The Wrong Road

THE WRONG ROAD

Anyone who takes the time to think about it knows that our lives change as a result of the simplest decisions.  We make choices every moment of our existence, and what comes next is a derivative of those choices.  Even choosing which road to take on a driving vacation, which seems a simple black-or-white choice at the time, can change our lives in ways unimaginable then.  My husband and I believe absolutely in that principle, since our lives were changed irreparably by something so simple.

It has been our practice to vacation in Mexico during the winter months of January and February.  Those of you who are familiar with the weather in our hometown of Denver, Colorado, will sympathize with our desire to head south at that time.  I probably feel the need for warm weather more than most people who live in that part of the country, since I was born in an area outside of Mexico City, and lived there until my parents (who were both in the healthcare field) emigrated to the United States.  Although I was only nine years old when we moved north, I still vividly remember the warm, sultry air in my homeland, and miss it dearly.

When it was time to plan our vacation for the winter of 2003, we once again spread out our maps of Mexico, and spent many enjoyable hours selecting travel routes and destinations.  By the end of December we had made our final choices, and had printed our itinerary so we could have a reliable guide to follow.  Everything was in readiness by the second week of January, and we loaded our suitcases in the SUV we had recently purchased and headed south.

I suppose I should pause here to explain how a married couple, both in their mid-thirties, could afford to just pick up and leave home for two months.  The simple explanation is that David (my husband) chose his parents well.  They were both natives of the eastern Colorado area, the descendants of cattle ranchers.  David's great-grandparents had also chosen well, in terms of where they chose to settle.  Although they didn't know it at the time, their land lay atop a large pool of oil, and after it was discovered by a wildcat driller, they became millionaires overnight.  David and I are the direct beneficiaries of all those choices, which again proves what I was saying at the beginning of this narrative.

We traveled south, soon crossing the border into New Mexico, and then Texas.  We left the United States at El Paso, and continued driving south, with every day becoming warmer and more spring-like.  I was once again feeling "at home," even though I hadn't lived in Mexico for many years.  David was never anything more than a tourist in that country, but he always put a good face on it because of his love for me.  The fact that he did so always made me love him more.

It had been our original plan to drive to Mexico City, then head west to the area where I was born and raised.  We had visited there before, or course, but not for about five years.  I was anxious to see what changes had occurred in our absence, and was looking forward to that part of our journey.

After spending a couple of days in Mexico City, we left on the next leg of our trip, intending to spend that night in Morelia, which is the closest city to my birth village.  David was driving, and I was navigating, using the maps we'd printed back in our home.  I remember being very tired at the time, and having to struggle to stay awake.  I knew David would be hopelessly lost on his own, since most of the signs were not in English, and the traffic was horrific in the late afternoon hours.

At one point, my need for sleep became overwhelming, and I knew I had to take a nap.  We were on a fairly good street, which connected directly to the highway we would follow to Morelia, and I was confident that my husband could find the proper intersection and turn the correct way to get us out of the city.  I reviewed the directions with him and then slumped against the passenger-side door, instantly falling asleep.

I had a dream then that was one of the most vivid of my entire life.  In it, I was living many centuries ago, and was some sort of priestess, attending an Aztec ceremony.  I knew that the ritual would involve human sacrifice, and to the woman I was in the dream, that was perfectly acceptable, even ordinary.  I clearly remember standing in my accustomed place, entirely nude, beside a stone altar.  The sounds of chanting, accompanied by the deep throbbing of drums, droned in my ears.  I was sure my whole body was in a trance state then, and the words I chanted seemed to come from a deep well of knowledge somewhere outside space and time.

In my dream, my eyes turned to the captives who would be sacrificed to our supreme god that day.  They were three young men, in the prime of their lives.  They had been stripped naked before being bound to posts embedded in the platform atop the temple, and as they gazed raptly at the altar, their eyes showed no fear whatsoever.  Rather, their demeanor seemed to be one of eager anticipation, as was clearly demonstrated by the erections each of them had.  Their turgid members pointed to the altar, seeming to yearn for it.

At that point, I came awake, and realized we were parked on the shoulder of a highway.  I knew instantly we were lost, since the setting sun was to my right, and not ahead of us where it should have been.  As if to further confirm that, I saw a highway sign ahead of us that read, "Matamoros - 53 km" with an arrow pointing east.  I knew then that David had somehow left Mexico City going south rather than west.

He looked at me apologetically, and said simply, "I'm lost, honey.  Sorry."

The hangdog look on his face kept me from feeling any anger toward him, and I knew that it wasn't important that we had taken a "detour" from our planned route.  We'd find the correct road sooner or later, and in the meantime we'd see a part of my homeland that was new to me.  However, a more pressing matter was what to do right then, as it was rapidly becoming dark, and I knew we shouldn't try to drive on strange roads at night.

I said, "Let's go to Matamoros and spend the night.  Tomorrow we can make a fresh start.  It's no big deal, dear.  We've got lots of time."

He was relieved that I wasn't angry, and pulled onto the highway once again.  We turned at the indicated intersection, heading east.  As we drove, the droning of the tires on the pavement once again began to pull me back to my fascinating dream.  As before, I knew it was useless to fight the overwhelming urge to sleep.

I said to my husband, "It's about 30 miles to Matamoros.  Just stay on this road, and wake me when we arrive there."  It seemed I had barely uttered those words when once again sleep overtook me.

My dream seemed to begin exactly where it had been interrupted, which is something that has never happened before, in my experience.  Once again, I was the priestess, standing naked at the stone altar where the three men would soon be sacrificed.  Again I looked at their rampant penises, clutching the obsidian dagger tightly in my hand and feeling the excitement rising in my breasts and throat.  The chanting and deep, throbbing drumming continued, with my own throat adding to the sound.

The first man was untied from his post, and my fellow priestesses stepped aside to give him a clear view of the stone altar.  I was unsurprised when he began to walk toward it, and knew deep in my soul that his longing for what was to come was an indication that our god had entered this man, and was guiding him.  His genitals were growing even more with each step he took toward the altar, an indication to me that our god was indeed within those parts, and it would soon be my duty to free him.

He soon reached the altar, then stood there gazing raptly at me.  I said nothing, but merely looked directly at his penis while pointing to the stone surface, with its well-worn blood grooves leading from the middle to the edge.  He also was mute, and took his place atop the stone in complete silence. 

My assistants quickly tied his wrists and ankles with ropes, then stretched them to the four corners.  The ropes were tied to stakes that had been driven into the ground, and the victim was secured in his spreadeagle position.  By that time, his member was huge, and those parts of him that contained his seed had swollen so that each was as big as my clenched fist.  Truly the feathered serpent was there, and longed for his release.

For the first time, I looked at the man's face and was virtually overcome with shock.  Tied to the stone altar before me was my husband!  Even in the dim light cast by the bonfires surrounding us, there was no mistake.  The man I was to sacrifice was clearly David, even though his genitals were more than twice as large as they had ever been.  To the priestess in me, the identity of the sacrificial victim was irrelevant.  To the wife in me, though, what I would soon be required to do to my husband was overwhelming my mind with confusion.

It was at that point that I again awakened, and again I knew the car was stopped by the roadside, although this time it was no highway we were on.  It was completely dark, but in the light cast ahead by the headlights, I could see we were on a rutted dirt road, and the cactus was growing right beside us.  This was certainly no main road, let alone the way to Matamoros.

Again David looked to me with an apologetic expression.  He said, "It looks like I did it again, honey.  I have no idea where we are.  The last thing I remember is driving along the highway, heading east to Matamoros.  The next thing I knew, we were on this dirt road.  It's almost like I blacked out.  I'm sorry."

Once again, I could not be angry with him.  It was my own fault for falling asleep, and not doing my duty as navigator.  If it meant we'd have to sleep in the car until dawn came, and we could get our bearings, then so be it.  We weren't so spoiled that one night of discomfort would kill us.

At that moment, David glanced in the rearview mirror, then said, "There's a car coming.  Maybe we can get some help from them."

My own reaction was of momentary fear as I recalled all the tales my parents had told me of roadside bandits.  They said there were gangs of men who roamed the area, hoping to victimize stranded travelers.  I cautioned David, then made sure all the doors were locked and windows rolled up.

The car slowed as it approached us, then pulled in ahead and stopped.  I could see that a man was driving, with a woman sitting beside him.  I thought it odd when she was the one to get out and approach us.  It was obvious by her regal bearing that she was used to being in charge, and that somehow dispelled my fears that we were in danger.

Rather than approaching the driver's side of the car, she walked up to my door and stood there while I rolled down the window.  The entire conversation we had then was in Spanish, as were all the others of that evening.  My translation of them here is mostly accurate, and where there is no English corollary for a word used, I'll try to expand the definition.  It's important for you, the reader, to understand just what was said, as well as what our emotional state was.

As soon as my window was down, the woman said, "I am La Madre.  You've come to us, as we knew you would.  I see you've brought him, as we also knew would come to pass."

To say I was confused would be putting it mildly.  I didn't recognize this woman, and was sure there was no way she could know me.  Her facial features told me we shared a common heritage, as the spacing of her flashing, jet-black eyes, and the patrician shape of her nose were the equal of my own.  Her introduction of herself as "La Madre" did nothing to change my judgment that we were strangers.  The term is loosely translated as "The Mother," but I could tell by the way she pronounced it that it meant much more.  Her voice carried overtones of authority that made me think more of "leader" than "mother."

Before I could overcome my confusion and speak, she continued, "You must come with us now.  Bring him."

My confusion was still evident then, but somehow a feeling of acceptance began to glow within me.  I turned to David, saying in English, "These people will take us to a place we can stay tonight.  She said the road is too rough for our new car, so we should ride with them.  Our car will be safe here.  Let's go."

Without waiting for his response, I got out and stood beside La Madre.  David must have decided to follow my lead, for he turned off the headlights, got out, locked the doors, and joined us.  With no further word, the woman turned and walked back to her vehicle.  Once there, she opened the rear door and indicated we should get in, which we did.

As soon as we were seated, the car pulled back onto the rutted road and made its way slowly along.  The woman, who had resumed her seat in front, was doing something out of my sight in the seat between herself and the driver.  I heard the sound of liquid splashing in a cup, and was not surprised when she turned to me, with her hand holding an exquisitely carved stone drinking vessel.

The thing had been hollowed out so much that the side was no thicker than an ordinary cup.  The part that was different, though, was the carving on the outside.  There was a single hieroglyph there, and as my eyes focused on it, there was an instant resonance with the very core of my being.  I knew it was "my" cup, and that the carving told the world that I was "la sacerdotisa," which again loosely translated means "priestess."  Again there are undertones of meaning, most notably connoting that I was a woman who was in charge of a ritual.

My eyes seemed to be riveted on the cup, and I never knew when my hand reached out for it.  I remember drinking deeply of the contents, again being struck by a feeling of familiarity.  I had tasted that same flavor just a few hours before, in my oh-so-vivid dream.  The same burning in my throat, the same sensation of heat in my stomach, and the same flush of fire in my lower abdomen swept through my body.

As my mind returned to the moment, La Madre was again proffering a cup.  The rune on this one was different from mine, and I knew instantly it was for David.  The carving told the world that this cup was for the man who served, or more literally, the man who would be sacrificed.  Again the meaning was evident to me, and again I knew, in the intellectual part of my brain, there was no way I could have that knowledge.

I took the cup and held it out to David.  He accepted it, then took a small sip.  After grimacing, he said, "That tastes awful.  Are you sure I should drink it?"

My only answer was a vehement, "You must!"

He was momentarily taken aback by my outburst, but must have decided I simply didn't want to offend our hosts by refusing to drink.  He tipped the cup to his lips again, then drank deeply.  From somewhere deep in my being the knowledge sprang forward that I would need to take the cup from him, and so I held out my free hand to do so.

At almost the same instant as he swallowed the last of the drink, I heard him sigh and then saw him slump against the car door.  I took the cup from his limp hand, and then returned both of the vessels to La Madre.  She said simply, "It is done."  She then turned forward and did not speak again until we arrived at our destination.