The Bride of the Sun

The mammaconas, moving silently, had lit the sandia in their precious vases; brother and sister slept together, in each other’s arms.

Now she had awakened in the House of the Serpent, and Christobal was not with her. She struggled to regain consciousness, heard his cries near by, and rose from the cushioned couch on which she had been reclining. There was Christobal, naked, struggling in the hands of the mammaconas. Terrified, she made as if to rush to his assistance, but six of the women surrounded her, calmed her with fluttering hands. No harm would come to the child; he was being dressed, as she would be dressed, in a robe made of bat skins. They spoke with infinite respect, giving her a title she had not heard before; they called her Coya, which, in Inca, means queen.

The mammaconas took her in their powerful arms, lifting her like a child, and took off the sulphur-hued robes with which she had been adorned in the deserted hacienda. Again they anointed her with sweet oils and perfumed creams, chanting the while a slow and restful lullaby, stilling to the senses. They were tall women from the province of Puno, born on the shores of Titicaca, strong and beautiful; their walk was almost rhythmic, supple and harmonious, while their rounded arms showed golden against the black of their veils. They had splendid eyes, all that could be seen of their faces.

Maria-Teresa and little Christobal were afraid of them, but they were not cruel. Two of their number were to die with Maria-Teresa, to prepare the nuptial chamber in the Palace of the Sun, and they were the most lively, the happiest, the most consoling and understanding. They were wholly happy, and were sad that the Bride did not share that happiness, doing all they could to make her understand the joy of being chosen among all as the Goya. On their ankles they wore great golden bracelets, and in their ears heavy circlets.

The child was no longer crying. They had promised him that if he was good he would return to Maria-Teresa’s arms. She also obeyed the mammaconas docilely. The chant with which they filled her ears lulled her spirit, still heavy with the magic sleep.

There was a thought, too, which gave her courage. Those who were dearest to her knew where she was, what had happened to her, who had carried her off, and why. If little Christobal had been able to find her, surely her father and Dick could do so. They would both be saved. If Dick had not appeared before, it was because he delayed until he was sure of success. At any moment they might appear with the police and soldiers, all these savages would vanish in the mountains, and the horrible dream would be ended. She felt as weak as a child face to face with Destiny.

II

In the Home of the Sun,” sang the mammaconas for the hundredth time, “the trees are heavy with fruits, and when they are ripe the branches bend down to the earth, that the Indian need not even raise his hand to pick them. Do not weep! Thou shalt live eternally, eternally! Death knocks at the doors of the earthly palace, and the Spirit of Evil stretches his accursed wings over our forests. Weep not! On high in the heavens, near the Sun and the Moon, who is his sister and his first bride, near Charca, who is his faithful page, thou shalt live eternally, eternally!”

On Maria-Teresa’s perfumed tresses they placed the royal borla, its golden fringe overshadowing her eyes and giving her a strange hieratic beauty. She shivered when the bat-skin robe slipped over her limbs; it was as if she had donned something viscous and icy, which from that instant made her part and parcel of the eternal night of which the bat is Coya.

Then they placed on her wrist a circlet which she recognized as the Golden Sun bracelet. She realized that her last hours had begun, and thought sadly of the happy yet terrible day when this bracelet first appeared in her existence; she remembered the horror-stricken face of Aunt Agnes, the old duenna crossing herself, her father’s skepticism and Dick’s loving laugh. Where were they all now? Why—why did they not come to her rescue?

Maria-Teresa stretched out her arms to the Providence that seemed to have deserted her, and closed them again on little Christobal, placed in her lap by one of the attendants. When she saw him, clad like herself in the robes of night, she was seized with revolt. This could not be! She turned to the Guardians of the Temple, who came forward in answer to her look, gently swaying. There was no doubt of it! There were the same horrible skulls which Dick and she had seen taken out of the earth, come from their tombs to take her back with them. But she would speak, and test their mercy. She turned away her eyes, mortally afraid that the steady swaying would overpower her will, and told them she was ready to die quietly, as befitted a Bride of the Sun, if only they would spare the little boy and send him safely back to Lima.

“I will not leave you, Maria-Teresa! I will not leave you!”

“The child has spoken. So it is ordained.”

The Guardians of the Temple exchanged glances and moved away again, gently swaying.

Maria-Teresa burst into tears, the ring of madness in her high sobs, while the little boy clung desperately, striving to console her.

“Do not cry, Maria-Teresa! They will come to save us. Papa and Dick will come.... Oh! What was that?”

From behind the walls come the strains of music. A curtain is raised, and the players enter—tall, sad-faced men who take their places in a ring around them. They are the sacred players of the quenia, the flute which is made of human bones. Their song is sadder than a De Profundis, and Maria-Teresa shivers, her beseeching eye exploring in vain every corner of the great bare room which is the antechamber of her tomb.

Monstrous, Cyclopean masses of stone, hexagonal in shape and placed one upon the other without mortar, held in place by their mighty weight alone, form the walls of the House of the Serpent. She knows where she is, for the mammaconas have told her. There are two Houses of the Serpent, one at Cajamarca, the other at Cuzco. They are called thus because of the stone serpent carved over the main entrances. The serpent is there to guard the sacred precincts, and never allows the victims of the Sun to escape. Aunt Agnes and old Irene have often told her this, and until now she has always laughed.

Maria-Teresa, then, is in Cuzco, in a palace well known to travelers, historians, and archaeologists; a place which all may enter, which all may leave in freedom; a place to which guides bring the curious stranger. Then what does it all mean? Why should she fear? They are sure to come to her rescue. But why are they still not here?

Which way will they come? Listen! Yes, above the sad piping of the quenias rise other sounds: murmurs, footsteps, and the dull rumble of a gathering throng. It comes from over there, from behind that vast curtain, that vast golden-yellow curtain which stretches right across the room and prevents her from seeing. What does it hide, and what is that crowd awaiting?

Maria-Teresa questions the two mammaconas who are to die with her. They are stretched at her feet in their long black veils, and rise with respect to answer. The faithful are waiting to adore King Huayna Capac, who will come to lead her back to Atahualpa. Maria-Teresa, uncomprehending, asks more questions. He will come from the bowels of the earth to claim them, and they will pass through the realms of night in their robes of mourning, till they reach the Enchanted Realms of the Sun. Then they will be clad all in gold, with golden dresses and jewels of gold, for all time.

“And the little boy?” asked Maria-Teresa.

To her horror, they turned their heads away and did not answer. She caught Christobal more closely to her, covering his face with kisses, as if she wished to smother him with caresses to save him from a more terrible fate. The child strove to console her. “Do not be afraid,” he whispered. “Papa and Dick will come, not the wicked King. They will soon be here.”

On one of the giant stones are mysterious signs to which the whispering mammaconas draw each other’s attention—strange sculptured figures with the head of man and the body of the coraquenque. In all time and on all the earth, so say the Incas, there has been only one couple of coraquenques, two of the mystic birds which appeared in the mountains at the coronation of each new king and gave him two of their feathers to adorn his head-dress.

Behind the curtain, the noise has ceased, and the song of the quenias suddenly grows so piercing that Maria-Teresa cries out in terror. Christobal, clutching at her bosom, nestles closer. Then the curtains are parted, and the whole hall is revealed.

Below, a long way below her, is a prostrate and silent crowd. On the porphyry steps which stretch down to this crowd stand the three Guardians of the Temple. A step below them, Huascar, his arms crossed under his red poncho. Lower still, four prostrate Red Ponchos, who are the Guards of the Sacrifice. Their heads, completely hidden by the sacred bonnet and ear-caps, are bent so low that none can see their faces.

Surely there is somebody in that huge crowd who will free her! Maria-Teresa, filled with a wild hope, rises with the child in her arms, and cries for mercy. But the booming answer takes away all hope. “Muera la Coya! Muera la Coya! To death with the Queen!” They give her the title in Aïmara, but clamor for her death in Spanish, that she may understand.

The four mammaconas on her right, the four others on her left and the two who were to die with her surrounded the young girl, forced her back to her seat. But she still struggled, holding up the boy, and begging that he at least might be spared.

“He is the sacrifice of Pacahuamac,” came the answer. And the mammaconas, taking up the echo, chanted: “The sacrifice of Pacahuamac! Before all things began, before the Sun and before the Moon, his sister, was the Great Spirit, Pacahuamac. Pacahuamac, the Great Spirit!”

Down below there, the surging crowd took up the cry. Huascar, turning, commanded silence with a gesture.

They were all standing now, except the four Red Ponchos on the last step; still prostrate and silent. The cry of the quenias rose again, strident and shrill; soon they alone were to be heard. Maria-Teresa, crushed, conquered, had ceased struggling. Not a voice, not a sign, had answered the appeal. In a groan, she begged the mammaconas for their perfumes. “Have mercy. Bring your perfumes. Then we shall not suffer.” The two who were to die with her shook their heads. “We must go to Atahualpa waking, with all our hearts and all our senses, that heart and senses may live hereafter.”

The quenia players ceased their music, and a terrible, gripping silence descended on the hall. The faithful fell to their knees, and Huascar’s sonorous voice commanded silence.

“Silence! Silence in the House of the Serpent! The dead King is coming! Listen!”

It was as if an earthquake had shaken the walls. The place was filled with thunder. But instead of coming from the heavens, it rose from the very bowels of the earth.

Little Christobal trembled in his sister’s arms, clung closer, and whispered, “Look, Maria-Teresa! Look at the Red Ponchos.” She lifted her eyes, looked, trembled, and forced herself to silence. While every other head was bent in worship, the Guards of the Sacrifice had raised theirs, and under the sacred bonnets, despite the stain that disguised them, Maria-Teresa recognized the faces of Dick, her father, Natividad and Uncle Francis.

When she looked a second time, the four bonnets were prostrate again, and a cry from Huascar, herald of Huayna Capac, brought the multitude to its feet.

Another tremor shook the very foundations of the temple, and one wall seemed to vanish.

“Huayna Capac!”

III

That part of the wall on which were sculptured the strange signs and the two human-headed birds had opened, as if on a pivot. Maria-Teresa cowered and covered her face with her hands, for the dead king was emerging from the gulf of shadow beyond. The wall swung back into position, and the young girl, opening her eyes again, saw before her a two-seated throne of massive gold. The seat on the right of the dead majesty was unoccupied. The great crowd of Indians was bent to the dust in adoration, while the dirge of the quenia-players rose to the roof in ever-increasing volume.

The two mammaconas who were to accompany Maria-Teresa to the Enchanted Realms of the Sun stood on each side of her, while the ten other priestesses, formed in two lines, passed and re-passed before her, in the intricate steps of a sacred dance. When they came before the Dead One’s throne, they fell to their knees, then rose again, chanting: “This is Huayna Capac, King of kings, son of the great Tapac Inca Yupanqui. He has come by the Corridors of Night to claim the new Coya offered by the Inca people to his son Atahualpa.” Then they moved backwards, crossing and re-crossing, swaying their black veils. Twelve times they repeated this movement, and each time the chant grew louder, while the purl of the quenias swelled and broadened.

Maria-Teresa, holding Christobal closely to her, stared fixedly at Huayna Capac, and the Dead One seemed to stare back at her. He also wore the bat-skin robe made for the Corridors of Night, but beneath it could be seen the royal mantle and the golden sandals. His face, calm and severe, majestic in its still beauty, nearly had the hues of life; it was framed in masses of coal-black hair, crowned with the royal borla in which quivered the plumes of the coraquenque. Under the half-closed lids the eyes seemed living. The dead king was seated naturally, his hands resting on his knees, and so life-like was his whole attitude that to Maria-Teresa’s horrified eyes he seemed to be breathing. Only little Christobal heard her half-strangled cry, for the mammaconas were repeating their chant for the twelfth time, and with the piercing note of the quenias, deadened all other sound in the House of the Serpent.

Down below there, the mob of Indians was swaying, swaying gently from right to left, in imitation of the rhythmic movements of the three Guardians of the Temple. Maria-Teresa kept her eyes fixed on the dead king, not only because he was just opposite her and, half fascinated, she could not do otherwise, but also because she did not wish to look at the Red Ponchos. She felt that if her eyes were allowed to wander for an instant, they would fatally betray the four.

Maria-Teresa was now as if half buried in the idea of death; she felt as if the earth had already claimed her, only leaving her head free for a little longer. She was becoming gradually hypnotized by the motionless monarch, while the fanatical crowd about her wondered, awestruck.

Huascar raised his arm, two fingers of his right hand imposing immediate and absolute silence. The Guardians of the Temple drew near, pointing towards the vacant seat on the golden throne. Two mammaconas lifted up Maria-Teresa, carried her to it, and placed her beside Huayna Capac, son of the great Tapac Inca Yupanqui. Then the double throne was turned until it faced the assembly and the Red Ponchos.

Maria-Teresa closed her eyes, shivering at the thought of the corpse beside her. She dared not open them, realizing with horrible distinctness that if she did she must try to run down to Dick, or call out something that would betray them. Though her eyes were closed, and she outwardly seemed as dead as the mummy beside her, Maria-Teresa knew what was happening. Little Christobal, peeping over the curve of his sister’s arms, was watching everything, and a whisper, so low that she hardly felt the breath rising along her bare neck, said: “Dick has lifted his head.... Papa is looking at us… we must not move.” Maria-Teresa pressed her trembling fingers on the child’s lips, and he was silent.

So they were there. Her tired brain, working, working, wondered what they were going to do. It was horrible to know them there, hidden and helpless. For if they had not been helpless, they would not be hidden, they would have come with police and soldiers. Could it be that the Indians were masters of the country now? Then she thought of the revolution, of Garcia, who had once loved her. Why had they not gone to him? At a word, he would have come with his whole army. And they, hidden under their red ponchos, what could they do? What was their plan?

The mammaconas were chanting:—

“Earthquakes shook the world. The moon was girt with rings of many colors. Thunder fell on the royal palace, and reduced it to ashes. An eagle, hard pursued by falcons, circled over the great square of the city, filling the heavens with his cries. Pierced by the talons of his foes, he fell dead at the feet of the noblest among the Incas.”

At these words, recalling the defeat and death of their last ruler, all bent their heads, groaning, and the breath of the quenia players trembled in the dead men’s bones. Huascar had also bent to the ground; then he raised his forehead and his eyes met those of Maria-Teresa. She shivered, and when he moved toward her, she thought her last hour had come. She had been able to appeal to the mercy of the crowd, but she could not call to this man, whose look showed that he loved her. She closed her eyes.