“Curiously, the two halves of the dried seed-pod are perfect natural combs, which are much used by native women, who believe that use of these combs supplied by Nature herself preserves the natural color and luster of the hair. The natives far and wide speak of them as the combs of the xtabay—forest nymphs, dryads, or lorelei—and many, like Bat Buul, claim to have seen the nymphs combing their silken tresses. In the old days, also, the native belles used the combs, thinking thereby to capture some of the elusive beauty of the mythical forest maidens.
“Before I proceed with Bat Buul’s story there is one other explanation necessary to a full understanding of the tale. Far in the hinterlands of Yucatan are Maya Indians still called the Unbaptized Ones and these natives wear always about their necks chains of gold and in their ears big hoops of gold wondrously adorned with filagree. The men, even more commonly than the women, wear these ornaments, which is strange, for among those natives who are at all civilized the men seldom wear ear-rings or neck-chains, though these adornments are popular with the women.
“But the belief is common over the whole peninsula that by wearing a gold chain with a sacred relic or crucifix pendent from it one will be protected from danger. Men engaged in hazardous occupations such as the making of fireworks for fiestas and religious celebrations; butchers, and those who work with mad white men digging in haunted cities will tell you that such a chain is a potent charm against evil and sudden danger. Gallants occasionally wear chains of this sort, as do goldsmiths—rather out of vanity than for defense against ill-fortune. Always, when worn by men, the neck chains are hidden under the shirt.
“Bat Buul, who, on his own admission, has tried his hand at almost everything, is a goldsmith by trade, a maker of rockets when and if these are required, and a beau gallant at all times. Naturally, then, he wears a solid-gold chain of extra length and weight, with a solid-gold cross at the end which has been blessed by the Archbishop of Yucatan in the cathedral of Mérida.
“On this rainy day Bat Buul was resting luxuriously, ensconced upon a cauche in the store of Monica, in his natal village of Pisté. As I entered the store after my three-mile ride in the rain from Chi-chen Itza, Bat Buul was holding forth to an eager group of listeners. In his hand was a thimble glass of that aromatic beverage xtavantum and evidently it was not his first. He nodded to me as I joined the audience, but did not pause in his talk. It was evident that he determined to outdo himself for my benefit, being reasonably certain that if pleased, I would do the gentlemanly thing in the way of refreshment for all hands. As we would say in Americanese, ‘He was going strong.’ I give you his story as nearly as I can in his own words:
“‘I, Bat Buul, am a man of great will-power. I say it—yes, and it is so. I am not large of body, but I am great of heart and very strong. There are those who have sought to prove my strength and they have found it to be so. I do not say these things boastfully, for only vain and cackling fools do that, and if I do say it, I am no fool. No man can deceive me long—no, and no woman, either. Many have tried, but few have succeeded, albeit most of those who have succeeded have been women.
“‘But it is not given to man that he should be hard of heart and unbelieving toward women. No; many women have liked me; some have loved me, and because of this my heart is ever soft to all women; that is—’ here Bat Buul swallowed an entire thimble tumblerful of the perfumed liquor and gazed at us benevolently—‘that is, toward all handsome women.
“‘Well, sir, one day I started for the deepest part of the forest where I had some chac-ti logs that I had cut and left to dry for charcoal which I needed to make powder for my rockets. I had nearly reached the point on the road to Chi-chen Itza where one turns to enter the deep forest, when I noticed that I was beside the place where grow the ghost flowers which come up in the night and wither in a day. I stopped for a moment to look at them, for have I not told you many times that I love the beautiful things of the forest? Then it was I heard a soft, sweet sound like the notes of a bird very, very far away calling to its mate or like a reed flute played by one who is sad.’
“The old man paused and deliberately rolled and lighted a corn-husk cigarette. No one spoke. I have learned that it never pays to urge the native story-teller to get on with his narrative; story-telling is a rite which must be performed just so, and the artistic temperament resents any interruption not of its own making.
“At length Bat Buul resumed: