IN wet weather the archÆologist may take either a well-earned rest or he may busy himself with cataloguing and packing the trophies of his trusty pick and shovel.

“One day when the rain and the Evil Wind conspired to keep us indoors,” says Don Eduardo, “I found it much more interesting to listen to the yarns of the Indians than to work at routine tasks. All I can say in self-defense is that in Yucatan the subtle contagion of ‘maÑana’ does get into one’s blood.

“My Indians are all very superstitious. They believe whole-heartedly in witches and elves, and if one digs deep enough he finds a good deal of veneration for several deities not mentioned in the Bible. One of these is Balam, the jaguar, known in ancient times as the lord and protector of the fields.

“These simple folk believe in ghosts which walk amid the ruins of the Sacred City, and they believe in all manner of fortune-telling and divination. They are particularly partial to crystal-gazing, using a crystal called zaz-tun.

“Among my Indians was Bat Buul, a little old fellow with twinkling eyes black as the seeds of the jabin fruit, and ears that actually wagged when he became excited in telling a story. His big thick-lipped, sensual mouth was ever ready to laugh heartily at a joke, even though the joke chanced to be on Bat Buul himself. Old as he was, he had still the supple quickness of a boy.

“Bat Buul, whose name means ‘bean ax,’ was a native of the neighboring village of PistÉ and he was famous as a raconteur in a land where good tellers of stories are highly esteemed. More often than not he was the hero of the stories he told, and as he warmed up to the telling, he would become tremendously excited and his black eyes would snap and burn with the intensity of his narration.

“One of his best stories, that of the xtabay or forest lorelei, has the sweet flavor of those wonderful old Greek myths of nymphs and satyrs and of gods come down from Mount Olympus for a holiday.

“Often one sees glimmering gossamer flecks twisting, twirling as they scurry onward, aimlessly borne by a vagrant breeze. They look like a flock of diaphanous butterflies, but in reality they are the flying seeds of a climbing vine. The vine bears a slender, delicate, snowy flower and the seed-case is an olive-green oval pod filled with thousands of seeds. The seed mass is bisected within the pod by a light, silky membrane. As the ripening progresses the pod becomes chestnut in color and at last bursts open. The membrane with the seeds clinging to it falls out, but is brought up short in its descent by a thin filament that remains attached to the lower end of the pod. The fall detaches the seeds from the membrane, or they are soon blown clear, to be carried at the will of the wind. Each of the tiny seeds has a transparent wing or tissue.

“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:

“‘I looked around me and saw a beautiful woman sitting under a tree. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and she was crooning to herself, and all the while she was combing her long, shining black hair. Suddenly she looked up and saw me with her big, velvet eyes that held a brightness like some deep, cool forest pool upon which the sunlight falls between the leaves. But she said nothing and continued to sing softly in that sweet, far-away voice of hers, while her rounded arms slowly rose and fell as the comb slipped through her glorious hair, so soft and fine that the little breezes one could scarcely feel rippled and floated its tendrils.

“‘I went slowly closer to her and said quietly, in a way that I have of my own, “My handsome one, why are you out here so lonely and all by yourself?” I meant to say more, but she rose and moved a little away from me. Yet her eyes shone more brightly and she stopped singing and said ever so softly and sweetly, “Oh, Bat Buul!” Then she moved farther away. She was—how shall I say?—not thin, not fat, but plump like the wild partridge, and she moved as lightly as feather down. Yes, she seemed to float, so effortless was her retreat. Well, have I not said that my heart is soft toward a handsome woman? And so I followed her, even though she led me quite away from where my chac-ti logs were drying in the sun.

“‘She said nothing, but again began to hum a tiny, wistful, haunting melody and as she glided on she turned her head this way and that to glance at a plant or to inhale the perfume of a flower. And ever she kept an eye on me that seemed to invite me on and on.

“‘Farther and farther we went from my logs, and deeper and deeper into the forest, and she seemed to grow more lovely at each step. Suddenly I found that I had walked right into a thorny clump of tynbins and the tynbin ants were swarming over me with their stings like the pricking of red-hot needles, while she, on the other side, was as cool and fresh as though she had but stepped from her morning bath.

“‘And then I began to wonder, although the pain of the stings was very great. And when a man begins to wonder he is safe, for then he usually finds out why he is in trouble. “Ah,” I thought, “when I first saw this lovely maid she was sitting under a tree, combing her hair, and she called to me.” And I remembered it was a benote, the tree that the xtabays ever seek for shade as they sit and sing and comb their lovely hair and try to bring venturesome men to an awful death. “And so the Xtabay of PistÉ has tried to play with Bat Buul this day. Poor thing! we shall see!” But all of this I said very softly to myself, for I am a wily man when dealing with women. Then, as if still unsuspecting, I worked my way out of the thicket. As she turned to elude me again, quick as lightning I slipped my long gold chain from my neck, hiding the crucifix in the palm of my hand. I know women and, after all, the xtabay is a woman, and a good-looking one at that.

“‘Then I stopped as if in surprise and said as I held up the chain, “I wonder who dropped this beautiful chain.” The xtabay stopped singing and looked back at me. Just then a ray of sunlight touched the chain and made it glitter. And the sweet creature came up to me with unsuspecting curiosity and leaned close to look at the chain. Ah, I am the one who knows women! So quickly that she hardly saw the flash, I tossed the loop of the chain over her head so that it rested about her neck, and then held up the sacred cross so that she could see it. For a whole minute she stood perfectly still, then she began to tremble. Her eyes filled with big, glistening tears and she looked at me piteously and said with a sighing sob, “Oh, Bat Buul!”

“‘I felt sorry for her, for I am not heartless and she was one to melt even the hardest heart, xtabay or no xtabay. Yet I gave her only an unrelenting look and an answer that left her hopeless, for I said to her: “Things found by the roadside and unclaimed belong to him who finds them there. That is the law and the custom; and, pray, who is there to claim you from me?” She made no answer, but only bowed her head and cried the harder. Then I gave a little tug at the chain and said, “Come on home,” and she followed without a word of protest and with great glistening tears dripping from her lovely eyes.

“‘And leading her in this fashion, I passed the big tanauha where all the animals of the forest drink their fill even in the driest season. I passed the rock where little Pol Mis was slain by Ek Balam, the jaguar—black pagan that he is! And we came to the benote tree with its green fruit like big arrow-heads standing sharp against the sky—the very tree where I first saw this entrancing nymph who now followed me like a dog on a leash. When we reached the tree she stopped and looked at me with pleading agony in her eyes, such a look as I never hope to see again upon the face of any woman and she said, “Oh, Bat Buul!” and then again, “Oh, Bat Buul!” and in her voice was the sound of strangled tears. A man does not like that sound, ever, for it either hardens his heart and makes him more cruel than he should be or it turns his heart to water and causes him to be more gentle than is just and right.

“‘So I stopped and looked at her. I did not want to, but I could not help it; and as I looked I knew that she was more beautiful than any woman that ever lived, even though she were an xtabay and without a soul, as the priest tells us. She was marvelously formed—not thin, not fat. Her flesh was as soft as a child’s, yet she was graceful and quick in her movements. She was all that a woman should be. She seemed like a bird just ready to fly. And, as I looked, I thought, “What will my friends say and what will the priest say and do?” Her eyes, filled with terror, pleaded with me more strongly than any words could have done.

“‘Ah, SeÑor, I have the big heart! I took off the chain of gold and covered the crucifix in the palm of my hand and released her. For a moment she did not move and I thought she hesitated and looked at me as though she were really sorry to be free. I was a young man then and not bad-looking, and even an xtabay may know what it is to love. She began to move slowly away, with light gliding steps. Then she stopped and said to me in the voice of the wood-dove talking to its mate, “Good-by, my Bat Buul.”

“‘I could not move, but stood there spellbound and looked at her, and soon she reached the benote tree where the shadows now lay thick and dark. Here she paused and looked at me long and tenderly; and there was no longer terror in her eyes, but, it seemed to me, only regret at our parting. And the sun, which was just slipping beneath the horizon, cast for a long moment a spell of gold that gleamed upon her glossy hair like the sheen of light on polished ebony or the glint of many tiny bits of bright metal; and this is queer, for her hair was like my chac-ti wood after it has been burned very long.

“‘Deeper and longer grew the shadows, and at last I could no longer see her. I leaned a little forward and I was conscious that I was breathing hard as though I had run a long distance, and still I seemed to hear faintly the low, sweet song that she had crooned when first I saw her; and at last even that faded into stillness. I do not know how long I stood there, but it was almost dusk when I turned to retrace my steps. I was a long way from home. As I slowly turned about, I saw something at my feet that shone like dark metal. It was the seed-pod of the xtabay plant, which women sometimes use to comb their hair, and I was about to kick it carelessly aside when I heard a voice, “Oh, Bat Buul!” Just a whisper it was from far off in the forest. Then I knew it was her comb and I put it in my pocket, for she was a handsome woman and I could not throw the comb away. I have the comb to-day, although this happened long ago, when I was young and foolish.’

“Bat Buul paused and sat very still, his eyes seeming to look beyond us and back into the past. He did not touch the refilled glass beside him, even though he knew that the patron was paying for it and that by drinking it speedily he might quickly obtain another. At last he said, with a twinkle in his eye and more to himself than to his audience:

“‘I should like to see that xtabay again; perhaps I should act differently. And, then, perhaps I should act the same, for my heart is still kind to women, especially if they are handsome women.’

“As I have said before, one of the most interesting things I have encountered in Yucatan is the native custom of story-telling. Usually the teller of stories is an old man or an old woman with a wide repertoire of folk-lore. Ghosts, giants, fairies; mythical animals such as white jaguars; miraculous humans, and the ancient gods—all appear in these tales, which are told with amazing skill. A little group of Indians will gather about the story-teller almost anywhere, in the courtyard of a house or in the public square of a town, and they will sit by the hour as the speaker goes on without pause from one weird tale to another.

“I understand that in the near-by hamlet of Dzitas there is now a motion-picture theater and the telling of stories has been largely supplanted by the ‘movies,’ more’s the pity.

“The children are, of course, eager for stories, and nearly every village has some kindly old woman willing to entertain the children with oft-told tales. Such was X’Leut Cauich. X’Leut Cauich was old, very old, and yet, even though the outer wrappings, the casings of her mind and soul, were wrinkled with age, her mind and seemingly her soul remained undeniably very young.

“‘T is ever said that youth seeks youth as sparks fly upward, and the saying is a true one. Just so surely as old X’Leut seated herself comfortably before the koben, or three-stone fireplace, in her na (palm-thatched house) and started to make with colored threads and shining needle, on snow-white cotton cloth, the beautiful native embroidery “xoc-bui-chui,” just so surely would the children of the neighborhood spring up as if by magic from the very ground about her and beg for a story. And old X’Leut, because she was a born story-teller, never dreamed of denying them.

“Bit Euan; Phil Canul with his three brothers, all seemingly of an age; Pol Cocom with his big, soft eyes and harelip; Pablo Perez and his sister, white of skin, children of the Spanish storekeeper—all sat crouching, cross-legged, sprawling, each after the manner of his people, around old X’Leut, listening, motionless, with eager eyes and intent expression, to the words slowly spoken, clearly uttered, as they fell from her aged lips.

“For them, and for old X’Leut as well, the outer world—the prosaic world about the palm-thatched na—no longer existed—only the Wizard Potters as they worked, with swiftly moving hands and fingers, the magic clay, making the enchanted vessels of an ancient people.

“She told them of Aluxob ‘The Little People,’ how they searched in the deep-down caves for the kat, the kut, and the ki, the tiny crystals and the clays that the Wizard Potters used in the making of the ancient vessels. She talked with her eyes, her lips, and her hands. With agile feet alternately moving she showed how the ancient people revolved the shallow wooden disks as the potters of other lands work, with their hands, their revolving wheels. She told them of these vessels—vessels with magic worked into their very substance so that at night they changed into living things called Burro Kat and Hunab Pob; living things that tormented by their doings late night wanderers, thieves and drunkards; bad people generally; even children who, disobeying their parents, stayed out late at night or ran away from home.

“Then, as X’Leut finished, rolled up her xoc-bui-chui, poked the fire in the three-stone fireplace, and started the water to boiling in the earthen kettle, each man-child, introspectively brooding, hurried homeward to ask of his astonished mother if there was anything that he could do to put the house in order before night came. Ah! a guileful woman was old X’Leut, with her ever-young soul and nimble hand! A joy to the children and a solace to the tired mothers.”