Charles the Fifth. Father Francisco planted the cross and we knelt beside it and thanked God who at the last moment had snatched us back from death.
Yet, for all our good fortune, we were faced with a hard decision.
Should we go northward, along the rampart, or to the south, hoping to find a way into the Abyss? In both directions the rampart curved away beyond sight. Should we turn back and retrace our steps to Háwikuh? Our first amazement gone, our thankfulness forgotten, we stood beside the cross and lamented our fate.
Mendoza said, "The chieftain is a liar of great proportions. May he roast in hell."
"Indians everywhere are liars," Roa said, "from the Province of Panamá to Háwikuh."
"May they roast in the fires," Zuñiga said.
"But the scarlet cliffs are there," Father Francisco replied, "as the chieftain said."
"So is the Abyss," Mendoza answered, "of which he did not speak. And where, dear Father, is the river which he did speak of?"
Zia had left us to wander along the rampart. As she stopped to toss a rock into the air, I heard her call. She was always finding something that interested her but no one else, so she called again before I went to where she stood, hopping from one foot to the other.
"Look," she said and pointed toward the bottom of the Abyss. "There, by the small hill of yellow stone."
I looked, saw the hill, and nothing else.
She pulled my head down. "Look where I point."
I looked again, grew dizzy with looking, but at last made out a strip of green. "Grass," I said and turned away.
"Not grass," she cried, pulling me back. "See, it is water. Water that runs. A river!"
I looked anew and found the hill of yellow stone, the strip of green no larger than my hand. I saw that it was not grass but a bend of shore, and on both sides of it was white sand.
"Do you see?"
"Yes," I said.
"A river?"
"A river," I said, "a mighty one."
14
W E SPENT A DAY in search of a path into the Abyss. Forming two parties, Mendoza sent one south along the rampart, the other to the north, in the hope that if there were a city beside the river its people would have a trail by which to go up and down.
No trail was found nor footprints, save those of deer and mountain lion. But we did find a shallow crevice, overgrown by wind-bent pine, that wound downward along the stony face of the rampart. This we decided to try, there being no other choice.
The animals, including the big gray dog, were left in the care of Torres. Food was taken for eight days.
"If we are not back by the eighth day," Captain Mendoza said, "return to Háwikuh for help."
"While you are gone," Torres replied, "I will search for abetter path to the river."
"Remain here and search for nothing," Mendoza said. "If time grows heavy, spend it on Tigre. He progresses, but he is still more lamb than tiger."
"You will not know him when you return," Torres said.
Experience gained in the fearsome Gorge of Sonora helped us greatly. Before the sun was a lance high, we had descended deep along the crevice, scrambling from one tree to another. This crevice led to a second, then to a ledge from which we could see the cross and Torres waving from the rampart.
By a series of such crevices, which were like steep ladders, we reached a bench covered with bushes, heavy with berries bitter to the taste.
It was now afternoon and since clouds hid the sky and portended rain, we made camp. From branches and brush we made a good shelter and were safe within before the first thunder rolled.
Rain fell until dusk. Around us water ran, hanging from the ramparts above in silver threads. The sky cleared and through the clear air we saw a different stretch of the river. It was off to the south, but so far below that it looked like the coils of a green serpent.
By nightfall we had explored the bench, finding that on two sides it was an unbroken scarp. To the east, however, the rock had broken away and formed a fan-shaped slope. At dawn, with much difficulty, we
Yet, for all our good fortune, we were faced with a hard decision.
Should we go northward, along the rampart, or to the south, hoping to find a way into the Abyss? In both directions the rampart curved away beyond sight. Should we turn back and retrace our steps to Háwikuh? Our first amazement gone, our thankfulness forgotten, we stood beside the cross and lamented our fate.
Mendoza said, "The chieftain is a liar of great proportions. May he roast in hell."
"Indians everywhere are liars," Roa said, "from the Province of Panamá to Háwikuh."
"May they roast in the fires," Zuñiga said.
"But the scarlet cliffs are there," Father Francisco replied, "as the chieftain said."
"So is the Abyss," Mendoza answered, "of which he did not speak. And where, dear Father, is the river which he did speak of?"
Zia had left us to wander along the rampart. As she stopped to toss a rock into the air, I heard her call. She was always finding something that interested her but no one else, so she called again before I went to where she stood, hopping from one foot to the other.
"Look," she said and pointed toward the bottom of the Abyss. "There, by the small hill of yellow stone."
I looked, saw the hill, and nothing else.
She pulled my head down. "Look where I point."
I looked again, grew dizzy with looking, but at last made out a strip of green. "Grass," I said and turned away.
"Not grass," she cried, pulling me back. "See, it is water. Water that runs. A river!"
I looked anew and found the hill of yellow stone, the strip of green no larger than my hand. I saw that it was not grass but a bend of shore, and on both sides of it was white sand.
"Do you see?"
"Yes," I said.
"A river?"
"A river," I said, "a mighty one."
14
W E SPENT A DAY in search of a path into the Abyss. Forming two parties, Mendoza sent one south along the rampart, the other to the north, in the hope that if there were a city beside the river its people would have a trail by which to go up and down.
No trail was found nor footprints, save those of deer and mountain lion. But we did find a shallow crevice, overgrown by wind-bent pine, that wound downward along the stony face of the rampart. This we decided to try, there being no other choice.
The animals, including the big gray dog, were left in the care of Torres. Food was taken for eight days.
"If we are not back by the eighth day," Captain Mendoza said, "return to Háwikuh for help."
"While you are gone," Torres replied, "I will search for abetter path to the river."
"Remain here and search for nothing," Mendoza said. "If time grows heavy, spend it on Tigre. He progresses, but he is still more lamb than tiger."
"You will not know him when you return," Torres said.
Experience gained in the fearsome Gorge of Sonora helped us greatly. Before the sun was a lance high, we had descended deep along the crevice, scrambling from one tree to another. This crevice led to a second, then to a ledge from which we could see the cross and Torres waving from the rampart.
By a series of such crevices, which were like steep ladders, we reached a bench covered with bushes, heavy with berries bitter to the taste.
It was now afternoon and since clouds hid the sky and portended rain, we made camp. From branches and brush we made a good shelter and were safe within before the first thunder rolled.
Rain fell until dusk. Around us water ran, hanging from the ramparts above in silver threads. The sky cleared and through the clear air we saw a different stretch of the river. It was off to the south, but so far below that it looked like the coils of a green serpent.
By nightfall we had explored the bench, finding that on two sides it was an unbroken scarp. To the east, however, the rock had broken away and formed a fan-shaped slope. At dawn, with much difficulty, we
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