The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [38]
“If you are too blind to see God in a Goddamned taco,” she exclaimed, “then you are truly blind!”
Teresita said, “Then everything is God?”
“Don’t be a heathen,” Huila said. “God is everything. Learn the difference.”
“I have dreams, Huila.”
“We all have dreams, child.”
“I dreamed of a hummingbird made of sky.”
“Ah.”
“He was too small to see, but I could see him.”
“Yes?”
“And he landed.”
“But of course.”
“And he turned to me and he had a feather in his mouth.”
“A feather.”
“Yes, Huila. A white feather.”
“You’re sure it was white. It is very important, child.”
“White.”
“And which way did he turn, right or left?”
“Left.”
“Oh!”
“Is that good, Huila?”
“Left is the direction of the heart. Did you know that? The heart is on the left.”
“I thought the heart was in the middle.”
“On the left. That’s why wedding rings are on the left hand, you see. The heart side.”
“Well, the hummingbird turned to the left.”
“And what did he do with the white feather?”
“He put it in my hand.”
“Yes. Good. Excellent.”
“What does it mean, Huila?”
“Well—the hummingbird is the messenger of God.”
“He is?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“No.”
“Has no one taught you anything?”
“Only you, Huila.”
“Oh, child. Well, he is the messenger. He brings messages from Heaven to us on earth. And he carries our requests to the ear of God. Do you see? So he came from Heaven.”
“And the feather?”
“Feathers are sacred. A white feather—I would say that was a key.”
“A key to what?”
“Why, child, a key to whatever. Spirit. Heaven. I don’t know what. It was your dream, not mine.”
That was enough education for one day.
Huila walked her back home.
The next morning, Teresita watched Huila collect leaves and stems and put them in a cloth bag slung over her shoulder. More muttering. Asking a clavo plant to forgive her for being greedy.
When this was over, she set her bag on the ground and said, “Now, your lesson.”
“I am ready, Huila.”
“You must learn to feel the life in things.”
“Feel it?”
“Correct. To work with plants, you must know plants. But what if you don’t already know a plant? Then you must know how to feel its life force. It will tell you who it is, or at least who it is related to.”
“Why?”
“What if it is poison? What if, for example, that bastard Segundo gets the chorro?”
Teresita laughed. Huila had used the country word for diarrhea: the gushing stream.
“So poor Segundo has crap in his pants —”
“Huila!”
“—and he comes to you for a healing. You must rush out to find plants to make him a tea to plug his culo —”
“Ay, Huila!”
“—but you are in some new place, and you don’t know which plants are which. Do you see? There is no one to ask, and Segundo is farting like a sick cow —”
“Ay Dios, Huila!”
“—so it’s urgent that you find a plant. You must go out and feel their life. You can tell which might be soothing and which might make him sicker.”
“Do I feel it in my heart?”
Teresita was trying to sound religious.
“I am not the priest,” Huila sniffed. “Don’t try to sound like a nun. I mean feel it, feel it.” She grabbed Teresita’s wrist and ran her finger across her palm. “Feel it with your hands.”
“How?”
“I will show you.”
They walked out across the stubbly field where old cotton plants had been chopped down and plowed under. They reached a creosote bush, one of the heralds of the deserts not far to their north. The bush the People called Stinky—Hedionda.
“Stinky is best for training,” Huila said. “It has a strong life in it. Anybody can feel it. Even Yoris.”
“Really?”
Huila nodded. “Never teach a Yori all the things I am going to teach you. They have stolen enough from us. Don’t give them our souls. But you may teach Yoris to do this. Everybody should do this.”
She took Teresita’s wrists and positioned her hands above the bush. Teresita touched the leaves. Huila pulled her hands back.