The City of the Sacred Well

by T. A. Willard

“What could be more interesting, more romantic than to go down under sixty feet of water to the very bottom of this grim pit?—to tread the corridors of the most sacred and abysmal abode of the Rain God? I might possibly remain at the bottom, myself, a modern sacrifice to the ancient deity, but I was willing to take that chance; for nothing could now keep from the world the treasures already recovered from the well and if I perished in the attempt at further discoveries, my effort would be, as a whole, not in vain. It was almost like trying to push aside the veil that separates living man from the nether world. Who might say but that the ancient people spoke the truth when they said that the entrance to the habitation of the Rain God was guarded by huge serpents and that none might pass but those expressly summoned by the god, to carry out his mandates? Or might there not live in that deep ooze slimy-bodied monsters of the antediluvian era, to which the passing of the centuries was but as the passing of hours? This was no time for speculation. I did not crave to serve as a brontosaurian breakfast, yet I must know the bottom of this well.

“Long hours and many days must be spent down on the bed-rock, under high water-pressure, in total darkness and in a temperature but little above freezing. My hands must explore the cracks and crevices and corners and pits where the dredge could not enter, and each find must be carried to the bucket and placed carefully within it, to be raised later.

“I went over every detail of the plan with great care, for not only my own life but the lives of others depended upon its practicability. A hitch, an unforeseen obstacle, a piece of bungling, and one or more of us would never return alive to the sunlight. I was prepared for this part of the business, having become an experienced deep-sea diver back in the United States. But diving under bright skies in open water spaces bathed to some depth by clear sunlight reflected from the sandy sea-bottom is not at all the same as descending into turgid, green, almost opaque water confined by high-cliffed walls overgrown with mighty trees and festooned with huge vines twisting and turning like giant serpents. I knew it to be very different from and far more dangerous than clearing off the barnacles and seaweed from the clean-lined bodies of United States cruisers and lighthouse tenders.

“Early one bright morning my crew who worked the windlass and managed the bucket stood grouped about the derrick. The winch which had so long rattled and clanged as the steel jaws of the dredge opened and plunged down to their task, was silent and motionless; but its silence, like that of the men grouped about, seemed to be a sort of watchful waiting rather than the lazy inertia that comes with a holiday hiatus. The cogged wheels were hooked introspectively, as it were, but the jaws of the bucket hung loosely open like those of a school-boy, agape with interest and wonder. On the refuse-built level space between the derrick and the examination platforms were strewn strange-looking suits of armor, canvas-lined and metal-covered, piles of rope and rubber hose, canvas-covered rope ladders, a small but powerful air-pump, and divers other things. Yes, even the divers themselves, for he who was to be my aide in this undertaking had come under contract from the sponge-banks of Florida with his striker, or pump attendant, and all the necessary equipment. Both men were Greeks, young, lithe, handsome as Apollo himself. All that day we spent assembling, testing, and getting everything ready for actual diving operations early the next morning. As fast as the apparatus was put in order we placed it on the scow, which had been scoured and cleaned and was now transformed into an ideal diver’s craft. Before nightfall the air-pump was securely fixed on the scow, the air-tubes and life-lines were in place, and the rope ladder dangled over the side and disappeared into the green water. From its bottom rung I should, on the morrow, step off into the unknown.

“The morning of the next day was heavy with clouds that soon broke in a deluge—a three-day norther that kept us all under cover except for a diurnal excursion when the Greeks and I and my native striker went to the edge of the well and from there carefully scanned the scow to make sure our equipment was weathering the storm. Luckily, the entire apparatus, pump and all, was almost amphibious by nature and habit, and so far as the eye could see the wetting was doing no damage.

“Dawn of the fourth day was clear and bright and the leaves and grass, even the sky, seemed to have been washed clean by the long rain. After a hasty breakfast we hurried to the well and descended via the air route, in the dredge bucket, to the rain-soaked, water-covered deck of the scow. We bailed out the water and sponged off the deck, on which we then laid out with minute care the two rubber-lined canvas diving-suits, making sure that there were no holes through which the compressed air could issue in lines of silver bubbles into the surrounding water. Our wrists were carefully soaped and we stepped into the clumsy uniforms, forcing our hands through the tight-fitting rubber wristlets. The neck-bands were adjusted and the copper helmets, cloth-lined and with glassed goggle eyes, were put over our heads and securely fastened. Then came a necklace of lead plates and finally heavy metal-soled boots.

“A trial puff of air from the pump, a touch of the valves in the helmets, and we were ready to call on Noh-och Yum Chac at the bottom of the Sacred Well. With a final hand-clasp all around and with my Indians looking very awed and solemn, I waddled to the edge of the craft and clambered down the rope ladder about as gracefully as a turtle falling off a log.

“I must confess that as I loosed my hold of the last rung and went swirling down into the watery darkness my heart beat far faster than could be reasonably accounted for by the increasing water-pressure; and my mind, like that of a drowning person, reviewed at lightning speed all the errors of commission and omission of my whole life. But almost automatically I took the precautions of every experienced diver, making sure that the air-line and life-line were free and clear of obstacles. Almost at once the weak, greenish light faded into utter blackness. Once or twice during the descent my lines brushed against some sunken tree roots or branches and I was instantly alert, for in such encounters there is always an element of real danger. These woody projections were, however, quite rotten and with no more strength than soaked punk, and fortunately always broke off at the mere touch of the stout rope.

“Meanwhile, as I went down and down, at a distance of every ten feet or so I felt acute pains in my ears, as though sharp objects were being thrust into them. By adjusting the valves in the helmet and opening wide my mouth, I succeeded in equalizing the air-pressure on the ears, causing a sound like the exhaust of a motorcycle on the ear-drums but relieving the pain. Once I was at the bottom, the helmet valves alone required attention; for only by opening them frequently is fresh air forced down from the pump and the vitiated air expelled.

“I had reached the bottom but a moment before I sensed that the Greek diver had also descended and was close beside me. He had waited only long enough, before joining me, to make sure my native pump attendant was handling my air-supply properly. The darkness was complete, a perfect blindfold, but I reached out and touched the Greek so that we might be sure of our relative locations and not get our lines entangled.