descended this slope and came to a second bench.
Here there were no pines, only sparse-leaved bush, similar to those in the Valley of Hearts. Here Zia found a shell, half buried in the earth, the size of my fist and fluted. It was like those she had picked up around the lagoon on the Sea of Cortés. It puzzled me how a shell could be in this place, so far from the sea. And it puzzles me still.
Next afternoon, having traveled the morning down a tortuous steep, we came to sand dunes and the river.
The river was about two hundred paces in width and ran faster than a man can walk. Gray rocks broke its surface and below the surface unseen rocks were marked by whirlpools and white water. The sound of its running was like the groans of a thousand demons.
"We can never reach the far bank," said Roa.
"Nor do we need to," Mendoza answered. "Unless the city lies there."
"If it does, then we will never see it," Roa said.
"If it does, having come this far, we shall," said Mendoza.
"God be with us," said Zuñiga.
Southward the river ran between high bastions, but to the north were stretches of beach. Setting out toward them, we had gone for an hour when fog overtook us. Since we could not see farther than a few steps, we made a fire and camped.
"What I wish to know," Roa said, standing beside the burning driftwood, "is how we carry gold back to the mules."
Looking up at the ramparts we had left almost two days before, a thin line nearly lost in the sky, I wondered also.
"We carry it on our backs, of course," Mendoza said. "One
arroba
to the man. More, if need be."
"I have much trouble carrying myself," said Father Francisco.
"If we die, as we may," said Zuñiga, who often spoke
foolishly, "we will become angels. Then we can fly straight up with the gold."
"Angels," said Father Francisco, "have no use for gold." He turned to Mendoza. "How does a man carry one
arroba
of gold back along the way we have come?"
"Gold," Mendoza said, "can be very light. The lightest burden of all."
The first stars came out. It is said that stars seem brighter when seen from the bottom of a well. Of this, I do not know. I do know that these were as bright as wondrous jewels.
With night a wind rose and blew along the river. It carried a smell, faint yet familiar.
"Indian fires," Zia said. "
Mizquitl
wood."
Mendoza jumped to his feet and shouted.
His voice was drowned in the roar of the river. It made no difference. The Indians of Nexpan already had seen us.
It was still dark beside the river as dawn broke, but above us light swept the bastion's rim. There, like figures of burnished copper, stood three men. They were too far away to hear us so we waved, beckoning them to descend. In answer they pointed down river and vanished.
It was a moment of excitement. The chieftain, for all our doubts, had spoken the truth. We had found the scarlet cliffs, the mighty river he had described. The Indians proved that a city lay near at hand. It was a moment of caution also, for Háwikuh we still remembered.
We did not wait to eat but set off down the river, singing. Our only lack was musicâdrum and flute having been left behind. Within the hour we sighted three spires on the far side of the river, and at the same time, a place where the bastion was cleft.
The cleft was not much wider than my outstretched arms. Its sides towered straight toward the sky, black as a raven's wing. Through it coursed a swift stream which flowed into the river over black, gleaming stones. Beside the stream was a path worn by many feet.
This path we took and once inside the cleft found ourselves in half-darkness. Giant ferns that grew along the stream dripped water, and cold mist wet our faces. The stone path was slippery underfoot.
Soon the defile narrowed and closed over our heads. We could only find our way by touching the dank walls. The stream thundered beside us, as we scrambled along in utter darkness. Abruptly we came into sunlight.
Before us lay a
Here there were no pines, only sparse-leaved bush, similar to those in the Valley of Hearts. Here Zia found a shell, half buried in the earth, the size of my fist and fluted. It was like those she had picked up around the lagoon on the Sea of Cortés. It puzzled me how a shell could be in this place, so far from the sea. And it puzzles me still.
Next afternoon, having traveled the morning down a tortuous steep, we came to sand dunes and the river.
The river was about two hundred paces in width and ran faster than a man can walk. Gray rocks broke its surface and below the surface unseen rocks were marked by whirlpools and white water. The sound of its running was like the groans of a thousand demons.
"We can never reach the far bank," said Roa.
"Nor do we need to," Mendoza answered. "Unless the city lies there."
"If it does, then we will never see it," Roa said.
"If it does, having come this far, we shall," said Mendoza.
"God be with us," said Zuñiga.
Southward the river ran between high bastions, but to the north were stretches of beach. Setting out toward them, we had gone for an hour when fog overtook us. Since we could not see farther than a few steps, we made a fire and camped.
"What I wish to know," Roa said, standing beside the burning driftwood, "is how we carry gold back to the mules."
Looking up at the ramparts we had left almost two days before, a thin line nearly lost in the sky, I wondered also.
"We carry it on our backs, of course," Mendoza said. "One
arroba
to the man. More, if need be."
"I have much trouble carrying myself," said Father Francisco.
"If we die, as we may," said Zuñiga, who often spoke
foolishly, "we will become angels. Then we can fly straight up with the gold."
"Angels," said Father Francisco, "have no use for gold." He turned to Mendoza. "How does a man carry one
arroba
of gold back along the way we have come?"
"Gold," Mendoza said, "can be very light. The lightest burden of all."
The first stars came out. It is said that stars seem brighter when seen from the bottom of a well. Of this, I do not know. I do know that these were as bright as wondrous jewels.
With night a wind rose and blew along the river. It carried a smell, faint yet familiar.
"Indian fires," Zia said. "
Mizquitl
wood."
Mendoza jumped to his feet and shouted.
His voice was drowned in the roar of the river. It made no difference. The Indians of Nexpan already had seen us.
It was still dark beside the river as dawn broke, but above us light swept the bastion's rim. There, like figures of burnished copper, stood three men. They were too far away to hear us so we waved, beckoning them to descend. In answer they pointed down river and vanished.
It was a moment of excitement. The chieftain, for all our doubts, had spoken the truth. We had found the scarlet cliffs, the mighty river he had described. The Indians proved that a city lay near at hand. It was a moment of caution also, for Háwikuh we still remembered.
We did not wait to eat but set off down the river, singing. Our only lack was musicâdrum and flute having been left behind. Within the hour we sighted three spires on the far side of the river, and at the same time, a place where the bastion was cleft.
The cleft was not much wider than my outstretched arms. Its sides towered straight toward the sky, black as a raven's wing. Through it coursed a swift stream which flowed into the river over black, gleaming stones. Beside the stream was a path worn by many feet.
This path we took and once inside the cleft found ourselves in half-darkness. Giant ferns that grew along the stream dripped water, and cold mist wet our faces. The stone path was slippery underfoot.
Soon the defile narrowed and closed over our heads. We could only find our way by touching the dank walls. The stream thundered beside us, as we scrambled along in utter darkness. Abruptly we came into sunlight.
Before us lay a
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