Song of the Hummingbird by Graciela Limón Page A

pain, and yet none of us is free.”
    The woman began to cry, and Father Benito became alarmed, not knowing what had brought it on. He put his papers aside and awkwardly placed his hand on hers.
    â€œI cannot help it. I weep for myself, for my children, and for the daughter who doesn’t know who her mother is.”
    â€œYou had children?” His voice was charged with disbelief.
    She nodded but said nothing more. A few moments passed until the monk again took paper in hand, wondering how many other mysteries were buried in the woman’s memory. He decided not to pry; instead he would wait until she was ready to speak about what had made her cry so unexpectedly.
    â€œI returned to the land of the living. My ladies had nursed me, forcing the juices of meats and fruits through my lips. They washed and made sure that my body was placed in different positions in the bed. During those days in which my spirit floundered in the bowels of the earth, my maidens had cared for my body.
    â€œWhen I finally revived, I was told what had happened after I lost consciousness. Tetla had walked away from me, confident that I would die. When he discovered that I had survived, he instructed the servants to keep me in his palace until he returned.”
    Huitzitzilin noticed that the monk was not writing, so she stopped speaking. She stared at him but saw that he was rubbing his hands, palm against palm, in apparent distraction.
    â€œYou’re not writing. Are you not interested?”
    Father Benito squirmed in the chair; he seemed not to know what to say.
    â€œI . . . I’m sorry, Señora. The truth is that I am interested. However, I’m here for one of two things. That is, either I should be recording what you have to say of the previous ways of your people, or hear your confession. I believe what you’re now telling is neither.”
    â€œI see. Does it not matter to you that I had a child?”
    â€œMatter? Of course it matters! Was it from Tetla?”
    â€œNo. At first he thought it was, but the truth was that the father of the boy was Zintle.”
    â€œOh!”
    The priest’s voice dipped.
    â€œI suppose this is a matter for confession?”
    â€œThe child was conceived out of wedlock. That is a sin.”
    â€œHow many times must a person confess the same sin?”
    Father Benito held his breath, suspecting another of the woman’s surprise moves that breached the gap between Mexica ritual and Christian theology. He answered as he had been taught to respond.
    â€œAs many times as that sin is committed.”
    â€œEven if its the same sin done with the same person?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen I confess to you. . . ”
    Father Benito nervously threw his documentation aside, scattering the pages on the floor. He fumbled, reaching for the stole necessary to hear a confession.
    â€œ. . . that I made love to Zintle many times, in many places until I became pregnant again. We did this while Tetla was away.”
    She had blurted out her sin faster than Benito could prepare himself. Although too late, he went through the motions, making the sign of the cross and settling in the posture he always took to hear a confession.
    â€œI’m finished. There is no more. Should I repeat my sin again so it will count now that you’re ready?”
    He flushed heavily, convinced that she was mocking him. He yanked away the stole, gathered his things, and without saying anything began to leave the cloister. He felt humiliated by the woman and by his own clumsiness; this angered him.
    â€œWill you return tomorrow? I’ll tell you of one of the first encounters of our people with yours.”
    Father Benito thought that he detected an apology in the woman’s tone. He stopped and turned to look at her, and saw that in the closing darkness Huitzitzilin looked as if carved in stone, she seemed so ancient. The impression moved him, dispelling the irritation her surprise