"All communities need remolding from time to time," he said. "It happened here when the Incas conquered us." He pulled the cork from the top of the bottle. "And again when the Spanish came." He set the cork and bottle down beside the candle. "Now is a time for remolding your community." Holding the leather pouch before the flame, he began to chant. It was the softest chanting i had ever heard, just barely audible. I kept expecting it to grow louder. Instead it stopped.
He rubbed the pouch between his hands. Then he gave it to me, indicating that i too should rub it. When i had finished, he opened it and turned it upside down over his palm. Yellow nuggets poured out. They sparkled in the candle light like Incan gold.
He lifted his hand, and i saw they were kernels of corn. He cupped his palm and, tipping it above the bottle, watched intently as they rolled inside. Again he chanted in the lowest voice imaginable.
As i searched my memory to bring back a recollection that seemed to hover in the mists of my subconscious, he took a swig of trago. He extended the hand that held the tiny bottle and with the other picked up the candle and positioned it between his mouth and the bottle.
He blew the trago through the flaming candle so suddenly that the explosive sound echoed through the room. The bottle was enveloped in a ball of flame.
"The seed is the dream of what is to be," he said then resumed the low chanting.
As the flame died, I studied his hand, fearful that it had been scorched. But there was no sign of burned flesh. Inside the bottle, the kernels floated in a sea of liquid where the last remaining glow slowly faded. Manco placed the cork back inside the neck and pushed it firmly down.
"Remolding requires only that we change the dream. For this we must plant new seeds," he said as we walked to the door. "Now they are yours, and i will be your teacher." He turned me to face him and hugged me briefly.
We stood in the open space just outside his room and looked up into the night together. "Come to me to help your people." His vioce was like the chant. "You do not have to be in these mountains to consult with me. Come any time.
He rubbed the pouch between his hands. Then he gave it to me, indicating that i too should rub it. When i had finished, he opened it and turned it upside down over his palm. Yellow nuggets poured out. They sparkled in the candle light like Incan gold.
He lifted his hand, and i saw they were kernels of corn. He cupped his palm and, tipping it above the bottle, watched intently as they rolled inside. Again he chanted in the lowest voice imaginable.
As i searched my memory to bring back a recollection that seemed to hover in the mists of my subconscious, he took a swig of trago. He extended the hand that held the tiny bottle and with the other picked up the candle and positioned it between his mouth and the bottle.
He blew the trago through the flaming candle so suddenly that the explosive sound echoed through the room. The bottle was enveloped in a ball of flame.
"The seed is the dream of what is to be," he said then resumed the low chanting.
As the flame died, I studied his hand, fearful that it had been scorched. But there was no sign of burned flesh. Inside the bottle, the kernels floated in a sea of liquid where the last remaining glow slowly faded. Manco placed the cork back inside the neck and pushed it firmly down.
"Remolding requires only that we change the dream. For this we must plant new seeds," he said as we walked to the door. "Now they are yours, and i will be your teacher." He turned me to face him and hugged me briefly.
We stood in the open space just outside his room and looked up into the night together. "Come to me to help your people." His vioce was like the chant. "You do not have to be in these mountains to consult with me. Come any time.