Portals to the Vision Serpent

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ILLUMINATION Book Chapters

17 min readDec 1, 2021

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

Chapter Twelve

Sybilla and PJ arrived mid-morning at Doña Flora’s home in the softer heat of the summer day and found her finishing up the breakfast dishes. The children greeted them both with delighted cries, and PJ crowed as they swarmed over him like happy puppies. Sybilla had to admit she felt welcomed as a member of the best kind of family. She soaked up the warmth from the exuberant acknowledgment and couldn’t help compare how different they were to her own kinfolk. PJ joined right in like he belonged in this brood, Sybilla noted with some relief, never having seen him do so with such abandon. He hadn’t found his place amongst the children in their own neighborhood. It’s good for him to spend time here, she thought, setting aside any previous uncertainties about leaving him at Doña Flora’s home for childcare instead of having her come to theirs.

“Okay, dear ones. It’s time to leave us and go play,” the midwife shooed them out good-naturedly. The boys dashed out chattering, while Maria put her hand in PJ’s. Like an older sister, she led him outside.

“They must be a handful! And I’m amazed how you can keep everything in place. I’ve only got PJ, and I can’t do it.”

“They are my heart, these precious ones. It was not so easy for my daughter to have these. We prayed a lot, and she took the herbs. So we have been blessed.”

Sybilla took up her previous position, setting up her equipment as before. The sole candle on the altar was still lit. She made a mental note to ask about it later. Doña Flora swept into the room carrying a tray. Sybilla suppressed a smile when she saw two small pitchers, one with coffee “mud,” as her friend called it, and one with hot water. Her friend had remembered her preference. They poured and stirred to their own taste, Sybilla’s being without any additives.

“I have so many questions. What you’ve shared with me is rich, and I know there’s more. I’m wondering about some things in general.”

Doña Flora nodded encouragement.

Glancing down at her notes Sybilla asked, “How common is it for your people to have the calling you spoke of — healing? I mean are there many healers in the villages like there are many doctors here?”

“No, it is a bit different. Your doctors go to the university. There are many of them, and they decide to do it. In my culture, there are not so many Indígena healers and maybe not one in each village. So the people may have to go farther. Although, these healers may have special skills they are given, just like a doctor goes to school to learn a certain thing. So some talk to the ancestors, or help with the babies and work with herbs or the sweat bath, like I said. But there are others who just set bones, heal through singing rituals, or other ways like this. The big thing though is that they all have the dreams and visions that bring them. And this is how they learn to do their work, too.”

“What? There’s no school?” Sybilla was incredulous.

“It is a school,” Doña Flora smiled. “But not how you think about it. I think maybe I’ll continue with my story and you’ll see.”

“That would be good. Last time you said the dreams ended when you were seventeen,” Sybilla prompted her.

“Yes, well, they did not end exactly. They took a long pause for some years. And in this time I found my husband. His name is Xun but now he goes by John because it’s easier for the people here to understand. He was from another village, a few years older than me, and his wife died in childbirth a couple of years before with the first child. The child died, too. We met at the house of my aunt when he was visiting my cousin Eduardo. When I saw him, I knew he was for me! After that he came to my home many times to see me. He didn’t think I was too old, even though I was twenty. I didn’t tell him then about The Lady because I told no one still. But I decided to tell him about the dreams I had when I was younger. It must be fair for him because I thought he would ask my parents soon if we could marry. He is a special man. He understood that the dreams were special. He agreed that we could live at my parent’s house instead of his. This is what I wanted because I thought it was important for me to stay close to my mother and grandmother. So we did live there for a while until our babies began to come. Xun built us a home close by because it was already crowded in my family home. So I was a married lady and now a mother with three babies that my mother delivered from me. And the dreams returned. I was twenty-nine, and my daughter and sons were not babies any more. I was glad of this because I knew that if the dreams came again like this I must soon accept. But first, there was more that came.

“One time in my dream there was a stone that jumped into my hands. Now when I looked at this stone it was ordinary, but when I turned it over there was a raised line like a snake. I could see that it was the umbilical cord that came from the stone like a placenta. All of this in my dream. In the next day I had to wash the clothes at the river. I was scrubbing the clothes on a big rock and there was a song that came softly on the breeze. But there was no one around, and somehow I knew the song from somewhere. But I couldn’t remember, and it was puzzling to me. Then when I turned to rinse the clothes in the river, I saw something shining very bright in the water even though it was a cloudy day. I reached my hand in and felt a hard thing stuck in the mud. I pulled it out, and it was just a muddy rock. But I washed the mud off — and I could see that it was the smooth placenta stone of my dreams! It had the umbilical cord, too! And I heard that song. It came from this stone! Then I remembered, too, that I heard this song in my dream.”

Sybilla gasped, “No! How is that possible?”

“Well, these things do happen,” Doña Flora nodded sagely, “I couldn’t understand the words of the song. I’m not sure they were words. Or, if they were, it was to a language lost to us.”

Doña Flora got up and went over to the altar. Gently she picked up a small wrapped bundle and, returning, placed it on the low table between them. Taking her time, she carefully pulled away the cloth, simultaneously whispering prayers in her native tongue, to reveal a stone nestled in pine needles and resin pieces of some sort.

Sybilla leaned over to take a closer look, which generated a sharp intake of breath — and the hair along her arms and the back of her neck raised. The stone emitted an inaudible vibration that she caught, just as a deaf ear may recognize music. And yes, there was something like a snake ridged along its top. She sat back abruptly. There’s no way she was going to touch it!

Sybilla had no reason to believe that Doña Flora was telling anything other than the truth; she’d always displayed complete integrity. Sybilla’s own personal beliefs about the ways of the world had been stretched thin before by what she’d experienced with Gabe. With the contents of Doña Flora’s tale and the object that sat in front of her now, the membrane that held her convictions together was being systematically perforated. Sybilla was ungrounded.

Doña Flora reverently re-wrapped the stone, returning it to its place on the altar. And Sybilla got up and took a bathroom break. The niggling voices that worried about how to present this information in a mainstream article got louder. But she silently shushed them, because by now Sybilla was equally enthralled and morbidly repelled by the material, just wanting to hear it all. I’ll worry about all that later, she thought, exiting the bathroom.

“Shall I continue?” Doña asked.

“Yes, of course,” Sybilla attempted to erase any skepticism from her features.

“One day my mother sent me to a certain place on the mountain near our home to collect an herb that she uses. I was busy looking when the placenta stone begins to sing in my pocket. After it came to me, I always carried it with me, you see. This stone is singing the prayer that we say when we purify ourselves at the sacred lagoon near where I was hunting the herb. I understood the singing even though it isn’t the way you think about singing out loud. And I knew the message of the stone is that I must go to the lagoon. So I did. I was washing the water over my face and hair when the stone sang very loudly. And when I looked up The Lady was there! She was moving across the top of the water to me from the other side! Just like before, she stopped close to me and reached out to me. But this time she filled my hands with mariposas and closed them like in prayer! Her light came to me and wrapped me in this great love! I felt so much gratitude that I couldn’t say anything. And then I couldn’t see her anymore, but the feeling stayed. It’s still here — always for me to call on. This is what guides me every day in my life,” Doña Flora whispered the last bit, then sighed deeply before going on.

“I am sharing with you that this was the calling I knew would come. It was my time to accept, but I wanted to be sure. So I went to the same seer who told my mother about herself. He was very old then, maybe almost one hundred, when I saw him. Even he wasn’t sure how old. I cannot tell you how he did the ritual for me because that’s a secret in our religion. We don’t talk about these things. But he said that, yes, The Lady had touched me, and it was now the time for me to take on the responsibilities of the midwife. This is a most sacred thing in my tradition, to help the women and communicate with the gods who send the babies to be born. And this thread with a midwife and the babies she helped to bring? It stays all her life.

“Now this old man tells me that I must pay attention. There were things that would be put in my way that were for me to learn how to do what I must. And that when I was to deliver the first baby, I would be told. And he was right. My dreams began to show me how my work would be, ways to let the gods and ancestors guide me, how to talk to the unborn child. I was shown the herbs to gather, when to collect them and how I would use them. The prayers to say were placed in my soul. Yes, I knew something of this from my mother and grandmother. But through my dreams it was complete.

“This happened over several months. Then one day I went to collect water from the river. I was walking on the path and the stone started to sing loudly like it wanted my attention. So just like when The Lady appeared, I knew to look around carefully. There just on the side of the path, almost hidden by grass, was a small knife. I picked this knife up and saw that it was one that is used by midwives to cut the umbilical cord! That’s how I knew it was time for me to deliver my first baby. I put the knife in my pocket with the placenta stone. Then I went home and told my mother and grandmother. They were sitting at the table waiting. Later, they told me they knew it was my time. That’s when they told me that a young woman had come to them asking for me a few weeks before. This woman said she had a dream that I was to deliver her first baby, even though she wasn’t pregnant yet. They had waited to tell me until I had the sign. That’s how it happened. In a month this young woman was pregnant. I have delivered many, many babies since that time thirty years ago. Your PJ, too, of course,” her friend smiled fondly at her.

“That’s just a wonderful story! Is that the way it always happens for a midwife?” Sybilla chose her words carefully.

“If she is a traditional indígena, then yes, something like this. But if the woman let her ways go or she is ladina, then she may not be able to hear it. She may just get a feeling and go train at a clinic in the city. But this is more like a nurse in the Western way.”

Sybilla realized then she hadn’t questioned Gabe at all when he brought Doña Flora to her. She’d assumed she had bona fide medical training! She was horrified now. It appeared that she’d put the welfare of her baby in the hands of someone who did not! She couldn’t write an article about a charlatan except as a warning to others! She attempted to hide the slow burn of anger forming against Gabe’s foolishness, and her own, by clearing her throat. “But what happened when you came to this country? Because you deliver babies here. Surely you must have taken clinical training?”

Doña Flora recognized in the reddening of Sybilla’s face that she was mightily upset. “Dear one, you must know that I did everything I needed to do to make it legal here. When I came I looked to see. Here it is possible to go to a school or apprentice with a midwife. So even though I delivered babies at home for many years, I did this apprenticeship to make it acceptable in this state. Her name was Anne Owens and she was a good woman. We became good friends. She’s gone now but sent people to me if they were open to my ways of tending. She had traveled in Central America and knew about our ways. We had respect for each other. We did what we needed to do so I would be accepted here.”

“I see. That’s good to know then,” Sybilla was visibly relieved. Her article wasn’t in jeopardy, although she still chastised herself for not doing more checking before her own delivery. “I noticed your altar over there. What can you tell me about it? And that there’s one candle lit? Is that usual?”

“Yes, we have this altar to remember our connections. It is a common thing in our households. But that one candle we have lit as a vigil for our people at home for what they go through and, too, for the spiritual leaders that have been killed in these last months.”

Sybilla reviewed with Doña Flora the areas they had discussed weeks before: the atrocities against local healers, the dangers her people faced from the government, the influx of aggressive religions, and the crimes in the rainforest against the whole world by the oil and logging companies.

Sybilla snapped her notebook shut with satisfaction and patted the recorder. “I think I’ve got plenty of material. I can’t wait to start writing!”

“I’m glad for that. Now, why not some lunch before you go?” The midwife went to call the children.

Sybilla sat back, satisfied. She’d scrutinized her finished column not able to find anything that Mr. Devry could redline. Setting aside all the really juicy contents of her interview with Doña Flora, Sybilla was confident that she still got the crux of her subject matter across, albeit with much skimmed off the top. That way, too, she was testing the waters. Maybe she could do similar pieces, surreptitiously introducing something controversial, planting a seed. If this one flies, then it opens a door for something much more exciting, she thought happily. Besides, Sybilla knew that some of what Doña Flora told her was for her ears only, like The Lady, and she was honored with that trust.

So instead she wrote that Doña Flora came from a long line of midwives and that it was common in her tradition for people in her role to dream about it. But she left out the dreams themselves, and certainly the visions. She told, in general terms, why Doña Flora had come to Mother Lode and how some of those same dangers still existed in her homeland. Sybilla ended very tidily by citing the number of babies she’d birthed and her legal certification, noting that Doña Flora had delivered her own child PJ — for that added bit of human interest. Sybilla held her breath and pressed send, emailing it off to her editor. The next morning a return message waited in her inbox. Mr. Devry had made only a few minor changes and blessed it for the next week’s column. Exuberant, Sybilla popped from her chair and, arms thrust overhead, did a twirl. Yes! She’d flown beneath his radar.

The article had been out a few days when she dropped by Doña Flora’s again with PJ. By then it had generated a number of positive letters to the editor and only one that Sybilla couldn’t even consider derogatory. Somehow the piece had gained attention outside the local area, the missive was from the president of the Nurse-Midwives Association in Phoenix cautioning against untrained midwives, which had nothing to do with Doña Flora. Sybilla had covered herself there.

“You know I have received some calls? I have three new ones that their babies are coming,” Doña Flora nodded approvingly. “And, too, some people even outside the state that come from my homeland. They said their relatives here sent this article from the Internet. They tell me about their families in Guatemala and the hard times. This saddens me. I am here. What can I do? They are there. What can they do? But we make this connection and can pray together. Sometimes I think this is not enough.” Doña Flora was silent in her reflection. Sybilla didn’t know what to say and so sipped her coffee. But an idea was forming.

Over the next weeks Sybilla did her research online. She was looking for just the right periodical or magazine: one that published about cultural integrity but didn’t avoid the politics that may accompany it, one not too obscure that had a good, even somewhat mainstream, readership. When she took an outing to the local mega-bookstore and surveyed the racks of journals, she knew she had it — Thrive: A Journal for the Planet and Her People. Its publication offices were located in nearby Phoenix. Flipping through, she remembered there was an old issue at home, tucked away in a pile of possibilities when she was ready. I’m ready now, she thought. Carrying her newly purchased copy, Sybilla went home, not wasting any time.

She’d already written a draft query message, which included a link to her column on Doña Flora. Now that she’d chosen the journal, she made sure to include key attractors she’d gleaned from the contents of the editor’s own magazine, intending to gain at least some interest if not a full foothold. She proposed to write an in-depth article using material she had not used, offered some teasers and threw in her professional photography experience. To have photos published, too? That would be a dream come true. After letting the final version of the query sit overnight, Sybilla examined it one more time. The deep breath had worked last time. She repeated the ritual and hit the send button, then took up the excruciating wait. The submission guidelines said one to three months.

But two weeks later she received an answer: Call me. I’d like to talk to you about your proposal. It was signed: Jay Turner. His address block included the title Editor-in-Chief. Sybilla’s heart was in her throat.

The article Sybilla wrote for Thrive honored Doña Flora’s natural gift and traditions, and exposed the dangers to spiritual leaders in her country in such a way that there was an outpouring from the readers. For months afterward, she still received fan mail forwarded to her. It turned out that she’d chosen the magazine wisely. She later discovered that Jay Turner, an environmentalist and supporter of Native traditions who had cavernous pockets, was not only the editor-in-chief but owned the publication. He wasn’t afraid to be controversial and took a hands-on approach when it came to Thrive. When he personally offered Sybilla a place in his stable of writers, she was giddy and thought it a fluke but certainly didn’t turn it down. The night of his offer she took up her ritual position under the sky after she’d gotten PJ off to sleep. She swore the stars were winking particularly bright, affirming her place in the world. For the first time, she had a real sense of what lay in front of her, the task she’d chosen, what that could mean — and how complex her life might be. How would she accomplish it all? Could she?

In the midst of excitement about her own future, she was worried about her friend Flora. Yes, after all they’d done together, she’d finally felt comfortable dropping the title of respect even with the vast age difference between them. A couple of months after the article was out on the street, Flora and her husband made the decision to return to her home village. Flora had said she just couldn’t stand by any longer. She must go home to her family and people. One brilliant Mother Lode morning, they shared a tearful farewell at the midwife’s home. PJ was especially upset. Even though Flora plied him with one of the sticky cakes he loved, he hung on her skirts, inconsolable.

“Just like my daddy! You’re leaving!”

Flora knelt down in front of him and held his hands, “Ah no, little one. You know even if you don’t see me all the time, just like your daddy, I love you and I’m with you. Now you know this.” She held him close.

When Sybilla and PJ were leaving, Flora hugged Sybilla tightly and spoke softly in her ear. “You will do well, my friend. You remember your son and his gifts. There will come a time when he needs teaching by one who knows about these things. I am sorry I cannot be here to do it. But there will be one who comes.”

Emotions welled up for Sybilla: guilt, loss, worry. “Flora, your friendship has meant so much to me. You’ve been so kind to us both and to Gabe when he was here. And I’m afraid that I may have put you in danger by writing about you!”

“My friend Sybilla, we all take a road we must. I have been praying for many months, you know. I feel this protection. And there are no worries for your writing! Who from my country would have seen it? You take care of yourself and your boy. The Lady is with me always,” Flora finished softly.

After Sybilla returned home with PJ, she made herself some coffee then sat at the kitchen table. She re-imagined the countless times she’d sat there with Flora, she with her coffee so strong she could chew it, hers watered down and sugary the way she liked it, discussing the mysteries of the last few years, parenting PJ or even such everyday things as what to plant in the garden. Where would she again find such warmth and solace? She felt just as bereft as PJ. In the moment, only her writing and potential future in that realm offered any comfort.

©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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Find links to all chapters as they are published in the Table of Contents below.

Table of Contents

Synopsis and Author’s Note

Preston

Sybilla