Portals to the Vision Serpent

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ILLUMINATION Book Chapters

23 min readFeb 20, 2022

Interior and cover design: Kubera Book Design. Cover art: ©2013 Carla Woody.

Chapter Eighteen

Sybilla and PJ rejoined everyone in the kitchen. The women carried platters of food laden with tortillas, beans, rice and squash to the table. Bowls were already stacked. One of the young boys got up from his place on the bench so they could crowd in next to Javier. Davis appeared to be catching up on news, involved with a few of the men at the far end of the table. Sybilla fell on the meal, famished. Even PJ forgot the unaccustomed surroundings in favor of food. As she ate, Sybilla watched the goings-on surreptitiously and decided these people were like most any extended family. There was good-natured joking, sharing of tasks, interrupting each other. She immediately noticed two things though. The children seemed unusually well behaved, and the men didn’t lift a finger, except to eat. Sybilla made a mental note to ask about the division of labor later. It appeared to be strictly divided and guessed that, as a woman, her seat at the table while the men consumed their meal was strictly in deference to her guest status. She felt herself bristle a bit. Some things aren’t so different, she thought, thinking of her own Southern upbringing.

Javier advised her where he was lodged, a cabana in the back of the compound with some of the older boys. There was a separate entrance, he supposed so the teenagers’ comings and goings wouldn’t disturb the rest of the family, and a path that led into the jungle where a large field was cleared. There they grew all the food they were eating tonight, except the rice, which they bought. One of his roommate’s had proudly shown him the milpa.

Davis interrupted their discussion, “Looks for sure like the balché will be ready tomorrow. Chan Bor checked it on his way here. They think T’uup will arrive sometime late tonight. If he does, then he’ll start the ritual early tomorrow morning or the next day. So we should be prepared in case. Get a good night’s rest because it will go on most of the day at least, maybe into the evening. This will be a good time to get some of your questions answered. It takes little prompting to get the storytelling started, especially with balché in hand.”

“What ritual?” Sybilla asked.

“Best that you should witness it. For now just know that it’s a prayer ceremony, feeding of the gods. A communal offering for those who still keep their traditions. There aren’t as many. But that’s another problem,” Davis shook his head slowly. His face showed a measure of pain.

They turned in soon afterward, the women not allowing Sybilla to help clean up. The temperature dropped a bit so that she was happy for the cover of the light sleeping bag. She curled her body around PJ who dropped off immediately. Sybilla lay awake in the dark for some time, listening to the other occupants getting settled and nearby jungle noises. She wondered what tomorrow would bring. Her last thought before she succumbed to sleep was of Gabe, and she unconsciously sent out tendrils through the village, searching for any hint of his presence — present or past.

The next morning Sybilla awoke to an empty room. The place where PJ had slept at her side was still faintly warm. She heard chattering in the nearby kitchen and threw on her clothes to join the others, guessing that one of the women brought PJ along. Passing through the doorway, her eyes darted around until she located her child. Surprisingly, he wasn’t with Javier or Davis. He sat quietly at the feet of an older woman she hadn’t seen before, while activities to ready breakfast were carried on around them. Sybilla greeted PJ and took his hand, at the same time nodding her thanks to his caretaker. The woman held her eyes, an unusual directness she hadn’t seen thus far in her limited experience with the Hach Winik. It was as though the woman was looking into her very interior. Sybilla was taken aback.

She settled PJ at the table, and they accepted bowls of some kind of gruel. Bananas were piled high in the center of the table. Sybilla felt the Native woman’s appraising eyes still on her and PJ. She noted that he returned her looks between bites. Davis was nowhere to be seen, but Javier sat just on the other side of PJ.

She leaned toward him. “Do you have any idea who that woman is over there? I don’t remember her from last night. And she keeps staring at me.”

“I’m not sure. Probably a relative who’s curious. She showed up about an hour ago and brought the wives a basketful of something that looked like wild greens, maybe herbs. Then she sat down and has been there ever since. One of the wives brought PJ in. I guess you were still sleeping. He noticed her right away and immediately sat down by her where you found him,” he said.

“That’s strange,” Sybilla glanced again at the woman, who was still calmly gazing at her and made no attempt to look away.

“I thought it was odd, too. I mean, PJ hasn’t seemed scared since we got here, more shy. But he certainly hasn’t joined in with the other children, aside from any adult,” Javier offered.

“Maybe Davis knows who she is. Where is he anyway?”

“He’s back with Old T’uup. Apparently he got back late as expected. Someone drove him in one of the village trucks.”

Sybilla remembered seeing a pick-up truck that had seen much better days parked off to the side when they rolled into the village. That one and the one that carried T’uup must be the communal transport.

“I wonder why Nuxi’ and Bol had to walk to Palenque with all the crafts. Seems like they could have taken the truck,” Sybilla mused.

“My question, too. But Davis said there are only a few men here who know how to drive. Nuxi’ and Bol aren’t one of those. T’uup and two of his sons needed to attend a meeting about illegal logging in one of the other villages anyway. And they keep one truck available at all times for emergencies. There’s no medical clinic here,” Javier explained. “Although, if there was a serious accident I don’t know what they’d do. You saw the condition of the roads and it’s hours away from any facility.”

“I guess they’d do what they’ve always done. They must have medicine people like other tribes,” Sybilla said.

“I suppose,” Javier started to say something else but was interrupted by Davis entering the room.

An elder accompanied him who had the most remarkably deep-lined face. It bespoke of his advanced age but didn’t at all correlate to his coal black hair and twinkling dark eyes. Even though he barely brushed five feet, the way he carried himself caused him to appear much taller. In fact, he seemed to fill the room with crackling energy. Sybilla had only witnessed that once before in her young life. It was when the President of the United States made a brief campaign stop in Johns Wake when she was fifteen. He wasn’t the president then but a candidate. She’d been roped into being a server by her mother during the dinner the local Democratic Party committee had in his honor. When she handed him his plate of fried chicken, she felt his charisma move over her like a balmy breeze soothing her soul. It hadn’t taken much to know that man was a leader and their future president. Yet, here we are in the middle of a jungle, in a primitive shanty with a dirt floor where they cook over an open fire, and this ancient, barefooted man oozes the same qualities, Sybilla thought. Her mind did a little tilt.

“T’uup Garcia, may I present Sybilla Johns and Javier Alvaro,” Davis said in Spanish. “And this little guy is PJ.” T’uup smiled at them benignly and touched PJ on the head. Davis switched to T’uup’s language and continued on for some time, periodically gesturing to Sybilla and Javier. T’uup, in turn, would acknowledge them with a nod or the same benign smile.

Nuk brought bowls of the mush over and the men sat down. Davis reached for a banana and said in an agitated voice, “T’uup has been telling me about the big meeting he just came from. The three main villages were represented, and there are a few families in outposts around a couple of the lakes that came in for it, too. The illicit logging operations are becoming bolder. They’re getting closer and things have turned dangerous. He says last week one of the families went to their milpa in the morning to work. They were almost there when they heard chainsaws start up. When they got to their field they found some trees on the south end already cut down. The loggers must have already been there for at least a day or so. The family didn’t hear them before because the milpa is a good distance from their home. When the father and sons started waving their hands for them to stop, one of the loggers started shooting at them! They had to run for their lives! The communities have elected T’uup’s two sons to go meet with the regional Mexican government officials to get it stopped. So they’ll leave day after tomorrow. T’uup decided to wait and hold the ceremony until tomorrow so they can plan about the meeting. But the balché won’t wait more than that. So there will be prayers said for the protection of the trees, the milpas, also for his sons making that journey.” Davis shook his head in disgust. Sybilla could see his rage beginning to bubble again.

One of T’uup’s wives called over to him, and T’uup broke away to see what she needed. The logging discussion came to a temporary end. The woman who had been staring at them took T’uup’s place at Davis’ elbow and greeted him profusely.

“Ah! Chax Nuk!” Davis exclaimed and exchanged pleasantries with her in Spanish for some time. Then he shifted to English. “Chax Nuk and I are old friends. She is one of just a few Hach Winik women who speak Spanish. At one time she and her husband lived in the town of Palenque. They used to visit me there. But they returned to K’ak some years ago when her husband became ill. She’s a widow now and lives on the edge of the village. She knows how to work with plants from the forest and people come to her for cures, even those from other villages. Sometimes she helps the women in birthing if it becomes difficult. So she has a status in these parts that’s unusual for her gender.”

It was Sybilla’s turn to assess Chax Nuk while Davis introduced her, a handsome woman with regal bearing. Sybilla’s keen eye noticed that her braid was unadorned, the only difference in Chax Nuk’s dress from the other women. “Please tell her that I’m very happy to meet her. I wonder if she might talk to me later about the plants she uses.”

An exchange occurred between Davis and Chax Nuk. He bowed his head slightly and said, “She’d be fine to talk with you about the plants. She’s also offered to squire you around. Since she speaks Spanish you can converse through Javier. That would free me up some to visit old friends. Not that I’m going to run off by any means. And she says she’s quite taken with your boy.”

At that point everyone looked at PJ who had his eyes locked onto Chax Nuk. Sybilla said, “I think the feeling is mutual. Tell her thank you. That would work very well.”

Koh approached Chax Nuk and engaged her in conversation. Sybilla took that opportunity and asked a question. “Davis, all the other older women have feathers on their braid. Does it mean something that Chax Nuk doesn’t?”

“Yes, it does. Young men give a feather as an offering, a proposal of marriage for a daughter. If the mother accepts it from him and wears it then she’s signaled agreement to the marriage. The number of feathers shows the number of married daughters. Chax Nuk has no daughters.”

“That’s such an interesting practice. Does she have sons?”

“She has no living children. They all either died in childbirth or didn’t make it to adulthood. That may be why she’s devoted herself to her craft. I know that her uncle was an adept, and she apprenticed herself to him years ago, unusual for a female that he formally accepted her in that role. But she can be quite persuasive, ” he smiled.

“That’s so sad. Her life must be difficult as a widow here. She’s all alone? No one to help her?”

“As I said, she retains an unlikely role and stature within the Hach Winik community. For most widows it would be quite hard. However, the people exchange food and other goods for her services, or even help in her small milpa. That’s where you should ask her to take you. She could take you on a forest walk, too, but she’s transplanted some of the herbs into her plot.”

Javier and Sybilla nodded to each other in agreement. Sybilla said, “That would be perfect for our purposes! Would you ask her? Also if it’s okay to take photos and record her?”

Koh’s consult with Chax Nuk had ended, and she was waiting politely. Davis made the inquiry, “She’d be glad to if you’d like to go now. And no problem with recording or photos.” Sybilla and Javier charged off to collect their equipment while Chax Nuk took PJ’s hand.

Chax Nuk led them along the main path through the village, the first time Sybilla got a larger look at the rest of the settlement. It was mostly identical to Old T’uup’s place, compounds with several of the same rough planked huts with enclosures to keep the chickens from escaping. There was no indication of any other livestock, not even horses. She noted the meeting hall where they first saw the villagers. Next to that looked to be a small store. A glance through the doorway revealed shelves sparsely filled with items like canned tuna, powdered milk and the ever-present soft drinks.

They turned onto a lesser-used trail heading toward the lake. The sun had not yet intervened, and it was still shrouded in morning mist. Sybilla remarked on its mystical allure. They all stopped to admire the view.

Javier translated, “Chax Nuk says there is a place very sacred to them on the other side of the lake, a cave. It’s the home of one of their gods. She goes there to make offerings. The mists hide it from those who shouldn’t go. Even in full sunshine it can’t be seen by them, and it’s protected by caimans, too. She says when she travels there she knowingly steps from this world into another dimension and may not be able to return. But so far Ah K’ak liked her offerings and released her to come back.”

A small hut was ahead set back from the lake and, with the exception of its breathtaking setting, resembled the others. Chax Nuk led them through the gate and around to the back where there was a garden plot with beans, corn, squashes and other vegetables. But there were also medicinal plants. She led them on a tour, lovingly touching the leaves of one plant and then another, all translated through Javier.

“This one is anise. Good for digestion. And this one the same, lemon grass. You boil and drink as a tea against an upset stomach. Here is wild clove you chew for muscle cramps,” she continued with her tutorial mentioning mulberry, wild lime, ginger and others as she moved along. She finally stopped in front of a tall stately specimen and fingered its leaves reverently. “I don’t know the name of this one in Spanish. She is sent to us by Äkna’, our Mother Moon, and she lifts the spirit and opens the way.”

A sad look came over her face. “I am very worried what these loggers will do. If they remove Hachäkyum’s forest all these plants that heal us will be no more. The doctors have their medicines but mostly they don’t work so well. They don’t have the life force of the plants and this is what calls upon the life force in us. The plants talk to us this way and convince us to be strong. That is how healing takes place through them.”

She turned back to the stately plant and chanted softly for a few moments then carefully detached one of its long slender leaves. She took Sybilla’s hands, enclosing the leaf between her palms. Once again, Chax Nuk held Sybilla’s eyes with her gaze.

A look of confusion came over Javier’s face. “She says to tell you that the one you searched for in the night is not here.”

Sybilla froze, still holding the frond as she received it. Chax Nuk turned, leading PJ back in the direction they had come. Javier followed. After a while Sybilla tucked the leaf into her bag and retraced her steps.

The next morning Sybilla arose just after dawn. When she entered the kitchen with PJ, she found Javier and Chax Nuk there waiting for them. Old T’uup had already gone, Davis with him. Koh was dishing up some bowls of the same watery gruel as yesterday offering them to those few assembled at the table.

“Chax Nuk says that PJ should eat but those of us who are going to participate in the balché ceremony should eat lightly,” Javier advised. “Then we need to go down quickly so we don’t miss anything. Old T’uup left before the sun came up to prepare.”

“That’s fine. I can go without eating for a while,” Sybilla snagged a bowl for PJ. “Why don’t we go? I can take this for PJ.”

The previous day they’d had a sneak peek at the advance work involved. Chax Nuk took them down a path at the back of Old T’uup’s compound leading away from the homes and milpa. They followed her through brush and high grass until they came to a young ceiba tree. Sybilla commented, recognizing it even in its much smaller version due to the thorny trunk. Chax Nuk explained that T’uup planted it a few years back to act as a guardian to his god house. They began to descend. Below was a cleared-out hollow hugged on three sides by the hill, bordered by thick rainforest on the other. Its only contents were two thatched palapas, one three times as large as the other, and a long dugout canoe held upright by a complement of sturdy sticks. The area was deserted with the exception of Nuk and Chan Nuk who were occupied in the smaller structure. Nuk was vigorously grinding corn by hand at a well-worn worktable while Chan Nuk held large banana leaves above an open fire making them pliable. Next to the fire ring sat a huge Dutch oven half-filled with leaf-wrapped packets. They greeted the visitors and went back to their work.

Javier translated, “This is a sacred place, Old T’uup’s god house. The women are making tamales for tomorrow. These are ceremonial offerings but we will eat them, too. You’ll see tomorrow. Over there is the balché fermenting for the last four days. It’s made from bark, honey and water.” Chax Nuk had pointed to the dugout overlaid with large palm leaves and tied securely with vines.

Sybilla walked over to the remaining palapa, peered in and started to take a step inside but felt Chax Nuk lightly take her arm and draw her back. “The women aren’t allowed inside. We must stay over here by the kitchen. But maybe you can be a little closer tomorrow. We’ll see.”

Javier spoke to Chax Nuk then said to Sybilla. “Sorry about that. I asked if it was okay for me to step inside and take some shots. She says there’s no restriction on me because I’m a man. I thought it might be a good thing, to get some shots without the people.”

“Sure, go ahead. That’s a good idea,” Sybilla replied. “And we’ve got to respect the customs.” Even if I don’t agree with them, she said under her breath.

Javier walked around quietly snapping, pausing every now and then to throw questions at Chax Nuk. She patiently tutored them while Sybilla held out a recorder to catch her words. The god house poles were situated according to the Four Directions. The wooden shelf that hung from the eaves on the west side contained thirteen terracotta pots, each one portal to a god. If the god wanted to participate in a ceremony, its receptacle would be brought out. Netting similarly hung was filled to overflowing with gourd bowls, the balché drinking vessels. Some baskets and a conch shell sat underneath, kept off the ground by a wooden plank. Otherwise, the god house was sparely furnished. Only a few low, wooden stools or logs were grouped around a cold fire ring.

But this morning a fire crackled in the chilled air. A few men in traditional dress were already present; they’d drawn the stools up close and huddled to catch some warmth. Their normally white shifts were dotted with red dye. The god pots had been placed in the middle, arranged in a line on the ground facing east, with palm leaves spread out in front. Old T’uup was carefully laying six-inch rings made of woven vines on top. Davis sat on a log directly across, next to another frond display. There rested a large terracotta footed vessel with the drinking gourds, freed from their netting, clustered around it. When his traveling companions approached, Davis greeted them and called to Chax Nuk as she joined Nuk and Chan Nuk in the god house kitchen. He wore a white bark headband dotted with the same red dye.

“Sybilla. Javier. Come on over,” Davis held out his hand to PJ and curled him into a hug. PJ laughed and remained balanced on Davis’ lap.

“Sybilla, it’s not usually done, but T’uup has given his permission for you to sit on the perimeter of his god house. He’s fine for you to record anything you want to. And photos are okay, but he doesn’t like video. He’s agreeable to this only because of the article you’ll be writing. He wants the word to get out about the logging companies, the dangers to his people and the complicity of the government. But I still want you to keep our agreement. I want to see what you write before you send it off to publish.” He looked at her meaningfully.

“No problem,” Sybilla replied, “And please pass on my thanks for this accommodation.”

As if he understood every word, T’uup looked up from his preparation and smiled in their direction. Sybilla and Javier laid down their equipment outside the god house within easy reach and settled themselves in the corner as best they could. Sybilla noticed the men were barefoot and removed her shoes. Old T’uup reached up into the central eaves and brought down a large square paddle that looked like something a pizza maker might use. He sat down on his haunches and began digging a gooey substance out from yet another gourd with his fingers. Rolling pieces between his palms, he placed them equidistant on the board, so that it looked all the world like he was readying a baking sheet loaded with cookie dough to pop into an oven. T’uup held the paddle aloft and began to chant, swiveling to each of the Four Directions. More men and a few young boys wandered down, the men finding seats in the god house, the young boys hanging around just outside. With the exception of T’uup’s wives, Chax Nuk and a few young women of the family who remained near the kitchen, females were patently absent. PJ had clambered down from Davis’ lap and joined Chax Nuk. He sat at her feet happily eating a banana she’d given him.

T’uup completed his chant and carried the laden paddle over to the god pots, and removing the sticky globs one by one, placed them on the black mounds in each god pot until all was shared between them.

“What’s he doing?” Sybilla asked Davis.

“That resin is copal, pom, one of the headiest scents you’ll ever smell. The gods like it. As the smoke ascends it turns into tortillas, food for the gods. You’ll see that the god pots have different features to distinguish them from each other but the mouths are all open so they can be fed, aside from the pom that goes into the interior.”

Sure enough, Sybilla could see an exaggerated lower lip jutting out from the simple features that adorned the outside of the pots.

“Old T’uup will bring the balché over and fill the drinking gourds there then make the offering to the gods,” he gestured to some baskets filled with leaf-wrapped tamales, the same they’d seen being made the day before. “He’ll offer them the tamales, too. Now you’ll see that all the gods wanted to be involved today. Not one of them stayed on the shelf. There is much at stake, and they know it. Old T’uup will be asking for help to protect the forest and all creatures that live within it, their milpas. He’ll ask the gods to intercede on their behalf, that his sons will be heard by the government, that all are safe and may live in harmony. So over there is Hachäkyum who created the Hach Winik and there Äk’inchob, his son-in-law who protects the milpas, and there Äkyantho’. He must be included to have any effect. He’s the god of foreigners and commerce, so he speaks their language,” Davis continued until he named each one and their role, pausing before he ended. “Ah yes, and there is Äkna’. T’uup said he had to give her special prayers and reassurances. Our Mother sometimes gets a bit jealous. He had to get her permission to allow you this close — and to ensure that you wouldn’t distract the male gods. So please be unobtrusive.”

Sybilla looked at Davis to see if he was kidding. His serious look told her he wasn’t. T’uup finished placing the pom, looking strangely like caramel-colored topknots on black beanies resting in ceramic bowls. He carried the large footed vessel over to the balché canoe, one of his son’s in tow. They carefully untied the vines that held the palm fronds in place, pushing them aside enough so that the elixir inside was exposed. Sybilla wandered over and saw a muddy-colored liquid with some questionable looking debris floating on top. Old T’uup draped a large handkerchief over the top of the terracotta container. His son dipped a drinking gourd into the canoe and emptied its contents onto the handkerchief, which acted as a strainer. A good thing, too, from the looks of it, Sybilla thought, noticing the small drowned insects and sticks left on the cloth. The process continued until the container was nearly full to the top. T’uup made a big show of attempting to pick it up himself until his son helped him. The two grunted with their burden, returning it to its designated place with the empty drinking gourds. The others continued their conversations with each other, which seemed to include much joking.

Sybilla was fascinated with Old T’uup’s actions. He picked up the conch shell and, turning again in the Four Directions, blew into it several times, producing blasts that called the gods to the ceremony, Davis told her. That done, he took his time doling out an amount of balché to the gods’ drinking gourds then used a rolled up palm leaf as a dropper, dipping it into the gourds and dribbling balché into the mouth of each god pot. The gods must have been satisfied because he took a break to fill up the remaining gourds. He began passing them out to the men who took big gulps. Sybilla felt Davis nudge her arm.

“T’uup wants to know if you’d like some,” Davis said. He was holding a gourd out to her expectantly. “You won’t offend him if you don’t want to. He’s being polite. As a woman, you don’t need to accept.”

“Why not?” Sybilla said, “I’ve come this far. I’ll try it.” She bobbed her head in thanks to T’uup and examined the contents carefully to check for floating things. None discovered, Sybilla tentatively brought the bowl to her lips and sipped. She did her best to keep from screwing up her face. Luckily, only Davis was watching her, anticipating her response. Javier was preoccupied with his own bowl, taking long drinks.

“Ewww. It’s oily or something. Tastes like kerosene smells!” Sybilla pronounced.

Davis chortled, “I guess it’s an acquired taste. No need to drink it if you don’t want it.”

“No, I’ll hang onto it and give it a chance,” she replied. Old T’uup called over to the women, and a young boy carried a few gourds of balché to the kitchen. The wives threw back commentary, laughing. All very informal, Sybilla noted to herself. Checking on PJ, he appeared to be carrying on a conversation with Chax Nuk. She was nodding and replying as though they spoke the same language. Very strange, Sybilla thought but turned her attention back to T’uup who had resumed feeding the gods. He gouged his thumb into a tamale and deposited the bounty into the mouth of a god pot, repeating the process until all had a portion. Then he offered the baskets to those assembled. When it came to her, Sybilla looked for a smaller one and plucked it out, not sure she could choke it down. The banana leaf packet had blackened from steaming. She imagined its hidden contents unappetizing and wasn’t feeling too adventuresome after the sip of balché. Sybilla opened the banana leaf to find a compact tamale, the texture slick and plastic-like. Breaking off a small piece, she popped it into her mouth and chewed warily.

“Why this is delicious! A bean tamale?” Her features reflected her pleasure. Sybilla took another nip of balché, and this time found it not so bad. “I guess the balché could grow on me,” she said to the air.

In the meantime, Old T’uup lit a firebrand and stooped over one god pot then the next lighting the pom until all were blazing. The god house filled with pom smoke. It entered Sybilla’s nostrils and registered profoundly in her brain. In that moment, she felt transported to another dimension, no longer the cautious observer but fully present in the midst of the happenings around her.

As if on signal all the men rose as one, holding small palm fronds, and lined up behind Old T’uup, including Davis. Only Sybilla and Javier remained seated in the god house. She noticed that Davis had freed his mane so that it hung loose. She didn’t know if it was an optical illusion, but tendrils of pom smoke seemed to capture strands of his hair and float it playfully in the air around his head. In her fantasy, she saw it as the gods’ version of a welcome mat. Indeed, even though Davis was Anglo he appeared as natural and comfortable in that environment as any of the Hach Winik. Her respect for him grew again.

T’uup alone chanted as the men moved along the line of god pots, the palm leaves they held, taking on a life of their own, undulating through the pom smoke. Suddenly the limitation of language fell away. The alternating tones of T’uup’s prayer, exaltation to mournful loss, acted as the backdrop to ancient story and entreaty. Sybilla became the human being created by Hachäkyum and his wife, She of the Sacred Breadnut Leaves. It was she, Sybilla, who planted her feet on the earth and found it firm, who felt the rays extending from Hachäkyum on her skin, who walked through the lush jungle and heard the comforting calls of monkeys and birds, saw corn growing in the milpa — and knew that all was well; food was plentiful. She rejoiced in her soul.

And it was she who found herself just as suddenly in a wasteland. Gone were the trees, the ground opened in parched chasms. No bird calls giving comfort to her walk, only bereft silence. No corn in the charred remains of the milpa; nothing grew. Sybilla felt the hunger of her stomach as it embraced her backbone. She heard the internal keening of her spirit. Then all was black. She felt herself floating, no foothold, no foundation.

Slowly, the sounds of Old T’uup’s chant returned, the language foreign. She was aware of her toes scrunched up in the dirt, the tears still wet on her cheeks. She opened her eyes and saw that the men had returned to their seats and were picking up their balché bowls to quaff their thirst. Davis examined her intently then held out a palm leaf. She took it and covered it with her palms, gazing at the god pots as the remaining pom burned itself out. Finally, she glanced down at her recorder. Somewhere along the line it had stopped. But Sybilla didn’t care.

©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.

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Synopsis and Author’s Note

Preston

Sybilla