Portals to the Vision Serpent

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ILLUMINATION Book Chapters

7 min readNov 13, 2021

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

Chapter Eight

The baby came. They wanted a home birth. Gabe had actually insisted on it. “The old way,” he said, “Not anything cold to steal our baby’s spirit.”

Sybilla agreed with him. Not because her values led her away from a hospital birth but to nurture the unspoken alliance that had evolved between them since they arrived in the new spot. Finally. When Sybilla mused about the meandering path it took for them to come to this unexpected place in their coupling, after so much uncertainty, indeed with no grounding that she could count on, she had the welcome feeling of having come home. This, even as she projected herself several years ahead — it being her nature she simply could not help but do — she intuited Gabe’s absence. She knew the time was coming. He would have passed through a room of her life, leaving just his scent forever lingering in the air. From that she would draw bittersweet memories. So the time that was left became precious indeed, something to preserve against what was to be — for their child and herself.

As the baby grew inside her, Sybilla experienced a newfound sense of self and the promise of what was developing within her. When Gabe took the stand on a midwife, she deferred, having no qualms. He rewarded her with a steady gaze of love that he had never spoken in words. Sybilla took it in and held it dear. In times to come she would seek out the affirmation he’d transmitted, find it nestled inside, reminding her that it was real. Not something she’d desperately manufactured.

Gabe wasted no time in finding a midwife, a Maya woman living in town who knew the ways of the earth, the Mother, he said. He’d excitedly told how she came to midwifery through a dream. The gods chose her back when she was young and still living in Guatemala. Sybilla cocked her head in question. He was talking so strangely these days: things she didn’t understand. But she determined to wait and judge for herself whether this was the woman who should be entrusted with the birth of their child. When Doña Flora came the next morning for a consult, Sybilla immediately felt at peace. Doña Flora invited tranquility. Sybilla was sitting in their small front room reading when she glanced out the window. A short, matronly brown-skinned woman approached the house. Her loose, brightly colored dress was simple, a woven belt cinched at the waist accentuating the comfortable folds of middle age. Her long black hair was caught in a braid down her back. The woman paused outside. Sybilla heard a lilting voice, a short intonation in a tongue she didn’t know, perhaps a prayer.

Gabe answered the knock and ushered her in proudly. Doña Flora immediately clapped her hands together in delight at seeing Sybilla. When the midwife gestured toward her burgeoning front and raised her eyebrows in question, Sybilla couldn’t help but give her the permission she requested. Doña Flora laid hands on Sybilla’s belly, closed her eyes and was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Opening, her eyes looked directly into Sybilla’s, transmitting a deep sense of appreciation.

Nodding her head sagely, in heavily-accented English, she stated matter-of-factly, “This one will be gifted, Mama. One who will be guided.”

With that pronouncement, they heard a long exhalation, a rush from breath contained. They’d forgotten Gabe in the room, so involved were the women in their communion. Including him with her smile, Sybilla saw immediate relief projected on Gabe’s face. Doña Flora’s prediction appeared to be what he’d been waiting to hear. Doña Flora went on to school them both in what would be needed for the home birth and advised she would come by every week.

Ultimately when the birthing came, it was relatively quick and easy. Sybilla didn’t know if it had to do with all the prayers Doña Flora undertook during her labor, but she found it comforting to hear the melodic voice petitioning the spirits she believed in. Gabe was her assistant, maybe not culturally correct or usual, but Doña Flora praised him afterward and gave him the honor of cutting the cord of his newborn son. After the baby was cleaned and swaddled, she gently deposited him in Sybilla’s arms.

“His name?” Doña Flora asked.

Exhausted but proud, Sybilla smiled up at Gabe and stated firmly, “Preston after my grandfather. Preston Johns Cadell.”

“Ah…but he has another name. It will come to him. But not now,” Doña Flora spoke softly and extracted a small object from her skirt pocket. Placing it in Gabe’s palm, she closed his fingers around it, “You keep this in a special place for your son. There is a time when it will speak to him.”

Gabe opened his hand and found a small flat stone. Looking closely he saw its naturally raised ridges resembling the symbol of the sun.

Sybilla took to motherhood like she couldn’t have imagined. Surprising her, Gabe was right by her side. He got up in the night nearly as much as she did when the baby cried. Even though she’d heard how exhausting it was to care for a newborn, Sybilla discovered a new strength and vitality she’d never had. She had put away her camera when things had gotten so tense on the road. She brought it out again photographing PJ, as she began to call him, at nearly every turn. Gabe fussed over him, sometimes talking to PJ in low tones she couldn’t hear, perhaps relaying wisdom only for his ears. Within a couple of months, Gabe made a practice of taking him outside, lifting him up like an offering to the sun, a proud father and laughing baby.

Doña Flora continued to come by every now and then, checking that all was well. She brought a gift one day, a large oblong multi-colored weaving that she’d made herself. To carry the baby, she said. And showed Sybilla how to wrap PJ in such a way, and then tie the cloth over her shoulder, so it was possible to carry him on her hip or sling on her back and go about her business. Sybilla couldn’t get the technique down pat. Gabe was a natural though. Doña Flora didn’t quite reconcile a man hauling a baby in the traditional Maya way meant for women but finally gave in and smiled encouragingly. The wrap gave Gabe new mobility with PJ in places where a stroller couldn’t go. When he asked to take PJ out into the desert behind their home, just for a short while, Sybilla hesitantly acquiesced. Gabe seemed so much more stable in the last months. He was never gone too long or when the sun was strong. She finally determined he was just bonding with his son. It gave her a break, too. She needed time in her makeshift darkroom. She started submitting some of her prints to magazines. One was accepted, which made her think she could possibly make a living through her passion. And Gabe established a handyman service, word getting around that he could take care of anything that needed fixing. They traded off caring for PJ.

Thus was the rhythm they established, a relative flow of domesticity and their child was thriving. Gabe was even periodically tender with her — and Sybilla allowed herself to exhale. But soon she began to notice the old edginess creeping in. The silences returned. Gabe would spend long evenings, after the baby was put to bed, out in the back yard, gazing at the sky or at some point in the desert. Then came the times when Sybilla would open the door to check on him and he’d be gone, with never a word to her, returning some hours later. The sense of dread re-entered Sybilla’s life, the inevitable she knew would come to pass. PJ was nearly two years old.

©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