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

“Ah, by the Mother that keeps me! Always here! And the sky, and sun, and stars, and all God’s glory of nature, seen in the valleys, mountains, and rivers, and seas,—have they been denied you, poor girl?”

“I have seen them all,” she answered.

“Where?”

“On the ceiling and walls.”

He looked up at the former, and noticed its excellence of representation.

“Very good,—beautiful!” he said, in the way of criticism. “Who did the work?”

“Quetzal’.”

“And who is Quetzal’?”

“Who should know better than the god himself?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

Again he shrugged his shoulders.

“My name, then, is Quetzal’. Now, what is yours?”

“Tecetl.”

“Well, then, Tecetl, let me undeceive you. In the first place, I am not Quetzal’, or any god. I am a man, as your father there was. My name is Orteguilla; and for the time I am page to the great king Montezuma. And before long, if I live, and get out of this place, as I most devoutly pray, I will be a soldier. In the next place you are a girl, and soon will be a woman. You have been cheated of life. By God’s help, I will take you out of this. Do you understand me?”

“No; unless men and gods are the same.”

“Heaven forbid!” He crossed himself fervently. “Do you not know what men are?”

“All my knowledge of things is from the pictures on the walls, and what else you see here.”

“Jesu Christo!” he cried, in open astonishment. “And did the good man never tell you of the world outside,—of its creation, and its millions upon millions of people?”

“No.”

“Of the world in which you may find the originals of all that is painted on the walls, more beautiful than colors can make them?”

He received the same reply, but, still incredulous, went on.

“Who takes care of these plants?”

“My father.”

“A servant brings your food to the door—may he do so again! Have you not seen him?”

“No.”

“Where does the oil that feeds the lamps come from?”

“From Quetzal’.”

Just then a lamp went out. He arose hastily, and saw that the contents of the cup were entirely consumed. “Tecetl, is there plenty of oil? Where do you keep it? Tell me.”

“In a jar, there by the door. While you were asleep, I refilled the cups, and now the jar is empty.”

He turned pale. Who better than he knew the value of the liquid that saved them from the darkness so horribly peopled by hunger and thirst? If exhausted, where could they get more? Without further question, he went through the chamber, and collected the lamps, and put them all out except one. Then he brought the jar from the door, and poured the oil back, losing not a drop.

Tecetl remonstrated, and cried when she saw the darkness invade the chamber, blotting out the walls, and driving the birds to their perches, or to the fountain yet faintly illuminated. But he was firm.

“Fie, fie!” he said. “You should laugh, not cry. Did I not tell you about the world above this, so great, and so full of people, like ourselves? And did I not promise to take you there? I am come in your father’s stead. Everything must contribute to our escape. We must think of nothing else. Do you understand? This chamber is but one of many, in a house big as a mountain, and full of passages in which, if we get lost, we might wander days and days, and then not get out, unless we had a light to show us the way. So we must save the oil. When this supply gives out, as it soon will if we are not careful, the darkness that so frightens you will come and swallow us, and we shall die, as did your father there.”

The last suggestion sufficed; she dried her tears, and drew closer to him, as if to say, “I confide in you; save me.”

Nature teaches fear of death; so that separation from the breathless thing upon the couch was not like parting from Mualox. Whether she touched his hand or looked in his face now, “Go hence, go hence!” was what she seemed to hear. The stony repulsion that substituted his living love reconciled her to the idea of leaving home, for such the chamber had been to her.

Here I may as well confess the page began to do a great deal of talking,—a consequence, probably, of having a good listener; or he may have thought it a duty to teach all that was necessary to prepare his disciple for life in the new world. In the midst of a lecture, the tinkle of a bell brought him to a hasty pause.

“Now, O Blessed Mother, now I am happy! Thou hast not forsaken me! I shall see the sun again, and brave old Spain. Live my heart!” he cried, as the last tinkle trembled, and died in the silence.

Seeing that she regarded him with surprise, he said, in her tongue, “I was thanking the Mother, Tecetl. She will save us both. Go now, and bring the breakfast,—I say breakfast, not knowing better,—and while we eat I will tell you why I am so glad. When you have heard me, you will be glad as I am.”

She went at once, and, coming back, found him bathing his face and head in the water of the basin,—a healthful act, but not one to strengthen the idea of his godship. She placed the tray upon the table, and helped him to napkin and comb; then they took places opposite each other, with the lamp between them; whereupon she had other proof of his kind of being; for it is difficult to think of a deity at table, eating. The Greeks felt the incongruity, and dined their gods on nectar and ambrosia, leaving us to imagine them partaken in some other than the ordinary, vulgar way. Verily, Tecetl was becoming accustomed to the stranger!

And while they ate, he explained his plans, and talked of the upper world, and described its wonders and people, until, her curiosity aroused, she plied him with questions; and as point after point was given, we may suppose nature asserted itself, and taught her, by what power there is in handsome youth, with its bright eyes, smooth face, and tongue more winsome than wise, that life in the said world was a desirable exchange for the monotonous drifting to which she had been so long subjected. We may also suppose that she was not slow to observe the difference between Mualox and the page; which was that between age and youth, or, more philosophically, that between a creature to be revered and a creature to be admired.

CHAPTER X

THE ANGEL BECOMES A BEADSWOMAN

The stars at the foot of the last chapter I called in as an easy bridge by which to cross an interval of two days,—a trick never to be resorted to except when there is nothing of interest to record, as was the case here.

Orteguilla occupied the interval very industriously, if not pleasantly. He had in hand two tasks,—one to instruct Tecetl about the world to which he had vowed to lead her; the other to fix upon a plan of escape. The first he found easy, the latter difficult; yet he had decided, and his preparations for the attempt, sufficient, he thought, though simple, lay upon the floor by the fountain. A lamp shed a dim light over the scene.

“So, so, Tecetl: are we ready now?” he asked.

“You are the master,” she replied.

“Very good, I will be assured.”

He went through a thorough inspection.

“Here are the paint and brush; here the oil and lamp; here the bread and meat, and the calabash of water. So far, good, very good. And here is the mat,—very comfortable, Tecetl, if you have to make your bed upon a stone in the floor. Now, are we ready?”

“Yes, if you say so.”