Blue Birds (16 page)

I make no effort to hide

how bare I am.

Mother rushes to me,

pulls at my hands,

only to find them empty.

I will not lie,

but I will not bring

Alis danger.

“Your pearls?”

“Gone,” I say.

Though my voice quakes,

there is no shame,

no apology,

no sorrow.

What I've done

is best for Alis.

I glide past my aunts and mother,

am first to begin the evening meal.

Their whispered words—

How careless, they say.

My aunts' open stares.

I will endure them,

do my work.

Even as the young ones

swarm about with questions,

I will not say a word.

Later,

Father grips my shoulders,

his hands blackened from labor.

“I've told the assistants

of your foolishness.

Soon everyone will learn

my daughter,

whose own uncle

faced a Roanoke attack,

the very one who cares for Ananias Dare's child,

placed us in danger

by befriending our enemy.

It won't surprise me in the least

if Mrs. Dare holds you responsible

for her husband's death.”

My heart is

tender as a bruise.

“How could you do this?” he whispers.

Does he truly want an answer?

That she has eased my heartache,

shown me things I've never known,

these reasons aren't enough for him,

they wouldn't satisfy.

“Do not leave this house again.

Not to fetch Virginia,

not to wander in the village.

You stay inside.”

I nod my head,

pinch my lips together.

I will let him see

the pain this causes me.

From the window,

a blue bird flits

from roof to bench to branch.

The pearls are heavy at my neck,

tucked beneath my clothing.

Father can keep me locked away,

but he can't force me to forget

the new world opened to me.

Ia-chá-wan-es,

Kimi's word echoes

the pulse in my fingers,

the bird's beating wings.

Ia-chá-wan-es,

I whisper to Samuel,

I hum its bright music,

its melody sings.

I hold the name closely,

its beauty my treasure,

hidden here with me,

my secret alone.

Mother,

always so quick

to mend any rift

within our family,

after Father whispers to her

all that's happened,

looks to me,

disappointment in her eyes.

She says

nothing,

does

nothing

to make things better.

Never

have I been

more alone.

The day passes

with sun and dirt and weeding.

I leave the fields,

I go to find her,

but she is not in our meeting place.

I reach for my pearls,

remember they are gone.

Though I do not know

Wanchese's plans,

I will not believe

she is in danger,

for my montoac protects her.

I could do nothing for Alawa,

but I will do all I am able

to keep Alis safe.

Mrs. Dare no longer

brings Virginia.

She does not trust me

with her child.

As Father suggests,

am I to blame

for Mr. Dare's death?

It is

too much—

Did I destroy

this family?

Shut in,

I will not wander,

will not talk

to those I shouldn't.

Unseen,

I will not bring

my family

further shame.

Closed off,

held back,

contained,

I will not tempt

disaster.

Forgotten,

I will

simply

fade away.

Though a few still side with Manteo,

most assistants want to leave at once.

We are so close to Chesapeake,

they say,

the journey will be swift,

that shelters, a few vegetables

are a poor excuse for staying

where our very lives are threatened.

Father was the one

who pushed for leaving sooner,

but this has been forgotten.

He's been stripped of his position.

No one listens to him now.

His daughter is a traitor, they say.

At first,

we'll take

only what's necessary.

Later,

others will collect

the rest of our possessions.

What do I have that is needed,

save the clothing I wear?

Yet there is one here

far more dear to me than these.

We will depart,

sail in the pinnace,

group by group,

build the City of Ralegh.

We are to forget this Roanoke,

but I cannot,

I never will.

“We're to gather in the square

this evening,” Father says.

I stir my pottage,

more water than true meal.

For once I am not saddened

Father keeps me shut away.

I could not bear

their questioning eyes,

their looks of disapproval.

“You're coming, Alis,” he says.

I grip my spoon so tightly,

it bites into my skin.

“What do you mean?”

“You'll tell everyone you forsake that Indian.”

I glance at Mother.

She never turns my way.

“If you don't,” he says,

“we'll be outcast,

unable to start again in Chesapeake.”

I slam the spoon upon the table,

hoping for correction.

Mother hasn't spoken to me in days.

Instead she stands,

swiftly clears the table.

Father pushes back his chair.

“It's time to go,” he says.

How different the outside world is,

how unfamiliar the village seems,

the night air not as I remember it,

the stars in unknown patterns,

these faces strange.

So much feels changed

in just three days.

Father moves ahead of us.

I stay with Mother,

her body shields me from the others.

If only she'd speak,

put her arm about my shoulders.

The talk is as it's always been—

threat and leaving,

hunger, fear.

Then Father calls to everyone,

“My daughter wants to speak.”

Everyone staring,

fire and shadow

in their faces.

I try to breathe.

My chest is pinched.

“Tell them, Alis.”

Father's words ring out.

Kimi,

my friend,

who's been

so good to me.

I twist my apron

in my fists.

Now Father's next to me.

“Say it,” he says.

“I—”

my throat constricts.

No words will come.

“You must,” he whispers.

My family's standing

rests on this.

Forgive me, friend.

What else can I do?

“I was wrong.”

The words come,

but I will not claim them.

“I betrayed our village

in befriending the girl.”

No one speaks.

Mother's eyes are downcast.

No one

says a thing

because

they'll

never

trust me.

My heart rushes.

I crush my hand against it.

And feel them.

Kimi's pearls.

It is too much!

Tears prick my eyes.

I've given her away.

Those who call me traitor,

there is no reason

they'll embrace me

once we set sail for Chesapeake.

They will all begin again.

I will still be a disgrace,

a reminder

of strife

and fear

and failure.

I cannot sleep,

ask Father for a bit of wood.

I do not have Uncle's skill,

am not so familiar with iacháwanes

to remember every feature,

but what I create satisfies.

I imagine Uncle Samuel,

his warm hand at my back,

and the making

helps ease my grief

in losing him,

helps me forget for just a moment

I've lost her, too.

“It is good,” Father tells me as he holds it.

“Fine work like Samuel's.”

He talks as though

all is well between us.

This bird's a humble offering,

though she'll never receive it.

This bird speaks the things I cannot say.

I am sorry, Kimi.

I knew no other way.

Though she hasn't come,

each day I go to meet her.

Is she safe?

Does my montoac

protect her?

Or has she decided

our friendship is a burden,

the risk of knowing me

too great?

Father says

my confession

has set me free,

that with time

I'll be forgiven

by the community.

Mother speaks

to me again,

but uses formal words,

that help to keep her distance.

She has no soft caresses,

no tenderness for me.

Perhaps one day,

Father will again be asked to lead.

Perhaps Mother will soften,

that all she needs is time.

Neither understands

why I remain indoors.

I cannot undo

what I've done

to Kimi.

I cannot face

those who do not

want me near.

Until we leave the island,

this is where I'll stay.