Free Tree Girl by Ben Mikaelsen Page A

longer felt safe in any cantón or pueblo.
    I would rather have waited until dark to walk, but I was anxious to get away from this place where Antonio had died. Inside of me I longed to weep and wake up in Mamí’s arms and hear her tell me that this was only a bad dream, but for Alicia’s sake Iforced myself to be strong.
    We didn’t walk fast, but all day and into the next night we followed narrow walking trails, stopping only to pick cherries, eat roots, and drink water when we crossed streams. Blisters on our feet made us limp, and we stumbled with weariness. Finally, late the next night, Alicia could walk no farther and I found a thick patch of shrubs to sleep under. Our stomachs ached from hunger, but that didn’t keep us from sleep.
    For the next three days we followed rocky foot trails through the rolling hills, trying to walk mostly at night. We ate only berries and plant roots, and slept during the day. I tried many times to coax words from Alicia, but she refused to speak. Whenever we stopped, she sat as if in a trance while I brushed her hair and hummed familiar songs to her.
    We met no one until the fourth day of our journey. Early, before the sun rose, I heard a woman’s voice ahead of us crying out weakly in Quiché, “Help! Please, someone help me!”
    Thinking that this might be a military trap, I grabbed Alicia and was about to run when I pausedto listen more closely.
    “Help me. Please!” the female voice called again.
    I gripped Alicia’s hand tightly and moved forward. There on the ground near the trail, I found a young pregnant woman lying stretched out on top of a corte. Her stomach bulged like a huge melon, and she wore no clothes below her fat waist. Her bare legs and bent knees were spread wide. From where I stood, I heard her heavy breathing and saw her face twisted in pain and dripping sweat.
    “Please help,” the woman gasped, noticing me. Even as she spoke, she grimaced with pain and held to her round stomach.
    “What can I do?” I asked, approaching her and kneeling. “I’ve never helped anyone give birth before.”
    “Catch the baby,” she cried.
    Obediently I kneeled between her legs, but I still wasn’t sure what to do. In our cantón, young girls learned many things—to weave, to carry water, to grind corn, to sweep dirt floors, and to make tortillas. We helped our mothers with many chores, but not with birth. That was the job of the midwives, and noteven the men were allowed to help.
    In our cantón we would hide with other children in nearby bushes while the midwives helped our mothers give birth. We giggled and stared with wide eyes, imagining the terrible things that made our mothers scream and grunt. Sometimes we whispered to each other, guessing what was happening. The boys were mean and said they were killing a pig.
    The woman lying in front of me relaxed for a few minutes as if her pain had disappeared, then again she stiffened and grunted and cried out in pain. Desperately I asked, “What hurts?” But the woman couldn’t answer.
    When the pain left her the next time, the woman said, “Soon. Soon.”
    I stared. How could a baby be born through such a small opening? Still I waited. Each time the woman stiffened, she screamed louder until I believed she was dying. But finally she screamed, “It’s coming! It’s coming!”
    I looked and saw the baby trying to push out from between her legs. It frightened me. It was like herstomach or intestines coming out. I looked back and saw Alicia watching, her eyes and mouth opened wide. There wasn’t time to explain to her what was happening, but I think maybe she thought she was watching another death.
    Again the woman grunted and held to her thighs. She strained harder and gasped deeply, as if trying to catch her breath. Sweat dripped from her face in huge drops. The bulge grew larger, like something arriving from a different world. The baby looked like a ball pushing out. Now the woman panted fast. “Catch it,” she