Wabanaki Blues (28 page)

Will slaps both hands on his head, in awe. “Me, either.”

“I know!” I say. But when I look their way, I realize they're not looking at the woman made of stars. They can't see her. She is not the miracle they're acknowledging. They're staring at my face.

“You're smiling, Little Lila. You look just like my painting!”

“He's right, Mona Lisa. You have an amazing smile.” Del eyes his father suspiciously. “Dad, when did you add the colored leaves to your painting?”

“I didn't paint those leaves, Son. I swear. I don't know who did.”

“Bilki painted them,” I explain, flush with newfound wisdom. “And she told me what I need to do…”

Twenty-four

The Charms of Wabanaki

It's Halloween, when the bounds between the living and the dead are as lacey as a spider's web. This is the night when monsters come out to play. I picture all the little vampires and Frankensteins hitting the streets of Hartford, taking a break from their trick-or-treating to watch the demolition of my school. That event was scheduled for sundown. It's well past that now. I wonder if Del and his dad took time off from moving paintings into his new gallery to watch the big blowup. I'm sure the Hartford Police hooted and hollered when the place came tumbling down. Not every unsolved teen murder case leads to such an embarrassing conclusion: the school principal did it. Ha! It's almost a cliché. Deep down, doesn't every high school student suspect her principal of being wicked?

Good riddance, Colt High, home of the homicidal Millicent Dibble. I lift my wrist, looking to kiss the bumblebee charm on my bracelet that Dad sent me as a graduation gift, albeit belatedly. I twirl the charms on my wrist around, searching for the bee mascot, but it's gone! I drop to my knees and comb the cold pine floorboards, filling my hands and knees with splinters. I spot it under the picture of Bilki and hook it back on with a sigh. I want to remember Colt High, for better or for worse, not to mention my absent dad. All of the charms on this bracelet help me hold those memories and make me who I am. Losing one is like losing a part of myself.

From this low angle, I notice a new keyhole in the wall. After finding that secret compartment in my room, I know this cabin holds endless secrets. The potential of opening this new locked door sends me frantically hunting down Grumps' skeleton keys. I flip through them until I'm down to the ones that haven't fit anything yet. The first one is far too big for the hole. The second one turns in the lock but jams, as if the tumbler hasn't been used in decades. I force it, even though I'm worried the key will snap. My charm bracelet jangles and jangles, as I twist and turn the key. Finally, it gives. I pull open this stubborn door to find a locked iron box inside. The box contains a much tinier keyhole, the size used to lock diaries. This is absurd. Grumps doesn't have any keys this small.

Then I remember something and examine the charms on my bracelet. There's a paintbrush, palette, easel, wolf, history book, guitar, musical note, log cabin, woodstove, bear, eagle, star, maple leaf, powwow drum, arrowhead, moccasin, robin, trout, spider's web, and a key…Yes, a key! I recall my dream about the blue bear that handed me a key, shaped like a musical note, and how he told me to go outside and unlock the stars. Grumps treated his keys with reverence, as though they held some special magic.”

I pinch the key charm between my thumb and forefinger to try it in the locked box. I insert it into the keyhole and hear a gentle click. I open it and find a single sheet of handmade yellow parchment paper inside, its edges wax-pressed with fragments of fall leaves. My heart plummets when I see these leafy remnants of autumn's former glory, now inexplicably missing from the landscape. Painted in the center is the image of a hunter chasing a bear through a forest. Swirling paintbrush strokes inveigle the eye into the vortex at the center of the scene; it looks like a portal into another world.

“Thanks, Bilki,” I say. This is clearly her work.

I stand up and touch Bilki's cheek in the picture on the wall. It feels warm. I flip the paper over and it says, “The Story of The Great Bear.” Grumps wasn't kidding! This must be the Secret of Wabanaki he was talking about. This is what Mom was searching for and failed to find, right after he died. Funny that she would be scrambling around for something Bilki painted, especially when it turns out, it's a mere story.

I hear Bilki scolding, “A mere story! Remember: stories are what human beings hold most sacred.”

I feel humbled and solemn.

Scribbled in the corner of this parchment are the words, “Read this in autumn by firelight.” I grab the scratchy wool blanket from the foot of my bed along with a couple of logs and head out to face this chilly late October night. The fire pit remains filled with charcoal from where Del and I shared our fire. I pile some fresh kindling and new logs on top of the charred remains. Overhead, the New Hampshire sky sparkles with a bold galactic majesty, offering all the infinite possibilities of a glittering, newborn universe. The golden rays of Grandmother Moon sear through a wispy cloud, bathing the woods in the healing white light of a loving cosmos.

I start a fire, sending sparks hopping and swirling into the night, like waltzing stars. A winding trail of smoke climbs through the clouds toward the Milky Way, sending my wishes to the heavens. A log falls and flames flare, illuminating the edge of the woods. A twig crackling in the distance makes me mindful of the animals cloistered in the shadows. A gentle west wind blows dry beige leaves along the ground, and they clatter like ghostly applause, hastening me to begin.

I wrap my blanket tight and read:

“This story takes place in a time when the autumn leaves were not as colorful as they are now. In those days, the people harvested and prepared their crops, game, fish, and foragings in a despondent way, as the fading summer greenery signaled that the first snowfall was not far ahead. The animals shared in this gloom, especially the bears, which wearily filled up on bark, berries, and bugs, preparing for their great hibernation. Indeed, the bears were most disturbed by this bleak time, as it offered them a poor send-off for their long winter's nap. The humans also wished for something to cheer them, knowing how hard it would be to survive the coming season of darkness and cold.

“An old black bear wanted to alleviate this melancholia. The creature lifted its head to the sky and told the Great Spirit it wanted to help its fellow creatures during this trying time. At the same moment, a hunter offered a pinch of tobacco to a fire and made the same proposition to the Great Spirit.

“The Great Spirit lifted both creatures to the sky and explained that making this season less grim would require a sacrifice from both of them. The Great Spirit asked the bear to lay down its life for the hunter, and for the hunter to take the life of The Great Bear.

“The hunter begged to switch roles with the bear, saying that the animal was too great to sacrifice. The bear argued that its tremendous size and medicine made its sacrifice more powerful.

“The Great Spirit agreed with the bear, instructing the hunter to kill the animal that very night, there among the stars. With a sore heart, the hunter shot an arrow into the bear's chest and slit the animal's throat with a knife. The Great Spirit told the hunter to set the lifeless creature's remains afire, there atop the burning stars.

“A great flaming pyre licked the sky, and the bear's blood and fat rained down from the heavens, upon the dreary woodlands, transforming the once dull fall leaves to vibrant shades of crimson and gold. When the earthly creatures saw this rapturous sight, their own life-blood was renewed.

“Forever after, the constellations of The Great Bear and The Hunter remained among the stars to remind us that every fall a sacrifice must take place to renew autumn's glory. The Hunter must take the Bear's life, to repaint the leaves and bring color into our world.”

This is the story that so vexed Black Racer Woman. I see how her strict interpretation of it caused conflict with Grumps. He thought the tale of the hunter and the bear was an allegory for sacrifice, urging his family to make personal concessions to protect these woodlands. She viewed it as a rigid mandate to kill a bear. That's why she tried to kill one, herself, but failed when Del stepped in front of it and took her bullet in his leg. This story also explains why Mom hates fall. Black Racer Woman definitely made her hit that bear with her truck. I'm sure of it, now, regardless of her claims to the contrary.

I throw another log on the fire. The flames erupt, illuminating the woods. I swallow hard at the sight of the dry leaves catching the firelight. An icy wind slaps my cheek, drawing me closer to the fire's warmth. My mind feels as crisp as the late October air. I survey the stars, knowing my grandparents are up there, shining down on me, along with the Hunter and The Great Bear. I wave to them all, and a shooting star falls from the sky, signaling change. The wispy cloud-cover thins like fading faces. I wouldn't mind seeing my dead friends right now. But for their sake, I hope they've found their rest.

A shadowy silhouette passes over the flames. A woman's face glows orange in the firelight. The long rope of her snakelike braid shines silver. This is no spirit from the other side. It's Black Racer Woman. I know what she wants me to do, and I won't do it. I edge backwards on my hands, piercing them with bull briars, bruising them on stones. I consider a sprint but lack the strength.

She points to the parchment paper beside me that is catching the firelight. “These trees have waited long enough. It's time for you to do your duty. This paper is what your grandfather refused to give me in his will. He left me a copy, which is worthless. Only the real thing can activate the ancient magic of the deed that must be done.”

I snatch the paper to my chest.

She shakes her head. “Oh, yes, that story belongs to you, Mona Lisa. You have claimed it, along with the responsibility it entails. I couldn't save you from that responsibility, although I tried. I had to try, after I saw how it affected your mother. But there's nothing I can do to help you now.
Nadialwinno
, Hunter, you know what you must do. We Wabanaki are the keepers of these woodlands. You have been chosen to perform the ritual that is required to bring color to our world.”

“
Nadialwinno
! That's why you named me Hunter! You plotted this all along!”

There is no hint of humanity on her face. Hers is the stone cold countenance of a prescient messenger from the stars.

“My sister Bilki and I both knew the truth about our family's cosmic responsibility,” she says. “Your mother learned it. Your grandfather didn't like it. But none of that matters now. What matters is that you are the one who must act. You are the hunter. You must kill the bear.” She fades back into the beige woods.

Musky honey infuses my nose. I know that smell. I bolt for the cabin but I'm too late. Marilynn has already blocked my path, standing up on two legs, like a giant wall of fur, rolling her huge shoulders and head, swatting her paws in my direction, mist flying off her rippling coffee-colored back. Clearly, Marilynn is not herself. She must be sick or injured. I dart sideways toward the pickup. She charges me but I make it into the driver's seat and slam the door. Her copper-penny eyes flash metallically through the truck window. She leans into the door, pushing, tilting the pickup onto two wheels, clicking her curled yellow claws against the window, flicking her ears upright and alert. The shock of blond fur atop her head surges straight up like a warrior's headdress. Her snout quivers back, exposing pink gums, baring a full range of sharp teeth that glisten like gold in the firelight.

She pulls back an arm for momentum to swat at my window again. This time, the glass cracks on impact. I turn on the ignition in the truck and hit the gas—hard. She leaps in front of me, shaking the earth. I spin the wheel away, closing my eyes. She falls backwards, nicked by my fender, but able to rise. I keep driving, turning back briefly to make sure I really didn't hurt her.

I bounce along the dirt road past the cluster of four birch trees, thumping over nasty frost heaves and potholes I can't dodge in the dark. Energy surges through me like a thousand stabbing knives. Grumps and Del were crazy to feed the bears. I scan frantically but don't see any other bears around. I cringe at the thought of the monster that Marilynn has become. I fear Black Racer Woman may be right. Perhaps I am the hunter. Perhaps I do need to sacrifice this horrible bear to make these woods colorful again. Still, I'm not prepared to do it. My gas pedal remains pressed to the rubber mat, as I whizz toward the road that follows the great Connecticut River south, far away from here.

A sliver of sun crests the rippling skyline. I must have stayed up later than I thought. Everything begins to look clearer in the rising light. I wonder if the whole scene with my great aunt and the bear was a bad dream.

I hit a serious pothole with a bang and my adrenaline surges. Maybe it's the reality check I need because somehow it's suddenly morning. I reach for the phone in my jeans pocket and find it dead, so I plug it into its charger. Dawn gleams brightly over the horizon, reminding me that it's a new day, filled with hope. I think about what Orpheus said about getting me a gig in St. Louis.

ST. LOUIS. Now there's an idea.

I jerk the truck away from the blinding sunrise, and turn onto an even bumpier dirt road that heads due west. I romp over boulder after boulder, wondering if my tires will survive another mile, never mind another twelve hundred. My tires aren't my only worry. This lousy dirt road will slug me up and down endless mountains and valleys and give me far too much time to change my mind about my destination. Still, I'm pointed west, and that's a start. It's the kind of hopeful start that Mia and Will yearned for on her last day of school and never enjoyed. I picture them driving off together into the sunset on his Harley with green flames, the way they'd hoped, the way Cricket told everyone they did. If all had gone according to plan, they might have lived happily ever after.

I can't picture me enjoying that sort of blissfully coupled existence with Del. I'm a dedicated blues musician. I'm destined for somebody to do me wrong on another rocky river shore. Otherwise, what will I sing about? The secret of making great music is not just finding your harmony with someone else; it's mastering the discordant tones of human existence, tones manufactured through hours of blood, sweat, and tears. Shankdaddy taught me that, and I'm grateful for it, regardless of whatever else he did wrong.