Starfields (9 page)

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.

R
osalba 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 coming 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.