GOD K
By Daniel Landes
Art by Nick Flook aka Flooko
Published Issue 143, November 2025
Dreamy was a late addition to our tour. She boarded the bus, disheveled in an expensive way, scuffed up Gucci slides, oversized Louis Vuitton hand bag stuffed with the kind of detritus accumulated in Pemex gas stations across Mexico. Her blond hair dyed with streaks of brown was a swarm of chaotic static. Two women, seated near the front of the bus, murmured tones of concern as Dreamy plopped into an open seat, the contents of her bag spilling out. The bus’ breaks released with a sigh signifying our imminent departure as the driver checked his rearview mirrors.
“Wait!” Dreamy screamed as she lurched from her seat toward the door. “My child! I need to get my child.” The bus driver opened the door as she rushed out and collected a swaddle of white linen nesting in a seat beside the bus. Dreamy reboarded, holding the bundle tenderly. Murmurs of concern rippled through the bus as Dreamy dropped back in her seat cooing gently to the bundle as the bus released its breaks and maneuvered onto the highway.
The pools of the Red Queen were located four hours away in the now ruined Mayan city of Palenque, deep in the jungles of Chiapas, Mexico. The Red Queen, her skeletal remains dusted scarlet red with cinnabar, was discovered by archaeologists in 1994. Her burial included rich grave goods: a mask made of malachite, jade, obsidian, a diadem, beads of jade and shell, elaborate jewelry, seashells, possibly as offerings. Outside her sarcophagus, two other skeletons were discovered — an adolescent male and an adult female — who show signs of injury. They are thought to have been sacrificed to accompany the queen into the afterlife.
The overnight tour offered an exclusive look inside the Temple of Inscriptions and an optional Crystal Skull ceremony in the pools of the Red Queen. Only eight of us signed up for the ceremony. The remainder would continue on the tour of the sprawling city of Palenque and enjoy an evening in a nearby hotel while we spent the night on the jungle floor. Folks kept quiet conversation as the bus leaned into sharp turns, the engine straining as we gained elevation. Dreamy, head supported by a window, slept with her arms wrapped around the swaddle.
Inside the Temple of Inscriptions was a hieroglyph of a life-size man with a sloped forehead, clad in a leopard skin skirt, a feathered headdress, holding a child; one leg human, the other leg a serpent. The colors were vibrant, unfaded by time. Bright yellows, deep brown, scarlet reds. The child is Kʼawiil, GOD K, a Mayan deity identified with power, creation and lightning. Rulers would perform bloodletting rituals, piercing human tongues, ears, or genitals, to feed K’awiil with their sacred blood, which was believed to ensure prosperity, fertility and political legitimacy. In more extreme cases, like a severe drought, animals and humans were sacrificed to the child god.
After the tour, we all gathered for a buffet lunch and fathomed what life was like here in the first century. Dreamy had not joined us on the tour. Gossip rippled speculating about the safety of the baby and her absence. Our group of eight finished eating, cleared our plates, and reboarded the bus for the ceremony. I was surprised to see Dreamy sitting bolt upright in the front seat breastfeeding the baby. She had used her time to transform herself. Her hair combed and pulled back in a loose ponytail. A few long strands falling across her face. Her eyes shadowed with fine makeup and a skilled hand. Her lips lightly tinged with a soft earth tone, just a hint of pink. She had changed into a white linen smock, cinched with a red cloth belt, embroidered around the neck with bright yellow marigolds. We were now a group of ten on the way to the pools of the Red Queen and the ceremony of the Crystal Skull.
—
The bus lurched and pitched as it climbed the asphalt road, slippery with the muddy washout from the previous rainstorm. The road narrowed, the curves pinching in as we swung higher into the cloud forest, leaving the jungle below. Pulling into a carved-out shoulder, the driver swung open the door and stepped into deep mud as he lifted the hatch to our luggage. We piled out, each descending into the muck and gathered our rucksacks packed with a blanket, a change of clothes and a journal. The bus spun its wheels and left us standing on the edge of the forest alone. Dreamy was barefoot, holding the swaddled infant, no more luggage than her now tidy LV bag.
We talked as we waited, getting to know one another, discovering each other’s motivations to partake in this ceremony. A couple from Argentina lead medicine rites in Oaxaca and were here to participate and learn. A young Chilango was here to finish his thesis on ethnobotany. The others ranged from experienced psychonauts (well-versed in Ayahuasca, San Pedro, Peyote, Hongos) to those who were not experienced at all. I explained I was somewhere in the middle; a cautious dabbler. I did not share that I was here because I am possessed by a demon; here for the medicine, to pray and, god willing, an exorcism.
Dreamy shared a little. She had crossed the border into Mexico five months ago when her baby Misty was only seven months old. She alluded to leaving behind a bad situation. Something about a custody battle. The details were sparse and delivered with a SoCal lilt that belied levity. As an afterthought, she shared that she was here to learn more about the Mayan people and their rituals.
An hour passed standing in the conversation circle. The Chilango rolled cigarettes and shared what he knew about the surrounding flora and fauna. Coyol palm trees swayed gently in the breeze above the canopy. Blooming bromeliads peeked out of the squinting branches of oak trees. Everywhere was the watchful eyes of the bromeliads. The air was thick with the humidity of a recent rain being cooked off by direct sunlight. Eventually concern was growing that we were dropped off in the wrong place, or the guides simply weren’t coming.
Another hour passed when two men, dressed in khaki shirts and pants, emerged from the jungle, each equipped with machetes secured in leather scabbards tooled with intricate embossments and silver inlay. They greeted us with big smiles — one who flashed a full grill of silver teeth — and welcoming gestures. They embraced each of us and beckoned us to follow. They did not seem concerned that there was a barefoot woman with a baby clung to her and no rucksack. They greeted her with the same friendly manner and tickled Misty beneath her chin.
—
The muddy path to the pools cut through the jungle, over exposed roots, under fallen trees, the men hacking through dense foliage as we followed close behind. There were large yellow and brown spiders patiently waiting in their webs just above head level. “Cuidado,” warned our guide, “venenosa.” We all ducked lower to avoid their bite. The path dropped steeply forcing us to slide in the mud on our rear ends, using our heels as breaks. The guides helped Dreamy and Misty descend which kept Dreamy’s white linen smock free from mud.
The bottom dropped out onto a nestled valley and revealed three deep, crystal clear pools surrounded by a thick, mulchy carpet of emerald green moss. Two people stood by the first pool. The shaman was robed in a blanket made of macaw feathers, their face masked in a thick smear of adobe red mud. Their eyes were black as coal, no white to be seen. The other, a small, pale woman, wearing the same khaki shirt and pants as our guides, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun that stretched her forehead and eyebrows up toward her hairline. Her eyes were framed with black rimmed glasses with thick rose-tinted lenses. She was to be our interpreter.
The shaman spoke in a dialect of Zapotec. Through the interpreter we were told the Crystal Skull ceremony is held in harmony with the eighteen-year lunar cycle. Tonight, just before midnight, the full moon will shine through a small, rectangular portal, built into a fifteen-hundred-year-old stone altar that sits atop the canyon, bridging the gentle stream feeding the pools below. The moonlight, so channeled, beaming down the canyon will catch a quartz crystal human skull sitting on another stone altar, illuminating our ceremony site, and bathing us in the moon’s healing light.
My name is Micah Dorsey and I am possessed. The demon lives in my head and speaks to me constantly through every waking hour. His voice controls the narrative of how I experience the living world. He constantly shares his analyses of what I am experiencing through a lens of domesticated judgement, fear and insecurity. He sees everything as a threat. He tries to convince me that he is my friend and only wants to protect me, but I can’t live with him anymore! I no longer want to see the world through his dark filter. I want to trust the world, love the world, to be free of this prison of judgement, analysis and fear my demon has trapped me in. Either I gain freedom or I no longer want to live.
The shaman lit the ceremonial fire with a yellow Bic lighter and began to heat the water for our tea. They unwrapped eight bundles made of broad green leaves. Inside were mushrooms, laid out like napping children, their long white stems topped with golden caps, the earth still clinging to their base. In front of each of us was a cup made of dried gourd. I was relieved to see that Dreamy was not going to partake in this part of the ceremony. She was with Misty near the pool’s edge. Misty, splashing and padding about, was sticking her face just beneath the surface of the water blowing bubbles and emerging with peals of laughter. Witnessing her joy, our group felt joyous.
The shaman removed the mushrooms from their bundle and placed them in our gourds, they then followed behind filling the vessels with boiling water. We waited until the shaman gave us the signal to drink the tea. My demon was screaming at me. Warning me of the danger. Pleading for me not to drink. I knew he was begging for his life as I sipped the hot tea and waited for the effects to kick in.
I layed down in the pillowy moss, closed my eyes and saw eight-bit ravens flying and transforming into a giant serpent that circled the earth, moving at the pace of time holding eternity. Held in the soft moss, I heard the thrum of the earth, I felt the love of the trees, I, for the first time, felt safe, free of the constant nagging of my cynical demon. I felt mother nature healing me, freeing me, holding me. I luxuriated in this feeling and laid unmoving, never wanting this experience of unconditional love to end.
A sudden intense light filtered pink behind my eyelids, jarring me from my trip. My eyes, pupils dilated wide with psilocybin, seared against the light. My pupils snapped tight, their aperture constricting to take in the brightness of the moon radiating through the Crystal Skull. Struggling against the moss that had contoured to my body, I sat up as my eyes adjusted. I began to take in the scene around me. The seven other ceremonialists were still cradled in the moss, eyes closed, tripping.
The golden water of the first pool shined as brightly as the sun reflected off a mirror. Looking further down the valley, I saw the shaman, the interpreter whose rose-tinted glasses were sitting on another stone altar, cast a pink light over the second pool. Dreamy, holding the swaddle in her arms, stood beside the water. The shaman shook a rattle as they enchanted lyrics that reverberated off the surface of the water, surrounding me in a bath of frequency. The vibrations grew in intensity as the songs grew louder, the cadence faster. Dreamy stood still, held in the light of the moon, her smock blindingly white, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. Lifting the bundle above her head, the rattle shaking faster and faster, she flung the swaddle into the pool, the bundle weighted with a heavy silver belt beaded with jade and shells, sank fast.
Bolting up I charged toward the pool. My progress suppressed, like running in a dream, as the moss attempted to swallow my feet. Reaching the edge of the water— the shaman, interpreter and Dreamy, nowhere to be seen — I dove in to retrieve the bundle, its white linen glowing like an iridescent cocoon at the bottom of the pool. I scooped it up, the wet linen and silver belt making it incredibly heavy and impossible to carry. Struggling with the clasp I released the belt, my breath waning, I began to swim toward the surface. The water, tinged pink, was so clear I could see the serrated edges of the swaying palm leaves in the canopy above.
From below I felt something wrap around my ankle, tight like a balled fist. I was held in the middle depths of the pool unable to free myself from a red vine attached to the bottom. In my panic the bundle loosened and three stones fell out sinking fast to the bottom of the pool. The unbound linen undulated in the water like a phantom drifting off to other haunts. Drowning I looked up once more to see the face of Misty, slightly submerged, blowing bubbles.
The dark narrator finally silent.
Daniel Landes spent decades as a restauranteur, author and publisher. As the owner of multiple restaurants in Denver, CO – and then a hostel in Mexico – he dedicated himself to creating environments where people could work out their humanity while eating and drinking. Now relocated to Santa Fe, DL says that “living in the Galisteo Basin impresses a unique and humbling perspective. Under the expansive, enchanted New Mexican sky I can feel so small and so big. I made a career of kicking up dust; living in the storm until the storm lived in me. When the dust settled two guideposts appeared: Spend more nights under the stars; provide a service.”
Nick Flook aka Flooko is “the O.G astronaut painter” and takes his fans on adventures through original acrylic paintings and animations. This Toronto-based artist specializes in surrealism, space-themed work and impressionistic city and landscapes. See more of his work on his site, follow him on Instagram.
Check out Daniel’s last Birdy install, Midlife In The City, inspired by Nick’s art, Noir Nights, in case you missed. Head to our Explore section to see more by these talented creatives.