But perhaps you are thinking: “Well, why should a twelve-year-old cholo boy look antiquated10? Are lads of that age in Peru expected to be ancient, any more than in New York or Boston?”
N-no, not exactly that—though in the quick tropics a boy is older at twelve than is one of the same years in the temperate11 zone; bigger and more mature. But it was Faquito’s occupation rather than his age which made me think of him as rather paradoxical. You will admit that to find this irresponsible, twinkling face set in one of the most century-worn frames on earth might well seem incongruous, not to say startling. The sight of this half Spanish, half Indian[11] boy of to-day, playing with lives and thoughts that were forgotten five hundred years ago—aye, and some of them, perhaps, that long before the Old World dreamed there was a New—was enough to make any explorer rub his eyes.
Doubtless we shall understand each other better by a little translation. Huaco is a word not found in the Spanish dictionaries, for it belongs only to Peru. It is from the[27] Quichua, or speech of the Incas, of whom you have heard so many remarkable13 (and not very accurate) stories; and as adopted into the Spanish of Peru means specifically a relic14 of the ancient Indian “civilizations” which occupied this strange land before the coming of Europeans. Huaquero is the Spanish derivative15 to mean a digger of these antiquities16—in other words, a mummy miner. This is a regular profession in Peru, just as much as gold mining. A competent huaquero commands as good wages as a skilled laborer17 in the marvelous silver mountain of Cerro de Pasco; and, if he works “on his own hook,” may earn much more. Peru is dotted everywhere with the ruins of large towns of the Incas and other tribes—some of them that we have so long been taught to regard as “kings” and the like, while in fact they were tribes very much like the Pueblo18 Indians of New Mexico; remarkably19 advanced in some things, but still entirely20 Indians socially, politically and mentally. Some of these ruins have been deserted21 for uncounted centuries, and no man can say who built them nor when they were abandoned. In fact, Peru is the American Egypt in antiquity; and a more than Egypt in richness. It was in its time the richest[28] country in the world. Even before Europeans came to tap its peaks of silver and valleys of gold, the ancient Peruvians had discovered a way to treat the precious metals, and used them to adorn22 themselves and their temples. Like the Indians they were, they had the invariable Indian idea of the next world; and always buried with their dead the best clothing and other property, to give the wanderer a handsome start beyond the grave—precisely as our aborigines do still. And as the dryness of the Peruvian desert preserves mummies indefinitely through the ages, you will begin to see how mummy mining has become one of the important industries of Peru. There are mummies everywhere; and each mummy has still what was its wealth in life. The gold and silver trinkets, the exquisite23 cloths and potteries24 of these strange folk of old, and all the other relics25 of their handiwork, fetch high prices from museums and collectors.
So that was Faquo’s business—and a very hard and unpleasant business it is. Taita[12] Pedro should have provided for his family; but taita Pedro much preferred to lie around the great sugar plantation26 in the next valley beyond the arm of desert, and[29] keep his swarthy hide full of the cheap rum which is the last and worst gift of the sugar cane27. He never came home to the little cabin at Lurin—a hut of quincha, or wattled bamboos plastered with adobe28—except to get money. Poor, fat Maria would have had a very rough time caring for her fat brood, if it had not been for Faquito. She worked in the cane fields of the nearer hacienda, and washed for the priest; but the few reales she could earn would not have been enough to put a cotton shirt on half the backs she was responsible for, after feeding all the mouths. Mariquita was a perfect little woman for ten years old; but she could only attend to the babies—which was indeed contract enough for a much older nurse. So it had been a great relief when Faquo got big enough to be a producer—with the equal good fortune that the sandy headland only two miles away was crowned by the mighty29 ruins of Pachacámac.
Every day, except Sundays and fiestas, Faquito was early trudging30 the dusty road to the ruins, his spade over his shoulder, his fat face screwed up sometimes to whistle a doleful yaraví (the only air he knew), or as often equally twisted with munching31 sugar cane. It was very convenient to[30] have one’s candy growing by the roadside—particularly as there were no stores. All a boy had to do was to clamber over the adobe wall, cut a stalk of the ca?a dulce from amid its dense32 bristle33 of sword leaves, and clamber back to chew upon this pithy34 molasses candy at leisure. There was generally a culm in Faquito’s hand as he trudged35 across; and when he got tired of chewing the obstinate36 fiber37, he would rest his jaws38 with whistling.
When he had crossed the flat, and waded39 the shallow brook40 of Lurin, there was a great scramble41 up the precipitous bluff42 which is the jumping-off place of the desert; and even Faquo was always puffing43 hard by the time he came to the top. An ancient wall was there; and under the long, morning shadow of this he used to sit down a moment—partly for a bit of a rest, and partly because he liked to gaze upon that strange vista44 in the hot, level light. Behind was the lovely valley, dense green with tropic cane-fields and bananas and palms; but in front was the great, gray desert, unspotted by one living blade. On the rolling sand hills close before him was a wild, mysterious huddle45 of mighty walls, tall and broken and gray in the sunlight, with black shadows lurking46 in their angles—walls and[31] walls in a bewildering labyrinth47. At his left was the huge castle on its tall headland, boxed about with tier after tier of walls thirty feet high; and in front of him the central hill, crowned with an enormous building. In a hollow at the foot of the castle, fifty acres were thick-dotted with dark, irregular holes, around which thousands of white specks48 gleamed in the sun. Momently, too, little puffs49 of dust flew up here and there. Castro and Juan and Pancho, the grown-up huaqueros from Lima, were already at work down there amid the bleaching50 skulls51, each at the bottom of his dusty shaft52, hoping at any moment to find a rich tomb—perhaps even the “Big Fish” of Peruvian folk lore12. That is what Faquito was dreaming about, too. How many times he had heard of the hundreds of man-loads of gold that the Yuncas buried in Pachacámac when Hernando Pizarro came pricking53 down from the mountains, every horse of his cavalcade54 shod with silver!
If he could only find the Pez Grande! Or even the tail of it! He got up from under the wall with a sigh and started down the dusty trail toward where the men were at work. His “mine” was there too—where he had dug a week without finding any but the poorest graves.
[32]
Just then an owl55—the little brown owl of the desert—flew up almost at his very feet and alighted upon a wall a few rods away. How Mariquita would like it for a pet! Faquo crept up behind the wall; but just as he was about to clap his hat over the bird it fluttered off a few rods farther.
It was so stupid with the sun that Faquo felt sure he would get it this time, and again he crept up. But stupid as the owl was, it was just too smart for Faquo. A dozen times it was almost in his hands; but a dozen times, too, it fluttered away again—until it had led him up the central hill, through the great ruined building there, and down the other side.
At the foot of an adobe wall sixty feet high it settled upon the edge of some deep-sunken rooms. Faquo scrambled56 down a gap and stole out along the parapet; and suddenly reaching up from this shelter caught the astonished bird by the wing. But he had forgotten the beak57 and claws, which the very field-mice know. As they hooked savagely58 into his brown fist he drew back sharply—and just too far. The ledge59 was very narrow; and overbalanced by his recoil60, he fell sprawling61 twenty feet into the great cell below.
[33]
Luckily there was at the bottom nothing harder than the universal in-blown sand; and though sadly shaken up by the fall Faquo was not seriously hurt. For a few moments he lay there half stunned62; then slowly gathered himself up and looked about in a dazed way.
The owl was still in his hand—less by his grasp than by the obstinate clenching63 of its own curved claws, which now began to hurt again. He unhooked them painfully, one by one, tore a tatter from his shirt and tied it about those mischievous64 feet. A rather stubborn boy, Faquo. It was very hard to turn his attention from anything upon which he had once started, until it was finished.
At last, when his prize was safely anchored to a clod of adobe, he was free to think of more important matters. Pues! He had walked into a bad trap. There were no doors nor windows down here—clearly the ancients had descended65 into these cellar-like rooms by ladders, which had long ago disappeared. And how was he to get up that twenty feet? In this adobe he could cut steps to the top; or even, in time, burrow66 through the base of that eight-foot wall—but his spade stood away[34] up there on the ledge, leaning against the parapet where he had left it.
“Castro! Cas-tro-o!” he screamed at the top of his lungs—but it seemed that his voice did not rise at all out of the sunken chamber67. How buried and pent it was! He shouted until he was hoarse68; but knew as well that the huaqueros did not hear him, as if he could have seen them still digging stolidly69 away, far down the other side of the hill.
The place grew terrible to him. In such a maze70 of ruins they might not find him until too late. Maria would come to look, surely, if he were not home by dark; but how could she expect to find him so far from where he always worked?
He knew well, this boy of the edge of the desert, that one does not last long on such a gridiron of the tropics. Without food one may do for several days; but without water, under that sun——! Already his mouth was parched71.
And that maldito owl—that was to blame for it all! He started up angrily with a clod of adobe to throw at it. But his arm dropped suddenly. “No! Nana says always that the birds, too, are children of Taita Diós, and that He loves best those who are good to them. So perhaps I am[35] punished for catching72 it. Pobrecito! For now we both are caught.”
The owl did not seem to mind so much. It sat bunched upon its tethered feet, blinking back at Faquo. It looked so very grave, so very wise! Quiza it knew very much about the ruins; for here it had lived, and its people, very long now. Perhaps it even knew where was the Big Fish!
Even as Faquo looked at it with these thoughts, the owl turned its head down on one side, and looked at him soberly along its shoulder. Some might have laughed at this proceeding73, but not so Faquito. He was too good an Indian to despise the wisdom of them that talk not; and suddenly he asked with great earnestness: “In truth that thou dost know, friend owl! No?”
At this direct question the owl turned its head down upon the other shoulder, and looked wiser than ever. Surely, he knew!
“But where?” cried the boy. “Tell me, owl friend!”
But the bird said not a word. Only it gazed at Faquo very seriously; and then, turning its head as upon a pivot74, began to spruce up the feathers upon its back, as much as to say: “Oh, that you must find out for yourself, as I did.”
Such a wise bird, but so unspoken! Really, how convenient it must be to be able[36] to turn one’s head square around that way, and look straight back! It must be that he can even see that spot on the wall just behind him and above his head—that round place where the adobe is yellower than the rest. Probably the plaster was broken there, and they patched it.
Faquo got up idly, and set the owl carefully to one side, and passed his hand over the spot. It was somewhat larger than his head—just a round patch of adobe plaster, centuries old, yet evidently newer than the rest of the wall.
He picked aimlessly at its edge. A pebble75 came out under his fingers, and showed, behind, a small crevice—as if a deep hole had been filled up, instead of a little break in the wall plaster. Instantly the boy’s eyes waked up, and a queer, professional look settled upon his face.
“It will be a wall niche76,” he said gravely. “And sometimes they filled them up to change the wall; but why did the owl sit by this one, if that was all?”
He pried77 and pulled until his fingers were sore, and pounded with his fist upon the yellow patch; but the adobe was very stubborn. How aggravating78 to have the spade perched away up there, when he wanted to open this niche! For by now he[37] had quite forgotten about getting out of his prison. The strange fascination79 that all miners know was upon him.
Plague take the spade! He picked up again the strong lump of adobe which had fallen with him from the upper wall, and flung it at the offending spade. It struck the sandy shelf, and a little stream of sand fell down with the missile. That gave him a thought; and he picked up his clod and threw it again and again and again.
Each time it fell back a little smaller, but each time a little more sand sifted80 down. Then the sand, thus started, began frittering down of its own accord, and the undermined shovel81 began to creep, stopped, slid a little, and at last pitched down and fell at Faquo’s feet.
He jabbed at the adobe with the corner of his spade, and the hard lumps showered down upon his bare toes. In a few moments a smooth-rimmed opening was revealed, and he thrust in his arm.
It was not like any of the niches82 he knew—the ones that have never been closed, but remain as they were 500 years ago, when the people of Pachacámac kept on these odd shelves their ornaments83 and trinkets. This one was like a nest of the “God-give-you” bird—with a small opening, but large[38] inside. In the big hollow was something soft; and Faquo drew out his hand full of beautiful yellow floss.
“The wool of the vicu?a, only,” he mumbled84, disappointedly, but with the expert’s air. “But why should they ceil that up? Perhaps there is also cloth.”
In went the brown fist again; and rummaging85 down through the silken fleece, his fingers met something firmer. In a moment he had it out—a long bundle of that matchless weaving of old Peru; of cloth as soft and strong as silk, woven with strange figures of men and gods and beasts; such fabrics86 as never unthinking loom87 has woven, nor any machine less wondrous88 than the fingers of a man.
“Ay! It will be worth twenty soles!” cried Faquo softly. “But it is so heavy! Perhaps they have wound it on a stone.”
Very tenderly he unrolled it, that none of those bright threads—stronger than all the centuries, but brittle89 to a careless touch—might be broken. But when the last fold came off, this very stupid Indian boy fell down on his knees in the sand, and cried and cried. For it was not a stone at all.
If you will go to the Exposicion in Lima, among the bewildering collections of Peruvian[39] antiquities, you can see two priceless idols90, each big as a large doll. They are like human figures, excellently sculptured; and the strangest thing about them is that they are made of alternate zones of gold and silver from feet to head, so that they remind one of that great image we read of in Revelations.
That is the nearest Faquito ever came to finding the Pez Grande—and quite near enough for one poor boy. And that is what took my breath away when I had wakened and hauled up with my reata the little, ragged91 cholo I accidentally spied in the trap where he had cried himself to sleep over something hugged in his arms.
When he had laid the precious images and the spade on the broad top of the wall, and told me all about it, he insisted on being lowered again on the rope to get the owl, which he loosed and let go, saying, in the tone of an old man:
“Taita Diós—God our Father—sends us friends we know not. For the owl brought me here and showed me the place, so that now we are very rich. And even so, I could have died there without the help of you. So I think your grace may be even as wise as the owl, which knows where is the Pez Grande.”
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1
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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10
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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derivative
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| n.派(衍)生物；adj.非独创性的，模仿他人的 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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pueblo
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| n.（美国西南部或墨西哥等）印第安人的村庄 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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potteries
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| n.陶器( pottery的名词复数 )；陶器厂；陶土；陶器制造（术） | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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adobe
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| n.泥砖，土坯，美国Adobe公司 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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pithy
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| adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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43
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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44
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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45
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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46
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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48
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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50
bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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51
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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52
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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53
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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56
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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62
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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66
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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69
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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70
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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71
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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72
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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74
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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75
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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76
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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78
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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79
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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80
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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81
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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82
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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83
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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86
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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87
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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88
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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89
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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90
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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