Xibalba: The Room of Loneliness.

[This episode answers the question: Where was Chimalmat while her husband was being killed? Why did she leave his side when she knew he was in such terrible danger? When I thought about it, I realized there could be only one possible answer.]

When the ghost reached the hills, he wandered through them until he found a cave opening. Entering it, he passed through a dark tunnel with doors on each side. Each door contained the answer to a different question.

The ghost knew, of course, that like everything here in Xibalba, each room contained trials and traps. He knew that the answer would come with a price.

There were many questions that he could have asked, but one in particular was at the top of his mind now. He focused on the inquiry, framing it clearly in his thoughts, and spoke: "I want to know why I am alone."

One of the doors slowly swung ajar. The ghost stepped through it.

Inside the small, dark cave, there was total blackness. The ghost waited quietly. Then, a torch flared into luminosity from out of the darkness, casting its light on a painting on the opposite cave wall. As the ghost watched, the picture grew more and more lifelike until it became a moving vision.

The scene showed a sumptuous room, filled with objects of art and beauty. On the opposite wall was a great mural painting showing a resplendent landscape, a city of stone terraces and pyramids rising out of lush forest, over which shone a brilliant sun with multicolored rays. Standing in the room was a man who seemed as ornately wrought as all the other things. He wore rich jewelry and a majestic headdress embellished with feathers and flowers; and, most wondrous of all, wings hung on his back, so cunningly fashioned that one could not tell if they were real or a feathered cloak.

But his face was not attractive..Although it, too, was covered with fine ornaments, the decorations seemed only to cover over the evidence of a hideous disease. Blood and pus dripped from a gaping wound in his lower jaw. His skin was puffy and inflamed, bulging in purple welts around the shining silver that covered his nose and ringed his eyes. The eyes themselves were strange to see: made of pure molten metal that shone like the sun. But they, too, were marred: their golden light flickered erratically with a feverish gleam.

If he was once as beautiful as he is now hideous --- thought the ghost.

The man in the picture seemed so ill and exhausted that he could barely keep standing. Yet his damaged face held an expression of stubborn, defiant will. As the ghost watched, the man turned to gaze into an obsidian mirror hanging on the wall. He lifted his hand to wipe at his jaw with a piece of cloth, and gave a muffled sob of pain. His eyes moved to meet the burning orbs in the reflection, and, for a few moments, he stared at the ruin he had become.

And, as the ghost watched the man watching himself in the mirror, a sudden shock of recognition came to him: He was the man in the vision. He, himself, was the man with the beautiful clothes and ugly face.

Before the ghost could recover from his shock,  the door opened, and a woman entered. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. If the man's glory was like the Sun and Moon, hers was like all of the stars put together. She had the wild, rugged beauty of the Wooden People; her skin was like fine mahogany, chiseled and polished to perfection. Her long, black hair hung down her back like a river of shining obsidian. Like the man, she was winged, with the radiant plumage of a macaw; and she was clothed only in living feathers that grew from her naked flesh.

And, just as the ghost had recognized himself, he suddenly knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this marvellous woman was his wife.

In the vision, the feathered woman spoke, and her voice was as pure and melodious as a songbird's. "The household business is taken care of, husband. What do you wish now?" She regarded the man with tender concern

The man sighed wearily as he seated himself on a floor mat. "I wish to be left alone today," he replied. Alhough the words were spoken calmly, without anger, they still sent a chill through the ghost's heart.

As he watched, the woman knelt down beside her stricken mate. Her brow was furrowed with anxiety, but she spoke calmly and softly.  "My husband, I do not think it good that you should be alone now. You are still very ill, and your enemies might come after you."

"Do not worry, my dear." The man turned to take her hand reassuringly. "I can take care of myself. And I need  time to focus, to concentrate fully on healing myself." He let out another sigh of pain.

The woman bent over to lean her head against the man's shoulder, nestling in his feathers, holding him tightly as if he were a precious object. The ghost caught his breath; he was mesmerized by the clear, noble lines of her face, her long, straight hair flowing down her shoulders like a black waterfall. "My love," she pleaded, "is it not time that we seek the aid of other healers? It has been three days now since you were shot. It grieves me to see you suffer so."

But the man in the picture was deaf to her plea. He turned aside, saying, "I will not let the Twins say I am a lesser god than they. They may have wounded me, but they will not humiliate me." His molten eyes flared with anger, directed not toward his wife but toward his absent foes.

"Then do you truly wish me to leave?" the woman asked, her face still buried in the feathers of his wing.

The  man squeezed his wife's hand gently. "Just one day, my dear. Surely you can do without me that long?" he jested, as if trying to make light of the situation.

The woman raised her head with calm, stoical dignity. "If you wish it, my lord, then I shall."

"Until tomorrow, then, my lady, when I shall be well again, and the sun will rise golden and bright," the man said. He lifted her slender brown hand, as if about to kiss it; but, considering the condition of his mouth, he decided against it and simply pressed her hand between both of his own.

"Until tomorrow," the woman replied. She got up, and turned to go, her tall form moving with the smooth, polished grace of a proud woman of Wood. She headed toward the door, turning to look back at him just once, with a sorrowful, lingering gaze in her dark eyes.

The sick man was oblivious to her now. He stared at the wall, huddled in his ruffled feathers, lost in his own misery.

The ghost watched the beautiful bird-woman turn back to the door. He saw her walk away with straight, proud steps. He saw the long line of her black hair hanging down her back. He saw her open the door. He saw her go through. He saw her straight back moving away. He saw the door close.

As he gazed at the closed door, the vision faded, along with the flame that cast it, leaving only empty blackness.

The ghost knelt in the cold darkness, covering his face. A wave of intense woe washed through him, too deep for words. For he knew that had been the last time he had ever seen his wife.

What have I done? he thought. I turned away from the one whom I should most have loved and trusted. I sent her away, when she wished only to care for me.

Would he ever find her again? the ghost wondered. And, more important, would she still want him?

The ghost got up shakily to his feet, and headed toward the door of the cave. He knew the answer to his question now: He was alone simply because he had chosen it, and the choice had led to his death.

The price of this knowledge was simply the knowledge itself.

And he knew one other thing: The punishments imposed by the gods are not always the worst ones.

Seven Macaw and Ta Hol Discuss Eclipses.

[A bit of dialogue, inspired by some thoughts on the relation between science & myth.]

Ta Hol was searching through a shelf of bark-paper books.

"What are you looking for, Ta Hol?" asked Seven Macaw.

"The date of the next lunar eclipse," the Vulture replied, "when the great Serpent will rise up from the Underworld and devour the Moon."

Seven Macaw joined Ta Hol at the shelf. "You know, Ta Hol," he remarked, "a lunar eclipse is not really caused by a great serpent. It is caused when the Earth passes between the Moon and Sun, casting its shadow on the Moon."

"But I know there is such a Serpent," protested Ta Hol. "I've seen it."

"So have I," Seven Macaw nodded. "I myself have pulled the Moon out of its jaws. But the Serpent is not  what causes the eclipse. It is caused by the Earth coming between the Sun and Moon."

"I don't understand it." Ta Hol shrugged, ruffling his red, brown and white feathers. "But, since you've been the Sun and Moon and all, I guess I'll take your word for it."

False Dawn, Part 2.

[Continued from "False Dawn, Part 1."]

The people stood on the cliff, waiting for the sun to rise.

They prayed, they sang and they danced. They adorned One-Hunahpu's statue with fresh flowers and corn-husks. But the statue remained silent, and the sky remained dark.

Then came two priests, bringing a young woman. Seven Macaw recognized her. She was the girl who sold flowers in the marketplace. He remembered her face, smiling amid the blooms.

But she was not smiling now. Her face held a look of grief, fear, and what Seven Macaw would later come to recognize as resignation.

The priests made her lie down on a stone altar. They bound her hands and feet.

Seven Macaw was still too young to understand what was going on. His mother covered his eyes so he couldn't watch. But he could still hear. He heard the priests chanting, the thud of a flint-kinfe, and a scream. He heard something trickling, the sound of something pouring down the stone and running to the ground.

When his mother let him look again, the woman was gone. The stone was sticky with something like tree sap. He knew, without having to be told, that she wouldn't be coming back.

Surely that would be enough to make the sun rise.

But there was nothing but darkness, and stillness, and a few lone bird-calls.

Then, the people felt a chill, as a strange presence began to fill the air. A cold wind poured out from the mouth of a cave. The wind swirled around, stirring the leaves and grass, and flying out of the cave-mouth came a monstrous bird. Its head and wings were like those of a horned owl, its eyes shone red in its grey face, and it had a long red tail like a macaw. Bits of fire and swirls of smoke spun from its tail and wings.

The bird flew around over the gathered populace. "Greetings, puny mortals," it croaked in a  mocking tone. "I am Macaw-Owl, messenger of the Lords of Xibalba. I have a message to deliver. To whom shall I give it?" The bird swooped down to where Seven Macaw was standing with his family. "What about you, little macaw-boy?" the bird asked him, its piercing red eyes staring into his small, frightened face. "Shall you be the bearer of ill tidings? Maybe they will stone you," it jeered.

Seven Macaw clutched his mother's skirt tightly. "Mommy," he said.

Seven Macaw's mother stood straight, gazing back firmly at the bird-messenger. "If the message is for all of us, then speak to all of us," she said.

Seven Macaw's father, Hun Caquix, put his arm on his wife's shoulder, standing like a strong tree beside her. "Yes," he said. "It's easy enough to frighten children. If you have a message, then speak. We already know that someone is going to die. That is the only kind of news you ever bring."

"Not going to die," the bird laughed mockingly. "Already dead." It landed on the head of the statue, perching there affrontingly. "Here is my message, people of earth: The Lords of Xibalba say to you: 'One Hunahpu, who was a god, has died like a mortal. He and his brother came to the Underworld and played a ball game with us, and they lost. Your Sun belongs to us now. Even now the Lords of Xibalba are paying ball with his head.' " The Macaw-Owl flicked its tail, sending out a shower of sparks. "And soon, say the Lords, all the rest of you will join him."

Murmurs, and groans, and cries of dismay went up from the crowd.

The Macaw-Owl flew into the air, hooting as it circled over the crowd amid clouds of smoke and fire. "What do you say to that, People of Wood? How will you live without a sun? You will starve, you will freeze in the cold, you will stumble in the dark, you will fall off cliffs, you will be eaten by wild beasts."

It hooted with malignant glee.

"You have lost your god of light and maize, and even now the other gods are also deserting you. Hurricane Thunderbolt, Heart-of-the-Sky, has already grown tired of you, like a child who is now longer amused with his toys. He has seen that you are not as pretty to look at as he once imagined you. You are rough and crude; your skin is like bark, your heads do not turn, and your limbs lack grace. You do not remember the gods well enough, you do not shower  them with enough praise for the gift of life they gave you." The bird seemed to think this was very funny. "Not only that, but you do not kill each other enough, to pour out sacrificial blood for the gods' nurture and sustenance."

More cries of gloom and misery arose from the gathering. The people stirred together in a tide of fear.

But Seven Macaw's parents, Hun Caquix and his wife, stood firm together like a pair of straight, unbending trees. "What do we say, O Bird of Ill Omen?" retorted Hun Caquix. "Well, I will speak for myself and my family. We say this: If the gods do not help us, we will help ourselves, with our own minds and muscles. We will not lie down and die as long as we can work. We have survived this long without a Sun, and if One Hunahpu does not come, we will mourn him -- and go on living." He planted his hoe firmly on the ground beside him, with his other arm around his wife. And she took the hand of their eldest son, One Macaw, and he took the hand of his brother Seven Macaw, and they all stood together as one before the Messenger of Xibalba.

And when the rest of the people saw this, they too joined hands, and stood together defiantly. Only a few of the priests, and those who were most devout, held back out of fear. But all the rest of them, the farmers and workers, the hunters and craftspeople, the elders and sages, from the oldest to the youngest they all gathered and stood together in resistance against the Lords of Xibalba and the wrathful gods.

The Macaw-Owl shrieked out, "So brave, and so proud! You will only make the gods more angry." Again, it seemed to find this very amusing. "Very well -- I will leave you to your doom. The halls of Xibalba are awaiting all of you."

Cackling and hooting, the Macaw-Owl swooped away in a gust of smoke and sparks.

And so the Wooden People were left standing, proud and sad, in the darkness. They placed a wreath of flowers on One Hunahpu's statue, and they wept for him. And so the Ritual of Waiting became the Ritual of Mourning, and the statue became his tombstone.

And, slowly and sadly, the people turned and walked home in the darkness, knowing there would be no light except the fires they made for themselves, and no morning except in their dreams. And as the years went on, the people turned away from Hurucan and the Sky Gods and no longer remembered them, forgetting the One who had made them and left them to starve.

False Dawn: Part 1.

[Early Third Age.]

When Seven Macaw was born, there was only one village in the whole world. The two oldest people, First Father and First Mother, were still living. He had been made from a coral tree and she from the heart of bullrushes, and they lived as long as trees; but like trees, they too grew withered and old. As time went on, they spoke and moved less and less, until they became two wooden statues. But when Seven Macaw was young, Coral and Bullrushes still spoke and walked; and all of the people, the People of Wood, lived there together with them.

In those days, there was no sun or moon. It was dark and cold in the world. The only light came from a thin crack at the horizon's edge, spilling out from underneath the earth where the unborn essence of moon and sun lay swirling in formless, cloudlike nebulae. When those rays shone through faintly, like the first light of dawn, the roof of the sky-earth was dark grey, like slate; it never got brighter than that. At other times, the sky turned pitch-black, and then sometimes strange signs could be seen. That is was what the day-nights were like.

Back then, the magic of Creation was still strong in the Earth, and it was possible for things to grow even without a sun. But it took great toil and labor to bring forth food from the earth; toil and labor, and the blood of sacrifice. The first people had been created in the warmest part of the world, near the earth's very center. But without a sun, it was still often very cold. When the day-nights were at their coldest and darkest, the animals shivered in the forest, and the people huddled around their house-fires.

It was said that in those days before the sun, the lands to the North and South were all locked up with ice. And, as time went by, groups of people went across the ice and crossed over to other masses of land, and that was how the Wooden People spread all over the world.

The Wooden People knew little besides hard work and hunger, and the constant fear of death. But they had been made strong and tough, like wood; and as they struggled to survive in the cold, hostile world, they became even more hard and stiff, stubborn and proud. They stood straight and tall and unbending like trees in the harsh winds, and their hardness was counted for virtue and beauty among them. But the gods, who had made them, found them rough and ungainly and too slow to obey, and cared for them less and less.

Yet the people remained faithful to one hope: they had been promised there would be a Sun. They made a statue in his image: One Hunahpu, the shining, smiling young man clothed in green corn-husks, whose hair was cornsilk, whose bright teeth shone like golden kernels of maize. And on the appointed day-nights, they gathered to watch the eastern horizon, and wait for him to rise. They waited, and prayed, and sacrificed. They came and waited for years, for decades, for generations. And still there was no sun; but their hope burned in their hearts like burning resin, a bright flame that would not be quenched.

One day-night, when Seven Macaw was a very small boy, he went with his family to the Ceremony of Waiting. All the people of the village climbed up a mountain where they could see far to the horizon. There they stood, looking out over the cliff, in the black day-night. Coral and Bullrushes stood hand in hand near the cliff's edge, and the people stood behind and around them. Everything was hushed and solemn. Long, black bars of cloud came up the horizon; then there came a pale, yellow light between the bars. The people waited, hushed, their breath bated. They could see only the streaks of black and yellow. They waited, praying silently, for the light to grow brighter, for the great glowing yellow orb to rise at last.

But there was nothing more than the pale streaks between the horizon and clouds.

[To be continued.]

Note: Beware the Landlords of Xibalba!

If you found this blog through an "Apartment Ratings" site, please note: I am not really renting out rooms in Xibalba. I have no idea how my site got on that page -- maybe someone listed it as a joke.

Xibalba, the "Place of Fear", is the ancient Mayan Underworld. It's populated with deadly death gods, demons, & skeletal shades.

If you're looking for a place to stay, I'm sure the Lords of Xibalba would be happy to have you move in. But I wouldn't recommend it. The terms of lease can be rather... permanent.

Hun Came (One Death) waves "Hi!"

And on that note... I made a few Mayan myth icons:

Here's Seven Macaw:
   _
  ( ;>
 //&
/// ^
//

The "Seven Fire Macaw" glyph:

:| ?~  <;)"

And Hunahpu with his blowgun:

        /
 ^ ^  /
  o /

Feel free to copy & paste 'em.

Xibalba: Enemy of an Enemy.

In this room of Xibalba there burned a bone-white sun, perpetually at the zenith so that it cast no shadows. There was not one trace of shade, no relief from the relentless glare which leached the landscape of color and depth, lending it an almost transparent clarity. Beneath it was an endless, bleak desert, the flat ground broken only by writhing clumps of thornbushes. In the distance was a line of rocky hills, equally forbidding.

The ghost made his way across the barren land. The hills were the only visible landmark, so he directed his path towards them. He wondered what was on the other side. Although he knew that wherever he went there would only be more trials and tortures, he still wanted to explore, to search out Xibalba's secrets, as he once had those of Earth.

He knew that the sun was his enemy. But, he also knew that, somehow, there had once been another sun, a different sun. A different sun? How could that be? The memory kept slipping away from him, like sand running through his hands.

Then, he heard the faint sound of groans and wails of pain, although there seemed to be nothing around but the flat ground. He walked toward the direction of the sound, and saw that there was a deep pit in the earth. Coming to its edge, he peered down.

The sides of the pit were almost perfectly straight and vertical; the sun shone down into it as if focused by a lens. At the bottom lay a strange creature, half-man, half-bird. Like the ghost himself, it was but a spectre, composed of bones and ectoplasm. It had a long, skinny, bony neck, a mainly-human face with a sharp beak, and taloned hands and feet. The bird-man's breastbone was shattered, and the delicate bones of his wings were smashed into a mesh of broken fragments.

The man-bird held out his hand to the ghost.  Mournfully, he pleaded, "Take pity on me, stranger."

At those words, the ghost felt a haunting chill, as though he'd heard them somewhere before. "Who are you, and who did this to you?" he asked.

"I am Ta Hol, the Vulture Spirit," the being replied. "As for the cause of my misfortune, it was twins, two young men, who wore headbands and shone with light  One of them shot me with his blowgun, then they broke my wings and threw me down into this pit, to burn forever in the glare of their hatred."

"I know the Twins of whom you speak," the ghost said. "They are my enemies too."

"Then help me, please," said Ta Hol. "I can't fly; I am trapped here. My bones are drying and bleaching in this dreadful sunlight."

"I can't fly, either," said the ghost. "But I will get you out." He walked around the pit, studying it. There was nothing around that he could use to pull Ta Hol out; he would have to go down and get him. He searched for a suitable angle of descent, and when he found the best spot, lowered himself down into the hole.

The ghost was glad that he had recovered some of his memories, for he remembered how to climb. His hands and feet found sure grips and toeholds, despite the sheer steepness of the pit wall. Inside the pit, the atmosphere was close and stifling. The ghost moved steadily downward into the oppressive confinement,  feeling it close in around him.

At the bottom, there was only a choking stillness, as if motion was impossible. But the ghost could still move. He reached down, picked up Ta Hol, and put him on his back. The Vulture Spirit wrapped his arms around the ghost's neck and his legs around the ghost's waist, and locked together his taloned hands and feet. Then, carrying the Vulture, the ghost headed back up the wall.

The way up was much more difficult. Ta Hol was not very heavy, but the ghost's newly-formed spirit-body was not very strong yet, and the Vulture's talons dug sharply into his spectral flesh. Nonetheless, the ghost remembered how to climb. His fingers and toes found holds in the dry, crumbly soil as he made his way carefully, inch by inch, to the top.

Once they were both safely on the surface, Ta Hol climbed off the ghost's back. Then, the two suffering beings lay down to rest side by side. They breathed deeply of the open air, as if they couldn't get enough of it. The sun still beat down on them mercilessly. But, surely, it was better than being in the pit.

When the ghost had recovered, he rose up on his knees to look down at Ta Hol. "I think I may know another way to help you," he said.

"Yes, please, anything," groaned the Vulture Spirit.

The ghost placed one hand on Ta Hol's forehead, and laid the other, very gently, on the bird-spirit's shattered breastbone. He began to chant; the words came to him easily, as if from long practice. Calling up his inner power, he began to tug at the strands of luminous energy in Ta Hol's chest,  pulling them carefully into place, weaving them back together. As he worked, the torn ectoplasm of Ta Hol's spirit-body knit back together and rejoined. The bird-man sighed with relief, his furrowed face relaxing.

When Ta Hol's breastbone was fixed, the ghost told him to turn over. Then, he went to work on his wings. As he began to repair the subtle, delicate filaments of the bird-man's wing-bones, the ghost's chant changed, shifting into spontaneous song. He composed the lyrics as he went along, easily, effortlessly, the music riding on a surge of joy, his power flowing from within him like sap from a tree, pouring into the wounded body of the vulture.

When he was finished, the ghost watched as Ta Hol rose up and tentatively flapped his wings, testing them, before taking off and rising into the air. He swooped around a few times, soaring on the hot desert air, uttering cries of joy and freedom. Then, he sailed back to where the ghost stood.

Landing on the ground, Ta Hol knelt down before the ghost. "Tell me your name, O stranger," he said, "that I may know whom to thank for such a great favor."

"I don't know my name, " said the ghost. "But I am an enemy of your enemies; therefore you may call me Friend."

"Very well, Friend," said the Vulture. "But I still wish to repay you."

The ghost stroked his lip thoughtfully. "Let us be allies, then," he said. "If one of us is in need, and the other is able to answer, we shall stand and fight together, against whatever terrors Xibalba may wield against us."

"Agreed," nodded Ta Hol.

"So be it, then," said the ghost. "If I may ask, Ta Hol, why were the Twins angry with you?"

"One of them was my rival for the love of a woman," replied the Vulture. He gazed sorrowfully into the distance, and sighed softly. Then, regarding the ghost, he tilted his birdlike head curiously. "And you, Friend? How did you earn the wrath of such ruthless foes?"

"I still don't remember." The ghost took a painful breath, pressing his hand to his forehead. "It had something to do with time. They told me... They said, 'Your time is over.'"

Ta Hol nodded quiely. "It'll all come back, sooner or later. Though, you might wish it hadn't."

"Nevertheless, all that matters is that I must know the truth," said the ghost.

"Well, as they say," said Ta Hol wryly, "it's your funeral."

The ghost smirked. "I think it's a little too late to worry about that, for either of us."

Ta Hol laughed, his ghostly wings rustling. "Well -- what do you say, Friend? Now that we are allies, shall we travel together?"

"Where are you going, Ta Hol?" asked the ghost.

"I am going to fly over the desert and the rocks, in search of the vultures' kingdom," replied Ta Hol.

"That is not my path,"  said the ghost. He had no desire to wander the desert in search of carrion. Besides, he couldn't fly, and he would just slow Ta Hol down. "But travel well, Ta Hol, until we meet again."

"And you, too, Friend," replied the Vulture, as he launched himself into the air.

And so the two accursed ones parted their ways, for a time. As the Vulture Spirit soared off into the distant sky, the ghost stood watching proudly. He still couldn't fly, himself -- but he had made someone else fly, and that was almost as good.

He continued on his way to the hills.

Introduction.

Welcome to "Seven Macaw: A Mythic Narrative Inspired by the Popol Vuh". This is the story of Seven Macaw, a very pretty little parrot who contends with Heart-of-Sky, the great Cosmic Creator-Destroyer Deity, for the destiny of the world.

As one might expect, Seven ends up as an ex-parrot.

"Seven Macaw" is a fictional narrative written in both prose and verse, encompassing the genres of epic poetry, mythic fantasy, dark fantasy, and supernatural horror. Unless otherwise stated, everything on this site is original content. If you're here for homework or research, please note that my creative interpretations of Mayan mythology are original and do not necessarily represent authentic Mayan beliefs, either historical or modern. I'm going to be adding some nonfictional commentary to help explain the symbolism and the mythic and cultural references used.

This site is currently a work in progress. I've been writing the story in more or less random order, and linking it into linear sequence on the "Navigation -- Contents" sidebar. Use this sidebar to navigate the site.

A good place to begin is Seven Macaw's Prophecy: December 21, 2012. : a strange, enigmatic message which, I guarantee, is unlike any other 2012 prophecy you've ever seen. What does it mean? Follow the story, and you'll come to understand what Seven Macaw is talking about.

Next, you might want to check out  The Shaking of the Day of Seven Macaw, a verse drama based closely on the narrative in the Popol Vuh. This is my creative, poetic reinterpretation of the myth, and the piece with which I began this project.

The rest of this work is still in progress. If you want a completely linear, un-spoilered version,  you'll probably have to wait til next year. Seven and I are planning to get this project finished by the Winter Solstice, Dec 21, 2012, when something weird  -- and hopefully, wonderful -- is supposed to happen. I'm not sure how this is supposed to manifest in the real world; Seven won't spoiler it for me.

In the meantime, I'm organizing the story into sections as I go along:

"Prelude" includes some poetic pieces which deal with the general contents of the story.

"The Time of Early Dawn" is set prior to the events in "Shaking of the Day." It recounts the story of Seven Macaw's life in the Third Age, his rise to transcendence and godhood, and his creation of the Sun and Moon.

"The Last Days Before the Storm" comprises the period between Seven Macaw's death on May 28, 3147 BC (Gregorian calendar), and the Great Flood.

"Xibalba" is the story of Seven Macaw's descent into the Underworld after his death, where he must face many trials in order to regain his transcendent power, and fulfill his greatest destiny in the coming age.

Vucub-Caquix and I welcome you to our fictional otherworld, and wish you a happy 2012 -- and many years to follow.

~ The author, Myrna Sabor