Free Starfields by Carolyn Marsden

laughed and shook her head.
    Sylvia stepped up. “The trucks might run over our chickens,” she said, tossing a small smile at Rosalba.

I surrender as I have been taught, abandoning myself to the will of the universe. I let myself be sucked into the serpent’s jaws. Into his foul black breath. Into the tunnel of his body.
    The journey takes me. It takes my breath. It crushes my bones. It takes my heart as a priest would take it. I have been sacrificed after all.
    Suddenly I am out of the tunnel. I rest in a silence so complete it stills my heart.
    I am above the stars, floating in ceaseless blackness. I look down onto the fate I have been born to.
    I sit first upon the Jaguar Throne, gaining the ferocity of a wild cat. I sit upon the Snake Throne, learning a viper’s agility. And finally, the Water Throne teaches me to flow like the rivers.
    I stand upon the floor of the heavens. As if commanded, I stretch out my arms, the palms raised.
    I receive the blue-green gem of the earth in one hand. I cup my fingers around that sphere, with its precious mountains and valleys, its cloud shapes and jags of lightning.
    The glorious hot jewel of the sun is placed in my other hand. It is the Fifth Sun, for this is the Fifth Era.
    Suddenly, the sun is torn open. The fiery flesh is ripped as if by a giant hand. A great bolt of fire escapes.
    The flames travel the distance of darkness. They travel from one of my hands toward the other. Although I try to hurl the earth-sphere out of harm’s way, it stays in my palm, fatally attracted. The conflagration flames from orb to orb, licking the blue-green planet.
    The oceans boil. The land burns. The jungle-covered empires heave as the earth is wrenched apart.
    Then all is quiet.
    I look down the tunnel. The Green Morning Star, Icoquih, has appeared. Dawn is breaking and the canoe drifts.
    Mauruch is bending over my body. I lie, pale, as if dead.
    And then I am sucked down again. With a soft clap, I become one with my flesh, yet lie as if a flame has been blown out.
    “Tell me what you saw, Xunko,” Mauruch commands.
    But I have sunk far away. I sense Mauruch inside my mind now, sorting through its memories. I hear his soft gasp.

F rom a large wooden trunk, Rosalba took her ceremonial
huipil
as well as Adelina’s. This brocaded clothing, passed down to them from their great-grandmother, was different from the everyday
huipiles
;
it was feathered, the iridescent green of the quetzal bird woven into the fabric.
    Adelina stood, her eyes bright, ready for the moment.
    As Rosalba lifted the special
huipil
over her head, she said, “Remember that when you wear this, you place yourself at the center of the world.”
    “I know! I know!” Adelina said impatiently, tugging the hem down to her waist, stroking the feathers.
    Rosalba lifted the feathered garment over her own head. In doing so, she suddenly entered an unexpected darkness, as if in a tunnel.
    “Where are you, Rosie?” Adelina asked. “Are you stuck in there?”
    With a jerk, Rosalba wrested the
huipil
down, emerging at last into the light.
    “Are you all right, Rosalba?”
    “Of course,” she replied, resting a hand on her
pit-patting
heart.
    As Adelina dashed up and down the trail in her feathered
huipil,
pretending to fly, Rosalba watched the procession winding up the mountain, which had grown green during the few days of rain.
    Tall trees, their needles shining with light, gave way to cornfields perched precariously on the mountainside.
    When the trail made a sharp turn, Rosalba looked back to see people from town, including some
ladinos,
joining the procession. The Mayan women used shawls tied across their backs to carry bright, sweet flowers. The men hauled bundles of fireworks and food.
    The ceremonial
huipiles,
the bright shirts and ribboned hats, shone like rainbows against the green hillsides.
    Rosalba waved at Sylvia, who walked behind, then waited for her to catch up.
    “Only this ceremony can make the world right