Myths and Legends Beyond Our Borders/Evil Spirits in the Springs
EVIL SPIRITS IN THE SPRINGS
ATZCAPOTZALCO, near Mexico City, is renowned for two springs and somewhat feared because of them. The first, near the ruined Zancopinca aqueduct, is an innocent-looking pond of sweet water; but beware, especially if you hear singing; for down beneath it is the palace of rock-crystal where the dreaded Malinche lives during a half of each day. During the other half she is in her spring at Chapultepec. Forbidding, even fiendish, in her disposition in Atzcapotzalco, she is angelic in Chapultepec. This is probably because she adheres to the old gods of the nation that linger about the battle hill, while the nearness of Christian shrines and blessings in the other home arouses every fell instinct in her nature. She spends her days in Chapultepec and her nights in the Zancopinca pool. At early morning and in the evening she sings, and her voice bubbles through the cool, clear flood in wondrous melody. Christian, if you are one, be careful as you approach the edge. Down there the moving reflections of the sky resolve themselves into a lovely form, a face with star eyes, hair like the finest water moss. Put your hands upon your ears, hurry off and say your prayers; for if you stay the song will dull your sense like wine, a languor will enchain you and delude you with dreams. You will bend over farther and farther, the face will smile up at you, the graceful arms invite you, the buried treasure of Guatamotzin, that Cortez could not win, though he put its owner on the rack, will glitter behind the figure, and it is all yours, nymph, palace, treasure, all. You plunge forward. The arms enfold you, and it grows dark. Christian intruder in the Aztec land, have you won joy, or death?
In another direction you come upon a grove of large ahuehuetes surrounding a space where a fount once brimmed its basin,—brimmed, and never over-flowed. It was so cool and pure, that spring, that in the warmth of mid-day the stranger coming upon it was moved to fall to his knees, bury his face below the surface and cool his dry throat with a long draught. Hapless mortal if he did so, for this spot, too, was inhabited by a spirit as dangerous as the Malinche, and at the first sip the drinker disappeared, nor ever again returned to the air in the sight of men. One day a procession of priests emerged from the church, not far away, carrying the Virgin's image and chanting solemnly. They walked up the road as far as the spring, set up an altar for the statue beside it, one of their number mounted its step and preached against the wickedness of the water sprite, then all threw in stones and earth until the basin was filled, and a chapel was presently built above it to keep the water down. In time the chapel crumbled away, and the spring may yet be free again; for, if you listen, you may hear it, deep down, laughing softly to itself. It is as much alive as ever, and who knows———?