Citadel of Fear Page 4

He had expected to be taken back to the ravine, and when, having walked a considerable distance, mostly down-hill, they came to a place where his feet found hard pavement under them, he at first took it for the courtyard of the hacienda.

  As the march continued, however, turning corners, descending interminable flights of stairs, passing through covered ways-he knew them by the echoes and the fact that they were out of the rain-down yet more open stairs, and still onward, he became hopelessly bewildered.

  At last, when he had began to believe the downward march would last forever, his arms were released and he was given a push that sent him headlong.

  There was the closing of a door, and silence. He tore the bandage from his eyes. Darkness was, all around. Fearing to move, lest he fall into some chain, Kennedy remained crouched for another seemingly endless period, till dawn light replaced his imaginary chasms with the desolate, bare cell they still inhabited.

  He was then alone, but later Boots joined him, being carried in on a stretcher, one mass of bandages from head to foot. Had he come from the operating-room of a city hospital, these dressings could have been no more skillfully adjusted, but the stretcher-bearers differed somewhat from the orderlies of such an establishment.

  Boots, being then and for several hours afterward unconscious, did not see them, but Kennedy described them after his own characteristic fashion. Savages, he said, plumed, beaded, half-clad, and barbarous. Let their skin be as white as they pleased, they couldn’t fool him. Nothing but buck Indians of a particularly muscular and light-hued type, but Indians and no better.

  His tone inferred that an Indian was a kind of subhuman creature, whose pretensions to equality with himself should be firmly suppressed. But, though their physical proportions were not comparable to those of the giants who had called off the hounds, they were sufficiently stalwart, and Kennedy reserved his opinion of them for Boots’ ears.

  One who spoke fairly intelligible English instructed him to care for the “big red man,” and informed him that if the patient failed to recover the fault would be his, Kennedy’s, since the “sons of Tlapotlazenan” had done their part. He hinted, moreover, that these same offspring of an alphabetical progenitor would regard losing the patient as a personal affront, and probably take it out of the one responsible in a very painful manner.

  The stretcher-bearers then departed, and, with one exception, that cell had received no visible callers since. Food and drink were set inside the door at night by a jailer whom they never saw. Refuse of the previous twenty-four hours was removed in the same manner.

  Such conditions might not, one would think, be conducive to the rapid recovery of a man whose flesh had been ripped to shreds in a dozen places. But Boots seemed to be doing rather well. He awoke clear-headed, had developed no fever, and, though practically unable to move, he insisted that this was due more to a superfluity of bandages than the wounds they covered. Kennedy, however, perhaps recalling the stretcher-bearer’s warning, would allow none of them to be displaced, and waited on his companion with a solicitude that astonished the recipient.

  Late in the afternoon of the third day they heard a trampling of feet on the bricks outside. The door opened, and from his pallet Boots caught one glimpse of waving plumes and barbarically splendid figures before it closed again. The man who had entered, however, was of far more commonplace appearance, save for his head, which in the matter of bandages matched Boots’ body.

  It was not until he spoke that the latter recognized him as Svend Biornson.

  Pointedly ignoring Kennedy, he walked over and stood looking down at the swathed figure on the pallet.

  “You seem to have had a little more than enough, my man,” he greeted Boots.

  Because there was truth in that statement, and because he felt at a great disadvantage, Boots managed a particularly happy smile.

  “Ah, now,” protested he, “‘twas a very amusing frolic while it lasted! Leave me try it again with me two feet under me and I’ll engage to tame a few of those lap-dogs for you. And how is your face the day, Mr. Biornson?”

  “It’s still a face.” The tone was rather grim. “It would have been less than that if your friend had got his way with the rifle, so I shan’t complain.”

  “Mr. Kennedy is a bit quick-tempered,” conceded Boots, “but sure, you’re never the sort to hold against a man the deed done in hot blood, more especially when the worst of it was never done at all, but just thought of?”

  The other laughed.

  “That is an unusual plea. I’ll consider it, and meantime let me thank you for having diverted the rife-muzzle from my head. I learned of your act from the daughter of Quetzalcoatl, whom your friend would have robed-another, deed I suppose you place in the excusable ‘just-thought-of’ class!”

  “The daughter of-you can’t mean the lass from fairyland, with the fire-moths in her hair? Don’t tell me she has years enough to be the child of an old, dead heathen god like that!”

  Biornson cast a nervous glance toward the closed door.

  “Be careful! Never call Quetzalcoatl a dead god in Tlapallan! The Guardians of the Hills are inclined in your favor. They admire strength and courage, and it is seldom indeed that a hound of Nacoc-Yaotl’s has been killed by a man bare-handed. But to speak against Quetzalcoatl is a cardinal crime. Only your life could ever wipe out that insult.”

  “Would you believe it now!” Boots’ curiosity was immense, but he held back his questions, thinking Biornson might be more communicative if merely led on to talk. “And there I might have hurt the feelings of them by a slip of the tongue, had you not warned me! Fine, large, handsome men they are, too, with a spirit of fair play that matches your own, Mr. Biornson.”

  “It is good of you to say so.” The other’s voice was grave, but between the bandages his eyes were twinkling. “And fair speech matches fair play in Killarney, eh?”

  “Kerry,” corrected Boots. “But I meant my words.”

  “I believe you did. They are true enough, too, of the Tlapallans. I can’t say exactly what will be done about you and your friend, but Astrid has promised to speak for you, and I’ll do what I can. As for your wounds, the Tlapotlazenan gild are wonderful healers, and I shall expect to see you on your feet in a week or so. You have reason to be thankful that the Guardians of the Hilts called off their hounds when they did. A little more and it would have been scarcely worth while trying to piece you together.”

  “Guardians of the Hills,” repeated Boots thoughtfully. “There was more truth than fancy, then, in the tales we heard of white giants, though the ghost-cougars they hunt with are just dogs, and there’s little of the fantom about any of them. ‘Tis all a most interesting discovery. An adventure after my own heart, though so far the head and the tail of it are well hid, and the middle past all understanding!”

  The patient angler for information paused tentatively, but Biornson shook his head.

  “For your own sake,” he said, “it is better that you should not understand. I tell you frankly that there is a truth in these hills which no man has ever been allowed to carry beyond them. When you first came to my house, it happened that none of the folk were in the lower valley. It was the time of the Feast of Tlaloc, and they were all gathered in Tlapallan. As men of my own race, I would have done much to save you, but you know how my efforts resulted.”

  “I do not,” Boots retorted. “Betwixt one mystery and the next my head is fair swimming!”

  “Better perish of curiosity than meet the fate I am still trying to avert from you.”

  He looked pityingly down at the homely, good-humored Irish face, with its danger-careless eyes and smiling mouth.

  “I told you there was a secret in these hills. I tell you now that there is also a horror-a-a-thing-a way they have — “

  In a spasm of inexplicable emotion he broke off, and it was a moment before he could control his voice to continue. “When I say that you are housed now, in the seat of Nacoc-Yaotl it means nothing to you, but to me it me
ans threat of a terror that I never think of when I can avoid it! When I was first here, a prisoner, I, who had never given much thought to religion, used to spend whole nights in prayer, entreating God to make it untrue-or let me forget!

  “And yet when I could have escaped I did not go. Though by staying I not only risked my soul, but betrayed a trust, I did not go! I knew by your faces at the house that you had never heard of Svend Biornson. Perhaps conscience exaggerated my fame in the world, and my dropping out of it left hardly a ripple. And yet I know that in some circles that could not have been so. But it was all so many years ago!”

  He paused again.

  “Very like,” said Colin. “If ‘twas so very many years ago I must have been a small, ignorant spalpeen in Kerry when it happened. ‘Tis no wonder I never heard of you.”

  “I was younger myself,” the other answered reflectively. He might almost have been talking to himself, instead of Colin-arguing that old case that every man argues eternally before the inner tribunal “Young and impetuous. For all the standing I had achieved in the archeological field-I know now how young I was! Very proud, too. Twenty-five, and set at the head of a scientific expedition! I wonder who has since done in Yucatan the things I set out to accomplish?

  “And our party! Did any one of them survive to carry back a report? Wiped out by the Yaquis, and poor young Biornson, too! I can see the dear old gray-beards who sent me out shaking their heads and sighing for another young promise lost-and sighing, too, for the work that had not been done. And I, who had been chosen, could have later taken them news whose confirmation would have made the university world-famous-I-fell in love and cast in my lot with Tlapallan! A trust betrayed and youth served! It isn’t the biography that was prophesied for Svend Biornson!”

  “If that’s all you have on your conscience,” consoled Boots, “it’s lighter than most men’s! Sure, to carry tales for the world is an interesting occupation, but I cannot see how you were damned in neglecting it. By your manner, I had thought you left a trail of murder and arson behind you!”

  Biornson stirred impatiently and seemed ill at ease. “I’m a fool!” he said. “What is science or a scientific reputation to an ignorant boy like you? Of course you can’t understand! But-it isn’t only, that! They are my friends, these folk. Sometimes I think they are the last remnant of a forgotten race, older than Toltec or Mayan, or even the Olmecs, who have left nothing to archeology but a memory.

  “And sometimes-I have other thoughts of them, thoughts that I can’t put into words, for there are no words to express them. I know that they speak the Aztec tongue in all its ancient purity, and yet they are surely not of Aztec blood. However it be, they are good, true comrades, and my own wife is one of them, but I sometimes wonder if I have not-have not lost my soul in living here! I am saying too much-you can’t understand and you must not. You shall go back to your own people and your own God — “

  Stooping unexpectedly Biornson seized the surprised Irishman’s hand and gripped it hard.

  “Boy,” and his voice was a harsh whisper, “never bow your head to the gods of a strange race! Never! Not for our nor love, nor wealth, nor friendship! Not for wonders, nor miracles! You speak of mysteries. There is a mystery I could tell you of-but your soul would be sick afterward-sick-you might even desert your Christ-as I did, God help me!”

  “I am a good Catholic,” said Boots, gravely and simply.

  “Then stay so! You are in a city where mercy and kindness excel, and their roots are set in a monstrous cruelty. Where beauty springs out of horror, and they worship benignant gods with the powers of devils! Don’t seek to know the heart of Tlapallan! Go, if they’ll let you-and once away forget that you ever set foot in the Collados del Demonio!”

  With no farewell but a final squeeze of the hand Biornson was gone.

  A memory flashed across the mind of Kennedy. Tlapallan! The White People of Tlapallan! Grant that myth to be true, he thought, and anything was possible-anything!

  For the rest of the afternoon the materialist sat with his head in his hands, silent and glum, till Boots, who could accept miracles, gave up trying to get at the cause of the other man’s perturbation, and fell peacefully asleep.

  CHAPTER IV. Tlapallan or —

  “ARE we to rot here forever?”

  Jerking to his feet, Kennedy glared as if it were some contumacious obstinacy of his companion which still kept them prisoners.

  Six days had passed since Biornson’s visit, and brought no increase of knowledge nor change in their condition.

  Boots, whose wounds had closed with a rapidity that did credit to either an unusual constitution or the medicaments originally used, sat up lazily and stretched his arms.

  “A few hours yet till night. Dye ever notice how still it all is, Mr. Kennedy?”

  “Still as the tomb. Silent as the desert. I’ve thought of nothing but that silence for days. I wondered how long it would be before a glimmer of its meaning reached you.”

  “You’ve the unfortunate disposition to hold your thoughts till they sour on you. Never mind how thick my head is. Be kind to me, and say out the meaning, if you know it.”

  “I will if you’ll shut up a minute yourself. The meaning is clear enough. It is simply that your dear friend Biornson is a particularly effective and artistic liar. That all his talk of Quetzalcoatl and Tlapallan is so much empty rubbish. I told you in the beginning that there were mines in these hills. I’m doubly sure of it now.

  “Let us suppose, what is probably true, that Biornson is a man well and unfavorably known by the rurales, and in consequence a man who doesn’t dare apply to the government for a mining concession. Suppose, then, that he sees a certain opportunity in the current superstitions about these hills. What would be simpler than to strengthen them with the aid of a few white followers and a pack of hounds, and proceed therewith to make his fortune in safe secrecy?”

  “I can think of a lot of simpler things,” said Boots reflectively, “though I’ll not say you’re wrong. But what’s that then?” He pointed to the polished white wall opposite the window. “The back of a mining shack, maybe? It must be a magnificent fine one to be built of white marble!”

  “That,” Kennedy retorted, “is part of the same ruins that his men brought me down through blindfolded that first night. I’ll grant you that we are in a city of the Aztecs, or possibly of the Mayas. But it is a city as dead as the bygone civilizations of those races. Once out of this cell, and I promise you the sight of empty ruins, and no more.”

  “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” conceded Boots rather sadly. “I misdoubt you’re right. And here I’d hoped to be seeing the strange wild city of a tale, with its priests and its multitudes bowing down to their poor false gods, and maybe a bloody sacrifice or so to make it the more interesting!”

  For once the older man laughed, but it was a contemptuous merriment.,j

  “From the curiosity of children and fools, good Lord deliver us! Biornson conjures up a frightful dream, and here you are ready to weep because it isn’t real! Do you, know the meaning of Tlapallan?”

  “I’ve been trying to wring it out of you for a week,” was Boots’ bitter reply.

  “In the old mythology of Anahuac, Tlapallan was a city of white wizards. It was to rule this fanciful Community that Quetzalcoatl deserted the Chollulans. In Yucatan they still expect him to return leading the magic race of white giants who are to restore all Mexico to the Aztecs. It was clever in Biornson to use that legend as a kind of scarecrow. His men are costumed to the part, and I dare say more than one Indian or greaser has been well frightened by them and the pack of hounds in their trail.

  “What I appreciate, though, is his nerve in trying to put the illusion over on me. He didn’t want to do it. He was deathly afraid we’d run across some of his stage settings before he got rid of us. When we did, he decided to take the bull by the horns and try to victimize us through our imaginations, just as he’s done for years with the Indians
.”

  “But what’s he to gain by cooping us here, and-what of the queer language they all speak?”

  “Aztec. You’ve heard it spoken in half a dozen Indian villages, but they give a queer twist to it here which I’ll admit deceived even me. They are some white hill tribe over whom Biornson has got a hold, but take my word, the whole affair is a kind of elaborate hoax.

  “For the rest, he has us here, and he doesn’t exactly know what to do with us. I suppose some remnant of decency makes him hesitate at murder, and on the other hand, he’s afraid to let us go. If you had only allowed me to kill him when I had the chance we should be free men today. What are you grinning over now?”

  “Nothing-or just the astonishing difference betwixt a murder and a killing. If we leave here tonight, will y’be content to do it without bloodshed?”

  Kennedy brightened a trifle.

  “You have a plan?”

  “I’ve me muscle,” was the placid retort. “If that fine actorman, Mr. Biornson, believes me disabled entirely by a few small scratches, ‘tis deceiving himself, he is. I do hope the jailer he sends to feed us is an upstanding lad, for ‘twould be shame to waste the returned strength of me on a man of contemptible proportions!”

  As Boots had once pointed out, the fact that they were given no light after sundown was no great deprivation, since they had nothing to look at but each other, and the long, empty day was more than sufficient for that.

  Tonight, however, it was a positive advantage. If they could not see their jailer, neither could he see them.

  On these occasions the door was never opened wide. There was a chain outside, restricting the aperture to a matter of a dozen inches. Through this the invisible one passed his burden; fruit always, corn-cakes, boiled beans, or, more rarely, podrida of chopped chicken and peppers-a plain but plentiful diet. For drink there was water and a kind of thin, sweetish beer, contained in the porous clay ollas that kept it cool.

  Kennedy had never made any effort to attack this provision-bearing visitor. For one thing there was the chain, and for another, except in the fury of being cornered, or with an overwhelming force to back him, he had not to any great degree the spirit that attacks.