When Rosalba and Mama got home that night, Papa was sitting in the patio drinking sugarcane beer. He called out, “Come here, daughter,” and she went to stand on the opposite side of the fire with its thin ribbon of smoke.
“Tonight the elders are gathering,” Papa announced, lifting his gourd high. “They’ll talk about the drought. They’ll talk about you.” He looked hard at Rosalba. “You know what people are saying.”
“Yes, Papa.” Standing there, she suddenly felt as formless as the smoke, as though she might fade into the air. She tried to focus on Catarina’s words of comfort, her offer of sisterhood.
Nana had prepared the meal, setting the table with the enamel cups and plates.
Everyone ate in silence, Papa scooping up chili flakes with his tortillas, the boys hungrily downing one bean-filled tortilla after another.
As Rosalba picked at her food, she wondered if the elders would banish her from San Martín that very evening. Would she be forced to wander the Highlands alone, as Catarina had been? At least Catarina had folk painting to sell. She, Rosalba, had nothing.
Sparks flew up from the fire, as if to join the hot stars overhead.
A small figure appeared out of the darkness, coming to stand in the circle of firelight. It was the boy Efrain. He announced, “The elders want Rosalba. Rosalba Nicho. They want her to bring her loom.”
Mama and Nana looked at each other, then lowered their eyes.
Rosalba went into the hut. Somehow she had to prepare, to do something special. She put on her best everyday huipil, hoping the powerful designs would protect her. For extra luck, she clipped Alicia’s sparkly barrette into her hair.
Outside, Mama and Nana busied themselves with cleaning the table, acting as though nothing was wrong. The boys tended the fire, while Papa lit a cigarette and stared into the star-bright night. Adelina clung to Rosalba. “Come back soon, Rosie. Don’t let the spooks get you!”
Just as Rosalba turned to leave, Nana tucked a large white carnation behind Rosalba’s ear, whispering, “For good luck.”
Rosalba followed Efrain through the darkness, passing the huts where firelight leaked through the twig walls. Might she soon live, like Catarina Sanate, on the other side of the village fence of stones, cornstalks, and bricks?
For courage, she imagined herself as a Zapatista going to war with the loom as her rifle. She pretended that Efrain was the leader of the revolt and that she was following him into battle.
At last, Efrain stopped in front of the elders’ hut. He stepped close to the blanket and gave a low whistle.
Smelling the sweet copal, Rosalba knew the elders had already been consulting the ancestors.
A voice called out, and Efrain pulled the blanket aside. He beckoned to Rosalba.
At the sight of Tío Mariano, Tío Jorge, and Señor Tulán, a red kerchief tied across his forehead, and three other old men sitting on wooden chairs, Rosalba’s heart beat hard against her ribs. Yet she drew herself tall. The unusual weaving, she reminded herself, had not been her idea.
In spite of the heat, firelight danced along the walls. The men didn’t greet her, but sat silently, their hands folded, beads of sweat rolling down their faces. No one smiled. Outside, the crickets sang their rickety songs.
Señor Tulán unfolded his hands and gestured toward an empty chair.
Rosalba wondered if they’d allow her to say good-bye to her family. Maybe she could get to Mexico City and find Alicia. Cradling the loom in the crook of her arm, she decided that if she had to go, she would hold her head high. The chair rocked on the uneven ground, first closer to the men, then away.
More silence. Rosalba thought of the sun far below them, slipping through the nine layers of the Underworld.
Señor Tulán finally spoke, his voice as deep and slow as far-off thunder. “We have heard of the unusual nature of your weaving. Please show us your loom.”
Rosalba stood up.
Tío Mariano also rose and held out his hands, ready to receive one end.
As Rosalba unrolled the weaving, the traditional designs appeared first: the Earthlord and his toad, the sun traveling through the thirteen layers of sky.
The men paid little attention.
When she revealed the patternless browns and blacks, each of the elders studied the weaving. None spoke. Rosalba imagined the Earthlord also looking on, peering over the shoulders of these old men.
“You may roll the loom up again,” said Señor Tulán.
Rosalba did so, and sat back down. Her nostrils were full of the clove-like scent of the carnation behind her ear, grown fragrant in the heat.
“As you know, drought has struck,” said the old shaman. “Not for many years have we had such a disastrous rainy season. The cornfields are dying.”
Rosalba nodded slightly. He was about to say the lack of rain was all her fault.
Instead he surprised her, saying, “Obviously, one girl’s weaving couldn’t cause such drought.”
Rosalba shifted her loom from one arm to the other.
“And yet,” the shaman went on, “the people of San Martín are talking.”
The embers popped. The old men sat with folded hands.
“Do you have anything to say, Rosalba Nicho?” asked Señor Tulán.
Rosalba stared at the dirt floor. Now was the moment to save herself. She hoped her words would be just right. “The other night I had an ancestor dream,” she said slowly, “A young shaman came to me.”
“How do you know it was a shaman?”
“By the way he spoke. His painted face. His jewelry.”
Señor Tulán nodded.
Rosalba went on, her voice steady: “He instructed me to weave dead cornfields.”
Tío Mariano leaned forward.
“He clearly instructed this,” Rosalba added. “Somehow this”— she nodded toward the loom in her lap —“will help us all.”
“But the drought . . .” Señor Tulán murmured.
“There’s no rain not because of my weaving, but because the Earthlord’s toads are dying.”
All the old men looked puzzled. Señor Tulán tilted his head to the side.
Rosalba explained about the scientists, the fungus that was killing amphibians, including the toads.
“I know of that,” Tío Jorge said. “It’s called amphibian die-off. I too met the scientific team from Mexico City.”
“But that’s not all,” said Rosalba, feeling emboldened. “The road those men are building is also killing frogs and probably toads. When the bulldozer filled in the stream with dirt, lots of frogs died.”
She could hear the night birds rustling in the trees outside.
“We have been debating the road,” said Tío Jorge. “It would bring prosperity to San Martín. Many here are poor. Many older people don’t even get out. The school is far away. A road could be a good thing.”
Rosalba glanced at Señor Tulán to see if he agreed. But his eyes were closed.
This was the moment to do the young shaman’s will. It was a precarious moment, time to do her one big thing, as Alicia would have said.
Taking a deep breath, Rosalba set her loom on the ground. She sat tall, saying, “Maybe the road is causing the drought.”
For the first time, Señor Tulán smiled. “Not a little road like that.”
“Maybe not, Señor, but you never know.” Rosalba could hardly believe her own daring. “My friend Alicia — her papi is one of the scientists — says the sun is going to get hit by a big beam of light when it gets to the center of the galaxy. And she says that could be either really bad — the world could end — or really good. It can only be good if we take care of the planet.”
“Are you talking about the 2012 prophesy?” another elder asked.
Rosalba nodded. “It’s like the Flood. It’s the next destruction.”
And then she stood, rising to stand above the seated elders. The next words weren’t her own, but those of the boy talking through her. “If the road is built, we w
ill become less Mayan. We here in San Martín will become like those in the town. People there do not dwell in the blossoming of the Earth or in the Earthlord, who guides us. They do not dwell in the sacred movement of the stars. If we do not live as Mayans, there is no hope of maintaining the order of the universe.”
Señor Tulán stared at her in surprise. Then he lowered his gaze and stirred the dirt with the toe of his sandal. “I have thought of that.” He drew a circle, first one way, then the other.
“What if the road goes all the way to the cave of the Earthlord?” Rosalba asked.
All three men stared at her.
After a time in which the sun had dropped another notch into the Underworld, Señor Tulán said, “Please step outside, Rosalba Nicho, and wait.”
The stars pulsed in time to the crickets’ songs. As a warm wind blew, Rosalba rocked from one foot to the other, clutching her loom. Were the elders discussing her fate? Were they deciding where to send her? If they only knew! She needed them to help her, not push her out of the village. The elders had to help her! They had to!
She heard a flute in the distance, sweet notes like a trickle of refreshing water.
Just as a group of fireflies appeared, twinkling in the bushes, Rosalba felt a light touch on the carnation tucked behind her ear. A touch as if in reassurance, a touch that passed through her like a soft breeze.
The curtain was drawn back, and one of the elders beckoned.
When Rosalba reentered the hut, the fire had grown smaller. The light flickered, not on the walls, but on the faces of the elders. She took a seat on the chair that rocked forward, then backward.
A large log, mostly burnt, balanced on another log. Rosalba watched it, wondering when it would tumble.
When at last the log fell, Señor Tulán said, “I have felt the lightning in my blood. The lightning tells me what to do.”
Another log crashed into the hot red coals.
Señor Tulán continued: “Tomorrow I will go down to the bulldozer. I will talk to the man driving it. I will tell him that I am going to talk to the government.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Rosalba. “Thank you!” She took the carnation from her hair and handed it to Señor Tulán. “Thank you.”
One of the men tossed a handful of copal onto the embers, and the whole room grew sweet.
I am learning to see the small things first. Inside the cave, I watch water slipping over the nodules of the stalactites. I watch until I understand how each drop adds infinitesimally to that lumpy formation.
Outside I gather the dropped tail feathers of birds. I study the iridescence in the sunlight, the webbing between each of the parts, the attachment to the central quill.
Last night, when I touched the flower in the girl’s hair, passing my fingertips over its complicated form, I wanted to behold such a thing completely with my eyes. And all things like it.
For now I gather only the tiny things into myself, preparing to enter the visible world.
Today I allowed the very largest. At dawn and just past sunset I lifted my eyes to the empty sky. The light fell into me, filling me, healing me.
My eyes avoided Icoquih in the morning. I retreated before the evening stars appeared. There will come a time when Mauruch commands me to return to the Great Sky Serpent, but that time is not yet.
From large to small, my vision oscillates. And thus I absorb gradually the glories of sight.
Tonight when I crawl into the House of Darkness, I find that my ear of unripe corn has sprouted.
I burn copal before that corn because I shall live. I do the dance of the Whippoorwill and the dance of the Weasel because I shall live. I abandon my heart to the dances of the Armadillo and the Centipede.
All the great animals and small animals rejoice in the sprouting of my new life. I look upon them as they come up from the rivers and from the canyons. I see them on the mountain peak. As one we turn our faces to the coming forth of the sun. The first to sing is the parrot. The pumas and jaguars cry out. The eagles and the white vultures spread their wings as we rejoice.
Thus I live until Mauruch shall decree that I drink the bitter potion. Until I return to my duties as the Seer, the Shaman, the Holy Man. Whether the world end or not end, I do not know. But I will continue to extend my being into the vast stretches of the Long Count, transforming into bird and beast and the Great Emptiness, transporting myself, traveling through eternity.
Rosalba lifted her face to the sunshine as Mama combed her hair. She felt the comb making a neat part, front to back. She felt Mama separating her hair, making two braids, winding in the blue and pink ribbons.
When Mama had looped the braids up, tying them close to Rosalba’s ears, Rosalba laid her hands over the tight plaits, saying, “Thank you, Mamacita.” She beckoned to her little sister. “Adelina, do you want to help me feed the chickens?”
Reaching into the basket of dried corn, Adelina grabbed a handful. Together they walked across the patio, singing out, “T’ikt’ike,” to mimic the sound of a hen. In short leaps, the chickens came running and flying.
While the chickens were busy eating, Rosalba searched the broken cooking pots tied under the eaves. She handed the eggs down to Adelina, who cradled them in her shawl.
“The hens are happy today,” Rosalba proclaimed.
Harmony had returned. Rosalba knew that all over the hillsides her aunts, great aunts, and cousins were also braiding each other’s hair, tending to the chickens, hanging balls of ground corn out of reach of the animals. Everyone helped the Earthlord do his job of running the world just right.
She too must do those things. Whether the Earth would die, she couldn’t know. The shaman hadn’t made any promises. But she could do those things. And she could do more. She’d helped stop the road, hadn’t she?
Maybe Alicia would come back. And now there was Catarina.
That night the shaman came again to Rosalba. He showed her the huipil, once again stretched out. This time, both sides were identical, brocaded with the traditional designs of the ancestors.
He showed her a sky filled with clouds, their gray bellies heavy with moisture. He showed her a green cornfield, its stalks loaded with ears of golden corn.
This he wanted her to manifest.
When he looked back at her, his eyes were unblinking, as if the sunlight no longer troubled them.
“These are for you,” Sylvia said, holding up several lengths of hair ribbon. “I heard what you did,” she said. “That was brave.”
Rosalba slipped the ribbons through her fingers. Bright yellow was her favorite color. “There won’t be a road now,” she said. “Are you happy about that?”
Sylvia sighed. “I’ll get used to the idea.”
“Later on you’ll be glad.”
“Maybe.”
“You can help me.” Rosalba fastened one end of her loom to the tree. Today she’d work in the open instead of hidden on the side of the hut. “Tie this end around your waist and sit down.”
With the loom stretched out, Rosalba gently plucked the brown and black colors from the huipil. As she laid the loose threads in a small basket, she thought of how each had been like a word sending a message to the elders. “My friend wrote her message with words,” she said to Sylvia, “and I wrote with this yarn.”
Sylvia giggled.
Rosalba wondered if she’d ever tell her cousin about the shaman. A wide smile crossed her face at the thought of him.
Tomorrow she’d do his will. She’d start on the identical back panel, weaving the patterns of creation. She’d weave the design of the universe line by line, cornfield by starfield, bringing, for now, the rain of life to Earth.
brujo/a — (Spanish) witch
chico/a — (Spanish) child, “little one”
chytrid — a type of fungus that causes chytridiomycosis, an infectious disease found in amphibians
coati — an animal related to a raccoon
codex/codices — sacred Mayan texts
copal — a
tree resin
cotinga — a dovelike tropical bird with turquoise plumage and a purple breast and throat
dzonot — (Mayan) a limestone sinkhole, also called a cenote
finca — (Spanish) a lowland coffee plantation
hola — (Spanish) hello
huipil — (from Nahuati) a woven blouse made by indigenous women in central and southern Mexico
Hunahpu and Xbalanque, the Hero Twins — mythical twins who defeated the gods of Xibalba in a ball game
Icoquih — (Mayan) a star that appears before sunrise
jocote — (Spanish) a sour yellow plum
K’in — (Mayan) the sun
Kukulcan — (Mayan) the feathered serpent god, also known as Quetzalcoatl
ladino/a — (Spanish) the term for those of mixed Spanish and Indian blood, used in Guatemala and southern Mexico
Long Count — the Mayan way of counting time. 13.0.0.0.0 is the Mayan equivalent of 12/21/2012. The number 13 refers to the number of baktuns, or 144,000-day periods.
“Los de adelante corren mucho, y los de atrás se quedarán, tras, tras, tras, tras.” — (Spanish) part of a Mexican nursery rhyme that accompanies a game like “London Bridge Is Falling Down” and that roughly translates as “Those in front run fast while those behind will have to wait.”
Mamacita — a diminutive form of Mama, an endearment
masa — cornmeal dough
matasano — (Spanish) a sour tropical fruit
nopal — (Spanish) prickly-pear cactus; its pads can be cooked like green beans
pasamontaña — (Spanish) ski mask worn by the guerilla group the Zapatistas
pataxte — (Mayan) a type of cacao
refresco — (Spanish) soda
stela/stelae — an inscribed stone pillar
tía — (Spanish) aunt
tío — (Spanish) uncle
Xibalba — (Mayan) the Underworld
zapote — (Spanish) a sweet tropical fruit, also called sapodilla
I’d like to acknowledge those who’ve spent time among the modern Mayans, inspiring me with words and photographs; my agent, Kelly Sonnack, who had the idea of adding the 2012 element to a discarded manuscript about the Zapatistas; and Deborah Wayshak for her writerly intuition in guiding this story to its truest expression.
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