CHAPTER EIGHT: THE CRYPTIC VAULT

The next morning we woke up at sunrise to a light drizzle, tempering the summer heat of the Tropic of Cancer. We quickly broke camp. Hornsby wanted us to move the mules up to the rock outcroppings as a base camp. He had spent the better part of yesterday afternoon sizing up the situation. Along with Cassarina they had uncovered a succession of pictographs, leading in the direction of the gully.


“An outstanding progression of anthropomorphic to celestial depictions,” he announced upon his return to our camp.

There was conclusive evidence of continuity between the rock art and pictograph formations.

“This area could have been a cultural crossroads for thousand of years,” Hornsby said.

He expected we would spend the first part of the day working our way down the ravine and into the gully.

The damp weather wasn’t going to slow us down. The Vaseline dressing, tightly woven about my right leg, did little to dispel the occasional shooting pain of the bot-fly maggots going through their metamorphosis. Hornsby didn’t ask about my condition, but Cassarina inspected the dressing before we set off. She told me it might take a day before we see any results. My right leg was sore, but after moving about I got used to the discomfort. By the time we reached the location of the rock art, the pesky maggots had settled down. I hoped they had suffocated.

Much to our surprise, perched on top of the boulder where we had found the rock art was Baltazar. The Lacandon man, dressed only in his tunic, puffed on a cigarette, as if he had not a care in the world. Jorge, glad to see Baltazar, exchanged words in their native tongue as Baltazar made his way quickly down the face of the boulder displaying an unusual agile strength. The three of us stood silently perplexed at Baltazar’s charming but unexpected appearance.

“Who’s this?” Hornsby said. I moved toward Baltazar to greet him, in the customary grip of each other’s forearms.

“Meet Baltazar,” I said.

“Está Dr. Hornsby,” Cassarina added.

Hornsby cordially greeted Baltazar. The two of them sized each other up for a moment, as if two lone sages of the wilderness had just encountered their counterpart. Jorge informed us that Baltazar knew the way into the gully and would stay with the mules. Baltazar turned while beckoning us to follow him, heading off toward the ravine.

“We go!” he said with his native guttural intonation, surprising me that he knew some English.
Seeing that we would be left behind, the three of us immediately followed Baltazar, blitzing a trail by thrashing his machete widely at the shrubs, wading through overgrown thorny shrubs and dense foliage. He paid little attention to his companions, occupied with the task at hand with impeccable attention.

The ravine route led through two huge boulders that converged before us. Cassarina remarked that the two rounded boulders that formed a symmetrical juncture, where we happened to be swathing a path, reminded her of the Vesica Piscis. Hornsby was quick to pick up on her observation.

“Quite so.”

“What is a Vesica Piscis?” I inquired.

Hornsby explained that the literature translation literally means, ‘fish bladder,’ but symbolically it is the entrance to the Divine Feminine.”

“Two circles are brought together horizontally to their inner outside edges to form an almond shaped center.” Cassarina interjected.

“When the two circles are placed vertically it forms a center that the Greeks called, ichthys, which is an acronym for Jesus Christ, Son of God, Our Savior. Early Christians used this symbol as a secret code among themselves, to avoid detection and persecution. The almond center is known as the mandorla.”

“The glorious birth passage,” Hornsby said.

“Or the passageway between heaven and earth,” Cassarina continued.

The two of them seemed to delight each other by impressing me with their knowledge of sacred geometric mythology.

“You can see these sheila-na-gig images on Irish churches,” Cassarina added.

“And in the squatting figures of the Hindu goddess Kali,” Hornsby was quick to report. Amused, I hacked a clear path with my machete into what Cassarina said was the “the little fish in the Virgin’s fountain.”

After an hour of tediously slow progress we finally came to an unexpected abrupt end of the ravine. We stood on the ledge of a steep cliff that plunged at least two hundred meters straight down. The gully below was a lush green forest shrouded in mist.

“Aqui,” Baltazar said pointing toward the rock faced wall.

The trail picked up off to our left. It was a small ledge less than a foot wide and appeared to have been chiseled into the vertical bald face of a gigantic boulder making a gradual descent about thirty meters. The precipitous ledge disappeared into what looked like another cove in the rock wall. From there it appeared that the trail picked up again on solid earth.

Without concern of the considerable peril and laborious task to transverse, Baltazar motioned to us to follow him out on the rock ledge. He pinched out his hand-rolled cigarette, tucking it behind his ear under his long black hair, handed his machete to Hornsby and stepped out on the ledge with the agility of a cat.

Hornsby dutifully followed, stuffing the machete in his pack, being quick to make his way along the ledge. I, on the other hand, inched out onto the ledge, my chest pressed close to the rocky wall, my fingers finding supportive cracks to hold my weight as I shifted each leg, one by one, creeping sideways like a crab. The morning drizzle hadn’t let up making the rock surface slippery. One misplaced step and anyone of us could have plunged to our death. I dared not look down. Cassarina edged out after I made a few meters progress.

It would have been rather easy to traverse this precarious part of the trail except I was carrying the revolver and holster that Hornsby had entrusted to me the day before in my backpack. The weight was countering my ability to keep close to the rock face.

There was an occasional gust of wind blowing up from the gully below us. It sprayed drizzle upon my face blurring my vision. Unable to wipe my eyes, I blindly made my way, inch by inch, until what I had hoped wouldn’t happen, happened. Those pesky bot-fly maggots decided to dig a little further into my leg.

CHAPTER SEVEN: ROCK ART - CONTINUED

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.

CHAPTER SEVEN: ROCK ART - CONTINUED

After finishing his instructions for Montero to deliver Cassarina’s latest collections of plants, Hornsby, Cassarina, Jorge and I hiked out of the peace and comfort of Metzabok.
“Que le vaya bien,” Montero said to us, waving goodbye as we disappeared into the rainforest.

Surrounding him were the Lacandon villagers looking cheerfully sublime. It dawned on me that I had metamorphosed into one of them, instinctively sensing their civilized world as less idiotic, less tangled and less violent than the one I was born into. To the outside world they may look unsightly, but to me gloriously beautiful. As I took a glimpse of my friends -- the indisputable poignancy of being -- over my shoulder -- I realized that I was indebted to them for hosting me into one of the last vestiges of prehistoric civilization.


Hornsby was enthusiastic as we headed into the mountainous rain forest of the Sierra Norte De Chiapas, Cassarina harboring indifference, Jorge blissfully unaware of any controversy between us, and me dragging along in somewhat of a cowardly action because I refused to divulge the evidence of my dreamtime experience, the prick of consciousness.

Along the way to Lago Metzabok, Hornsby informed Cassarina and I that the two researchers at the southern Lacandon settlement had quit. Ever since the 1971 massacre of Mexican students, there were reports of military Civil Defense Squads or ‘death squads’ coming across the Guatemalan border invading Quiche villages, not far from the southern Lacandon settlements. The alarm of military incursions was becoming palpable.

“Garthwaite has decided,” Hornsby related, “to go off on his own to Tenejapa, the Window to the Universe, where the Tzotzil and Tzeltal live.”

I wasn’t surprised with this news about Garthwaite. Being a maverick in his own right, he would take advantage of his time, having been adequately introduced to the region, to do some of his own exploring.

“He’s more interested in Nahuatl and the tomb of Pacal Votan at Palenque rather than the Lacandon,” Hornsby said keeping a brisk stride in front of us.

Cassarina had kept some correspondence with Garthwaite. At times, I had observed her reading his letters in seclusion at Metzabok. It seemed she was reciprocating responses to his letters to her, handing sealed envelopes for Hornsby to deliver at his bi-weekly visits. I didn’t pry into their affair, whether it was romantic or plutonic, but I did notice a look of disappointment on her face with the recent news about Garthwaite. Not surprised, just disappointed.

“That leaves the three of us,” Cassarina said resigned to the depleted numbers of our expedition’s group.

“Quite so,” Hornsby answered impartially.

Hornsby kept up a jaunty pace. The afternoon heat didn’t slow him, in fact, I wondered if it invigorated him.

“Rock art is the largest body of evidence we have of humanity’s cognitive beginnings. What is so engaging about deciphering these images is that they open a window into the identity and meaning of the past. The amazing thing is that throughout the world, Paleolithic rock art is surprisingly consistent in uniformity. Its as if there was a universal language among Homo sapiens. I’ve often wondered if the geometrical art form is based upon a genetic mathematical formula, but this is the argument, isn’t it?”

Hornsby paused for a moment pondering the facts of his statement, while keeping a brisk pace. Cassarina and I were trailing close behind.

“Conclusively, the argument is Style versus Function.”

“Instinct versus Reason,” I added.

“Nature versus Nurture,” Cassarina said in an acidic tone of voice. I knew she was making a deliberate dig at me. Hornsby remained oblivious to our quarrel and I imagined he didn’t care to understand her intentions.

“Apart from petroglyphs, pre-historic rock art is the first evidence we have of how pre-humans became human and eventually developed complex social systems. Here is the heart of the evidence. Rock art is Dreamtime, which is to mean that its symbolisms are the access to the inference of the origin of consciousness. We want to trace its archetypal structure, wouldn’t you agree, Jules?”

It was at that moment, Jorge, just up ahead of Hornsby, froze. Hornsby was startled at his abrupt stop.

“What is it?” Hornsby was impatient having his train of thought interrupted.

“Jaguar, agui,” Jorge said. He pointed to the tree trunk of an evergreen tree. The bark had been deeply scratched. We gathered around as he nervously explained that these were the claw marks of a jaguar warning us to stay away. Undaunted, Hornsby told Jorge to move on.

“Pero, Jorge protested in Spanish. “The jaguar seeks it prey,” I interpreted Jorge saying.
Hornsby immediately displayed a large six-chambered revolver from his backpack to reassure Jorge that we could protect ourselves in case of an attack. Not convinced, Jorge was forced to push on under Hornsby’s command. But the mules, which I had been leading, dug in their hoofs. Hornsby’s revolver didn’t convince them.

I tugged at their reins, without success. Hornsby made a switch with a tree branch and vigorously whipped at the hindquarters of the mules. They too were going to press on regardless of their instincts about an impending danger. Jorge and Cassarina offered assistance by pushing on the rumps of the mules. Straining against the massive weight of the burros, Jorge seemed to be pushing against the very difficulties of social change.

During the time I spent with Jorge I noticed that he was more conflicted internally about his place among his people and the outside world. Born in the onen of Ma ax, the Monkey, during his adolescence he wondered into an evangelistic camp of Christians where he learned to read and write Spanish. The injection of a Western religious education caused his natural Lacandon instincts to be discontented with his ancestral existence. While he was shedding new light to scientific researchers as a translator, such as our selves about his heritage, at the same time I could sense a split to his character manifesting itself in his psyche.

At times I thought he was on a road to his own abyss because every indigenous tribe relies on their traditions to sustain them. If they lose their traditions they float in a space-time limbo. It’s that mysterious impulse of nature that they can’t afford to be disconnected. Jorge was caught in the current of social change that brought economic enticements.

The Mexican government was hopeful in winning over the Lacandon by starting a program of issuing biannual payments as compensation for the loss of their land under encroachment of homestead and evergreen rainforest clear-cut logging. Though the program was promoted as a sweeping abundance of opportunity, all it accomplished was raising more suspicion of the government’s inscrutable motives.

Jorge referred to the Mexican humanitarian aid program as winik ku sihi t’a k’in or “the men who give money away.” One of the men at the Metzabok settlement told me that t’a k’in literally means, “shit-of-the-sun” which summed up their general attitude toward the Mexican government.

Jorge complained that the free handout was making the Lacandon lazy about planting milpas, and more dependent as consumers, buying their food at a community store. Money was also spent on accumulating battery-operated radios and phonographs. The fact was they were never really interested in using them. The electronic devises were used as decorative ornaments for the walls of their huts.

Three hours later we made camp within a kilometer of the rock art site. It was dusk by the time we had gotten that far. But Hornsby was pleased with our progress so he could get an early start exploring the area. We set camp, ate a meal of rice, beans and tortillas then retired in our hammocks exhausted from the day’s hike.

CHAPTER SEVEN: ROCK ART - CONTINUED

“There’s no time to lose now. Rainy season is starting. We must get to these.” Hornsby punctuated “these” by planting his index finger directly on one of my close up photographs of some zoomorphic rock art.

“Do you know what you’ve found, Jules?” Hornsby inquired staring at me. He knew that I didn’t exactly understand the extent of my findings.

“You probably didn’t notice it. These series of photographs show a progression of rock art that goes from a Paleolithic period to a Neolithic period. I suspect there is more that has not been lost to the taphonomic epochs.”

Jorge, in his white tunic and white Nike running shoes, arrived breathless at the entrance of the tent. Cassarina was right behind him.

“Don Hornsby,” Jorge said, looking like he had been rudely awoken from a siesta. Hornsby launched into a litany of instructions for Jorge, spoken in Spanish.

“Unpack the provisions loaded on the mules. I want everything unpacked by late morning. Montero will help you to re-pack our things. We must make haste now.”

“Si, Don Hornsby,” Jorge replied and turned around to get busy with his assigned tasks.
Hornsby took a topographical map out of his pack.

“We’re pretty much in the middle ground between Palenque and Yaxchilan,” Hornsby said while he unfolded the chart of the Chiapas region.

“The rock art near Laguna Metzabok proves this area was inhabited 10,000 years ago. We may get lucky and find a cave with wall paintings.”

Cassarina stood off to one side like a piece of broken plaster. Had I stolen the limelight at the peak of her self-admiration for the exhaustive work she was doing in preserving endangered flora species and gathering valuable botanical plants? Or was she just down right jealous of the sudden shift of attention from Hornsby? Regardless, she had confided her intuitive feelings about how Hornsby truly regarded me. Maybe she hadn’t expected to be so right about something that couldn’t be scientifically proven.

“Cassarina, please pack your things,” Hornsby said to her without even turning around to acknowledge her presence.
Obediently she left to gather her personal belongings. I excused myself as well, to gather my things. As I rummaged through my clothes, the orange sign language card I had gotten from the Tzeltal deaf girl in San Cristobal de las Casas fell out of a shirt pocket.

I recalled her wearing the huilpil with the dog’s paw brocaded into it. Picking it up an image of that mangy dog at the cave’s entrance flash before me. Helen Wordsworth words about the dog taking one into the underworld struck me with the memory of the mangy dog at the cave entrance with Moise. I spun for a moment uttering an exclamation at the prospect that it had been an omen.

“Damn you’re a fool. This whole place is enchanted.” Having said that, I tucked the card into a plastic bag for safekeeping.

Cassarina expedited herself. A world traveler, she knows exactly what is needed, discarding anything that didn’t serve a purpose. The manner in which she showed herself to be competent was in how she packed. And it was Spartan. Speaking for myself, I was a novice, but learning quickly, since weight played a vital factor in maintaining stamina. We had the mules, but Hornsby wanted room for any artifacts we might discover. Provisions were the second priority with clothes and camping gear last.

“I expect us to be out at least a week. Enough time to do a thorough search of the area,” he shouted out to us.

By mid day we had torn down our lean two’s and gathered our things to be loaded onto the mules. Jorge and Montero were busy lashing down the gear and food sacks, while the three of us took down the research tent. Cassarina was unusually quiet, only speaking when directly spoken to.

But there were moments when I caught her eyes making a stealthy glance towards me. I knew I would receive no reassurances or offers of apology. Cassarina was loyal to Hornsby so she avoided interfering anymore in the matter of my insubordination, but that was a course of action adopted only to maintain a sense of harmony among us. Beneath the surface, she was still my nemesis.

Footnote: Principals of interpretation
reversal of attributes
Almost any attribute (i.e.., much-little, large-small, fast-slow, hungry- well fed, angry- friendly, etc.) has two possible interpretations: 1. The reversal of the attribute, or 2. the attribute will remain constant, but will shift in context. For example:
An abundance of corn (in one's dream) can mean either that: 1. the milpa will yield very little corn, or that 2. one will see an abundance of food in the feeding ground of some animal. A choice of options would at least be suggested on the grounds of whether the milpa in question was a specific place or "just a milpa", the former suggesting that the dream referred specifically to that milpa, in which case the quantity of corn would be seen in reverse. In the latter case (i.e.., of an unknown milpa) it would be more logical to assume that the theme of "abundance of nourishment" would remain constant and that the human or animal nature of its "owner would suffer reversal.

To dream of a very small animal foretells either 1. a small child, or 2. a very large animal of the same species.

If a person is very angry, either 1. that person will be very friendly, or 2, the animal of that person's Onen will be very angry and aggressive.

Sexual and romantic conquest is symbolic of hunting and vice versa.
[Although this is as much metaphor as reversal.]

It is impossible to determine rules or fixed determinants as to whether it will be the entity or the attribute (or both) which should be considered a direct representation or subject to reversal. This appears to be decided in each case according to what the interpreter considers to be the most probable in view of the present situation of all parties concerned.

direct representation
"Invariables" [are] those elements which are not subject to either reversal or symbolic interpretation. Perhaps the best examples of the invariables are the locatives. [ ...] To dream of a recognizable or known place simply locates the significance, if any, of other dream symbols. [...] Apart from locatives, entities and attributes may also be considered as direct representation or "invariables", which the Lacandon call hach u pixan, "the true soul" of the person, place, object or situation in question. If a dream situation may be analyzed in terms of a person or object, a place and an attribute (quality or quantity), then at least one of these elements involved, except a spatial locative, are subject to reversal or interpretation as metaphor (u k'in).

CHAPTER SEVEN: ROCK ART

“G-day, mates!” Dr. Hornsby pierced the morning air with an eager shout.

He was habitually right on schedule. Montero trailed close behind as they entered the settlement. Hornsby was robust. Montero was sweating profusely, obviously exhausted in trying to keep up. Behind Montero were two pack mules, a new addition to our expedition.

Cassarina was the first to meet them. Behind her, Lacandon children ran to hug Hornsby about his legs, while some of the adults mingled to cordially greet his arrival. Hornsby met them with exuberant warmth, but was quick to move on.

“Where the hell is, Jules?” Hornsby asked Cassarina.

“He’s at his lean two . . . packing,” Cassarina answered.

I was rummaging up my things, preparing to leave. Hearing Hornsby call out for me caused my blood to boil. How could he be so excited about making haste with my departure? The man gallantly tromped through the caribal, to my lean-to, a stone’s throw from the encampment but in line of sight of the whole cluster of Lacandon huts.

“There you are,” Hornsby said slapping me on the back like a jolly good fellow.

“I’ll be packed soon,” I replied while getting a bit fed up with British eccentricity.

“Good.” Hornsby looked me straight in the eye with a broad smile.

“Good? You seem pretty eager for me to leave, Dr. Hornsby.”

“By Jove, old man, you’re a genius,” he said, patting me on the back again.
Cassarina, standing akimbo, flanked Hornsby.

“Dr. Hornsby, I must tell you . . .”

“Later. I’ve got something to show the both of you.”

Grabbing me by the arm Hornsby headed to our research tent, vigorously undoing his backpack along the way. Cassarina caught up with us.

“Jules took off. He disappeared for three days putting this expedition in jeopardy.” She insisted he listen to her. He ignored her.

The expedition leader was preoccupied with a large envelope that he pulled out of his pack. Opening up the contents encased in a protective plastic bag, a bundle of 8 x 10 black and white photographic prints fell out on the table.

“There was a jaguar roaming about the settlement. Jorge sang the song of the Jaguar to protect us.” Cassarina continued raising her voice.

“Did you record it?” Hornsby said, sorting through the photographic prints spread out on the table.

“Ah, no. I didn’t think . . .” Cassarina was caught off guard.

“That was a mistake Ms Deakin.”

“But Jules usually handles the recordings. Besides I didn’t know where the recorder was.”

“You mean you didn’t think of it,” Hornsby countered. Cassarina looked flustered from his reprimand. He was right. The tape recorder was stationed on our research table available at a moments notice for any spontaneous Lacandones audio events we might find significant evidence.

“Never mind that now, go get Jorge.” Hornsby spoke in an abrupt tone. Cassarina’s cheeks quivered slightly. She tossed me a sully glance as she exited the tent.

“Took off, eh?” Hornsby had a sly grin on his face. “I don’t suppose you were off checking out the rock art you found on your way to Baltazar?”

“But, Dr. Hornsby I thought you wanted me . . .” I cut myself short, not wanting to divulge or even hint at the prospect of my mystical experience.

“Look here, Jules.” Hornsby had laid out an array of photographs of the pictographs I had taken. A small crowd of Lacandones had gathered outside the research tent. Curious as to what Hornsby was so excited about, they leaned awkwardly, peering through the tent flap.