 N THE CITY of ancient
glory, Pachacamac, queen of the ocean, high upon the glittering temple built
they tell you to the Fish God, stood He who was called Wakea by some, and
by others Wako. His temple built by the wealth of the ages, dated back so
far into forgotten time that men no longer remembered its building. Now the
long rays of the morning sunlight caught it up in dazzling splendor, lit
its tiers of jet, high-polished alternated with crested goldwork, rising
above the quiet city like a glorious pyramid-mountain. Upon the summit stood
The Pale One beard and hair and robe gold-tinted, as was the incense which
swirled above Him with its scent of burning cedar. Far below in the agate
courtyard, mosaiced in designs of eternal beauty, the people danced in ceremony,
ancient steps of intricate rhythm telling of their deep devotion. Beyond
the courtyard stretched the city. The sun rays lit its whitewashed houses,
its orchards, markets, parks and causeways reaching beyond the outmost dwelling
in straight, wide paved highways running to the four directions. At the docks
were the ships of the traders, the long balsa ships which carried their pottery
to Oaxaca and other ports far-distant, and traded their yams to the Maori,
or their gold-work along the Atlantic from the coast of Cuba
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