Blue Birds (9 page)

Through the cedar grove I race.

“Go!”

The word is louder now,

comes from somewhere

near the walnut trees.

“Alis?”

My voice just a whisper.

Near my village,

no one must hear me

call to the English girl.

Doubt licks about my middle.

Kimi will not understand,

and what am I doing,

trying to warn

the very ones

who killed Mr. Howe,

took Uncle from me?

As quickly as I came,

I race back to the village

before anyone discovers I've gone.

Far ahead,

I glimpse

a flash of blue

soon swallowed by the trees.

Alis.

I should have shouted,

shown her I was near!

Go.

What it means

I do not know,

but there is montoac

in the sound.

Rushing,

I enter my village.

“Wanchese!” I shout,

where he and his men assemble.

This time

I need

no permission

to approach our leader,

for Wanchese

must listen.

He rises,

arms crossed,

peers down at me.

“Go,” I say.

I do not know the word,

but my uncle does.

“Where did you hear this?” he asks.

“Go,” I say again.

Wanchese takes my hand

as he did when I was younger.

“Why do you say

this English word to me?”

“I heard it.”

I must be careful,

guard what I tell him.

“Where?”

“In the forest.”

His roughened fingers

remind me how I miss him.

In this moment,

he is not weroance,

but simply Uncle.

“What does it mean?”

“It means to leave,”

Wanchese tells me.

“Move away.”

He drops my hand,

lifts my chin with his fingers.

“Have you seen the English again?”

I do not deny this.

There is no need

to tell him more.

Wanchese rests his other hand

on the quiver at his waist.

He calls to the others:

“Go to the English village

and learn what happens there.”

The men scatter as ants.

He leans in close to me,

our weroance once more.

“We are not done.

We will speak of this later.”

The sun is gone.

Wanchese's men race back,

form a tight circle about him.

“Gather the women and children,” Wanchese says.

"We depart for Desemunkepeuc

immediately.”

Desemunkepeuc,

our mainland village,

where all my people live together

for the hunting time.

My family is one

who dwells on this island,

where the shellfish are abundant.

They feed us

during the earing of the corn,

as we wait for crops to ripen.

We return to Desemunkepeuc after harvest.

If we go now,

we leave our corn untended,

abandon these rich waters.

“We were not prepared

when they came for Wingina,”

I hear Wanchese say.

“This time

the English

will not touch us.”

I keep my own counsel,

and my silence eats away at me.

I should have tried to find her,

somehow made her understand.

But I left before she heard me.

I have failed her in this way.

The cottage is empty

with Father gone.

Sleep is slow in coming,

like the night Uncle told us

he would sail to Virginia.

He went to serve his Queen,

but the Governor's watercolor paintings

are what truly led him here.

That night,

Mother pressed her cheek to mine,

returned to her mending.

Father told me to dry my tears.

It was Uncle

who sat nearby,

held my hand,

whispered of strange and glorious creatures

until dreams found me.

Now

it is only in my dreams

Uncle holds me close.

Before day breaks

the men stumble back,

eyes like embers,

knees muddied.

George is the last to enter,

a too-big musket

strapped across

his narrow back.

Governor White

holds his head

in his hands.

“How could I know?” he says

over,

and over,

until Ananias Dare

leads him away.

“What has happened?” Miss Lawrence asks.

No one answers.

The men

disappear in the darkness.

If there had been victory,

they would have stood solid,

told of their valor.

If there had been defeat,

some would be missing.

What could be wrong?

A few women follow their husbands,

but most stay,

a sturdy semicircle

wanting more.

Manteo is the only one to remain,

his words louder than I've ever heard before:

“We ambushed the camp.”

He stops,

shuts his eyes for a moment.

“But the Roanoke were gone.

My people

were there

instead.”

I cannot help but gasp.

Mrs. Archard glares,

young Miss Lawrence puts a finger to her lips.

I pay no notice.

Kimi's people were gone!

She is somewhere safe.

But why were the Croatoan

at the Roanoke village?

I fade into the crowd,

search for George.

Surely he knows more.

I find him near the empty animal pens,

alone,

his shoulders hunched,

the musket still across his back.

My footsteps slow.

Things were strange

last time we spoke.

His father's death,

the lie I told,

how carelessly I spoke of Kimi.

But I must know

what happened.

“George?”

He lifts his head.

“Tell me,” I say.

“We crept to the village,

started firing.”

George's face is vacant,

empty as a broken promise.

“The Indians scattered,

seeking cover in the reeds.

The darkness filled with voices

shouting Manteo's name.

Even I understood their pleading.

“When he recognized his tribe,

Manteo fell to his knees.

But it was too late.

Several already lay dead.”

I try to imagine

what it was like for Manteo:

Attacking our foes,

finding family instead.

“The Roanoke

had abandoned their camp.

The Croatoan told us they'd come as promised,

left their island early, so as not to miss

the opportunity to talk peace.

When they discovered the empty village,

they stayed to gather the corn

the Roanoke had left in their haste.”

George's head falls back

against a fencepost.

“And so,

we attacked

our friends.”

“Alis!”

Father calls to me.

“I must go,” I say.

George doesn't answer,

just stays as he is,

staring into nothingness.

“Alis!”

Father's voice is a fire,

his white shirt soiled and untucked.

“Where have you been?

I could not find you.”

He pulls me with him.

I try to match my stride with his,

but I cannot keep pace.

“The Governor holds out hope

the Croatoan will forgive us,

but I cannot believe it.

We have two enemies now.”

Father doesn't release my arm until our door,

where Mother busies herself with sweeping.

“Stay with your mother when you are outside.”

Cold rushes over me.

Outside, he says.

Surely Father doesn't know

I leave the settlement.

“What do you mean?”

“Stay near to her!

What more must I say?”

“Alis.”

Mother sings my name,

a warning to take care.

Eager to make peace,

she reaches for Father's hand,

places it in mine.

“Alis cannot always be with me.

She cares for the little ones

while I cook and launder,

goes home when she is done.”

Guilt stabs me.

Many days

I roam

outside

the village walls.

“We've made quick enemies,” Father says.

No one is safe.”

“Dyonis, our daughter will not be unwise.”

Mother turns to me,

her eyebrows raised,

looking for my confirmation.

I nod,

but I cannot hold her gaze.

My mother's trust

is nothing I deserve.

Her mouth's turned down,

her forehead creased.

“If you are careful,

if you promise

to hurry home each day,

I must believe

you will be safe.”

Father slumps into a chair,

covers his face with his hands.

“Samuel.”

“There is nothing

you could have done

to save him,” Mother whispers.

Grief floods me again.

Will this heartache ever lessen?

The dangers

Father speaks of,

how far we are from safety,

the hurt with Uncle gone.

All this, yet I am certain:

Even threats of peril

will not keep me from my friend.

All day the men cut slender trees,

form wooden poles

sunk in the ground inches apart.

Outside the earthen wall and ditch,

they are a third ring of protection

to secure the village border.

The poles are partly fence,

partly cage.

Father calls it a palisade,

made in the manner of the Indians.

One more barrier

to hold back danger

and keep us apart.