Life Blood---XXV---Page No 90

And what about those bizarre proceedings now under way in the square? Was that going to interfere with getting Sarah out?
        "Marcelina." I pointed back toward the milling plaza. "What's
that all about? The drinking and the—?"

"It's begun," she answered, both simple and vague. "They're getting ready."

I didn't like the way she said it. Her tone seemed to imply I was involved somehow.

"Ready for—?"

"The ceremony. They like to drink a tree-bark liquor we call balche. It's very strong and rancid." She smiled and touched me. "Take my advice and avoid it."

"I plan to." Why did she think I'd even be offered it?

As we hurried along, two women abruptly appeared on a

porch, bowed, and greeted us. Marcelina waved back, then went over and spoke earnestly with them for a moment. Finally she turned and motioned for me.

"They've invited you in."

Something about the easy way it all just "happened" felt as
though they'd been expecting me. Had Marcelina's trip down to
the village been part of a setup, wittingly or unwittingly?

"I told them we could only stay for a minute," she went on. I sensed she was reluctant, but felt we had no choice.
        The last thing I wanted to do was this.

"Marcelina, can't you tell them we'll come back later?"

"It's . . . it's important." She was beckoning for me. "Please."
        Well, I thought, this could give me the time I need, the
 personal moment, to get through to her. Even after I locate Sarah,
spiriting her out isn't going to be simple. I've got to make
Marcelina understand what's really going on, then get her to help
us.

As we headed through the yard, the women smiled, then

politely led us under the thatch overhang and into the hut. They
both were short and Maya-sturdy, with white shifts and broad
faces, and they exuded a confident intensity in their bearing, a
powerful sense of self-knowledge. I tried a phrase in Spanish, but
they just stared at me as though they'd never heard the language.
Then I remembered my first attempt to ask about Sarah. The
women hadn't understood me then either. Or had they?
        The room they ushered us into had no windows, but there
was cool, shadowy morning light filtering through the upright
wooden slats of the walls, laying dim stripes across the earthen

floor. A cooking fire smoldered in a central hearth, and from the
smoke-blackened roof beams dangled dried gourds, bundles of
tobacco, netted bags of onions and squash, and several leaf-
wrapped blocks of salt. The room smelled of ancient smoke,
sweet and pungent.

They immediately produced a calabash bowl with a gray liquid
inside, pronouncing the word atole as they urged it on me, smiling
expectantly.

"It's our special drink," Marcelina explained. She seemed to be wary, watching me closely as they handed it over. "It's how we welcome an honored guest."

I wasn't sure how politic I ought to be. Third World food . . .

"Marcelina," I said, taking the bowl and trying to smile. "I'm not
really—"

"You must have a little," she whispered back. "It would be

very rude. . .  ."

Well, I thought, just a taste. I tried it and realized it was a

dense gruel of cornmeal and honey-water, like a lukewarm gluey
porridge, though with a bitter after-jolt. But I choked it down and
tried to look pleased. Marcelina urged me to have more—I took
another small sip—and then they produced corn dumplings
wrapped in large leaves, together with a pile of fiery chiles and a
bowl of squash, corn, and beans, all mixed together.
        After one bite, though, Marcelina reached out and—her eyes
downcast—whisked the bowls away, passing them back to the
women. She said something to them, then turned to me.
        "Eating too much would be as rude as not eating at all."
        That was a cultural norm I didn't remember, and I suspected
 she'd just changed her mind about the wisdom of my eating local
food.

I smiled at the women and used some of my so-so Spanish to offer them thanks.

"Muchas gracias." I nodded toward the bowls. "Esta es muy delicioso."

They beamed as though they understood me. Who could say? But they'd been intensely interested in watching me eat, even more than Marcelina.

Work on her. Now.

"Marcelina." I turned to her, only vaguely noticing she hadn't
had a bite. "Do you understand why Dr. Goddard moved me down
to the operating room yesterday? There in the clinic? What did he
tell you?"