The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [46]
Tomás, far ahead, weary and troubled, stopped with his head down. He raised one hand, and the group started to draw themselves around him. Segundo and the cowboys automatically rounded up the herd and moved the protesting animals toward the small seep in the field to the south. The wagons collected around the patrón: the cook pulling into the middle beside Loreto’s former carriage. The various big wagons circled, and the carts after them, all collecting around Tomás, layers of home shutting out the world. And out, beyond the ring of wagons, the bees stirred and exited their hives, delicately raiding the flowers of the fields, sipping the water of the green seep in the grass. Everyone dismounting, everyone asking, “Where are we?” The fires already lit, the smoke rising all around, the guitars starting to play, the darkness only a suggestion, a blue drip of shadows from the hills coming their way from the west, and a bruise spreading through the tissue of the sky from the east.
The children settled their steeds at the outermost edge of the encampment. They tied their animals to trees or to wagons, those who thought to take care of things. Others just dropped their reins and their ropes and went off crying for their mothers and begging for food. They were sunburned and dust choked and thirsty and bottom sore.
Teresita, so sore from riding her little donkey Panfilo, could barely walk. She made her way through the wagons, peeking at the families, greeting her friends, petting the dogs, smelling the smells. She worked her way through the maze to Huila’s camp. Huila was seated in her chair, a pillow fluffed under her buttocks. “My nalgas hurt,” Huila said. Teresita collapsed at her feet. Don Teófano had lit a small campfire, and he was brewing coffee in a blue, white-flecked pot.
“Why must we suffer?” a woman said.
Don Teófano replied, “If you were born to be an anvil, you must bear many blows.”
Everyone nodded wisely.
“If you were born to be a nail, you cannot curse the hammer,” he intoned.
More nodding.
“If you —”
“Ya pues, hombre!” Huila scolded.
She prodded Teresita with her foot.
“Bring me that jug.”
“What jug?”
“The jug I want. You’ll know which one.”
Teresita got up and looked in the wagon. There was a jug under the edge of a blanket. She grabbed it and carried it to the old woman.
“For every bad thing in life, mezcal.” Huila uncorked the jug. “And for every good thing, too.”
The People laughed and said, “Ay, Huila!”
She took a swig, then passed it on. More laughter soon sprouted among them, and Don Teófano gave Teresita a mug of steaming coffee rich with goat milk and sugar. The fires crackled all around them. Teresita lay back, listening to the sayings everyone began to pronounce: A little poison won’t kill you, and I’d rather be happy and poor than worried and rich, or Honey wasn’t made for the mouths of donkeys.
There came a stirring among the campers, and suddenly Tomás appeared among them.
“Are we all right?” he asked. “Everyone in one piece?”
“Sí, señor,” the People replied, looking away. “We’re fine, thanks be to God.”
“Huila,” he said, pleased to see her. “How are you holding up?”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said.
Tomás put his hand on Teresita’s head.
“I packed your clock,” he told her.
She laughed.
“I’m glad.”
“Well,” he said, “off to the next wagon.”
“Good night,” they called. “Buenas noches” and “Adios.”
Teresita was astounded to see Buenaventura trailing Tomás. She had