Blue Birds (5 page)

“There you are!”

Mother moves as fast as she is able,

a basket of laundry held at her side.

“I've been searching everywhere.”

She grabs my hand

and pulls me with her

before I can thank Manteo.

“Mrs. Archard will expect you

every morning after breakfast.

You'll care for the children

only through mid-afternoon.”

I want to stomp my foot,

kick up dust

in an unbecoming way.

Much of my time

I'll be forced to give away.

Mother stops outside the Archard door.

She tugs at my wrinkled skirt,

clicks her tongue over my dirtied apron.

“I don't know where you've been—

collecting leaves,

chasing some small creature

near the armory—

but it cannot happen again.

Your help is needed here.

Do you understand?”

I nod begrudgingly.

“Good girl.”

She kisses my cheek.

“Now in you go.”

I knock.

The door swings open.

Mrs. Archard's words are clipped.

“You were to be here earlier.”

Perhaps she always wears a scowl,

for it's the only way I've seen her.

“Keep them occupied,” she says,

and slams the door behind her.

Tommy and Ambrose squabble and push.

I am hopeless as a nursemaid.

I hold the boys' hands,

lead them to the square

where they might run about,

dig with sticks,

gather shells.

As long as

Ambrose and Tommy stay occupied,

I may stretch my legs,

lean back,

lift my face to the sun.

Tommy scoops a handful of earth,

dumps it on Ambrose's head.

Both squeal with delight.

It is no bother to me.

If they come to no harm,

they may do as they like.

I think of the girl,

her wild eyes,

her peculiar manner,

that I have spoken

of her to no one.

She came to the woods

to find me.

Those words

she wanted me to hear.

What could they mean?

If Uncle were near,

I would trust him with this secret.

Not Mother,

preoccupied with the baby,

Father,

busy at the forge,

working to rebuild the village,

unloading freight from the ships.

Uncle Samuel always understood,

made time just for me.

No good can come

from knowing her.

Before I work,

I hurry to the forest,

take her montoac

from beneath my skirts,

and leave it buried

under the leaves

heaped on the ground.

My people,

we've had too much

of the English.

I do not want

her montoac.

The older boys pass near us,

each one carrying armfuls of wood

gathered outside the village.

George grips his bundle

as the others stack theirs

in the far end of the square.

He tilts his head toward the little ones,

their dirt-streaked faces.

“Your work is easier than mine.”

“How are you certain?” I say.

“You stand here resting,

while I am busy.”

His grin is broken toothed.

“Busy resting in the sun.”

I cannot deny this.

Though it's hotter than

I've ever known,

though the thick air can oppress,

London was all rush

from one building to the next

to escape the rain, the stench, the filth.

Never have I loved

the outside world as now.

This time I'm the one to smile.

“Do not tell,” I whisper.

“I like caring for them best

when they are sleeping.”

Though I do not say it,

inside me hope awakens.

Perhaps I've found a friend.

“Your secret's safe with me,” he says.

Hunting season

brought womanhood,

planting season

my ceremony.

Four mornings past

I first saw

the girl

with water eyes.

If Alawa had lived,

she would have given

the necklace at my ceremony—

after the pain

of the tattooing,

after I emerged

a woman

she would have fastened it

around my neck,

while voices lifted in celebration.

The skin of my arms and legs

is no longer tender,

but I have changed little.

If my sister were with me,

I would speak of this,

I would tell her

though I am now a woman

I do not yet feel grown.

But she is not here.

And I stay silent.

I do not confide

in the women, who saw

their thirteenth planting seasons long ago,

the small ones, who play

about the corn.

Mother has her sisters.

Wanchese has his men.

With Alawa gone,

there is no one else like me.

I have no one.

The wooden bird.

I've stayed far from the place I left it,

and yet it calls,

as though it were a living thing.

All day I listen to it,

first in the fields,

while at the stream,

later as I pound the corn,

after an evening bowl of fish,

its music hasn't ended.

It says

come back for me.

I will not.

My sleep is restless.

Darkness stretches too long.

The sun is slow to trace the heavens.

When at last

morning comes,

I put my mind

to working in the fields.

Yet I cannot escape.

The bird still calls to me.

I work until

my nails are ragged.

Dirt cakes my hands.

Mother motions to me,

gives me a sip of water.

She holds a hand to my cheek,

cool and gentle.

“Kimi, are you well?”

“Yes,” I say.

But I do not believe it,

and neither does she.

“Bathe early,” she tells me.

“Rest until mealtime.”

I lie back in the water.

Currents swirl my hair about me.

Above, the sun journeys

closer to the earth.

Last time I saw the girl

I did what was needed,

told her

the English don't belong.

Why then does her bird

still beckon me?

If I claim it,

do I betray Wingina?

If I keep it,

do I forget Alawa?

The sun escapes the sky,

and the moon settles in its place.

I go,

kneel beside the mound of leaves,

brush away their covering.

Again the bird is

tucked in the folds of my skirt.

It has grown silent

at last.

Those about me sleep

in the stillness of the longhouse.

My thoughts are full awake.

I clasp the wooden bird,

run my thumb over its head.

Under its chin

its feathers are roughened,

its belly smooth.

Now that it is near,

it has not made a sound.

I do not understand its montoac,

but this is clear to me:

I was never meant to leave the bird.

It is the girl's,

but somehow I, too, am joined to it.

The silence speaks this plainly.

Five days I've stayed back from the forest.

I've been busy with the children,

unsure what to make of the Indian girl.

Now the boys are with their mothers.

The afternoon is mine.

Enchantment pulls me deeper

through scattered branches,

beyond the slender saplings,

this chance to wander on my own,

discover nature's secrets

I've only known

through Uncle, when he spoke

of the Governor's paintings.

Now I can live this wild world.

Farther in,

I make my way,

don't let myself admit

exactly where I'm heading

until I'm here,

the place I've met her twice before.

What is it like

to make a home

in such surroundings?

To be born

to this wonder?

She knows.

I can't believe

she's here,

waiting for me.

This time I will show her

I am just as brave

as she is.

If she speaks,

I will not run,

but listen,

make meaning

from her sounds.

Without thinking,

I lift my hand—

a foolish gesture—

such greetings

are for friends,

not strangers,

and even so,

she wouldn't understand.

She raises

her hand

at my approach.

There is kindness in it.

This is how

she speaks

to me.

The Englishmen

in Wingina's time

started as our friends.

Now we are enemies.

But the girl has

not chosen

to stay away

and neither

have I.