The Toltec Art of Life and Death

She took a deep, painful breath and felt her heart slow its pace. She had emptied the contents of her bag, but she felt the physical strain anyway. Strange, that this illusion should weigh so heavily on the physical senses. She was certain that, in the living room of her home, her heart was pounding in just this way. It might be that her sons were anxious for her, and that this trance state was frightening her grandchildren, but she could not stop now. She must keep going. She took another deep breath and tried to relax the muscles in her face, hoping that a calm expression might reassure her family as they watched her at home and wondered.

Seeing nothing in the branches of this tree but shadows and deceptions, she took a seat on a huge root that had broken above ground in one spot, arching like a cat that waits for a human touch. Just as she sat upon it, she sensed movement, deep among the branches of the tree. She remained still, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbing her face with slow precision. She sighed audibly and waited.

“Welcome.”

The voice was silky and soft, but shocking all the same. It was both kind and cautious. It invited, and yet penetrated her thoughts. Its tone was sweet, but its message unyielding. With one word, it opened worlds. It was much like the voice of her son.

“Miguel?” she asked tentatively, her voice quivering. Was he in two places at the same time? What was this game of his, this dream of reflections? She worried that the ancestors might not approve, and she would need them before this excursion was over. Sarita stayed where she was, unsure where to look for the speaker, since the voice seemed to come from all places at once.

“You have made yourself comfortable,” the voice declared.

“I am quite uncomfortable, as anyone could imagine,” the old woman said, folding her damp handkerchief. “I doubt I could be less comfortable, but it is of no consequence, as I will be gone from here soon.” From the corner of one eye she could see something slip smoothly from behind the trunk of the tree, not more than six feet away from where she sat.

“Oh?” said the voice with interest. “Where are you going?”

“I was told that you know better than I where I’m going.” Sarita had an uneasy feeling that she was losing control over this trance. She had willed herself into her son’s fevered dreams as a desperate resort and was now feeling the danger of it. Whatever risks she must confront, she knew she could reach him. She knew he would respond to her. She knew many things, but she did not know what she was facing at this moment. “Is it true that you know . . . well, that you know—” she faltered, unsure how to finish.

“I know everything,” the voice said pleasantly. “Yes, I know everything.”

Sarita was overcome by the feeling that this was no longer her son’s dream; nor was it hers. This was an old, old dream, long repressed in human memory. This had the look of an ancient dream, one where a snake edged close and whispered softly. She could still see the familiar planet in the sky, brightly lit, with wispy dreams breathing in and out from its fiery heart . . . but there was little here that pulsed with life. The tree loomed beside her, but it seemed not to breathe. This was a dimmer sort of dream.

Sarita jammed the folded lace into her pocket, determined to make this vision hers to command. She would stand up and face what she had come to face. Her body obeyed, and she was on her feet in an instant, her expression grim and her heart pounding harder than ever. What she confronted was wholly unexpected. There in front of her, lurking in the ponderous shade of this tree, stood a beautiful young woman, clothed in a simple dress.

“Ah!” Sarita exclaimed, not disguising her relief. “Good. Since you know so much, perhaps you can tell me how to return my youngest son to the living.”

“He is deceased?” the woman asked, seeming both surprised and sympathetic.

“He is not. He remains in that tree over there, dreaming of eternity.” Sarita turned, pointing to life’s symbol standing grandly on the distant horizon. “I will not let him die until . . . until he is finished.”

She turned back to her new acquaintance, only to find that the young woman had moved swiftly and silently out of the shadows and now stared at the other tree with fascination. Her chest rose and fell in excitement, and her deep-red hair flowed behind her, as if caught in a sudden wind. This was not just any woman, Sarita realized with alarm. This was a magical creature, filled with power. She resembled the woman Sarita had once been but could barely remember—a sorceress, who held life in the palm of her hand and kept death serenely at her feet. Before Sarita understood just what she was seeing, the young woman had turned back to her and was staring directly into her eyes.

“Finished?” she asked sharply. “You say he has not yet finished?”

“What?” Sarita stammered in confusion. How could this creature help her recover her son? What could she know of him? “No,” she replied, suppressing her bewilderment. “He has not finished. He has not completed his work.”

“What work is that?”

Such nonsense! Sarita marveled at the creature’s ignorance, but felt a growing satisfaction that she had recovered her advantage. Miguel must continue to travel, to commune, and to merge with Earth herself. This was obvious. He was a messenger. He was meant to do this and many other things. His dream was growing, expanding, and it must not end now.

“He has not yet finished his work with the Mother of us all,” Sarita stated.

“She is no mother of mine,” the woman said distractedly.

“He has not finished sharing his wisdom, giving generously—”

“Giving to whom? To you?”

“To the world! He has not finished being the messenger he was meant to—”

“He has not finished being your attentive son, you mean.”

“He has not finished being . . . what he is!”

The vision moved noiselessly toward her, breathing cool breath onto the old woman’s face.

“Is he not one hundred percent what he is?”

“Can you help me or not?” Sarita snapped, exasperated. “I will have him back with me . . . with the world.”

The lovely creature took in a quick breath and leaned toward the old woman, inspecting her carefully. “You require my help?” was all she said.

“I desire your knowledge.”

Another breath. This time the sound of it hissed under the flare of lightning in the dimming sky. Her eyes flashed red, and then the softest blue, as the woman laughed, her hair tossing in that strange wind of feeling that only she seemed to arouse.

“And to think,” she hissed again, “looking at you, one might have suspected trouble! You are no trouble at all. You are a kindred, vieja. You are my likeness, my sister, and you are welcome here with me. If knowledge is what you desire, I will immerse you in it!”

“You may call me Mother Sarita, as I am your elder. Do you have a name?”

“I, too, am old. Older than you, Sara. . . . Sara,” the creature pronounced carefully, enjoying the sound of it—an ancient name with sacred roots. She paused to study the old woman’s face. “Sara,” she whispered again. “Impressive name, and well deserved. For this occasion, I shall take a name that reflects me well.”

Sarita waited, contemplating the list of things humanity had called this one through the millennia, sacred names and obscene names.

“What to call me?” the beautiful woman wondered aloud. “And in which delicious language? Your language?” Her face took on a look of worry, then amusement, then resolution. “Call me La Vida.” She glanced quickly at the tree on the horizon, and a grin transformed her.

“Ah, yes,” breathed the old woman. “Life.” It seems the creature had ambitions beyond her scope.

“Or . . . perhaps not that. I think I prefer La Luz.”

La Luz? This, too, seemed wishful thinking. There was little enough light in this corner. Sarita nodded agreeably. “Of course.”

“No,” the woman corrected herself. “La Verdad. Call me that.”

“As you say,” Sarita shook her head as she moved to retrieve her bag.

“Wait!” The vision spun in place, the hem of her dress stirring ash where she stood. “The name must be grand! Romantic! Call me La Diosa!”

Yes, of course, thought Sarita. Why not call yourself a god while you stand in your own proud world of delusions? She remembered being told once of a popular nightclub in Guadalajara by that name, where women shamed themselves dancing on the stage half-naked. The picture amused her.

“You make me dizzy,” Sarita said, sighing. “La-this. La-that. La-la-la.” Imagining the naked women in the strip club, she felt the impulse to play with this arrogant creature. “Could you not simply be Lala? It has flash.” The redhead turned to stare at her. Sarita hesitated, fearing that she had caused offense. “That is to say, it speaks of both light and liveliness,” she amended.

“I am La Diosa,” the woman stated with finality, and then forced a smile. “As we are sisters in this cause, I suppose I could allow you to call me . . . some lively thing.”

“Good. Then where do we start, Lala? Should I prepare myself?”

“Stay as you are, dear,” she urged. “Let us call on memory, that prince of truth, to lay a path for us!”

“But memory—”