Hearts of Three 48

Hearts of Three 48

“Then have you been drinking pulque,” the young man charged.

 

Both girls shook their heads, and Concordia said:

 

“We don’t have to drink to see things. First, when Nicoya threw in a

banana skin, we saw a dog come up out of the water——a white dog that was

as big as a tiger of the mountains——”

 

“And when Concordia threw in a clod,” the other girl took up the tale,

“up came a man with a head of iron. It is magic. Concordia and I can

work magic.”

 

“José,” one of the Indians addressed his mate, “this merits a drink.”

 

And each, in turn, while the other with his paddle held the canoe in

place, took a swig from a square-face Holland gin bottle part full of

pulque.

 

“No,” said José, when the girls had begged him for a drink. “One drink

of pulque and you might see more white dogs as big as tigers or more

iron-headed men.”

 

“All right,” Nicoya accepted the rebuff. “Then do you throw in your

pulque bottle and see what you will see. We drew a dog and a man. Your

prize may be the devil.”

 

“I should like to see the devil,” said José, taking another drain at the

bottle. “The pulque is a true fire of bravery. I should very much like

to see the devil.”

 

He passed the bottle to his companion with a gesture to finish it.

 

“Now throw it into the water,” José commanded.

 

The empty bottle struck with a forceful splash, and the evoking was

realized with startling immediacy, for up to the surface floated the

monstrous, hairy body of the slain spider. Which was too much for

ordinary Indian flesh and blood. So suddenly did both young men recoil

from the sight that they capsized the canoe. When their heads emerged

from the water they struck out for the swift current, and were swiftly

borne away down stream, followed more slowly by the swamped canoe.

 

Nicoya and Concordia had been too frightened to giggle. They held on to

each other and waited, watching the magic water and out of the tails of

their eyes observing the frightened young men capture the canoe, tow it

to shore, and run out and hide on the bank.

 

The afternoon sun was getting low in the sky ere the girls summoned

courage again to evoke the magic water. Only after much discussion did

they agree both to fling in clods of earth at the same time. And up

arose a man and a woman——Francis and the Queen. The girls fell over

backward into the bushes, and were themselves unobserved as they watched

Francis swim with the Queen to shore.

 

“It may just have happened——all these things may just have happened at

the very times we threw things into the water,” Nicoya whispered to

Concordia five minutes later.

 

“But when we threw one thing in, only one came up,” Concordia argued.

“And when we threw two, two came up.”

 

“Very well,” said Nicoya. “Let us now prove it. Let us try again, both

of us. If nothing comes up, then have we no power of magic.”

 

Together they threw in clods, and uprose another man and woman. But this

pair, Henry and Leoncia, could swim, and they swam side by side to the

natural landing place, and, like the rest that had preceded them, passed

on out of sight among the trees.

 

Long the two Indian girls lingered. For they had agreed to throw

nothing, and, if something arose, then would coincidence be proved. But

if nothing arose, because nothing further was by them evoked, they could

only conclude that the magic was truly theirs. They lay hidden and

watched the water until darkness hid it from their eyes; and, slowly and

soberly, they took the trail back to their village, overcome by an

awareness of having been blessed by the gods.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII

 

 

Not until the day following his escape from the subterranean river, did

Torres reach San Antonio. He arrived on foot, jaded and dirty, a small

Indian boy at his heels carrying the helmet of Da Vasco. For Torres

wanted to show the helmet to the Jefe and the Judge in evidence of the

narrative of strange adventure he chuckled to tell them.

 

First on the main street he encountered the Jefe, who cried out loudly

at his appearance.

 

“Is it truly you, Senor Torres?” The Jefe crossed himself solemnly ere

he shook hands.

 

The solid flesh, and, even more so, the dirt and grit of the other’s

hand, convinced the Jefe of reality and substance.

 

Whereupon the Jefe became wrathful.

 

“And here I’ve been looking upon you as dead!” he exclaimed. “That Caroo

dog of a José Mancheno! He came back and reported you dead——dead and

buried until the Day of Judgment in the heart of the Maya Mountain.”

 

“He is a fool, and I am possibly the richest man in Panama,” Torres

replied grandiosely. “At least, like the ancient and heroic

conquistadores, I have braved all dangers and penetrated to the

treasure. I have seen it. Nay——”

 

Torres’ hand had been sunk into his trousers’ pocket to bring forth the

filched gems of the Lady Who Dreams; but he withdrew the hand empty. Too

many curious eyes of the street were already centered upon him and the

draggled figure he cut.

 

“I have much to say to you,” he told the Jefe, “that cannot well be said

now. I have knocked on the doors of the dead and worn the shrouds of

corpses. And I have consorted with men four centuries dead but who were

not dust, and I have beheld them drown in the second death. I have gone

through mountains, as well as over them, and broken bread with lost

souls, and gazed into the Mirror of the World. All of which I shall tell

you, my best friend, and the honorable Judge, in due time, for I shall

make you rich along with me.”

 

“Have you looked upon the pulque when it was sour?” the Jefe quipped

incredulously.

 

“I have not had drink stronger than water since I last departed from San

Antonio,” was the reply. “And I shall go now to my house and drink a

long long drink, and after that I shall bathe the filth from me, and put

on garments whole and decent.”

 

Not immediately, as he proceeded, did Torres gain his house. A ragged

urchin exclaimed out at sight of him, ran up to him, and handed him an

envelope that he knew familiarly to be from the local government

wireless, and that he was certain had been sent by Regan.

 

_You are doing well. Imperative you keep party away from New York

for three weeks more. Fifty thousand if you succeed._

 

Borrowing a pencil from the boy, Torres wrote a reply on the back of the

envelope:

 

_Send the money. Party will never come back from mountains where he

is lost._

 

Two other occurrences delayed Torres’ long drink and bath. Just as he

was entering the jewelry store of old Rodriguez Fernandez, he was

intercepted by the old Maya priest with whom he had last parted in the

Maya mountain. He recoiled as from an apparition, for sure he was that

the old man was drowned in the Room of the Gods. Like the Jefe at sight

of Torres, so Torres, at sight of the priest, drew back in startled

surprise.

 

“Go away,” he said. “Depart, restless old man. You are a spirit. Thy

body lies drowned and horrible in the heart of the mountain. You are an

appearance, a ghost. Go away, nothing corporeal resides in this illusion

of you, else would I strike you. You are a ghost. Depart at once. I

should not like to strike a ghost.”

 

But the ghost seized his hands and clung to them with such beseeching

corporality as to unconvince him.

 

“Money,” the ancient one babbled. “Let me have money. Lend me money. I

will repay——I who know the secrets of the Maya treasure. My son is lost

in the mountain with the treasure. The Gringos also are lost in the

mountain. Help me to rescue my son. With him alone will I be satisfied,

while the treasure shall all be yours. But we must take men, and much of

the white man’s wonderful powder and tear a hole out of the mountain so

that the water will run away. He is not drowned. He is a prisoner of the

water in the room where stand the jewel-eyed Chia and Hzatzl. Their eyes

of green and red alone will pay for all the wonderful powder in the

world. So let me have the money with which to buy the wonderful powder.”

 

But Alvarez Torres was a strangely constituted man. Some warp or slant

or idiosyncrasy of his nature always raised insuperable obstacles to his

parting with money when such parting was unavoidable. And the richer he

got the more positively this idiosyncrasy asserted itself.

 

“Money!” he asserted harshly, as he thrust the old priest aside and

pulled open the door of Fernandez’s store. “Is it I who should have

money—. I who am all rags and tatters as a beggar. I have no money for

myself, much less for you, old man. Besides, it was you, and not I, who

led your son to the Maya mountain. On your head be it, not on mine, the

death of your son who fell into the pit under the feet of Chia that was

digged by your ancestors and not by mine.”

 

Again the ancient one clutched at him and yammered for money with which

to buy dynamite. So roughly did Torres thrust him aside that his old

legs failed to perform their wonted duty and he fell upon the

flagstones.