Sisimito I--Ox Witz Ha Read online

  “Or fatal outcome,” snapped Gus. “And you haven’t told me which Maya god will represent Strength and the Magician.”

  “I have not decided yet, but why ‘fatal outcome’?” Rosalia shook her head. “I’ll ignore your pessimism and negativity. The Tarot has a lot of cards and, when I do the Maya Tarot, I will use both gods and rulers. It will take at least two to three years to do a Maya Tarot and don’t forget, I’ll be hiding from Na’.”

  “You better!”

  The distant roll of thunder heralded the sound of rain lashing at the thatch roof of the kitchen. Wind from the regular late afternoon thunderstorm blew through the windows and darkness quickly settled over the village, but Rosalia and Gus did not notice.

  Illustration 2: The Page of Cups.33

  Rosalia placed her hand on the sixth card, set left of the Significator. “This card shows future influences that will occur. Let’s hope, Gus, that they are positive ones.” She turned over the card. “Oh no!” she screamed, jumping up. Lightning flashed, immediately followed by the explosion of thunder.

  “Holy shit! You and the fokin thunder and lightning … What the fok’s happening? What’s going on?” shouted Gus, standing up also. “You’re frightening the shit out of me.”

  The rain and wind stopped, followed by an instantaneous deep and penetrating silence. Their skins rose and eyes widened as they became aware of another presence somewhere in the small kitchen. Rosalia cried out hysterically, pointing to the window. Gus turned, wild-eyed. Perched on the window sill was a Mottled Owl. Gus grabbed the monkey and threw it at the creature, but the owl was no longer there. The monkey disappeared through the window, but they did not hear it fall or break. When they looked back, the monkey was on the table and the rain and wind returned with great ferocity. Rosalia ran to Gus and they held each other, trembling continuously, Rosalia’s hunted eyes mirroring her fright.

  “Icim.”34 murmured Gus. “What’s happening, Rosalia? The icim. It brings bad luck. Could it be the same one I saw on the mountain lion?” Rosalia did not answer, but looked steady at her brother, bringing the card up in trembling hands. “What card is it, Rosalia?”

  “The Devil! The Devil! I have turned up the Devil,” she screamed, pointing at the card. “It is the sign of great evil.” Rosalia’s hands were still trembling as she placed them on the table. “There’s evil here. There’s evil here.” She sat down again and looking at Gus warned, “This is not a good card to draw at any time.” She looked towards the window. There were only the rain and the wind.

  “It’s, it’sgone,” stammered Gus. “The icim is gone, but the fokin monkey is back on the table. I must have just imagined I threw it at the icim.”

  “As I said, there’s evil here,” responded Rosalia as she closed her eyes and held her trembling hands together. “The card has a sinister aspect and shows an illicit love affair, violence, and death. I do not know how Molly is related to those occurrences, but the cards suggest that she may be in serious trouble and … and … when I close my eyes, I see the image of a big hairy creature.”

  “Sisimito?” asked Gus, in disbelief. “Come on, Rosalia. We’re all just caught up on the thumbs thing. Sisimito does not exist. It’s folklore. Fairy tale.” Gus shook his head.

  “What about the monkey? Its back on the table and I saw you throw it at the owl.” responded Rosalia, her voice marked with fear. “You did throw it. Please, get it out of here.”

  Gus stared at the monkey. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe, we’re just not thinking clearly. It couldn’t have come back here by itself. That’s preposterous. We’re both tense. Frightened. I know I won’t drink out of that monkey again. Take it out of here? I’m not even going to touch it.” Gus closed his eyes, sweat breaking out from his forehead. “She’s in serious trouble, isn’t she,” he uttered, “not only in the cards, but also in the real jungle, wherever she is?” “Can you see anything else about the illicit love affair? Is she being forced into it?” he asked, sitting down slowly, shaking his head several times.

  “I don’t know … but even if I did, I don’t think that is the most important thing at this time.” Rosalia glanced at the window. “I’m scared, but, at least, the storm is moving away. Come. We have to continue.”

  “I was just wondering if the cards reading of violence and death … could it mean rape and murder? Did that really happen to her? Oh God!” Gus covered his head with his hands.

  “Perhaps … but we’re not finished with the cross as yet. Let’s see what card comes up next.” She then took the lowest of four cards that she had arranged perpendicular and to the right of the cross containing the cards already uncovered. “This seventh card will show how Molly is responding to what is happening.” She turned over the card. “The Lovers.” She put her hand across her mouth. “We saw this in the Page of Cups and now I see it again. Look at the naked couple, Gus. They are celebrating their union as the man offers the woman a taste of wine from a drinking horn. That is the story of Tristan and Iseult again. I’ll tell you the full story. It began with a magic love portion concealed in a flagon of wine. Tristan, a Celtic knight and nephew of King Mark of Cornwall, had been sent to fetch the fair Iseult, daughter of the King of Ireland, as a bride for King Mark. Their ship became becalmed and a serving maid accidentally opened a love potion which had been specially brewed to ensure a love-match between Iseult and her future husband, King Mark. The Celtic tribes of Cornwall and Ireland had been engaged in bitter conflict and the marriage was to bring peace. The maid served it as wine to Tristan and Iseult and they fell in love. They were eventually parted and each died alone, mourning for the love of the other.”

  “Sad story,” lamented Gus, his forehead deep with furrows. He looked towards the window. “The storm is clearing quickly.”

  “What?”

  “The storm.”

  “Forget that. Yes. The card shows a love … but a love that’s ill-timed.” She took the eight card and held it. “This card shows the environment which surrounds Molly. It can be past, present, or future.” She turned over the card. “The King of Swords.” She hesitated a little. “Molly will come under the influence of a person with self-confidence and a commanding presence. The person will give an impartial but cold judgement on matters that will influence Molly on her journey. That may actually be good … if the person is on Molly’s side.” She touched the ninth card. “This card is important for it will either increase her hopes or fears.” She turned over the card and, immediately, closed her eyes.

  “Come on,” complained Gus.

  “It’s the Tower,” she cautioned, letting go of the card as if it had burned her. Gus saw tears formed in her eyes. “Whatever journey she is taking, she is going through great difficulties.” She shook her head and paused as she wiped her eyes. “The tower is powerful as it breaths disaster and the wrath of God. It is linked to the destruction of the Tower of Babel. The card is also associated with the Planet Mars, known in ancient mythology as the God of War. The Maya God of War, Death, and Violence is Buluc-Chabtan. Anyway, this attachment makes the destructive action swift and sudden. It is always a sign of impending disaster. That is not good, Gus. Not good at all.” She sighed heavily. “I will take the last card.”

  Rosalia held the eleventh card, the last of the Celtic Cross spread. “This card is the most important card of the spread. It will show us the final outcome.” Slowly, Rosalia turned over the card. She clasped her hands about her nose. “The High Priestess,” she called out loudly. There is hope, Gus. There is hope for Molly.”

  “In what way?” appealed Gus, excitedly leaving his chair and standing over Rosalia.

  “The High Priestess stands between two pillars, Light and Darkness. Her robe is of the deepest blue, a symbol of virginity and motherhood, symbols of the Virgin Mary, the Mother Of God. Whenever the card is drawn, it indicates that the querent, Molly in this case, is troubled by the future because of changes taking place. The card, nevertheless, shows that she has great
tenacity and wisdom in dealing with the problems and that her strength is quietly growing. I am not sure if it is the Virgin Mary or someone else that is giving her the strength. It must be a powerful influence, however, seeing that the Tower will unleash catastrophic disaster. Somehow, the High priestess, no other than the Virgin Mary, comes into play before it is all over.”

  “You speak as if Molly is alive, Rosalia.”

  “Nowhere does the cards show that she is dead, Gus.”

  “They’re only cards, Rosalia.”

  “Yes, but it’s the only source of hope you’ve been given.” Gus bit down loudly on his teeth. “Some hope is better than none,” continued Rosalia. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that the last card carries the symbol of the Virgin Mary and Molly wears a Green Scapular?”

  Gus sighed. “You better put away the cards before Na’ sees them, have a fit, and sends you to the priest for confession.” Gus held his head in his hands. “Better not mention the icim and the monkey.”

  “For your bloody sake, I hope they’re not just cards,” stressed Rosalia as she got up. “You should show a little more thanks.” She placed the cards into an Ovaltine tin, closed the cover and placed the can on a high shelf, all the way to the back.

  “So that’s where you hide them,” uttered Gus, flatly.

  “Yes! I hide them. And just as they are locked up, so am I.” Rosalia put her hands to her face then removed them slowly. “Yes! The cards! They show that Molly is alive and will survive. I hope, again, for your bloody sake and for the sake and the future of this family, they are correct. Now, I’ll get you some food and you will eat. You’ll need your strength as the cards will not clear up your mess.”

  Gus began eating the beans, stewed givnat, and kuas. He sank into deep thought and sadness and tears fell continuously into his food. He wanted a cup of water but did not want to touch the monkey. After a while he spoke. “Molly always wore the Green Scapular around her neck. She believed in it. Whoever hurt her, took it off her neck. I wish she had it now to protect her … wherever she is.”

  Rosalia sighed, heavily.

  Illustration 3: The Celtic Cross.

  CHAPTER THREE

  EXPEDITION BOLD.

  Holy Thursday, March 30, 1972

  It was evening and we had stopped for the day. I sat about ten feet away from the tapesco,35 leaning against a large chac-pom36 tree. I felt tired, but not completely worn out, the tiredness a result of the walking we had done since morning. It was a satisfied tiredness for I … we … were all physically fit and doing what we loved most. Tough and rough. Soldiers. I never felt more at home, more comfortable than when I was in my beautiful jungle. I grew up in the jungle. Being in it revitalized me, replenished my youth. I always referred to the jungle as my jungle. Somehow, when I was in what we called the civilized world, that civilized world and its attractions, especially alcohol, copious amounts that was, only brought out the worst in me. That wonderful liquid brought out my hellish side. Outside of my jungle, there was a constant battle between what little good there was in me and my wicked aspect. But maybe the good in me was larger than I have supposed for, at times, I was slightly and momentarily ashamed of that abominable part of me when it showed its ugly borracho37 head. But then, it may not really be that I was ashamed of what I had done. I might actually have been humiliated that I had lost a battle, even though it was a battle within me and not against an unknown enemy … the constant battle between my good and hellish not so good side. I hated to lose. I avoided losing any battle with much fervor, a fervor I probably should also have had in avoiding sin … which I don’t avoid as long as sin comes with breasts and pussy. However, as was said, man can be his own worst enemy. I supposed that the constant war I have with my ugly borracho head will provide the most difficult battles for me to win, should I wish to win them. The problem may be that I don’t know if I wanted to win those battles. I just did not ever want to lose. Of course, that confused me and it was not good to be a confused man. So, thanks to my great God given common sense, I have concluded that confusion is the bane of the sober man. That’s why I drink. And when I drink, I’m a real borracho. And, after I drink and whore, I always thank whoever was responsible for the fact that I have a friend who looked after me, kept me in check and, from time to time, saved my ass. My friend is Bas. Basilio Shal. He and I grew up together in our small Mopan village called Santa Cruz, in the Toledo District. He is sitting, not far from me, reading in the diminishing light of dusk. He is reading and I am reflecting. Reflecting? Yes! And I don’t know why for, normally, I anticipate, I don’t reflect.

  For most of my youth, if I can blame those years for what I presently am, all I knew was the broadleaf jungle that surrounded me. When I was seven or eight, a young Catholic priest, Father Stiobhan, who had been stationed in San Antonio for as long as I could remember and who visited the village, from time to time, to say mass, encouraged the Alcalde to have the children attend the school in San Antonio, five miles away. From then, every morning, we walked the five miles to school and, in the evening, the five miles back home. I never questioned why we did that and I suppose the Alcalde didn’t either. The world of books, pencils and pens, was totally foreign to me for I was in the habit of spending my days with Taat at the kool.38 I was used to tearing at the jungle with my machete, planting my corn, planting my beans. I anticipated the excitement of the hunt when Taat raised his old sixteen-gauge shotgun and took aim at a large pikayri.39 There was, certainly, no excitement in going to school. So, as my fortune dictated, it was because of the priest and those long walks that I learned to read and write and become aware that there was a big world outside of the broadleaf jungle I knew and loved as my home. For me, the best part of the school day was the walk to and from school, through my beloved jungle. But I learned, and I learned well. I was soon better than my teachers and would help out when they needed assistance with teaching the younger children. Perhaps, I should have become a teacher. No! That would not have calmed the restlessness that runs in my veins. It seems nothing can … except my jungle.

  It was also at the insistence of the priest, Na’ told me, that I was baptized a Catholic and given the name Stephen. I was told it was the name of a Saint, a very important Saint whose feast day was on December twenty-sixth. Most of the other children kept their original names, but I had to be different. I became Stephen. The only person who did not call me Stephen was Taat, but I never asked him why. He always called me Eutimio, saying that was my real name. Somehow, I felt that he did not like the name Stephen, nor Father Stiobhan, for that matter.

  I sometimes wondered at the interest the priest showed in me and my family, but as there was much to be grateful for, my gratitude quelled my questions. So, whenever I was spreeing and whoring on Boxing Day,40 my excessiveness was justified in that I had a Holy reason to booze. It was my Saint’s feast day and I was celebrating that day. Father Stiobhan also told me about Saint Stephen’s life during a catechism class and certain facts always remained with me. I am not sure why I retained them, but I did. Maybe, it was because of my new name and the strangeness of it. Anyhow, Saint Stephen was one of the first deacons of the early church and also the first Christian martyr. He was full of faith, grace, fortitude, and of the Holy Ghost, things I was mainly empty of. He was a great orator and had unimpeachable logic. Again, not me … although I can orate a little bit, especially when there are willing muchachitas around. Saint Stephen often spoke with great wisdom and spirit in the Temple. I did read later, however, that it was his big mouth that got him in trouble and wondered why Father Stiobhan did not tell us anything about that part of the story that Saint Stephen was accused of blasphemy against Mosses and against God. To make matters worse, during the trial, he looked up to Heaven and declared that he saw the Heavens open and saw Jesus standing on the right hand of God. He was taken out of the city and stoned to death. I think I would have done things a little differently if I were Saint Stephen. I would have, at least, kept my big mo
uth shut.

  So, to continue my personal story, I have made myself believe that when I do battle with my ugly borracho head, when I am not inebriated enough to be unable to choose between right and wrong, when the sensible or good part of me unbelievably wins, it is because of Saint Stephen coming to my aid and keeping me focused. And, of course, there’s Bas always guiding me. Saint Bas. But sometimes, many times, I still happily fail and, when I fail, I accept that the hellish part of me is just no damn good and that’s that. I won’t classify myself as evil, but then I do not know if I really understand what evil is. I drink and behave badly, but is that really a sin? Is that evil? When I’m not drinking, I’m a good man, an excellent soldier. Yet, as I drink my rum, I tend to answer the call of my innate visions and urges … having been influenced and distorted by that same rum … or beer … or wine … whatever’s fokin available … and those visions and urges are in no way Holy, mainly breasts and pussy.

  I don’t know how Bas and I became close friends. Bas’ taat was Mopan and mine Ke’kchi and as far as I can remember, our taats were always quarreling over a piece of land both claimed they owned. It was tradition that the children inherited the quarrels of their taats, but, somehow, Bas and I managed to stay out of it. I think that it was only due to the strength and wisdom of the Alcalde that at times their dispute did not turn into a bloody and murderous machete fight. Somehow, they always seemed to stop just before the point where machetes would be pulled from the scabbards and the Death Gods of Xibalba41 made their frightful appearance and welcomed them into the Underworld. Perhaps, what helped was that those two rarely drank any type of alcohol. I drink. I drink enough not only for myself, my taat, and Bas’ taat, but for the whole village and it has gotten me into a lot of trouble. I must add, however, not disregarding what I have said before, I am getting into problems less and less and the difficulties I do get into are more and more tolerable. I suppose I am growing up … and, of course, I’m faced with the discipline of the army every day … and there’s Bas, my friend.