Blue Birds (2 page)

My

stomach

rebels.

I clutch my skirts,

run back

to the others.

I slip into the crowd,

careful to keep near its edge,

where I won't be so easily seen.

But no one has noticed my absence,

for all are focused on Governor White.

Twice he's come to Virginia

to map the land,

paint the creatures who live here,

determine where our city would someday be.

Our Governor knows this island

better than any Englishman,

and remembering this brings relief.

We are secure

with him near.

“George Howe Sr. and Roger Bailie

have surveyed the settlement,” he says.

“It has been

empty

for some

time.”

“Empty?”

someone shouts.

“What of the soldiers?”

another says.

A woman wails.

“Who will help us now?”

Those bones were nothing more

than seashells, I tell myself,

the remnants of a deer.

The Governor's beard is grayer

than when we first left England.

He worries his cap in his hands.

“We are unsure what has happened,” he says.

The enormous man

I saw within the settlement

whispers to the Governor.

I see him stiffen.

“Mr. Howe says

there is a building

burned

to its foundation,”

Governor White says slowly,

“the

bones

of a

man.”

Uncle is safe,

I think the same words over and over,

trying to unsee, unhear

this horror.

But dread surges through me.

The Governor knows nothing

more than the rest of us.

The Governor studies his daughter,

Mrs. Dare, heavy with child.

“Ferdinando's promised

to leave us the pinnace.

For now we will rebuild,

stay through the fall and winter,

and when spring comes,

we'll sail to Chesapeake

and establish the City of Ralegh.”

Father's eyes are troubled.

“Someone is dead.

Does this not concern you?

And what of the other soldiers?

Surely we should search for them.”

The Indian speaks.

“Perhaps my people know something.

They live on Croatoan,

not far from here.”

The Governor nods his head

too vigorously.

Father presses his lips together.

I know how he thinks:

The Governor's too hasty

to claim the pinnace.

He should force Ferdinando to take us farther.

He's too quick

to trust the soldiers are elsewhere, safe.

“Mr. Howe will lead us in,” Governor White says.

The other assistants step aside.

Mr. Howe,

with fingers big as sausages, points ahead.

He strides toward the village,

where Uncle

is meant to be.

The deer scatter.

The abandoned buildings

hold fast their secrets.

My thoughts fly to Mother.

I scold myself for leaving her

with two sets of things to carry

and push back through the throng

until I'm outside the village again.

The sun has brightened her cheeks;

she tries to pin her hair.

“Mother!” I shout,

and she looks to me.

“Where have you been?

And what's this on your skirt?”

She dusts my dress,

shaking her head,

ushers me to the settlement.

I touch my ear,

discover my flower is missing.

Over my shoulder,

I study the ground behind me.

In the midst of the forest,

something shifts

like a branch might in a breeze.

A shadow flits between the trees.

This is no bird.

No wind stirs the leaves.

Something

lurks

in the woods.

Never

have there been

women or children.

The first men, they came

with tools and gifts, left

with Wanchese and Manteo

journeying to their distant world.

The second ones came

with friendship that turned bitter,

with illness,

with drought,

eating our seed corn,

beheading Father,

Wingina,

our weroance,

leader of the Roanoke.

The third ones,

so few in number,

weren't here long

before Wanchese did away with them.

I've always thought

they were a people

of only men.

The woman

embraces one

who must be

her daughter.

How plain they are!

No copper at their ears.

I touch the pearls about my neck,

their beauty still new to me.

The girl turns her head,

her eyes,

light as the rain-rinsed sky,

search the wood.

I step back

into

darkness.

A woman.

Her daughter.

Holding each other.

Alawa,

my sister,

what would you think

to see the English

act so tenderly?

The settlement is not remarkable—

a tiny village flanked with four earthen walls,

one with the gate,

the other three with stations,

like turrets on a castle.

Inside we find

last year's forgotten garden

and empty animal pens,

a small collection of cottages

set about an open square,

a large building used as barracks

by the soldiers sent to claim this land,

England's presence in the New World.

Beyond these buildings are

a jail,

a chapel,

the armory,

farther still the forge.

Though most structures are intact,

neglect has left its mark.

More homes must be erected

for the families here.

After a hasty service,

the bones are covered in a grave.

Men cart the scorched remains

of the burned building,

where the soldiers stored provisions.

Some of the boys hack at the vines

encircling the abandoned cottages.

In the square,

the women cluster in a knot.

“For months, the Governor

never spoke against that Ferdinando,”

pinched-lipped Mrs. Archard says.

“And we're the ones who have to pay.

The Governor should have forced him

to stop at those nearby islands

for the livestock and fruit he promised.

The Governor should have refused

to leave the ship,

insisted we sail to Chesapeake.”

“But we cannot change that now,” Mrs. Dare says,

and I study her rounded frame.

When will her baby join us:

before or after Mother's child comes?

“I wonder if our spiteful pilot

will let us gather all our things,” Mrs. Archard says.

“Weeks it took to pack those ships.

Weeks again we'll need.

I wouldn't be a mite surprised

if he sailed away come nightfall.”

Mother touches Mrs. Archard's arm.

“The Governor will make things right,” Mother says,

but the woman's face loses none of its harsh angles.

She tries to comfort Mrs. Archard,

but I'm the one

who needs her reassurance.

Uncle Samuel,

Father's only brother,

has lived with us forever.

This year apart is the only one

I've ever known without him.

Where has he gone?

Only bones

were here

to greet us.

Two boys scuffle over an axe,

another carries vines that spill from his arms.

The vine boy's eyes find mine;

swift as a pickpocket,

he moves away.

I linger, observing him,

his head a mess of curls.

Everywhere I look

it's men,

women,

boys.

There is

no one

here

like me.

And Uncle,

the one

so dear to me,

has disappeared.

“Alis?” Mother calls.

She's gone ahead,

bustling toward the buildings.

No word of tenderness,

no glance that says she shares my worries.

“Please gather our things.”

I reach for our bundles,

hug them to my chest so tightly,

no one can hear me cry.

We find Father bent over a fire

in the ironmonger's shed,

already working metal

salvaged from the ruins.

His hammer sings,

high and piercing,

and I run to him,

fold into him.

He drops his hammer,

pulls Mother close,

and the three of us huddle

as a flurry of activity

continues outside.

“We are here.

We are safe.

We will find Samuel,” he says.

I clutch my wooden bird,

one of the three Uncle whittled

just before he left,

the second safe with Joan,

the last one his own.

“It's a bird of Virginia,” Uncle said.

His hands pressed the carving into mine.

Though its wooden body is brown as a sparrow's,

I imagine sapphire wings,

a patch of rust spread above its curved white middle,

just like the painting Uncle has described.

The graceful bird,

its wings rest so daintily.

This Uncle Samuel promised me:

Birds return home

no matter how far they fly.

One set free might wander

but will eventually rejoin his flock.

At first,

I believed this was Uncle's pledge

to return to me,

but when Father said we too

would go to Virginia,

I thought of this:

What if a flight of birds

followed the wandering one,

joining him on a journey

entirely new?

Since setting sail

my secret wish has been

that Uncle's joy

would be so great,

he'd forget England

when his service was done.

Instead he'd make his home Virginia,

fly

to the City of Ralegh,

to us,

his family.