Starfields (6 page)

A
s 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.

“Y
ou’re here!” Alicia called, jumping up and down on the path near Frog Heaven. She wore a very 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?”

Rosalba nodded. “Lots of farmers are burning today.”

“Those trees make air. In school we learned about how trees get rid of carbon dioxide and manufacture oxygen. We can’t
breathe
without trees, Rosalba.”

“But we have to have corn. Corn is sacred. Corn is life,” Rosalba said, repeating the words she’d always heard. “By growing it, the men became part of the movement of the stars.”

Alicia’s eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

“It means . . . it means . . .” Rosalba floundered. What
did
those words mean?

Alicia bent down to pick up an old can from the grass.

Rosalba noticed that the can dirtied Alicia’s hands with smudges of rust. She herself didn’t like to touch anything unclean.

At last they arrived at a clearing with five little dwellings. They weren’t made of the usual mud and pine needles, but of green canvas.
Tents,
the
ladinos
called them.

Alicia put the can into a box with other cans and bottles, explaining, “Now this old can will be made into something else.”

At the market, tourists bought tiny airplanes shaped out of soda cans. But
that
rusty can? “Like what?” Rosalba asked.

“It’ll get melted down with other cans. Maybe it’ll become a car. Or an airplane.” Alicia gestured toward the yellow sky.

Rosalba stared at the sky and then at the box of old junk.

“Come look,” said Alicia, leading the way beyond the tents to wooden shelves lined with rows of clear plastic boxes.

Each box contained a frog. Some nestled in leaves; others clung to the sides of the boxes with their webbed toes. Some opened their mouths wide. One flicked its tongue at Rosalba.

Alicia strolled up and down beside the shelves. “This tan one is Fernando, and the lumpy black one is Manuela. Cesar, Cassandra, and Josue,” she said pointing to three marked with squiggly green lines. “And Berenice.” A green creature peered with bulging black eyes.

Rosalba giggled. Who would think to name frogs?

“And these”— Alicia tapped her pink-tipped fingernail on a box of tiny red-and-green frogs —“are so special they’re going to a frog zoo to be taken care of.”

Rosalba peered closely. She realized she’d once seen many of these. Mateo had caught them easily. But now she saw hardly any. Was Alicia right? Were the frogs disappearing?

“Here comes Papi,” said Alicia.

A tall man emerged from a tent, then leaned down to zip the door. He was dressed in khaki shorts and shirt. His hair, thinning at the temples, was the same light color as Alicia’s.

“Papi,” Alicia called out, “this is Rosalba, the friend I told you about.”

“Much pleasure,” said the man, smiling. “You may call me
Antonio.
”

“
Señor
 . . . ?” Rosalba asked hesitantly. She never called adults by their first names.

“Too formal.
Antonio
will do.”

“All the frogs,” Alicia continued, waving her hand, “are going to Mexico City to be tested. If they have fungus, there’s medicine. Some die anyway. As the earth gets hotter, there’s more fungus.”

“I learned about global warming in a movie,” said Rosalba, standing taller. The movie had been shown in the plaza on a large outdoor screen. Driving back in the truck that night, showers of bright stars spilling overhead, then walking the path to San Martín using flashlights, Rosalba had thought hard about what she’d seen. She felt afraid of hot times, of floods, or, worse, no rain at all. She’d lain awake considering the possibilities.