The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [145]
“Let me see him,” Teresita said.
She took the infant in her arms and lifted the cloth off his face. He coughed again, ragged and bloody.
“Consumption,” Cruz said to his men.
“He’s an angel, señora,” Teresita said. “Poor boy.”
“Sí, mi santa. Sí, Santa Teresa.”
“He has consumption.”
Cruz nodded at his men.
“What did I say? What did I say?” he demanded.
They patted him on the back.
Teresita passed her hand over the boy. Cruz watched her fingers, as they struck strange poses in the air over the child’s body. Then she laid her hand upon the boy’s chest. The baby stopped coughing, but what did that prove?
Teresita gestured to an assistant, and she whispered in the girl’s ear. She ran inside, and after a few moments, came out with a bundle.
“Make a cigar with these leaves,” Teresita said. “Blow the smoke in his face.”
“How often?”
“Morning and night.”
The woman kissed her hand.
“He will be well,” she said, handing the baby back to the mother.
“Gracias, Santa,” the woman cried, falling to one knee. “Gracias!”
Teresita blushed. She pulled the woman back up to her feet.
“No, no,” she said. “You mustn’t thank me. It comes from above.”
Later, Cruz would hear her explain repeatedly that she was not a saint. Her favorite line seemed to be: I am only a woman.
This also met with his approval.
A bustling group of nuns pushed forward. She smiled at them, took all their small hands in hers, and said to the oldest, “Bless me, Mother.”
She went down on one knee as the old nun laid a hand on her head. Then she rose, and they whispered and laughed and then the nuns went on their way.
After a few hours of watching her, Cruz stood. His knees cracked.
“You, Saint,” he called.
“Did that hurt?” she asked, glancing at his legs. His men giggled. He shot them a look.
“You,” he repeated, for he did not know what else to say. “Saint.”
She looked him up and down. She looked at his rifle, at his dusty huaraches.
“You, Warrior,” she said.
“We have come from Tomóchic to see you,” he said.
She smiled.
“Tomóchic? Really? All this way?”
“You know of us?” he said.
“Everyone knows of Tomóchic,” she replied.
This made him stand taller.
“I did not know that,” he said.
She came close and looked at them.
“The Tigers of the Sierra have come to see me.”
She grinned. She made a muscle. “Great fighters. Great lovers of God.” Teresita laughed as she flexed her arm.
Cruz was tongue-tied. She burned into his eyes with her own. Was she making fun of him?
“I have come to test you,” he managed to say.
She put her fists on her hips and stared at him quite frankly. He did not appreciate the boldness of her stare. “How will you test me, Tiger? Shall we shoot at cans? Race horses?” She put up her dukes. “Fistfight?”
Cruz opened his mouth and said, “Uh.”
“If you try to wrestle me,” she warned, “I can beat you.”
“Wrestle?”
José stepped forward. He clutched his soft straw hat off his head.
“What he means to say, Miss Saint, Miss Teresita, señorita, is that our village hopes to make you our saint, our patron saint, you see, and he must see if you are real . . . miss.” His nerves were getting the better of him. He suddenly shouted, “I am José!”
She put her hand out to him. He took it. She squeezed his hand slightly. He squeezed back and blushed.
“Look at that, Don José,” she said. “My hand is flesh and bone. I am real.”
“Sí, señorita,” he said.
“But I am not a saint.”
“No, señorita,” he said.
She let go of his hand.
“They say I am a saint. But you see, dear José . . . like you, I am only a servant.”
“A servant, yes.”
He was suddenly scared out of his wits. The Saint of Cabora was talking to him!
“Of the Creator,” she said.
This stirred up a babble of religious chatter from the crowd.
“And the People,” she said.
Teresita stepped