The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins

Upward. But most he watch’d its wars,—no hero
Fell but he call’d the wand’ring soul in love
To rest with him forever.

Sat he once
Thus watching, and where least expected, in
The far North, by stormy Winter rul’d, up
From the snows he saw a Nation rise. Shook
Their bolts, glistened their shields, flashed the
Light of their fierce eyes. A king, in wolf-skin
Girt, pointed Southward, and up the hills, through
The air, to the Sun, flew the name—Azatlan.
Then march’d they; by day and night they march’d,—march’d
Ever South, across the desert, up the
Mountains, down the mountains; leaping rivers,
Smiting foes, taking cities,—thus they march’d;
Thus, a cloud of eagles, roll’d they from the
North; thus on the South they fell, as autumn
Frosts upon the fruits of summer fall.

And now the priests were glad,—the singer sung of Heaven; and the warriors were aroused,—his voice was like a battle-cry, and the theme was the proud tradition of the conquering march of their fathers from the distant North. Sitting with clasped hands and drooped head, the king followed the chant, like one listening to an oracle. Yet stronger grew the minstrel’s voice,—

Pass’d
Many years of toil, and still the Nation march’d;
Still Southward strode the king; still Sunward rose
The cry of Azatlan! Azatlan! And
Warmer, truer, brighter grew the human
Love of Quetzal’. He saw them reach a lake;
As dew its waves were clear; like lover’s breath
The wind flew o’er it. ’Twas in the clime of
Starry nights,—the clime of orange-groves and
Plumy palms.

Then Quetzal’ from his watching
Rose. Aside he flung his sunly symbols.
Like a falling star, from the Vale of Gods
He dropp’d, like a falling star shot through the
Shoreless space; like a golden morning reach’d
The earth,—reach’d the lake. Then stay’d the Nation’s
March. Still Sunward rose the cry, but Southward
Strode the king no more.

In his roomy heart, in
The chambers of its love, Quetzal’ took the
Nation. He swore its kings should be his sons,—
They should conquer, by the Sun, he swore! In
The laughing Lake he bade them build; and up
Sprang Tenochtitlan, of the human love
Of Quetzal child; up rose its fire-lit towers,
Outspread its piles, outstretched its streets
Of stone and wave. And as the city grew,
Still stronger grew the love of Quetzal’.
Thine

Is the Empire. To the shields again, O
Azatlan! ’Twas thus he spoke; and feather’d
Crest and oaken spear, the same that from the
North came conquering, through the valley,
On a wave of war went swiftly floating.
Down before the flaming shields fell all the
Neighb’ring tribes; open flew the cities’ gates;
Fighting kings gave up their crowns; from the hills
The Chichimecan fled; on temple towers
The Toltec fires to scattering ashes
Died. Like a scourge upon the city, like
A fire across the plain, like storms adown
The mountain,—such was Azatlan that day
It went to battle! Like a monarch ’mid
His people, like a god amid the Heavens,
O such was Azatlan, victor from the
Battle, the Empire in its hand!

At this point the excitement of the audience rose into interruption: they clapped their hands and stamped; some shouted. As the strong voice rolled the grand story on, even the king’s dread of the god disappeared; and had the ’tzin concluded then, the prize had certainly been his. But when the silence was restored, he resumed the attitude so proper to his disguise, and, sinking his voice and changing the measure of the chant, solemnly proceeded,—

As the river runneth ever, like the river ran the love of
Quetzal’. The clime grew softer, and the Vale fairer. To weave, and trade,
And sow, and build, he taught, with countless other ways of peace. He broke
The seals of knowledge, and unveiled the mystic paths of wisdom;
Gathered gold from the earth, and jewels from the streams; and happy
Peace, as terrible in war, became Azatlan. Only one more
Blessing,—a religion sounding of a quiet heaven and a
Godly love,—this only wanted Azatlan. And alas, for the
Sunly Quetzal’! He built a temple, with a single tower, a
Temple over many chambers.

Slowly the ’tzin repeated the last sentence, and under his gaze the monarch’s face changed visibly.

Worship he asked, and offerings,
And sacrifices, not of captives, heart-broken and complaining,
But of blooming flowers, and ripened fruits, emblems of love, and peace,
And beauty. Alas, for the gentle Quetzal’! Cold grew the people
Lov’d so well. A little while they worshipped; then, as bees go no
More to a withered flower, they forsook his shrine, and mock’d his
Image. His love, longest lingering, went down at last, but slowly
Went, as the brook, drop by drop, runs dry in the drought of a rainless
Summer. Wrath ’rose instead. Down in a chamber below the temple,
A chamber full of gold and unveiled splendor, beneath the Lake that
Long had ceased its laughing, thither went the god, and on the walls,
On the marble and the gold, he wrote—