Free Starfields by Carolyn Marsden Page B

cross where Jesus died. But in San Martín people believed they stood for the sacred tree of life.
    As Tía Mirsa and other women knelt to tie three branches of geranium flowers to the crosses, Rosalba whispered to Alicia, “They’re opening the gate to the sacred world.”
    Men were busy lighting numerous fire altars, throwing gourdfuls of grainy copal incense into the flames, releasing clouds of sweetness.
    At an altar in front of the cave, people laid offerings of cigarettes and corn seed, bowing slightly with palms pressed together. The women added offerings of calla lilies and sweet-smelling tuberoses. The men offered gourds of sugarcane liquor, then passed the gourds among themselves.
    Alicia looked on, wide-eyed.
    The boys from town tapped away on their cell phones.
    A woman handed Rosalba a box of matches, saying, “Please light those candles over there.”
    Rosalba and Sylvia took turns lowering the lighted matches into the tall glasses, touching the flame to the wicks.
    When they’d finished, the same woman gave them a basket filled with herbs.
    Alicia fingered the leaves and seeds.
    “Sprinkle them like this,” Rosalba said, casting a handful onto the ground. “The Earthlord likes the sweet smell.”
    As the men lit the ends of pieces of sugarcane, rockets took off into the air, leaving behind a smell of gunpowder. The musicians once again set up — this time joined by a slit drum player — their music punctuated by the explosions of these fireworks.
    Holding a sharp knife in one hand, the shaman lifted a black chicken toward the sky. It flapped its wings briefly, then cried out.
    Alicia turned her head away and covered her ears.
    “It’s no problem,” Rosalba reassured her. “There’s plenty of chickens. They’re not dying of fungus.”
    As Señor Tulán began his prayer, Rosalba moved close, listening carefully. Maybe instead of speaking to the villagers about the road, he’d talk directly to the Earthlord. He’d talk about the dying frogs, the bulldozer at the bottom of the mountain. He’d even talk about 2012. The Earthlord would do something about those things.
    At the prayer’s end, Alicia looked at Rosalba, her eyebrows raised in question.
    “He only said the usual things. You know — asking the gods for rain and good crops.”
    “That’s all?”
    “That’s all,” answered Rosalba. For once, she understood more than Alicia did.
    Alicia scuffed at the grass with the toe of her sandal.
    Now that the ceremony was over, the women set out the feast, balancing the dishes on large rocks at the edge of the meadow.
    Rosalba and Alicia carried their plates to a spot overlooking the forest below.
    “It looks so small from up here,” Alicia said, pointing to the scar cut by the bulldozer.
    “But it’s going to my village. . . . And it might come all the way here,” said Rosalba, looking around, trying to picture cars and trucks parked here in the lovely green meadow. Suddenly, she didn’t feel hungry for the bean-paste tamales.
    Alicia sighed. “Then it’s really going to be up to us. Have you thought of what you’ll do?”
    Rosalba shook her head.
Her own big thing.
    “Well, before I go, I’m going to make posters and put them all over. Even in town.”
    “What will they say?”
    “Don’t burn trees. Pick up trash. Don’t make roads and kill frogs.”
    Rosalba set aside her plate of food. She didn’t want to think about Alicia leaving. And she couldn’t write words to make posters.
    “You have to decide on something, Rosalba. I’m leaving in a few days.”
    “You
can’t
!” Rosalba scooted closer to her friend.
    “Papi has his job at the university. And I have school.”
    “But what will I do without you?”
    Alicia put an arm around Rosalba’s shoulder. “You’ll be all right. You were fine before I came.”
    As clouds began to cover the blue sky, blotting out the sunshine, Rosalba shivered.
    Just then she saw Catarina Sanate, sitting alone, overlooking the