Barbara Emrys - The Toltec Art of Life and Death

This was the most dangerous time, the hour when morning had not yet imagined itself and good struggled against evil in the predawn gloom. The young warrior blinked his eyes once, then again, and steadied his arm. As I dreamed with him, it seemed I could feel pebbles shift under one sandaled foot, bite into the flesh of his knee. I could feel the mist grip the man’s ankles and tighten its chilly hold on his bare arms and thighs. I could feel it licking at the back of his neck and his painted brow. Together, we glanced toward the sky. The world above him—an array of stars within a field of mystery—mirrored his perfect body. Seeing this, he whispered a prayer and steadied his breath. His body relaxed. His attention moved back to the valley below, where the mist had begun to disperse and the waters of his ancestral lake curved between dark hills like the jeweled fingers of a goddess. He steadied the bow. The eagle feather in his hair danced gracefully in the rising wind. His back was straight and his belly relaxed. His dark skin glowed radiantly bronze in the approaching sunrise.

His people would be grateful to him now. He imagined some of them peering out of their doorways and sensing the threat that lay beyond the fog. He looked toward the lakeside village as if he might see his father gazing back at him where he knelt quietly and alone—one brave soldier empowered by the strength of the fiery mountain. He felt his father’s pride, and the pride of the ancestors. There was so much to feel in that empty moment between the start of things and the end of things. Light would soon burst over the eastern rim of mountains and destiny would rise up shouting behind it. There were victories lying in wait. Revelations loomed just beyond this present uncertainty. With the breath of his ancestors on his cheek, and the cool touch of their hands upon his back, the warrior composed himself again, one sandal digging into the rocks and eyes staring down the shaft of his warrior’s arrow. He was ready. . . .

And now, as the shock of pain startles me from my dream, I see that it is my time to join the warriors of antiquity. As I once stalked truth, eternity stalks me now. Sunrise thunders along the eastern ridge, and destiny is riding in its wake. With the breath of my ancestors on my cheek, and the cool touch of their hands at my back, I wait for Death’s greeting with a welcoming smile.

I, too, am ready.

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication I dedicate this book with all my love and gratitude to the young woman who left her physical body in the month of October 2010 and donated her heart to me. Thanks to her generosity and to the generosity of her family, I have been able to travel to cities around the world, bringing my message of love, awareness, and joy to many ­people. It is because of her that I was also able to create this book with Barbara Emrys, whose imagination and artistry bring the story of don Miguel Ruiz to life within these pages. To all the hospital personnel who have treated me since my heart attack, during my subsequent heart transplant, and up to this date, I offer my deepest gratitude. I also dedicate this wonderful story to my sons, my daughters-in-law, and my entire family, all of whom I love so much. This is also for my readers, whose growing awareness over the last fifteen years has encouraged me to deliver my message in inventive and exciting ways. It is clear to me that their love for this wisdom has made the world a happier place to live. Preface Cast of Characters Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 Reader’s Guide Glossary Acknowledgments About the Authors About the Publisher

The old woman muttered to herself as her feet shuffled along the surface of the dry, cracked terrain. Her slippers scratched the dirt, kicking silky clouds of dust into the wavering air. She held a large bag in one hand and clutched her shawl around her shoulders with the other. The beat of her labored footsteps was the only sound, a slow and plodding sound that never hesitated. She walked on. There was no path to speak of, but she didn’t need one. She knew where she was going. She was following the traces of something invisible to her, but unmistakable. She was following the instincts of a mother searching for her son.

For weeks now she had felt the chilling fear a mother feels at the possibility of losing her child. Somewhere in the world she had just left, her thirteenth child was slipping away—not from her sight, for she knew he lay silent and pale in a hospital bed. He was slipping steadily away from her senses. She could no longer feel the life-current of him. She could no longer speak to him in the wordless ways that they had shared for almost fifty years. As the force of life weakened in him, so did his ties to the world of matter and thought. There was very little time left, she knew. His heart had failed, his body was dying, and the doctors were poised to give up the fight. What else could she do but journey into this timeless place where his presence had gone, and seek him out? She would find her youngest son, the soul of her soul, and she would bring him home.

Beyond her fragile form there stretched a vast landscape of sand and rock and all manner of lifeless things. There was no color, save for billowing clouds of slate blue that swarmed above her soundlessly. Lightning seared the depthless heavens, blinding her in jagged rhythms . . . but this storm was made of dreams. This was a storm born of feeling and wonder, and such things would not slow her progress.

Sarita continued on, the sound of her breath echoing into the silence. Her pulse quickened and her chest heaved, as if her exertions were real. Perhaps they were. She had never attempted such a journey before. She had not known what to expect, or what cost her body would have to pay. As she walked on, she willed herself to relax. She would not succumb to fear. She was old; it was true. She had recently celebrated her ninety-second birthday, but she was not ready to leave the world of matter and meaning. She was not ready, and therefore he was not ready. Her son would not be permitted to die while she still had the strength to fight for him. She took a quick breath and allowed a smile to wash the strain from her features. Yes, she had the strength. In this peculiar space between here and there, her love would triumph. Encouraged, she set her bag down for a moment and straightened her shoulders, gathering the ends of her shawl in a loose knot at her neck. She was wearing a nightgown made of thin cotton. The windless cold seeped through it easily, chilling her flesh. No matter, she thought. There was no turning back now. Her senses might fail to recognize him, but her heart would not. Scanning the landscape once more, she picked up the heavy bag with the other hand and resolutely shuffled on.

It was a nylon shopping bag, the kind that she would have taken to market in those cool early mornings in Guadalajara, during the days just before her youngest had been born. It showed a portrait of the Virgin on the outside, printed in bright colors, and within it were many items blessed by her own prayers and intent. She gave the bag a gentle shake, as if to reassure herself of her mission, and thought of those days so long ago, just before the birth of her thirteenth child, when all of life seemed reassuring. It had been a sweet time: she was forty-three, still beautiful, and wedded to a handsome young man to whom she had already given three sons. He had married her right out of school, in spite of her age and her nine children by a previous marriage. He had married her against the wishes of his family. He had married her, some said, because she worked her wicked magic on him. Well, there would always be those who were skeptical. They had married out of love, pure and simple. From love, four healthy sons were born.