Pillars of the Moon

by French, B. J. ;

  "This is it." he sighed, reaching for a pair of cotton gloves in the drawer. Slipping them on, he continued the chore of unraveling the thong that was tied around the mouth of the bag. He eased the bag open and I caught a glimpse of a deep, bluish-green portion of the lid. Carefully reaching around to the bottom of the bag, Vincent lifted the bag, and its contents to the table beneath the light. As he slowly eased the bag from around the bowl, I gave a sigh. It was the most awe-inspiring piece of craftsmanship I had seen in some time. The jade was dark green, with the light accenting it to a brilliant, bluish green hue. The clarity, that allowed you to look deep into the walls of the inscriptions, was almost flawless. The occasional deep natural fissure enhanced the carving, as if the piece had been designed by the natural forces that created the ancient stone in the beginning. The pudgy grotesque face of the Jaguar Child, deity of the underworld, and the ornate figure of a man adorned with a feather headdress, representing the Creator God Feathered Serpent, peered at us from two sides. Two stylized snakes coiled their way around the bowl, joining the caricatures together to form an intricate design of faces and obscure symbols. Rolling the piece gently, exposing the intricacies in the light, he looked over to me.

  "See the Jaguar deity, guardian of the underworld, and the Creator God Feathered Serpent. And look, on one side, of lesser relief, a feathered serpent, and on the other side directly opposite, the fire serpent." These were two lesser inscriptions, with the snakes intertwining the four visual deities, in great detail with small feathers and seashells. He picked up a white cotton cloth from the drawer and wrapped the base of the bowel in it to hand it to me. "Take a close look."

  Taking the piece gently in my hands, I rolled the bowel several times to view the intricate interweaving of the snakes. The whole inscription wove itself into a mastered tapestry of the natural forces somewhat less understood in our present times. Scrutinizing every crack and inscription with enthusiasm, I peered at the round lid in the fashion of an Olmec calendar wheel and to the faint white dot near the lid’s edge where the extraction must have taken place. A close look in the light exposed a small indentation, and the resin, that sealed the contents of the bowl from exposure to the outside world.

  "It is nice to see the piece again," whispered Vincent under his breath. "I had forgotten how beautiful it is."

  Mesmerized by its visual elegance, Vincent nudged me and reached to take the bowl from my hands and put it back into the leather bag and its resting place. Replacing the tape and sealing the crate back up as we had found it, we returned back to the chairs by the coffee table and the warmth of the fire. For several minutes, we said nothing as if to digest what we had just had the opportunity to feast upon. A feeling of excitement and concern, mixed together with a little fear, brought the feeling of urgency back, and the visions that had impressed me the last few days.

  "The cult of the Jaguar, Vincent, what is it," I asked?

  Vincent pensively took another sip from his glass and leaned over to a wood carved cedar box on the table to pull out another small pouch of tobacco. Packing a thimbleful amount into the ivory-stemmed bowl, he left the remains on the edge of the table and fumbled in the box, once again, for some matches. With a quick flick of his hand and sitting back in the chair, he drew the flame into the well which billowed a small puff of smoke. After several draws and a quick snap of his wrist, the match flew through the air toward the fireplace, consumed before it landed amongst the embers of the fire.

  "I've heard about it and have read the obvious from studies of the Olmec, Mayan and Aztec. But where did it originate and why?" I asked.

  "Can't you ask me a simpler question, like will it rain tomorrow?" He laughed as I gave him a double take surprised at his humor. "You ask a million dollar question Brian. Like the myths and legends, there is a lot of conjecture and little fact. To be quite honest, we just don't know. In our more recent history, thankfully, human sacrifice has appeared to have stopped, at least as a part of our religious ceremonies. The cult of the Jaguar has its early roots in the Andean Mountains. Some of the earliest relics and evidence of ancient civilizations come from the Ecuador Mountains. Not all were centered on the bloodletting that was such a part of the Mayan, Aztec and Zapotec civilizations at later dates. That does not mean it did not happen, there just seems to have been a gentler time when children were given the roles of collecting flowers and heads of maize used in morning sacrifices to a less, voracious, Creator God. The Aztec god man Quetzalcoatl, was venerated as the Feathered Serpent, and adhered to the wishes of his priests by continuing the act of human sacrifice. Later in his reign, he was betrayed and expelled from Teotihuacan, near Mexico City. He founded a new city called Tula, on the coast where he banned human sacrifice and returned to the sacrifice of fruits, flowers and staples. In an uprising by the former priests, he was once again expelled and left Mexico for good, departing from the coast by ship. There have always been sacrifices made to the gods as long as there have been stories told and sung. Down through the ages they have made their way in rhyme, or scratched on cave walls throughout the Americas. Comparatively, not so long ago in Peru, the Incas would take young boys and girls, and leave them on the mountaintops, to freeze, as a sacrifice to the sun god. Treasure seekers and adventurers in recent years have come across frozen remains on virtually every mountain top in the Inca Empire."

  He took a drag on his now cool pipe and reached for the matches to relight the fragrant tobacco again. After several puffs, he picked up his glass for another sip.

  "In one of my visions, I saw a young girl painted blue, killed and flayed."

  I picked up my glass and took a quick gulp before I had time to imagine the scene again.

  "Well," Vincent sighed, taking another puff on his pipe. "The Mayans would paint themselves blue as a war dress in times of battle, and as an act of revenge, would flay their enemy captives and prance around with their skins as a sign of victory. They would also sometimes cannibalize their enemy captives as a show of superior strength, and to literally embody the spirits of the defeated foe. The Mayans, as well as other civilizations of Mesoamerica, would also continue this practice during their ball games. You think rugby and football have gotten tough? You lose in that ball game and you're dead!" He gave a chuckle at his own candid humor and stopped with a sigh.

  I looked out to the deck and up to the clouds that had begun to clear with the stars peeking through.

  "Why do you think I saw that girl, and witnessed what had happened to her?"

  "I'm not sure Brian, but what I am certain of is that you have been drawn into this by your basic knowledge of the First Nations, not only your good nature and openness, but also your ignorance that has almost cost you your life. The deeper spiritual needs of the people of this land, and the desperate need for some type of closure is paramount, but I hope not at your expense. The Creator will use whom He will to get the job done, at any cost, but let us hope and pray, for His grace. I have a den full of a lifetime's study plotting the migration of man on this earth. Some of it you would find surprising and very fascinating. But now," he said easing himself from his chair, "It’s time for me to go to bed. Make yourself at home. The kitchens over there, the bathrooms down the hall, first door to the left."

  With that he got up, staggered a little to the left and put his hand on the archway to steady himself. Picking up my glass by the stem from the table, I watched as he disappeared down the hall. The information he had imparted clung to my mind like the residuals of Brandy to the sides of the snifter. Taking the last drops in my mouth with a gentle swish, I looked up to a flicker of light catching my eye from outside on the deck. The rain had stopped, and the moon was almost full, high above the naked trees. The wind had almost ceased with the bare branches gently swaying back and forth. The planks, still wet from the rain, reflected the moonlight with a twinkle as the light breeze blew over the surface. I sat and watched as the million, tiny fishes, in the form of a shimmering pillar on the deck, tri
ed in vain to lift Ixchel to her lover in the sky.

  EIGHT

  Sleep was fitful for the remainder of the night. With my feet propped up on the coffee table, blanket draped over my body, I tried for hours to get comfortable in the lazy chair. My mind wandered from incident to incident, keeping last evening’s fight in the alley foremost. Peter’s wound and how close we had all come to being killed, made me shudder to think of a slightly different scenario. The jade bowl fed my imagination like the faggots I occasionally threw on the fire. The bowl’s age and inscriptions shed light on a possible alternative to our past with implications contrary to our conceived perception of North American history. With every thought came new and more troublesome questions. The giddiness I felt from the brandy, along with Shawna’s nakedness etched in my mind, added to the unease and frustration.

  Finally, with the faint glow of dawn silhouetting the trees at the rear of the garden, I drifted off into erratic slumber only to find myself in a strange room, standing at the foot of a bed. Two figures, peacefully sleeping close together beneath the blankets, were oblivious to my being there. I also felt a presence beside me, but could not turn to look at what, or who, it was. Drawn to the window, the willowy trees swaying back and forth pulled me to the rear of the garden. As I looked to the back of the house and deck, the faint lights in the family room and the dimly glowing hearth illuminated a familiar figure reclining in a chair feet outstretched before him. The dried ivy against the stonework of the house and vines, dangling from the grape arbor over the rear patio door, gave the house an eerie look, but no impression of danger. To the left of the deck, another smaller window beside the steps leading up to the landing, was almost obscured by the sparse remains hanging in suspended flowerpots. The windows were dark but not dismal, and sensed a presence that lay within. I briefly looked down to my feet and then brought my hands up to look at them. Slowly turning them over and looking at my palms, I became aware of the oddity of my predicament. I heard a gentle, audible hum as a mild breeze brushed my face and stirred within me a feeling of serenity. In the stillness of time in which I was immersed, I stood motionless watching the world around me as if I were the center of this universe, and that all had been orchestrated for my benefit. After, what felt like an eternity of being, my attention was drawn back to the house and window. Immediately, I was back in the bedroom where Vincent was sitting up in the bed looking toward the figure beside me. A strong urge to scream gripped me, but, before I could open my mouth the figure of a man with long fair hair and fiery eyes stood directly in front of me. He stared intently into my eyes as if to look deep within me. I awoke with a start and was back in the chair of the family room. Completely alarmed at what I had experienced, I stood up to face the fireplace, heart pounding as if I had run a marathon. Standing motionless, not knowing how to handle the experience, I turned and waked through the archway and down the hall to where Lilly was lying by a door, slightly ajar. She wagged her tail as I bent to stroke her and peered in the open door. There, lying peacefully beneath the blankets, were June and Vincent, all was well. Lilly whimpered a little as I tiptoed back to the family room and the warmth of the fireplace to watch as the last remaining embers died to a dusty white.

  The morning horizon silhouetted the trees as the sun began to rise beyond the mountains. Shawna began to stir as the family room brightened to illuminate the furnishings with vibrant color.

  "What time is it?" she yawned.

  Looking down at my watch, "Quarter after six," I replied.

  I sat wearied at the reply and wondered how I was to make it through the day. With my elbows on my knees, I watched, head in hand, as the last plumes of smoke eddied up in wisps into the sooty darkness of the chimney. Peter began to stir but moaned in pain and was unable to move with ease. Shawna fumbled with his blanket to keep him warm and whispered several words to him. It was obvious he was going nowhere for the time being.

  "What should we do?" I asked Shawna, slumping back in the chair feet projecting to the footstool.

  "I'm not sure, but we will have to move quickly. I was supposed to phone from Port Angeles this morning to find out where to take the crate."

  "Why not just phone from here?"

  "I have to phone from a specific telephone booth. If I can make it to that spot without hindrance, my people are confident the rest of the journey will be safe for the custodians of the bowl."

  "So, it has to go further?" I questioned.

  Without saying a word, she gathered her blanket around her and shuffled over to the archway beside the kitchen.

  "The bathroom’s down to the left, right?" she questioned as she scurried along the narrow hardwood floor of the hall.

  "Right," I returned, as she shuffled along pulling the tea-shirt tight about her and pointed in the direction with her thumb.

  Feeling as if my eyes were full of sand, I sat quietly in the chair, wondering how much more I should become involved. The only real danger so far had been with the jaguar men and hopefully they would forget me as soon as the bowl was no longer in our possession. On the other hand, this could be the chance of a lifetime to look into the sacred aspects of an indigenous North American religion that had been influenced by other cultures in ways yet to be considered. Closing my eyes and drifting off again, I faintly heard the flush of the toilet and the shuffle of feet on the tiled floor beside me. A sharp poke in the shoulder brought me back from rest and a tone of voice that was starting to bother me.

  "Come on, let’s go."

  "Where we going," I asked looking up?

  Shawna’s fresh face glared down at me, her eyebrow lifted simultaneously as her hand slid to sit upon a hip. A swift hand reached out to caress my face, but instead gave a gentle slap, "You look terrible."

  "Great!" was all I could return as I tried to pull myself out by the arms of the chair. "You'll have to give me a moment to get myself cleaned up."

  I staggered to the washroom beside June and Vincent’s room. Trying to be as quiet as I could, I splashed some lukewarm water over my face and rummaged for a razor. Emerging from the room a relatively respectable man, I passed by the entranceway to the kitchen; June gave me a start as she stood in her nightgown, preparing cups of fresh coffee.

  "Good morning, Mr. Alexander." came her childish voice with just enough sarcasm to show she was not impressed.

  "Sorry to wake you June. I have been trying to be quiet, but with very little sleep last night I am finding it difficult to keep myself together. We have certainly taken enough of your time and hospitality. Shawna wanted to get going as soon as possible."

  I came along side her by the coffee pot and said nothing. Reflecting on my dream, "How is Vincent?"

  "Oh, he will be all right. He has one of his headaches this morning and thought it best to stay where he is."

  Silently, I nodded and took the tray to the table in the family room. Shawna, without hesitation, grabbed a cup and took several gulps as if it were a flagon of beer. Looking back to June leaning in the archway to the room, I gave another gentle nod in appreciation and watched as she disappeared down the hall to her room, Lilly close behind. Turning back to the tray, I prepared myself a cup and waited for Shawna to announce her plan of action. She offered none.

  "Well, what are your plans,” as if I were not including myself in the scheme?

  Looking over to Peter still asleep on the couch, "I have to go; there is no doubt about it. But, whether Peter can come with me is another matter.” She pensively sipped her coffee. "Could we leave him here?"

  A little shocked at her suggestion; I placed my cup down and headed to the couch.

  "I don't think so. He doesn't look so good and it sounds as if Vincent is not well either."

  Crouching close to the couch, I watched as Peter labored to breath, making the occasional gesture to change his weight favoring his wounded side. "I really don't think Peter is at all up to a trip over to Port Angeles. Could we not just drop him off at a friend’s,
or someplace where he could rest? Besides, he really should go to the hospital as the doctor suggested." She said nothing, as if waiting for an answer to manifest from thin air. As luck would have it, out of thin air it came. I got an idea!!!!'

  Vanessa, still half asleep in Vancouver, answered the phone again and before long I had learned that my family had been heading for the inner harbor in Victoria by last night.

  Once we had decided to move, we had Peter on his feet and were on our way back out onto the deck, green garbage bag and luggage in tow. As we proceeded down the steps and past the window I had seen in the dream, it dawned on me that in the dim light and rainy conditions of the previous night, it would have been impossible for me to see the window. And yet in the dream, I had seen all of the rear of the house in its exact proportions and cosmetic disarray. In a way, I was glad to be departing, but leaving Vincent and June gave me a sadness that was hard to explain.

  Large puddles of water lay in the worn tire valleys of the drive leaving us to struggle down the narrow center, three abreast with Peter propped in the middle again. At the drive entrance, we waited and intently searched for any traffic seen or heard. A hundred or so meters down the road, we came to the large woodpile, my black beauty waiting. Tears came to my eyes as I began to view the damage that had occurred the previous night on our excursion down the mountain trail. Gnarled metal exposed gaping holes where the side mirrors had been attached. The side moldings were gone leaving white and gray scrapes running the length of the sides where the trees had rubbed the outer coatings of paint off. There were no-longer mud flaps except for little stubs still riveted to the wheel wells. All the side rubber and vinyl side dressings to the bumpers were gone. We stopped about ten feet from the car and stood motionless staring as the events of last night began to sink in.