There was no doubt that my companions were eyewitnesses to my dreaming. The three of them, seated around the campfire, looked upon me with compassion, endearing with watchful, caring eyes.“Dreams are human testimony,” Hornsby humbly said.
His existence had become uniquely essential somehow or another to me. He sat there, more keen than a mere professor, a special human trait struck me.
I recalled our argument weeks before about dream interpretation, and hesitated to resume the analytical argument, full of multitudinous doubts. Hornsby looked upon me with indigenous generosity, the kind I saw in the Lacandones. This was the real Hornsby, and I believed at that moment, Cassarina registered that I was catching on.
“Yes, Jules . . . tell us,” Cassarina’s ardor of speech removed me from any suspicion.
I explained the details of my dream, translating it into Spanish for Jorge’s benefit.
“All Mother and the Djanggano Sisters,” Hornsby said after a long silence. He explained to us that he was referring to an Aboriginal pictograph located in Australia.
“Tlazolteotl,” Jorge said.
The two of them looked back at the campfire then to each other as if telepathically knowing what the other was thinking. I looked at them bewildered. Hornsby saw I was perplexed and explained what he and Jorge thought I had encountered during my “dreamtime” as Hornsby referred to it.
Tlazolteotl is the great mother or human fertility. Her mythological story has been traced throughout indigenous cultures, the evidence of which was painted on a rock in Australia by aborigines. Tlazolteotl has been traced back to the remotest antiquity. But more importantly, she is the “eater of impurities.” When one dies, they come before her to confess the greatest of their sins to receive absolution. Nothing can overwhelm her, as she has the power to heal and forgive us.
“In the end, we are all justified sinners,” Hornsby said.
“The dead must tell their darkest tales,” Cassarina added.
“What do you expect, a succession of holy deeds?” Hornsby quipped.
“Fuerza creadora de lo no tejido,” Jorge said flipping over a tortilla in a small frying pan over the campfire.
“Creative force of the universe,” Cassarina translated. “Such a passionate power, the female psyche.”
“Yes, there is an extraordinary sanctity attached to this goddess symbol,” Hornsby said.
“But there is more,” I said in a timid tone of voice.
By virtue of the dream and our incredible discovery the day before, it was futile to withhold my other dreamtime experience. I knew I would be condemning Hornsby and Cassarina to an avoidable catastrophe by not divulging it, and the confirmation of Yaxkin.
As much as our discovery yesterday was extraordinary and motivated me even more to search the depths of the Maya jungles, I still feared the worst if we continued on our expedition. I started to explain at first that no one knows when death will come as one lives into their virgin territory of life moment by moment. We can suspect and look for signs of the inexorably fatal power at work around us, a force of which devastates whole civilizations into ruins in a blink of an eye. And still nature contains an inscrutable spirit that lovingly spares us through the darkest times of our lives. It seemed to me that life was a string of fortunes and misfortunes all of which was there to enjoy.
“The three days that I was gone,” I began, “ wasn’t to inspect the rock art.” I related to Hornsby that Cassarina and I had an argument. Wanting to clear my head and give her some space to cool down as well, I took off into the jungle for what I thought would be a day hike. What happened next was beyond my comprehension, as well as Cassarina’s.
Hornsby and Cassarina were transfixed as I related vividly the dramatic scenes of my dreamtime encounter from beginning to end. By the time I was finished, I felt I was at the end of a long bridge spanning between us. Their expressions were ones of overwhelm, delight, surprised and concern.
Jorge had stopped cooking tortillas. He stood smoking a cigarette. Cassarina looked at me glassy eyed. Most of all, Hornsby was emotionally moved. Scratching his balding head, he finally responded.
“Was this what you were afraid to tell me before?”
I nodded in agreement.
“The whole dream took three days?” Cassarina was perplexed, intrigued and mildly annoyed.
“That’s the other part.”
I went on to describe my encounter with Moise. Hornsby and Cassarina listened intently. Neither of them questioned me when I finished. By then the morning air was warming up from the tropical heat of the sun. The mist had long since evaporated. It was clear to us that my dream, my encounter with Moise and our discovery of the cryptic vault all correlated to the existence of this Soul Chamber that Hornsby was searching for.
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