Song of the Hummingbird

Song
of the
Hummingbird

A Novel by

Graciela Limón

Arte Público Press
Houston, Texas
1996

This volume is made possible through grants from the National Endowment for the Arts (a federal agency) and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.

Recovering the past, creating the future

Arte Público Press
University of Houston
452 Cullen Performance Hall
Houston, Texas 77204-2004

Cover illustration and design by Kath Christensen

Limón, Graciela.

Song of the hummingbird / by Graciela Limón.

p.     cm.

ISBN-10: 1-55885-091-0 (pbk: alk. paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-55885-091-0

1. Indians of Mexico—First contact with Europeans—Fiction. 2. Aztecs—First contact with Europeans—Fiction. 3. Mexico—History—Conquest, 1519–1540—Fiction. 4. Indian women—Mexico—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3562.I464S66 1996

813'.54—dc20

95-37666

CIP

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984.

Copyright © 1996 by Graciela Limón
Printed in the United States of America

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In Loving Memory of Guadalupe H. Gómez

“Go to the region of the wild maguey to erect a dwelling

of cactus and maguey,

and there place woven mats.

“You will then go to where light begins,

and there you must scatter your flowers.

“You will then go to where death abides,

in that land of white flowers you must also
scatter your flowers.

“And then you will go to the land sown with seed,

there you must also cast your flowers.

“And then you will go to the region of thorns,

and in the land of thorns you also must
scatter your flowers.

“And you will scatter your flowers, and thus

reach the gods.”

Words of Coatlicuie
,

Goddess of the Earth and Death
Mother of Quetzalcoatl and Huitzilopochtli

It is a pleasure to acknowledge and thank Dr. Nicolás Kanellos, publisher of Arte Público Press, and his staff. I also extend my gratitude to him for editing this work. Song of the Hummingbird is my third novel published by Arte Público Press and I say at this point that I consider it a privilege to be part of its team of many outstanding U.S. Latina and Latino authors. I also thank Sister Martin Byrne, colleague and friend, who read the manuscript and shared her valuable insights.

G.L.

Author's Note

The protagonist of this novel says to Father Benito Lara, “My name is Huitzitzilin, but because I know the difficulty my language causes your tongue, you may call me Hummingbird, since that is what the word means.”

I'm grateful for the protagonist's thoughtfulness. Nonetheless, I have chosen to use her name as it is in her native Nahuatl. I want her to know that my respect for her begins with the recognition of her name as it was given to her at birth. Although the name is initially difficult to pronounce, I know that my readers will soon join me in admiring its beauty and resonance.

Huitzitzilin also uses the word Mexica when speaking of her people even though most of us have come to use the word Aztec in its place. Here also, my readers will find me following her example.

The protagonist of Song of the Hummingbird will tell her own story. However, let me first say something about her life, her times and the events that she witnessed. Of noble Mexica birth, she was a young woman when the Spaniards arrived in Mexico, at that time known as Tenochtitlan. Like most of her people, she experienced the awe caused by those bearded white men when they first arrived; a wonderment that soon gave way to the outrage of seeing the devastation of her land, the disruption of her life, and the end of civilization as she knew it.

Huitzitzilin not only witnessed the obliteration of Tenochtitlan, leaving hardly a vestige of its greatness, but she suffered the loss of her Mexica identity. Along with her people, she experienced being forced to discard her traditional dress and to take up strange garments; to change her name; to speak a language foreign to her tongue; to forsake her ancestral gods; and in the end, to be part of the diaspora of a once great civilization.

I now ask my readers to listen carefully to her tale—her song—which is a version of those times different from what has been affirmed for centuries. Her story is told from the point of view of an indigenous woman. It is one which will at first appear reversed, like the reflection of writing in a mirror; but it is Huit-zitzilin's story. It is believable because she was a participant and a witness. Like that same reflection in the mirror now grown dim with the passage of years, her story is what happened, even though not recorded in the history written by the conquerors of her land.

G.L.

Song
of the
Hummingbird

Chapter

I

Coyoacán—the outskirts of Tenochtitlan-Mexico— 1583.

The Franciscan monk approached the convent entrance, cautiously tugged at the rope that rang the bell, and waited tensely until he heard the shuffling steps of the gatekeeper. When a small window cut into the door opened, he caught a glimpse of a woman's wrinkled face. The white wimple framing her head hid any other signs of age.

“Good morning, Sister. I'm the new confessor, Father Benito Lara.”

The nun had small, myopic eyes that stared at the priest's face unabashedly. “You're young. Much younger than the one we had before you.”

She shut the panel with a thud that forced him to blink involuntarily, then he heard the brass key turn loudly in the lock, followed by the creaking of hinges as the door lumbered open. Father Benito stepped into the vast cloister enclosed within the convent. He was momentarily halted by the nun who took time to scan him from top to bottom. She saw that he was of a medium build, thin, light-complected, and that his hair, already beginning to thin to baldness, was chestnut-colored. The rough, brown wool of the habit he wore was as yet not frayed or threadbare.

“I see that you haven't been a friar that long. Let us see how this land treats you and if you can accustom yourself to it.”

Father Benito did not catch the full meaning of the nun's words, but he nevertheless followed her quietly when she motioned him to come into the corridor. To his left, the priest took in the images of saints, prophets and angels sculpted into the walls. To his right, his eyes scanned a garden shaded by orange, lemon and pomegranate trees. The place was lined with clay pots filled with geranium and bougainvillea flowers. A large stone fountain was at the center of the garden. As he walked, he could make out the sound of splashing water, its tinkling mingled with the scraping of his sandals on the tile floor. He followed silently until the nun led him to a secluded nook at the end of the main cloister, where he was able to make out the figure of an elderly woman. He saw that she was sitting in the center of a patch of pale sunlight.

“She's been nagging Mother Superior to get her a confessor. Really, she can be such a nuisance even though she is an old woman! She knew that we had to wait until a new priest was assigned to the convent, but oh, no! She demanded special attention right away! She keeps reminding us that she's nooo-bi-li-ty.” The nun puckered her mouth and mockingly slurred the word.

“Please, Sister, it's no bother. Besides, as you say, she is very old, and perhaps she senses that her end is near. The spirit many times tells the body. . .”

The nun did not allow Father Benito to finish. “These people are not like us, Father. They have no spirit!”

Even though she had mumbled, the priest made out what she said.

“Don't say that, Sister. You're wrong. We're all God's children. Now, if you will allow us to be alone for a while. I'll let you know when I'm finished.”

When the priest was alone, he stood for a long while gazing at the frail woman with the waning autumn light spilling over her bony shoulders. She appeared to be lost in thought and seemed to sing as she rocked back and forth in her chair. He realized that she was even older than he had thought when he first saw her. Her skin looked brittle and transparent, yellowish-brown in tone. His eyes shifted to concentrate on the old woman's hands and noticed that they were tiny and tightly encased in thin skin; they fluttered nervously from time to time.

“Like brown swallows,” he thought.

He stepped closer, hoping to get her attention, but she was oblivious to his presence. As he got closer to her, he confirmed that he had been right. She was singing, but he could not make out the words of her song. Father Benito was now so near the old woman that he could see that her face was small, skeletal, and that one of her eye sockets was empty; its darkened hollow was marked with scars. Her hair was white, coarse and stringy, and it was fastened tightly at the nape of her neck.

The priest was gaping at the old woman with such concentration that when her face suddenly whipped around to look at him, he was startled. He flinched with unexpected fright. Her good eye, he saw, was bird-like and it glared at him with a black, flinty pupil that made him shiver.