Chapter 1
Mayab Forest
“Hurry . . . Jules!”
I desperately cut my way through the dark-green jungle
undergrowth with a machete to reach anthropology professor
James Hornsby. A merciless demonical wind battered the
rainforest canopy above me. A bolt of lightning flashed
above me striking the top of a tree bursting into a ball of
fiery sparks. Smoldering branches rained down upon me.
An instantaneous clap of thunder slapped up against my
eardrums. The deafening explosion rattled every nerve in
my body.
Then the thick low cover of dark clouds unleashed a
torrential down pour that turned the rotting vegetation
beneath my feet into slippery mud-sucking gunk. I choked
to catch my breath in the blinding deluge upon Mexico’s
Yucatan peninsula.
Only month’s earlier, former Cambridge University
anthropologist James Hornsby and I set out in search for a
lost temple of the Mayan civilization in the southern Mexico
Soul/Kambak 2
Chapter 2
Count of Days
Consciousness is a timeless
cosmic record that permeates
our daily lives. Proof lives in
the fact that when the global
collective consciousness struck
the same hour, various
indigenous cultures around the
world made a dramatic shift in
their consciousness. The same
has been true for Western
civilization. There is too much
scientific documentation to
believe that these were
coincidental hallucinations.
This is proof that there is a
cosmic primordial universe
maker that accounts for our
biological evolution out there
somewhere in the vastness of
space. The Mayan knew this
fact. Science has taught us the
alphabet of nature. It is up to
our intuition to discover her
secrets.
Soul/Kambak 16
Vigesimal System
Tzolk’in Glyphs
Soul/Kambak 26
Haab Glyphs
Tzolk’in Matrix
Quetzalcoatl
Soul/Kambak 33
Chapter 3
San Cristobal De Las Casas
“The Spanish knew that they were hiding here, but the
hostile environment of the rainforest kept them from
pursuing the Hach Winik. It wasn’t until earlier this century
that the Hach Winik had any contact with the outside world.
Christian influences were still held at bay in the 1940’s. The
Lacandones have continued to preserve their traditional
beliefs, religious ceremonies and common language.
“Then the Mexican government opened up this area for
land settlement, oil drilling and logging. There are no more
than 500 living today, having suffered the unprecedented
encroachment of modern industrialized colonization that
started in the 1950’s causing them to be forcefully relocated
by the Mexican government.
“Still, the Lacandones remain virtually unpolluted by
our occidental paradigm. This makes for the last opportunity
to cultivate from their consciousness gleams of insight in
how their ancestors interpreted reality and quite possible
clues of this lost city.”
True to form, Hornsby was incorporating his research
approach with the Australian Aborigines to this project.
“The last vestiges of authentic indigenous life would be
at my fingertips,” I thought.
“Our objective is to collect a comprehensive record of
the Lacandones oral history. Our collection will be stored
here in the Anahuac library for prosperity to complement the
works of other scientists such as Jack Roberts, author of The
Lords of Mesoamerica. As you are collecting this data, I will
be deciphering the contents, in hopes of uncovering some
clues to the mysterious Soul Chamber, which is our ultimate
objective on this expedition.”
Hornsby pointed out that as much as Sarina would love
to take part in our project, she had more pressing duties in
managing the cultural center. However, she would act as
Soul/Kambak 48
Chapter 4
The Village of Metzabok
wilderness was a battle for life. That was the first thing that
impressed me as I saw an abundance of bird life flying
through the canopy above us. This was just a small example
of the viable populations of fauna that inhabited Middle
America. The rainforest’s truths suited the indigenous that
inhabited this region. Taken in whole the rainforest was
their link between nature and the universe.
But the affliction of man-made destruction threw out of
balance the function of a natural course of existence. I had
read about it, sensed it, but never came directly into the heart
of the savagery. Feeling the impact upon my senses made
me think that ministrations of this passionate tropical life, the
splendor of its ritual and the functions that suited their
consciousness, which secured for us on earth some
adumbration of an ineffable glory, perpetually guarded over
by the mythological deities of divine intercession was being
blindly ravaged by First World economies.
The great exploit of natural resources by the industrial
world knew no restraints or adherence toward this human
and nature link. Instead, any natural truth for existence that
came into collision with industrial greed was immediately
annihilated through political inventions.
“This is one species of economic importance to this
area,” Cassarina said pointing to a large tree. “It is the
Castilla elastica or more commonly known as sapodilla.
The sap is extracted and made into chicle’s gum.”
“Its latex was the source of rubber for the Mayan,” I
replied.
“You are a promising colleague,” Cassarina said
impressed with my quickness. Cassarina mentioned that the
tree had recently been cut to draw the sap out. I saw a long
machete cut from the top of the tree trunk all the way down
to the root base. The length of it was over 15 meters.
Soul/Kambak 63
The corn dough was formed into small balls and rolled
out and flattened like a crepe. Then the tortillas would be
cooked upon an open fire, toasted lightly. Soon we would be
having a feast of rice, beans, eggs with hot peppers and salt.
The Lacandones understood the first principle of nature, its
aim entirely on gratifying the stomach.
The primitive appearance of these people causes one’s
perception of them as being impoverished and meek.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. Their gentle
dignity displayed what is called in Mayan -- Yacunah -- an
indisputable poignancy of being, which paradoxically causes
them suffering when dealing with occidental society.
Living in the lavish beauty of the pluvisela obviates
one’s concept of material depravations. The men lounge in
their hammocks, smoking tobacco, taking rest from their
intensely laborious hunts. The women go about the daily
chores of the household. The children play. All of it is in
harmony.
As I looked at each of the settlement’s chibrams’ log
pole thatched roof huts, it was evident there were no
constraints of occidental socialization for the Lacandones to
abide by. They live harmoniously sequestered in the
rainforest, poised with an austere countenance that was
admirable. Impoverished? The wealth of their divine heart
was a priceless treasure to behold, but you could not possess.
And the children, potbellied nakedness, played about on
the dirt floors of their thatched roof huts, mature in their
independence. I marveled at how they would use their
imaginations using simple rocks and sticks. These children,
surrounded by deadly insects, snakes, caimans, ocelots, and
jaguars, go about their business with reckless abandonment.
Their parents appear to be casual with the children’s freedom
to roam, but I sense their peripheral vision is always
Soul/Kambak 71
Chapter 5
Baltazar’s Tale
psychoanalyst in managing to
bring their sense of reality back
to homeostasis, thus avoiding
traumatic ill effects resulting
from the experience of the
unexplainable aircraft. I am left
to speculate: Is it that a
technological entity can have
such a detrimental effect upon
our consciousness? Is it for this
reason their Yucatan Maya
ancestors eluded the invasion of
the Spanish by fleeing deep into
the jungle?
“You’ve touched upon something,” Hornsby said,
tapping his fingers together.
His sentiment was unusual. Most of the time he was
indifferent with my reports, and took little time to discuss
any matters or details. But this time he sat contemplating my
last note, cross-legged on our research tent floor, rubbing his
chin with his right hand, staring absentmindedly into space.
Something I had said was significant enough to trigger a
deep memory in him. Cassarina couldn’t bear the silence.
She opened up her journal, as Hornsby collected his
thoughts, flipping the pages to a large fold-out map she had
made.
“And so, Dr. Hornsby, here is a detailed layout of
Baltazar’s intercropping system.” Hornsby waved her off.
“Sleep, you well . . . careful what you see in your
dreams,” he said softly. Standing up, he paced about the
tented shelter to pontificate.
“Must continue to purify our understanding of the
dialect of these people. Dream interpretation for the
Soul/Kambak 81
could feel the stir of air from his heated breath against my
cheek.
“It’s late, I must get an early start,” the professor
solemnly remarked.
Dr. Hornsby was insulted by my earnestness in resisting
his sincere inquiry. He quickly picked up his pack and left
the tent not saying a word more in response to my rebuff. I
wanted to say something, but was immobilized by the way
Hornsby’s piercing eyes sized me up.
“You’ve overlooked something,” Hornsby said, turning
away in haste.
The moment Hornsby was out of sight, Cassarina turned
to me with a look of disdain.
“Was that necessary? Such bloody rigmarole.”
“You think so?” I said.
“Without a doubt.” Cassarina left me standing alone in
the tent without saying good night.
The night ended on a sour note. I had thoughtlessly
forgotten that this man had survived far more in the essential
desolate wonderings of his beliefs for decades. Gallantly, by
virtue of his pure spirit, he was dispatched to take the
greatest possible risks in the spirit of adventure that were
inconceivable to me in my youth. Hornsby was consumed
by such modesty that you would forget that standing before
you, this man had survived near fatalistic events. He had
ascended the fears of civilized man to venture into the
unknown wilderness of the indigenous world no matter how
remote it would be.
I stood in the open night air of Metzabok, deep in the
jungle. The magnificence of the whole celestial arch of the
Milky Way made me feel like a pitiful spec on the
windshield of life. I cursed myself for having allowed such
intercourse to come between us. Hornsby was right; there
Soul/Kambak 84
Chapter 6
Dreamtime
without a doubt. But the more I tried to keep its secret the
more it tried to creep into my conscious reality.
Its phantom presence was now overshadowing my every
daily thought and action. I could hear the dream’s voice
whispering when the Lacandon starred into my eyes, tacitly
knowing. I sensed that their telepathic powers slipped
through my mental shield of denial.
These indigenous people didn’t tolerate lies. No, such
cunning was considered dishonorable. One must shoulder
the burden of their vicissitudes no matter how bitter the taste
of its truth. Least of all, I would get no absolution from them
if I continued to harbor the danger to my situation because
they would consider my silence as bringing ill will upon
them. By daybreak, I had had the fill of my distraught
emotions that conflicted with my inscrutable purpose to be
honest with myself. I was desperate to find a resolve to this
nightmare.
I left the settlement in the chilly pre-dawn morning,
heading blindly out into the mist shrouded highland jungle. I
thought that a brisk hike would help me gain my composure
and face the fact of my inevitable expulsion from the
expedition.
I hadn’t gone far when a distinct rustle in the bush
stopped me dead in my tracks. “Jaguar,” I thought as
my heart skipped a beat.
Having come to the edge of a stream, I could have
inadvertently come upon its watering hole. I froze, scanning
the stream’s lush green embankment. From the corner of
my eye, I caught a glimpse of a fleeting dim glow through a
thick tree stand. Squinting up my eyes, I tried to see what
was lurking there.
Another rustle and the distant growl of a jaguar caused
me to run into a waist-deep grass meadow behind me. The
Soul/Kambak 89
corridor inside the cave. The air was filled with the smoke
of copal incense. I noticed numerous tunnels leading off into
shadowed darkness on either side of me. The sound of
trickling water infiltrated the damp air. Deeper we went
with only the flickering flame of his lamp to see by.
Eventually we came to a large grotto with a large stone
alter in the center. He motioned me to sit down on piles of
fresh water shells and terrestrial snails. Obedient, I did what
I was told.
In the flickering shadows about me, I noticed the
grotesque shapes of Mayan deity faces sculptured on what
Lacandones called, lak-il k’uh or copal incense burners.
More than that, I noticed anthropomorphic art on the walls of
the cavern becoming animated.
“La’in ka, Moise,” the old aborigine said with sincerity,
squatting across from me. He was speaking a different
tongue than Hach Wink. I surmised he was telling me his
name. My whole perception was a pulsating field of
panchromatic molecular energy. A thousand eyes
surrounded me, peering out from the darkness of the
chamber.
“Xibalba,” Moise said. “Aqui.” He was telling me I
had entered the Underworld of Mayan mythology.
Moise reached out quickly to grab my hands. He
inspected the fingertips of each hand delicately touching the
contours of my fingernails like reading brail.
“Chal balum.”
This time I could make sense of what he was saying. He
spoke the Hach Winik word for “jaguar” releasing my hands.
I realized that he was determining my onen, the particular
animal ancestry I was related to, necessary in interpretation
of dreams. The shape and texture of the fingernails was the
key.
Soul/Kambak 93
Chapter 7
Rock Art
Chapter 8
The Cryptic Vault
Palenque
“Palenque,” Hornsby said.
Baltazar nodded with agreement. Cassarina was busy
sketching the glyph into her journal while I tried to steady
two flashlights at the scene, shaking with electrifying
excitement. Hornsby moved over to the other emblem glyph
on the right side of the mural. Baltazar aimed his flashlight
for Hornsby to see as he carefully deciphered the glyph to
read, “Yaxchilan.”
Yaxchilan
Soul/Kambak 135
How could this ruin date back to 2700 B.C.? The codice
panel to the right of the fresco caught our attention. There
was a group of glyphs that Hornsby asked Baltazar to see if
he could translate. For a moment the Lacandon stood staring
at the vast mythological mosaic. From the collection of
glyphs he pointed out a sequence, speaking the Mayan name
of each symbol. Cassarina sketched them. Hornsby wrote
down each name.
I’ve reprinted these in their sequence as Baltazar
translated them to us.
Kah
The Olmec built tunnels about the Mesoamerican
landscape, creating an underground network. These tunnels,
later to be identified as catacombs because of the dead end
maze of tunnels, were exactly what Hornsby claimed we had
stumbled into. Most likely the fresco was of ancient origin
with combined Olmec and Toltec and Maya influences. The
other correlation was that we were north of the Lacanja
unexcavated temple ruins.
But the answer lies in the soul tube glyph and the
inference that a temple was possibly built there. The
departure of the all-encompassing lord, Quetzalcoatl,
brought about the downfall of the Toltec civilization known
for its spiritual artistry. The origin of the Tolteca nation was
suspected of being Naqualtacas. Their name is translated to
mean, “excellent artist.”
“The nature of humanity turned to their darker side after
Quetzalcoatl departed, claiming that someday he would
return again,” Hornsby related.
Quetzalcoatl, the gentle feather serpent god, had
installed a spiritual code that humankind’s harmonic
relationship with the cosmos kept the sun deity,
Huitzilopochtli alive, metaphorically speaking. By keeping
one’s heart open and offering one’s lifeblood to the sun
through artistic spiritual discipline the sun would be re-
energized, thus providing daily life to sustain their
livelihood. Such was the context for the Teotihuacan
civilization’s way of life; a peaceful paradise that maintained
freedom, and individual creativity.
Soul/Kambak 140
/north men/west
“Brilliant. These are the four Tollans.” Hornsby was
beside himself.
He got up to examine the four positions confirming that
they were equal in distance to each other.
“Each glyph has the appropriate dominate color relating
to their directions. And at the center, where the apex of our
imaginary triangle is what glyph?” He turned to Cassarina
hoping she would know, but she stood there silent.
“Yaxkin,” Baltazar said. His eyes glistening behind a
sheepish smile, customary of the Lacandon.
Yaxkin
“Of course,” Cassarina said. “The center.”
“Or as I mentioned when we inspected the rock art,
Yaxkin means green day, the zero count day that happens
once a year in the Mayan calendar,” Hornsby said.
“But it is still a mystery,” I added.
Soul/Kambak 144
Chapter 9
The Maiden Priestess
That night I dreamed about a maiden priestess, adorned
with precious jewels and golden bracelets. She appeared to
me in her full regalia descending on the rays of a full moon.
She wore a cotton headdress of florescent blue and red
feathers, plumed out in a display of majestic appearance. In
her nose was a moonbeam ring. She was joyful and
sorrowful at the same time with piercing eyes that captured
the depths of my soul.
I heard her whisper to me, “Why?”
At the same time I turned my face about as the sound of
footsteps drew near. What came toward me was a brilliant
light that dimmed revealing the corpses of souls still
wondering the earth. Rough faces and wrinkled skinned
naked bodies of ancient spirits who were still lost in the
desolate curses of their greediness for the earth’s energy.
She was showing me the sickness and misery from the
impurities of their lives.
“Enough,” I cried.
She murmured to me, “Nothing will scare me,” as she
embraced me to take away the chill of the darkness that was
all around me.
Then she spread her voluptuous body out upon the
moonlight beams in a posture that was sensuous and
seductive, beckoning for me to take her. I wanted to ravish
her because of her compassion and pity for me. My heart
wanted to burn next to hers with unbridled passion. But the
Soul/Kambak 151
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
Soul/Kambak 157
terms with their place in life, the truth of their existence will
only be revealed to them in the last split second of their last
breath of mortal consciousness.
“So what a glorious thing to meet,” Hornsby said pacing
about the campsite. “A goddess who will embrace you with
compassion, forgiving you of all your inequities.”
“Easy for you to say,” Cassarina said condescendingly
with an obvious change of heart about dream interpretation.
She wasn’t enthralled by my dreamtime message and
continued to look suspicious when I related my tale about
Moise. Cassarina was beginning to think our interpretations
were nonsense.
“It is a dangerous precedent to base theory upon myth,”
she said. “How much further can this imbecility go?”
But the whole dream spin and encounter with Moise had
a dramatic charm for Hornsby. His enthusiasm returned
without question of my prophetic vision for a catastrophic
outcome and possibly death.
“Have a good heart, Cassarina,” Hornsby cajoled while
he got his map to show us what he had been working on
since early morning.
His tone of voice was more paternal toward her. Their
relationship had been cultivated, I suspected, for some time
prior to this expedition. There was no doubt that Cassarina
came from affluence or lived off of a substantial inheritance.
She never mentioned having parents the whole time we were
together.
Regardless, she flaunted a justified privilege to snob me
as if her academic endowments made her an elitist in
contrast to my impoverished insights. She was a complex
woman. On one hand maternally nurturing as a healer, but on
the other, if you crossed her intellect, she would deluge you
with a tempestuous storm of razor-sharp words.
Soul/Kambak 159
Chapter 10
Father Hernandez
through the jungle for days before being rescued along the
Guatemalan side of the river by a paramilitary patrol boat.
So far the stone stele has remained.
"The flame of a candle gives light, but it also burns,"
Father Hernandez looked thoughtful as he spoke his wisdom,
absorbed in the flickering flame of the candle on the table
between us.
I sensed that he was trying to influence me about the
moral principle of charity in the wake of looters and
scientists storming into the Chiapas region in search of
valuable Mayan treasures.
“The fashions of civilizations pass away. Only the truth
of their existence remains as sanctified graves. My grave,
too, will be my victory.” Father Hernandez sipped the last of
his coffee.
Setting the hand made ceramic cup down on the table,
he looked weary. But with a deep breath he perked up and
said, “There is no mystery. There are no secrets. It is all
common sense. We are all seeds of . . . Elohim, the Creator
of the Universe.”
“Elohim, Father?” I inquired.
“Strictu sensu -- translated it combines gods and
goddesses. Without the spirit of the feminine and masculine,
religion is total atheism. The intellectual mammal, Western
man, tries to rise from the earthly mud without Elohim’s
assistance. Instead, the occidentals embody the sinister curse
of ignorance and perpetuate the hubris of self-deception.
They make deals with the devil and pray to God for
forgiveness.”
Father Hernandez rose up from his stool.
“Buenas noches, my son,” he said with a twinkling eye
and quietly walked out the kitchen disappearing into
courtyard and the darkness of night.
Soul/Kambak 174
Chapter 11
Death Squad
his long wavy black hair tossing about, salvia dripping from
the corners of his mouth, and his eyes beseeching us to save
him.
Looking over at Cassarina, I saw her bursting into tears
at the sight of Father Hernandez lying dead on the ground
among those who had obediently followed him. The shrieks
of the village woman and the wailing of the little children
added to the anguish befalling us. We were caught in the
somber, concentrated fury of anguish that had snatched the
innocence of our world from us. The burst of M-16 gunfire
whizzed bullets past us and burst the man’s chest open with
blood spraying blood everywhere, including Cassarina’s face
and myself.
We ran as fast as we could through the trail’s brush. A
volley of gunfire rang out. Bullets whizzed past us,
splintering tree bark into a thousand pieces. Stern voices
shouting commands echoed against our backs.
“My, bloody god,” Cassarina coughed up between gasps
of breath. I think if she could have, she would have
vomited, but the immediate danger kept her from
succumbing to her emotions. As for me, the prophecy of my
dream, the predicted death, pushed me to stay alive. I
wouldn’t die here. More bullets whizzed past us, though we
were gaining a greater distance, familiar with the way to the
river.
“You can make it, Cassarina,” I shouted at her.
Eyes pale from the sorrow of death and the scorn on her
face, I could see her deep thoughts running like a ragging
river, tapping her strength to continue.
“Run, Cassarina!” I demanded, grabbing her by the arm
to pull her along.
In short time, the clamor of soldiers running behind us
started to fade. Another burst of gunfire shredded the
Soul/Kambak 184
landscape safely away from us. The death squad had lost our
trail or simply gave up. When we got to Hornsby and Emilio
they were aware of the danger chasing us. The cayuco was
loaded with our backpacks and ready for us to climb aboard
and shove off.
Without a second to lose, we furiously paddled along the
edge of the Rio Usumacinta crouched down in the tipsy
cayuco as we passed underneath thorny festoons of coiled
branches and overhanging tree branches for protection.
More random shots rang out far behind us, but within a few
desperate minutes we had put a safe distance between the
soldiers and us.
“No doubt they’ll come looking for us in the helicopter,”
Hornsby said.
After traveling about a kilometer down river, he decided
we were safe to hole up till dark in the cover of the
rainforest. We landed carrying the dug out canoe up on
shore and tipping it over with our backpacks underneath it.
Then we crawled back a bit further into the bush, smearing
our faces with mud and draping ourselves in foliage of
creepers, tree branches and ferns to hide ourselves. It wasn’t
long until we heard the Huey’s storming up the river.
They were determined to find us by scouring the
shoreline at about ten meters above the river’s surface. It
was a tense moment, as I feared they would send in a scout
party. But they didn’t. One of the side gunners strafed the
trees directly above us hoping to flush us out from fear. One
of the American soldiers grabbed the gunner by the shoulder,
reprimanding him for being so careless. In the next moment,
the Huey flew out of our sight.
After the sound of the Huey’s disappeared, I sat up rigid
with a burning pain in my head. I surveyed our situation.
We were confronted with the hardihood of desperation. The
Soul/Kambak 185
he was taking them back across the river. There was no time
to linger with goodbyes. The sun would be rising soon.
Emilio turned to me before he got into the cayuco.
“Senor, Jules . . . Father Hernandez . . . want you . . . el
libro,” Emilio said in broken English as he reached into this
shirt and pulled out a leather bound journal.
I took the book, as he quickly turned and boarded the
cayuco.
In a few moments, the three of us watched them paddle
away in a rhythmic swing as the form of the cayuco melted
away in the darkness. As Cristobal urged us on, I took a
moment to read the book’s title before tucking it into my
shirt. It read, The Anahuac Mythology.
The four horses were bony and not over fourteen hands
high. I suspected maybe a bred of quarter horse but I wasn’t
sure. Whether they were fit enough was beside the point.
They would have to do. The saddles and blankets had been
removed so Cristobal was busy saddling them up as we
assessed our situation.
“It’s best to push on,” Hornsby said looking at us
expecting a response.
I hesitated as I looked over at Cassarina whose face was
blank. The fire in her eyes had been extinguished. No affect
of emotion. It had been erased by the frightful tragedy.
Without expression she shrugged her shoulders and tears
started to flow down her cheeks.
“I will never forgive you,” Cassarina said in a
monotonous whisper.
That was a heavy blow to Hornsby. He was trying to
assure her of his intention to take care of her. I knew it was
a great gesture on his part to compromise the expedition for
her well-being. However, I could see her faith was gone,
Soul/Kambak 193
Chapter 12
Malaria
grip but Hornsby gave her a push that set her up across the
worn leather saddle.
Adjusting herself, Cristobal handed her the reins.
Suddenly, she let out a half-cry, half-laugh to no one in
particular.
“Let me go,” she yelled in a soul-stirring shout, turning
her head away in a wild stare. Her sudden switch into a
manic behavior struck me as offensively independent. She
despised having to be dependent on anyone. The horse
reared.
Cristobal quickly grabbed the reins, steadying its nerves.
Hornsby and I froze, so as not to encouraged the spooked
horse. In a moment, the snorting beast settled down.
Cassarina, who miraculously remained in the saddle, starred
straight ahead, oblivious to what had happened. Hornsby
decided it was paramount to lead her horse.
The rain kept on all day but at least we didn’t suffer
having to walk in the mud. We bypassed the village of
Lacandon in Guatemala. Cristobal told us that it was best to
stay clear of the villages, though it would slow our progress.
The more time I spent with Cristobal, the more I appreciated
his knowledge of the area, his discipline to survival practices
and a genuineness of heart. It dawned on me that I had not
questioned him at all, tacitly turning over our lives to his
expert attention.
That evening we spent the night in a crudely constructed
tree house that Cristobal knew the location of. It was used
by the chicleos from time to time, he said. The shelter was a
blessed reprieve from the drenching we were taking from the
tropical storm, but leaks in the roof didn’t give us much
protection. It was impossible to light a fire under the
circumstances.
Soul/Kambak 198
mind run with into the wild regions of the mysterious visitor.
That evening the truth was to be known about Cristobal.
In an arm stretching gesture as he told us a story of his
exploits in the jungle, Cristobal’s shirt opened up baring his
chest. In the firelight, I distinctly saw no marks whatsoever.
To my relief, I sank into a peaceful sleep that night.
Whatever the mystery of the flint was about, I didn’t want to
speculate. The incident of the strange man was like a
vaporous dream as time elapsed making me forget even more
of the details.
When I had the chance not to be detected, I tucked the
flint away in my backpack. I didn’t want to bring attention
to it again. Cassarina thoughtfully didn’t say anything to
Hornsby. He would have chewed on me regardless of my
weakened condition. Even if I denied taking it, the
irrefutable evidence was there. It was detestable to him to
take relics from the ruins.
My illness came as a blessing I suppose, as it caused
Cassarina to rally to my needs, and for Hornsby to indulge in
his passion of wilderness survival. Their enthusiasm, I
thought, was something that Cristobal hadn’t expected given
our state of mind when we first set out. He was enlivened
with the goodwill of their mutual interests.
The next evening, after dinner, Cassarina announced I
was well enough to move on. Our liveliness faded from the
pleasure of our diversion. For a moment, apprehension fell
upon our hearts to leave our makeshift Shangri La. Our
bond under the circumstances had gratified us with a
devotion we had not shared before. Moving on meant more
challenges and perils ahead. We would have to muster the
love of this adventure. None of us offered any objections.
Soul/Kambak 206
Chapter 13
Refugee Camp
We had to cross the Rio San Pedro next, making our way
between two villages, El Ceibo in Mexico and Progresso in
Guatemala. The upper region of the Peten, our destination,
was only a few days trek from here. Farther east of us was
the unexcavated Mayan ruin of Yaxha, near the village of
Naranjo. Still concerned about military patrols, Cristobal
kept us off the beaten track.
The Rio San Pedro appeared to flow as a void in the
jungle wilderness. Traversing the length of the Peten region
of Guatemala, this river is a highway connecting human life
that struggles to survive in the middle of nowhere. Most
likely during the height of the Maya civilization, this river
was a vibrant trade route for commerce and possibly warring
tribes.
We drew in our horses and dismounted arriving at the
river’s edge. The brilliant sunshine of the late morning
beamed down upon the lazy river’s current. Standing by its
swollen banks I was impressed by the remarkable peaceful
phenomenon of its presence. Large puffy clouds dotted the
horizon, a warning of more rain to come by afternoon. I then
heard the faint sound of a low continuous roar down river.
“What’s that?” I asked Cristobal.
He said there were some rapids that we had to avoid and
knew of a place that was shallow enough to cross farther up
river. In single file, as if in certitude to Cristobal, we walked
Soul/Kambak 208
“I’m not going on with you, and…” she drifted off for a
moment. The misty rain filled the chilly night air with a
fragrance I had not smelled before.
“And what?”
“James was pushed out. It was a conspiracy. First the
board of regents sent him threatening letters to stop the
nonsense about the Mayan Soul Chamber. Then, he was
brought before a review panel to put in question his
credibility to continue with his tenure. To keep face and
some professional credibility James offered to resign . . . but
it was under duress.
“His resignation was immediately accepted. But it
didn’t stop there. James continued to write articles about
Mayan mythology permeating throughout the consciousness
of humankind, which were refused by every publisher in
England. That was a first, since he was well published
worldwide. I was busy at Oxford at the time with my
medical exams, so I didn’t suspect anything straight away.
“When I finally caught wind of the crucifying he was
taking from his former loyal colleagues, I intervened. I
feared that he would release himself from the circle of the
academic code of belief and go madly into a blissful
oblivion. So it was my idea for him to make this expedition
to escape the organized ostracism of his British peers. I put
up the bulk of the funds from my inheritance, along with the
generous donations that were made from a few individuals. I
felt it was my duty to repay him for taking care of me.”
“It was his fidelity to his own truth that undid him,” I
said.
“I knew you would understand.”
“What about Garthwaite?”
“A friend and not someone that James trusts . . . not like
you,” Cassarina was quick to answer.
Soul/Kambak 224
For the first time she looked back into my eyes with the
strength of being victorious in convincing me. She displayed
a sincere temperament.
“And you?”
“Jules, are you jealous?” Cassarina chuckled slightly.
“No, I just thought your correspondence. . . .”
“Hardly a man that is a man. Unlike you.”
She strung me out like a tightrope walker without a
balance pole in that last flattering comment. I swayed for a
moment, speechless, trying to keep my balance from of what
she was implying. I didn’t dare to continue in this vein and
fortunately, she didn’t either.
“Take him to Yaxkin, or at least go look for it. I know
this time is precious to him. He doesn’t have anyone else to
believe in him, other than me. And I must stay here, I can’t
leave these suffering people with a clear conscious.”
“But what about my dream?”
“I don’t know, you’re the expert,” Cassarina said,
reassuring me.
There was a confidence in her voice that disposed me
not to strenuously object.
“I will need to think about it,” slipped out of my mouth.
I reached into my shirt pocket. From my fingers I
produced the orange sign language card I had gotten in San
de las Cristobal from the deaf girl. I had stuck it into one of
my wallet’s plastic covers, which had kept it relatively intact.
“Here, I want you to take this as a memento, something
to . . . keep us connected.”
“Grand. I will keep it forever,” she said giving me a
kiss on the check and taking the worn card in her hand.
Her kiss gave me a promise of salvation. Touching the
very core of my being, it was the revealing moment that
lurks on the edge of our yearning for companionship.
Soul/Kambak 225
Chapter 14
The Final Leg
Chapter 15
Soul Chamber
Chapter 16
The Jaguar
didn’t see what it was at first, but only heard a rhythmic song
being sung amid the fury of the hurricane.
“Jujuntsit in jitik in wok jujuntsit in jitik in k’ab tan u
pek in nej tin wu’uyaj u tar a k’ay ch’iknach netak in
wenen tin kashtai u pachtakih che?”
The Jaguar snarled, flashing its white fangs in cursed
defiance. I stood frozen not wanting to turn away for fear the
jaguar would pounce on me. What was behind me or what
was being sung above the roar of the hurricane’s force put
fear into beast’s eyes, causing it a sudden reversion of its
fury to attack me. Slowly the Jaguar stepped backwards,
without taking its eyes off of the object.
“Oken tin wenen yokor jenen che? Tu yek’er in nok’ tu
yek’er in k’ab tu yek’er in shikin.”
The voice reached higher tones, loudly singing. The
jet-black Jaguar snarled again as if complaining of being
deprived its prey and made a quick leap off into the jungle.
In an outbreak of impulsive avowal I yelled, “I scared it
off,” jumping up in deranged delight.
Even though the hurricane was at its fullest strength, I
dismissed it as nothing to be concerned about. The Jaguar’s
threat surpassed the hurricanes wrath. The beast’s prey had
escaped. Turning around I was dumbfound to see the white
tunic clad Moise standing on the trunk of a huge mangrove
tree, smiling.
The wind tossed his long black hair about his face, but
his close-set eyes peered at me. A bolt of lightning struck
above us, exploding into a bluish flame and raining down
fiery sparks upon my head forcing me duck for cover.
Deafening thunder rolled over me. I was footsore and
exhausted. If but for a moment he appeared to sing a song of
protection from the Jaguar on my behalf, in the next moment
Moise vanished.
Soul/Kambak 266
The End