The Rising Dead by Stella Green

The engravings in the ruined temples that he had seen showed the jaguars as gods. He could understand why the people had worshipped them and he didn’t want to harm the big cat, but he had no choice. When the cat snarled at him, the Stranger took aim and threw his walking stick like a javelin. It slammed into the Jaguar’s soft stomach. The creature screamed in pain as it fell twenty feet, and then lay motionless. If it was only wounded, death would be slow and painful, so the Stranger smashed it over the head with his walking stick. He had no time to mourn the loss of the great cat because the boy was still bleeding.
    When he stepped out of the jungle and crossed a small cornfield near a village, the men tending the corn stared. His bloody arm and the boy’s very bloody torso must have made for a startling sight. The child called out to them and they all rushed over. In spiteof his wounds, the boy continued to talk excitedly as two of them gently took him from the Stranger. A third tried to take the Stranger’s rucksack. The Stranger held on to his pack, but when they indicated he should follow, he did so.
    The Mayan men came up to his shoulder, but they were strong, lean men who looked like they were used to hard work. Tall, healthy-looking stalks of corn grew in the field they had carved out of the jungle. As soon as the other villagers spotted the boy and the Stranger, people began calling out and speaking rapidly to one another and the small village swirled with activity. The women were dressed in brightly colored clothes with complicated patterns. As they rushed about in the colors of the jungle birds, the Stranger struggled to take it all in.
    An older man stepped out of a hut. He wore white clothes with a vivid scarf tied around his waist. His hair was black, but his skin was deeply furrowed with wrinkles. Villagers moved aside to allow him through. After listening to the child, he gestured toward the thatch-roofed hut. Without asking permission, he examined the scratches on the Stranger’s arm. In Spanish he said, “I am a priest and I will heal you.”
    The shaman prepared a poultice of plants. It had an unrecognizable, bitter smell, and the Stranger didn’t want it applied because he knew he would heal quickly without the reeking herbs. He pointed to the child, but the shaman was clearly used to people doing as he asked. He paid no attention and continued to treat his village’s guest. When he smeared the mixture over the gashes, it was cool and soothing, and the pain began dissipating until it was only a dull irritation. While the Stranger sat, the shaman stood above him waving his hands and reciting an ancient prayer. Every few minutes he stopped to toss herbs on the fire. The smoky herbs made the Stranger calm and drowsy.
    The villagers brought him tortillas, some gamey meat he didn’t recognize, and wine in a dried gourd. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he dozed peacefully. In the morning light that filtered through the hut, he saw that the walls were simply straight tree branches tied together. Gaps between the poles made stripes of shadow and light along the dirt floor. He was surprised that the hut was so flimsy, but then he realized that he still thought like a man from a cold climate. In the jungle the spaces between the tree branches allowed cooling breezes through the hut, which was exactly what they needed here. Feeling a now familiar itch, the Stranger glanced at his arm and immediately slapped the mosquito that had just landed. A bit of blood smeared where the insect had been drinking. Of course, the mosquitoes, tarantulas, and scorpions found the gaps, too. The insects weren’t a problem for the Stranger because he would heal in minutes, but the villagers couldn’t escape them. The Mayans must be sturdy people.
    A woman brought him tortillas and beans for breakfast. She wouldn’t look directly at him or acknowledge him when he tried to thank her. He guessed she was shy. Her serene