Do I even wish it? I have been comfortable in this life, seeing far into the future of the world. I lack nothing.
Mauruch doesn’t answer. His silence laps at me.
An early morning downpour rattled the huge sturdy leaves of the banana trees. As Rosalba drew her shawl closely around her in the newly chilled air, she thought of how the toads, in spite of the fungus, were working their magic.
The toads had brought the rainy season. Papa and the boys had finished the planting just in time. Rosalba imagined the hard corn —“little skulls” the seeds were sometimes called — bursting open in the fertile soil.
She stayed in by the fire, fashioning a doll for Adelina. She tied rough corn husks with lengths of yarn, cinching the yarn in tight, making first a head, then a waist.
“Here, she’s finished.” Rosalba handed the doll to her little sister.
“I’ll call her Rosita,” said Adelina.
As Adelina clutched the doll close, Rosalba heard a sound beyond the snap of the fire, beyond the steady tap-tap of rain on the thatched roof. It was a distant sound, a strange sound like a gigantic snoring. She cupped her hand around her ear, listening, until a great crack of thunder split the sky.
I am woken before the cocks crow. The copal is burned, and our chants echo off the cave walls: “O Hunahpu Possum, Hunahpu Coyote . . .” Finally, I am washed all over. Today is the day to remove my final bandage. Today I am to witness the world at last.
But no one touches the bandage. Instead they paint what feel like circles and stripes on my face and hands. They load my bare chest with shells and jade.
And then we go out.
After a long journey over unfamiliar paths, the sounds of crowds of people reach my ears. From the soft jungle paths my feet know well, I move onto the stones, which burn my bare feet. We enter one of the sacred cities I have seen in visions.
I am given no brew to drink, no mushrooms to chew. Hence no dreams slip behind my eyelids. I see only light and dark.
As we walk, I sense people moving out of our way. I sense great numbers on either side of me.
Mauruch guides me on the stone steps as I climb upward. Toward the sun, which burns a hole in the sky. I tremble, knowing what happens at the top of temple steps.
The next morning crisp black shadows crossed the patio. The sun bathed the world in a yellow glow. “Please, Mama,” Rosalba begged, “let me go see my friend. I promise to come home before the afternoon rains.”
Nana glanced at Mama, nodding slightly.
“Quickly, then,” said Mama.
Water dripped from the pine needles, catching the sunlight, and the birds sang loudly as Rosalba went down the path to the pool, to Frog Heaven. Her heart sang as always when the rainy season began. The Earthlord and his toads had done their jobs.
Alicia had been wrong. The rain was proof that all was right with the world. The prophesy of 2012 had been written just to scare people. Global warming might happen elsewhere, but not here in the Highlands.
Suddenly Rosalba heard a tumbling, rumbling, tearing sound. It was the snoring sound she’d heard the day before.
From a high point, she looked down. Far below, a large gray bulldozer moved back and forth on the forest path. Yet no road led from the highway. How had the bulldozer gotten there? Whatever could it be doing?
And then she knew. In the wake of the bulldozer lay a wide brown gash. The big machine had cut its own road!
Flying down the rocky path, Rosalba stumbled twice, righted herself, and went on.
When she arrived, the machine stood parked next to the trail that led down to Frog Heaven. Freshly cut brush rose on all sides.
Rosalba closed her eyes. This had to be a bad dream!
But the bulldozer was real — idling, spitting black smoke, while two men busily sawed away at a young pine tree.
Rosalba shouted, “No!” and ran toward the men, her looped-up braids slapping the sides of her neck.
The buzz of the saw drowned out her words.
“No!” she shouted again.
The saw stopped, and both men looked up.
“You can’t!” Rosalba cried.
“Slow down, little one,” said the man with the red cap. “You live in the village, don’t you? This road will make your life easier.”
The other man mopped his face with a kerchief. “You won’t have to walk so much. You can ride in a truck.”
“I don’t want to ride in a truck!” she declared.
The men laughed. Then they turned the power saw back on, preparing to cut the fallen tree into pieces.
Rosalba ran down into Frog Heaven, knowing she wouldn’t find Alicia. If her friend had been nearby, she’d have stopped those men.
At the sight of the pool, Rosalba froze. Several white objects floated on the surface. She stepped closer, then covered her mouth, stifling a scream.
The objects were frogs, lying belly up.
She ran to the water’s edge and lifted out a dead frog. The little brown body lay on her palm, the eyes staring at her as if to say You could have done something!
Where the pool narrowed and emptied into the streambed, instead of flowing water, there were hills of dirt. The bulldozer had filled in the stream. No wonder the frogs had died!
As the saw whined, tearing at the tree, Rosalba cradled the frog. She noticed that the little house and pyramid were undamaged. But what did they matter now? They hadn’t helped the frogs. She and Alicia had played such silly games. Rosalba kicked at the tiny structures.
She ran back up the path, past the two men, who were lugging a piece of the tree out of the way.
“Look what you’ve done!” Rosalba cried, holding out the frog.
The red-hatted man and the other stared.
Tears running down her cheeks, Rosalba took the steep fork to the right instead of the path to San Martín. Everything had changed. Everything! Not only were the frogs dead, but now trucks, buses, and cars would invade her quiet village. Clouds gathered as she ran along the ridge.
When she arrived at the camp, all was silent, the doors and windows of the green tents zipped shut.
I wait for hands to rip the jewelry from my neck, to smear my body with the blue paint of sacrifice.
Here at the pinnacle, immense clouds of sweet copal rise into the sky, along with the thin whine of a flute. The priests chant. Sounds of drums, rattles, and conch-shell trumpets arrive from all directions. Far below, the crazed crowd shouts.
The hot sun makes me dizzy. My heart panting, I wait for the hands.
The crowd grows silent and a loud, clear voice rings out. “Great people of the banner of the sun! You are the ones destined to be nearest to the gods!”
Is this the voice of the masked king I have seen in my dreams?
The voice stops and the silence continues.
Then footsteps pass us. A small scuffle.
A breathless pause. A man’s cry.
Silence again.
I am fortunate not to see.
And then the crowd roars, waves of sound pounding my ears.
I hear the sound of something — a head? — thrown down the steps. And then a larger sound following.
The instruments start up again. The king and priests dance, their jewelry clattering.
The first sacrifice is over.
Rosalba sat down on a big rock and wept. She dried her eyes and wept again. Why wasn’t anyone here? Where were they? Why hadn’t Alicia been at Frog Heaven?
Rosalba looked up at the sun, balanced overhead, ready to roll toward the horizon. She’d been gone a long time — the dead frog, wrapped in her shawl, was growing stiff — but Mama would have to understand. The men with the bulldozer were ruining everything!
A wind came up, carrying clouds from the edges of the sky.
The frogs at Frog Heaven wouldn’t enjoy this rain, Rosalba thought, crying harder.
As the clouds cast the first shadows, she heard voices from the trail above. She stopped crying and listened. Whoever was comin
g spoke Spanish.
Rosalba stood up.
Antonio appeared first, carrying a burlap sack with something wiggling inside.
Alicia burst out from behind him, crying out, “You’re here! What a surprise! Roberto found a kind of frog we haven’t seen before, so we all had to go.” Then she stopped. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
Rosalba held out the dead frog.
The skin around Alicia’s eyes crinkled, as if she too would cry.
Through fresh sobs, Rosalba managed, “Some men are making a road. They’ve killed lots of frogs.”
Antonio and the others gathered close, handing Rosalba’s frog from one to another.
“Where did you find this?” the man called Roberto asked.
“At Frog Heaven.”
“She means the big pool at the bottom of the mountain,” said Alicia. She gestured toward the burlap bag.
Antonio opened the burlap sack and placed a living frog — black with red stripes — in one of the plastic boxes.
Rosalba watched as Alicia shut the latch. It was good that they’d found the new frog. But with so many dead ones, what did that rescue matter now?
With lightning illuminating a distant peak, the group headed down, the men leading the way, Alicia and Rosalba following. The sky boiled with dark gray clouds.
“Can your papi stop them?” Rosalba asked Alicia.
“He’ll have to,” Alicia called over her shoulder. “He’ll just have to.”
Rosalba hoped Alicia was as sure as she sounded.
When they arrived, the bulldozer had moved forward, creating new destruction behind it. More trees lay fallen, sap oozing from the stumps. Alicia scooped up a nest.
Antonio ran toward the bulldozer, waving at the man in the red hat. The bulldozer stopped moving, but the man didn’t turn the engine off.
The other man, who’d been slashing the bushes with a machete, let his long knife dangle.
The thunderheads closed over the last bit of blue sky.
“Do you have a permit for this work?” Antonio called up. “Nobody told us about this. And we have legitimate scientific business here.” Even though Antonio shouted, his voice sounded faint over the bulldozer’s roar. He looked small against the big machine, his wispy hair blowing.
Saying nothing, the man pulled a paper from his pocket. As he handed it down to Antonio, Rosalba saw that it bore the seal of the government of Mexico — an eagle wrestling with a snake. “We have an order to make this road to the village of San Martín, and perhaps higher into the mountains,” he said.
Rosalba’s legs suddenly felt as weak as blades of grass. These men had official orders. They weren’t acting on their own.
The man with the machete began to hack again.
Antonio opened his wallet and produced his own paper, also stamped with the government seal.
“Oh, yes!” whispered Alicia.
The other scientists moved close, forming a group against the big machine and its driver. As Antonio held the paper up, the first raindrops splattered it.
The man on the bulldozer reached out, then drew his hand back.
“It says,” explained Antonio, “that the amphibian population is dying at an alarming rate from chytrid, a deadly fungus. My expedition is here to preserve amphibians from further harm. And this”— he gestured toward the newly cut road —“causes harm.”
“If any frogs died today,” said the man, glancing at Rosalba, “it wasn’t because of fungus. We have nothing to do with that.”
The rain began to fall steadily, as if trying to wash away the words.
“Habitat destruction,” said Antonio, water running off his forehead, “also kills amphibians. The government wants the animals protected.”
“And the villagers of San Martín will want this road,” the man insisted.
“More than they want a few frogs,” added the other.
“Have you asked the villagers?” asked Antonio.
“Everyone wants convenience. And if a few animals die . . .” The red-hatted man spread his hands, palms up.
Oh! How could he say such a thing! Rosalba took a step forward. “San Martín doesn’t want the road,” she said. She surprised herself, speaking out among these ladinos.
“She’s right!” Alicia called out. “Ask them!”
“Let the villagers take it up with the government, then!” said the man with the machete, lifting it into the sky.
The clouds released a great drenching downpour, bringing the argument to an end. Everyone dashed for the shelter of the big trees — the road builders under one, the others under another. As rain spilled from the sky in great sheets, lighting zigzagged and thunder growled.
Sitting close to Alicia on the soft pine needles, Rosalba spoke loudly, raising her voice against the pounding rain. “Don’t worry. Now that the rains have started, we’re going to have the big Festival of Santa Cruz. The shaman can fix anything. Señor Tulán will know what to do. This year the festival will be different.”
Even now, the shaman and the other old men might be gathered in their hut in the village.
Alicia sighed. “I hope so. That man had the government’s permission. . . .”
Rosalba shivered with more than the damp cold. “Don’t worry. I’ll go tell everyone in San Martín. They’ll be really upset. They’ll stop the road.”
After the cries of the crowd die down, the high priest comes to me. His feathered headdress stirs the air. While Mauruch holds my arm, the priest says prayers over me. Is sacrifice what I have trained for? Has Mauruch withheld this secret from me? Have I lived thirteen years only to be offered to the gods?
My heart still beats in my chest. But if the gods desire me, I am theirs.
After the prayers, Mauruch leads me, not to the blue stone of sacrifice, but down the stone steps.
“You’re shaking, Xunko,” he says.
“I thought I was to be sacrificed.”
After a short silence, he laughs. “Not you, Xunko. You’re too valuable. This is your special day.”
He means I will see. But when? Many events have passed. The hour grows late.
Our line of shamans walks the long way back under the dark moon. I, accustomed to the Underworld, lead the way.
In the cave a feast awaits us — deer and wild pig sweetened with mango, spiced with chili peppers. I grow sleepy. Perhaps tomorrow Mauruch will remove the bandage.
But when we finish eating, Mauruch clears his throat and the others grow silent.
“Today, Xunko,” he says, “is your thirteenth birthday. Thirteen years ago, you entered the world. You have become an adept seer of the world within and of the unseen world, both present and future. Tonight you will behold the outer world as well. Tonight we shall remove the final layer.”
Copal is thrown into the fire, and our chanting drones into the air.
As with all the other times, Mauruch removes the bandage as if he is going to merely wash my face. “Don’t open your eyes yet, Xunko.” His voice is firm.
He washes my face, my eyes, with a fragrant hot towel.
“And now,” he commands.
I open my eyes for the first time. Colors swirl before me. Instead of being flat, the world surrounds me. I can make no sense of it. Someone grips the back of my head.
“Focus here. Only here,” orders Mauruch.
My gaze falls on a sacred text, a codex linked to the heavens. My fingers close around the cover of jaguar skin.
As Mauruch fans open the codex, my eyes marvel at the thick red frames of the pages, at the red, black, and blue glyphs — pictures that tell the story of the world.
At last Mauruch stops unfolding. He points to one section. A symbol like an eye and the bars and circles of the Long Count march across the page. Having seen these symbols behind my eyes, with ease I now read the numbers they represent. These symbols indicate the number 13.0.0.0.0. The date is the end of the final Big Cycle. The day the world will end.
I shiver in horr
or.
“This you must know, Xunko,” says Mauruch. “Now you may gaze upon all that has been hidden.”
Instead of being confined to the small space of my head, the world blooms around me. I see Mauruch’s lined face and the others with their painted faces, their jewelry. The oil lamps, the fires, the cave, the turquoise waters of the dzonot.
When I reach to touch what I see, often my fingers meet with nothingness. The world extends in every direction, larger than I expected.
To my astonishment, people and objects grow larger and smaller, then larger again. As though by sorcery.
I want to study this place forever, home for my small lifetime.
But Mauruch says, “Prepare to leave.”
As the thunder rolled on down the valley and the downpour let up, Rosalba made her way home, her shawl wrapped tightly around her head. Her thoughts turned to her papa, who would have come down from the cornfield long ago. This time, Mama might not be able to stop him from punishing her. Rosalba could almost feel the sting of the branch across her bare legs.
As she ran, a new thought came to her: the bulldozer man had said that perhaps the road would go all the way into the mountains. She glanced toward the Earthlord’s cave, shrouded in mist. If the men built a road up there, they might kill the singing toad. Then the Earthlord wouldn’t want to live there anymore. And without him, everything would change.
She couldn’t afford to be afraid of Papa or of anyone else. Rosalba strode over to the men’s hut, where the firelight seeped through the cracks. She called through the blanket: “Papa!”
She heard footsteps, and Papa drew back the blanket. He stood in the doorway, lit from behind by the fire. He held a sandal in one hand and a large needle and thread in the other.
On the other side of the fire, Mateo and Anselmo whittled sticks with pocketknives, the shavings drifting into the flames.
Papa squinted at her. “Where —?”
Rosalba held up a hand, saying, “Wait, Papa! A terrible thing is happening!” She held his eyes, refusing to look away.
Papa hesitated, then gestured for her to step into the hut. The air smelled of sweet pine smoke.
Starfields Page 5
