Wabanaki Blues (11 page)

Eight

Embedded in the New Hampshire Dust

Enticing islands lay sprinkled across the waters of Lake Winnipesaukee like jimmies, making me want to steal a raft and ford the waves in a candy-hopping adventure. I wonder how many of these delicious islands Beetle has visited? I wonder if Rasima went with him.

Drumbeats rise somewhere along the shore, pounding in sync with my anxious heart. Grumps turns at a hand-painted sign for the powwow. We back the truck into the crowded vendor area, which smells of face paint, frybread, and something fetid. The vendor booths are lined up behind the roped-off dance circle where drum groups, firekeepers, judges, and other event staff are making their last-minute preparations for Grand Entry. Standing in the center of the dance circle is a master of ceremonies wearing a red, white, and blue satin ribbon shirt with five neck bandannas—one for each different branch of the military. He's debating the dance contest rules with a group of scowling judges who keep examining their watches. Grand Entries always run late. That's a good thing because my slow driving put us here nearly an hour behind schedule.

I figure out the source of the nasty smell. Vendors here sell more dead animal parts than I'm accustomed to seeing at our southern New England powwows. I have a sensitive nose when it comes to dead critters. Porcupine quills, bear claws, bird skulls, deerskins, antlers, raccoon, fox and rabbit skins all lay in heaps, ready to be transformed into Native American regalia and ceremonial items. Bark boxes are also more popular because these northerners have bigger trees. I don't see anyone selling southwest turquoise, probably because New Hampshire is farther away from Arizona than Connecticut. Still, there's the ubiquitous Ecuadorian table, with its bright weavings, exotic Andean flutes, and miniature clay trolls. Two booths are already crowded with buyers. One is selling wood-burned guitar straps, computer tablet covers, and iPhone cases. The other has a sign that says, “Black Racer Woman – Love Charms.” It's overflowing with teenage girls.

A woman with a clipboard rushes toward us, her thin oyster hair flying. I notice her tee shirt says “Waki Wabanaki.”

“
Kwai!
About time you arrived, Elmwood!” she says to Grumps. “There's only one vendor spot left and it's right next to the frybread vendor with the fryolater that smokes,” she huffs, out of breath. “Take it or leave it.”

“
Aquy
,” Grumps replies, greeting her in Mohegan. “Glad to see you, too, Sandy.”

She turns to me and squeezes my face like Mom does when she bothers to notice me. “Mona Lisa LaPierre! I recognize your grandmother's regalia. You look beautiful.” Her eyes blink too much, as if she's holding back tears. “Everyone is so pleased to have you home! I'm sure you know how much you mean to us.”

“Careful, Sandy. We don't want to scare the girl away.” Grumps wags a scolding finger.

Sandy keeps blinking. “Mona, you look exactly like your grandmother. She hardly smiled at your age either. What a sourpuss. I think she developed her wonderful smile after she brought joy into the world with her paintings.” She slaps Grumps on the back. “It sure wasn't you who made her smile, old man. Still, I was grateful when you brought her back home to New Hampshire, where she belonged.” She squeezes my face again, so I now know from whom Mom gets this irritating habit. “Just so you know Mona Lisa: this is the center of the universe, home to the most beautiful fall leaves on the planet.”

“That's enough, Sandy.” Grumps tries to pull her away from me, and she resists, moving closer.

Sandy whispers in my ear and I smell smoky blankets. “No matter what those fools in the rest of New England like to boast, our leaves are better here in New Hampshire than anywhere else. Our maple syrup is better, too.”

“Enough,” grumbles Grumps. “City Gal here has better things to do than worry about who's got the best foliage and maple syrup. She's a blues musician and a good one.”

“Another artist! How wonderful!” Sandy touches my unsmiling lips, fondly. “Mona Lisa, you run off and have a look around. I'll help your grouchy old grandpa set up his booth.”

Before I can get away, half a dozen other elder Abenaki women pile in for kissy introductions. They all look a little like me. It's funny: seeing people with the same face as mine makes me feel better about the way I look. They are joined by clusters of women from Mi'kmaq, Maliseet, Passamaquoddy, and Penobscot, all wishing me well. I'd never seen people be this friendly at a powwow before. They all call me their Wabanaki sister.

I finally get a break when bees swarm us, and we disperse. Bees are a fixture at powwows. I bustle past them toward a dusty cloud of sage because I know bees avoid smoke. Waving to a familiar Wampanoag potter, I pass other vendors and pause to admire a wampum eagle barrette that would look amazing in anyone's hair but mine.

Wind whirls at my feet, creating dust devils that seem to smile at me. I don't know if it's the fact that I'm wearing Bilki's regalia or what, but I feel comfortable here. I search the crowd for familiar faces and spot my cousin Aaron Elmwood from Mohegan. He never misses a New England powwow and nobody ever misses him; he is the biggest Indian around, bigger than Bear. I wave at him but he doesn't see me, most likely because of my Abenaki disguise. It's somewhat unusual for an Indian to wear the traditional clothes of more than one tribe, like I'm doing. Seeing me in Abenaki regalia is bound to shock some folks who only know me as a Mohegan who wears the regalia of that tribe. Like lots of Mohegan teenagers, I made my Mohegan ceremonial clothes in the arts and crafts room on the reservation. Now I own clothes I presume Bilki made, as well. They are my heirlooms. I'm proud to come from two tribes, and wearing the clothes that Bilki left me makes me feel closer to her.

The midday crowd bulges at the ticket entrance, a fragrant cocoa butter wind blows my way. My heart skips one…two…three scheduled beats as a group of floppy-haired boys from Lake Winnipesaukee blasts in wearing loud plaid shorts and glowing summer tans. They swing their arms freely, as if they they can snatch whatever or whoever they choose. Maybe they're right about that. I don't spot Beetle with this group, and my heart sinks. Even if he is here, somewhere, with what I'm wearing, he'll never recognize me, or want to.

I head for the love charm booth, which is overflowing with girls my age. The sign says the vendor's name is Black Racer Woman. I remember the black racer snake I spotted on my first day in Indian Stream. Mom said it wasn't poisonous but Black Racer Woman still seems like a spine-chilling name for an Indian woman to choose. Of course in all fairness, she probably didn't pick out that name herself. Traditional Indian names often come from parents or other elders, like mine did. Take my Indian name, it's worse than Black Racer Woman, as far as I'm concerned. In fact, it's so bad I'd rather not discuss it. But I can tell you that I blame my mainstream first and middle names on my old-school, boring, French Canadian father who couldn't stop himself from giving me an old-school, boring, French name.

A high-pitched cackle erupts from a lean elderly woman seated behind the love charms booth. I assume this is Black Racer Woman. A heavy rope of iron hair creeps down onto her beaded buckskin vest like a boa constrictor. Her wrinkled lips pinch an ancient stone pipe that looks as if it could've come from one of my father's archaeological digs. She wears grimy moose hide moccasins that make me wonder if she lives in a wigwam with a dirt floor. The more I examine the beadwork on her buckskin vest, skirt, and hood, the more familiar it looks. I check the design on my skirt and shiver; it's the same pattern.

A lemonheaded girl buys a ball of vines from her table and stuffs it in a brown paper bag. When she turns around, I recognize her.

“Hey, Scales!” I yell.

She doesn't notice me, or maybe doesn't want to.

I gag on the strong scent of fake strawberries and trace it to a freckle-faced girl with a frizzy red ponytail. She pushes in front of me, into Black Racer Woman's wares, and grasps another ball of vines just like the one that Scales bought. Up close, I see it's labeled “Love Winder Charm.” I feel my cheeks burn.

The freckled girl rails at the old woman, “I know what your little note says. But is this a
real
love charm?”

Black Racer Woman responds by tapping the handwritten card attached to the charmed ball with her fingernail that's been filed to a fang-point. “Read for yourself, kid.” The gold rims on her oak-colored eyes flare as bright and fierce as the hot August sun overhead. It occurs to me that Mom's eyes are the same oaky color, minus the solar flare effect.

The girl sneers and rolls her eyes.

Black Racer Woman cocks her head. “Oh, I see. You can't read. Poor thing. I'll help you.” She chants:

Here before you lies a way, a man's affections for to sway.

This Winder Charm, which costs a fee, when e'er unwinds shall romance see.

These words sound more like Shakespearean hocus-pocus than Native American magic. Or perhaps the two are more similar than I thought. After hearing exactly how this charm lures men, I am twice as irritated at Scales for buying it. When the freckled frizzy red-haired girl hears Black Racer Woman's words, she loses color and her freckles stand out like constellations in an albino sky. She clutches the ball to her chest, tosses a twenty-dollar bill at Black Racer Woman, and races off with her prize.

Black Racer Woman shrugs at me, as if to say, “another one bites the dust.”

I'm eyeing the small red leather pouches beaded with the eight-pointed stars, on the other end of her table, each one bulging with enchantment. I feel an unexpected tug at my heartstrings when I notice there's only one left. Another Abenaki girl reaches for it at the same time I do. Black Racer Woman slaps the girl's hand and points her fang-finger in my direction. “This last pouch is meant for you. It carries the Wabanaki star.”

I know she can't be talking to me, so I turn to the brilliantly feathered dancer waiting in line behind me, tilting my head to indicate that this old woman is obviously speaking to her, but the dancer shrugs innocently.

Black Racer Woman taps one of the charms on the bracelet on my wrist. “I am speaking to you, Mona Lisa LaPierre. I recognize your charms. I bought that star charm for your grandmother.”

I'm suddenly less fond of my bracelet.

“How do you know my name?” I ask.

She chews her pipe stem and takes a long draft of her smoking mixture before answering. The air fills with the aroma of bearberry. “The man who chose your name was my father, your great grandfather. He named you Mona Lisa, after that great painting because he wished for you to paint these woods, just as your mother did.”

I know Black Racer Woman meant to say, “Just as your
grandmother
did.” Mom has never painted anything. But Black Racer Woman is old so I let her mistake slide. Besides, I'm stunned to discover I was named after a famous painting because my Abenaki great grandfather wanted me to become a painter. I was sure my name came from my dad's French heritage. How come I haven't heard about this art-loving Abenaki great grandfather before? It dawns on me that I should be grateful he didn't name me after Edvard Munch's
The Scream
or Salvador Dali's
Skull.
Although,
Starry Night
by Van Gogh would have made for a cool Hollywood-style Indian name that Beetle would love and Mom would hate—which still works.

She leans over and grabs my wrist, shaking my charm bracelet. She clearly has no idea that jingling this bracelet calls her sister. Her fractious dark medicine can't harm me.

She pulls on my paintbrush charm. “Your great grandfather bought this charm. He also wanted you to become a painter, like your mother, but he misspoke his wish for you and said the word ‘artist.' It was an easy mistake but a significant one. It will make things trickier for you when it comes time to fulfill your destiny, my dear grand niece.”

I ignore her idiotic remark about my destiny. “So you're my great aunt?” I sputter.

“Yes. ” She holds the “s” a little too long, making it hiss.

“Bear mentioned me having a great aunt. That must be you,” I say. “Why haven't we met before?”

She scrapes her fang-tipped fingernail back and forth across her neck as if she wants to shed her second skin. I hope this hair-raising woman is no indication of what I can expect from the rest of my northern relations. I rub my neck. It feels like something is winding around it, tightening its grip.

“Are you some kind of Medicine Woman?” I ask, sus-
piciously.

She cackles. “I am many things, Mona Lisa. Your grandfather thinks I'm a snake. But not all snakes are poisonous. Just because something has frightful qualities, that doesn't make it bad. Snakes can be healing creatures. Rattlesnake tails eliminate pain during childbirth. Did you know that?”

She didn't answer my question. But then, old-time Indians never do. A group of teen tourists buffets me, pushing for a better look at her inveigling wares. She leans way over her table to hand me the red leather pouch before any of them try and take it. My hands stiffen around it, like they have been bitten or stung, and I drop the pouch on the dusty ground.

Black Racer Woman lets loose another one of her flock of crows' cackles. “I knew you would feel its medicine. This pouch will help you fulfill your destiny.”

I pick up the pouch again, gingerly. I can't stop looking at its eight-pointed beaded star. “I don't have a destiny,” I tell her.

“Of course you do.” Her oaky eyes catch fire again. “It is marked by the colors on your regalia. “I ought to know; I beaded it.” She leans back, gauging my reaction.

“What's inside the pouch?” I ask, holding it out, trying not to think about her hand in making my regalia.