Free Starfields by Carolyn Marsden Page A

again,” Rosalba said to her. “We have to stop that road.”
    “That’s what
you
think,” Sylvia said. “Others have other opinions.”
    “Well,
others
don’t know,” Rosalba retorted, wishing she hadn’t waited for Sylvia.
    When the procession arrived at the limestone spring, halfway up the mountain, the scientists in their khaki clothes and broad-brimmed hats were already waiting. They stood with their hands clasped in front of them, as if not sure what to expect.
    Alicia came darting through the crowd.
    Rosalba was surprised to see her wearing, not her
ladino
clothes, but a blue-and-white
huipil.
    “Papi got this for me at the market,” Alicia said, looking down at the bright threads. “I thought of what you said about helping the Earthlord. I want to help too. But, oh!” she exclaimed, laying a fingertip on a green feather. “
Your huipil
is extra beautiful.”
    Rosalba rose up on tiptoe, making sure Papa wasn’t watching this meeting with the
ladina.
She spotted him, under his hat with the waterfall of ribbons, on the far side of the spring.
    “The terrible thing,” Rosalba said to Alicia, lowering her voice, “is that so many people want the road.”
    “They may want it now. But they’re not thinking of all that will be lost.”
    “Sylvia wants it,” Rosalba said, betraying her cousin. “Tell her why, Sylvia. Tell Alicia why.”
    Sylvia spoke softly — her large eyes lowered. “It would be nice not to have to walk so far. Especially when it’s cold or hot.”
    “But what about the frogs?” Alicia asked. “What about the way they’re dying?”
    Sylvia opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it.
    “My papa doesn’t want the road,” said Rosalba. She didn’t mention his silliness of the other night.
    Rosalba turned to see Sylvia slipping into the crowd.
    “You’ll have to change their minds, Rosalba.”
    “I don’t know how. Can’t your father do something?”
    “He went to town and called Mexico City. He ended up on hold for two hours. He’ll try again in person when we go back. . . .”
    At that, a little shadow passed over Rosalba. How could she fight the road with her friend gone?
    A group of musicians settled close to the spring, tuning up a violin, guitar, and harp. When the ceremonial music filled the air, the crowd hushed.
    “The musicians keep the water happy,” Rosalba said into Alicia’s ear. “If the water isn’t happy, the spring might dry up.”
    Yet not everyone hushed. Rosalba noticed the town boys talking on their cell phones. Some had on earphones, listening to other music. They didn’t care if a road was built to San Martín.
    When the music ended, Señor Tulán stood over the spring. Lifting his bamboo staff, he recited the usual Mayan prayer in his singsong voice:
Yea, pleasing is the day, you, Huracan, and you, Heart of Sky and Earth, you who give abundance and new life, and you who give daughters and sons . . .
    The crowd listened with bowed heads.
    “What’s he saying?” Alicia asked.
    “He prays that the water will be preserved for the health and prosperity of all.” She wished that the shaman had added something about the dying frogs. About the road. About the end of the world itself. But perhaps he was saving those messages for the Earthlord himself.
    The shaman turned away from the spring, leading the procession upward, higher onto the cone-shaped peak of the Earthlord. Tall pines swayed and fragrant needles covered the forest floor.
    Usually, Rosalba felt happy on this festival day that celebrated the rain and the new crops. But today she felt twisted, at odds with Sylvia and her aunties.
    As the procession moved up the mountain, the air grew cooler and small clouds drifted across the sun. Just before the peak, a meadow spread in front of the Earthlord’s cave. A collection of wooden crosses stood propped up by piles of stones. Sheltered from the breeze, candles burned in small pits.
    Christians said that the crosses stood for the