The Center of the World by Jacqueline Sheehan Page B

the lack of sound, the complete absence of her voice continued to worry Kate. Of course it was the soul-searing trauma of the massacre; it could burn the voice out of anyone. The girl held up her arms for Kate to pull off her shirt and her skirt. She wore no underclothing. As soon as she was naked, the child took a few steps and squatted. A watery slew of diarrhea shot out and the girl winced as she voided her bowels. Dysentery. A health worker had said that nearly all the villagers had dysentery at one time or another. It was a disease that saps the energy of people, feeding the parasites and not the hosts. Children fared the worst, many dying from dehydration before they passed their fifth year.
    Kate wrapped her in a warm T-shirt and a jacket. The two of them sat together until more of their clothing dried. The land along the lake was steep and rippled accordion style. Fifty square miles of water, ringed by dormant volcanos. The rocks were dark gray volcanic and frequently loose to the touch, ready to come tumbling down the steep terrain. They were clearly far from the road, but in the distance Kate could hear the occasional rumble of a truck or car as it motored into San Marcos. Sofia pointed to the lake with her hand, palm up, as if asking a question. “We are going up the mountain,” said Kate, pointing upward, “not back to the lake.”
    From their vantage point, the lake looked far too beautiful for so much death. White clouds billowed around the volcanic peaks of San Pedro, Tolimán, and Atitlán. Sun filtered along a strip of the long lake, slicing it with a silver band of light.
    By midday, she tied the child to her back and then laced her arms through her day pack so that it hung from the front of her body. Her calf muscles tightened with each step, forming metal cables that made her wince. Her thigh muscles were not used to a steady steep incline and they felt like they were bleeding. Was this possible? Was there a tipping point for muscles when they began to tear?
    â€œHere we go, little one. You get the express ride on the gringo donkey,” she said, gasping for breath.
    The child would hear English words but smell the indelible scent of her mother on the cloth. What strange mixture would this produce?
    Lake Atitlán rested in a caldera at five thousand feet altitude. Kate had been accustomed to the sea level altitude at Davis when she first arrived. She had gradually acclimated, but her ability to hike for long distances was still minuscule compared to the Maya. Their lungs had to be absolute bellows compared to her puny lowland organs.
    To get to Sololá, she’d have to climb an additional two thousand feet in altitude. She estimated that she had gone one-fourth of the way up. Estimating distances in the rugged highlands was deceptive.
    â€œWe’ll be in Sololá in time to eat a plate of beans and tortillas tonight. It’s going to be all right,” she said with her head turned as far back to the child as possible. She reached one hand back and patted the girl in the pouch.
    How much can one diminutive child weigh? The Maya were a small people, but Sofia’s weight felt condensed, like granite. The extra weight on Kate’s back multiplied with each step. Kate’s sporadic running, three days a week at Davis, at sea level, felt inadequate to power her along. Whatever hopefulness she had mustered to talk brightly to Sofia withered as she dragged one foot after the other.
    She stayed in the deeply vegetated areas, thick with scrambles of smooth-barked trees and tangles of brush. Small lizards trying to sun themselves after the cold night skittered out of her path. When she needed to catch her breath, she stopped and looked down on the lake. She could no longer see Santiago because it was tucked behind a turn in the shore, but she saw no plumes of smoke rising from it. The vast lake shone brightly. At least the entire town had not been torched. But what was