Blue Birds (3 page)

The whispers among my people began

the first time the English came.

They grew to angered shouts:

The English have great power,

mightier than we have seen

in the agile deer,

the arrows of our enemies,

the angry hurricane.

Able to blot out the sun.

I run the well-worn path

beyond the stalks of beans and corn,

through the slender poles of the palisade,

past the longhouses

to Wanchese.

“There are women and children!” I say.

I have interrupted Wanchese and his men,

their shoulders baring

four inked arrows,

the marks of my father.

Wanchese shifts,

the copper beads of his necklace

burning in the sun.

“They are no worry to you.

Find your mother.”

I ignore the men's impatient faces.

I should join the women in the fields.

But I remain where I am.
Wanchese must understand.

“This time they've brought their families.

The English want to stay.”

He springs to his feet.

“Find your mother, Kimi.”

I race toward the fields,

my legs quivering at my boldness

before Wanchese.

Of all the Roanoke,

he knows the customs of the English best.

He lived in their land with Manteo

after the first ones came.

But even he

cannot know everything.

My people,

we have been

small in number,

and the tasks

of weaving mats

and pounding corn

have come to me.

The extra work

does not burden.

I am pleased

to prepare food

if what I do strengthens us.

I am proud

my fingers bleed

if my weaving shows our skill.

I am willing

to work

if labor means

my heart will for an instant

forget Alawa,

my sister,

who should be near me.

Instead

her bones rest

with our ancestors

because of English men.

My mother and my aunts

work side by side,

their backs bent

as they tend the crops.

Like the corn,

a woman

spreads her roots wide,

like the bean,

a woman

settles her roots deep.

The English plans have been made plain:

Women mean they'll stay.

If we hope to rid ourselves of them,

push them from us

once and for all,

we must do it

before their roots take hold.

Saws bite through wood

and hammers pound broken boards—

quick work for just our second day onshore.

The settlement buzzes with enterprise

like the streets of London on market day.

A perfect chance for me to steal away.

It is not difficult to climb the wall,

slip through the ditch unseen

to the outside world.

I must touch, hear, taste, breathe

this place that is not London,

so open and free.

Beyond the protection of the village,

the memory of the bones comes,

and I crouch low,

like a dog kicked from its shelter.

How did he die?

Where have the other soldiers gone?

Are we in danger staying here?

My damp hands wring and twist

the fabric of my dress.

Every bush,

tree,

shadowed covering

I study,

until I trust I am alone.

Only then do I

slowly stand,

let myself step

into the beauty

that beckons me.

If Uncle were with me,

we'd wander the forest;

he'd tell me the names of

the creatures we'd see.

For the unknown ones,

he'd invent new words,

speak of their habits,

their patterns,

their breed.

Some stories he'd tell me

would be filled with wonders—

three-legged horses,

birds with no wings.

I'd solemnly listen,

list hundreds of questions.

Never he'd tire

of teaching me things.

Uncle Samuel,

how I miss you.

I want to see you again.

From my earliest days,

I knew my father as

our wise counselor,

great leader.

But Wingina belonged

to my people,

not to me.

It was Wanchese

who told me stories,

held me when storms raged,

my uncle

more attentive

than any father.

Now

Wingina

is gone.

Wanchese

is weroance.

And I am

no longer

welcomed

to his side.

As I work

in the fields

I think of yesterday:

the English,

the women,

how Wanchese wouldn't listen.

Once I've bathed,

I escape to the woods,

where all is familiar,

where I'll be welcomed always.

I do not expect

to find

her

there.

Hunched over the forest floor,

the girl pulls up flowers,

blind to my approach.

All is fresh here,

undisturbed by the noises of the village.

In these woods

sunlight breaks through branches,

illuminating flowers,

those star-centered beauties.

How Mother would enjoy a bit of brightness!

The stems snap easily as I pick them.

I watch her huddled

like a fawn, unaware of danger.

She's careless in her work;

petals,

leaves

litter her feet.

She's careless in her safety

all alone.

I shift to make my presence known.

So intent am I,

I miss the girl

until she is beside me.

Her eyes fly to me,

grow wide

but do not falter,

though she wears panic on her face.

Her skin too delicate,

like a thin-barked tree;

her body bundled,

thick like a caterpillar.

Motionless

she stands.

Markings spiral up her arms,

snake down below her fringed skirt—

the only clothing she wears—

like fine embroidery stitched into skin.

Copper flashes at her earlobes,

a rope of pearls encircles her neck.

Short hair covers her forehead,

the rest gathered behind.

She studies me.

Her gaze never wavers.

What if there are

others hiding, waiting

like that shadow in the woods?

A cry escapes my lips.

I turn and flee.

Something happens

before she runs,

bearlike,

back to her people.

Something falls from her clothing,

this little wooden bird,

a nestling, resting

in my cupped palm.

Yesterday,

I stayed hidden, watched

the girl and her mother.

Today,

I wanted her to see me.

I caught her unaware,

exposed her fear,

showed my courage,

the power of the Roanoke.

The earth, the skies, the seas

swirl with montoac,

the power that both

shelters life and destroys.

I grasp

a piece of her strength

in my hand.

I am safe now,

yet my mind buzzes

with memories of the silent girl:

the inked marks covering her limbs,

jewelry worn on her bare chest.

I reach for Uncle's bird,

a bit of comfort.

But it's no longer in my pocket.

Not near my feet,

nor along the village path.

I twist my apron in my fist.

It is nowhere.

My bird.

It was all I had of Samuel.

The sun slants through our window

as Mother and I lay the table.

Mother's movements are slower now.

Soon our little one will come.

But even thoughts of the baby

do not excite me.

“Alis, what ails you?” Mother asks.

How can I speak,

knowing Uncle's token is missing,

remembering the savage girl?

“I'm weary,” I say,

hoping she'll not inquire further.

“Then it's early to bed for you,” she says.

Above me as I walk,

two iacháwanes flutter,

their blue wings flashing

in the evening sun.

They scold and bicker

as they dip and swirl,

light on a branch,

bob like leaves racing down a river.

How happy they are,

their round white bellies

satisfied with berries,

their heads cocked

to catch each sound.

Then

with joy,

they take wing,

travel on their way.

Such gladness they share.

I've known nothing like it

since Alawa

was beside me.

After breakfast,

Mother opens our shutters

to the morning.

Mrs. Dare sweeps dust

from her open door.

“Elyoner,” Mother calls.

Mrs. Dare stops her broom and steps outside,

shields her eyes from the brightness.

“I meant to tell you sooner.

My Alis is twelve, old enough

to mind your little one as well as mine.”

I thump the mixing bowl

firmly on the table,

scowl at her back,

but Mother doesn't turn.

Our third day in Virginia,

and I'm already a nursemaid.

“I've told Mrs. Viccars and Mrs. Archard the same.

As they organize provisions

once they're brought ashore,

Alis can watch the boys.

Practice for our babies,” she says.

I hear the smile she surely wears.

Those two creatures

I couldn't escape on our voyage here?

All they do is tug at things they shouldn't,

make messes where they don't belong.

“It will be easier for us

to cook for all the men,”

she tells Mrs. Dare.

“We'll be freer

to tend the laundry.”

“Mother,” I say,

“I need some air,”

and skip outside

before she can stop me.

If I'm to play nursemaid,

I won't begin this morning.