Shrill shrieks of women, hoarse cries of men, choking, gasping moans, frenzied prayers, imprecations, and inarticulate sounds filled the morning air and the barred doors and burning roof-poles were shaken furiously.
The voice of Nachi Cocom of the crafty eyes and the thin-lipped cruel smile was heard above the crackling of the flames and the shrieks of the dying pilgrims. His black eyes glittered venomously, like the eyes of a deadly serpent when it strikes home its fangs, but his voice was smooth and oily as he said:
“Ehen! pilgrims, brothers, brothers of a common mother! How fares it? It would seem to me, standing here and looking on, that you have changed your minds and that you are making sacrifice to Yum Kax, god of fire, and not to Yum Chac, god of rain! But what does it matter, brothers of a common mother? Both are gods and both are worshiped by brothers that spring from a common mother. You are now saved the trouble of visiting the Sacred Well.”
As he said these words, as if by a common signal, the blazing roofs sank slowly in, the cries of agony ceased, and shortly all was still.
Once again the batab spoke and the twisted smile was on his lips as he said:
“Rest now in peace, brothers. This is the warm welcome that I promised you. Long years ago, I promised you such a welcome, but you had forgotten. And Nachi Cocom never forgets.”
The batab turned and strode from the place, the baleful glitter still in his eyes, but the populace—people of Zotuta and those from distant villages, drawn by the pilgrimage and the feasting—fled from the city, and many rushed into the jungles and were never seen again. Only the soldiers of the batab, with callous obedience to their orders, remained to watch over the smoldering funeral pyres.
It is said that the Rain God, incensed at this act, deserted the Sacred Well with all his court and, leaving the land and the people to their fate, made his home in a far distant and unknown region. The people, abandoned by their god, ended by fighting with one another like rabid animals. The shrine on the brink of the Sacred Well was no longer carefully tended, and it fell gradually into ruins, piece by piece. The beautiful carved cornices and roof-stones were wedged apart by the growing roots of trees and toppled into the still, dark waters below. When, in after years, the white men came again they found a few miserable Mayas living in carelessly made huts under the shadow of the great ruined city, and these natives shunned the Sacred Well and believed it to be haunted.
Thus passed the power and majesty of mighty chieftains and thus died the Maya nations.