Portals to the Vision Serpent
Chapter Five
Preston sat on the edge of the same bed where he’d surrendered to sleep on that morning nearly sixteen years ago. The bedspread covered with riotous red rocket ships had been replaced with a neutral taupe spread, more suited to a young man’s tastes. It was the same room but its contents had long been cleared of the childhood toys, books and illusions. Only Gato remained.
Preston reached over to where she lay close by, burying his hand in her fur, allowing her plushy softness to soothe him.
“Even you weren’t there until later. Were you, girl?” Gato twitched an ear and opened one eye.
He looked down again at the smooth round stone he held in his palm, the blue feather on top held in place by his thumb. Loss and loneliness arose from the depths of his heart. He found himself moving in an attempt to shake off the emotion. At the window, his eyes were pulled to a particular spot in the far corner of the backyard. His gaze passed through the ghosts of Mama Luna’s garden into the myriad memories that he cherished — and some of those he did not.
His mind flitted through snippets of imagery, finally resting on one, becoming steeped in it until he was there once again. It was an evening a few weeks after Preston had assumed his True Name and his onen had claimed him. Mama Luna was once again working at her loom, a nightly activity she resumed shortly after his naming ceremony. Preston was arranged on the floor nearby, concentrating on a drawing he was making of his deer friend. Just the two of them were in the house.
Sybilla had swept in from her trip shortly after his big night but left again several days later for an assignment that would keep her in the Far East a month. He was just about to burst with his secret. He’d wanted so badly to share his newfound identity with his mother. But something told him not to do so. It wasn’t even that Mama Luna or Smoky advised him to keep quiet. Every time he’d started to open his mouth, in scarcely contained excitement, he saw a picture in his mind of disembodied lips with a finger laid across them and heard a gentle shushing sound. Then he would stop short — his disclosure interrupted. Sybilla noticed a couple of times.
“What is it, PJ?” Sybilla said expectantly.
“Oh nothing, Mom,” he would look away.
Each time she’d seemed disappointed. He felt bad about that; he was keeping something from her. Just as he knew he couldn’t talk to her about Smoky, he wasn’t about to tell her of his True Name, his onen or seeing.
Sometimes he would be playing and glance up to see her watching him, a sad look on her face. Other times, he saw her contemplating Mama Luna at her work.
Preston loved his mother so much and yet felt a widening gap between them, especially now. It was more than her frequent long absences. He guessed that she loved him equally but also regarded him as something of an alien, perhaps mistakenly born to her. He didn’t measure up to some unspoken standard he knew nothing about, and it wounded his little soul. As a result, Preston drew even closer to Mama Luna and her nurturing ways.
Mama was engrossed in her design, shuttling the threads through the weave, tamping them taut. She hummed softly along with her work. Periodically, Preston joined in with her and then tapered off again when his drawing captured more of his attention.
“Solocito, maybe you want to know how the world of the Hach Winik is born?” She glanced over at him and smiled invitingly.
“Oh yes, Mama!” Preston had grown to love Mama’s stories. They transported him into another place altogether.
He had been lying belly down on the floor with his artwork in front of him. At the promise of a story, he sat up and bounced cross-legged over to sit directly at Mama’s feet. Mama continued to hum softly and move the shuttle rhythmically, back and forth. When he had settled himself, never taking her eyes off the cloth growing beneath her fingers, she began to spin her tale.
“The rainforest is the covering for this world. But there are other worlds, too. They live on top of each other.”
“How is that?” Preston’s eyes got big.
“K’akoch is always here. Many times ago it is only him and he gets bored. One day he decides to make something to have some fun. And that day he makes the very first sun and moon, the sea and the earth. But they are not like we know them now. They are soft like mud. K’akoch knows he needs to do more, but he gets tired and wants help. Then he thinks something,” Mama paused for effect.
“He thinks to make the bäk nikte’. This flower your people call tuberose. He says to himself that he will make the bäk nikte’ so beautiful. So beautiful that it is magic. Its magic is in the place where all its petals come together. So this place is like where a woman carries the babies.”
Preston’s ears perked up, but he didn’t ask any questions.
“So K’akoch thinks the bäk nikte’ into the world. Then he sits back and looks at it. He looks at it so much that his eyes give it the most magic he has given anything. And Sukunkyum comes out of the flower! K’akoch looks some more, and Äkyantho’ and Hachäkyum come out, too!”
Preston imagined the tuberose becoming so swollen at its base that it took a big breath and then expelled these beings one after another, as he himself might spit out a jowl full of cherry pits.
“Now these gods are here. And they all knew they had to work because K’akoch wasn’t so interested in this sun and moon, the sea and, earth he makes. So Sukunkyum sees the sun and how the sun wants to go across the sky. But the sun gets tired. Sukunkyum is very kind and says that he will take care of the sun. When the sun gets very tired and sinks into the west of the sky, Sukunkyum wants to take him into his own hammock and feed him. That’s how the sun can have strength and come up again. But Sukunkyum says he doesn’t have a home for his hammock. And Hachäkyum says to his older brother, ‘I will make you a home!’ So, he makes this dark world under our earth. It is dark so the sun can sleep well.
“But our earth is so soft that it wants to fall down to this Underworld, Yalam Lu’um. That’s when Hachäkyum makes the rocks, clay and sand. He mixes these to make the earth strong and it will hold together. Then he makes the trees on our earth to hold up the sky and it won’t fall on the earth. K’akoch is so happy with Hachäkyum that he makes for him maize as a gift. This corn is a very good thing. With corn can be made many things. But Hachäkyum needs the help of his wife because he cannot do it alone. Xk’ale’ox and Hachäkyum learn how to mash the corn and make tortillas and posole because the True People — the Hach Winik — must have food. Now that there is food, they mix the clay and sand together to make the Hach Winik, and they tell them about how to grow the corn in their milpas and eat it. They made them of all the onen: the spider monkey, the jaguar, the peccary, the deer. All of them. Now they made all the animals from the same things, the clay and sand. Those little pieces that fall from their hands become the ants, the spiders, all the insects. And this is how our world is made, Solocito.” Mama gave him a meaningful look.
“What about Jesus?”
“Ah yes, Solocito. Hesuklistos, Jesus, is the son of Äkyantho’. These two look after the foreign peoples.”
“Not the Hach Winik, too?”
“These gods all have their own jobs. They each have enough to do with that. Hachäkyum watches over the Hach Winik.”
“What about the devil, Mama?” his voice barely audible. His mother hadn’t raised him in any religion, but that didn’t stop some of the popular doctrine from seeping in surreptitiously.
“Kisin is not the devil exactly,” Mama responded, “But he lives in the Underworld with Sukunkyum. Sometimes he gets mad and shakes the pillars that hold up the earth. Then we have the earth quacks.”
Preston’s trepidation turned to gleeful giggles at Mama Luna’s mistaken word. “You laugh at me, Solocito?” She leaned over and began to tickle him. All the while Preston quacked away, a good imitation of a duck, until they were both laughing so hard he thought he would pee his pants.
Passing from his melancholy mood, Preston chuckled at the remembrance. He also recalled other stories she had told him, including the one about how the rains came. Mënsabäk, the rain god, had scooped up copal ashes from a god pot with macaw tail feathers and blown them into the sky. There they formed the heavy clouds and the first rains fell onto the earth. Preston smiled to himself recalling how thunder and lightning was made. Kisin made sport of insulting the Hahanak’u, assistants of Mënsabäk, by bending over and mooning them. The Hahanak’u would get so hopping mad, they’d hurl stone axes at Kisin, making thunder and lightning when they struck the ground.
He particularly remembered Ixchel with whom Mama Luna had such a sisterhood. She was the one responsible for the moon, as well as healing, birthing and weaving. She could often be seen at her loom in the night sky weaving the possible world into being while the sun slept. He put himself out in the moonshine once again with Mama Luna, carefully pointing to Ixchel and singing her praises in beautiful soft tones.
As he thought about Mama Luna, he marveled at her serenity. She had clung with certainty to the parallel worlds in which she lived. In fact, for her, they weren’t even parallel. Her life had possessed a kind of fluidity whether she was busy at her daily household chores, or feeding copal into the god pots, and talking to different plants or gods as intimates. Indeed, he recalled how she did the same with people. She hadn’t contrived separation between herself and others. Much to his mother’s chagrin, Mama Luna had treated her as an equal, whereas Sybilla attempted to maintain what she considered to be appropriate distance from her nanny-housekeeper. Mama Luna had a way of ignoring all Sybilla’s airs but not out of rebellion. Preston realized it was more like being patient with a compatriot who couldn’t see the foolishness of her own actions. This, of course, frustrated Sybilla even more.
Preston recalled a time when he’d gone with Mama Luna to the supermarket. He must have been about five or six. At the time, he thought those people simply didn’t like Mama Luna, and he couldn’t understand why. It was only some years later he realized he’d witnessed bigotry for the first time. And he still couldn’t understand the stupidity of it all. They had been minding their own business shopping for the week’s groceries. He was helping her by choosing from the shelves, putting them in the basket when she called out items from her list. Making a game of their chore, they were having a good time. Then he noticed two women down the aisle standing next to a shopping cart, staring. Preston thought he was being too loud and choked off his laughter.
When they waited in the checkout lane, those same two women got in line behind them. Mama Luna had begun to put their purchases on the conveyor. Preston didn’t remember exactly what the women said, but he vividly recalled their hard looks and the cutting sound of their words. They made a show of talking to each other, but everything they said was directed toward Mama Luna and loud enough for her to hear. Preston was shocked and looked at Mama Luna questioningly. She just continued about her business, emptying the cart. He looked at the checkout attendant, who was beet red. She wouldn’t look at them. Later, Preston chastised himself for not coming to Mama’s rescue.
In the midst of the insults, Mama Luna was somehow even more stately, more beautiful than ever before. When she had finished paying the cashier, she turned and smiled at those two bigots. It was their turn to be shocked, and Preston had delighted in it.
“Come, Solocito. We go home.” She took his hand while hoisting the bag on her hip. Nothing was later said between them about the incident. On the walk home, she acted as though nothing had happened. The incident engraved itself in his memory, as a large contrast to their usual happy times together.
Then Preston’s mind came to rest on the final contrast. It was nearly a year to the day of his naming ceremony. Not very often, but periodically, they participated in rituals together. She continued to instruct him in seeing and the ways of plants, animals and her world of the Hach Winik. Preston sensed Smoky hanging around frequently, but he took a back seat to Mama’s tutelage, as if two teachers at the same time would be overwhelming. Inside, he felt more solid. He was finally growing into the spaces in his body that had been empty. He began to think he belonged somewhere after all.
Yet, at the same time, he was even more out of sync with other kids. The distance between Preston and his classmates grew. The internal voice that used to taunt him — Stupid! What’s wrong with you? — was now being directed outward more often than not. He saw his peers in a way that he’d formerly reserved for himself. They, of course, intuited his scorn and hounded him maliciously, causing him to withdraw further.
It had gotten to the point that, one time, Preston finally got fed up and jumped on one of the boys who bullied him. It happened in the middle of class. The boy sat behind him kicking at the bottom of Preston’s seat. Before he knew it, he had blasted out of his own seat, grabbed the boy by his shirt and slugged him in the face, wailing like an outraged soul. When he came to his senses, the teacher was dragging him out the door to the principal’s office. But not before he caught a glimpse of the entire class, pop-eyed and open-mouthed, and his tormentor crying like a snot-nosed baby, bleeding from a split lip. A part of him was horrified at what he’d done, but mostly he was secretly overjoyed.
Most unfortunately, his mother was home when it happened and was called into account for his behavior. After Sybilla placated the principal and assured him it would never happen again, she let Preston have it.
“You cause nothing but trouble, mister!” she scolded, once they were in the car. “What’s wrong with you? You better toe the line, young man! How dare you? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life! What kind of mother they must think I am! Why can’t you make things easy? All I do is work to make things nice for you, and I have to come home to this!” Sybilla’s steady condemnations lasted the entire drive home.
Boy, howdy! She’s been storing this up.
If Sybilla had paused in her exasperated tirade, she might have seen PJ cringing at her every word, as though she was beating him. She might also have noticed that about halfway through the drive, his pain took on a different stance. Instead of shame, it was transmuting itself to resentful defiance.
What about me? She doesn’t care! She’s never here! I can’t tell her anything! I wish she was dead! Then I’d be free! She’s probably not my real mother anyway! Nobody cares about me! Screaming notions circled like a whirlwind until they lodged themselves firmly in his mind, to be recalled again and again when the moment was right.
By the time Sybilla pulled into the driveway, she’d exhausted herself with her outburst, and merely wore a look of irritation. And a sullen scowl, heretofore unseen on Preston’s innocent features, was making its first inroads. When the two came silently through the front door, Mama Luna looked up from her cooking; the sudden shift in the air had caught her attention. She took in the slamming door in another part of the house and Sybilla’s angry voice.
“You’re grounded, young man!”
Mama Luna sighed heavily and returned to stirring the posole meant for their dinner. After another two days of tension in the household, Sybilla left for an assignment in Borneo.
Before leaving, she gave Mama Luna strict instructions. “He’s to have no television or go outside to play for the next week, Maria.”
“You sure, Sybilla? The boy is hurt, I think.”
“You seem to forget that he’s my son, Maria. Not yours. Do as I say. I’ll be home in ten days.”
Preston wasn’t able to see the sad look Mama Luna gave his mother, but he caught their verbal interchange from his room. He didn’t watch much television anyway.
Another sign she doesn’t know me.
After the taxi came to take his mother to the airport and the door closed behind her, Preston came out of his room.
“She hates me, Mama!”
“Ah niño! Ah no! Your mama love you very much. She just not know what to do. Her mother did not teach her so well. You must be kind. Your mama is very hurt in her life. You are her sunshine!”
“Hmmph! She has a funny way of showing it.”
“You be patient, Solocito.”
He sensed Smoky in the corner of the room nodding in agreement.
“Okay, Mama.”
For the next three days all was back to normal, except Mama Luna complied with Sybilla’s wishes and kept Preston indoors after school. He helped her with dinner, and afterward they kept company while she worked at her loom. On the fourth day his life changed drastically. Hers did as well.
The day began normally. She called him out of bed in the morning to get dressed for school. When he came out to breakfast, Mama served him, worry knitting her brow. There were dark circles under her eyes.
“What is it, Mama?”
“Is nothing, Solocito. You hurry. You be late.”
Uncharacteristically, she rushed him out the door.
“A snake bite you on the way, Solocito.” This was her way of ensuring he had a safe journey to school, also a way they teased each other. But this time laughter caught in his throat, seeing her mouth tightened into a thin line.
When he returned home, the space near the loom had been cleared as though they were going to play the game. He got excited and went to find Mama Luna. His enthusiasm dissipated when he came upon her in the kitchen, even more agitated than when he’d left her several hours earlier.
“Please, Mama. What is it?”
“This is not for you, Solocito.”
“Mama, please tell me.”
“Ah, this is a very bad thing I dream last night.”
“What?” Preston was frightened. Mama had taught him how important dreams were. How they could tell what was going to happen. They could tell you something you were supposed to know. She was forever asking him about his dreams, and sharing hers with him. But he’d never seen her distressed like this.
“I dream the light was put out from the sun.”
“I think my teacher says that’s an eclipse.”
“This is it, Solocito. This is very bad. This mean something very bad happen in our world.”
“What, Mama?”
“The dream does not say. It just says very bad. We must do this ceremony tonight and give the gods some good things. They will help us stop this thing.”
They didn’t eat dinner that night but prepared the room as they had done together several times before. At dusk Mama Luna sent Preston off for a bath. When he returned, she’d changed into a ceremonial tunic and skirt and gave him a tunic to don. She brought out the blood-paint and marked stripes and dots on their clothing and faces. He decided some time ago this was why she did so much weaving and created new clothes. Blood-paint didn’t wash out.
Mama Luna lit only a couple of candles. She must have started the charcoal in the god pots when he was in the bath. They appeared ready for offerings. She sat on her haunches feeding copal into the mouths of the god pots as he’d seen her do many times before. When the smoke billowed, she stood but not before drawing him close to her.
She began to chant. Suddenly, she lifted her arms overhead and commenced a long unintelligible speech to the gods. Periodically, she erupted into the trance-inducing, voice-swallowing song that he had grown to love. The melodic offertory filled the spaces that the copal smoke hadn’t and created a thick cocoon of ecstasy around them. And they were both lost in it.
Neither of them heard the front door open.
Neither of them was aware of anything but the opening of the middle space, the seeing place. Through the morphing clouds, Preston thought he saw big, dark brown eyes imploring him.
Then directly behind them, he heard the screaming, what he thought were evil forest spirits coming to get them. And it cracked their cocoon.
“What are you doing?” Sybilla was livid. She grabbed his arm and yanked him over to her. In his dazed state, all he could remember was his mother screeching the same question over and over, from a gaping mouth with teeth grown large and jagged.
He saw her kick over the god pots and slap Mama Luna hard across the cheek. As if spirited away, he found himself in his bedroom with the door locked from the outside. Crouching in the corner, he listened in fright to his mother’s bellowing and Mama Luna’s excited shouting, a mix of English, Spanish and Maya. The yelling finally gave way to tight, accusatory voices, abruptly ending with the slamming of doors.
Preston didn’t know how long he sat there in the dark. No one came. He finally crawled over to his bed and curled into a fetal position, his tunic wrapped taut around his legs. He must have fallen asleep and been dreaming because he thought Mama Luna was sitting at his bedside stroking his hair. But some part of him knew his bedroom door was still locked from the outside.
“My Chan K’in. I must go. This is our blood sacrifice. We do this so it will be safe. This we do,” she whispered softly to him. He could swear he felt her sweet breath on his face and the wetness of tears falling on his head.
“You remember what I teach you. Your Smoky guard you. When you dream of the spider monkey, you see me again, my little one. My Chan K’in.”
Then she was gone.
Preston slept late the next morning. When he got up, he took off his tunic and rubbed the blood-paint off his face. After putting on shorts and a t-shirt, he tried the doorknob and found the door unlocked. The house was strangely silent. He crept into the living room. It had been put back in order, but something was missing. Mama Luna’s loom was no longer standing in its corner.
Like a knife had pierced his heart, he panicked and ran across the living room to fling open her bedroom door. She wasn’t there. In fact, there was no evidence she’d ever even been there at all. And he began to scream in anguish.
Racing around the house, he looked for any trace of her. Finding nothing, he returned to his room, where he discovered his tunic had disappeared. His mother made sure that any outward signs of Mama Luna had vanished. He would only have his memories.
©2013 Carla Woody. All rights reserved worldwide. No portion of this book, except for brief review, may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be directed to: Kenosis Press, P.O. Box 10441, Prescott, Arizona 86304. Email: info@kenosis.net.
Find links to all chapters as they are published in the Table of Contents below.
Table of Contents
Preston
Sybilla
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Preston
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Carla Woody:
Standing Stark: The Willingness to Engage. Read in Illumination Book Chapters.
Calling Our Spirits Home: Gateways to Full Consciousness. Read in Illumination Book Chapters.
Navigating Your Lifepath: Reclaiming Your Self, Recapturing Your Vision. A Program to Revolutionize Your Life. Find in Illumination Book Chapters.
