Blue Birds (10 page)

Word comes of what happened

in our village yesterday,

how the English

attacked their friends,

ones they'd earlier begged for peace.

How Manteo himself,

so hungry for their montoac,

so changed by their customs,

didn't recognize his own

until it was too late.

If,

like Wanchese,

he'd returned to live with his people

and rejected the English,

disgrace wouldn't mark him

as it does now.

What haste.

What cruelty.

The English

attack without first knowing

whose children they destroy.

Alongside my cousins

who always live in our mainland village,

I work the fields,

yanking at weeds so roughly,

a bean plant loses its fragile hold.

I remember Alis,

her bravery

in warning me.

More gently now,

I pat the soil around the bean,

trace its growth from roots

to spindly stalk interwoven with the corn.

These two plants thrive together,

make my people strong.

There is no reason to let my anger

uproot something good.

For days,

we rush through open spaces,

mark the distance

from door to door.

Surely the Croatoan steal about the edge of camp;

the Roanoke prowl in the woods.

Though it's not Sunday,

all work is left undone.

In the open square we congregate

for Manteo's baptism.

Today he'll officially become

a servant of the Queen.

Once we've left to begin our city,

he'll be the one who

will stand for England,

will represent our nation here.

Voices whisper all around me,

wondering at the Governor's hurry.

Some think he hopes

two leaders will ease fears.

Others say he wants to prove

Manteo's on our side.

Governor White stands,

holds the Book of Common Prayer.

O LORD God of hosts, most loving and merciful Father,

Do I imagine hesitation

as Manteo kneels

and the Governor rests a palm

on his dark hair?

We most humbly beseech thee to save and defend Manteo, Lord of the Island Roanoke, and thy servant Elizabeth, our Queen.

Together,

we bow our heads.

Though it is only morning,

the sun already blazes

across my shoulders.

O heavenly Father, the practices of our enemies are known unto thee. Turn them, O Lord, if it be thy blessed will, or overthrow and confound them for thy name's sake.

I think

of Kimi,

my new friend,

Suffer them not to prevail.

Mr. Howe,

his body battered,

Permit not the ungodly to triumph over us.

We have not obeyed thy word: We have had it in mouth, but not in heart; in outward appearance, but not in deed.

We have lived carelessly.

the ambush on the Croatoan,

We have deserved utter destruction.

the way we've been abandoned to this place.

But thou, Lord, art merciful, and ready to forgive. Therefore we come to thy throne of grace, confessing thee to be our only refuge in all times of peril.

How strange to know an Indian

is the Queen's own man.

Governor White says

this has always been the plan,

to bestow him with this title

for his faithful service.

Yet

I cannot forget

the awful mistake

made four days past.

Does Governor White

also give this honor

to atone for the attack?

Manteo,

what causes you to stay?

What truly holds you to us?

The sun is a burning fire,

makes my work

unbearable

in its unforgiving heat.

I sit,

thankful for the water gourd,

and wipe the sweat and dirt

from my face.

“Kimi.”

The young ones who play

among the corn and beans

go still,

silent.

Wanchese has come to the fields

where men only enter

to help the women

break up ground

before the planting time.

Uncle has come for me.

We rest together

in the shade of cedars.

I can almost pretend

things are

as they were

when I was younger,

that Wanchese

is only here to speak

of the teeming fish

he's trapped in the weir,

the new canoe

he hollows.

But things

are different

now.

“You must tell me

how you learned

that word,” Wanchese says.

Four days

I've dreaded this,

have had no way

to answer him

that would not lead to lies.

I grasp a stick,

swirl patterns

on the ground.

“What is it, Kimi?”

I have no one, Uncle.

An English girl

has shown me

how lonely I have been.

But I cannot tell him.

The silence grows uncomfortable,

but I will not fill it.

I continue with my drawings,

loops and lines and circles.

Uncle brought me here.

He should be the one to speak.

He stills my hand.

Finally I look to him.

“It's not yet time to harvest.

The mainland stores are almost gone.

We've become a burden

with so many here to feed.

We leave tomorrow.”

He stands.

“Stay away from the English village.

Go nowhere near them.

Do not let your curiosity

risk our safety.”

Uncle,

I want to say,

I've brought no harm,

but our security.

News comes hours later

from those at the beach.

Mr. Florrie rushes from door to door,

his wild hair on end,

telling all to stay inside.

Indians came ashore,

surrounded those unloading cargo,

grotesque paint covering their bodies.

His escape is a miracle!

Is Mother safe with the other women?

Has Father left to help the men?

The boys fret to go outside.

I distract them with songs,

by counting fingers, knees, and noses.

They cry for their mothers.

How I want mine also,

but I must be the one to comfort.

An hour passes, more,

before the men return

and it is safe to leave the cottage.

It was the Croatoan,

Manteo's people.

They were poised to attack,

but Manteo persuaded them

to put down their weapons,

promised our friendship once again.

How I hope

our fragile bond

has been renewed.

Mother rushes to me,

cups my cheek in her hand.

“My Alis.”

Like the little ones,

I cling to her, so grateful we are safe.

We are all of us

still shaken,

though the present danger's passed.

“Hurry home,” Mother tells me.

“Stay close to the buildings.”

Around me,

shadows reach like snakes,

deepen into darkness.

I clutch my cloak,

though the evening stifles without a breath of air.

It is then I see George,

striding like a soldier toward a cluster of boys,

which grows tighter as he enters.

George swings a musket over his shoulder,

marches in place with his chest out,

the picture of a fighting man.

He boasts about the ambush

and his bravery that night,

brags he would have shot a Croatoan

at the shore today.

The others cheer him on.

To see him act like this,

to hear him speak as though

he enjoyed the fight,

it is like the shock of cold metal

held against my skin.

We pole our boats

until the land falls away

and all around is endless ocean,

the early morning sun.

Paddles pull

as the dugouts

cut the waters,

where one thrashing wave

could overcome us,

wash us to the dark world

swirling below.

Beside me, Mother stops,

stays focused on the shore.

“Remember how Alawa danced?”

My sister's name stirs images

of her twirling with the ribbon,

running through the lapping currents,

so alive to wonder.

For the first time since

my little sister's death,

her memory brings

no stabbing pain.

At our island home,

men and women flock

to the roaring fire.

Wanchese weaves and bows,

the gourd rattle dancing with him.

Others spin like eagles soaring,

arms held wide,

heads to the heavens,

making merry.

Songs rise in thanksgiving,

a cry to appease destruction,

restore the fragile balance of the living,

a ceremony marking our return.

“Do you hear that?”

Father leans against the doorframe.

“How can I not?” Mother's forehead wrinkles.

“Those awful sounds.”

The pounding

is close enough

to challenge my own heartbeat.

The chants

climb and fall in eerie wails.

Kimi's tribe has returned.

“Manteo vows it's a ritual

to celebrate their safety,” Father says.

“But it sounds as though

the Roanoke

prepare

for attack.”

“Manteo.”

Mother frowns.

“They say yesterday

he persuaded his tribe to turn back,

but I find it hard to trust him.”

How good it is to be here,

in these fields I know best,

How right to be near Alis

once more.