Hornsby stayed up, diligently plotting our location in relationship to Palenque and Yaxchilan by lantern light. Before I closed up for the night, I penned some annotations in my journal. Habitually, I made bullet-point notes on the left page, covering the pertinent events of the day, and then moved onto the right page to write my inner most thoughts.The darkness of the night in this primitive forest doesn’t change one’s sense of things. Good and evil seems to co-exist all about you. Whether you inhabit the confines of the inner city or outback of some remote wilderness, the same is true.
It comes down to survival by keeping your wits about you. For the Lacandon, who had inhabited this region for centuries, they have recently been given marching orders to disperse eastward into the rainforest, causing them to settle at Lago Metzabok and Lago Tz’ibahnah. They were literally forced from their ancestral lands in the region of Monte Libano, because these lands were taken over by a foreign lumber company that logged over 15,000 mahogany and cedar trees. To compound this invasion, the Mexican government opened homesteading rights for the Tzeltals, who moved into the area from the Ocosingo valley.
The continuity of their heritage is that they are migrating once again, as I suspect they had done before. In piecing together the puzzle of their ancestral existence, the Lacandones could very well have been linked to the El Peten region during the pre-classical and classical periods. But what is more important is that they are obviously not akin to the customary Mayan colorful brocaded dress. In fact, it was this very depiction of the individual indigenous tribes of Guatemala that allowed the Spanish to divide up the vast rich country into twenty-seven regional areas, the territorial boundaries designated by the designs of each individual tribe.
The Lacandon’s plain white tunics attest to the fact that their ancestors were separate for some reason since they don’t believe in weaving into the loom of the Maya their ancestral zoomorphic symbolism. I had only seen one tunic that had red markings on it, like stars forming a constellation. There were two pronounced red circles on the left and right side of the breast, but other than that, it was pure white. It was used for ceremonial purposes only. How could the Lacandones keep themselves removed from the rich artistic clothing attire of their indigenous neighbors such as the Tzeltals?
What is most important to these people are their copal incense burners, of which are ceremoniously renewed every eight years, in accordance to Venus’ completed orbital cycle just as their ancestors did thousand of years before. The designs of which depict the faces of various deities from their rich Yucatec Mayan ancestry sculpted on one side of the clay bowl.
I was often taken back by how the Naja t ‘o’ ohil Chan K’in Viejo’s face resembled the sculptured god-like images of the icon glyphs of the Mayan temples and wall murals for that matter. Even Jorge’s facial features in the proper light resembled the Olmec sculptures. The mixture of Olmec and Mayan, plus the fact that the Lacandon have been relocated as a result of trying to preserve their way of life, make me think more of them as a semi-nomadic people now. And it might have been this way for them even a thousand years before.
Having closed my journal I stretched out in my hammock, reflecting on my concerns about my encounter with Moise. I had decided to keep it an absolute secret, my own hidden reality for the time being. Whether it was true or not, I didn’t want to alter the course of Dr. Hornsby’s own enthusiastic journey. He seemed content enough about my discovery of the prehistoric rock art. That was a redeeming diversion I couldn’t have planned.
Besides I may have had a metaphorical dream meant only for my purpose. I reasoned that Dr. Hornsby was onto the trail of something, which could very well lead us to solid clues about the lost temple containing the Soul Chamber.
Hornsby was an expert at deciphering prehistoric rock art. He had cultivated from the psyche of the Australian aborigines a wealth of information regarding this mysterious but vital part of their ancestry and culture. I didn’t want to distract him for this was his true passion. And, having found favor with him again, I preferred to relish this feeling for the moment. In a few days we would have an answer.
The next morning, Hornsby roused us up at first light of dawn. Breaking camp without breakfast, we covered the last leg of the trek in brisk tempo. We had scarcely located the rock art among the craggy out cropping of rocks when Hornsby was immediately drawn to the first reddish mauve geometric human-like pictographs.
His eyes roamed about the face of the boulder. His rugged hands searched each crevasse and bump, inspecting the texture of the surface to see if there were any signs of petroglyphs which had since been worn down by centuries of wind and rain.
Cassarina and I moved about silently behind him. I carried the camera strapped about my neck. Cassarina held a fresh journal, ready to jot down any notes that Hornsby might dictate. Jorge stayed with the mules, a bit further down the trail. He was still nervous about the presence of the Jaguar, and complained that we must take care. To reassure him, Hornsby visibly loaded his revolver and secured it in its leather holster, strapped about his waist. We didn’t want to think of the danger. The weapon’s holster caused Hornsby to move clumsily about.
“Do you know what day it is?” Hornsby said to us as he sat down for a moment to unbuckle the revolver’s holster, then handing it to me.
“July twenty-fifth,” Cassarina offered.
“Saturday,” I added.
“It’s the last day of the thirteenth cycle in the Mayan calendar. The moon is in the cosmic turtle phase. We are concluding the twenty-day cycle of the mystic column of the Mayan Tzolk’in.”
The significance of this, Hornsby pointed out, was that we would be coming to the “Zero based day”, when the Sun is conjunct with the Dog Star, Sirius.
“You might call it “Yaxkin” in Mayan or “tender sun” symbolic of the Meal of Corn and Bean.
“Yaxkin,” I thought to myself. The word shot through me like a bolt of lightning. It was the name of the temple in my dreamtime experience. I bit my lip as Hornsby continued.
Translated into English it means “green day” because it doesn’t belong to the four times seven days of the moon or the four weeks encoded according to the four compass directions of red for east; white for north; blue for west, and yellow for south as determined by the Mayan calendar. This is the day of the earth, meant for renewal of your spirit and the earth’s resources.”
Hornsby stood up and walked over to the boulder where he keenly inspected a pictograph.
“See this animal figure here. It’s a turtle.”
Cassarina and I obediently walked over to where he was pointing. Painted on the rock surface in an ocher color was a crude replication of a turtle about ten centimeters wide and long.
“Notice the thirteen segments on the carapace. Count ‘em,” Hornsby subtly commanded.
I inspected the image, barely seeing the faded outline of the segments that Hornsby was talking about. Cassarina took the camera from me and started taking photographs. He was right. The segments were identifiable.
“Thirteen segments on the turtle shell, thirteen cycles in the Mayan calendar.” Hornsby looked about the terrain. He noticed that the boulders lead off toward a ravine overgrown with shrubs. It dropped off into a deep valley about two hundred meters below us, covered in dense jungle foliage.
“I suspect these pictographs are just the tip of the iceberg. If there’s more, it’s down there. Jules, go help Jorge set up camp. I want to explore that gully tomorrow.”
Hornsby instructed Cassarina to start drawing each individual figure painted on the rock’s surface as he dictated notes into his tape recorder. Curious, I climbed upon a boulder to peer over at the gully. It looked simple enough for a day hike. I then headed back to Jorge and the mules.
As I made my way back I felt a pang of pain on the inside of my right thigh. The discomfort started about a week before, but I shrugged it off as a nasty mosquito bite. A small hard spot had formed beneath the skin turning into a small oozing sore. Again, a sharp pain shot out like a large jabbing sewing needle into my thigh. By the time I got to Jorge, who was attending the mules, I was limping.
“Que, pasa?” Jorge said noticing my infirmity.
I waved off his concern instructing him to unpack the mules.
“Montar el campamento,” I said to him, looking about the trail area for a good place to pitch our hammocks.
That evening, after the four of us finished our meal, the pain in my leg had become insufferable. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I looked pathetically weakened, lying back against a tree trunk. Cassarina noticed I was pale. She came to see if I was coming down with malaria. I told her it wasn’t malaria. I pulled up my short’s leg to reveal the oozing wound.
“You’ve got a tarsal infection,” she said without hesitation. She lightly pinched the wound, sending me into utter agony.
“Dermatoid hominids, or more commonly known as “bot-fly” maggot infestation, she informed me. “Feels like you got two in there.”
“Drat,” Hornsby exclaimed, moving over to us to double check Cassarina’s prognosis. He inspected the swollen red area of my thigh that was about two centimeters in diameter. When he lightly pressed the infected area, pus trickled out of the sore. I shouted out in pain.
“She’s right. Nasty warble maggots.” There was no reassurance in his words.
“Que malo,” Jorge chimed in after Hornsby, peering over his shoulder. He puffed on his hand-rolled cigar-sized cigarette, displaying a decayed tooth grin.
“Right about what?” My discomfort was increasing.
“Meiosis parasite. See this tiny hole here in your skin surface?” Cassarina pointed with her finger to the center of the boil-like swelling on my thigh.
I looked down to see a white pinhole opening in the center of the reddish ooze.
“That’s the maggot’s breathing hole.”
Again I winced in pain.
“The maggot’s spines are cutting into your subcutaneous tissue. It’s their defense mechanism to keep you from extracting them. Most likely the eggs dropped off from the belly of a female mosquito when it bit you,” Cassarina said sitting back.
“Oh, fantastic,” I moaned. “Am I going to die?”
“Only if you let your fear get the best of you.” Cassarina chuckled. “They’re harmless enough. If you can stand the painful sensation of them growing in your body over the next six weeks, they’ll leave as mature flies.”
“That would bring Jules some notoriety among ethnologists, but I can’t afford to have Jules laid up.” Hornsby looked earnestly over at Cassarina. “Well, doc?”
“I’d hate to deprive Jules of his houseguests, but if you insist Dr. Hornsby.”
“Under the circumstance -- I insist, Cassarina.”
The two of them had smirks on their faces. I was not amused.
“Right. A Vaseline compress ought to do the trick. I can make a tight bandage about the site. The enclosure will cause them to rise up out of the skin and into the Vaseline searching for air. We just need to suffocate them.”
Cassarina set about her treatment plan. And for once, I saw a different side of her. The doctor, the healer, the caretaker contrasted her sterile persona.
I moaned in pain. The thought of these maggots creeping under my skin made me nauseated.
“Oh, stop being so squeamish, Jules.” Cassarina said off-handedly as she got up to get her medical kit.
“Asia stand las cosas,” Jorge said to Hornsby. Hornsby nodded in agreement.
“It is the little things that will get you in the jungle,” Cassarina translated as she prepared to apply the Vaseline soaked gauze dressing to my thigh.
“I must have gotten infected when I took off . . .” but I didn’t finish my sentence because Cassarina was tying off the bandage.
“That’s god awful tight,” I said, riveted in pain.
“Chin up, Jules,” Hornsby quipped.
The worst of it was over, at least for the night. Cassarina and Hornsby helped me into my hammock, tenting me with mosquito netting.
“Try and get some sleep,” Cassarina consoled. It was the kindest words I had heard from her since we first met.
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