Song of the Hummingbird by Graciela Limón Page B

of pain. In Tenochtitlan, silence reigned like an evil scourge after that execution, and if anyone listened carefully, all that could be heard was the weeping of Moctezuma, king of the once mighty Mexica nation.”

Chapter
    XI
    Father Benito was late that morning, and when he entered the cloister he found that Huitzitzilin was not waiting for him in the usual place. He looked around, squinting his eyes against the morning sunlight until he finally saw her strolling through the shadows cast by the stone pillars.
    Before he cut across the garden to join her, he took his time watching her; she seemed to be speaking to someone. After a while he saw that he had been right; she was talking. He could hear her high-pitched voice, that lilt that transformed what she was saying into song. When he concentrated on her words, the monk realized that it was not Spanish; she was speaking in her native tongue.
    â€œ Buenos días , Señora. I apologize for being late,” Benito called out to the woman from across the garden.
    â€œGood morning, priest.” She stopped where she was, responding to him as she raised her hands. She waited for him to pick his way through the potted plants and around the fountain until he reached her.
    â€œShall we return to our chairs?” He smiled broadly at her as he held on to the leather bag.
    â€œIn a minute. Let us stroll for a while longer. It’s when I walk that I’m able to better speak with those that have gone before me.”
    Benito, walking alongside the woman, cocked his head quizzically. He had heard her say before that she often spoke with people who had died, but he had not given it much thought.
    â€œThat’s as it should be, Señora. Holy Mother Church requires us to pray for the souls in purgatory.”
    Huitzitzilin stopped where she was and looked up at Benito’s face. Her gaze was intense as she held her head in a way that hid the scarred socket.
    â€œOur spirits never leave us to go to that place you mentioned. They stay here with us, and because of that we don’t pray for them. Instead, we speak with them.”
    The woman gestured with both hands, showing Benito that the souls of her people surrounded them. “There on that branch is Moctezuma; his spirit clings to it. And over there, seated by the fountain, is Zintle. And look! Right behind you. . .”
    The woman suddenly jerked her arm upward as her finger pointed, making Benito jump. He instinctively spun around, expecting to see a feathered warrior or even the burning Tetla, whose image had awakened the priest several times during the night. But he saw nothing, only the shimmering autumn air, and he chuckled inwardly, deriding himself for being so foolish. He had actually expected to see a ghost. He sighed deeply, knowing that it was from relief.
    â€œAs you say, but I would like us to begin working soon because of my lateness this morning.” “Did somebody die?”
    â€œOn the contrary, three new brothers arrived from home last night and we had a mass of thanksgiving this morning. It went on longer than expected.”
    â€œAh!” Huitzitzilin didn’t say anything but turned toward the nook where her chair was placed. Father Benito followed her, walking at her slow pace and anticipating what she would relate to him on that day. He was so taken with what he was thinking that he bumped into her when she stopped abruptly.
    â€œIt was during those months of waiting that in my jealousy and loneliness I listened to the demon of lust.”
    Father Benito was startled by her words; as usual when speaking of her sins, the words were unexpected. He had prepared himself to hear more of the events leading to the fall of Tenochtitlan, and now she was telling of something that surely must have trapped her into transgression.
    â€œLust? That should be mentioned only in confession, Señora. Is that what you want? Do you want me to hear your sins instead of what you