Penelope
weak force testosterone
Lucia and the Snake ... (a fable)
The year is 1853. Lucia, Isabel, Fatima, and Joelle leave their convent school in San Miguel, Portugal.
Lucia sails for Bora Mukai.
Isabel leaves for Kenya.
Fatima books passage for Brazil.
And Joelle heads out to New Guinea.
Each depart with devout intent to nourish the unfortunate of the world ... in the Revealed Word.
& & &
1. Cleanliness is next to godliness.
In my first three months on Bora Mukai, I - Lucia - learn the native language at the Catholic Mission on the north coast of the island. The natives are friendly and helpful, and some attend church regularly. But I am dissatisfied. So when I hear of a people, unconverted to the faith, who live in an enclosed valley surrounding a lake at the southern interior of the island, I receive permission to open a mission there. I pack my bag.
After three long days of travel, I reach the largest of three villages surrounding the lake. Each village sits on a stream feeding the lake - each village situated just above a waterfall, a mile into the foothills away from the lake. I find this to be a gorgeous valley.
But I find the people of this valley very peculiar. The lake is pristine blue, with a rocky bottom, clear enough to see whole schools of fish. The soil is rich and muddy in the flatlands surrounding the lake. It would be easy to grow rice or soy or corn there, plant fruit trees.
But the people of the valley plant only root vegetables and eat only native jungle fruit, upland from the valley shore. And they do not fish in the lake, but fish only upland of their waterfall. It seems to me, in their primitive superstitions, that this lake is sacred to these simple souls. It is not to be despoiled by human hands.
But I have decided to live with these simple people, live with them many weeks, before I shall attempt to convert them to the ways of civilization. Then, only slowly. One little thing at a time.
I adapt my speech to their ancient dialect, learn their ways of cultivation and harvest, of cooking food and also of curing plants to make clothing from them. But I make the clothes for myself more modest than those that the darker-skinned women of these villages wear. But I do not adapt the religious rituals of these people, keeping strictly to my own ritual practices, unless there is a clear parallel between theirs and mine.
The people of the three villages nod and accept. They seem to be fine with my idiosyncrasies. Life is easy. They question nothing. Just accept things as they are.
At first, so do I. But this is not my Mission, here.
The thing that annoys me most about the lifestyle of these people is how dirty they are. Going weeks without bathing, many are caked in mud. I, myself, try to bath regularly - despite my modesty. But the stream-water above the waterfalls is so cold that I cannot sit in it for more than a minute. I mostly splash water upon myself, and use fish-fat mixed with plant-oils for soap.
The streams run thru the shade of the jungle, down from the mountains, unwarmed by the sun. But the open water of the lake, I realize in a flash of inspiration, must be much warmer. The lake bakes all day, under the gleam of the sun. And I know what my first lesson to these primitive people must be. They must learn to bathe.
I slowly but persistently work to persuade the people of the virtue of this. Then I pick an auspicious day in the people's religious year, and say ... on that day, I - Lucia - will go down to the lake and bathe. They smile and tell me that I should not do this. But I remain firm. And I work to convince the people that I am not defiling their sacred lake, but that bathing is a sacred ritual, too.
That bathing has health and religious benefits - benefits of Catholic civilization - like the medicines and metal tools I brought with me and shared with these people.
Finally, my persuasiveness pays off. They see the power in my religious beliefs. They do refuse to join me, when this auspicious day arrives. But they compromise and say they will watch from the rocky bluffs above the lake. And if they see magic in this 'bathing,' if I demonstrate its power and virtue, then they will consider joining me in the practice at a later time.
I blush at the thought of all three villages watching as I walk to the shore of the lake and undress. But this is crucial to my Mission to these backward people. So I take courage this morning, walking across rocks, onto the clay shore. I wear only my native clothing, plus my crucifix. I remove the woven blouse and lay it carefully on the rocks, remove my crucifix and lay it there, and remove my britches and lay them out there, next to the shirt. I know this procedure might become a precedent for future behavior by villagers, so I conduct it with the solemnity of a devotional ritual.
Now naked, I take the homemade soap and a washcloth I made special for this day - cloth made of woven fibers - and walk solemnly down off the rocks, across the clay lakeshore to the water's edge. I stop at the water's edge, thinking for a moment. Tiny waves wash the shore. But there is no wind. The day is still and clear. I then cross myself and walk into the water.
The water is pleasantly warm. It is even warmer than I expected. Not quite the temperature of the hot baths I had every Saturday evening at the convent, but nearly so. So I walk out till I am waist deep in water, and I begin to feel a mix of clay and rocks beneath my feet. I spread my legs, slightly, for stability against the gentle wave-action. Now that my lower private parts are half-hidden beneath the waves, much of my embarrassment is gone. I can now, confidently, get on with my tasks.
I wet the washcloth. I hold the soap up and, conspicuously, rub the soap into the washcloth. I conspicuously wash my face. Then I rinse my face, conspicuously bending slightly and splashing my face with lake-water. Then I wash my arms and chest and back and rinse them, too. Then I take the washcloth and wash all the regions of my body that are beneath the water. I then swish my body from side to side, to rinse the soap free from my lower limbs.
When I swish from side to side, the villagers on the cliffs above all gasp in unison. I smile back at everyone, and the villagers giggle.
I have always had long dark hair, but my hair has grown quite long since arriving at Bora Mukai. And, since arriving at this valley, it has never had a good washing. I am happy to be able to wash it now. I lather the hair around my head with soap. Then I ostentatiously swing the hair, which falls down my back, around to the front and lather it with soap, too. I want to do this slowly and enjoy it - it has been so long.
But the deeper water, down around my feet, must be colder than that near the surface - because my lower legs are beginning to feel numb. So I quickly run my fingers thru my hair and bend my head into the water to rinse my hair off.
At first I think I am imagining it, in the lambent light thru the lake-water. A green-and-tan vine has wrapped itself around my leg. Around both legs, and between them - in fact. Just sprung from the lake floor. I take a step toward shore. The will is there, but my legs do not move. My feet are fixed to the mud and rocks.
I now see beneath the water that this vine is not small, but five inches in diameter. And it is moving. Slowly, but definitely curling around one leg, then the other - upward. Then I see its eyes.
It is a snake. Not a poisonous one. It is a boa-constrictor. But it has different markings than those of the northern jungle, and appears to live in the water. The snake curls behind my buttocks and emerges, like a devil dream, between my legs - just below the delta of venus. Then the head emerges from the water above my left hipbone, and slithers around behind my back. And, all the while, its long scaly body moves relentless forward between my legs. The shifting texture of these scales - becomes an unrelenting sensation. I tingle - as I tingle in a devil dream. And the tingling increases.
The head of the snake circles out from behind my back and, slowly but unhesitatingly, slides beneath my right breast. It slides up and over my left breast, the snake-scales dragging hard at my nipple. And the tingling turns into the devil's shakes. I scream.
Up above, on the rock outcroppings, the villagers sit silent. They all are in rapt attentiveness. No one moves to help me. They must think this is all part of the ritual. I, I realize, am on my own.
I struggle now to move. Except for my arms, nothing can move. My body is frozen to the shape of the snake. I grab the scaly head of the snake with both free hands, and I try to twist it loose. To no avail. Then I try to twist the head, so it will go in another direction. But the will of the snake is strong.
The head of the snake twists up and behind my head, across my lovely hair. Across my right ear. Around and across my mouth and nose and eyes. Then the snake's head finally rests - finally settles to a stop atop of my head. I can barely breathe.
And once the snake's head stops moving forward, the rest of the long body of the snake slows to a stop as well. The numbness leaves my feet. I can feel the scaly flesh of the thinner tail of the snake sitting between my right-leg and left-leg calf muscles, but my ankles are now free. I can move my ankles joints some. But it is like a thick rope is tying my legs together at my calves and knees and thighs, but with some rope in-between, keeping them slightly apart. I cannot walk, I can only tiptoe.
I have no alternative. I try tiptoeing toward shore. The snake, wrapped around me, doubles my weight. And the light surf of the waves makes me sway as I move.
The muscles of the snake flex, tightening slightly around me, as I tiptoe toward shore. The muscles of this long body tighten down some more, squeezing me. Only one of my hands is free, and is able to pull enough scaly flesh away from my mouth so I can breathe.
The snake muscles squeeze. And squeeze some more. Tightening hard around my stomach. Tightening hard around my ribcage. My ribs feel like they want to crack - inward. And the snake muscles tighten hard around my skull. I fight to stay conscious. I fight to keep tiptoeing toward shore.
I am halfway to shore. The waterline is just above my knees. But I, not the water, am supporting virtually the whole weight of the boa. The snake, coiled around me, tightens its muscles still more. I begin to lose focus, become disoriented.
I tip.
Then, suddenly, I topple over. I with the snake. I land in knee-deep water. My head is entirely beneath the surface of the lake. The snake does not move, its muscles do not relax. It stays as it is. There is little air in my constricted lungs. I hold my breath.
As things start to go black, I kick and twist and I club the beast with my free hand. But the snake is unmoving.
I open my mouth, barely conscious. I feel the water rush into my lungs. My body twitches, uncontrollably. There is a great flash of light, like lightning. Then nothing.
Blackness. And nothing.
& & &
{continued below}
The year is 1853. Lucia, Isabel, Fatima, and Joelle leave their convent school in San Miguel, Portugal.
Lucia sails for Bora Mukai.
Isabel leaves for Kenya.
Fatima books passage for Brazil.
And Joelle heads out to New Guinea.
Each depart with devout intent to nourish the unfortunate of the world ... in the Revealed Word.
& & &
1. Cleanliness is next to godliness.
In my first three months on Bora Mukai, I - Lucia - learn the native language at the Catholic Mission on the north coast of the island. The natives are friendly and helpful, and some attend church regularly. But I am dissatisfied. So when I hear of a people, unconverted to the faith, who live in an enclosed valley surrounding a lake at the southern interior of the island, I receive permission to open a mission there. I pack my bag.
After three long days of travel, I reach the largest of three villages surrounding the lake. Each village sits on a stream feeding the lake - each village situated just above a waterfall, a mile into the foothills away from the lake. I find this to be a gorgeous valley.
But I find the people of this valley very peculiar. The lake is pristine blue, with a rocky bottom, clear enough to see whole schools of fish. The soil is rich and muddy in the flatlands surrounding the lake. It would be easy to grow rice or soy or corn there, plant fruit trees.
But the people of the valley plant only root vegetables and eat only native jungle fruit, upland from the valley shore. And they do not fish in the lake, but fish only upland of their waterfall. It seems to me, in their primitive superstitions, that this lake is sacred to these simple souls. It is not to be despoiled by human hands.
But I have decided to live with these simple people, live with them many weeks, before I shall attempt to convert them to the ways of civilization. Then, only slowly. One little thing at a time.
I adapt my speech to their ancient dialect, learn their ways of cultivation and harvest, of cooking food and also of curing plants to make clothing from them. But I make the clothes for myself more modest than those that the darker-skinned women of these villages wear. But I do not adapt the religious rituals of these people, keeping strictly to my own ritual practices, unless there is a clear parallel between theirs and mine.
The people of the three villages nod and accept. They seem to be fine with my idiosyncrasies. Life is easy. They question nothing. Just accept things as they are.
At first, so do I. But this is not my Mission, here.
The thing that annoys me most about the lifestyle of these people is how dirty they are. Going weeks without bathing, many are caked in mud. I, myself, try to bath regularly - despite my modesty. But the stream-water above the waterfalls is so cold that I cannot sit in it for more than a minute. I mostly splash water upon myself, and use fish-fat mixed with plant-oils for soap.
The streams run thru the shade of the jungle, down from the mountains, unwarmed by the sun. But the open water of the lake, I realize in a flash of inspiration, must be much warmer. The lake bakes all day, under the gleam of the sun. And I know what my first lesson to these primitive people must be. They must learn to bathe.
I slowly but persistently work to persuade the people of the virtue of this. Then I pick an auspicious day in the people's religious year, and say ... on that day, I - Lucia - will go down to the lake and bathe. They smile and tell me that I should not do this. But I remain firm. And I work to convince the people that I am not defiling their sacred lake, but that bathing is a sacred ritual, too.
That bathing has health and religious benefits - benefits of Catholic civilization - like the medicines and metal tools I brought with me and shared with these people.
Finally, my persuasiveness pays off. They see the power in my religious beliefs. They do refuse to join me, when this auspicious day arrives. But they compromise and say they will watch from the rocky bluffs above the lake. And if they see magic in this 'bathing,' if I demonstrate its power and virtue, then they will consider joining me in the practice at a later time.
I blush at the thought of all three villages watching as I walk to the shore of the lake and undress. But this is crucial to my Mission to these backward people. So I take courage this morning, walking across rocks, onto the clay shore. I wear only my native clothing, plus my crucifix. I remove the woven blouse and lay it carefully on the rocks, remove my crucifix and lay it there, and remove my britches and lay them out there, next to the shirt. I know this procedure might become a precedent for future behavior by villagers, so I conduct it with the solemnity of a devotional ritual.
Now naked, I take the homemade soap and a washcloth I made special for this day - cloth made of woven fibers - and walk solemnly down off the rocks, across the clay lakeshore to the water's edge. I stop at the water's edge, thinking for a moment. Tiny waves wash the shore. But there is no wind. The day is still and clear. I then cross myself and walk into the water.
The water is pleasantly warm. It is even warmer than I expected. Not quite the temperature of the hot baths I had every Saturday evening at the convent, but nearly so. So I walk out till I am waist deep in water, and I begin to feel a mix of clay and rocks beneath my feet. I spread my legs, slightly, for stability against the gentle wave-action. Now that my lower private parts are half-hidden beneath the waves, much of my embarrassment is gone. I can now, confidently, get on with my tasks.
I wet the washcloth. I hold the soap up and, conspicuously, rub the soap into the washcloth. I conspicuously wash my face. Then I rinse my face, conspicuously bending slightly and splashing my face with lake-water. Then I wash my arms and chest and back and rinse them, too. Then I take the washcloth and wash all the regions of my body that are beneath the water. I then swish my body from side to side, to rinse the soap free from my lower limbs.
When I swish from side to side, the villagers on the cliffs above all gasp in unison. I smile back at everyone, and the villagers giggle.
I have always had long dark hair, but my hair has grown quite long since arriving at Bora Mukai. And, since arriving at this valley, it has never had a good washing. I am happy to be able to wash it now. I lather the hair around my head with soap. Then I ostentatiously swing the hair, which falls down my back, around to the front and lather it with soap, too. I want to do this slowly and enjoy it - it has been so long.
But the deeper water, down around my feet, must be colder than that near the surface - because my lower legs are beginning to feel numb. So I quickly run my fingers thru my hair and bend my head into the water to rinse my hair off.
At first I think I am imagining it, in the lambent light thru the lake-water. A green-and-tan vine has wrapped itself around my leg. Around both legs, and between them - in fact. Just sprung from the lake floor. I take a step toward shore. The will is there, but my legs do not move. My feet are fixed to the mud and rocks.
I now see beneath the water that this vine is not small, but five inches in diameter. And it is moving. Slowly, but definitely curling around one leg, then the other - upward. Then I see its eyes.
It is a snake. Not a poisonous one. It is a boa-constrictor. But it has different markings than those of the northern jungle, and appears to live in the water. The snake curls behind my buttocks and emerges, like a devil dream, between my legs - just below the delta of venus. Then the head emerges from the water above my left hipbone, and slithers around behind my back. And, all the while, its long scaly body moves relentless forward between my legs. The shifting texture of these scales - becomes an unrelenting sensation. I tingle - as I tingle in a devil dream. And the tingling increases.
The head of the snake circles out from behind my back and, slowly but unhesitatingly, slides beneath my right breast. It slides up and over my left breast, the snake-scales dragging hard at my nipple. And the tingling turns into the devil's shakes. I scream.
Up above, on the rock outcroppings, the villagers sit silent. They all are in rapt attentiveness. No one moves to help me. They must think this is all part of the ritual. I, I realize, am on my own.
I struggle now to move. Except for my arms, nothing can move. My body is frozen to the shape of the snake. I grab the scaly head of the snake with both free hands, and I try to twist it loose. To no avail. Then I try to twist the head, so it will go in another direction. But the will of the snake is strong.
The head of the snake twists up and behind my head, across my lovely hair. Across my right ear. Around and across my mouth and nose and eyes. Then the snake's head finally rests - finally settles to a stop atop of my head. I can barely breathe.
And once the snake's head stops moving forward, the rest of the long body of the snake slows to a stop as well. The numbness leaves my feet. I can feel the scaly flesh of the thinner tail of the snake sitting between my right-leg and left-leg calf muscles, but my ankles are now free. I can move my ankles joints some. But it is like a thick rope is tying my legs together at my calves and knees and thighs, but with some rope in-between, keeping them slightly apart. I cannot walk, I can only tiptoe.
I have no alternative. I try tiptoeing toward shore. The snake, wrapped around me, doubles my weight. And the light surf of the waves makes me sway as I move.
The muscles of the snake flex, tightening slightly around me, as I tiptoe toward shore. The muscles of this long body tighten down some more, squeezing me. Only one of my hands is free, and is able to pull enough scaly flesh away from my mouth so I can breathe.
The snake muscles squeeze. And squeeze some more. Tightening hard around my stomach. Tightening hard around my ribcage. My ribs feel like they want to crack - inward. And the snake muscles tighten hard around my skull. I fight to stay conscious. I fight to keep tiptoeing toward shore.
I am halfway to shore. The waterline is just above my knees. But I, not the water, am supporting virtually the whole weight of the boa. The snake, coiled around me, tightens its muscles still more. I begin to lose focus, become disoriented.
I tip.
Then, suddenly, I topple over. I with the snake. I land in knee-deep water. My head is entirely beneath the surface of the lake. The snake does not move, its muscles do not relax. It stays as it is. There is little air in my constricted lungs. I hold my breath.
As things start to go black, I kick and twist and I club the beast with my free hand. But the snake is unmoving.
I open my mouth, barely conscious. I feel the water rush into my lungs. My body twitches, uncontrollably. There is a great flash of light, like lightning. Then nothing.
Blackness. And nothing.
& & &
{continued below}
