spun around to face the outburst, puzzled to be drawn into such a bizarre comment.
“Jean, is your Pops feeling alright?” Cosamado asked his equally confounded traveling companion.
“No, no, no…but of course you both wouldn’t understand.” Pops said as his spirit settled back down.
“While I am in my dream state I am a part of a collective consciousness of dreamers. Together we have the intuitive ability to see visions of the future and for the last couple of days now, we have all repeatedly seen you at a crossroads, a pivotal contributor as to whether or not there is future.”
Cosamado floated down and looked Pops in the eye. As a Priest he had had a lifetime of training in matters of the soul and so was naturally curious to learn more of Pop’s dream world.
“Your visions are correct, I'm on a journey ordained by the Gods. In fact your son was personally chosen by them as a guide to show me the way, to the crossroads as you put it.”
With pride, the old man turned and looked at his son.
“And had he not passed…”
“Had he not passed, the chances of securing a future for all things fade.”
A moment went by and slowly a warm healing glow of understanding began to flow and shine about the old man's spirit.
“Come here, boy” Pops softy spoke as he leaned over and gently kissed his son’s forehead. And while his Father anointed him with his love, Jean's own bitterness at having been taken so early also slowly faded away.
“You spoke earlier of your dream world. What more can you tell me about such things?” Cosamado inquired quietly, sensitive to the healing that had just occurred between father and son.
“Oh it’s like the difference between night and day. While we sleep, our consciousness is unified; while we are awake, our consciousness is segregated, shut out from the collective. It is a natural mechanism designed to provide you with the illusion of individuality.”
Cosamado thought back to his training for the priesthood, studying the meditative practice of the elders--to the times when he felt as though he were not fully present on either side, occasionally catching glimpses of what he now understood to be the coalition of all sentient beings, which would appear before him as a shadow in a dream.
“Yes, I have tried, without success, on many occasions to break through to the other side, only to be thwarted by a force that would repel my efforts much like the negative space between two backward magnets. The closest I would ever come would be during those fleeting moments you sense right before slipping into unconsciousness.”
“Exactly, like peaking through a curtain. We of the dream world too, will experience occasional moments when our reality will accidentally flow over into yours through tears in the great fabric, whose design is to sever all connections between our realms. I believe your side calls those moments apparitions.”
Cosamado recalled clearly those moments.
“There were times when the priests would gather together for vision quests. After days of fasting, we would ingest the sacred plants; whose spirits would momentarily deconstruct the universe for us. And yes, like a bird appearing at the window, strange spirits would occasionally appear.”
“That would have been us,” Pops replied.
“Well, if it its true that you are apart of the collective, are you tapped in now?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And all living souls present?”
“Only those, whose bodies are unconscious.”
“Including Richard of Wallingford?”
“Richard, Jean’s old classmate at Oxford?” Pops asked with curiosity.
“That’s right, your son is showing me the way to Richard of Wallingford, who, it was revealed to me, may hold the keys to our dilemma.”
Pops drew silent for a moment; the wrinkles across his forehead burrowed deep as though he was intently listening to the chatter of a billion souls.
“There was no reply. He must be unplugged, or awake, as you prefer to call it. Would you like me to pass him a message the next time he joins us?”
“Will he recall it in his awaking hours?”
“No, but it will be buried deep within his unconsciousness memory. And like a dog with an annoying tick, it will hound him mercilessly until it arises to the surface.”
The blooms on the apple tree drew nearer as Cosamado told Pops everything he had seen since departing from this world. Of the howler monkey Gods and the trouble they had caused and the possible solution offered within the silver scrolls. And as Pops listened carefully to every detail of Cosamado’s incredible tale his spirit body began to splinter into billions of translucent spheres of light as members of the collective began to appear, and occupy portions of the composition which made his body.
“It would seem you have caught their attention,” commented Jean as the two travelers watched in awe.
Shimmering in the morning light, Pop's image pulsated and rolled gently as a gentle breeze blew the curious apple petals about them all in a shower of pink. About his body, individual spheres within the mass began to expand out revealing the faces of distant sleepers, who would peer at Cosamado with scrutinous eyes. Eventually seven faces emerged to float like ghosts in a sea of stars.
“You have a daunting task ahead of you,” said one of the heads floating near Cosamado. “But fear not, for collectively we will be working in the background to help you on your way.”
Cosamado studied the young woman with dark hair who had spoken in a dialect that he recognized as from one of the tribes in the northern province. About her face, a beautiful light glowed as she graciously looked back at Cosamado with her chestnut brown eyes.
Pops, sensing that there was a natural attraction between the two, spoke out, encouraging the chemistry. “Cosamado, this is Ix Chel. She will be the first of seven guides whom you will encounter upon leaving Uxmal.”
As he spoke, the collective swirled, broke apart and then reformed to show a map of the north American continent upon which the seven guides graced the eastern seaboard like a shimmering string of pearls.
“One by one, you will meet each of us in the waking world, our disconnected, unaware selves. However, we will so be filling their heads with dreams of you, that by the time you actually meet the unawares they will be compelled to want to help you,” Ix explained.
“Seven faces, seven guides, remember them well,” Pops advised while twirling the heads so that Cosamado could get a good look at each of his benefactors. Before him Cosamado saw the twirling beauty of the woman he knew as Ix. Next to her, on the string of pearls and 500 miles north on the map, the smirking face of a youth sporting dark blue facial tattoos signifying his status as a ball player from the city of El Tajin. Beside him, there was a succession of three women starting from the middle of the gulf and heading north up along the coast towards the end of the great continent. And where the land melted away into the sea, Cosamado saw one of the most unusual looking humans he had ever seen, a giant of a man who was delicately preening the massive locks of his flaming red hair. Finally floating next to the red giant, the balding head of a middle-aged man whose features reminded Cosamado of a faded lemon.
Cosamado looked at the diverse group and wanted to know more.
“Pop’s, what can you tell me about the chosen ones?”
“The three women that you see in the middle of the group will be your interpreters as you travel though the vast regions of your northern ancestors. Their names are,” Pops paused for a moment, took a deep breath and then let loose a cascade of names. After a good ten minutes, he concluded the roll call.
“The interpreters with too many last names,” Jean chuckled. “You may as well just call them 26, 42 and 7 in respect to the number of names they have.”
“Well understand,” Pops explained, “it’s their custom to retain their genealogy as a way of honoring their biological descent. You would think, however, that one would want to pay tribute to one’s spiritual succession. Retaining the names of your past l
ives.”
“That veil is lifted in your world?” Cosamado asked, recalling the cleansing process that all souls go though upon dying.”
“Yes, the collective has unfiltered memories which flow back to the origin of our species. We can, in fact call together all the echo’s of our past lives in what we call a reunion of the self.”
“So what do you talk about when you get together?”
“Mostly, the guys like to talk about how they died, often getting into pissing contests as to who had the most unusual death. The women, on the other hand, will talk about relationships, art and culture.”
“I guess things aren’t all that different on you your side, aren’t they?” Cosamado observed.
A wind suddenly picked up and knocked the tree on the side of its head, knocking a couple of overripe apples off their stem, sending them directly onto the head of the sleeping Pops. Startled, Pop’s eyes slowly fluttered open and as his eyes took hold of the world around him, his sleeping spirit and all the collective were pulled back into their world of dreams.
Cosamado and Jean watched as Pops reached up with his ancient hands and wiped away his fallen tears, which had rolled down as his heart had healed. Looking about, he squinted his eyes and looked directly in Jean’s direction, and smiled.
“Good bye son,” he said as he slowly got up to prune his long neglected trees.
Jean looked to his Pops and to his childhood memories, which were running about in circles around the base of the