“Well,” said the priest, “first we find an area of virgin bush, not too far from the city, of course. We cut all the bushes and allow them to lie in the sun until they have dried sufficiently.”
“Dried sufficiently for what?” Neil asked.
Talu smiled and shook his head at Erik. “Youth,” he said. “Always impatient, always in a hurry. Dried sufficiently for burning. When all the vegetation is burned, the area is ready for planting.”
“Will you plant all this land?” Neil asked, sweeping his arm in a wide arc.
“No, no,” Talu replied, “of course not. A field is planted one year and then it must rest for from two to six years.”
“And then?”
“And then the same process is repeated.”
“But that’s no good,” Erik said suddenly.
Talu turned a surprised face toward the Norseman. “No good? Why not?”
“You are exhausting your soil,” Erik said.
“I do not understand.”
“Why, with every planting your soil becomes poorer. Is your crop not smaller each time you plant in the same field?”
Talu considered this. “Why, yes, but what has that to do with the system we use?”
Erik looked out over the fields, and for a moment Neil thought a faraway look stole into the big Norseman’s eyes-almost as though he were looking out over the fields of Sweden.
“I am a sailor,” Erik said, “and I know little about the ways of the soil. I can only tell you what my people do. Perhaps that can help you.”
“
“Let us say you will plant this field with tomatoes this year,” Erik said pointing out to the field nearest them.
“Yes?” Talu asked.
“Well…” Erik paused. “In my land, there are three large fields. We plant two fields each year. The third rests. It rests to regain its fertility.”
“But you are cutting your available farming acreage by one-third,” Talu protested.
“True,” Erik said. “But
Talu thought this over. “And how does your system work?”
“There are, as I said, three fields. Let us assume you are to plant tomatoes, squash, beans, and potatoes.”
“Yes, go on.”
“We prepare field one in the autumn and plant it with tomatoes and squash. In the spring, we prepare field two and sow it with beans and potatoes. The third field, the one that is resting, is prepared twice, once in the autumn and again in the spring. In the fall it would be sown with tomatoes and squash.”
“I understand,” Talu said, nodding. “Go on.”
“The rest is simple,” Erik said. “Both fields one and two would be reaped in the autumn or late summer. Then, while fields two and three were being planted, one would be allowed to rest before again being prepared for sowing, but not sown.”
“And this is better?” Talu asked.
“You will be preparing twice as many fields as you reap,” Erik said. “But you will not have to search for new fields as often, and your soil will last longer. You see, the field that carried tomatoes and squash last year will be carrying potatoes and beans this year. You exhaust your soil quicker by planting the same crop in the same field, year after year.”
“We will try it,” Talu said. “And again, I am grateful to you.”
They planted that day. There were six fields, and all were ready. Four, following Erik’s advice, were planted, while two were left to rest.
There were four gods, Neil learned, to whom the Mayas prayed before sowing the fields. He listened as Talu explained, anxious for word of Kukulcan, the Feathered Serpent. But the lost god was not one of the four.
“They are earth gods,” Talu explained. “One is the chief and ruler of all the rest. For each god there is a direction: east, north, west, and south. And for each god there is a color: yellow, red, white and black. In Yucatan there are many forests, and Yumil Kaxob, lords of the forest, are lords of all the country.
“The earth is good,” Talu continued, “and the earth is ancient. It was here before we came, ever since the beginning. The lords of the forest are old, too, and they are very wise. We are their grandchildren, and they look after us the way grandfathers do. They send the crops. They fill the woods with things to hunt, and they give us their permission to hunt them.
“They are gentle, and kind, and good. And they ask that we, their grandchildren, pray to them.”
Talu paused. “They are also the gods of the rain, and the thunder, and the lightning. They send water from the skies to nourish our plants. When they are angry, they send thunderbolts among us to punish us.
“Each of the gods,” Talu went on, “keeps water in a small calabash. He also carries a bag filled with the winds, and a large drum. When he would make it rain, he sprinkles water from the calabash, and the earth is blessed with rain. When he would send a wind, he opens the bag a little. When he would cause the wind to stop blowing, he forces it into the bag again.”
“And what of Kukulcan?” Neil asked.
A puzzled frown crossed Talu’s face.
“Kukulcan?” he asked.
“Is there no god named Kukulcan?”