Blue Birds

To Jamie C. Martin

G. P. Putnam's Sons

P
ublished by the Penguin Group

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Copyright © 2015 by Caroline Starr Rose.

Map illustration copyright © 2015 by Richard Amari.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rose, Caroline Starr.

Blue birds / Caroline Starr Rose.

pages cm

Summary: “As tensions rise between the English settlers and the Native peoples on Roanoke Island, twelve-year-old Alis forms an impossible friendship with a native girl named Kimi”—Provided by publisher. Includes glossary and historical notes.

Includes bibliographical references (page  ).

1. Roanoke Colony—Juvenile fiction. 2. Roanoke Island (N.C.)—History—16th century—Juvenile fiction. [1. Novels in verse. 2. Roanoke Colony—Fiction. 3. Roanoke Island (N.C.)—History—16th century—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. Lumbee Indians—Fiction. 6. Indians of North America—North Carolina—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.5.R67Blu 2015

[Fic]—dc23

2014012100

ISBN 978-0-698-17351-4

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Almost three months we've journeyed,

each wave pushing us farther

from London,

every day moving us closer

to Virginia.

But now we're anchored on sandy banks

in a place we're not to be.

The enormity of our circumstance

comes crashing down around us.

Though this is Virginia,

it's not our new home.

We will be forced ashore

miles from where

our pilot, Ferdinando,

promised to take us.

Yet our Governor

does nothing to stop him.

How ready I am to leave this ship,

stretch my legs, be free!

But not like this,

tossed out

like yesterday's rubbish.

Father stands in the pinnace,

holds his hand to me.

“Come, Alis.”

I step into the smaller boat,

less steady,

less sturdy.

Mother eases in,

cradling her belly,

perspiration at her temples,

her once-starched collar

dingy and askew.

“What will we do?” Mother whispers.

Her cheek rests on Father's shoulder.

“How will we reach the land

that's been promised us?”

“We'll find my brother and his men.”

Uncle.

I grasp the wooden bird

in my pocket.

I did not dream

of seeing him so soon.

Surely he and the other soldiers

will set things right,

speak sense to Ferdinando.

Maybe he has already

caught sight of the boats,

will welcome us onshore.

Before me is a place

few Englishmen have ever seen.

I lean over the bow,

try to will the pinnace faster

to trees pointing heavenward,

a flock of cranes rippling the sky.

Mother grasps my plait,

gives my hair a tug.

“Careful,” she says.

The boat cuts through the water

as wind snaps our sails,

rocks us with each wave

toward land heavy with trees,

thick with darkness.

The mysterious island,

Roanoke.

The pinnace drops anchor,

and that savage, Manteo,

offers me his hand,

the Indian who came to England

with the Governor

after his first voyage here.

I shake my head,

for even though he's lived in London

and dresses as we do,

I've seen the hair as long as a woman's

he hides underneath his hat.

I will not let him touch me.

My steps are uncertain

after our ocean crossing,

and when I stumble in the sand,

I ignore Manteo's amused smile,

choose not to stand but sit and watch

the scramble of people,

the rising tide,

the pinnace already making its way

back to the ships

for the last of us.

I scan the banks for Uncle Samuel,

but he is nowhere.

The Governor bids us to follow him

across the sandy beach.

Marsh grass swishes against my skirts.

London's crowded streets

smelled of rot and filth.

I'd hold my breath,

race my friend

down Fish Street to London Bridge.

Neither Joan nor I ever made it

without pulling in deep gulps of air

as putrid as death.

Here,

damp wood mingles

with the warm sea breeze.

The forest rises up,

takes us in,

and in the woods,

scattered all around,

pink flowers,

starred yellow in their centers,

tremble with each footstep.

I pluck a jaunty bloom,

tuck it behind my ear.

Even on summer days

the London light was weak,

fighting soot and drizzling clouds.

Here,

sunlit patches

cut through highest branches,

a brilliant red bird wings above.

Her sharp notes climb up,

spiral down.

In London stray dogs roam in mangy coats

scrounging for a scrap of meat.

Here,

waves lap the shore,

crabs dance across the sand,

berry bushes reach as high

as entryways at Bishop's Gate.

What a strange and wondrous place!

They crash through the forest.

I crouch behind trees,

watching

as they

stumble

through underbrush.

Never did I think

these strange ones would return.

Yet here they are again.

Some think

they are spirits back from the dead.

Some say

they have invisible weapons

that strike with sickness after they've gone.

Father

said they were people

like us, only

with different ways.

But how can I believe him?

Father

is dead.

Ahead,

people gather in a clearing.

We must be near the settlement

where a few soldiers

lay claim for England.

Last year,

when Uncle left us,

he promised we wouldn't long be parted.

After his time in the Queen's service,

he'd be home again.

How surprised he'll be

to learn we've come!

I want to run ahead,

clutch him in a hug,

show him how faithfully

I've kept his wooden bird.

But my legs are unsteady.

Surely Mother needs me near.

The baby we await

fatigues her so easily.

Her face is worn.

Her golden hair

tumbles loose about her shoulders,

and I lace my arm through hers,

maybe hurry her more than she would wish,

but gently,

so as not to tire her more.

Governor White and his assistants draw together.

All about us

words clash and climb

until the Governor calls for silence.

Two men break away from the Governor's side.

He says they'll go ahead,

enter the settlement through the gate.

Even though I shouldn't,

I release Mother's arm,

drop my bundle at her feet.

“Alis!” she calls,

but I pretend I cannot hear her,

for I must find Uncle.

I skirt the crowd.

A fluttering blue bird draws me—

one with plumes as lavish as a gown.

I pray it leads me to him,

my uncle,

who knows so much of wild things,

but the bird escapes me.

Somehow

I've run

far beyond the others.

Somehow

I've reached a ditch

encircling an earthen barrier—

one ring inside another,

like the moat surrounding London Wall.

It isn't hard to slip down the ditch's side,

scale the embankment within,

and I'm in the settlement—

if this place could be called that—

with homes empty,

deer wandering through open doors,

vines twisting about windows.

Two of our men walk about,

one towering over the other,

whose nose is a mountain

of lumps and bumps.

I step back from view,

stumble,

fall into a heap of ash,

the charred remains of a building.

A scream

claws at my throat.

Bleached bones

litter the ground.