The Rising Dead by Stella Green Page B

was much wine. The entire group, including the children, stayed awake through the night and thenext day. A heavy perfume filled the room every time the shaman tossed a lump of plant resin on the fire. The resin was followed by herbs and plants. During the entire ceremony, the shaman chanted and prayed. The woman who had been bringing the Stranger his food brought her own offering of three candles and another lump of resin.
    “That is the mother of the boy you saved.” The shaman pointed to her as she lit her candles.
    “She’s here? Her son was horribly bitten.”
    “Another child watches him. I told her he will be healed. Why should she not celebrate? It is lucky to have the mark of the jaguar. Her son will be strong and favored. He did not fight a jaguar like you, but it is still a good sign. She is a widow in need of a husband.” The shaman tapped him on the chest before returning to the altar and slitting the throats of three chickens. Singing loudly, he sprinkled the blood into bowls and across the altar.
    The next few days in the village felt lazy and sinful. The men refused to let him hunt or farm. The women were busy weaving and grinding corn. He could hear them all gathered together laughing and swapping stories, but when he came near, they went silent. With nothing else to do, he spent hours kicking a round gourd with some small children. But he wasn’t a babysitter.
    He saw the shaman watching with a smile. “Your people are scared of me.”
    “They are grateful that you are here.”
    “The men don’t trust me with their weapons or farm tools. The women won’t even look at me.”
    “We all have our purpose, and all are important. Yours is to protect, not to hunt or farm. A good Mayan woman does not talk to strange men. You must give them time. White men have not been good for our people or the land. The Spanish did not bother us much here, though. The jungle was too hard for them.” He laughed.
    “I can’t just lie around and let them feed me. I’m not a lazy man. I can protect and still work.”
    So the next day the Stranger went into the forest and began learning the art of hunting monkeys. Part of the hunt was a prayer before the killing. When he borrowed a spear and brought down a mule deer without saying a prayer, the others knelt down and left a gourd of wine where the animal fell. The deer was so large it meant a communal barbecue for the village. The shaman must have spoken to the women, because when the hunters returned, the women didn’t avoid the Stranger anymore. The boy’s mother greeted him and handed him a gourd full of wine.
    While the mule deer roasted in a pit, the wounded boy stepped out of his hut for the first time. He walked slowly, supported by his mother. The others called out happy greetings, and the shaman translated as the child thanked the Stranger. Then the shaman pointed to the mother and said, “This is Itzel. Did I tell you she is a widow? But still young. She can have more sons.” With that he gave the Stranger another thump on the chest.
    A month later the Stranger married Itzel and became a farmer. The soil was good, the corn grew fat, and the forest provided game from tapirs to spider monkeys that Itzel cooked in their barbecue pit. She also wove beautiful cloth and filled their hut with her laughter. She taught him Mayan and explained the meanings of the designs in her cloth.All the women of the village wore blouses covered with the village’s design. When they met other Mayans for trade, everyone knew one another’s villages just from their clothes. Over time he realized that the shaman had healed him—not from the scratches of the jaguar, but from the ones in his heart. Eight happy years passed.
    During the harvest in the eighth year, a Mayan man from across the valley, dripping blood from several wounds, limped into the village. He and some others had been taking cloth and corn across the mountain to trade and had stopped to rest and gossip at a nearby