Portals to the Vision Serpent

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ILLUMINATION Book Chapters

17 min readFeb 1, 2022

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

Chapter Seventeen

Sybilla awoke in the early morning hours to the rhythmic drip of water splashing on the floor next to the bed; a spot in the thatched roof had weakened. Sidestepping the puddle, she peered through the mesh window to find her vision quite limited. A deafening rush, torrential sheets of rain intervened, barely revealing the dark shapes of surrounding trees. I’m glad the casita is built up on blocks, she thought and returned to bed.

Later she re-awakened, this time relative stillness, the night creatures yet hunkered down from the deluge. Then in the distance a primordial roar. Drowsiness vanished. She propped herself up on one elbow, ear cocked. The sound had an undulating cadence that injected a signal to her limbic brain, and the hair on her arms prickled in goose bumps. Sounds like a tiger but surely not. She reached for her watch on the bedside table: 4 a.m. The rest of the night she laid, ears straining to determine the source’s whereabouts. When the calls waned, she continued to imagine the unknown creature prowling somewhere close by and fervently wished the windows had strong shutters. PJ slept through it all.

Morning light brought the birds noisily celebrating a new day, freshly washed and bright. Sybilla skirted the trees that rained excess moisture from the leaves. PJ ran ahead splashing through the remaining puddles on the path. They joined Javier at the breakfast table.

“Did you hear that roaring last night?” she asked. “Any minute I expected a jaguar to jump up on the porch and barrel through the door!”

Javier chuckled and took a sip of his coffee. “Howlers.”

“What?”

“I imagine that’s why they call this place La Casa Mono. Howler monkeys. They’re all over. Don’t worry. The most they’ll do is throw stuff at you. To me, their screams are comforting. Kind of like coyotes back home calling their presence to each other. Something enduring through time.”

Sybilla looked at him in surprise having never heard him speak in such a philosophical manner. He was usually practical, all business. The place seemed to be having an effect on him, too. She laughed. “I guess that’s a relief. Now I can rest easier. But I suppose there are still big cats out there somewhere.”

“Maybe. Certainly less these days.”

They ate breakfast hurriedly to make it early to the ruins. The combi emptied its passengers at the tourist market in front of the entrance. Rickety booths lined the small plaza. Traditional Mexican clothing and t-shirts hung from rafters of some stalls. Ceramic replicas of temples and Maya gods on parchment and leather filled others.

“I read that this was the actual marketplace back in the day,” Javier offered. They made their way along the perimeter toward the entry.

“Look over there,” Sybilla said in a hushed tone.

Two men stood in front of a stall next to the entrance. They wore the same white garment and shoulder length hair she saw in the old photo from Guatemala. Javier engaged them in conversation while Sybilla and PJ poked around their wares. Sybilla picked up a seed necklace, fingering the shiny smoothness of the large central pod. One of the men broke away from the conversation and walked over to her saying something in Spanish.

“Lo siento! No entiendo,” Sybilla replied in her limited Spanish and smiled. I’m sorry. I don’t understand.

He gestured for her to put the pendant on and held up a hand mirror. Head bobbing, he encouraged her.

“Lovely,” she complied. “Yes, I’ll just leave it on and take it.” She rummaged through her bag for the pesos. In the meantime, he squatted down showing PJ a small contraption of string and wood that he worked until it spun on its axis, traveling across the hard-packed dirt. PJ clapped his hands in delight. “I see you’re a very good salesman. Okay, we’ll take that, too.”

“Bol,” the man touched his chest.

“Your name? Sybilla and PJ,” she pointed to herself and PJ. His name tickled something in the back of her mind.

Bol seemed satisfied and started wrapping PJ’s top in newspaper. Javier walked over with the other man.

“Sybilla, this is Nuxi’,” Javier gestured. Nuxi’ dipped his head and gave a shy smile. “I can’t get everything he’s saying because he only speaks a little Spanish. But they may be from the same village we’re going to. He says they live on the banks of a big lake in the middle of jungle and come here periodically to sell crafts for the community. They’re definitely Hach Winik. I mentioned Davis and Nuxi’ knew him.”

“How do they get here?”

“Sounds like they walk. He said it takes three days or more carrying their goods. That must be a tough hike. Looks like they’re staying for a week hoping to sell everything before they go back.”

Bol bobbed his head at Javier and waved his hand toward an elongated bundle of sticks on the table tipped in chipped stone arrowheads and parrot feathers, pantomimed shooting a bow and arrow.

“You’d better watch out. He did a good sales job on us,” Sybilla advised.

Javier acknowledged him with a smile but shook his head no.

“Maybe later,” Bol startled them both with heavily accented English and grinned as though he’d made a good joke. They all broke out in laughter.

“He must have heard that from tourists enough that it stuck!” Sybilla managed.

They said their goodbyes and made their way through the turnstile, formal entrance to the site. Sybilla was glad they’d come early. Not too many other visitors yet. Following the muddy path they were suddenly engulfed in foliage and immense trees, the earthy smell of decomposing plant matter intensified by last night’s rain.

They approached uneven stone steps, obviously ancient, that they would be required to climb. She remarked to Javier. “Now these steps are nearly a foot high in places. I wonder why such small people would build such steep steps.” She took PJ’s arms and swung him up. “Hon, if you get tired, let me carry you.”

Sunlight shone through on the path ahead, and they broke out onto the grand plaza. Sybilla gasped. On nature’s dramatic stage, its veridian backdrop stretching to match the elevation, mist hanging in the air, evidence of a long-ago empire was displayed before them. Her eyes swept the scene: temples of various sizes, one with steps that went on forever, a long low structure with columns, carved exterior reliefs, strange symbols.

“I’ve seen pictures but nothing compares to this,” Sybilla marveled. “Let’s go sit under that tree. I just want to take it in.” She pointed to a tree on the edge of the plaza with big blocks of stone seating. “And look, the tree has thorns on its trunk and those huge roots along the ground. This must be a ceiba! The sacred World Tree! I can hardly believe it. After all this time, all the hard work, here we are now experiencing the very things we researched. And we met Nuxi’ and Bol!”

Javier nodded his agreement.

“Bol!” she sunk down hard on the stone. “I know where I heard that name before!” She glanced at PJ and abruptly became silent.

Javier looked at her in question.

“It’s nothing. Just a name I came across,” she waved it away. But it wasn’t nothing, she thought. I remember exactly where I heard that name. It’s Gabe’s middle name, the one he couldn’t place, that didn’t make sense.

She became still with her thoughts. Sybilla had been successful in tucking away any emotions about meeting up with Gabe, the potential. Now they rose to the surface. She wrestled with them, trepidation and longing intertwined, further confusing her. What would it mean? Accusations swirled in her head. Toward Gabe: anger for leaving with no word since. Toward herself: taunting her own foolishness, selfishness, what it could do to PJ. To get away from the castigating voices, she suddenly stood up, grabbed PJ’s hand and bustled ahead. “Let’s go see what’s here.”

They wandered through the palace, the sprawling ruin at the end, but decided against attempting the climb up the Temple of the Inscriptions, it being too much with a small child. A guide pointed out the sacred spring as they crossed a waterway. Sybilla clambered down for a photograph. They found their way through the banana grove, a small trail leading them into a separate plaza, a raised stone platform in the middle encircled by still more temples. Mist hung heavier here truly giving it an otherworldly feel. And then not far away, the same as the night before, the howlers called, the sound traveling closer then farther away as they swung through the canopy. Sybilla looked around and discovered they were the only people there. It’s like a dream, she thought. Then sprinkles of rain fell and quickly became more insistent.

“Maybe we’d better head back. It’s way past lunch anyway. I saw a little place to eat on the way up,” Javier said.

By the time they made their way back through the banana grove, the sky opened up. Javier swung PJ over his shoulder. Sybilla took off her shoes and they ran laughing, toward the entrance. Waving to Bol and Nuxi’ as they sprinted by, they caught a combi just as it was leaving for town.

Davis was true to the message he left at their lodging the afternoon before. He arrived with the loaded down Land Cruiser about 4 a.m. His passengers were ready to go. Sybilla had been beside herself with excitement in the night, her mind too active to sleep. After awhile she arose to sit on the porch, listened to the symphony, and tried to tease out images of where they’d stay next. Finally, she went to do the last of the packing, quietly so not to disturb PJ.

Javier threw their packs in the back. Sybilla, carrying a sleeping PJ, squeezed in after and attempted to get comfortable. Davis barely grunted hello, perhaps it being too early for words. Save for the rattling of their vehicle, they pulled out silently onto the dark, empty road and headed toward their destination. The air rippling in through the window was cool and moist in the early morning hours. Sybilla pushed her face right into the wind, dog fashion, because it seemed the right thing to do, signaling to herself that she was ready for anything. They’d been driving for about an hour, climbing slightly in elevation. The terrain looked like a patchwork quilt, alternating between heavily forested areas and those bereft of trees. Sometimes they passed a pasture with a sole tree standing in the cordoned off land — a ceiba.

“You see all this land? Far as you can see it used to be rainforest. Now look at it,” Davis growled, his first words since they’d departed. “Homesteaders moved in here, slashing and burning, using up the soil so there’s nothing left, and moving on to repeat the same thing. No one stops it, and this is supposed to be protected land! A total sham.”

Javier asked him to stop the Land Cruiser and jumped out to take shots. Sybilla took out her journal and began to jot down notes as Davis railed against a government that allowed such depletion and the detrimental effect on the people, aside from the environment. “Now you can’t really blame it on those who’ve been displaced themselves. They’re trying to survive. But they’re overrunning this region and there’s no control. You can see it!” Davis waved his arm around. “The least the government could do is regulate how many people move into the area. And teach them how to farm their milpas like the Hach Winik, using a conservation method that doesn’t kill the rainforest. Instead, they’ve set up a situation where the Hach Winik and homesteaders are pitted against each other struggling over the land. Very bad blood between them. All that aside from what the logging companies did, which started the whole thing. Mercenaries! Old T’uup said that when the trees are gone from the forest, the world will die and the Hach Winik before that. Their souls suffering such loss that they can’t go on. The world will have collapsed. He told me that twenty years ago. It was happening before his eyes then. And mine.”

Davis was getting increasingly cranked up, citing references, specific travesties that had occurred over the years. Sybilla wrote furiously, periodically peppering him with questions to encourage the onslaught. She gathered a treasure trove of notes to harvest later. “And T’uup, is that the elder you wrote about in your book?”

He affirmed with a nod. They had been traveling at the highest rate of speed the potholed road would allow. Davis slowed to a stop and pointed in the distance to a large bumpy hill in the middle of flat land. The trees remained intact on the unusual rise.

“See that? When you see a formation like that it’s a good possibility that it’s an unexcavated temple. Sometimes the locals know. Sometimes they’ve lost their knowledge.” Davis continued educating them using the passing scenery to prompt his discourse until they came to a crossroads with a gas station in the middle of nowhere. “We’ll fill up here, and services are over there. It’s the last chance.”

After a pause, they poured themselves back into the Land Cruiser. “There’s one more stop I need to make,” Davis remarked. A few minutes later they pulled up to a lonely adobe, nothing more than a hovel. Davis got out and talked to a man who stuck his head out the door. Both disappeared around the back and a flurry of cackling could be heard. Davis re-emerged with a cardboard box tied with twine under his arm. He opened the passenger door and thrust the noisy container into Javier’s hands. “Here are those chickens.”

Javier cast a glance back at Sybilla and raised his eyebrows, then tucked the carton under his legs as best he could. The pavement ended abruptly. The conditions of their travel changed accordingly. Open pastures disappeared. Dense jungle impinged causing the road to dwindle to a narrow passage, recent rains also having left their indelible mark. The Land Cruiser tipped precariously as they hit huge ruts, squawks punctuating the dips until the hens ceased commentary and took a nap. Gone was the breeze. Humidity rose. Sybilla resigned herself to a slow, sticky trip that was becoming longer in the process by PJ fussing his discomfort.

The passing scenery, just several feet from their transport, became monotonous. She lost track of the hours. They only stopped to take the periodic pit stop and didn’t linger. It clouded over in mid afternoon but the rain held off. Once they were compelled to cross a muddy creek running across the road, normally not present in dryer times. The passengers had to get out and wade through for a better chance of the Land Cruiser making it. PJ was delighted at the ride on Javier’s shoulders while Sybilla scanned the water for slithery things that might be lurking. The back tires spun coming out the other side. But Davis, as a testimonial to his earlier word about being prepared, instructed Javier to locate the wooden plank on the vehicle’s roof and wedge it under the tires. The wheels spun, splattering Javier with mud, then caught and rolled out. They resumed their journey.

As the sun began sinking, the lane widened slightly. A few small milpas appeared alongside, garden plots hacked out from the forest. They could see a body of water between the trees in the distance ahead. Rustic wooden shanties came into view. Then more. A group of men lounged outside a whitewashed hut, some in the traditional white gowns, others in jeans and t-shirts. Small children played in the dirt. A young woman walking by the side of the road turned at the sound of their vehicle. She sighted the driver and broke into a wide grin. The men stood. The children ran toward them jabbering. Davis waved his arm and called out something Sybilla couldn’t understand, his face lit up. She felt her own giddiness erupting again. PJ hung on the open window staring. Javier was poised on the front seat, suddenly alert. The road ended. They had arrived in the village. Davis turned to his passengers and said, “Welcome to K’ak.”

Davis sprang from the Land Cruiser and met the group of men as they walked toward him. They went through the greeting ritual of gestures and back clapping, boisterously talking over each other. Sybilla and Javier stretched from their long journey and stood by the car waiting. Still staring, PJ was glued to Sybilla’s side. She was potently aware that she was completely out of her element and unsure what to do. As much as she’d anticipated this moment, she felt awkward. Her palms had gone sweaty, and she had a bad case of dry mouth.

Finally, Davis seemed to remember them. He glanced in their direction as he spoke, voice tone earnest, and signed for them to join him. By that time their arrival had drawn the attention of other villagers who sidled over to see what was happening. More welcoming ensued. A few women had joined the gathering and looked with abject curiosity at Sybilla and PJ. A little girl broke free and tugged at Sybilla’s hand. When she kneeled down to her level, the child plucked up a strand of Sybilla’s blond hair, examining it closely. There was some good-natured laughing from the women. Sybilla joined in, and PJ waved shyly to the crowd, the ice breaker.

Davis discoursed for a while longer, making introductions and some explanation of why they were there. There were answering nods and murmurs signaling understanding. Finally, a woman who looked to be about forty called out to one of the men. She pointed to PJ and waved toward the sky. Sybilla supposed she was reminding them there was a child who hadn’t eaten, and the night was coming fast. In turn, the man said something to Davis who dipped his head.

He turned to his fellow travelers, “Es is one of the T’uup’s daughters-in-law. This is Chan Bor, one of T’uup’s sons, her husband. I’ve known both since they were small. They’ve extended a kind invitation for us to stay in the family compound. Old T’uup is on some business at another village but should return, which is good. They say the balché may be ready soon.”

Sybilla looked at him in question but was too tired to ask for an explanation. All she could think about was getting PJ fed and then passing out for the night. Her lack of sleep from the night before and the rough ride had caught up with her hours ago. She smiled her thanks to the couple. Young men magically appeared and relieved the Land Cruiser of its load. They hauled the bounty up an incline on a narrow dirt path that led to a cluster of unpainted wood-slatted huts topped with thatched roofs, enclosed by broken-down timber fencing. The travelers followed closely behind, and several dogs came to sniff them out. The porters entered one of the larger structures, which turned out to be the collective kitchen and general gathering area. Five women of varying ages were tending to pots over the open fire or making tortillas on a griddle. They looked up in surprise, which quickly changed to recognition and smiles. Several children were huddled in a far corner playing.

Sybilla filed away her first impressions. The floor was dirt but packed hard and swept clean. The interior was utilitarian with the cooking area as the focus. Various implements hung in places on the walls, none of which stretched all the way to the ground or roof, in close convenience to the work area. Woven sisal baskets with several tiers hung from the rafters loaded with foodstuff, making it a challenge for an animal to get to them easily. There were a couple of long picnic-style rough tables and benches. Sybilla supposed the extended family must take their meals together there.

The most elderly woman wiped her hands on a towel and came to stand a few feet from Davis. Sybilla noticed that, even though her eyes showed much affection, she didn’t take his hands or otherwise touch him. Two other older women joined in the conversation. Sybilla took the opportunity to note that the three women were dressed exactly alike: long, dark full skirts with white tunics covered by full aprons, many strands of colored beads hung around the neck and hair in one braid down the back ending with a complement of several toucan feathers. The two younger women, in ankle-length slim skirts and tight t-shirts, continued their labor but glanced up periodically. They wore their long hair loose pushed back with headbands. All were either barefoot or wore plastic sandals.

The women’s attention turned in unison as Davis introduced them to his traveling companions. Sybilla felt their inquisitive eyes on her and PJ. She heard Es and Chan Bor mentioned, which produced nodding, more words, and guessed Davis was telling them of the invitation to stay.

He turned and said, “So, these are T’uup’s wives. This is Chan Nuk and Nuk and Koh, the younger one. They’ve welcomed us here. And over there are Koh Elisa and Nah K’in, another of T’uup’s daughters-in-law and the youngest, a daughter. Es and Chan Bor will be along in a bit. Some of the other family members may show up. A number of the married sons and their families live within this compound, too. The married daughters live with their husbands’ families. But you can see that nothing is far away here.”

Sybilla smiled at the women and said to Davis, “How many children does T’uup have?”

“Now that would be hard for me to remember. Maybe thirty or more but a number died early or in childbirth. Life is hard here. If a child lives past four, then there’s a good chance for adulthood. But you see Koh is pregnant. She and Es are about the same age. And Es is one of Chan Nuk’s younger daughters.”

Sybilla was confused, “But wouldn’t T’uup be ninety or so?”

“Yup.”

“Good for him!” Javier chuckled. Sybilla was shocked into silence.

Nuk stepped forward, said something to Sybilla and touched PJ’s arm.

“She’s offering to take you to the toilet,” Davis said. “And then to where you’ll sleep with some of the children and women. We’ll meet back here for some food.”

“That would be great,” Sybilla replied.

Davis turned to Javier, “They’ll put you and me in quarters with the unmarried sons. We’re not adults to them until we’ve married. A bit too late for me to grow up,” he smirked with that aside. Javier raised his eyebrows, an expression that was becoming commonplace for him, and took in his change of status.

Nuk led Sybilla and PJ to the toilet, which was contained in a nearby outside room attached to their sleeping compartment. The bedroom consisted of several hammocks tied to the overhead beams and some mats on the floor. Toys littered the floor. Cardboard boxes stacked next to a wall appeared to contain clothing. Sybilla was glad they’d brought sleeping bags and intended to sleep on the ground. She could imagine getting all twisted up in one of hammocks or dumping herself and PJ on the floor in the middle of the night. While they’d been in the bathroom, thankfully with a flush toilet, someone had delivered her gear. She felt helpless without a common language or translator, but gestured to Nuk with her sleeping bag and motioned to one of the mats forming an unspoken question. Nuk nodded profusely and left them to return to the kitchen.

PJ had been quiet since their arrival in K’ak. He sat on the edge of the mat as she fussed with arranging their sleeping space. “Mama, where are we?”

Sybilla sank down beside him and put her arms around him. If it was a strange environment for her, it must be doubly so for him. “PJ, we’re going to discover that together.”

The next words he said startled her, “Will we see my daddy here?”

She didn’t know what to say, any plausible words fleeing her mind. So she just gave him an uneasy smile in return for his steady gaze. An intelligence much older than PJ’s years looked out through his eyes.

©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