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Blue Birds

Page 2

by Caroline Starr Rose

KIMI

  A woman.

  Her daughter.

  Holding each other.

  Alawa,

  my sister,

  what would you think

  to see the English

  act so tenderly?

  Alis

  The settlement is not remarkable—

  a tiny village flanked with four earthen walls,

  one with the gate,

  the other three with stations,

  like turrets on a castle.

  Inside we find

  last year’s forgotten garden

  and empty animal pens,

  a small collection of cottages

  set about an open square,

  a large building used as barracks

  by the soldiers sent to claim this land,

  England’s presence in the New World.

  Beyond these buildings are

  a jail,

  a chapel,

  the armory,

  farther still the forge.

  Though most structures are intact,

  neglect has left its mark.

  More homes must be erected

  for the families here.

  After a hasty service,

  the bones are covered in a grave.

  Men cart the scorched remains

  of the burned building,

  where the soldiers stored provisions.

  Some of the boys hack at the vines

  encircling the abandoned cottages.

  In the square,

  the women cluster in a knot.

  “For months, the Governor

  never spoke against that Ferdinando,”

  pinched-lipped Mrs. Archard says.

  “And we’re the ones who have to pay.

  The Governor should have forced him

  to stop at those nearby islands

  for the livestock and fruit he promised.

  The Governor should have refused

  to leave the ship,

  insisted we sail to Chesapeake.”

  “But we cannot change that now,” Mrs. Dare says,

  and I study her rounded frame.

  When will her baby join us:

  before or after Mother’s child comes?

  “I wonder if our spiteful pilot

  will let us gather all our things,” Mrs. Archard says.

  “Weeks it took to pack those ships.

  Weeks again we’ll need.

  I wouldn’t be a mite surprised

  if he sailed away come nightfall.”

  Mother touches Mrs. Archard’s arm.

  “The Governor will make things right,” Mother says,

  but the woman’s face loses none of its harsh angles.

  She tries to comfort Mrs. Archard,

  but I’m the one

  who needs her reassurance.

  Uncle Samuel,

  Father’s only brother,

  has lived with us forever.

  This year apart is the only one

  I’ve ever known without him.

  Where has he gone?

  Only bones

  were here

  to greet us.

  Two boys scuffle over an axe,

  another carries vines that spill from his arms.

  The vine boy’s eyes find mine;

  swift as a pickpocket,

  he moves away.

  I linger, observing him,

  his head a mess of curls.

  Everywhere I look

  it’s men,

  women,

  boys.

  There is

  no one

  here

  like me.

  And Uncle,

  the one

  so dear to me,

  has disappeared.

  “Alis?” Mother calls.

  She’s gone ahead,

  bustling toward the buildings.

  No word of tenderness,

  no glance that says she shares my worries.

  “Please gather our things.”

  I reach for our bundles,

  hug them to my chest so tightly,

  no one can hear me cry.

  Alis

  We find Father bent over a fire

  in the ironmonger’s shed,

  already working metal

  salvaged from the ruins.

  His hammer sings,

  high and piercing,

  and I run to him,

  fold into him.

  He drops his hammer,

  pulls Mother close,

  and the three of us huddle

  as a flurry of activity

  continues outside.

  “We are here.

  We are safe.

  We will find Samuel,” he says.

  Alis

  I clutch my wooden bird,

  one of the three Uncle whittled

  just before he left,

  the second safe with Joan,

  the last one his own.

  Alis

  “It’s a bird of Virginia,” Uncle said.

  His hands pressed the carving into mine.

  Though its wooden body is brown as a sparrow’s,

  I imagine sapphire wings,

  a patch of rust spread above its curved white middle,

  just like the painting Uncle has described.

  The graceful bird,

  its wings rest so daintily.

  This Uncle Samuel promised me:

  Birds return home

  no matter how far they fly.

  One set free might wander

  but will eventually rejoin his flock.

  At first,

  I believed this was Uncle’s pledge

  to return to me,

  but when Father said we too

  would go to Virginia,

  I thought of this:

  What if a flight of birds

  followed the wandering one,

  joining him on a journey

  entirely new?

  Since setting sail

  my secret wish has been

  that Uncle’s joy

  would be so great,

  he’d forget England

  when his service was done.

  Instead he’d make his home Virginia,

  fly

  to the City of Ralegh,

  to us,

  his family.

  KIMI

  The whispers among my people began

  the first time the English came.

  They grew to angered shouts:

  The English have great power,

  mightier than we have seen

  in the agile deer,

  the arrows of our enemies,

  the angry hurricane.

  Able to blot out the sun.

  KIMI

  I run the well-worn path

  beyond the stalks of beans and corn,

  through the slender poles of the palisade,

  past the longhouses

  to Wanchese.

  “There are women and children!” I say.

  I have interrupted Wanchese and his men,

  their shoulders baring

  four inked arrows,

  the marks of my father.

  Wanchese shifts,

  the copper beads of his necklace

  burning in the sun.

  “They are no worry to you.

  Find your mother.”

  I ignore the men’s impatient faces.

  I should join the women in the fields.

  But I remain where I am
. Wanchese must understand.

  “This time they’ve brought their families.

  The English want to stay.”

  He springs to his feet.

  “Find your mother, Kimi.”

  I race toward the fields,

  my legs quivering at my boldness

  before Wanchese.

  Of all the Roanoke,

  he knows the customs of the English best.

  He lived in their land with Manteo

  after the first ones came.

  But even he

  cannot know everything.

  KIMI

  My people,

  we have been

  small in number,

  and the tasks

  of weaving mats

  and pounding corn

  have come to me.

  The extra work

  does not burden.

  I am pleased

  to prepare food

  if what I do strengthens us.

  I am proud

  my fingers bleed

  if my weaving shows our skill.

  I am willing

  to work

  if labor means

  my heart will for an instant

  forget Alawa,

  my sister,

  who should be near me.

  Instead

  her bones rest

  with our ancestors

  because of English men.

  KIMI

  My mother and my aunts

  work side by side,

  their backs bent

  as they tend the crops.

  Like the corn,

  a woman

  spreads her roots wide,

  like the bean,

  a woman

  settles her roots deep.

  The English plans have been made plain:

  Women mean they’ll stay.

  If we hope to rid ourselves of them,

  push them from us

  once and for all,

  we must do it

  before their roots take hold.

  Alis

  Saws bite through wood

  and hammers pound broken boards—

  quick work for just our second day onshore.

  The settlement buzzes with enterprise

  like the streets of London on market day.

  A perfect chance for me to steal away.

  Alis

  It is not difficult to climb the wall,

  slip through the ditch unseen

  to the outside world.

  I must touch, hear, taste, breathe

  this place that is not London,

  so open and free.

  Beyond the protection of the village,

  the memory of the bones comes,

  and I crouch low,

  like a dog kicked from its shelter.

  How did he die?

  Where have the other soldiers gone?

  Are we in danger staying here?

  My damp hands wring and twist

  the fabric of my dress.

  Every bush,

  tree,

  shadowed covering

  I study,

  until I trust I am alone.

  Only then do I

  slowly stand,

  let myself step

  into the beauty

  that beckons me.

  Alis

  If Uncle were with me,

  we’d wander the forest;

  he’d tell me the names of

  the creatures we’d see.

  For the unknown ones,

  he’d invent new words,

  speak of their habits,

  their patterns,

  their breed.

  Some stories he’d tell me

  would be filled with wonders—

  three-legged horses,

  birds with no wings.

  I’d solemnly listen,

  list hundreds of questions.

  Never he’d tire

  of teaching me things.

  Uncle Samuel,

  how I miss you.

  I want to see you again.

  KIMI

  From my earliest days,

  I knew my father as

  our wise counselor,

  great leader.

  But Wingina belonged

  to my people,

  not to me.

  It was Wanchese

  who told me stories,

  held me when storms raged,

  my uncle

  more attentive

  than any father.

  Now

  Wingina

  is gone.

  Wanchese

  is weroance.

  And I am

  no longer

  welcomed

  to his side.

  KIMI

  As I work

  in the fields

  I think of yesterday:

  the English,

  the women,

  how Wanchese wouldn’t listen.

  Once I’ve bathed,

  I escape to the woods,

  where all is familiar,

  where I’ll be welcomed always.

  I do not expect

  to find

  her

  there.

  KIMI

  Hunched over the forest floor,

  the girl pulls up flowers,

  blind to my approach.

  Alis

  All is fresh here,

  undisturbed by the noises of the village.

  In these woods

  sunlight breaks through branches,

  illuminating flowers,

  those star-centered beauties.

  How Mother would enjoy a bit of brightness!

  The stems snap easily as I pick them.

  KIMI

  I watch her huddled

  like a fawn, unaware of danger.

  She’s careless in her work;

  petals,

  leaves

  litter her feet.

  She’s careless in her safety

  all alone.

  I shift to make my presence known.

  Alis

  So intent am I,

  I miss the girl

  until she is beside me.

  KIMI

  Her eyes fly to me,

  grow wide

  but do not falter,

  though she wears panic on her face.

  Her skin too delicate,

  like a thin-barked tree;

  her body bundled,

  thick like a caterpillar.

  Alis

  Motionless

  she stands.

  Markings spiral up her arms,

  snake down below her fringed skirt—

  the only clothing she wears—

  like fine embroidery stitched into skin.

  Copper flashes at her earlobes,

  a rope of pearls encircles her neck.

  Short hair covers her forehead,

  the rest gathered behind.

  She studies me.

  Her gaze never wavers.

  What if there are

  others hiding, waiting

  like that shadow in the woods?

  A cry escapes my lips.

  I turn and flee.

  KIMI

  Something happens

  before she runs,

  bearlike,

  back to her people.

  Something falls from her clothing,

  this little wooden bird,

  a
nestling, resting

  in my cupped palm.

  KIMI

  Yesterday,

  I stayed hidden, watched

  the girl and her mother.

  Today,

  I wanted her to see me.

  I caught her unaware,

  exposed her fear,

  showed my courage,

  the power of the Roanoke.

  KIMI

  The earth, the skies, the seas

  swirl with montoac,

  the power that both

  shelters life and destroys.

  I grasp

  a piece of her strength

  in my hand.

  Alis

  I am safe now,

  yet my mind buzzes

  with memories of the silent girl:

  the inked marks covering her limbs,

  jewelry worn on her bare chest.

  I reach for Uncle’s bird,

  a bit of comfort.

  But it’s no longer in my pocket.

  Not near my feet,

  nor along the village path.

  I twist my apron in my fist.

  It is nowhere.

  Alis

  My bird.

  It was all I had of Samuel.

  The sun slants through our window

  as Mother and I lay the table.

  Mother’s movements are slower now.

  Soon our little one will come.

  But even thoughts of the baby

  do not excite me.

  “Alis, what ails you?” Mother asks.

  How can I speak,

  knowing Uncle’s token is missing,

  remembering the savage girl?

  “I’m weary,” I say,

  hoping she’ll not inquire further.

  “Then it’s early to bed for you,” she says.

  KIMI

  Above me as I walk,

  two iacháwanes flutter,

  their blue wings flashing

  in the evening sun.

  They scold and bicker

  as they dip and swirl,

  light on a branch,

  bob like leaves racing down a river.

  How happy they are,

  their round white bellies

  satisfied with berries,

  their heads cocked

  to catch each sound.

  Then

  with joy,

 

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