Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

people who care. When they are gone, I would rather be dead too. What
would there be for me to live for? Nothing.”
“We have to get out of here, papá,” I screamed at him, just as a ball of
fire blew across the road and landed in the forest behind us. He started to
leap for the flame to snuff it out, but I stopped him and did it myself. Balls
of fire were flying everywhere now, fueled by sun-dried palm leaves and
the afternoon breeze. More trees were catching on fire, and flames were
spreading on both sides of the road.
I stamped and smothered what I could in a vain effort to prevent our
medicine trail from being destroyed. Then we made our way along the road,
following a trail of devastation.
The air was thick with smoke that burned our eyes and turned the
already hot afternoon into a living inferno. Don Elijio’s failing eyes became
useless and he stumbled several times. Knowing he would never leave the
bags of Billy Webb and Zorillo behind, I took his bag and staggered along,
trying to carry both of our sacks. As I struggled with the bags, I was all too
conscious of the fiery projectiles, falling trees, and my maestro, walking
slowly in front of me, his shoulders slumped, dragging the pick, machetes,
and hoe.
Several farmers had decided to burn together that day. The more careful,
thoughtful men had made firebreaks to protect surrounding stands of forest.
In these fields, the fire was contained and under control.
After getting through the worst of it, we stopped for a rest under a shady
tree and shared an orange. Don Elijio sat down, defeated and exhausted,
looking like the ninety-some-year-old man he was. His shoulders drooped
and his eyes teared. He looked nothing like my playful companion who had
swung on a vine over my head an hour ago.
We sat in silence. At last he said sadly, “That field we just passed was
the last place anywhere around here where I could collect Eremuil leaves. A
month ago, I went to the farmer and asked him to please spare that blessed
tree because I need so much of it. Did he listen to me or my plea? No!
Chopped it down and burned it all up! His own wife needs that tree.
“Now what, Rosita? Now what? Nothing does what Eremuil can do. It
is the queen of all the Xiv. This is what comes from living too long. The
day will come when there’ll be no medicine left around the village and my
art will be finished. Only tales and stories will remain. Where will my
people get healing then? Where?