Pishon's Tale

A gripping story of a ten year old boy who learns to accept those different than himself through the tales of his Maya peer.

As all of the other children at Clear Creek Intermediate School shared laughs over a game of cartoon tag, I sat quietly listening to Pishon’s tales, as had become my daily recess routine. Even as a ten year old, I knew that there was something special about my peer. My school had always been diverse, but this recent move-in did not belong to any racial group I was familiar with. As any parent with an adolescent can attest to, children rarely filter their thoughts before bluntly expressing them. This was certainly the case regarding my first encounter with Pishon.

At our first day of recess together, I noticed an unfamiliar face in solitude. I marched right up to this stranger laying atop a small bronze train in the corner of our small playground, tugged on his plain beige sweater and demanded of him, “What are you?”

Without breaking his gaze on the passing clouds, he proclaimed, “I am Pishon.”

Thirst unquenched by this unsatisfying reply, I pressed on further asking, “Not your name, silly! What ARE you?”

Pishon’s gaze finally broke and his kind eyes met mine as he gleamed, “I am like you, brother, a son of the stars!”

Utterly perplexed by these puzzling words, I again spoke before thinking, proclaiming, “I’m not your brother! I’m an only child.”

Pishon giggled as he retorted, “We are all children of the maize.”

The bell for the end of recess chimed all too soon, as Pishon disappeared before I was granted any clarity on these absurd notions he presented me. My classwork was impossible to focus on, as I attempted to wrap my developing mind around these foreign concepts. Nearly twenty minutes had passed and I had not even attempted to answer one question on my multiplication worksheet. My daydream like state was momentarily interrupted as I noticed a flash of red silk encompass my peripherals. As I ran my eyes from the ruby high heels to the snow covered slopes of worn out locks, I felt the cold hand of Mrs. Mathers clutch my shoulder as her raspy voice boomed, “Mr. Gray, your classwork has now become homework since you refuse to do anything in class.” This infrangible cycle persisted throughout my remaining schedule, as I acquired homework in English and History as well.

The bell for school to be released rang promptly at 3:15, just as it did every single day. At least something about that day was familiar, a routine bell schedule to keep everything in order. I lackadaisically wandered to the foyer where all of the bus riders awaited their departure, and maintained my obsession over my encounter with Pishon. My inner dialogue was a constant bombardment on my concentration; “Why did this crazy kid insist that I was his brother? What did he mean by coming from the stars? Also, what the heck kind of maze was he talking about?”

My attention must have been fully devoted to my thoughts because as I clambered up the five steps of the school bus and stepped on the untied shoelace of my left Converse, I fell face first and scraped my forearm on the top step. Distraught over my confusing encounter with Pishon, the amount of homework I accumulated, and now this embarrassing mishap ending in pain, my emotions created the perfect storm for a ten year old freak out. As I screamed and flooded my face with mucus, a stroke of civility swept over me as I glanced up and was again met with those kind grey eyes from recess.

Pishon extended a helping hand and pulled me up from the crumb laden bus floor. As I stood, he helped me over to the nearest empty seat and got the bus driver to bust out the seldom used first aid kit to help treat my scrapes. With Pishon’s help I was finally able to stop whimpering long enough to continue my line of inquiry from recess. I wiped the remainder of snot from under my nose with the sleeve of my favorite green Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt, and asked Pishon, “Why were you saying such weird things at recess?”

Pishon seemed taken aback by my assertion that his beliefs were peculiar, but he kindly replied, “You don’t know about Itzamna and the tales from the Popol Vuh?”

Frustrated beyond belief I further asserted and implored, “There you go again with all of that crazy talk! What the heck kind of alien language are you speaking?”

“My brother, I am talking about the sacred word of my Maya kin,” Pishon enlightened me.

Before I could grasp what was said, Pishon had vanished once more. Yet again, this elusive newcomer left me with far more questions than answers. With queries still burning away all ability to concentrate, I decided to turn to my ultimate source of knowledge, my mother. As the bus dropped me off at the end of my windy dirt driveway, I made the one hundred yard march to my comfortable 3 bedroom wood cabin home. As I opened the front door I faintly heard my mother’s sweet voice call out, “In the kitchen sweetie!”

I took my Batman backpack off and threw it on the barstool closest to me. My mind racing with questions, I slowly walked up to my mother and gently tugged on her checkered apron. She moved her attention from the homemade chili she was preparing for dinner to her only son, and as she gently kissed my forehead she said, “Hey there, little bear! How was school today?”

Hesitant to mention the mounds of homework I had accumulated, I quickly defracted the conversation to suit my best interest and asked, “Mommy, what are the Maya? And who is It Monna and the Pope of Love?”

My mother couldn’t hide her entertainment, as she quietly laughed to herself she replied, “The Maya used to be one of the most advanced people in Central and South America.” She began chopping an onion, and I noticed tears began to cloud her vision as she continued, “What you called ‘It Monna’ is actually pronounced Itzamna, and that is the Mayan word for God. You are also confusing ‘Pope of Love’ with the Popol Vuh, which is the Maya’s bible.” As my mother pulled back her shoulder length golden brown hair into a tight bun, she wiped away her presumed onion tears and asked, “Now why is my sweet baby so curious about the Maya?”

“There is a new kid at school named Pishon, and he is really weird and told me he is Maya and my star maze brother,” I informed my mother.

My mother’s mouth broadened into an exuberant smile as she replied, “You are very lucky, son! There are not nearly as many Maya in the world as there used to be, and especially not in this part of Texas. It seems like you have the chance to make a very special friend, and you should ask Pishon to explain more to you!”

Although my direct questions had been adequately resolved by my mother, I still did not understand why Pishon had called me brother and what he meant by being children of the stars and maize. As I tackled my homework, I was still bothered by these pressing thoughts and they even followed me to bed that night. As I delved deep into a state of slumber, vivid images of people falling from the sky in shooting star fashion flooded my dreams. Even more bizarre were the images of corn turning into people and joining the ranks of the star people. My dream culminated in an apocalyptic inferno that engulfed all of these people and totally decimated the population. At this note, I abruptly awoke from my incomprehensible dream and finally found peaceful sleep about an hour later.

The next morning I woke up and put my baby blue UNC basketball windsuit on for another day of school. I sat uncomfortably on loose gravel and leaned against our wooden fence post as I waited for the bus to arrive. My encounters with Pishon were still running through my mind like a broken record, but to my delight when the bus arrived he was sitting in a seat with an opening right next to him. Not knowing exactly what to say first, I started with, “Hey Pishon. My mom told me what Itzamna and the Popol Vuh are.” I could see the joy in those kind grey eyes as his face lit up and he told me, “I am happy to hear this brother!”

Again he insisted on calling me brother and it was a very foreign feeling for an only child, so I had to know why he was calling me this. I prodded him once more, “Why do you keep calling me brother? I already told you that I am an only child.” Pishon had an incredible knack for grabbing your attention when speaking to you, and as a result of my question he hooked me when he asked, “Would you like to hear the story of where man comes from?”

I immediately exclaimed my interest in the story, but we had just pulled up to the school so Pishon told me he would tell me the story at recess. The anticipation killed me as I eagerly watched each second tick away on a clock mounted above my science teacher’s desk. Finally I would learn the answers to all of my questions, if I could just endure thirty more minutes of biology vocabulary words. The recess bell chimed its lovely tune right at 12:30. I eagerly made my way to the bronze train where I first met Pishon and was again greeted by those kind grey eyes and bright smile.

I plopped down right in front of the bronze train and pleaded for Pishon to begin his story. As soon as Pishon began to speak, I could tell I was in for the story of a lifetime. He explained to me that in the beginning of time, Itzamna was wandering around the empty void of space and he became lonely. As a solution to his loneliness, Itzamna came to Earth and allowed his deities to roam freely among this bountiful land.

The One Ahuapu, or the first father, was the most important god roaming Earth. One day he was taking a stroll and passed by the mouth of a seemingly empty cave, known as Xibalba. As he crossed the threshold of Xibalba, he heard echoes of voices belonging to no visible bodies. The voices boomed from the mouths of the gods of the underworld and they were trying to entice him into a round of ball game. Their tactics worked and as they lured him into the cave, which was truly the entrance to the underworld, they immediately beheaded him. They hanged his freestanding head in a Calabash tree.

A few hours passed, and the daughter of one of the gods of the underworld stumbled upon the dangling severed head. The head spit into her hand, and through the grace of Itzamna, she became pregnant, and was banished from the underworld. Nine enduring months passed and the woman gave birth to twins, known as the Hero Twins. These children grew into two extraordinarily powerful deities with unparalleled power.

After learning about their origins and the fate of their father, the Hero Twins decided to go on a quest to locate him. They found Xibalba after a year of traversing rugged mountainous terrain, and in honor of their father, decided to challenge the gods of the underworld to a ball game. The Hero Twins outwitted the gods by using their wondrous powers and magic. In an attempt to deceive the gods of the underworld, the first of the Hero Twins killed his brother and then used his powers to resurrect him. After the second twin arose from his apparent death, he repeated the routine on his twin brother. The gods were in a complete state of awe and found themselves gawking at the Hero Twins in a dumbfounded state.

Finally, one of the gods sought to exploit this magic and pleaded for the Hero Twins to perform this trick on him.  The Hero Twins agreed to entertain the eager request of the god, but after they slayed him they refused to bring him back to life. Then, to add insult to injury, they chose to resurrect their dead father in the gods stead. The Hero Twins and their father fled the underworld after they pulled off their masterful ruse.

As they reached the surface, the Hero Twins passed through Xibalba and escaped into the sky to become what we know as the Sun and Moon. As the father came through the mouth of Xibalba, he plucked an ear of corn from the underworld. The father emerged from the cave as the God of Maize, and was greeted by the first sunrise of the Maya world. The God of Maize preceded to plant the ear of corn deep within the fecund soil of Earth. After one full cycle of the cosmic calendar, man and woman rose from the Earth. All Maya everywhere believe that they are the descendants of that one ear of corn.

Pishon was finished sharing his story with me, and as if it had been waiting for him to finish, the bell called for the closing of our recess. As I turned around to ask one final question, Pishon had yet again vanished. Although I could not ask him why the Maya had practically disappeared, I smiled as I walked back to class knowing that I finally had more answers than questions.

Pishon simply wanted to tell me a story, but in hindsight taught me a valuable life lesson that still encompasses my daily life. Just because somebody is different than you does not mean that you shouldn’t cherish what they have to say. After giving Pishon the chance to share his wealth of knowledge with me, I continued to eagerly anticipate each recess, knowing that I would continue to receive one of Pishon’s tales for as long as I was willing to listen.

Author's Note

Sorry about the sloppy formatting, but that's where copy and paste will get you :) I would love any sort of feedback!

Reviews

[Hana]

Hello there! This is a really interesting topic you’re writing on! What inspired you to write about the Maya? Is it a particular interest of yours? I think this could certainly be a longer story… have you thought about other characters you'd want to introduce?

Your 10-year-old narrator is very skilled with language! I was just wondering though, whether you deliberately have him say things like: ‘Pishon seemed taken aback by my assertion that his beliefs were peculiar’, to make him stand out from his peers, or to remind us that he’s narrating this from an older age? If accidental, however, I think it kind of slows the reader down a bit, and snags a little on the story – as intriguing a story as it is! ☺

I love this message at the end, that ‘Pishon simply wanted to tell me a story, but in hindsight taught me a valuable life lesson that still encompasses my daily life.’ I’d love to hear about some of Pishon’s other tales, which I assume you’d go into if you made this into a longer work? It’d be great to see, in the larger novel, just how Pishon inspires the narrator, and how his life is changed for the better.

Altogether a really fun, heart-warming read! Let me know if you write more on it! :D

[Grislobo]

Thank you very much for your feedback! I have always had a bit of a fascination with the Maya. It probably stems from my birthday being December 21st and the Maya predicting a new age of thought on 12/21/2012. And yes, the broad vocabulary was meant to highlight the idea that the narrator was older, but still consumed by his past interactions with his peer. And I will post any updates I choose to make! Thank you for your time in reading, and reviewing, my work!

[Diana]

“Not your name, silly! What ARE you?”- One of my favorite lines. Who we are is so much more than a name.

I enjoyed the Mayan references, such a peace and a connectedness to the world and those around us (our "brothers" as you say in your story).

[Grislobo]

Thank you very much! I'm glad you liked it!