Yenne - Cities of gold: legendary kingdoms, quixotic quests, and the search for fantastic new world wealth

FIRE STOLEN FROM THE SUN

City of Gold!

The city sat high upon the bluff, like a jaguar crouched upon its throne, blazing in the glory of firefire stolen from the sun itself. It shimmered in the fading light with brilliance against the cold, steel-blue darkness of the surrounding storm clouds.

I watched the shadows creep up the towering sandstone cliffs toward it, like the lizards I had seen scrambling over the rocks nearer at hand.

I watched as the vivid colors of its rocky throne burned out and disappeared, first to the color of polished copper, and then to black, yet leaving the city still glowing like a spark floating in the heavens.

City of Gold!

This vision glowed so brightly that when I dared to glance away, I found that it had seared spots into my eyes.

As I watched, the heat and light of the city seemed to leap skyward, climbing on the jagged shafts of lightning which spit angrily from within the roiling thunderclouds.

Then, suddenly, it was gone, swallowed by darkness as the night swallows the day.

The hushed crowd hung on every word as he spoke.

In the great hall of the viceroy's palace, this city of gold seemed so far away, so alien, but so fabulous. The noblemen and women looked into the speaker's wide, bright eyes, which seemed fixed upon some unseen apparition, and which glowed like burning coals in his leathery face, well worn and of unknown age.

In the flickering light of the candles, it was hard to read this man. Who was he? Was he the respected Franciscan friar whom the viceroy had described, or was he merely a mad monk, a heretic relating tales seen only in a hallucination?

But they believed him. They believed what he described because he had been there, and because they had been told that others had seen it, too.

Mainly, though, they believed him because they wanted to believe him. They wanted to believe that he was telling the truth. They wanted to believe in the Ciudad de Oro which lay far to the north in a strange land that few had visited.

They closed their eyes, and they, too, saw it crouched upon its throne, blazing in the glory of firea fire seemingly stolen from the sun itself.

HALF A MILLENNIUM after this story was told in the viceroy's palace, we pass through the same timeless landscape where the friar had seen the apparition.

The late afternoon sky is cobalt blue, almost as dark as the blackness of outer space, or the eyes of a lover we have known, whose face, when seen once, resides forever in our memory.

The rugged cliffs of the Sangre de Christo Mountains are washed in the blood red of the setting sun. The midwinter snow that dusts this landscape is a luminescent, brittle white.

Stepping into the little adobe cantina at the side of the road we are greeted with an enveloping warmth. The aroma from the smoldering pine caresses our senses as our eyes adjust to the dim light of the room. The layers of soot which streak the old beehive fireplace built into the corner of theroom have been more than a century in the making. The fireplace may perhaps be newer than the one inside the kiva at the pueblo up on the hill, but it has been around longer than the memory of anyone now living.

This tavern too is ancient and timeless, and soaked in the wild and distant history of the American Southwest that seems so real and tangible when you are here.

The tequila, dark and seductive, is poured from a bottle that has no label. It goes down smoothly, warming the throat the way the wood fire warms the soul. Our empty glasses are jewellike as the fire light shines through.

The stranger at the bar is no stranger. We are the strangers here.

Where y'from? starts the conversation.

Within moments, he knows a great deal about us.

We know nothing about him.

Another round of tequila, and the conversation twists and turns like the highway which brought us here.

Lots of people who pass through talk about the lost mines and the old Spanish gold, he nods after he has heard us out. No, I wouldn't exactly call it a myth... unless you want to use the word in a... well, a literary way.

But, cities of gold? No way, we insist.

He shrugs with a wry smile which replies that there are no words to answer this question wrapped in an assertion.

We refill our glasses, and learn that our friend knows somebody who knows somebody, and with that he begins his story. The only way to answer our question is through parable.

Outside, it grows pitch black, and the temperature drops, but we are unaware. There is no one else in the cantina, except the bartender, and he is in the back doing something, but we don't notice.

We started out skeptical, as I suppose most people do. But now we believe the man at the bar. We believe what he describes because he has been there, and because we have been told that others have seen it too.

Mainly, though, we believe him because we want to believe him. We want so much to believe that at the core of the mythand I use the word in a literary waythe stories which consumed the passions of so many for so long are real.

In his words, we can see it. We can look into his eyes in the flickering light of the old beehive fireplace and see it crouched upon its throne, the City of Gold.