Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

three places, using the sharp end of the spine.
I heard “pop, pop, pop,” as the stingray punctured the taut skin. The
policeman grimaced but held his seat stoically.
Then Panti forced the man’s head forward while streams of dark, frothy
blood fell to the floor.
A foul odor filled the room.
“There you see your sickness on the floor,” Panti said, pointing with his
finger. “I’ve taken out the congested old blood blocked in your head,
causing headaches. Blood should run like a river—clear, clean, and free.”
The policeman looked relieved. “My pain is gone,” he announced as he
left. “I feel like a weight has been lifted.”
After the patients left, Panti gave me an assignment: to toast a bushel of
green leaves he had harvested that morning to treat a patient’s skin sores.
“This is Tres Puntas, child. A very blessed plant. Keep the fire burning
low under the comal and keep turning the leaves until they are toasted dry. I
can’t do it myself because I get burned, these eyes, you know.”
After a few minutes of working with Tres Puntas I too could hardly see.
Once the leaves began to heat up, they emitted a stinging smoke that burned
my eyes and made my throat itch and my nose run.
Panti laughed and put another pile of fresh leaves on the comal. I moved
the leaves about with a tree branch, trying to keep out of the shifting smoke,
but finally gave up when he complained that I wasn’t turning them often
enough. In order to do a good job, I had to keep my face right in the line of
acrid steam until the leaves were parched dry.
It was an especially torrid, tropical afternoon, and I was close to passing
out with the added heat from the fire. But I didn’t want to fail at my new
task, so I blew on my upper lip and tried to cool my face; I had no hands
free to wipe the sweat dripping down my neck.
He sat on a low stool in the breezy doorway, passing the crispy, almost
burned leaves through a sieve into a gourd bowl. I watched as the leaves
turned to blackish green powder, which he gathered into an old Tasters
Choice jar with the label nearly rubbed off.
After I had finished, I went back to my post chopping the Billy Webb
bark. Panti looked over at me with a proud smile. “I like the way you
handle that machete, Rosita, but let me sharpen it for you. It will serve you
better.” We established a ritual. Every hour or so during our afternoon
chopping sessions, he would stop his work to skillfully sharpen my blade