Conversing with some friends in Espita about the ancient remains to be found in that vicinity, they offered to show me one of the most interesting relics of olden times. A few days later they ushered into my presence a venerable old Indian. His hairs were gray, his eyes blue with age. The late curate of the place, Senor Dominguez, who departed this life at the respectable age of ninety, was wont to say that he had, since a child, and as long as he could remember, always known Mariano Chablé, the same old man. They give him 150 years at least; yet he enjoys perfect health; still works at his trade (he is a potter); is in perfect possession of his mental faculties, and of an unerring memory. Having lost his wife, of about the same age as himself, but a short time before my interview with him, he complained of feeling lonely, and thought that as soon as the year of mourning was over he would take another wife to himself. It was a Sunday morning that we met for the first time. He had been to church, assisted at mass. There the recollection of his departed life-companion had assailed him and filled his old heart with sadness,—and he had called to his relief another acquaintance—rum—to help him to dispel his sorrow. Sundry draughts had made him quite talkative. He was in the right condition to open his bosom to a sympathizing friend,—so I was to him already. The libation I offered with him to the manes of his regretted mate unsealed his lips. After a few desultory questions, with the object of testing his memory and intelligence, with great caution I began to inquire about the points I had more at heart—to wit, to gather all possible information and traditions upon the ruins of Chichen-Itza I was about to visit. The old man spoke only Maya; and my friend Cipriano Rivas, well versed in that language, was my interpreter, not being myself sufficiently proficient in it to hold a long conversation.
“Father,” said I, “have you ever been in Chichen? Do you know anything about the big houses that are said to exist there?”
“I have never been in Chichen, and of my own knowledge know nothing of those big houses; but remember what the old men used to say about them when I was young.”
“And what was that, pray. Will you tell me?”
“Oh yes! I had a friend in Saci (Valladolid today),—he died forty years ago or so,—a very, very old man. His name was Manuel Alayon. He used to tell us all about these enchanted houses. He had a book that none but he could read, which contained many things about them. We used to gather at his house at night to listen to the reading of that book.”
“Where is the book now, father?”
“Don’t know. Alayon died. No one ever knew what became of the sacred book. Afterwards came the insurrection of the Indians, and the old friends also died.”
“Do you remember what the book said?”
“Now, one of the things comes to my mind. It said that there was a very old house called the Akab-sib, and in that house a writing, which recited that a day would come when the inhabitants of Saci would converse with those of Ho [Merida] by means of a cord, that would be stretched by people not belonging to the country.”
When I heard this, the idea occurred to me that the old fellow was quietly having his little bit of fun at my expense. In order to be sure of it I inquired:—