feet still hung. Instantly she remembered all, and, with a little scream of terror, drew herself along the floor. Then with difficulty, for she was still breathless, and her muscles seemed to have no strength, she rose to her feet, and having felt for and picked up her linen robe, she crept towards the spot of light which marked the entrance to the cave. Presently she was through it, and with a sigh of thankfulness sank to the earth and put on her garment, then, rising, she walked slowly towards the camp, bearing the precious water with her.
Meanwhile, knowing nothing of all this, I, Ignatio, also had been thinking. I remembered how, when I lay crushed beneath the rock, the señor had ventured his life to save me. Should I not then venture mine to save his? It seemed so. Without water he would certainly die, and greatly as I dreaded to attempt the descent of the cueva, yet it must be done. Leaving the hammock, I searched for the Lady Maya, but could not find her, so I called aloud,—“Señora, señora. Where are you, señora?”
“Here,” she answered. “What is it? Is he dead?”
“No,” I said, “but I am sure that unless he has water he will die within little more than an hour. Therefore I have made up my mind to try to descend the cueva. Will you be so good as to watch the señor till I return, and if I return no more, as is probable, to tell your father what has happened. He will find the talisman of the Broken Heart lying with my clothes at the mouth of the pit. I pray that he will take it, and I pray also that he should travel back to Mexico, bearing with him some of the wealth of his city, there to continue the great work that I have begun, of which I have spoken to him. Farewell, señora.”
“Stop, Don Ignatio,” said Maya in a hoarse voice, “there is no need for you to descend the cueva.”
“Why not, Lady? I should be glad to escape the task, but this is a question of life or death.”
“Yes,” she answered, “and because it is a question of life or death, Don Ignatio, I have already climbed that hideous place, and—here is the water,”—and she fell forward and swooned upon the ground.
I said nothing. I was too much amazed, and, indeed, too much ashamed, to speak. Lifting Maya’s senseless form, I placed her in a hammock that was slung close by. Then I took the water-skin and a leather cup, and ran with it to my friend’s side. By now the señor was lost in a coma and lay still, only moaning from time to time. Undoing the mouth of the skin, I poured out a cupful of water, with which I began to sprinkle his brow and to moisten his cracked lips. At the touch and smell of the fluid a change came over the face of the dying man, the empty look left it, and the eyes opened.
“That was water,” he muttered, “I can taste it.” Then he saw the cup, and the sight seemed to give him a sudden strength, for he stretched out his arms and, snatching it from my hand, he drained it in three gulps.
“More,” he gasped, “more.”
But as yet I would give him no more, though he prayed for it piteously, and when I did allow him to drink again it was in sips only. For an hour he sipped thus till at length even his thirst was partially satisfied, and the shrunken cheeks began to fill out and the dull eyes to brighten.
“That water has saved my life,” he whispered; “where did it come from?”
“I will tell you to-morrow,” I answered; “sleep now if you can.”