Free The Hummingbird's Daughter by Luis Alberto Urrea

“When it grows big like the grandfather, it won’t fit in your pocket.”
    What an amusing little creature, Tomás thought.
    Teresita looked around the room.
    “Patrón?” she said.
    “Yes?”
    “Where do you keep your chickens? Do they sleep here?”
    “No, no. They sleep in the henhouse.”
    “Your chickens have their own house?” she whispered.
    He noticed the appalling chamber pot on the couch. His eyebrows rose. His household was, apparently, falling apart. He would have words with the maids about it as soon as he dealt with this small invader. He clapped his hands twice. The harried woman stormed out of the hall and cried, “Sí, señor?”
    “This young lady,” he said, “seems to have wandered into the house by mistake. Could you fetch her a cool glass of juice, then see her out?”
    The maid goggled at Teresita.
    “I like juice,” Teresita said.
    “It looks like this is your lucky day,” Tomás said.
    The maid stepped forward to grab Teresita.
    “Sir?” Teresita said.
    He looked at her.
    “Does Huila live here?”
    He bent to her and said, “Huila. What do you want with Huila?”
    “I need to ask her something.”
    He squatted before her, careful not to impale his buttocks with the starry rowels on his spurs.
    “What do you need to ask her?”
    “I don’t know who I am,” Teresita said. “My aunt told me Huila would know who I am.”
    Tomás stared into the face of this strange little girl. Then he looked up at the maid. Then he looked back at Teresita.
    “What is your name?” he asked.
    “Teresa.”
    “All right, Teresita,” he said, rising. “Let us go find Huila for you. Let’s find out who you are.”
    He took her hand and led her down the hall toward the kitchen.
    She said, “Do you have any cookies? I like cookies.”
    He laughed again.

    Teresita was amazed to see huge black cooking pots hanging from hooks on the walls of the kitchen. Tía had one big pot, one dented small tin pot, and a pan. Here, there were skillets, and there were pots as small as coffee cups, pots as large as bathtubs. A metal ring hung from the ceiling, and on hooks all around it hung more pots.
    Tomás looked around and said, “Where is Carmela?”
    “Carmela the cook, sir?” one of the girls asked.
    “Right. Is she sick?”
    “She no longer works here, sir,” the girl said. “She left us three years ago.”
    He stood there and tried to hide his surprise.
    “Oh,” he said.
    Teresita looked around with her mouth open. A mesh sack of onions dangled from an iron hook, yellow as tallow. Beneath this galaxy of pans and onions was a white metal table. This was where the girls chopped up the chickens and the meat with great cleavers that hung in rows on nails in the wall.
    Tomás pulled a chair up to this table and helped Teresita climb up. The frazzled house girl from down the hall ladled a measure of tamarind juice from a clay barrel and poured it in a glass. She set the glass before Teresita.
    “Gracias,” Teresita said.
    “Cookies, please,” said Tomás.
    A plate appeared with two fat gingerbread pigs lying on a folded cloth napkin. Teresita saw that among the rich, even food got a blanket. She bit off one pig’s leg and chewed.
    “Thank you,” she said to Tomás.
    “Oh, it’s my pleasure,” he replied.
    They shook hands.
    “I must get back to work,” he said. “But the girls will attend to you. Girls? Huila, please.” He patted Teresita’s shoulder and said, “Do call again.”
    They listened to him jingle as he went back down the hall.
    The maid scrunched her nose at Teresita, then went to Huila’s door at the back of the kitchen and knocked.

Eight
    ONCE, OVER BREAKFAST, Tomás had told Huila his dream of the night before: he had fallen from the roof of the barn, and just as he was going to hit the ground, he had begun to fly. And he flew like this, only a foot above the ground, as if he were scuttling along in shallow water, only occasionally touching the ground to propel