LACANDON INDIANS IN THE HOUSE OF QUETZAL digital manipulation by Michael Forbus THE HOUSE OF QUETZAL copyright by Miguel Forbus Thirty years ago, as I was exploring the ruins of the Maya, a brujo in Palenque told me of a tribe of true Maya who still lived the natural life in San Cristobal de los Casas close to the border of Guatamala. Although still rustic and secluded, I decided to visit the village. It took me three days on burro with some supplies I took to offer the tribe. Some cookware, tobacco, coffee, salt and sugar, large bags. After an ardous trip, I reached the village. Some were very shy about my blonde hair, called me Guero and my blue eyes. I told them who had sent me and my guide passed the gifts out to the right people. I was given a palapa and a hammock and took a long dip in the cold stream and then a nap. When I awoke, they were many children looking in my door watching me wake. They brought me some cane liquor and we drank until I thought I could speak Mayan. At least I understood some of the stories. The woman had the feathers of the Quetzal in their long hair as well as some of the men. The villagers were so kind and gracious. They kept touching my skin and my hair and my beard. In the night I kept hearing a growling in the rainforest. The head of the village told me it was a Jaguar telling me to stay in the circle. One young man was very special. He could wave his hand and tiny blue stars would flow from his hand. He was the greatest hunter and the next generation to become the brujo. He took me on a long walk and plucked medicinal herbs and showed me wild orchids in the trees and showed me where the Jaguar slept. I stayed until the burros had to be returned. But even now, I dream of the Rsplendent Quetzal and the growl of the Jaguar. That growl has saved me many times. I always found the circle and stayed in it when I felt danger and heard the low gutteral growl. It is a great thing to have a thing to listen to, a thing that warns you of ill action and dangerous people around you. I have used it many times. I pray to the Quetzal to carry me into the tallest trees that I might see above the canopy and hear the lovely song that still soothes me and tells me the story of the Maya and the young brujo who could wave his hand and tiny blue stars would manifest. copyright by Miguel Forbus