The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [5]
Not yet, not yet.
She didn’t mind being called a hummingbird.
Hours later, she pushed through the shaky gate of her cousin’s jacal. He was still lying on his back in the dirt. Someone had placed a bandana over his face. His huaraches were splayed. His toes were gray. The blood on the ground had turned black. He didn’t stink yet, but the big flies had been running all over him, pausing to rub their hands. A rusty pistola lay in the dirt a few inches from his hand.
The neighbors had already raided her cousin’s shack and taken all his food. Cayetana traded the pistola to a man who agreed to dig a hole. He dug it beside a maguey plant beside the fence, and they rolled the body into it. They shoved the dirt over him and then covered the grave with rocks so the dogs wouldn’t dig it up.
Inside the shack, Cayetana found a chair and a bed frame made of wood and ropes. There was a machete under the bed. A pregnant girl from distant Escuinapa was there, waiting. Cayetana didn’t know her, but she let her move in, since the girl was afraid that she would lose her infant to coyotes if she had it outside. Cayetana accepted the girl’s blessing, then swung the machete a few times. She liked the big blade. She started to walk home.
The sun was already setting. She didn’t like that. The dark frightened her. That road was also scary. It wound between black cottonwoods and gray willows. Crickets, frogs, night birds, bats, coyotes, and ranch dogs—their sounds accompanied her through the dark. When she had to pee—and since the child had sprouted inside her, she had to pee all the time—she squatted in the middle of the road and held the machete above her head, ready to kill any demon or bandit that dared leap out at her. An owl hooted in a tree behind her, and that made her hurry.
She came around a bend and saw a small campfire off to the side of the road. It was on the south side. That was a good omen—north was the direction of death. Or was it west? But south was all right.
A man stood by the fire, holding a wooden bowl. He was chewing, and he watched her approach. A horse looked over his shoulder, more interested in the bowl than in her. Her stomach growled and her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten in a day. She should have hidden in the bushes, but he had already seen her.
“Buenas noches,” she called.
“Buenas.”
“It’s dark.”
He looked up as if noticing the darkness for the first time.
“It is,” he agreed. Then: “Don’t hit me with that machete.”
“I won’t.”
“Gracias.”
“This is for bandidos.”
“Ah!”
“Son cabrones,” she explained. “And I’ll kill the first one that tries anything.”
“Excellent,” he said.
“And ghosts.”
He put food in his mouth.
“I don’t think you can kill a ghost,” he said.
“We’ll see about that,” she said, flashing her blade.
The small fire crackled.
“What are you eating?” she asked.
“Cherries.”
“Cherries? What are cherries?”
He held one up. In the faint fire glow, it looked like a small heart full of blood.
“They come from trees,” he said.
“Son malos?” she asked. “They look wicked.”
He laughed.
“They are very wicked,” he said.
“I am going home,” she said.
“So am I.”
“Is this your horse?”
“It is, but I like to walk.”
“You must have good shoes.”
“I have good feet.”
He spit out a seed and popped another cherry in his mouth. She watched his cheeks swell as his jaw worked. Spit. Eat another cherry.
“Are they sweet?” she asked.
“Sí.”
He spit a seed.
He heard her belly growl.
“You will bring a child to light soon,” he said.
“Yes.”
“A girl.”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“A girl.”
He handed her the bowl.
“Eat,” he said.
The cherry juice in Cayetana’s mouth was dark and red, like nothing she had