An Inca king for Cuzco's throne
In victor strength shall rise.
LOOK, patre! We have but to cross yonder stream, and we shall have entered the sacred land where the golden wand of my great father Manco sank into the ground—the patrimony of the Children of the Sun. Let the patre hasten.”
“I cannot hasten; I am weary." And Fray Fernando seated himself, or rather sank, upon a stone by the wayside.
The way was a steep, slippery descent, leading from the mountain's height to the
“Wide cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound,”
that spanned the rapid torrent of the Apurimac. Jose stopped, and looked at him with concern.
“It is a hard way, patre," he said; "but you shall soon rest. You see there is a tampu at the other end of the bridge.”
“But for your help, Jose, I could never have come so far. To a stripling like you these mountain-paths are easy; not so to—
“To an old man," he would fain have said; but he knew that his age, if reckoned by years, would give him no claim to the title: it was only in sorrow he was old.
“Lend me your hand once more," he added, rousing himself with an effort, "and I will try to reach the tampu.”
Jose, who was agile as one of the vicuñas of the mountain, managed to keep his own footing in the most slippery spots, while he guided the steps of his companion to the safest places, and never failed to lend him the aid of his steady hand.
“Look there, Jose!" said the monk suddenly, in a tone of dismay. "Before us there is no path—no place for one; nothing but a sheer precipice. How, in Heaven's name, are we to reach the bridge? Your people must be birds, to travel by such ways.”
“Our people trusted the Inca," said Jose, with a quiet smile; "and they knew that every way he made for them would bring them safely to the Golden City. There is a hole in the rock, and we are to go through it.”
It was true. A tunnel, forty feet in length, cut zigzag through the solid rock, and duly provided with steps, brought them safely and easily to the bridge. Even the weary monk was fain to gaze with admiration on the scene that met their view when they emerged from the darkness of the tunnel. Full three hundred feet below them the Apurimac dashed over its rocky bed between steep precipices; whilst the abyss was spanned by the graceful bridge of sogas, or cords of maguey, so light and apparently so frail that it vibrated in every gust of mountain wind, yet so strong that armies had marched over it without fear and without danger.
Nor was Fray Fernando conscious of fear, though he felt it tremble beneath his feet as he walked. He had crossed halfway when, in an unlucky moment, he looked down on the roaring torrent beneath. A sudden dizziness seized him; his limbs first lost their power, then shook with a nervous tremor that he could not control. In vain he laid fast hold on the rope of maguey, considerately hung breast-high over the bridge, and attached to it with cords for the greater security of the traveler. He could neither advance nor retreat; nor could he withdraw his eyes from the abyss, over which he seemed suspended on a thread. The sight had a fearful fascination for him. How many perplexities would be ended by just one plunge; not so much—one little step from the spot where he stood! The voice of the waters seemed to call him. But Jose seized his hand, and with friendly violence drew him onwards. Dizzy, faint, and sick, he reached the tampu at last.
He had been suffering all day from a severe pain in his head and neck, and now it became really agonizing. He was quite unable to partake of the roasted maize Jose had brought with him; and the tampu being as usual deserted, Jose had no means of procuring him any of the comforts he needed. He gathered, however, some of the ychu that grew near the place, and, spreading his cloak over it, made a kind of couch, upon which Fray Fernando was heartily glad to stretch his aching limbs.
“Just read the psalms for me," said the weary monk; "then I will pray, and try to sleep.”
It had now become the custom for Jose every evening to read the psalms for the day aloud in Latin, and then, with the help of his teacher, to translate them into Spanish. By means of this simple plan, he was making fair progress in the language which he still believed to be that of the ancient Jews, and of the English. On this occasion the first psalm for the day happened to be the Seventy-first. He read it through without even a thought of its meaning, being occupied with his apprehensions about Fray Fernando. But the next—the Seventy second—arrested his attention. Glimmerings of its purport, which flashed on him through the veil of the Latin words, deeply stirred his soul. It seemed to tell of a great King—an Inca— who should rule in righteousness, befriend the poor, redress wrongs everywhere. But just as he was eagerly proceeding to the task of translation, the patre very effectually changed the current of his thoughts by exclaiming, “If this pain in my head continues, I shall lose my reason.”
It was well that Jose's impassive Indian countenance did not betray the alarm he really felt. He had not the least idea what remedies he ought to use; and even if he had, how was he to procure them in that solitary, desolate place? He drew near, and put his hand on the monk's forehead. It was burning: so he took the cotton cloth in which he had carried the maize, dipped it in cold water, and laid it on the throbbing brow. The cool application gave temporary relief; and Jose, perceiving this, renewed it at intervals. As the air was chilly, he collected with considerable difficulty a supply of dry sticks (a few stunted bushes grew near), and made a fire.
After what seemed a lengthened period of restless pain and distress, Fray Fernando dropped into an uneasy slumber, which, however, grew gradually quieter and heavier. It lasted so long that his devoted attendant began to think he also might allow himself a little sleep; which he took, stretched on the ground at the sick man's feet.
The next morning was far advanced when Fray Fernando opened his heavy eyes. Jose, who had no doubt that he would awaken refreshed and strengthened, was greatly disappointed at the pain and weariness still too visible in his countenance.
“Where am I?" he asked feebly.
“Only two days' journey from the Golden City, patre," Jose cheerfully made answer.
“Many, many days from the Golden City—never like to reach it," Fray Fernando moaned.
“Of what can he be thinking?" thought Jose, in dismay. "Can he be raving?" He said aloud,—" You will reach it easily, patre, when you have had a day or two of rest. Would I dare leave you alone, and I would run and fetch help for you.
If God would but send some traveler this way! Patre, how does your head feel?”
“It still throbs wildly," said the monk, feebly raising his hand to it." What hour is it? How long have I slept?”
Jose answered both questions with as near an approach to accuracy as he could. Then the monk added,— “I have an impression that I talked in my sleep. Did I?" he asked uneasily.
“Never a word, patre. You only moaned, like one in pain. Patre, I wish you would eat some of my coca-leaves; they would do you good. Woe is me! I have nothing else to give you, save cold water and maize.”
“Away with your coca!" said the monk sternly. "It would be a sin for me to touch or taste it.”
“As the patre pleases," returned Jose, with apparent indifference. "But, I pray you, try to eat a little maize-just a few grains. I will make them hot for you in a minute; see what a good fire I have kindled!”
“Eat the maize yourself, my son; you must have needed it ere this.”
“Oh no, patre; I have had abundance," said Jose, whose code of morality was not too high to permit what is often, though erroneously, called "a white lie.”
The day wore on. In the afternoon the monk seemed better; and Jose, who keenly felt the discomfort, not to say the peril, of remaining longer in their present position, ventured to ask if he might not run at least to the nearest village to obtain food and other necessaries.
“I will run like the Inca's chasquis," he pleaded; "my foot shall not bend the blades of ychu as I pass.”
He did not dream—how could he?—that his patron was struggling, not alone with bodily pain, but with sore anguish and bitterness of soul. In this hour of weakness, Fray Fernando could not face the thought of being left to himself amidst that dreary solitude. In proportion as the world of man seemed far away, the spirit-world seemed near. José could not, at best, return before the shades of evening fell. And Fray Fernando dared not meet the darkness, with its strange
“Voices and visions from the sphere of those
That have to die no more,”
without the comfort and support of a human presence.
“Wait till next morning, Jose," he said. "Then I shall be better or worse. In either case, I promise to let you go.”
Jose waited, with the patience of his race. Hour after hour he sat by the fire, watching Fray Fernando as he dozed, and trying to put together the disjointed fragments of meaning gathered up from that wonderful psalm. The more he pondered, the more certain he felt that it told of an Inca— a King who should reign in righteousness, and be the Friend of the poor. But who was He? Had He reigned long ago over the Jews? Or, peradventure, was He still to come? Jose knew well that the Psalms contained many prophecies of future events. He would ask the patre the interpretation of this one. But he would take care so to veil his questions that the patre should never guess their real drift and object. For Jose, who loved Fray Fernando well enough to die for him, would yet rather have died than have allowed him to suspect certain hopes and dreams that lay hidden in the depths of his heart.
Towards evening the monk appeared so much easier that Jose ventured to propose reading to him.
“You may, if you like," was the answer. And Jose quietly began,—"Deus, justicium.”
"You mistake," Fray Fernando said at once. "You read that before. This is the fifteenth evening of the month.”
“Is it, patre?" Jose asked innocently. "Yes—no; I do not think I read this one. Not in Spanish, at least. 'Give justice, O God.'”
Fray Fernando's nerves were in that miserable condition in which the slightest jarring touch means torture. He felt it intolerable to lie still and listen to Jose's blunders. By way of correcting him, he began the familiar words himself,—" Give the king thy judgments, O God, and thy righteousness to the king's son.'”
“Ah, that is easy to understand," said Jose." But when I change the words for myself, I lose the first word before I find the second. If the patre would only go on, and recite it all for me!”
Fray Fernando had no objection. It was indeed far less troublesome to recite the well-known words himself than to hear Jose stumble over them. Coldly and monotonously enough, for his thoughts were far away, he repeated the words of that sublime psalm—words first of prayer—such prayer as any righteous king might fitly offer for his son and successor; then kindling and rising into a grand prophecy of a greater King than Solomon, a holier and more enduring reign than his; and ending at last with that fervent burst of thanksgiving, the noble and appropriate close to the prayers of David, the son of Jesse.
Crouched on the ground by Fray Fernando's side, and with eager eyes that never stirred from his face, the Indian youth drank in every word.
This was what he heard:—"' Give the king thy judgments, O God, and thy righteousness unto the king's son. He shall judge thy people with righteousness, and thy poor with judgment. The mountains shall bring peace to the people, and the little hills, by righteousness. He shall judge the poor of the people, he shall save the children of the needy, and shall break in pieces the oppressor. They shall fear thee as long as the sun and the moon endure, throughout all generations. He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass; as showers that water the earth. In his days shall the righteous flourish; and abundance of peace so long as the moon endureth. He shall have dominion also from sea to sea, and from the river unto the ends of the earth. They that dwell in the wilderness shall bow before him, and his enemies shall lick the dust.
The kings of Tarshish and of the isles shall bring presents; the kings of Sheba and Seba shall offer gifts. Yea, all kings shall fall down before him, all nations shall serve him. For he shall deliver the poor when he crieth; the needy also, and him that hath no helper. He shall spare the poor and needy, and shall save the souls of the needy. He shall redeem their souls from deceit and violence; and precious shall their blood be in his sight.'”
No longer could the delighted hearer keep silence. "Ranti, ranti! Capac Inca, Huacchacuyac!" (Hail, hail! mighty Inca, Friend of the poor!) he cried, springing suddenly to his feet.
“What is it, Jose?" asked the startled Fray Fernando, whose thoughts were recalled from the ends of the earth by this impassioned interruption.
“Nothing, patre," said Jose, resuming his seat, and his habitual manner. "Will it please the patre to go on? They are good words.”
The patre went on: “He shall live, and to him shall be given of the gold of Sheba; prayer shall be made for him continually, and daily shall he be praised. There shall be an handful of corn in the earth upon the top of the mountains.' "—(And here the Inca's son beheld, through the happy tears that filled his eyes, the terraced hills of his fathers' land, with their waving handfuls of maize on the narrow ledges at the top, sure tokens of the industry and the prosperity of the nation.)—" The fruit thereof shall shake like Lebanon; and they of the city shall flourish like grass of the earth. His name shall endure forever: his name shall be continued as long as the sun, and men shall be blessed in him: all nations shall call him blessed. Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, who only doeth wondrous things. And blessed be his glorious name forever: and let the whole earth be filled with his glory. Amen, and Amen!'”
“Amen, and Amen!" José echoed. Then he said softly," Thank you, patre," and without another word went out.
He stood on the brink of the precipice overhanging the current. The moon was pouring a flood of light over the rocks, the mountains, the bridge; even the waters of the river, far beneath, caught the silver radiance, and glistened as they flowed along. Jose knew that his fathers called that stream the Apurimac—the Great Talker—because they dreamed of mystic murmurings in its noisy path, which, duly interpreted, would reveal the secrets of the future. Would that the Oracle would speak to him—but this once—and tell him who was that great Inca, that King of the East, who would deliver the poor when he cried! Had He reigned long ago, like King David, who was dead and buried in Jerusalem No; for it was said, "They shall fear Thee as long as the sun and the moon endure." Was He still to come? Or could it be that He was reigning even now? In the valleys amongst his own people, mysterious rumors passed from lip to lip about pale-faced bearded strangers, with golden hair, who should come from beyond the Mother Sea, and avenge the wrongs of the Children of the Sun upon the cruel Spaniards. Some called these people English, but perhaps they meant Jews, as when men said Castilians they meant Spaniards. The Spaniards slandered these their rivals, as was natural; saying that they were not Catholics, that they did not adore the Holy Cross, and that they roasted Indians and ate them. But those who knew better bore witness that they were always just and kind to the people of the lands where they came, and never did them any harm. Probably the tale that they were governed by a coya, or empress, came from the Spaniards also; for how could a woman govern a great and brave nation? Surely they must have a king! Why not the great King that David described in the psalm?
If he might only find that King, lay the wrongs of his people at His feet, implore His help for them! To accomplish this, peril would be light, difficulty nothing. Gladly would he do what none of his race had done yet of their free will—cross the Mother Sea, and plant his foot on the strange shores of which his fathers had never dreamed. Gladly would he die, slain by the sword or burned to ashes at the stake, like others of his people, if that would bring deliverance to Tahuantin Suyu, and set the rainbow banner of the Incas free once more to wave in the sunshine. Surely the Great King, if once he could but find Him, would be pitiful, for He should judge the poor and needy; and He would be strong to save, for His dominion should be from sea to sea, and from the river to the ends of the earth.
Once more he looked down at the foaming Apurimac. But in all its noisy tones there was no voice for him. Well he knew that the dreams of his fathers were but dreams, baseless and unsubstantial, to vanish when the morning light arose. Then he looked up to heaven. Quilla, the silvery spouse of Ynty, could tell him as little as the babbling stream below. But above—far above? There dwelt the Great God, who made Indian and Spaniard alike, who was blessed and praised in that wonderful psalm, and to whom, Fray Fernando told him, men might pray for help in every time of need. He knelt down, and clasping his hands, prayed his first real prayer,—"O God, teach me about the Great King, and help me to find Him.”
That was all he said. But as he rose from his knees, and quietly re-entered the tampu, a calmness and a strength, never felt before, came down upon his perplexed, bewildered mind. It had its root in two persuasions, not clear enough to be expressed in words, but real enough to sink deep into his heart—that God would hear his prayer; and that he had now a purpose worth living for, and, if need be, worth dying for.