The front and back of the huipil would be identical.
She’d started this huipil when the dark mornings were shrouded with mist. Every day she sat under the tall tree, little by little creating the universe.
“The gods have sacrificed parts of their precious bodies,” Mauruch has said. “Therefore, blood and life must be given back.”
Every crevice of the cave fills with the sweet smoke of copal incense and with the ancient words of our chanting: O Hunahpu Possum and Hunahpu Coyote, Great White Peccary and Coati, Sovereign and Quetzal Serpent, Heart of Lake and Heart of Sea, Creator of the Green Earth and Creator of the Blue Sky . . .
I hear a screech or groan or cry as an animal is sacrificed.
In the silence each shaman draws his own blood.
Mauruch comes to me and pierces my earlobes. I flinch at the sharp barb of a stingray spine, then breathe in time to the rhythmic dripping as Mauruch collects my blood.
The bloody leaves are mixed with resin and burned. The smell appeases the gods.
As the flames grow, through my bandages I see visions.
Mauruch senses this. “Tell me, Xunko,” he commands.
“The smoke is rising. It’s becoming a . . . a great serpent. And now . . .”
“Speak.” He grips my arm.
“The serpent has a tongue,” I say slowly. “On that tongue stands an ancestor.”
“And what does the ancestor tell us?”
“He sends his messengers. He sends Arrow Owl, One-Leg Owl, Macaw Owl, and Skull Owl with their burden.”
“And what is this burden, Xunko?”
“We are to beware. We are to step carefully. Perhaps even the Framer and Shaper of the Universe cannot prevent what lies ahead.”
Rosalba wove until shadows crept across the patio. After weeks of work, she had almost completed the front of the huipil. Soon she’d begin on the back, weaving and brocading everything in reverse, upside down.
Every now and then Nana checked the work, running her rough fingers over the threads. She pointed out areas where the work was fine and even, and places where the threads were bunched up.
When Adelina teased, darting back and forth, dancing underneath the loom where it was tied to the tree, Rosalba hardly looked up. Once the stiff, squarish figures of the Earthlord and his toad seemed to dance across the fabric. Rosalba put her hand over the threads, stilling the creatures. It was as though her weaving had brought them to life.
Close to her, Mama was brocading a new huipil. Like women throughout the hills, she was creating the story of the Flood. It wasn’t the floodwaters themselves that Mama wove, but rather the image of the Father-Mother, the two ancestors who’d lived through the disaster. Afterward, those two beings had planted corn, making possible the survival of humans.
Rosalba squinted at the designs in Mama’s huipil. Suddenly, she understood. The Flood was just like the disaster Alicia foretold. The Flood had destroyed the world.
“Mama! The Flood is the same as that 2012 prophesy!”
Mama smiled. “The Flood was a very long time ago, Rosalba. It has nothing to do with us today.”
“But if the world was destroyed before, couldn’t it happen again?”
Mama shook her head. “Don’t be troubled by such things, Rosalba.”
Mama was right. But still Rosalba wanted to tell Alicia about the connection. Maybe the writer of the book knew about the Flood.
She waited until Mama and Nana went to the tiny corn patch near the orchard, preparing it for planting. Adelina tagged along, dragging a digging stick.
Rosalba rolled up the loom, untied it from the tree, and bundled it into the house.
With the sun dangling low in the sky, Rosalba ran down the path toward Frog Heaven. Her heart tumbled in her chest. Her sandals slapped the soft dirt in time to her chant, “Be there! Be there! Alicia, be there!”
She passed girls herding sheep, muzzled so they wouldn’t eat holy corn on their way to pasture, their bells tinkling softly. She leaped over a small creek and continued on.
Finally, she reached the pool, where all was quiet. The water whispered soft secrets. Birds flitted in the branches of the tall pines, slowing down, getting ready to nest. Frogs sang their evening songs.
But Rosalba dashed about, peering down into the hollows, into the shadowy places where the ferns grew. “Aliciaaa!” she called. She cupped her hands around her mouth: “Aliciaaa!”
The tiny house still stood. The nubby little pyramid pointed skyward. But her new friend wasn’t there. With darkness falling, there was no sense in staying.
As Rosalba ran back along the path, bats swooped over the cornfields. On a turn, she lost her sandal. She had to search on hands and knees — feeling the icy breath of a spook on the back of her neck — until she found the shoe flung into the high grass.
After running, slowing to catch her breath, then running again, she saw the huts of the village, glowing with the light of cooking fires. When she turned onto the tiny path that led to her hut, Papa suddenly blocked the way, standing with his hands on his hips.
“Rosalba! Where have you been!”
By his voice, she could tell he was still hungry, still exhausted from the cornfield. There was no chance of escaping his notice now, of lying low. “I — I . . .” What could she say?
Mama came to stand behind Papa, and, from far off, Rosalba heard Adelina’s wail.
“Answer me, Rosalba!”
Rosalba stood below him on the steep path, eye level with his feet. She drew herself taller. “I went to find my friend.”
“Who is this friend? Sylvia would never go into the forest at night.”
“She’s a ladina,” Rosalba said in a small voice.
“A ladina?” echoed Papa.
Mama stirred behind him.
“Yes,” said Rosalba firmly. “She came with the men.”
“And you went off to see this ladina,” Papa said the word scornfully, “in the dark, leaving us all worried?” He broke off a small branch.
Rosalba stepped back.
“Don’t, Gerardo,” said Mama, grasping Papa’s arm. “At least let her tell us about it.”
Papa turned abruptly, bumping against Mama.
At the patio, Adelina ran to Rosalba and clung to her, still sniffling. “You went forever!” she cried.
Mateo and Anselmo ate silently, hunched over their plates.
As Papa pulled a chair close to the fire, a log popped, sending sparks into the night.
“Tell us, Rosalba,” Mama said softly.
“My friend’s name is Alicia.” With a sudden feeling of pride, Rosalba undid the butterfly barrette from her hair. “She gave me this.”
Adelina grabbed at the clip, but Rosalba held it out of reach.
Papa took the barrette, and held it so it winked in the firelight. Suddenly, Rosalba was afraid he’d keep it. Oh, why had she called attention to it? But he passed it to Mama, muttering, “Just a cheap thing.”
“Let me see, too,” said Mateo. He turned the barrette this way and that.
“Alicia is the one who told me about the world ending,” Rosalba went on.
Mateo handed the barrette to Anselmo.
Rosalba watched anxiously as Anselmo opened and shut the barrette many times. He mustn’t break it!
Papa crossed his arms over his chest. “That prophesy is ladino nonsense. Those ladinos are always coming here to spread foolish rumors. I forbid you to see that girl again. You are not to leave the village without your mother.”
Papa’s words hit Rosalba like a shower of cold hailstones. Her world closed in as in a heavy storm.
Mateo brought the battery-powered radio from the hut and set it on the table, next to the kerosene lamp. He turned the dials until the scratchy voice of the news reporter from Guatemala City spoke into the night.
When Anselmo gave back the barrette, Rosalba fastened it onto her waistband, out of sight.
As she helped with the dinner tortillas, her heart
was as heavy as a river stone. What would Alicia think when she never came to Frog Heaven again? Now she would never see the camp or the frogs. She wiped her tears with the edge of her shawl.
Papa hated ladinos because they’d once tried to seize Mayan land. But Alicia wasn’t to blame for that.
The radio now played the loud oompah, oompah of polka music. But even that happy sound with a strong beat couldn’t lift Rosalba’s heavy heart.
One day when Mauruch serves me the bitter drink, strange visions parade behind my eyes.
I see what has not yet happened.
The great cities of Tikal, Palenque, of Uxmal and Chichén Itzá — empires in the four directions — appear before me, swallowed up by the jungle, by great winding vines and roots that muscle their way into the cracks between the stones, rending the temples asunder. Under the stone blades, entire forests are felled. The rain clouds withhold themselves, the cornfields die, and the masses cry out with hunger. Men war under the hot glare of K’in.
To appease the furious gods, thousands of blue- painted men, women, and children are thrown into the morning-glory – blue dzonots. Each is a gift for the gods, descending into the watery Underworld.
Even so the sky remains desiccated: the gods will not be appeased.
The cities of the empire fall silent.
The next time I swallow the bitter brew, I see our people living, not in their magnificent cities, but in simple huts scattered through the jungle.
This cannot be! I squint, but the same scene presents itself time and again.
“Is this all true?” I ask Mauruch. “Will this be true?” For I cannot imagine our great stone civilization falling. “Have others foreseen this calamity?”
Mauruch remains silent.
Before my eyes the codices unfold, the sacred texts of our people. In the blue, black, and red glyphs, the fall of the Great Empire is foretold.
Our rituals grow longer as we pray harder to Chac, the rain god; to Kinich Ahau, the sun god; and to Yum Cimil, the god of death. When Mauruch pierces my tongue, he draws a rope with a barb on it through the hole, releasing a plethora of blood.
As the fire grew, a pot of beans bubbled, along with a kettle of coffee flavored with lumps of brown sugar. Mama and Nana patted masa back and forth between their palms, then laid the uncooked tortillas on the hot clay griddle.
The food smelled good, but Rosalba wasn’t hungry. She’d woken to the memory of Papa’s harsh words. She couldn’t imagine not seeing Alicia. All she had left of her was the little hair ornament.
Rosalba coughed as the sweet smoke of the pinewood filled the hut.
Mama patted her on the back, saying, “Poor little daughter!”
At Mama’s kindness, Rosalba felt tears sting the backs of her eyes. Yet she still had to help, or Papa’s breakfast wouldn’t be ready, making things worse.
When each tortilla puffed up, Rosalba grabbed the edge and flipped it. If her fingers brushed the hot griddle, she licked them. Once both sides of a tortilla were warm and browned, she handed it to Adelina, who placed it in a hollow gourd.
As the sun lifted into the first layer of sky, Papa, Anselmo, and Mateo came out of the nearby men’s hut. With their arms up under their wool tunics, the three sat at the outdoor table, Anselmo leaning against Papa’s shoulder, his long hair falling over his half-closed eyes.
Rosalba had woven the blue-and-white striped tablecloth herself and usually smoothed it proudly. But that morning, she unfurled it into the air and let it land as it would, averting her eyes and biting her lip against tears.
“Not all ladinos are like the men who came to take our land.” She directed her words to the back of Papa’s head.
Papa gave no sign of having heard her.
“I just want to see my friend for a little bit. . . .”
This time Papa shook his head.
“Please,” she pleaded.
“No!” Papa pounded the table so hard, Anselmo opened his eyes.
Instead of giving Papa the hottest, freshest tortillas, Rosalba gave those to the boys and offered Papa the ones from the bottom of the gourd. Tears blurred her vision. Carrying the kettle of coffee, she tripped over a pecking chicken, spilling coffee onto the ground.
“Rosalba!” Papa shouted.
Finally, Papa stood up, then the boys. Wordlessly, they put on their round, flattish straw hats and gathered their hoes. It was time to join the other villagers for the walk to the cornfields, high on the mountain of the Earthlord.
Once the group had disappeared into the mist, Rosalba let her tears flow like the season’s first rain.
“Don’t cry, Rosie,” said Adelina. “Papa will come back.”
“That’s not the problem, chica.” Rosalba took her little sister in her arms, crying into her shiny black hair.
During breakfast her tears slipped into the edges of her mouth along with bites of tortillas and beans. She caught Mama and Nana exchanging glances.
Afterward, as Rosalba helped Nana wash dishes, Nana hummed a little song. Before they starting the drying, Nana pulled Rosalba close and whispered, “When your mama was young, I let her do something her father disapproved of. I think she remembers that time.”
When Mama and Rosalba were lifting the table and stools to hang on pegs under the eaves, Rosalba said, “Please, Mama, let me meet my friend.”
Mama touched Rosalba on the shoulder. “You really like her, don’t you?” Then she glanced toward the mountain and narrowed her eyes. Was she thinking of Papa working the cornfield? What would Papa do if he found out that she’d let his daughter defy him?
Or was Mama thinking of the Earthlord? What would the Earthlord do in her place?
Or was Mama remembering the way Papa sometimes said harsh things to her and wouldn’t let her stay late on market day to visit her friend Rosha?
Finally Mama turned to Rosalba. “Your papa still resents the way those ladinos tried to take his cornfield. Who are the men the girl is with?”
“They’re scientists, Mama. They aren’t doing anything wrong. They’re just studying frogs.”
Mama sighed. “You may go. But promise me you won’t come back late. And keep this secret from your papa.”
“Oh, Mama!” Rosalba wiped her tears with the back of her hand. She kissed Mama on both cheeks.
“But don’t leave until the chickens are fed.”
Tonight the drink tastes sour. Like old mangoes left in the sun. Like damp cornmeal gone rotten. Like fever breath.
When the potion takes me, I behold our people still living in simple huts. They know nothing of the great lost cities, of the sacred texts, the empire of the sun. They do not lift their eyes to the heavens. They divine nothing of what transpires outside their small jungle clearings.
I drift deeper into the dream. There’s an ocean with something small and white floating upon it. The objects draw closer until I can make out canoes with great white wings. But instead of soaring through the air like huge butterflies, the canoes fly over the sea, wending their way closer and closer to our shores.
When the vessels are almost upon us, I can make out the inhabitants. The men have hair on their faces like animals.
When the flying canoes scrape onto the shoreline, a door opens and strange animals — much taller than deer — step out. The hairy ones mount these beasts, becoming half man, half beast, as they step onto the sand of our shores.
He whom the others follow has hair like the sun. It flames around his head, and even over his face. When he lifts a large pole, a loud noise comes out, scattering the deer, puma, and coati.
And then I suck in my breath. Suddenly I know. This man must be Kukulcan, the feathered serpent, the golden one. He came to us from a distant land, only to disappear, transforming himself into the Green Morning Star. His return has long been promised. For this god, we have been waiting. To this god, we shall all bow down.
“You’re here!” Alicia called, jumping up and down on the path near Frog Heaven. She wore a ver
y short yellow skirt, and her hair was tied back with a matching ribbon.
Rosalba waved. Little did Alicia know how hard it had been to come! Not wanting to hurt her friend’s feelings, she decided not to mention Papa’s order.
“Let’s go to the camp. The frogs are waiting,” Alicia said. “And I’ve read another chapter in the book. There’s hope, Rosalba. There’s something we can do to keep the world from ending.”
If it was possible to prevent disaster, how serious had the threat been to start with? Rosalba retied her hair ribbon, which had come undone in her rush. As Alicia took her by the hand, Rosalba felt for the yarn bracelet tied around her wrist. “You’re still wearing it!” she declared happily.
“Of course,” said Alicia.
“I have something important to tell you too,” Rosalba said, fixing her eyes on Alicia’s. “We Mayans do know about your prophesy, after all. When I saw my mama weaving, I understood. Your prophesy is the same as our story of the Flood.”
“So you do believe. . . .”
Rosalba considered. She thought of Papa and his harsh words. If he didn’t believe, then perhaps she would. “Maybe,” she said. “I mean yes.”
“Oh, good.” Alicia slapped her palm against Rosalba’s, then led the way.
At last the path leveled off, traveling along the ridge. Rosalba and Alicia paused to look out at the forest stretching away, the scar of the highway, and even the far-off town.
Several plumes of smoke unfurled in the distance.
“Who’s doing all that burning?” asked Alicia.
“The farmers. They’re making room for cornfields. Last month, Papa and my brothers cut down some trees and bushes. Now that all that’s dry, it’s ready to burn.”
“Why don’t they just plant where they planted before?”
“The soil gets worn out.”
Alicia gestured with her arm, taking in the landscape of fires. “Are those people all making cornfields?”
Starfields Page 3
