Forbidden the Stars Part 29

My grandson stands by me, tall and proud. It is his eighteenth birthday, and he is trying to act like a man, stoic and wise and focused. by me, tall and proud. It is his eighteenth birthday, and he is trying to act like a man, stoic and wise and focused.

But his eyes betray him. I can see how he glances over to Artek's granddaughter and tries to hide his blush. Romance blossoms. Thus the world works, thus my line will be continued. It is the same everywhere. And it is good, so I say nothing.

I am getting old. Too old, some say. I know sometimes my grandson thinks so, but I also know that sometimes, like now, he is rethinking his opinions, especially when the big white men in blue and gray suits fly from their important cities in America just to visit an old man like me.

I am too old to go to them, so they come to me; this, my grandson respects. He is finding his wisdom slowly, but it is there, and I am happy to see that he will make a fine leader of our people when I am gone.

The entire village has come out to the council courtyard to see the white men and their special visitor arrive in our humble community. I see a few faces as old and familiar as mine; most are new, some I do not even recognize. They must have traveled from other villages to see also. That is good. Perhaps Copan will one day return to its splendor of a millennium ago.

Perhaps that is just the wishful thinking of an old man.

My grandson hears the roar of the white men's cars long before my old ears pick up the rattle of engines and pings of rocks from our gravel roads.

Turning my head, I see their rented vehicles. Ten of them, all filled with white men in suites.

All but one.

I disregard the white men. They think they are important, but in the greater skein of life, they are no more important than anyone else.

The only important one slowly exits the middle car.

He is short compared to the men from NASA, with jet black hair, and a deeply tanned, round face. He appears young, even younger than my grandson, though he bears himself like a council elder.

To honor the village, he is wearing the ceremonial dress of a Maya priest, which is right and good.

As he approaches, I reach out for my grandson to help me out of my chair and to the ground, where I kneel before the visitor.

The white men gathered round shuffle uncomfortably. They think I am just an old man who knows nothing.

It is they who do not know anything, and their confusion only increases when I pay my respects to the visitor.

I speak in both Mayan and Spanish, so that the villagers can also understand me. One of the white men translates for his fellows.

"He said: Greetings Colop U Uichkin, welcome to our humble village. Your mercy is our salvation.'

"-I think this Colop," the man whispers, though loud enough for me to hear, "is their G.o.d of the sky."

I laugh deep in my throat at their poor translation. Colop means Sky Traveler in our language.

Colop ignores them. Their purpose was only in bringing him back to us, and that has been served.

Smiling, Colop beckons me back to my chair.

"Please, Grandfather," the Sky Traveler says respectfully as the white man translates, "rest your old bones. Do not kneel on my account." It is so with the kindest of men.

Colop and my grandson helps me back to my seat. My knees crack and pop, but I manage to find the chair and fall into it.

"Everything will be all right now," Colop tells me, "I am here, and your job is complete, Grandfather. Our People on this world are well prepared for the return of the People of the Stars. Your Cousins will have many stories to tell you when they arrive. They look forward to meeting you."

It is then that my grandson speaks out of turn. Alas, I have not taught him as well as I should have. It is obvious that he now believes in my stories; but he is still young, and has doubts.

My grandson looks down on this visitor from the stars who looks like a boy, and says: "Colop. You must answer me a question. When our People were taken to the stars, why were us few left behind? Did our ancestors displease them?"

"No, cousin. The People who were left here were chosen because of their loyalty and intelligence. The ones who were taken needed to be shown the mysteries of the universe so that they could understand their role in the great skein.

"One day, they would have to return to the world, and their coming would require guides to bridge the gap between the fourth world-the white man's world-and the People's culture. That will be your role in the new, fifth, world of this earth, cousin. You will serve as an amba.s.sador between the People of the Earth and the People of the Sky."

"I am sorry for my impertinence, great Colop. Forgive me." Thus my grandson makes me proud.

"And now," I say, "we must feast and celebrate your coming, Colop."

The Sky Traveler turns to the white men who brought him here, and dismisses them, telling them to return tomorrow when he will discuss the future.

The white men grumble and argue, and they glance at me with suspicion, the mean while rea.s.sessing my worth and value in their political minds. It will serve me to keep the peace between our cultures, but for now, it is time for them to go.

"NASA men," I say to them. "A great change will come upon us in our future. There will be hundred-fold benefits for all the peoples of the world. You need time to think about how you would like that future to be shaped. Perhaps if you went back to your hotels and talked with each other, you could develop a plan and bring it to us, so that both our peoples can talk this over together."

The white men are fond of talking, and making plans. Almost eagerly, they bustle into their cars and drive away.

Colop, the man in a boy's body who the white men call Alex Manez, remains with us. He must tell out about his time with the People of the Sky, what he has learned from them, and what they expect from us.

"For a millennium, you and your ancestors have protected the ancient scrolls," he says to me. "It is in those scrolls where we will find what we need in order for the People of the Stars to accept us into their cosmic tribe. You are the only one who can read those scrolls, grandfather. It is you who must lead us into the next age."

My grandson looks at me with newfound respect.

I may be an old man, but now, with renewed purpose, I feel young once more.

THE BEGINNING.

About the Author :

In true nomadic spirit, Valmore Daniels has lived on the coasts of the Atlantic, Pacific, and Arctic Oceans, and dozens of points in between.

An insatiable thirst for new experiences has led him to work in several fields, including legal research, elderly care, oil & gas administration, web design, government service, human resources, and retail business management.

His enthusiasm for travel is only surpa.s.sed by his pa.s.sion for telling tall tales.

Visit the author at ValmoreDaniels.com