Portals to the Vision Serpent
Chapter Fourteen
Sybilla was nearly to the end of the thick volume when her luck turned. Mitchell described a two-man expedition with a local guide leaving Piedras Negras to float down the Usumacinta River. After several months at the dig they wanted a breather and headed downriver, leaving the rest of the crew behind to continue the tedious work. Sybilla got caught up in the description of the journey: wide rolling waters moving through dense jungle, humidity, a warm breeze somewhat intervening against the sun that beat down mercilessly on the travelers’ heads. Periodically they passed ceiba trees. She knew from research that this was the World Tree sacred to the Maya, often depicted on ancient murals and sarcophaguses — and the one that the Stone Worshipper had told his captors was the central axis separating the Underworld and Upperworld. Even today when the rainforest was cleared and decimated, any ceiba would be left standing; the mythology persisted. Sybilla had seen pictures and could easily visualize a naked trunk a hundred feet high with huge buttresses and its branches gathered at the top, reaching up to the cosmos. She imagined seeing one just so as she herself drifted down the river of her mind.
Mitchell and his companions had thus been traveling much of the day when they spied the roof comb of a temple barely peaking above the canopy, resembling perhaps the headdress of a king or antenna to the gods. He’d heard of this place the natives so revered, where people were thought to receive visions merely by walking through the area, moving through dimensions of time. This ritual site, located on land jutting out into the waters like a horseshoe, was called Yaxchilán.
Guiding their launch to the water’s edge, the guide threw out a rope to secure it to a tree close by. They jumped onto Mexican soil and all gazed up the steep bank to the jungle above. The site appeared to be close by, but there was no indication that humans had been this way, at least recently. The guide used his machete and hacked rude steps into the natural mud walls that separated them from their destination. The men clambered up with the help of vines and small bushes as handholds. Still no sign of human presence. They moved in the general direction of the roof comb, now unseen, the machete swinging in front of them to clear a way. Slow going. The guide was preoccupied with making a trail and didn’t notice that Mitchell and the other archeologist had suddenly stopped behind him.
An arresting sound broke the commonplace undertones of the jungle, the buzzing of insects and twitter of birds. It came from the direction they were headed. The sound grew — a primeval roar, a dinosaur come to life or a jaguar on the prowl. But the men weren’t stopped by the cries, those of howler monkeys, which they knew well in a rainforest environment. Their eyes were drawn ahead to the sight beneath where the howlers gathered in the trees, the mossy crumbling stones of some high ancient wall. The closer they came, the louder the howlers, it being hard to tell if they were drawing them in, or outraged that Mitchell and his friends had shown up. A small beaten path was visible coming from the left, leading up to a narrow slit in the wall. The men paused at the opening and peered into blackness. Mitchell knew from his Maya informants that such man-made structures, plus caves and sinkholes, had meaning, gateways to the Underworld where shaman-priests journeyed to fight demon-gods and rescue lost souls. Nothing was visible. No telling what awaited them. Mitchell shone his flashlight and revealed a passageway, but no light came from the other side. It turned to the left some ten feet ahead. Single file, they entered, careful not to touch the slick walls. Who knew what had taken up residence there? Mitchell led the way. The dank passage twisted and turned like a maze, the uneven ground wet. Around a corner, the flashlight disturbed bats at rest. They beat their wings and filled the passageway. The men had to bend over and cover their heads. Finally there was a glimmer of daylight ahead, and they broke out onto an overgrown plaza.
The band of howlers had dispersed farther into the site and could be heard still in the distance. The explorers stood stock-still taking in what lay before them, at least what they could readily see. Used to the grandeur of places like Tikal, this ancient Maya city was more a fairy kingdom in comparison, shrouded in vines and mist, blanketed in humidity. Enraptured, they picked their way into the clearing. The guide halted abruptly and grunted. Throwing up a hand to signal a stop, he pointed downward to moving grass a few feet ahead. They’d nearly blundered over the dreaded fer-de-lance. The men waited until it slithered away, unperturbed by their presence. Mitchell saw eyeholes and a gaping mouth peeking at them. Brushing away plant litter revealed a mask carved into a stone façade covered with codices, the transcript of ancient annals. The men grew more excited, talking in hushed voices. As their eyes became accustomed to looking just beyond what was apparent, the stone treasures hidden there appeared. Temples and intricately carved slabs languished all around them. Mitchell caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned just in time to see a figure dash between trees, to dematerialize into the undergrowth. In those split seconds he couldn’t tell the gender. Curious, he thought. Too large for a woman but wearing a white dress.
Sybilla sucked in her breath, and the skin on her arms tightened into chicken skin. Suddenly she was present, as though she’d slid right into Mitchell’s body looking right through his eyes, experiencing the sudden rush of his blood.
Then very faintly a sound came through the rainforest canopy; their ears picked up thin chanting. After a minute the intoning became more robust as other voices joined in. They crept over in the direction of the singing and came upon narrow, overgrown pathway stretching up toward the sky, the endpoint hidden. The men all looked at each other silently. Joint nodding signaled agreement, and they started upward unable to see very far ahead.
As with the Underworld, so with the Upperworld, Sybilla thought, the metaphoric meaning not lost on her, even though such loss of control was out of her comfort zone.
The steps were irregular and slippery, victims of decay. The explorers labored on, careful not to make noise. The chanting continued from above, repetitive, trance- inducing if they’d allowed it, and became louder as they got closer. Until finally a roof comb came into view, then a temple, and above the last level of steps they saw a pillar standing upright, a lookout frozen in time, protecting a holy place. Just beyond was a small group of four figures, backs to the explorers, with long dark hair down their backs and shapeless white shifts that fell to mid-calf. They were bent over tending to some smoking vessels, their song accompanying them. A sweet, intoxicating scent reached out to the men in their semi-hidden place below. Then another figure broke into the clearing, interrupting, jabbering, pointing. And the faces of those in the ceremony turned to those on the steps. They looked dazed, men shaken out of their ritual, their white shifts sooty, hair wild.
The scout continued to gesture vehemently and shout, finally picking up a bow and arrow nearby. The elder of the group commanded something in a strong voice, and the younger man reluctantly laid the weapon back on the ground. Then the elder took a step toward the men below who had frozen in place and opened his hands in their direction, in the universal sign that offered peace and safety.
The natives standing behind the elder looked frightened, ready to flee. But the elder stood calmly, his gesture of peace held. He said something in a language unintelligible to any of the explorers. They shook their heads slightly to show lack of understanding.
“Where? Your people?” the elder then said in halting, broken Spanish.
The guide signed a leap of the river with his hand, his chin extended in a slow upward thrusting to signal the direction they’d come from — a long trip.
“Ah…humm,” the elder considered the communication, eyeing them intently.
No one moved.
The elder continued his appraisal. The terracotta vessels on the ground persisted in pumping out smoke and the stimulating smell. Then finally signaling to them, he said, “You?”
The explorers nodded.
“Me,” the elder brought his hands to his chest and then pinched up skin on his forearm. “Eat?”
Mitchell and the other two looked at each other to see if anyone understood what the old man meant. Suddenly, the frown of confusion lifted from Mitchell’s face, and he broke into laughter. Waving his hands back and forth, he chortled in Spanish, “No! No! We won’t eat you!”
“Ahm…humm,” the elder allowed. His companions now appeared less anxious.
Mitchell had remembered the rumors that abounded in these jungles, tribes ascribing cannibalism to each other. Whether the propaganda came from a long ago memory passed down through generations, or as a cautionary tale to keep their own at home and the village intact, he didn’t know.
Pinching up his own forearm, Mitchell offered the same question to the elder, “You eat us?”
The elder broke into a wide grin. All of his compadres slapped themselves in laughter, a big joke.
“Who are you?” Mitchell asked now that it was established that none of them were after the others’ flesh.
The old man beat his chest, “We are Hach Winik. The True People.”
Mitchell’s remaining entries on the Hach Winik were scanty. He and his companions were invited to stay while the ritual with the smoking pots, each one displaying a different crude face, and prayers was completed. Then the Hach Winik broke out big hand-rolled cigars and offered the smoke and dried monkey meat to their newfound friends. Mitchell reciprocated with a gift to the elder, a pocketknife with a bone handle. Mitchell was amazed at his appearance. He was less than five feet tall and the lines in his face spoke of advancing years, but his movements and coal black hair were that of a much younger man. He oozed an aura of power — of the sort kindly administered. However, Mitchell had the certainty that, should there be a need, his stature could grow in appearance to that of a giant.
Attempts at conversation produced information. The Hach Winik didn’t live near by but deep in the rainforest at some untold distance. They came to this place to make offerings to one of their gods. It was a most holy place.
As the natives wrapped their pots to leave, out of respect Mitchell asked permission to stay.
“Yes, yes,” The elder nodded vigorously, shaking his long curls. “It is possible your own god may be visiting.”
“This is so?” Mitchell asked.
“Uhm…hummm. If you see, yes.” The elder’s eyes twinkled. They all clapped each other on the back in farewell, and the Hach Winik made their way down the steps, disappearing from sight.
Mitchell and his friends pitched a camp before dark and kept a fire going all night, especially mindful of the creatures that came out at sunset — in this place potentially even those who didn’t wear skin. They stayed on through the next night, poking around the temples, making notes and drawings. Mitchell’s camera jammed and refused to work in the excessive humidity, or maybe the god who lived there wanted to hold onto his secret place a while longer and did what he could to stop documentation. When they pushed off from the shore to head back upriver they told each other they’d return one day soon.
At last! Sybilla thought she would jump out of her skin in anticipation. I’ve found them, or at least I’m close. But this was forty-something years ago and I still don’t know their exact location. Maybe I can find Mitchell, she mused. Maybe he went back.
But he wasn’t easy to track beyond his book. Her first attempt was through his publisher, but the press had folded back in the sixties. The Internet turned up nothing, just a few very old notations. Then she made a foray into archaeology and anthropology circles and was referred on from one to another of their colleagues. She learned that Mitchell was considered a minor player who hung around the edges of the boon earlier in the century. He never published anything else. There was some indication of a scandal so long ago no one knew the details, just that something had occurred. Whatever it was had caused Mitchell to abandon his work and society in general. No one was sure if he was still alive, or if so, where. Her questions about the Hach Winik also returned vague answers. Yes, they were known to live somewhere in the Mexican rainforest but kept to themselves, leery of outsiders. And the land was so inhospitable that little mapping had been done. She did learn that the Mexican government declared the region a protected environment, one of the few rainforests in North America able to support the jaguar and other endangered species. But it was just lip service. Loggers had eaten away the edges and made ventures inward, an illegal activity — while the government did nothing, perhaps even sanctioned it.
Sybilla was tightening the focus of the exact land and people for her article. She had Javier call the state-run logging company, with ties to US markets, rumored to be making forays into the preserve. He identified himself to the public relations manager he finally reached as a journalist and first asked casual questions about any encounters with the Hach Winik, then moved on to more pointed queries on the numbers of acres damaged by illicit tree-cutting. He was stonewalled on both accounts.
Meanwhile, Sybilla finally reached someone who held some knowledge of Davis Mitchell. Diego Montez was a young man, only nineteen, when he attached himself to a dig in Piedras Negras, the same one Mitchell wrote of, hoping for a mentor. Now he was a respected archaeologist himself. She reached him via phone where he lived in Flores, the closest town to Tikal. Sybilla identified herself and the reason for her call.
“Yes, I knew Davis,” he said in heavily-accented English. “Please call me Diego.”
“Thank you, Diego. I’m interested in interviewing Mr. Mitchell about his encounters with the Hach Winik. He seems to have dropped out of sight years ago. Do you happen to know if he’s still alive and where he is? Or do you know something of the Hach Winik yourself?”
“I don’t have the experience myself with the Hach Winik. Even today not so many do. They had bad experiences with people like us, you know. If you see them at all, you might catch a look at them outside the Palenque ruins over there in Mexico. They will sometimes sell their crafts there and go right back home. They won’t stay long in the place where the world ends.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they believe that in places where the trees have been cut down the world is in danger of caving in on itself. Where they could be plunged into a tumult and lost forever, an Underworld with only chaos and no escape.”
“Yes, I remember reading about the ceiba and its role in Maya creation stories. So the Hach Winik believe that, too?”
“I would say so, yes. And I have heard that the few who have ventured into our world have a difficult time, which lends to their belief that the True World stops at the edge of the rainforest. So, ours is a make-believe world, and they cannot live in it. They go home,” he said. “We have no ceiba trees, however you want to take that.”
“So it’s hard to get closer to them?”
“Normally, yes. Now Davis was a different story. I heard he developed a relationship with the elder who was a leader in one of their villages.”
“Oh, so there’s more than one village?”
“Just a few, I believe. As I said, I don’t really know too much. But there aren’t very many of these people — and at one time they almost died out. That’s, of course, one of the big reasons they avoid the rest of us, other than we’re aliens to them.”
“I see. So the elder he befriended was the same one in his book?”
“This I don’t know. But perhaps you could ask him.”
Sybilla came to attention. “He’s alive then? You know where he is?”
“Yes, I think so. If anyone knows for sure, it would be Ricardo Delgado. He has a compound near Palenque. Now you must know a little something of Davis. I was very young when I knew him, and I was a little afraid of him, this American. Sometimes when men who aren’t born into it stay in the jungle too long, it gets in their blood. Some say that Davis went mad after a time, haunted. That was a little later than when I knew him. But then you could say he was quite eccentric, and perhaps that was the beginnings of what occurred later. I won’t say more because I don’t know the complete story and don’t want to be talking out of school, as you Americans say. But if you do talk to him sometime, you should not expect someone warm and friendly. Unless he has changed in his old age, expect someone rather acidic. So now I will find Ricardo’s information for you.”
After several minutes he came back to the phone. No phone number or email, he gave only a mailing address to a post office box in Palenque. “I am sorry I don’t have more. I haven’t seen my colleague Ricardo in a very long time. So this is about ten years old, but I think it will still be good. We don’t move around like you Americans,” he chuckled. “Señora Sybilla, I wish you all the luck in your search.”
Sybilla thanked him profusely and hung up. One step closer, perhaps. She was elated and also heard the warning Diego relayed. Something told her that, if Ricardo Delgado did know the whereabouts of Davis Mitchell, her message would need to be carefully worded, a concise accounting of why Mitchell should welcome speaking to her. Over the next few days she gave her letter the same amount of careful attention she would if querying a potential editor with a proposal.
She sent it off and resolved to an indeterminate wait and, after all the long hours, was satisfied that she’d done as much as she could to that point. She also needed to turn her attention back to PJ. I’ve neglected him, she thought with a pang. They’d been in the same household, but Sybilla had been preoccupied with her work, sometimes short-tempered. PJ had withdrawn from her and carried on ever more lively conversations to the air, much to her concern, but also irritation. She set about to make her amends.
©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.
