EMPIRES CHILDREN: THE PEOPLE OF TZINTZUNTZAN FOSTER 



275 



"I don't know the name of the street," says the 



boy. "Send it to the house of Sra " But 



he doesn't know that street either. Finally we 

 decide that I will leave the photograph in the 

 presidencia, and he can pick it up at a later 

 date. Thanking me profusely, he takes his leave, 

 his dead brother's shoes under his arm. 



Gabriel and I are standing under the gate 

 which opens into the churchyard. The news of 

 the accident has spread rapidly, and small 

 groups of children break away from the dances 

 and run toward the presidencia. Presently Ce- 

 lia, Teresa, and Consuelo, aged 11, 8, and 5 

 respectively, rush by. "Consuelo," I ask, "where 

 are you going?" "A ver al muertecito, to look 

 at the little dead one," she pipes, and hurries 

 along, as if bound on a picnic. Presently the 

 girls return, apparently unaffected by the sight. 

 "What did you think of the muertecito, Consue- 

 lo?" "The head was all bloody," she replies 

 in a matter-of-fact voice. "Was it the first muer- 

 tecito you have seen?" "No," and she rushes 

 off to see what promises to be the next most 

 interesting sight, the dancers from La Vuelta. 



Next day, however, Nati tells me that Con- 

 suelo and Teresa insisted on sleeping with her, 

 instead of in their own bed. And all during the 

 day they remain close to their mother. It is not 

 the first corpse they have seen, she says, but the 

 first of a person who has died a violent death. 

 She herself, says Nati, has always been terribly 

 frightened by the sight of a corpse, and never 

 willingly looks at the body of a friend or rela- 

 tive who has died. At night she sees the body 

 before her, and is frightened. Vicente scoffs 

 at her, and says he is going to make her kiss 

 the feet of a corpse, and that that will make 

 her fear leave her. There is no feeling that a 

 young child should not gaze upon a mutilated 

 body if it so desires. 



IV. 



I stop at the Pena home, and find Doiia An- 

 drea huddled on the tile floor, a few ragged 

 covers pulled over her. She is suffering from 

 dysentery, fever, and chills, and has scarcely 

 the strength to rouse herself to greet me. Ga- 

 briel is away from Tzintzuntzan for several days 

 and the doctoring, normally his job, is up to me. 

 Aspirin and sulfa are prescribed. Usually 



Dona Andrea sleeps on a bed with her grand- 

 daughter, Celia. "You must get up off this 

 cold, draughty floor and into bed," I prescribe. 

 She does not want to do it, for fear of infect- 

 ing Celia. Lucia, her 2-year-old granddaughter, 

 the child of Faustino and Pachita, toddles up, 

 hugs her grandmother, and is given a kiss. Next 

 day, and the following day, Doiia Andrea is 

 much better and I, conversely, seem to be suf- 

 fering from the same ailment, which does not 

 go away. I decide to go to Mexico City for 

 several days' rest. The night before my de- 

 parture she is again worse. I prescribe a heavier 

 dose, and experience the fear which haunts all 

 ethnologists who try to help with doctoring. 

 Suppose the patient dies? I radiate confidence 

 in my best bedside manner, and tell Faustino 

 to come to the school early in the morning to 

 tell me how his mother is. If she is not better 

 we will bring a doctor from Patzcuaro. Next 

 morning, there is a knock at the door. There is 

 Faustino, his beaming face speaking more elo- 

 quently than his voice. His mother slept well 

 all night, the fever is gone, and she has no 

 dysentery. His arms are full of the lovely loza 

 blanca, the white pottery made by Dona Andrea 

 and Nati, a present to take home with me, his 

 thanks for what the medicine did for his moth- 

 er. Pachita peers over his shoulder, and from 

 under her rebozo draws several more small 

 pieces. And finally, two eggs, still warm, are 

 handed to me. "For your lunch on the road," 

 she says. 



V. 



In Tzintzuntzan, witchcraft is not the feared 

 and hated nefarious art that it is in other parts 

 of Mexico. Still, there are stories of the past 

 and — who knows — one might even be bewitch- 

 ed today. The common Tarascan concept of 

 the witch is closely related to that of the animal 

 transformer nagual of southern Mexico, though 

 the name is unknown. Witches, of either sex, 

 take out their eyes, leave them beneath hearth 

 stones, put in cat eyes, put on wings of petates 

 and fly through the air looking for victims from 

 whom to suck blood. 



Gabriel and I and several friends are gather- 

 ed in the house of Micaela and Melesio. A 

 single oil wick illuminates the room, and rain 



