“Not yet, not yet,” he cried; “the god is not in the air. Go search the sea!”
In the hollow of his hand he lifted water, and sprinkled her face; and when he resumed his seat she spoke, not slowly as before, but fast and free.
“The land is passed; behind me are the cities and lakes, and the great houses and blue waters, such as I have seen in my pictures. I am hovering now, father, where there is nothing before me but waves and distance. White birds go skimming about careless of the foam; the winds pour upon me steadily; and in my ear is a sound as of a great voice. I listen, and it is the sea; or, father, it may be the voice of the god whom you seek.”
She was silent, as if waiting for an answer.
“The water, is it? Well, well,—whither shall I go now?”
“Follow the shore; it may lead where only gods have been.”
“Still the waves and the distance, and the land, where it goes down into the sea sprinkled with shells. Still the deep voice in my ear, and the wind about me. I hurry on, but it is all alike,—all water and sound. No! Out of the waves rises a new land, the sea, a girdle of billows, encircling it everywhere; yet there are blue clouds ascending from the fields, and I see palm-trees and temples. May not thy god dwell here?”
“No. You see but an island. On!”
“Well, well. Behind me fades the island; before me is nothing but sheen and waves and distance again; far around runs the line separating the sea and sky. Waste, all waste; the sea all green, the sky all blue; no life; no god. But stay!”
“Something moves on the waste: speak, child!”
But for a time she was still.
“Speak!” he said, earnestly. “Speak, Tecetl!”
“They are far off,—far off,” she replied, slowly and in a doubting way. “They move and live, but I cannot tell whether they come or go, or what they are. Their course is unsteady, and, like the flight of birds, now upon the sea, then in air, a moment seeming of the waves, then of the sky. They look like white clouds.”
“You are fleeter than birds or clouds,—nearer!” he said, sternly, the fire in his eyes all alight.
“I go,—I approach them,—I now see them coming. O father, father! I know not what your god is like, nor what shape he takes, nor in what manner he travels; but surely these are his! There are many of them, and as they sweep along they are a sight to be looked at with trembling.”
“What are they, Tecetl?”
“How can I answer? They are not of the things I have seen in my pictures, nor heard in my songs. The face of the sea is whitened by them; the largest leads the way, looking like a shell,—of them I have heard you speak as coming from the sea,—a great shell streaked with light and shade, and hollow, so that the sides rise above the reach of the waves,—wings—.”
“Nay, what would a god of the air with wings to journey upon the sea!”
“Above it are clouds,—clouds white as the foam, and such as a god might choose to waft him on his way. I can see them sway and toss, but as the shell rushes into the hollow places, they lift it up, and drive it on.”
A brighter light flashed from his eyes. “It is the canoe, the canoe!” he exclaimed. “The canoe from Tlapallan!”
“The canoe, father! The waves rush joyously around it; they lift themselves in its path, and roll on to meet it; then, as if they knew it to be a god’s, in peace make way for its coming. Upon the temples in my pictures I have seen signs floating in the air—”
“You mean banners,—banners, child,” he said, tremulously.
“I remember now. Above the foremost canoe, above its clouds, there is a banner, and it is black—”
“’Tis Quetzal’s! ’Tis Quetzal’s!” he muttered.
“It is black, with golden embroidery, and something picture-written on it, but what I cannot tell.”
“Look in the canoe.”
“I see—O, I know not what to call them.”
“Of what shape are they, child?”
“Yours, father.”
“Go on: they are gods!” he said, and still the naming of men was unheard in the great chamber.
“There are many of them,” she continued; “their garments flash and gleam; around one like themselves they are met; to me he seems the superior god; he is speaking, they are listening. He is taller than you, father, and has a fair face, and hair and beard like the hue of his banner. His garments are the brightest of all.”
“You have described a god; it is Quetzal’, the holy, beautiful Quetzal’!” he said, with rising voice. “Look if his course be toward the land.”
“Every canoe moves toward the shore.”
“Enough!” he cried. “The writing on the wall is the god’s!” And, rising, he awoke the girl.
As Tecetl awake had no recollection of her journey, or of what she had seen in its course, she wondered at his trouble and excitement, and spoke to him, without answer.
“Father, what has Tecetl done that you should be so troubled?”
He put aside her arms, and in silence turned slowly from the pleasant place, and retraced his steps back through the halls of the Cû to the court-yard and azoteas.
The weight of the secret did not oppress him; it rested upon him lightly as the surplice upon his shoulders; for the humble servant of his god was lifted above his poverty and trembling, and, vivified by the consciousness of inspiration, felt more than a warrior’s strength. But what should he do? Where proclaim the revelation? Upon the temple?
“The streets are deserted; the people are in the theatre; the king is there with all Anahuac,” he muttered. “The coming of Quetzal’ concerns the Empire, and it shall hear the announcement: so not on the temple, but to the tianguez. The god speaks to me! To the tianguez!”
In the chapel he exchanged his white surplice for the regalia of sacrifice. Never before, to his fancy, wore the idol such seeming of life. Satisfaction played grimly about its mouth; upon its brow, like a coronet, sat the infinite Will. From the chapel he descended to the street that led to the great square. Insensibly, as he hurried on, his steps quickened; and bareheaded and unsandalled, his white beard and hair loose and flowing, and his face beaming with excitement, he looked the very embodiment of direful prophecy. On the streets he met only slaves. At the theatre the entrance was blocked by people; soldiery guarded the arena: but guard and people shrunk at his approach; and thus, without word or cry, he rushed within the wall of shields, where were none but the combatants, living and dead.
Midway the arena he halted, his face to the king. Around ran his wondrous glance, and, regardless of the royalty present, the people shouted, “The paba, the paba!” and their many voices shook the theatre. Flinging the white locks back on his shoulders, he tossed his arms aloft; and the tumult rose into the welkin, and a calm settled over the multitude. Montezuma, with the malediction warm on his lips, bent from his couch to hear his words.
“Woe is Tenochtitlan, the beautiful!” he cried, in the unmeasured accents of grief. “Woe to homes, and people, and armies, and king! Why this gathering of dwellers on the hills and in the valleys! Why the combat of warriors? Quetzal’ is at hand. He comes for vengeance. Woe is Tenochtitlan, the beautiful! * * * * This, O king, is the day of the fulfilment of prophecy. From out the sea, wafted by clouds, even now the canoes of the god are coming. His power whitens the waves, and the garments of his warriors gleam with the light of the sky. Woe is Tenochtitlan! This day is the last of her perfect glory; to-morrow Quetzal’ will glisten on the sea-shore, and her Empire vanish forever. * * * * People, say farewell to peace! Keepers of the temples, holy men, go feed the fires, and say