Portals to the Vision Serpent

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ILLUMINATION Book Chapters

20 min readNov 16, 2021

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

Chapter Nine

Gabe had never disclosed much about his origins but did say he’d never known his father. He was estranged from his mother and refused to talk about the reason. One time early in their travels they were wilderness camping in the Colorado mountains on their way further west. She had retired to the tent early, not long after dark, and fallen asleep immediately, snuggled deep in her sleeping bag. Sometime into the night, she awakened to a loud, insistent screeching directly overhead. Groggy, she heard the sharp crack of wood popping and smelled smoke. Reaching next to her, no Gabe. Panicked, Sybilla unzipped the tent and witnessed Gabe feeding a fire too large for the small clearing where they’d set up camp, its flames leaping into the air. He appeared to be transfixed. In the glow, Sybilla could just make out a large bird flitting from one branch to another, shrieking at the blaze, calling a warning to the rest of the forest.

“What are you doing?” Sybilla called.

“Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Her voice startled him and shook him from his trance. Gabe backed away from the fire and sat down heavily in a camp chair. Throwing a blanket around her shoulders against the night, Sybilla joined him. They sat in silence, drawn into the undulating flames; shapeshifting images offered an invitation to the obscure. Reaching into a small bag, Gabe threw in some plant matter and Sybilla smelled the comforting scent of sage and other herbs burning. The bird quieted and flew away, gone to roost, having abated danger.

Gabe spoke quietly, “You don’t know what it’s like, do you? Not to have roots. Not to know your people. Not to know who you are.”

She’d never heard him sound wistful, yearning, uncertain. Thinking about her mother, all the aunts, uncles, cousins, Sybilla snorted. The Johns family line stretched back in time and reached out from history with the tendrils of some suffocating vine, squeezing all the life out of her, as far as she was concerned.

“No, really. Your people have been in Johns Wake forever. They settled it. You grew up surrounded by family.”

“You’ve got that right. And I couldn’t wait to shed all that.”

“But look at it this way. You know your tribe. At least it gives you grounding.”

Sybilla had to admit that as much as she despised the small-mindedness that seemed to flourish in the very soil of her hometown and all the expectations laid upon her by family, it constituted a pretty clear path. She was glad to be able to strive against it. In a strange way, it did give her something to move from — and go back to if she was ever crazy enough to do that.

“I guess you’re right in a way. But what about you? You came from somewhere.”

It was Gabe’s turn to snort. “Grace. Graciela, she likes to call herself. Said her people called her that. Problem was that ‘her people’ changed with the wind. Still does, I guess.”

“How so?”

Gabe picked up a nearby stick and poked at the glowing logs, sending sparks flying up into the night. Save the crackles of the fire, silence filled the air. Finally, he shook his head and went on. “She must have been starting her Christian period when she had me. So I ended up with the name Gabriel. But that phase didn’t last long. She was always kind of evasive about my middle name Bol. Something like a family name from my father’s side. Put all that together with Cadell and you’ve got a mouthful.”

They had lived on the road most of his life, largely in the States and a little along the border on the Canada side where his mother had a family. But they’d usually skirted her relations.

“She always said they didn’t understand her and it wasn’t worth trying again. I guess the family was pretty straight-laced and you could say Graciela was a bit wild by their standards, a throwback. With our lifestyle, I think they looked on me as some oddity raised by a she-wolf. So I didn’t like them much either what little I saw.”

“Why do you call her Graciela when she’s your mom?”

“That’s what she wanted me to call her. I guess she had trouble reconciling her image as ‘Artist’ and ‘Rebel’ with being a mother. It was odd. Like she couldn’t quite shake where she came from. I guess that accounts for the times like her Jesus period. She’d try something on — like she was auditioning for some role. Then we’d be living like regular people if you call it that. But she just couldn’t pull it off,” Gabe made no effort to temper the sarcasm in his voice.

How long they stayed in one place depending on the weather, what art she could sell, or a whim. If Graciela was bored and heard about more interesting people or a more lucrative pasture, they’d pull up stakes.

“There was this one place out in the Arizona desert. Crazy it was. In the middle of nowhere and not even a town most of the year! Graciela heard about it and off we went,” his laugh was more like a sharp bark. “We had this beat-up red pick-up and a little white trailer we pulled. That’s what we lived in. Sometimes it was hard to find a place to sleep in there because of all the stuff she collected. She did sculpture and collage out of ‘found objects’ and back then it was cactus skeletons, snakeskin, dried pods, hummingbird skulls. You name it. We were always stopping to go on what she called scavenger hunts. It was like she had a sixth sense for finding these things. I have to admit she made some pretty interesting stuff and did okay selling it.

“Quartzite. People started showing up with their trailers and RVs around November and stayed through about March. That was the town, hardly anything permanent. The rest of the time it was scorching hot. There was a gem show in January and February. That was the real reason people were there, and why we went. To sell things. It became a huge flea market going on all hours. We got there in October, early enough to get a prime spot. And Graciela pulled out an awning from our trailer and set up a studio and shop right there.”

Gabe was twelve that year when they stayed in Quartzite, old enough that Graciela didn’t keep tabs on his whereabouts. He had the run of the large encampment and found that a majority of the folks led lives like theirs — nomadic. Perhaps because of that, most seemed used to making fast ties where they landed. For the first time in his life, Gabe found himself part of a big, noisy makeshift family he began to think of as grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, and cousins to make up for what he never knew.

In the evening, campfires dotted the place here and there warding off the chill of the desert night, sending an invitation for the inhabitants to gather. And most regularly did after all the potential customers finally left for the day. Gabe sat with them after Graciela would wave him away; his asking for permission just served as a distraction from her work. He sensed he was an interruption to the heated debates she liked to engage in one-on-one there in her studio with whoever dropped by, usually about “big life questions.” After a while, Gabe quit asking. One time Graciela joined him in the nightly circle, and someone asked about Gabe’s dad. Gabe glanced up hoping she would reveal his whereabouts, or anything really.

“Oh, you know. Gone on the wind,” she shrugged it off. Gabe picked up a stick and stabbed at the fire perhaps more diligently than needed, his eyes remained lowered. Later, back in their trailer, he attempted to bring up the subject again.

“Why don’t you ever tell me anything about my dad?”

“Not much to tell.”

“Tell me something! I have a right to know about my father! You owe me that.”

“Look, you’re better off without him. He came from a backward place with backward people. I don’t have anything to do with them and you’re not either. They’re not civilized,” she made a sharp downward gesture cutting him off.

“Like we’re civilized! I don’t even go to school!” Gabe went to bed, jerking the covers over his head. His mother was obviously hiding something.

That night he had a dream. But it seemed so real. The first thing he was aware of was the pungent smell of decomposing plants. Then his senses activated in waves. Soft, light rain hitting arms and legs, cool against warm skin naked to the air. The squishy ground on bare soles. Gentle tap-tapping sound. Vision washing into play, misty drizzle ran off foliage so thick there was little light. Leaves large enough to find shelter under and tree trunks stretching up to the sky. This was not a place he knew, totally foreign. Yet he wasn’t scared. A slight rustle and a deer’s face peeked from around a tree close by and showed itself a bit more. It wasn’t afraid either. They watched each other, both stock-still. A sweetish, heady scent wafted in, mixing with that of the humus. And a strange thing happened. The deer’s face shifted to near transparency revealing a brown-skinned man with long black hair cut straight across at the eyebrows. A fleeting glimpse and then Gabe awoke — a disoriented, intense longing emerged.

“That’s the dream. Over and over. Sometimes it changes a little like I’m walking down a path instead of standing still. But the main elements are the same. Forest. Rain. Smells. The deer and the man. The man appears and the dream ends. I can go for a year without having it, or it happens several times a month. But that’s the dream — for years,” he mused.

Gabe ended his monologue, it being the most Sybilla had ever heard him talk at one time. He returned to staring at the flames, closing himself off, until finally Sybilla got up and returned to the tent, laying a hand lightly on his shoulder as she passed. He had given her some insight into the complexities of his origins and a hint at the painful hole he lived with. But later what knowledge she gleaned from his disclosure did nothing to give her peace of mind.

Sybilla was worried. Several times over the last few days she had to repeat herself loudly to get Gabe’s attention. He’d startle as though being pulled back from some far-off place. If he wasn’t entranced then he was restless, moving, pacing. Often muttering under his breath, glancing over at something she couldn’t see, he carried on a conversation — but not with her. Sybilla thought she should be petrified for PJ. Their child, rather than fearing the strange way his dad was behaving, had an ability to enter wherever Gabe was, get him chuckling as they both spoke in undertones that sounded like another language altogether, and acknowledged unseen presences.

Sybilla told herself PJ was just mimicking his father. So whenever he’d point to thin air and give a delighted baby laugh, she’d clap her hands together in approval and peal laughter, too — a game that was becoming common.

A shrine of sorts materialized overnight in their back yard, just at the edge before it merged into the miles of desert beyond. Sybilla noticed it through the kitchen window when she got coffee in the morning. Gabe hadn’t shown up before she retired and hadn’t slept, at least not in their bed. Wandering out to inspect it, the installation of stones, cactus skeletons, wood ravaged by the elements, laid carefully, spoke of something Sybilla didn’t understand. The only times Gabe appeared settled were when he was sitting cross-legged in front of it, burning herbs in a terracotta pot, the smoke curling in wisps toward the sky. PJ was often beside him sitting quietly; normal child’s play vanished. Sybilla wondered what Gabe was doing, and whether she should be concerned for PJ. If she ventured near, she felt like an intruder. So she was willing to leave them be, as long as she could keep them both in her sights. And when she had something that took her away, she called PJ inside to go with her. Sybilla felt brittle. It was impossible to ignore the strong wind approaching, one she knew would blow apart her carefully constructed reality.

Sometimes Doña Flora sat with Gabe. Heads together, they talked earnestly. Things she couldn’t hear. At other times Sybilla heard repetitive prayers, the singsong of her soft Native voice, body rocking slightly while Gabe sat eyes closed. The smoke of incense was dense, creating a separation from the world around them. Once she bent over the top of his head and appeared to blow. That time Doña Flora sought her out, leaving Gabe outside.

She gave Sybilla a sad smile, “Ah, dear one. I think he has not told you. His dreams are very strong now. This is something for him. Something you will not know.”

Tears sprung from Sybilla’s eyes, the tension to hold them back finally too much. “I’ve been so scared. I don’t know what to do. It’s like he’s gone and I don’t know where he went.”

“There is nothing to do. It comes like this for some and they have to follow. If that does not happen, their soul goes anyway.”

“Is he losing his mind?”

“Not like you think. But his longing is deep and he is a special one. In my village, the elders recognize things early, and those young ones are prepared. Not so for Gabe. He is feeling this now so much like he is lost. No ground under his feet.”

“But what about our son?”

Doña Flora smiled broadly, misunderstanding Sybilla’s question, “Yes, that one is special, too.”

“I meant that he needs his father. I need his father,” she cried in anguish.

“Your boy is protected, dear one. There are those who protect him. No worries. One will come.” Doña Flora laid both hands gently on Sybilla’s cheeks, gazing directly into her eyes. And even as tears continued to stream down Sybilla’s face, she felt a wash move through her, lessening her apprehension, sending some relief.

Patting her on the shoulder, Doña Flora started to leave but turned back. “Dear one, sometimes it is good to let them go. Sometimes this is best to not carry the wound.”

Sybilla stood looking at the spot where her midwife had stood, long after she heard the soft closing of the front door.

Sybilla was sequestered in the darkroom all day, hesitantly entrusting PJ’s care to Gabe. She’d been sorting through her black and whites, developing old film, poring over contact sheets, all from the times they’d been on the road. With an undercurrent of quiet excitement, she realized just how professional-looking a number was. Scrutinizing which were the most dramatic: soaring monsoon skies, vast landscapes, those that spoke to what a small place any human had in the universe, or curiosities, oddities she’d encountered, craggy-looking people that reflected the rough environment, abandoned buildings laid victim to the elements, shots that told a story. She scribbled down notes, setting them aside in separate piles with images attached. Ideas bubbled up so quickly it was like a dam had burst, spilling out what had been cordoned off and contained. She felt a grounding that had been absent since she’d made the decision in Johns Wake to take off with Gabe.

I can really do something with all this, she thought happily. First a portfolio. Stories with photos. No telling where I can go.

This feels really good, she noted. Bursting with energy, light on her feet, Sybilla gathered up her piles, flicked off the lights, and stepped out of the darkroom intent on getting dinner prepared. Cocking her head, dead silence greeted her. Her buoyancy instantly deflated, replaced by the now-familiar sense of foreboding. Calling through the house, no Gabe, no PJ. Glancing into the front yard, then rushing outback, both were empty. Hastening to Gabe’s outdoor altar she scrutinized the rock-lined circle and its accouterments, hoping against hope that the contents would tell her where they were. Touching the terracotta incense burner, it was cold, no lingering scent in the air. Sybilla’s heart raced as an argument ensued inside her head: He would never hurt PJ. Maybe not knowingly…No telling how long they’ve been gone. No telling where they went. Where’s my boy? Her chest tightened.

Turning, she scanned the desert landscape, squinting against the strong rays of a late afternoon sun that sought to blind her. Every distant rock outcropping or cacti took on the potential of a man accompanied by a small boy heading home. But finally, Sybilla had to admit she saw no movement and ran inside. Grabbing the phone she dialed Doña Flora’s number. When she answered, Sybilla, asked in a rush if Gabe and PJ were there. No. She babbled her worries, words spilling over each other. Doña Flora responded in a soothing voice saying she would come right over. A short fifteen minutes later an old beat-up truck pulled up to the curb, and Doña Flora got out of the passenger’s side with a covered pot in her hands. Leaning inside, she said something to the driver and turned toward the house. The pick-up pulled away. Sybilla waited in the doorway twisting her hands.

“Hello, dear one,” Doña Flora greeted her with a smile, cocking her head toward the disappearing truck. “My nephew. My sister’s family is visiting.”

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt your Sunday. I’m just so scared!”

“This is okay. No worries. They are here for a week. Let’s go inside. I brought something for the dinner.”

Doña Flora led the way to the kitchen, putting the pot on the stovetop. “Now let’s sit and you tell me.”

They pulled chairs out from the kitchen table. Doña Flora took Sybilla’s trembling hands in hers, resting their arms on the tabletop. Sybilla took a big breath. The mere touch of the Maya woman’s hands conveyed comfort. She was able to go over the day and speak her concerns with less anxiety.

“But it seemed fine. Gabe and PJ were putting something together with legos. He said he’d watch him and enjoy myself. I never should have left him for so long. I just lost time. I should have known better! I’m a terrible mother!” Sybilla ended, berating herself miserably.

“Ah no, dear one. You must do these things for yourself. This you must do,” Doña Flora clucked her tongue and offered a slight incline of her head for emphasis. “Now, let’s see how things are.”

She gave a reassuring squeeze to Sybilla’s hands. Gazing past her, the curandera’s eyes became de-focused and then closed. When Doña Flora began to chant in the sing-song voice she recognized as prayer, Sybilla closed her own eyes. She had a strange sensation, like being taken along somewhere even as she remained seated in the chair at her kitchen table. She noticed that her trepidation had evaporated. The chanting stopped and they sat in silence for timeless moments. Sybilla felt another slight squeeze to her hands and opened her eyes. Doña Flora was looking intently at her, a face set in kindness. In that instant Sybilla noted the glow she emanated, every line erased from her face, belying her years. Why, she looks like a young girl, a beauty, thought Sybilla. Aware of her surroundings again, she realized night had fallen. Her breath caught.

“No, no, no. It is okay. You can calm. Your boy is okay. We wait. They are coming,” Doña Flora patted her hand again.

Seven o’clock. An hour later Sybilla still endured the wait. The temperature outside was dropping rapidly in the fall night. In the desert, there could be as much as a forty-degree difference from day tonight. Sybilla paced. She just knew Gabe hadn’t taken PJ’s jacket. Unable to stay inside, she went out and peered into the darkness. The moon hadn’t risen, and the stars weren’t yet visible. Nothing. She stalked back to the kitchen and glanced at the clock. After eight o’clock. All the while Doña Flora had busied herself in the kitchen, heating up the contents of the pot, making rice. A savory, spicy smell filled the house.

“ This is the kak’ik,” she called over. “This is a soup we make with turkey. I think you’ll like. Do you have tortillas?”

“I can’t think of food right now!” Sybilla had to stop herself from snapping at Doña Flora. She was strung tight as a drum. “I’m sorry. No.”

“Ah no, dear one,” Doña Flora walked over and put a hand lightly on her shoulder. “It is okay. They come soon now. We must feed them. They are tired. You just sit.”

Sybilla almost slapped Doña Flora’s hand off her shoulder. I can’t sit! I’m about to jump out of my skin! Doña Flora shrugged slightly and returned to her preparations. Sybilla planted herself at the sliding glass door that led to the backyard, brooding.

A few minutes later, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Doña Flora was setting the table. Only three places, it distracted her.

“Not four places?”

“Ah no. My nephew knows to come. He is here in a few minutes.”

How’s that? Sybilla didn’t want to ponder the fact that she hadn’t seen her call him and shifted her gaze back to the night, where she was greeted with black emptiness. But then she detected something where the shrine was situated. There was shimmer like waves of heat radiating into the night air. Sybilla blinked her eyes a few times thinking she’d been staring into darkness too long. But no, something was happening. Her mouth hung open. Sybilla started to call Doña Flora but stopped. Mist now surrounded the entire shrine. Through the mist, the light flickered as though it came from a campfire. But there was none. She was rooted. Her breath stalled, mind vacant.

Then Gabe and PJ were just there — appearing out of nothingness. Gabe held PJ in his arms wrapped in something and started walking toward the house. In a split second, Sybilla wrenched open the sliding door. Her feet flew the fifty yards between them and roughly snatched PJ from him.

“How dare you! Where have you been? What’s the matter with you?” she bellowed with rage. PJ woke from sleep and cried out. Her words became unintelligible, screeching out all the anguish she’d held inside for so long, finally freed. She clutched PJ tightly to her chest as he continued to howl. The next-door neighbor flicked on the back porch light and stuck his head out his door. Sybilla turned on her heel and stomped into the house, leaving Gabe standing silent, arms hanging loose at his sides. He hadn’t uttered a word in the midst of her onslaught.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, my baby.” Stuffing her own terror, Sybilla whispered to PJ over and over, in the process attempting to reassure herself. Laying him on the couch, she checked him over all the while softly saying the nonsensical things a parent says to a young child. He felt hot and damp. She put a hand to his forehead. No fever. Sybilla buried her head in his neck. He smelled like something she couldn’t place, almost earthy. PJ was quieting and otherwise seemed untouched. She turned her attention to the strange whitish covering around him. Its consistency was like thick, hand-made paper only much stronger and more flexible, a little scratchy. Doña Flora came over and put her hand on top of PJ’s head. The child became calm, eyes growing heavy.

Gabe slipped silently inside and stood at the perimeter of the room. He nodded at Doña Flora in silent communication, an acknowledgment of some sort. Something had been accomplished that excluded Sybilla. A hesitant knock sounded at the door.

“There he is, my nephew,” Doña Flora smiled. “I will just go now.”

“Thank you for coming,” Sybilla said woodenly. She sought to regain composure. “And the food.”

“Of course,” Doña Flora turned.

The sound of the front door closing came a moment later. Sybilla threw Gabe a murderous look, daring him to come any closer. He remained where he’d first entered. Gathering up the now sleeping PJ, she went to put him to bed.

When she returned, Gabe was sitting at the table eating the soup Doña Flora left. He didn’t acknowledge her and remained focused on his bowl. Sybilla had planned to tear into him. But now she just lost all energy. She stood arms crossed, leaning against the kitchen counter glaring at him, stony silence electrifying the air, conveying her convictions without words. When Gabe finished eating he took his bowl to the sink, his face untroubled, bearing no indication that her accusations had reached him. Without appearing to know Sybilla was present, he opened the back door and exited into the cold night. Sybilla’s fury bubbled over. She expressed it through the clattering of pans and dishes as she cleaned up.

Sybilla opened the bedroom door noiselessly to check on PJ. He had kicked off his covers. Tucking him in again, she noted a little snore punctuating deep sleep. Exhausted herself, she decided to get ready for bed. She ignored the draw to go see what Gabe was doing, or if he was even still around. Her anger still simmered.

Some hours later she awoke with a start. Without reaching out her hand, she sensed Gabe’s absence. Listening, there was nothing but silence. Sybilla started to turn over and go back to sleep when she heard the penetrating, unearthly cry of a coyote pierce the quiet then low, muffled murmuring. She leaped out of bed and made a beeline for PJ’s room. He was there but tossing in his sleep making soft, unintelligible noises, not loud enough to have awakened her. She didn’t have to have a sixth sense to determine the source of the sounds. Down the hall, a flickering yellow glow bathed the back part of the house. Fire! Her nerve endings responded. But no smoke greeted her, no smell.

Sybilla rushed to the back door and, for a moment, her brain couldn’t register what she saw. The entire yard was filled with lit candles, right up to the door. The installation at the back was going up in flames. Gabe was clearly visible standing in the middle of his sanctuary, throwing herbs into the blaze, wearing the strange white garment that he’d wrapped PJ in. It looked like a gown of sorts and came below his knees. She cracked open the door and his voice reached her. No longer murmuring, she could hear, without making out any words, an underlying intensity in the entreaty he directed to the fire. Sybilla quickly slid the door shut and stepped back.

He’s gone crazy, she thought. The neighbors are going to call the police. This is it. I’ve had it. I’m done with this. Backing off, she was resolved. He’s a danger to PJ. He’s no good for me.

Leaving the room, she glanced at the clock; it said 2 a.m. Sybilla closed and locked the door to PJ’s bedroom from the inside and then slid into her son’s small bed, curling her body around his. If Gabe came for PJ, he’d have to get through her first. She lay there for a long time attending to any signal that he’d entered the house.

Sybilla didn’t know where she was. It seemed like their home, but it was different. Looking around, things were missing, and others had taken their place. She didn’t recognize the clothing she was wearing and couldn’t feel her body. She started to panic and cry out. But her voice wouldn’t come. Then she saw Gabe. He was standing outside looking at her through the kitchen window. He was saying something. She tried to get over to him but each step was like slogging through thick mud. With each hard-earned footfall, he reciprocated the opposite, diminishing in the distance. His face was lined with sorrow, looked older. I’m so sorry, he mouthed, then just disappeared. She cried out in anguish, struggling against unseen hands holding her back. A whitish, ovoid shape appeared near her, hovering silently. She began to calm.

When she opened her eyes, Sybilla saw it was early. The soft light of dawn played in the room. Not quite awake, disoriented, she remembered the strange events of the night. PJ was in a ball next to her. The bedclothes were twisted. The bedroom door was ajar. PJ moved in his sleep, uncurling himself. Sybilla saw something tucked into his hand — the sunstone Doña Flora had given to Gabe at PJ’s birth, entrusting him to hold it for his son.

Sybilla came fully awake and sprung out of bed. First, checking in their bedroom, it was empty, the rest of the house as well. She went to the back door. Everything was as it had been — except the ashes and charred remains of the altar.

Gabe was gone.

©2013 Carla Woody. All rights reserved worldwide. No portion of this book, except for brief review, may be reproduced in any form without the 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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Table of Contents

Synopsis and Author’s Note

Preston

Sybilla