Blue Birds (7 page)

Father shuts the door.

His face is drawn,

his dark eyes heavy.

“Alis.”

He says my name

so gently,

it frightens me.

Why does he sound as though

he offers comfort?

“Something's

wrong,”

my words come slowly,

“something's

happened.”

Father nods,

his thick, dark hair,

the squared shape of his chin,

so much like Samuel's.

Mother puts her arm about me.

I steel myself to say the words.

“It's Uncle, isn't it?”

Those lurking thoughts,

the ones I've tried

and tried

to push away

come roaring back.

“Sweet Alis,” Father says,

“it's time for you to understand.

Even if Samuel

wasn't killed by the Roanoke,

with a hasty departure

in foreign waters,

what is the likelihood

the soldiers reached Chesapeake,

where none had ever been?”

This can't be.

“Samuel's strong!”

I picture him,

his head thrown back,

laughter ringing forth.

So close he feels,

so vibrant.

I cling to Father,

bury my head in his chest.

“How I've wanted to keep faith,” he says.

“But each day has left

more room for doubt.

Samuel's gone.

Now Howe is dead.

How can I still believe

my brother's safe?

He's lost

and I

could not

protect him.”

Mother strokes my hair.

I cry until my tears are spent,

Father's jerkin damp beneath my cheek.

The Croatoan journey to our village.

They touch their heads and chests,

clasp hands with our men.

Mother and I bring pumpkins,

bowls of fish and berries

as the weroansqua,

Manteo's mother,

speaks with Wanchese.

They say the English came to them yesterday,

have asked for peace.

A fish slips from the bowl I hold.

Wanchese scowls,

but I know he thinks as I do.

Do they not realize

that time passed long ago?

I chew a mouthful of bread,

but it is

nothing,

feel the shock of heat

from the open door,

but it is

nothing,

hear the chatter of birds

racing above,

all nothing,

for Uncle

is gone.

I tell Mother I harvest berries

and return with enough

that she won't suspect

I deceive her.

Two days pass

and the girl doesn't come,

my wooden bowl less full

each time I enter our village.

The attack

has taught her

to keep her distance.

I should do the same.

Turn from her now,

I tell myself.

The English only know

to take from us,

add to our sorrow.

Our seed corn they ate,

stealing from a future planting.

Our families crushed with disease,

then stripped away.

Alawa.

Wingina.

Even Uncle

they took and changed.

But I am like a moth

dancing near a flame.

Though there is danger,

I'm drawn ever closer.

The girl.

I hope she comes again.

I haven't left the settlement

since Mr. Howe was found.

Only those

collecting wood,

hunting game,

unloading cargo from the ships

may now leave through the gate.

So many worry

we're unsafe,

even here in the village.

I cannot escape the memories

of Father and the others

holding Mr. Howe's limbs,

his back riddled with arrows,

the pain

of losing Uncle Samuel.

The Roanoke are the only tribe

who live on the island as we do.

They are responsible

for my grief,

the fears that fester here.

Yet I have not forgotten the girl.

I circle the village,

go no farther.

Hemmed in,

safe and staid.

If I could ask Wanchese

I'd say:

Why do they dress as they do?

To speak their language,

does it feel as it sounds,

like sharpened rocks on your tongue?

What makes their skin

the color of a snake's underside?

Why do the men

not keep their faces smooth

but grow hair from their cheeks?

Do they ever bathe?

For their strong odor lingers

long after they've gone.

Though they

have brought us heartache,

must all of them

be enemies?

I go to the place

where we first met

and wait,

until the shadows lengthen,

until the sun dips low.

Before leaving,

I pick flowers,

lay them at the base of a tree.

She will come

and see them,

know I've been here.

Once,

Joan whispered

she longed to sleep amongst the clouds,

like the moon when it rests

in the sky's cupped hands.

I tried not to laugh

at her outlandish ways.

And yet,

how ordinary life is

without a bit of fancy,

without a pinch of daring

to fill our days.

I have managed not to wake my parents.

I am not needed for another hour.

At first,

I walk along the perimeter of the village

but it is not enough,

merely skirting the border.

My thoughts return

to the marsh grass trek

when we first came,

the dappled tree trunks

where the shoreline ends

at red bark stretching high.

A breeze dances around me.

I hold my damp plait from my neck.

Everything has been so still for days;

this welcome breath of air

entreats me to follow.

I could go back for just a minute,

just one small snatch of time.

Governor White's warnings,

the sun-bleached bones,

Mr. Howe's arrow-pierced body

press into my mind,

the Indians that surely lie in wait.

And Uncle,

always Uncle.

But the green world calls,

cool and inviting.

He would understand.

Uncle's bird is out there.

The only piece of him I possess

I have managed to lose.

I check

recheck

for any movement

in the guardhouse,

breathe a silent prayer,

fight against my worries,

and rush forward.

I keep

the settlement at my back,

the forest ahead.

The girl in the wood.

Will I see her again?

She is not here

amidst the branches full of fragrant needles

made richer in this sprinkling rain,

the red trunk dressed in moss,

its bark a bolder hue in dampness,

but at my feet

a wilted posy

of starflowers.

I lift them to me,

bury my face in their petals,

this offering.

It is too early.

Usually I've seen her

past mid-afternoon.

I take the ribbon from my plait,

weave it around the stems.

I will come back,

the flowers say.

I wonder what Joan would think

of the Indian girl,

how my loneliness has lessened

in knowing she is somewhere near.

After the rain

I find them.

The flowers

still rest at the base

of the moss-covered tree.

Though storms have pounded

many petals away,

there is a red ribbon

wound about the stems.

Alawa,

my joyful sister,

danced with colored ribbons

streaming from her hands.

They were a gift from the Englishman

in Wingina's time.

This ribbon is for me.

I twist it about my fingers,

marvel at its elegance,

wish I could adorn my skirt

with its grace.

But this treasure

cannot be displayed.

I hide the ribbon

in my skirt's deerskin folds

with the wooden bird.

The girl has told me

she will come

when she is able.

I will be here,

waiting.

Alawa,

I remember

stroking your cheek, round as a pumpkin,

pushing back your tangled hair,

your face clenched in pain.

I stayed with you,

brought the water gourd,

covered you when the cool air taunted,

promising hatred

for those who brought this illness

that was your end.

Sister,

forgive me.

I have not kept my word.

Wingina,

I see

what you first embraced.

Though their appearance is foreign,

at times in them I glimpse something familiar.

Though their montoac injures,

it is also capable of marvelous things.

Father,

I am sorry

I did not seek your wisdom.

Wanchese,

I feel

your hatred,

know you reject their ways.

Uncle,

I ask your pardon,

for I cannot think as you do.

There is one among them

I long to understand.