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 In
the southern part of
California,
near the Arizona
line, is the famous Death Valley -- a tract of arid, alkaline
plain hemmed in by steep mountains and lying below the level of
the sea. For years it was believed that no human being could cross
that desert and live, for horses sink to their knees in drifts of
soda dust; there is no water, though the traveler requires much
drink; and the heat is terrific. Animals that die in the
neighborhood mummify, but do not decay, and it is surmised that
the remains of many a thoughtless or ignorant prospector lie
bleached in the plain. On the east side of Dead Mountain are
points of whitened rock that at a distance look like sheeted
figures, and these, the Indians
say, are the ghosts of their brethren.
In the heart of this desert is said to be the ruin of a pueblo, or
village, though the shape and size of it suggest that it was made
for a few persons rather than for a tribe or family. Long ago, the
tale runs, this place of horrors was a fair and fertile kingdom,
ruled by a beautiful but capricious queen. She ordered her
subjects to build her a mansion that should surpass those of her
neighbors, the Aztecs, and they worked for years to make one
worthy of her, dragging the stones and timbers for miles. Fearing
lest age, accident, or illness should forbid her to see the ending
of her dream, she ordered so many of her subjects to assist that
her tribe was reduced to practical slavery.
In her haste and heartlessness she commanded her own daughter to
join the bearers of burdens, and when the toilers flagged in step
in the noonday heat she strode among them and lashed their naked
backs. As royalty was sacred, they did not complain, but when she
struck her daughter the girl turned, threw down her load of stone,
and solemnly cursed her mother and her kingdom; then, overcome by
heat and weariness, she sank to the earth and died. Vain the
regrets and lamentations of the queen. The sun came out with
blinding heat and light, vegetation withered, animals disappeared,
streams and wells dried up, and at last the wretched woman gave up
her life on a bed of fever, with no hand to soothe her dying
moments, for her people, too, were dead. The palace,
half-completed, stands in the midst of this desolation, and
sometimes it seems to lift into view of those at a distance in the
shifting mirage that plays along the horizon.
Compiled and
edited by
Kathy Weiser/Legends
of America, updated January, 2010.
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