Portals to the Vision Serpent
Chapter Sixteen
As silent as the desert was after dusk, the rainforest was equally humming with all manner of insects and amphibians clamoring to be known to the night. Darkness fell early beneath the canopy. The tiny restaurant at their lodging only offered breakfast. But Javier prevailed upon the owner’s daughter Rosa to rustle up some dinner, and she’d obliged with a smile seeing how weary the smallest traveler was. They sat under the thatched palapa outside the open-air kitchen and wolfed down the meal with relish. Sybilla suspected the family had shared their dinner, simple fare of stewed vegetables, soup and tortillas. It was delicious. They had the luxury of being the only guests there.
Even as tired as they were, none of them yet made a move to go to bed. Sybilla was making the most of the moment, storing it away in her memory bank, a sense of having firmly arrived even as the journey had just begun. She looked around, like a child in wonder. The trees fascinated her the most. Some had huge buttresses thriving with plant life other than their own: bromeliads perched on their branches, vines winding up their long trunks. They looked surprisingly like the houseplants she had at home, only much bigger. She imagined all kinds of other life hidden in the recesses. Indeed, one had a hollow at its base so big that an adult could stand up in it, shadows giving the impression of some forest sprite observing them from its post. Sybilla laughed a little to herself, I’m letting this place carry me away. But she noticed PJ had stopped eating and was gazing intently in that direction.
When Sybilla noted PJ’s eyes drooping toward sleep, she finally called it a night. They left Javier to nurse his beer and headed off to their cabana. It was a simple room: two narrow beds, a rustic desk and chair, minimal facilities in the bathroom, but certainly adequate for their needs. Perhaps the best feature was the wide porch facing into the jungle. After getting PJ settled, she sat outside undertaking the ritual that gave her clarity. Here her sight didn’t fix on the sky, no visible channel extending there, but directly into the density just a few yards away, the close unknown.
When they checked in Javier had asked the old man at the desk if he knew of El Paraiso. Senor Ortiz gestured it was a bit down the road toward the ruins, close by. Sybilla was amazed at their luck. No, something is guiding me, she thought. Mitchell had only said two weeks, no exact time. While a part of her was tempted to rush breathlessly down to El Pariaso at once, a better head prevailed. She wanted to be in top form, contained but interested, when meeting Mitchell. She knew that his acceptance wasn’t a shoo-in. She’d still have to prove herself worthy of his attention — and any potential connection to the Hach Winik.
After a long time, she went inside and slipped into bed. PJ was snoring softly. She lay there listening to a gecko chirping outside just under the eaves, nothing separating them but the mesh on the window, open to the elements. She drifted into slumber.
The next morning when Sybilla and PJ appeared for breakfast Javier was just finishing his second cup of coffee. They had slept unusually late. After Rosa took their order, Javier reported he’d already been out on reconnaissance.
“I walked up the road toward the ruins. Senor Ortiz is right. El Paraiso isn’t too far. But it’s not a hotel or restaurant. There’s a track that runs into the jungle. A ways in there’s a sign arching overhead. It looks like a family compound of some sort. I didn’t see anyone around. Well, it was early,” he took a gulp of coffee. “If you’re up to it, we can walk down there or at least take a combi to the road entrance. On my way back I saw the vans had started running. They go between town and the ruins. You just wave them down.“
He went on, “I tried to get what I could from Senor Ortiz about Mitchell and this man Ricardo Delgado. Apparently El Paraiso is Delgado’s place. He’s been here about twenty years and the locals like him. He was on a lot of the digs at Palenque but mostly retired now.”
“I thought so since Diego referred me to him,” Sybilla said.
“Looks like Delgado opens his compound up as a way station for colleagues passing through the area. Not only archeologists but anthropologists, botanists, anyone doing work in the field. Sounds like the place to be. From what I get, Delgado and Mitchell are friends going way back. Senor Ortiz didn’t say more than that. So I guess we’ll have to find out for ourselves.”
Rosa came with breakfast, and they devoted themselves to fresh papaya, scrambled eggs and tortillas.
Sybilla had decided a combi was best, at least to deliver them closer, since PJ would be with them. A couple of dogs heard them coming down the overgrown track. Raucous barking announced their impending arrival at the entrance to El Paraiso. Sybilla was attempting to pull PJ away from the friendly animals when an older Mexican woman emerged from a rambling bungalow that sat back from the entry. She greeted them, smiling at PJ. Javier asked her if Davis Mitchell was there.
“Ah, yes. You’re the ones who wrote to my husband Ricardo,” she answered in perfect English. They made formal introductions.
“Please call me Isabel. Come in. I’m sorry that Ricardo isn’t here right now. He’d like to meet you but he’s in the Yucatán,” she continued as they walked into the compound. They could see a large palapa surrounded by an informal flower garden in a clearing beyond the home. It had the look of a relaxed gathering place. Sybilla remarked on the beauty of the property.
“Yes, we are fortunate here. Now, you came to meet with Davis, didn’t you? He should be back there,” Isabel said. “If you follow that trail it will come to the creek. Just follow the creek toward the back of our land. You’ll see his home.”
“He actually lives here then?” Sybilla raised her eyebrows.
“Yes, he is an old friend of Ricardo’s and mine. He’s been here with us almost from the time we moved here from Quintana Roo. This was much better for Ricardo to work at Palenque then. Would you like for this little one to stay with me while you go visit?” Isabel offered.
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Sybilla replied.
“Really, it would be a pleasure. I miss my grandchildren and the dogs would like it, too. And you are going to talk business. I think this would be best,” Isabel finished.
“Is that okay, PJ? We’ll be back in just a while,” Sybilla was met with vigorous nodding from PJ. He returned to playing with the dogs.
Javier and Sybilla picked their way down to the creek and followed its course another hundred yards until they saw a casita cloistered by foliage just on the banks of the water, an idyllic setting. They paused at the porch, listening for sounds from inside the house. Nothing. Sybilla shrugged to Javier and stepped forward. Before she could rap on the door, it suddenly jerked open. A tall man in a rumpled shirt and shorts barred the entrance, examining them with piercing, unfriendly eyes, hand firmly on the doorknob. He was barefoot. Several days’ growth of white beard covered his scowling face. Grizzled hair sprung out from his head completing the impression of complete disarray and questionable sanity. Sybilla snatched her hand back and just stood there, nonplussed.
“Yes?” He scrutinized them with a stony stare.
Okay, he’s going to make me work for it, Sybilla thought ruefully.
“Mr. Mitchell?” she stuck her hand out to shake. “I’m Sybilla Johns and this is my colleague Javier Alvaro.”
“Yes?” He ignored her hand. She let it drop awkwardly.
“I’m very glad to meet you in person. You asked me to come. So here I am,” she pulled herself up to full stature. “I’ve brought Javier as an assistant and translator.”
Mitchell was silent. To Sybilla, the seconds stretched into hours. Abruptly, he stood aside and gestured that they should enter. She got a whiff of lingering alcohol and tobacco on stale breath. She noted that, for such an elderly man, his posture was unusually straight on his spare frame. Despite his disheveled appearance, Sybilla glimpsed the dashing figure he must have been forty years ago. They entered the front room that proved to contain a small kitchen and seating area. Mitchell waved them toward the easy chairs gathered around a low table and went over to the stove. “Want some coffee?”
“That would be great, Mr. Mitchell,” she said to be polite. Javier nodded assent.
“Just Davis,” he growled.
While he was busy at the counter, Sybilla stole a look around. Papers and books haphazardly covered a desk and she spied a room with an unmade bed through another doorway. But what held her interest were the old photos that covered the walls, some in frames but many just taped up. She could distinguish excavation sites, groups of men in front of relics, a number of Davis with Native people — and one especially of Davis sitting on the ground with a wizened elder wearing white. Crude masks and similar paraphernalia filled in the spots between the photos. It was like a museum.
He brought over coffee in chipped mugs. It was quite bitter, like it had been boiling on the stove for hours.
“Now what do you want?”
Javier sat back. They had prepared this introduction. Sybilla took the lead. She reviewed what she’d told Davis on the phone and then tied it to elements of her research thus far, ending with what they hoped to achieve: raising awareness in their readership and needling the Mexican government to take real action. “You see, we really think that if it’s written in a way that exposes their part in this travesty, they can no longer just turn their heads. The Mexican government will have to take some measures to stop the loggers and somehow compensate the damage that’s been done, both to the land and the people living there. Otherwise, they’ll be shamed before the judgment of developed countries. But that’s where you’d come in. If what we think is true, you have first-hand knowledge of the Hach Winik and the effect on them. If this is going to reach people, it can’t be abstract. It’s got to encompass personal stories by those who have been there, have seen it. And our magazine has wide enough circulation to get attention. Plus, my editor will make sure our article gets into influential hands,” she took a breath. She’d been talking for nearly an hour through which Davis leaned forward, elbows propped on thighs, staring at the floor like they weren’t there. He gave no sign whatsoever for her to play off.
“So interviewing you is important, and if it’s possible to go to a village, that will add immediacy,” she finished and looked over at Javier. He nodded slightly in encouragement.
Sybilla picked up her now-cold coffee and sipped. They sat in silence until Davis finally shifted in his chair and grunted.
He looked up, appraising her, “Okay.”
She had to still her racing heart, “Okay? Do you mean you’ll sit for an interview?”
“I mean I’ll take you.”
“You’ll take us?” She had to quit repeating everything he said. I sound like an idiot, she chastised herself.
“That’s right. You should hear it from their mouths, not mine. But one caveat,” he looked straight into her eyes, “You’ve got to run what you write by me. I don’t want some hogwash written by some journalist who thinks they’ve interpreted something correctly when they haven’t. And it ends up hurting these people. You got that?”
His voice got threatening. Sybilla was taken aback, “Of course, I would check my facts.”
“You run your facts and the slant you give them by me. Otherwise, forget it,” Davis was firm.
“That sounds fine to me. I’d want to get everything right,” she agreed.
“It’s a rough trip out there, not much of a road. I’d need to make sure my Land Cruiser is up to it,” he said.
Sybilla remembered an ancient Toyota sitting near the house overtaken by vines. She was dubious.
“I don’t need a car much here. It’s been sitting a while,” he offered as though reading her mind. “I just need to crank it up. And you’ll need to bring some gifts, out of respect. Basic supplies they can’t get. Give it a few days. In the meantime, you go up the road and see the ruins. It will be important so you can relate.”
Davis seemed to be warming to the idea, maybe even getting excited. Some of the heaviness lifted. Javier piped up, “Let me know whatever I can do to help.”
“Right now I’m going to walk you back. I want to talk to Isabel,” Davis said.
“Uh, there is one thing I didn’t mention,” Sybilla hesitated, nervous.
“Yeah?” he barked.
“My three-year-old son is with us. I didn’t have anyone to leave him with at home. I’m sorry. I know this complicates things. He’s up with Isabel right now.”
Sybilla just knew that thoughts like ‘Woman, what are you thinking of?’ or ‘Are you crazy?’ were welling up in his mind. But he didn’t give it away.
He blinked at her slowly and said, “It’ll be good for the boy.”
After all his gruffness, Sybilla couldn’t believe he’d acquiesce so easily about PJ. Maybe I’ve found his soft spot, she thought. They all walked back toward the house and could see PJ lolling on the ground with the dogs and Isabel sitting on a chair nearby.
Davis crouched down in front of PJ and shook his hand. In his gravely voice he said, “Son, I understand you want to take a trip.”
Sybilla put her worries behind her.
Davis had given them a shopping list, things like boxes of salt, fifty pounds of rice, bars of chocolate. Sybilla couldn’t imagine how the chocolate wouldn’t liquefy by the time they reached their destination. He’d said they’d stop and purchase a live hen or two along the way. She wondered where they’d find room in the vintage Land Cruiser for all these items plus themselves, their equipment and bags, much less chickens. But they dutifully took a combi into town after their meeting and bought items at the local market while Davis attended to his vehicle. PJ was excited by the throngs of people, merchandise, noise and unusual smells. Stalls of produce, spices, curandero supplies, live fowl and colorful clothing commingled freely while lively recordings blared from the occasional music booth. They took their time to wander and left the burlap bag of rice until last. Burdened down with their purchases, Javier hailed the closest taxi to take them back to La Casa Mono.
Isabel had invited them for dinner. After showering off the sweat of their task, they presented themselves at her doorstep a little after six as arranged, early for the evening meal by Mexican standards but in deference to PJ’s earlier bedtime. They weren’t the only ones who had cleaned up. Davis was already there, lounging in a chair, drink in his hand. The contrast to their previous encounter with him was stark. Gone was the stubble. His wavy silver hair had been combed back, tamed into a mane that brushed the top of his shoulders. His clothing was pristine, light cotton trousers and shirt. But perhaps most startling, the scowl was gone from his face. Instead, a slight smile played about his lips, like in secret amusement. Isabel offered drinks and disappeared into the kitchen, source of the pungent aroma on the air.
“Well, my boy, how’d you like the market?” Davis patted his knee in invitation. PJ made a beeline, clambered onto his lap and started jabbering. Sybilla was shocked, given PJ’s usual shyness with strangers. He certainly hadn’t taken to Javier that way, although Javier treated him kindly enough. Their conversation continued as Davis patiently answered PJ’s questions and engaged him. Sybilla watched perplexed but also relieved. Davis’ volatile nature was made apparent earlier, but she realized that, somehow, PJ’s presence had turned into an asset rather than a liability. Having PJ along would leverage a more genial atmosphere for their expedition.
Drinks served, Davis turned to addressing what was ahead. “The Land Cruiser is running rough. I think I can take care of that tomorrow though. Be prepared to leave the next day. You need to know we have a long, slow trip in front of us. We’ll leave before dawn. If we make good time it will take about twelve hours, maybe longer. I don’t know what we’ll find as far as the road. In some places, it’s barely that, and we’ve had hard rains recently. There’s no communication ahead to check. You should be prepared for anything, including having to camp overnight.”
Alarm spread over Sybilla’s face. Her imagination ran wild with thoughts of big cats and slithery things. She glanced over at PJ in concern.
“Yes, I know what you’re thinking,” Davis continued, “But I’m bringing what we need if that happens. We may camp anyway once we reach the village, or we may be invited to stay in one of the compounds. That’s more likely. These people are my friends.” Davis instructed them to bring minimal personal items but enough for a few days just in case.
“How open do you think they’ll be to talk to us?” Sybilla asked.
“The Hach Winik are gentle people. Although they still carry a reputation for raiding other villages, mostly their own kind, for wives and such,” Davis chuckled. “But those were the old days and a way of avoiding so much in-breeding, if you think about it. Other Native groups think they’re cannibals. Of course, that’s not true but probably a rumor the Hach Winik perpetuated just to protect their own. Such propaganda is frequent between tribes for that reason. Who knows if it was ever true? Unlikely.”
Davis went on to reiterate some of what they already knew. Their brushes with outsiders, particularly lighter-skinned ones, had not been particularly beneficial over the years. Results had been a loss of land, disease and indignities. There had been some few gringos who had approached them, and they’d allowed in, who had taken what they wanted, documented their culture for their own benefit usually, and then were gone. There were few who really gave them respect and called them friend.
“They’re a people literally trying to survive with a world closing in on them that’s doing a good job of taking what’s their birthright,” Davis’ voice had risen in agitation the longer he talked on the subject. PJ looked up at him. Davis glanced down then, realizing the charge he sent out and swallowed. He finished quietly, “To answer your question, I can’t promise you anything. If you’d just wandered into their midst, they’d be polite but largely ignore you. I’m a friend and you’ll be with me. That will probably give you an opening. I’ll explain your intent, what you want to do. How it could be a benefit. Their numbers have dwindled dramatically over the last fifty years. If there’s help for them, it’ll probably have to come from the outside, by those who know how to navigate politics and big corporations. This is what it comes down to. Understand that’s the only reason I’m taking you in. Not for the curiosity of your readers.”
Isabel came sweeping into the room followed by her cook who was laden down with two platters. The spicy aroma made Sybilla’s mouth water in anticipation. They sat down to a sumptuous meal of chicken mole, baked chayote, rice and tortillas to scoop it all up. Between bites, Sybilla cautiously introduced the subject of Davis’ early days, to see if he would shed any light on his own background. After some silence, he told a story of himself as a young man of nineteen stumbling in from the jungle onto a small encampment of men in the midst of great temples shrouded by vegetation and time. The temples turned out to be Tikal and he later learned that the men were respected archaeologists of the day. He hung around on the edges until one of them saw the advantage of additional labor and handed him a pick. So began his life as an explorer. Warming to the subject, Davis held court and entertained them with a few more tales.
Sybilla’s trepidation toward Davis began to slip away. A deep respect for that eccentric character was beginning to emerge instead. He’s really someone who cares deeply, she thought. Whatever scandal happened back then to make him the way he is now…I can’t help but think there’s something there, that he’s justified. He’s not a mean old loon people make him out to be — or that he tries to be.
The room took on a romantic ambience of the like adventure tales told well produce. They were wrapped in a cocoon of enchantment that transported them back to the alluring heyday of archeological discoveries in Maya lands. But when Sybilla noticed PJ’s head drooping toward his plate, she graciously thanked their benefactors for the meal and stories. They had their first ride in the Land Cruiser as Davis ferried them back to their lodging. Sputtering and hard seats aside, Sybilla thought it would do just fine. She breathed in the night air, taking the rainforest and all its sensations into the core of her being. A rush of gratitude came over her. Who gets to do this? She was giddy. It had been a big day.
©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.
