Blue Birds

Home > Other > Blue Birds > Page 5
Blue Birds Page 5

by Caroline Starr Rose


  George carries a bucket of water

  across the square.

  The skin under his eyes is smudged,

  as though last night

  withheld from him its rest.

  We walk together,

  silent.

  I don’t know how

  to speak of yesterday,

  but I must say something.

  “Which is yours?” I ask,

  when we reach the cottages

  on the other side.

  “We lived there.”

  George points to a home

  three doors down.

  “But I’ll be in the barracks now.”

  His words

  hint at the awful way

  his life has changed.

  I cannot help myself.

  “It’s not the same

  as losing your father,

  but my uncle’s missing.”

  His eyes shine with tears.

  Abruptly he turns from me.

  Water sloshes from the pail’s edge,

  drenching my feet.

  Like the water,

  this truth washes over me:

  Mr. Howe is gone forever.

  Perhaps my uncle won’t be found.

  Alis

  The men arrive back in the village

  when the sun burns low.

  Manteo’s tribe has promised

  to tell the Roanoke we mean no harm.

  The Croatoan will invite them

  to talk peace with our men

  ten days from now.

  “To restore the friendship we once had,”

  the Governor says.

  What sort of friend

  slays an innocent man,

  I wonder,

  but I am comforted to know

  something has been done.

  “Did you hear of the soldiers?” Father asks.

  “Were they with the Croatoan?”

  I reach for my bird, remember it is gone.

  The Governor shakes his head.

  At his sides

  Father’s hands

  curl into fists.

  “My mother says they traveled north,” Manteo says.

  “Toward Chesapeake?”

  “Yes.”

  His head’s still bare,

  and now he wears

  a chain of shells about his neck—

  every day more Indian.

  “If we could, we’d go to them at once,”

  Governor White says.

  “But it would take weeks

  to move the cargo to the pinnace,

  take it north,

  trip by trip.

  By then,

  summer would be too far gone

  to plant and harvest.

  There’d be no time to build

  before cold weather settles in.”

  “But is it safe here?” someone asks.

  “A man was murdered yesterday.”

  “I understand your worry,” the Governor says.

  “But we are trying to set things right.

  I believe it’s best to stay.

  We’ll be reunited with the missing men next spring,

  once we pass the winter here.”

  His words cover all of us

  assembled in the twilight.

  It is the first mention of leaving

  since we arrived a week ago,

  and though Uncle’s whereabouts are unclear,

  I will not lose faith.

  “To Virginia!” someone shouts,

  “to the City of Ralegh!”

  and all around

  we join

  in jubilee.

  “How are you sure they’re still alive?”

  Father’s words cut through the celebration.

  “There is no certainty,”

  the Governor admits,

  “but we hold hope close.

  We have no other choice.”

  “Ferdinando should take us north.”

  someone says.

  “Ferdinando should take us home!”

  another answers.

  The Governor’s face grows red.

  “Do not speak of that man to me!”

  He spits the words.

  “Do you know why

  he agreed to bring us to Virginia?

  So that he might plunder

  Spanish ships along the way.

  Throughout our voyage

  he spoke of nothing else.

  It took weeks to persuade him

  to wait until he’d brought us here.

  Such raiding as he hoped for

  risked losing our cargo,

  perhaps even our lives.

  Once our goods are unloaded,

  Ferdinando will be gone.”

  “Come.”

  Father grabs my hand and Mother’s.

  His tone holds an edge.

  When talk turns to the missing men,

  how quickly his emotions

  bend and shift like heated iron.

  Alis

  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.

  KIMI

  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 s
ay 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?

  Alis

  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.

  August 1587

  KIMI

  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.

  Alis

  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.

  KIMI

  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?

  KIMI

  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.

  Alis

  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.

  Alis

  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?

  Alis

  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.

  Alis

  I wonder what Joan would think

  of the Indian girl,

  how my loneliness has lessened

  in knowing she is somewhere near.

  KIMI

  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 Englis
hman

  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.

  KIMI

  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.

  KIMI

  Her montoac

  is not a thing

  for me to keep.

  It is right

  to return what is hers.

  Alis

  It has been days

  since I’ve seen her,

  yet this time when I go

  she is there.

  She smiles,

  extends her hand to me—

  cradling Uncle Samuel’s bird!

  Where did she find it?

  I kiss it,

  clasp it to my cheek,

  and for a moment,

  it is as though

  he’s with me.

  Her other hand is heaped with berries.

  I shove them in my mouth,

  hardly chewing,

  their sweet goodness

  dripping off my chin.

 

‹ Prev