The woman in blue walked out of the City of Mexico, her maid servant at her heels. She walked north through the mountains. The great cross she wore on her breast reflected up the sun. Some said the cross was gold. Some said it was brass. At the mines and rancherias the woman stopped and spoke of god and her voice was loud and strong and deep and her voice stopped people at their daily tasks and they flocked around her and they listened and they took her words into their hearts. As she walked on a crowd grew and trailed half a mile behind her in a raggle taggle band. Men, women, children.
But as they passed the last Spanish mine her followers began to turn back. There was no food and the nights were cold. At the rancherias the people did not understand her words, but they were transfixed by the power of her voice. They brought her beans and corn and they sang songs for her and walked with her to the pueblos of the north. When the priests of the lonely missions saw her coming they closed their doors. She would speak in the dusty plazas as the priests prayed out loud in the conventos.
One night the woman slept alone at a wind swept village. Her maid servant had abandoned her and her voice was now hoarse and broken. The people had listened in silence to her words. Hunger swept the area and the children were dying. Was this a prophet come to heal and save? Some men of the village talked far into the night. Was this person a savior? A saint? They went to watch the woman sleep and they saw that she bled.
``She is no saint! No savior! She is just a woman!''
They killed her as she slept and burned her cross and kept the fire hot until the metal disappeared.