Red Feathers

She stood, transfixed, looking up, machete in hand, trying to understand what she saw.

Although she was just a young girl, Sacniete knew well how to handle a machete.

Living so close to the dense tropical forest, she could wield a machete as well as any man, cutting through tall grasses, clearing small plots for her father’s bean rows, leveling the banana trees after the harvest, or cutting the long leaves of the tuahal to wrap the day’s tamales, as she was doing that morning.

But something had caught her eye as she worked, and she could not quite make out what it was.

She looked up.

It was red. No, more than red. It was scarlet, and it seemed to float down with purpose, in a slow dance-like swirl, directly from the pale blue early morning sky, till it landed gently at her feet.

A feather. A scarlet feather. Sacniete had seen no bird, nor heard the flutter of wings nor the once-common squawk of the magnificent macaw.

She hesitated to pick up the scarlet feather.

“It might be magic,” she thought, so strange was the way it had danced and dove ever so slowly to her feet.

After a long moment, she leaned forward and picked it up gently, and then, without quite knowing why, inserted it into one of her long blue-black braids. The other braid bore a beautiful white hibiscus, a fresh one with a long stem woven into the braid by her father that morning. He did it every day and always said, “My sweet Sacniete, my White Flower.”

How Sacniete loved that simple morning ritual and the meaning of her name.

She went back to work, with one white flower and one red feather gently waving to the rhythm of her machete. She could still see her father across the field, continuing to hoe the bean fields with a quiet movement.

Fabio had that gentle dignity of a man who knew both great love and great sorrow. Revered by the people of the valley, he had received training from the Mayan elders in traditional medicine. With roots, seeds, leaves and flowers he gathered from the hillsides, he could cure snake bite, ease a fever, reduce the pangs of childbirth. But he would carry all the days of his life a terrible regret: he had not been able to save the life of Sacniete’s mother.

Sacniete hurried back to the house, looking forward to the food she would prepare for her father, carrying the long palm-like fronds of the tuahal as well as some palm and banana leaves to start the fire for the day’s main meal. Her father had caught a fish early that morning, before dawn, and left it for her to cook with the corn masa and beans for the tamale. As she fed the fire, once again, something caught her eye, and she followed the upward spiral of the smoke to something small and bright in the midday sky. Could it be? Yes, it was red. No, more than red. It was scarlet, and it too seemed to fall with purpose, floating in a circular motion till it landed gently at her feet. “Another one!” Sacniete exclaimed, and she searched the sky but saw no sign of the great Scarlet Macaw who surely had been the owner of this marvelous feather.

She added it to her braid.

When Fabio returned to the house to share the midday meal with his daughter, he was met by a radiant girl with a white flower and two scarlet feathers woven into her hair. She seemed to him a Mayan princess as she silently served the meal and smiled, as if she guarded a wonderful secret.

“What are the chances, Father, of two scarlet feathers falling from the sky?”

“When men say, ‘It is only coincidence,’ it is because their eyes do not perceive mystery.” he replied. “There is some reason those feathers were sent to you.”

“When you were very small, how you loved that red bird,” he added. “How sad we so seldom see them fly now.”

It was true, too many children her age in Belize had only seen a Scarlet Macaw in the zoo. Dams for hydroelectric power and the burning and clearing of rainforest in the search for oil reserves continued to destroy the terrain. The Zoo Lady, while she was alive, had tried so hard to save their habitat.

The very plants, seeds, berries and even the dark clay from the hillsides, which were the medicines Fabio gathered, were the food of the Scarlet Macaw. And it was getting harder and harder for them to find the food they needed to nest and successfully raise their brood.

“Let us go and sit by the temple for a while,” Fabio said.

They often did this, father and daughter, a silent ritual they shared. They would walk uphill a while and then sit side by side without speaking, gazing at the ancient ruins, those impressive silent sentinels to the secrets guarded by the great ancestors.

And then, that day as they sat, it happened again.

Small and far away, bright, and full of color, high above their heads, a red feather purposely fell from the skies and landed between father and daughter.

“Three feathers!” Sacniete exclaimed. “What can be the meaning of this, Father?”

“It is time to go see Grandmother of Morning and Night,” he answered. “She will know.”

Xumucane lived in a small, thatched hut at the edge of the forest. Every morning her voice could be heard through the valley as she sang in an ancient tongue, and every evening smoke would rise from the small ceremonial fire she would light.

Now with three red feathers in one braid and one white gleaming flower in the other, Sacniete and her father found Xumucane humming as she prepared the kindle for her sacred fire.

“I knew you would come, my dear,” she said, addressing Sacniete. “Sit, please.” She indicated a place near the fire, and Sacniete and Fabio found their place.

Without anyone asking, Sacniete took each feather from her hair and laid them in a row on the smooth dirt floor. Xumucane looked at them and lowered her head, half shutting her eyes, deep in thought and concentration.

"Mind, Body and Spirit," she said softly. "Three feathers. Red feathers." Her voice was deep and deliberate.

"You are a girl of great intelligence," she went on. "You have been chosen by the Macaw, who speaks to you on behalf of all the animals of the forest: the jaguar, the cougar, the peccary, the toucan, the jabiru and all the rest. They call on you to use your mind to save them, to restore the forest, and all the earth."

Sacniete trembled.

"Your body is strong, exceptionally strong for a girl so young. They call on you to use your body to save them, to restore the forest, and all the earth."

Sacniete glanced at her father, who also trembled.

"Your spirit comes to you from your ancestors. Rely on them. They will guide you. The Macaw and all the animals call on you to use your spirit to save them, to restore the forest, and all the earth."

Xumucane then blew on the fire, and the smoke scattered and formed a rising cloud, which encircled them all.

"Go, now, be brave, and save them."

Sacniete and Fabio bowed in reverent thanks and left Xumucane, visibly shaken by the experience.

They walked down the hill together, each lost in thought and wonderment.

"I will send you to the best school," Fabio finally said. "You will be able to use your mind well to respond to the call of the Macaw."

"And I will gather seeds and saplings, and begin to replant the forests that were burned and cleared," said Sacniete. "I can start that today."

"Yes," said Fabio, "I will, too. And I will call on the spirits of the forests and the mountains to guide us. They will surely show us what else we must do."

Then they heard the sound they had so longed to hear once again: the unmistakable caw of the Scarlet Macaw. They saw her, flying high above them and it seemed-- yes, it was true --she looked directly at Sacniete, in recognition and understanding. The macaw was a brilliant flash of red, blue and yellow, a red so bright it burned scarlet through the sky. She was beautiful, so beautiful, thought Sacniete, she was Beauty itself.

Sacniete took her father's hand and together they walked home, their hearts filled with hope and quiet determination.

*Endnotes*

According to Wikipedia, there are at least 21 Mayan languages still spoken today.

Many Mayan names have meanings:

Sacniete means White Flower.

Fabio means Bean Farmer.

Xumucane means Grandmother of Morning and Night.

"The Zoo Lady" mentioned in this story was the affectionate name given to a real person: Sharon Matola (1954-2021) founded the Belize Zoo and worked tirelessly to preserve the habitat of the Scarlet Macaw. Her story is told in The Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw, by Bruce Barcott.