Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

then thirty, then she asked me for eighty dollars. Rosita, she’s playing with
me. Flattering me, loving me in the night, and laughing at me in the day.”
He said a patient had told him that La Cobanera was seen in Belmopan
on the arms of another man. She was known by many names: Limpia
mundo, meaning one who cleans out the world; and Rastrillo, for one who
rakes in, in reference to her voracious appetite for money.
“Watch out for her, old man,” the patient had warned. “Don’t believe
her lies, for she is not what she seems.”
Panti had confronted Claudia and informed her he knew of her
capricious habits but that he was willing to forsake the past. “She can have
a fresh start with me. I’ll take good care of her just as I did my Chinda.”
It pained me to see him court an unappreciative woman. Such a good
and attractive man shouldn’t have to bargain with a woman for her
affection. It was apparent that he had a trusting nature, a trait we both
shared. Perhaps it’s a function of our healing gift to be too accepting and
forgiving of human frailty.
Finally, I blurted out, “She shouldn’t do that to you, Don Elijio. She
doesn’t realize what a wonderful catch you are.”
“Mamasita, it stings me when I must plead with her like a schoolboy
not to go,” he droned on in a sorrowful voice.
We trampled along the road with our wet sacks sinking us into mud
puddles and potholes that got deeper and slushier with the steady drizzle. I
kept looking over at him to see if his mood was getting any lighter, having
vented some of his despair. I was getting more protective of him with every
passing day, and I was angry. I was willing to devote so much of myself to
this lovely man, whom I deeply respected, while another woman mocked
his search for a true companion by teasing his lonely, aging heart.
A few weeks later, I met La Cobanera for the first time. It was just after
the last patient had left and I was outside cleaning up while Panti was
resting after a naprapathic treatment. I heard an engine shut off and a car
door slam just outside the gate. I anticipated the face of a patient turning the
corner in search of Don Elijio.
But a short, stocky, barefoot woman dressed in patched and torn
clothing appeared and plopped herself on the stoop. She twisted around and
peered around the room until her gaze landed on me. “Who are you? Are
you sick? And where’s the old man?” she said in one breath.
I told her who I was. “Who are you?” I asked.