The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [125]
Tomás took her hand in his.
“Don’t worry,” he said, feeling like a fool. He looked at Gaby. “I wish Aguirre were here,” he said. “He would know what to do.”
“Teresita,” Huila whispered.
Gabriela said: “Teresita!”
Tomás, as if it had been his own idea, shouted: “Teresita!”
And the vaqueros were sent out on their horses to find Teresita, the only one who would know what to do to save Huila.
Segundo would never forget what he saw when he entered the grove.
The shadows were soft, rolling and tossing like waves. The clover had some blossoms, and the bees moved across the ground like sparks from a campfire. Spiderwebs billowed in the tree branches, looking like the sails of those ships he had seen in Los Mochis so many years before. Iguanas the size of dogs frowned at him from the shade. The little creek was green as it meandered along the fold in the earth that was the floor of the grove. And there, lying on her back, was Teresita.
It took only a moment to see it all, but it felt later as if he had stared at her for an hour.
Her head lay in the water. It was only as deep as her ears. He could see her small gold earrings in the water, the fuzz of dark hair at the hinges of her jawline. Her long hair was pulled downstream by the current, fanned out like a great flow of blood. Her eyes were slightly open, her lips were parted. Blood ran from the corner of her mouth and from her nose. Her legs were bare, and the front of her dress was torn. Her palms were upturned, and her fingers were curled. She was twitching slightly, her feet kicking like the feet of a sleeping dog that dreams of running after rabbits. Her mouth opened and closed. But what frightened him were the butterflies.
Blue and white and red-yellow butterflies had settled on her. Butterflies stood on her open arms, slowly flapping their wings as if trying to lift her into the trees. Butterflies perched on her belly in a rough circle. Butterflies stood over her eyes, opened their wings, and covered her brow. A single hummingbird hovered near her left hand, then flew up and out of sight through the trees, gone in a flash of burning green and metal blue.
Segundo knelt beside her and collected her in his arms. The water ran off her body and soaked his pants. “Don’t die,” he whispered. “Segundo is here.” He carried her to his horse and laid her facedown over the saddle so he could mount. Her hair hung down the far side, and the horse turned its head and stared at it. Segundo rose into the saddle and worked her back up into his arms. “Come on, you bastard,” he said to the horse, and he steered with his knees as he tried to cradle her the way he would have held a foal just fallen from its mother’s womb.
He rode back to the house with Teresita in his arms. He could feel her breathing, but she never made a sound. Her body vibrated: he thought of guitar strings. When he walked his horse through the front gate and into the little plum-tree courtyard, the People let out a terrible cry that rose and rose and brought Tomás running.
He gently took his daughter from Segundo’s arms and carried her inside.
The People felt night coming fast now. They ran to light candles. The cowboys were breaking open casks of mezcal and getting mournfully drunk.
Huila was already forgotten.
Thirty-nine
THUNDERING, MILLáN RODE SOUTH, his horse covered in foamy sweat. He did not sleep that first night. He stepped into a cantina on the old