I.
Canopy: Muj/
throne: q’alib’aj/
flute-bone: su’ b’aq
Isaac fell sick on New Year’s Day. Behind jaguar, hyena, and conquistador masks, neighbors danced like marionettes and shook chinchines to the marimba. I knew what would follow like I knew the weight of my son’s body. The first volador climbed four wooden ladders and wound rope beneath the crossbars. A second followed, hands trembling. The ladders shuddered, and the pole swayed. At the top, they negotiated the ropes, sitting themselves in loops secured with several knots. Leaning back against fortune, back into the hands of the gods, they gripped the twine. As the rope unfurled, they descended, orbiting the pole like vultures.
We lifted our heads with each new flight, our gaze tied to them by invisible cords, hearts slowing to the rhythm of each loop, jaws slack, as if our open mouths might swallow them and intercept their fall. The blood pumped at our temples, turning the sky magenta. Ropes turned and crossed with their shadows on the cobbles below. Yolanda clenched her fists so tight her fingernails marked her palms. When the voladores’ toes touched the plaza stones, we exhaled. The flying men clapped each other’s backs to make light of their flirtation with death.
squash seeds: sakil/
chili peppers: ik/
beans: kinaq’, pataxte, peq
The apple harvest was late, and the men were hurrying to get the maize in—Lucas would be back after sundown. Isaac’s croupy cough became a steady hack, and by late afternoon he coughed up blood and was feverish. I had fourteen quetzals to feed us for the next three days. I could ask the pharmacist for advice and credit, or there was Pascual Abaj.
When Mamá was a child, back when the Calvario still had a steeple and the plaza was dirt, they had relied on herbs and offerings. Tonight, she felt Isaac’s forehead, fetched the tin under her mattress, and went out. Returning with powders, dried leaves, and ointments, she rubbed Isaac’s chest and put a pot on the coals to make tea. Yolanda and Inocencia took turns holding Isaac while I ground maize.
He slept, his brow on fire.
I served up black beans, eggs estrellados, and cream while my sisters piled hot tortillas in a basket. Once his belly was full, Lucas looked up.
“What’s with you all tonight?”
“Isaac’s sick.”
Lucas’s eyes were empty, the day’s sweat still on his brow. Ever since my brother’s death, we’ve lived in flickering uncertainty: treading carefully and looking for signs. I filled his mug with hot atol and set it on the ground. Yolanda stirred the coals. Neighbor children giggled at the doorway and ran to the next house.
tobacco gourd: k’us b’us/
food bowl: kaxkon/
maize: ri ixim
Children everywhere, yet in our house just one. Every day, neighbors asked where was our second. All in good time, gracias a Dios, in good time. Despite fierce couplings, I showed no signs of swelling. The other women, who’d wrapped their veils about their husbands’ shoulders on the same year as I, were already carrying a third. All this Lucas considered as he looked into his enamel cup. He took off his straw hat for a moment, ran his fingers through his hair. He calculated we could climb the mountain and return before dawn without losing a day’s pay.
“Let’s make offerings.”
drum: cham cham/
bright black powder: tatil/
yellow stone: q’an ab’aj
“Mamá?” She was kneeling, folding chuchitos in banana leaves, thin gray plaits brushing the floor like frayed rope.
“Lucas says we should make offerings.”
She nodded.
Yolanda, Inocencia, and I set out for the mercado; we’d find what was needed.
II.
puma paws: tz’ikwil koj/
jaguar paws: tz’ikwil b’alam/
head: jolom
Only Lucas slept. I burnt incense on the church steps and prayed.
Before first light we picked our way between potholes to the edge of town. Inside the forest, we trod through long dry grasses, stumbling over roots, zigzagging up to the crest. Lucas unfolded the newspaper packages and laid a round bed of crushed coal and discs of copal. I placed a dark brick of caña sugar in the center. Mamá made a ring of incense lozenges and candles at the edge. Inocencia showered silver-foil sweets and brightly colored bombas de chicle. I added a dozen cigars and a bundle of cigarettes. Yolanda, handfuls of incense and three dozen eggs. Mamá scattered breadcrumbs over everything.
Tying Papi’s red scarf about his head, Lucas lit a punctured tin filled with coal and resin. He swung it back and forth, tapping it occasionally to knock out ash. Invoking saints, the Virgin Mary and Christ, he called on Ixpiacoc, Ixmucané and Gucumatz. Kneeling before the stone altar, he solicited their help till tears ran down his cheeks. The shaman arrived in his quetzal-embroidered finery and blessed us. Lucas threw a match upon the offerings and fed it with Indita. I held the chicken by its feet while he pulled back the feathers to score its throat. We threw it into the fire. It hopped and flapped until we decapitated it. Lucas left the heart at the altar and gave the rest to the flames. Yolanda prodded it: the feathers went up in smoke, the flesh crackled and spit till only charred bones remained.
deer hooves: pich kej/
arm band: makutax/
snail shell rattle: t’ot’ tatam
As the hen went up in smoke, Isaac went stiff. My head spun; I gripped an imaginary rope with clammy palms, the world lay far below. A turning wheel of sparkling candy wrappers and gleaming eggshells turned beneath me as I unwound. Nearing the ground, flames licked the soles of my feet. Everything went dark.
When I came back, they’d put me on the grassy verge. When I fell, Yolanda had lifted Isaac from me; she thought he was dead. But as we climbed down the hill, he gurgled, as if nothing ailed him.
cacao: kakaw/
macaw feathers: chiyom/
snowy egret feathers: astapulul
That day, and the next, we went hungry, but Isaac recovered.
I’ve made offerings twice since then. The first was to help Papi on his journey to the underworld. Again, for a second child. The gods do not always answer our prayers.