The Sapodilla's Omen

The Sapidolla’s Omen
The trees' embrace pressed bark into my skin. The air smelled of rot and renewal, leaves decaying as new shoots unfurled. I curled in its hollowed trunk, scarred by fires long ago, just big enough to cradle my knees against my chest. Here, I nurtured my seedling thoughts, letting them grow with water from my soul.
I listened for omens in the forest’s breath. How the quetzal’s song promised a prettier spring, how the ants gathered around a fallen moth, marking its metamorphosis ending. Yet, it was the sapodilla’s white sap that spoke most clearly. I traced its slow descent down the bark, reading in each bead the echo of a villager’s fate.
Being a yerbero was more than my family blood— it was a lineage of mothers who translated the wind into remedy. They taught me how to crush petals until their scent became a memory, how to stir sap until it thickened into a cure. Each day, villagers came to my door, carrying their aches like offerings. I touched their trembling wrists, listened to fever humming beneath their skin. When illness reigned, I brewed cacao, its darkness alive with renewal. Steam curled around us; with each sip, their breath slowed, as if the forest itself was pouring into them. Some healed; others faded like sap run dry. The forest taught me to mourn softly, to bend to its seasons of loss and return.
On the first afternoon of the honeysuckle’s bloom, a rush of villagers burst through the trees, out of breath and wide-eyed. In their arms, squirmed a flushed newborn. Flustered, they shoved their young blood into my hands. Her hummingbird-sized heart pattered against my warm touch— Thump thumptty thump-thump.
“¿Mija, quién eres tú? My beautiful child, what storms brew inside you?” Her cow lashes fluttered as I cradled her near. Then, the sapodilla tree stirred, and a drop of white sap fell between her brows. The tree had spoken, its resin a promise from the gods.
“Her racing corazón will calm. Your worry will not bring her peace. ¡Rapido! Brew me a soup of epazote.” A fire crackled to life, sparks catching on the clay bowl. The bitter scent rose as the leaves darkened, thickening into medicine. When it cooled, we touched the elixir to her lips. The baby stirred; the air shifted, lighter, breathing again. I held her close, her warmth steady against my chest. A trace of sap glistened between her brows, the sapodilla’s mark, sealing my vow to keep her safe.
As the stars draped the indigo sky, a whistling breeze slipped through the leaves. The villagers were gone— only the baby, the tree, and I remained. Our touch sang with the quiet pulse of our ancestors, spirit weaving between us.
By her third night of healing, the prophecy revealed itself, light unfurling like petals in the wind.
The trees pulsed emerald, their barks gleaming of wet cacao. Branches reached toward me. Birds sang hymns of old gods, and the forest’s breath turned into music. Above us, the stars no longer kept still; they drifted and danced, wings of mariposas against the night.
But at the center rose the sapodilla, alive with light. Sap streamed down its trunk, milky and unending, and the leaves bowed beneath the weight of the offering.
Inside the grove, the newborn’s skin drank the sap, plumping her with radiance, as if the forest itself were claiming the child. When I reached for her sleeping body, it clung to my hands, white threads spiderwebbed between us.
From the hollowed trunk came the breath of wind, whistling one word into the grove: Tlaltecuhtli. The sacrificial deity of the earth.
When the storm of spirit finally stilled, dawn crept over the forest. The world had shifted in a whisper, and everything changed. I woke up with the baby, nestled against my chest, my arms curved around her in instinct and awe. I didn’t know yet what the vision meant, but her fate felt vast as the horizon.
I brushed my knuckles on her flushed cheeks, coaxing her out from sleep’s gentle hold. Her eyes fluttered open, still glazed with dreamlight. It was time to begin our day, cradling her with one arm as I arose from the forest floor. A branch stretched towards us, steadying my balance as if the tree itself was lifting us up. When I carried her to the hearth of roots where I prepared our meals, the vines that once scratched my legs loosened their grip. Their viridian tendrils kissed my ankles in greeting instead.
A clay pot of rich cacao simmered before me, nourishment to ease my mind from the restless night. Steam coiled upwards like the spiral of a conch shell, curling toward the baby nuzzled against my chest. The warmth seemed to seek her breath, eager to be her next inhale.
Even a hummingbird, caught mid-flutter, paused at her beauty. Its emerald feathers caught the light, shimmering as if in wonder.
I plucked a sprig of hoja santa from a nearby shrub. Its stem hung limp, its leaves curved inwards in fatigue. I waved it gently before the baby’s face, teasing her awake with its faint, peppery scent. Her tiny fingers reached out, brushing the herb— and in an instant, life returned. The leaves unfurled once more, veins glowing green, and the air filled with its fresh, anise perfume. The sapodilla’s omen stirred; the forest recognized its child.
At such a milagro, I knew the village had to witness the gods’ gift. I pranced through the forest like a deer, the grass bowing at our passing as the huts emerged through the trees.
I pushed my way into the heart of the village and released a guttural howl— the call of the Xoloitzcuintli— a summons my grandmother had once taught me. Villagers emerged from their huts, draped in vermillion huipiles. Their brows furrowed, lips twitching with confusion at the sight of a baby cradled in my arms. With my muscles burning, I lifted her high for all to see.
“Mi comunidad, mi familia, behold the gods’ own gift. A child blessed with a don divino, born to harness the soul of nature.”
Like a spell, silence swallowed the villagers. Their eyes widened with awe and fear. Some stepped forward, hands trembling to touch the baby’s soft skin; others recoiled, wary of the power resting in such small flesh. From the crowd’s edge marched Queztzalxochitl— the village matron. Sunlight flashed through her silver hair, her eyes honed like blades.
She decreed, “A child so young, able to command the earth? You must be lying, or worse, bargaining with Mictlantecuhtli.” Her words carried like thunder. As if the forest itself had heard her challenge, a wounded quetzal tumbled from the canopy, its green wings trembling. It landed at my feet, one wing limp. I knew then the gods had sent my proof.
I sat the child on the clay ground. She blinked, startled, then reached towards the bird. Her fingers grazed the feathers, and the forest went still. The broken wing shivered, then straightened, meticulously mended. The quetzal lifted, beat its wings, and soared into the sun’s blaze.
A whispering rustle spread through the crowd. The awe curdled into superstition, sweet fruit gone to rot. At the edge of my sight, a sapodilla seedling rose. But instead of dripping sap for the baby, its thin trunk trembled, its bark refusing to bleed.
That night, the wind lost its calm. As I walked home, the river frothed at its banks, and birds calling for their young went quiet. At the sapodilla’s cove, I pressed my hand to its hollow. When I pulled away, my palm was slick and red. The sap had soured. The child had taken too much of the forest’s breath. I held her closer, but her cry pierced the air, sharp and hollowing, the tainted sap choking her spirit as her eyes glazed with agony.
The baby was not only drawing in the forest’s life, but its sickness too, becoming a vessel for both.
I knelt before the sapodilla, the first omen, and lifted my eyes to destiny.“If she is yours, take me instead,” I prayed, “ Let her live as flesh, not root”.
From the hollow came a whisper, the wind echoing the tree’s response: “Balance must return, one must stay so the other can grow.”
Red sap began to pour, spilling down the trunk and pooling on the forest floor.
I knew what had to be done. The Gods had called, and it was my duty to heal. My heart burned, tears bright in my mahogany eyes, as I set the baby upon the earth. Roots warped around my feet; bark crept across my skin.
Fui raíz, fui savia, fui viento; ahora soy el canto de la selva eterna.
My body became the forest. The child remained human, unscathed. My spirit drifted through the canopy, finally at peace.