Blue Birds (8 page)

Her montoac

is not a thing

for me to keep.

It is right

to return what is hers.

It has been days

since I've seen her,

yet this time when I go

she is there.

She smiles,

extends her hand to me—

cradling Uncle Samuel's bird!

Where did she find it?

I kiss it,

clasp it to my cheek,

and for a moment,

it is as though

he's with me.

Her other hand is heaped with berries.

I shove them in my mouth,

hardly chewing,

their sweet goodness

dripping off my chin.

“Alis,” I say,

pointing to myself,

for after everything

that has passed between us,

it's only proper she know my name.

She touches her head,

holds a hand over her heart.

“Kimi.”

We point to objects,

name them

with the speech we were born into.

We trade sounds,

collect them

as Joan kept pretty buttons.

I practice Kimi's words,

strive to make the vowels dance as she does.

She follows the curving of my lips,

trains her mouth to utter noises

it never has before.

Her sounds in trying English

are like a child's babble.

When I test her phrases on my tongue,

she tugs her ear to say

I must speak just as strangely.

In this way we communicate,

a stilted mixture

of two languages,

one that's

ours alone.

We stretch out in the sunshine,

point to the clouds skimming the trees.

“A fox,” I say,

and make my hand

a sharp-nosed creature

opening his jaws.

She looks above,

holds her palms together,

weaves them like a fish

thrashing in the waters.

I see a snake,

its slender body

streams across the sky.

She finds a bird,

a puff of mist,

a gauzy veil

with outstretched wings,

that swoops and stretches

with the wind,

breaks apart and forms again.

I tug my ears,

use my eyes to tell her

to look above.

Alis sees the rabbit cloud.

She crouches,

hops,

holds back laughter

with her hand.

I have my bird.

I know her name.

The girl,

she is my friend.

It is so strange

returning to the village,

coming back to the familiar.

Perhaps this is why

I signal to George

when I see him passing.

He leaves the other boys,

a shovel in his hand.

He pushes back his dampened curls.

“I see you're hard at work again.”

I wave his words away.

“I have something to tell you.”

My voice drops to a whisper

as he draws closer.

“The Indian girl,

I saw her

when I was in the woods.”

Saying it is such relief.

“I've told no one else.”

His eyes grow round.

“You've left the village

though the Governor has forbidden it?”

Too late I realize

I should have kept my secret.

“Not recently.”

I search his face to see

if he might catch me in my lie.

But all I find is sadness.

How could I forget his father,

what happened just a week ago?

“It's too dangerous out there,” George says.

This place that captivates me

is where his father died.

I want to tell him

I understand his loneliness,

but the words stick in my throat.

He checks to see no one else is near.

“It is best to keep the girl between us.”

Throughout the early hours,

I think of all the day might hold.

When the afternoon is mine,

I sneak away,

I rush and run,

but doubt creeps in

as I near our meeting place.

Perhaps now that my bird's returned

she will not come again.

Perhaps her happiness yesterday

was only just pretend.

Then I see her waiting—

her dark eyes bright,

a warm smile on her face.

My footsteps quicken,

until I reach her side.

“Eight days and no response

from the Indians,” Father says.

Mother's head is bowed.

Her breakfast remains untouched.

“Two days are left.”

“And then?” I ask.

He doesn't speak for a long while.

Deep creases cut between his brows.

“That is none of your concern, Alis.”

He thinks

I'm too young to understand,

too childish to see

this mess we're in.

Later that morning,

I walk with Ambrose and Tommy past the shed,

hear the clear notes of Father's hammer.

He stops his work,

steps outside.

“How are the little ones?”

The boys settle in the dirt,

kick their legs until it swirls about them.

“Troublesome. Mischievous.”

A smile grows across his sun-browned face.

He pinches my cheek.

“Similar to a girl I'm acquainted with,” he says.

“How are you, my Alis?

It cannot be easy as the only girl.”

It is lonely

with no one here

like me.

“I've spoken with George Howe.”

I would never tell of Kimi.

“George.

I hope to train him to work with iron

alongside me in the forge.

Poor boy,

a bit of guidance is what he needs.”

“Hurry, Alis,” Mother says from the doorway.

Father and the other assistants

have gathered in the clearing.

We flock with others to the bonfire,

where the light overpowers

the sun's first hint of morning.

“The morrow marks ten days

since we asked for peace,” the Governor says,

“with no answer from the Roanoke.”

They are the only tribe

living on this island.

Surely their promise

is the one we most need.

“Have the Croatoan sided with us?” someone says.

The buttons on Manteo's doublet

flash in the firelight.

The buckles on his shoes gleam.

“My people trust the Englishmen.”

Manteo's home is on a nearby island.

Father says it's easier to remain friendly

with a bit of distance between.

The Governor and his assistants form

one solemn line.

Father's eyes take in everyone,

but refuse to find me.

I cling to Mother's elbow,

wish for the Governor

to steer this meeting elsewhere,

hope the fear bubbling inside me is unfounded.

Governor White speaks:

“The Roanoke have

in their silence

asked

for

war.”

The assembly shifts and murmurs,

moves like the ocean that brought us here.

Father stands with George,

the boy who has no father now.

“Tonight we go,” the Governor says.

The Roanoke have caused us harm.

They have killed,

forced us to live in fear.

But there is Kimi—

She must know.

All morning I think of nothing else.

Once time's my own,

I take no care in hiding

but flee the settlement in haste.

My mind is flooded with one image:

Kimi lying in the forest,

injured and alone.

She must learn

what is planned.

“Go!” I say,

though she's not in our meeting place,

and my word is nothing to her.

I journey deeper

through the trees,

rush past brambles

that scrape my hands,

catch my sleeves.

“Go!”

Only the forest hears me,

and it keeps silent.

I kneel by the stream.

Water flows over my hands,

loosening my tired fingers,

washing away

a day's labor

in the fields.

From behind me

there's a sound,

but I

see nothing.

Mother and her sisters

stand together,

laughing as they cup the water,

letting it run down their arms.

I watch them

crowded about Nuna,

the first baby born to us

since the English illness

killed so many.

Do English women

gather together

after work is done?

Do they form ties

with one another

that cut as deep as rivers?

If their women are like ours,

are we so different after all?

Again I hear it,

a voice

repeating

one frantic word.

Could it be Alis?

To come this close,

to risk discovery.

What would bring her so near?

Mother and her sisters are occupied,

absorbed in one another.

I slip away.