The Bridge of Light

By

A. Hyatt Verrill

Author of: “Through the Crater’s Rim,” “Death from the Skies,” etc.

Illustrated by WESSO

INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I - A Strange Find CHAPTER II - The Prophecy CHAPTER III - The Valley of Death CHAPTER IV - Through the Tunnel of the Serpents CHAPTER V - The Demon of the Night CHAPTER VI - The End of Maliche CHAPTER - VII The Bridge of Light CHAPTER - VIII The Hidden City CHAPTER IX - The Prince Azcopil CHAPTER X - The Gods Who Carved the Stones CHAPTER XI - The Sorcerer CHAPTER XII - At the Temple of the Plumed Serpent CHAPTER XIII - The Mystery of the Green Sphere CHAPTER XIV - Innovations CHAPTER XV - Nohul Voh’s Warning CHAPTER XVI - The Monster of Sacrifices CHAPTER XVII - The Secret Door CHAPTER XVIII - The End of Kinchi Haman CHAPTER XIX - Long Live the King CHAPTER XX - The Way of the Symbols EPILOGUE Transcriber’s Note

INTRODUCTION

MR. VERRILL says—and we must agree with him—that to be a good ethnologist, one must also be well versed in geology, zoology, physics, archeology—in fact in all the sciences. Mr. Verrill is not only an ethnologist of note, he is also a writer of wide reputation. It is hardly any wonder, therefore, that he should be one of the favorite authors of Amazing Stories readers. In “The Bridge of Light” the author builds a story based on the various folklore that he has heard during his numerous expeditions through the wildernesses and ruins of old Mayan tradition, each of which probably has some basis of fact. Many astounding stories of prehistoric times might well be uncovered when some of the engraved hieroglyphics which have been found are deciphered. It is not impossible that the ancient Indians had made astounding discoveries in the use of some minerals of which we have just recently become cognizant. How else can some of the remarkable relics which are unearthed from time to time be explained?

Perhaps when flying becomes a more common mode of travel, there will be more scientists venturing into the wilds of unexplored countries, because then a good many of the hardships and inevitable risks of going through jungles and dangerous country will be eliminated. We may well look forward to amazing finds in the near future—some inklings of which we are given here. We know you will agree with us after you have read it, that “The Bridge of Light” is one of Mr. Verrill’s best.

CHAPTER I A Strange Find

LOOKING back upon it now I can scarcely believe it ever happened, and find it difficult to convince myself that I actually passed through such amazing and almost incredible experiences. Yet I have but to look at my left arm and see the scars that cover it in order to bring it all vividly back. And there is the tattooed symbol upon my chest. And if I needed further confirmation of the actuality of it all, there is Itza. Surely she is very real, and should occasion arise she could confirm the greater portion of the story. Even as I am writing, I have but to glance up from my table to see her, seated in the hammock swung on the porch, her dark head bent over some delicate bit of handiwork, her rounded cheek and the curve of her neck glowing like old gold in the diffused light—even in her conventional surroundings—as exotic as an orchid flower. But I find I am digressing—as I invariably do when I see or think of Itza.

It all began in a most ordinary way at Vigo. I was returning to England from an expedition to South America, and as my ship was to remain several hours at Vigo, I decided to stretch my sea-weary legs by a stroll through the quaint Spanish port and, incidentally, have a look at some of the second-hand shops where, on more than one occasion, I had picked up some very interesting old books and other curios.

Crossing the quay, and with a few sharp words in their own tongue quickly silencing the importunities of the piratical-looking boatmen, the bandit-like taxi drivers, the loathsome beggars and the swarm of would-be guides, I ascended the steep Calle San Sebastian, reached the Avenida Principal with its rush of traffic, its swarms of fashionably-attired women and men, its smart shops and its honking automobiles, and turning to the right, entered a narrow, dark alley. A moment later I passed under a mediæval archway and found myself in the Plazuela de Tres Santos. Within five hundred feet of where I stood was the hustling, noisy, modern avenue, but it might have been five hundred miles distant. When I passed under the old arch, I stepped into old Spain. About the tiny flagged plaza, scarcely larger than a courtyard, were ancient, sagging, time-aged houses with outjutting balconies, iron-grilled windows and shady, mysterious patios. Olive-skinned señoritas lounged on the balcony rails gazing half-curiously, half-coquettishly at the stranger who had

entered the plazuela; older women in their bright rebosas and flaring, gaudy skirts sat on stools outside their doorways, stringing onions, weaving on crude hand-looms or gossiping with their neighbors; swarthy, fiercely-mustached men besashed, and wearing berets, lounged about or played idly upon guitars; and everywhere swarmed children as happy, as dirty and nearly as naked as the pigs and puppies that were equally as numerous.

But all this was an old story to me. Scarcely glancing to left or right, I picked my way across the court to where a once gorgeous signboard informed all who were interested that one, Miguel José Salceda, was the proprietor of the ramshackle shop wherein were to be found antiques, second-hand articles, books, native handiwork, cigars, tobacco and onions—a strange assortment truly, but quite the usual thing in the confines of the plazuela. The shop itself was a mere cubby hole in the massive stone wall of what had once been a monastery, but Miguel José had the entire plazuela at his disposal, and he had taken possession of several square yards of it. On boxes, tables and upon the stone flagging the overflow of his stock was spread and piled—looking for all the world as though the shop had spilled itself into the square—and, seated in the midst of the aggregation of everything imaginable in the shape of junk and odds and ends, was the don himself. Propped against the wall in the sunshine, his touseled gray head sagging forward on his bare hairy chest, his

hands clasped across his paunch, Señor Salceda was enjoying his afternoon siesta—as his raucous snores testified to all the world.

Having no need to disturb his slumbers, I moved about among his wares, examining the litter of battered and dust-covered books upon a rough deal table. Presently, Salceda raised his head, yawned prodigiously, stretched himself and, slowly and reluctantly opening his single eye, caught sight of me.

Instantly, and with surprising agility for a man of his build, he sprang to his feet and hurried forward, grinning until his leathery, unshaven cheeks resembled a relief-map of his native Pyrennes, and exposing two yellow tusks in his otherwise toothless gums.

“Gracias a Dios, ’tis the Señor Ingles again!” he cried, patting me on the back, embracing me in Spanish fashion and exuding an almost overpowering odor of garlic. “And how is the illustrious Señor, and his dear Mamá and his most lovely Señora, and his four—no, I mistake, it is five—niñitos?”

“No, Don Miguel,” I replied with a laugh, “it is not the English Señor but the Americano, and unfortunately, as I have neither mother, wife nor children—either four or five—I cannot tell you how they may fare. Personally, amigo, I am in excellent health. And how is Don Miguel and his family?”

THE old fellow grinned wider than ever. “Si, I remember,” he muttered as he rolled a cigarette. “But of what importance, Señor, whether Americano or Ingles? They are the same species; all are rich, all are fond of old books, and all will have their little joke. And as for the others—Valgame Dios—if you have no mother now, you had one once—may her soul rest in peace; and such a simpatico Señor should have a lovely Señora and the four—nay five—little ones. Bien pues! What would you? But of a truth I am overcome with joy and happiness to find your highness well. Permit me, Señor, to offer you a sip of wine.”

To refuse would be to jeopardize friendship and the chance of a good bargain, and as I had by now selected two rare old volumes that I greatly wanted, a good bargain was desirable. Besides, Salceda always had most excellent wine.

Good fellowship having been thus established, I asked the old fellow the price of the two books. One was a scarce edition of “Don Quixote,” the other a copy of a quaint work on the Antilles, and both were battered, stained, their covers torn and warped, but in good condition within. Salceda, I knew, had no knowledge of the true value of his stock, but priced articles in accordance with the status of the purchaser and his desire to acquire them. So, scarcely looking at the two volumes, he glanced appraisingly at my face and informed me that they were worth twenty pesetas.

“Not to me,” I assured him, tossing the books upon the table. As I did so, one of the books slipped to the pavement, and as Miguel stooped to recover it, a piece of folded, stained and frayed paper dropped from between the leaves.

“Bueno, then, how much will your excellency pay?” he asked, as he glanced at the paper in his hand and replaced the book.

“Ten pesetas, no more,” I declared.

“It is nothing, nothing for such fine old books,” he exclaimed, “but the Señor Ingles—or is it Americano—knows what he can pay. So ten pesetas it is, your excellency.” As I counted out the money, Salceda half-unfolded the piece of paper he still held, and then, evidently deciding it worthless, turned as if to toss it into a pile of rubbish. But something about the thing had attracted me. I had caught a glimpse of figures, of dull red, blue and green upon it, and, thinking it might be an old map, I stayed his hand.

“Hold on,” I exclaimed. “That belongs to the book.”

“No, Señor, I think not,” he said, as he squinted at it with his one good eye, “but perhaps a map, or some old picture left in the book by mistake. Of no value, your excellency; but the illustrious Americano—or is it Ingles—cares for old things, and this is very old. Si,” as he again focused his bulging eye upon it and cocked his head on one side. “Si, of a truth, I should say it is antediluvian!” He chuckled at his own humor. “So,” he continued, “if the Señor desires it—well, perhaps a peso or two.”

He was a sharp old Gallego—none sharper—and the bit of stained and colored paper that a moment before had been condemned to the rubbish pile had suddenly acquired a value. Not much to be sure, but better than nothing by a long shot. Very possibly, I thought, it really belonged with the rubbish. But I was curious to learn what it was and, handing Don Miguel two pesos in addition to the price of the books, I slipped the paper into one of the volumes and departed with his fervent, “May you go with God, Señor,” in my ears. Little did I dream, as I made my way back to the ship, what a strange investment I had made or through what amazing experiences and remarkable places that ragged, folded paper would lead me.

Indeed, at the time, I gave it so little thought that I completely forgot about it, until we were well at sea, when, in my cabin after dinner, I opened the “Explorations, Discoveries, Strange Sights and Remarkable Adventures in the Indies, etc,” by imaginative old Sebastian Gomez, and once more came upon my two-peso purchase. Unfolding it carefully, for it was creased and old, I actually gasped, staring incredulously at what I had revealed. My first glance at the fresher, cleaner inner surface of the sheet was enough. It was a codex—one of those strange pictographic records kept by the ancient Aztecs and Mayas! Less than a dozen originals, I knew, were in existence. Could this be an original? Could it be one of the lost Codices? If so it was priceless, irreplaceable, and with trembling fingers, almost reverently, I examined it and studied the texture of the material through my lens. The material was unquestionably ancient papyrus! The color, the technique of the green, red, blue and yellow figures proved it no copy! The old Spaniard had spoken more truly

than he had imagined when he had jokingly called it “antediluvian.”

Incredulously I studied the codex that, by sheerest good fortune, had come into my possession. I puzzled my brain to decipher or decode it, to recognize the figures of conventionalized human beings, of gods and other objects. I was familiar with Aztec pictographs, familiar with Mayan glyphs, but somehow this did not appear like either. And yet, of the two it was far more Mayan than Aztec. A hope rose in my breast, a hope that I had stumbled upon one of the long-lost, missing codices of the Mayas. Only three Mayan codices were known, yet there must have been hundreds, and in all probability many had been taken back to Spain as curios by the returning conquerors. Was it therefore beyond the bounds of possibility—even of probability—that some of these might still be preserved, their value unknown to their owners, perhaps regarded as worthless scraps of old maps, and that one of these should have been tucked between the pages of the ancient volume I had bought?

The more I thought of it the more reasonable it seemed. And if the bit of papyrus should prove to be a missing record of the Mayas, then I had stumbled on a bit of luck. Not only would it be of inestimable scientific interest, but it would possess a very tangible value in pounds sterling or dollars and cents. That, to me, I must confess, was a very important factor. Scientists must live and, like most scientists—more especially those devoted to ethnology and archeology—I was not overburdened with worldly goods. My last expedition had drained my resources, and even when I had disposed of my collections—a slow and uncertain procedure—I would be little better off than when I had started. But if the ancient scrap of paper before me actually proved to be a Mayan codex, I need have little worry over my future. I chuckled to myself as my thoughts dwelt on this possibility. How strange are the whims of Fate. Here I had devoted years to explorations in far-off lands, had undergone hardships, had had my share of sufferings, had risked health and life

a thousand times, and (if my hopes proved true) had made a greater find in a second-hand shop in Vigo, Spain, than in all my wanderings.

I BROUGHT myself back to earth with an effort. I was building castles in the air with no tangible basis to work on. The thing might be comparatively worthless, a copy or perhaps even a codex made subsequent to the Spanish conquest. Until I could have its origin, its age and its value established by experts, I would dismiss it from my mind.

My first act, when I had reached London and had established myself in my apartment in Eardly Crescent, was to visit the British Museum with my find. For once my old friend, Dr. Joyce, lost his habitual nonchalance as he examined the codex. He uttered an ejaculation of amazement, his eyes sparkled, and he became obviously excited.

“Extraordinary!” he exclaimed. “What a jolly find! Of course I cannot be positive of its identity on such a superficial examination,” he continued, “but it is unquestionably a codex, and I should surmise of Mayan origin. The cartouches and date symbols are assuredly Mayan, but there are other details, other features that excite doubt. But of course we know so little about Mayan codices. And it seems to bear certain Nahua characteristics. Possibly it is a codex of one of the independent Mayan states that came under Nahua influence. But we should be able to ascertain its age—these date symbols are very clear.”

He studied it closely. “Ah, here it is!” he cried jubilantly. “If I am not greatly mistaken this glyph reads 8 Ahau 12—no 13, or is it? Well, either 12 or 13. The unit symbols are difficult because they are so highly decorated and involved. But 8 Ahau and either 12 or 13 Ceh in the Calendar-round. There appears to be an Initial Series date also. However, the Calendar-round will place it approximately. Let me see, that would be about 90–94 B. C.”

I gasped. The codex, if my friend was right, and Dr. Joyce is perhaps the greatest living authority on the subject—was more than two thousand years old! But to my disappointment Dr. Joyce could make little more of the ancient document than I could. And before I could realize on it, before it had any real scientific or monetary value, I would be compelled to find someone who could establish its origin, its identity and its relationship. At Dr. Joyce’s suggestion I next visited Oxford and called on Professor McLeod, who, as everyone knows, has made a life study of ancient American glyphs and symbols. But this visit gave no more definite results than before.

Following this I made the rounds of nearly all the archeologists and students of pre-Columbian American art and writings in Great Britain, but without result.

All agreed that my discovery was a codex, all agreed that it bore the earmarks of Mayan origin, all agreed on the date symbols, and all agreed that it was so at variance with all the previously known Mayan and Aztec codices that it was an insoluble puzzle to them. They all agreed, also, that if its origin could be established, it would be the most valuable codex in existence, and readily saleable for many thousands of pounds.

Possibly, in the United States, they suggested, I might be able to succeed where I had failed in England and, very sensibly, added Dr. Joyce, as it would unquestionably be eventually purchased in America, why not submit it to the American experts?

But when I reached the country of my birth and called on various archeologists, I found that they could give me little more information than I had obtained from the British scientists. The American Museum in New York, the Museum of the American Indian, the Peabody Museum of Cambridge, the Pennsylvania State Museum and scores of others were visited in turn. But neither Dr. Whistler, Professor Saville, Dr. Spinden, Dr. Gregory, Dr. Mason nor any other of the scores of authorities on the subject dared express a definite opinion. The codex was genuine, it was remarkable, it was priceless, and its date was established. But whether it was entirely Mayan, whether it was Aztec with Mayan addenda or vice versa, or whether it was the work of some undetermined independent, state of Mexico or Central America, no one could state. It was, in fact, the greatest puzzle that had confronted the world’s most prominent archeologists in many years.

But I did secure some information. Dr. Whistler of the American Museum established the fact that the codex recorded some very important historical event and a migration. Professor Saville of the Heye Museum was positive it recorded a myth or a prophecy and identified the symbol of Kukulcan, the Mayan hero-god or “plumed serpent” as the dominating figure, and Professor Henderson discovered and partially deciphered symbols indicating that the codex embodied the features of a map and gave a description of some location. Several also suggested that it might prove to be a copy of a more ancient codex, or possibly an abbreviated or condensed form of several, or that it might be a codex index or key referring to some more elaborate codex.

By this time my interest increased, and I determined to take my treasure to Mexico and consult the authorities in the Museo Nacional.