Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

I followed him in, and he sat down in his customary seat.
“This is for you,” he said, holding out his hand. The small shiny marble
rolled along the crevices of his palm. It was his sastun.
“What?” I asked, taken aback. I was shocked. I waved his hand away.
“I am ninety-three now and I’m dying soon,” he continued, matter-offactly.
“Don’t talk that way, papá,” I cried. “I hate it when you do that.
Sometimes I think you could outlive me, you have so much energy and
strength. What would you do without your sastun?”
He reached into his bag and pulled out another bundle swathed in cloth.
“I’ve been given another,” he announced. He unwrapped it and showed me
a stone that was larger and paler than the one that he had used for sixty
years.
“Last week, Rosita, I had a dream vision,” he told me. The same old
Maya Spirit in ancient ceremonial garb, who had heralded his first sastun,
had returned.
“The old Maya said, ‘We see that you are working hard, that you are old
and tired and need some help. It is time for you to have a new sastun. In the
morning at the first light of dawn, open your door and look on your
doorstep. There you will find a gift to help you.’
“When I woke and heard the rooster crow and saw the light through the
crack of the window, I jumped up and opened the door,” recounted Don
Elijio. “There on the doorstep sat this new sastun.
“I want you to have my old sastun because you need it,” he said. “Even
though you can’t read it yet, you can use it to enchant protecciones and
photographs.”
He dropped his old sastun into my hand. It felt cool and light. I accepted
and told him that today was my birthday.
“Bién suave,” he said, grinning. How smooth.
Two mornings later, Don Elijio didn’t get up at his usual hour of dawn.
At dinner the night before he had complained of stomach cramps. During
the night I had heard the ropes of his hammock creak, as he shifted and
sighed, unable to sleep.
Shortly after sunrise, I heard him gasp, a long painful breath. I parted
the curtain, rushed over, and pulled his blanket back.
“Are you all right, papá?” I asked.
“Ahh, Rosita,” he said in between gulps for air. “I’m dying.”