Under the Same Sky

by Genevieve Graham

  The women looked from her to me, interest brightening their expressions.

  After a moment the old woman resumed her humming meditation, staring at me through her wrinkled old face. Her intensity blanketed me, almost smothered me, making me feel as if I had been drinking the hypnotic tea again. She appeared to me in constantly shifting patterns of browns and golds, and in the state I was in, I thought she actually floated a few inches above the woven rug on the floor.

  The wind screamed and pellets of rain battered all seven walls, but I barely noticed. Why should I care what the outside world did? I had no intention of going anywhere. The sensations racing through me were amazing, flooding me with a rush of images. The woman showed me pictures from her past she wanted me to see, brief flashes of pain and joy she had experienced. I saw her face as it had been in her youth: plain, yet somehow more intricate than any beadwork. The woman in the vision laughed, held hands with a man, cried by the side of a roaring fire.

  Flitting between the images, binding them together with silvery feathers of sound, came the syllables “Waw-Li,” and I began to understand that these syllables were the old woman’s name. Her thoughts began to shift into words, and I realised with mounting excitement that she was feeding me what she could of her own language. Words of her Cherokee tongue intertwined with English until I could pick out words and phrases. Sounds started to fall into place as if they had always belonged there.

  Kokila, I suddenly thought, and knew that my friend’s name was Nightingale.

  The old woman’s eyes opened wide and the thin line of her mouth stretched into the warmest, most understanding smile I had ever seen.

  She said:

  “Osiyo, Mah-gah-ret. Tsi-lu-gi A-ge-yu-tsa guh-do-di A-s-gi Di-ka-ta.”

  And I heard:

  “Hello, Margaret. Welcome, Girl with Dream Eyes.”

  I wondered how long she had been waiting for me.

  Chapter 16

  Cleansing

  The rest of the village heard about my meeting with Waw-Li. She must have spread the message that I was different, and that she believed in me. Big smiles, encouragement, small tokens of beadwork and smoked meat greeted me everywhere I went. It was strange to be treated as if I were important, but it was exciting, too.

  And now, incredibly, I could understand most of what the villagers were saying. Through Waw-Li’s thoughts during our “conversation” the week before, she gave me an amazing gift. She had built a bridge that helped me understand the Cherokee language, and in turn, I helped Adelaide learn.

  I flourished in the village, but Adelaide was still a shadow of the girl she used to be, weak and tentative about anything she tried to do. As spring blossomed into summer, I started to see Adelaide’s strength grow along with the crops. Waw-Li and the old women in the council house spent time with her, slowly unraveling the fear and satisfying her need for reassurance. She learned to weave and bead, presenting her first completed creation to the woman who had taught her the art. The second was a beautiful necklace in vivid blue and green beads, which she proudly tied around my neck.

  The village also knew of my dreams, because Waw-Li had seen them. To my relief, the women of the village came to me with eyes wide open, wanting to hear what I had seen in my sleep. Sometimes my dreams meant nothing to me, but my audience would nod and grunt in comprehension. It was unfamiliar and liberating, knowing people wanted to see what I had always hidden away.

  Days turned into weeks, and as time moved forward, so did I. Kokila had a friend, a tall, lean young man with the difficult name of Eenuheegahtee Chawleegoo, or Tall As Tree. He and Kokila looked for any excuse to be together, so I often found myself alone. I began to meet more people and dared myself to trust again.

  The women of the village were always happy to teach me whatever they were doing. When I was small, my mother had taught me about the healing properties of plants and herbs, but the Cherokee women knew much more. Waw-Li was the village wise woman, but her companion, Nechama, specialised in physical healing, so I watched and learned from Nechama. She was one of the two women who had rescued Adelaide and me that day in the forest, the first to help us rise from the ashes.

  The village was always full of activity. I loved the feel of it, the constant movement flowing through the place. I loved to wade through it, watching what the villagers did so naturally. I sensed their purpose and pride.

  In a clearing by the river one of the men worked alone, building a canoe, one that would carry up to ten men. He seemed oblivious to everything around him, but even over the crackling fire he burned to create the belly of the canoe, and the constant gurgling of the nearby water, he turned toward me in welcome.

  The earthy scent of smoldering pine drifted on the breeze from one of the buildings, and I smiled because I knew what that meant. The women were firing dishes.

  On the other side of the village, a dozen young men built a new home for a growing family. Their chests shone with sweat; their faces glowed with laughter and easy conversation.

  I thought about my family’s little house, with its lonely chimney poking through the roof. The tired, broken bits of clay that had held it together often surrendered to the elements, rolling off the roof and landing with a soft thump! in the tall bunches of switchgrass outside our window. The sagging roof always required patching before the winter winds began to blow. When rain fell, the water found every crack, forming small puddles on the uneven wooden floor of the parlor.

  Now I lived among the people I had always been told were savages. The people who, it had been said, killed without mercy and conversed with the dead. I should have been afraid.

  Instead, I felt envious. I had spent my childhood in a ramshackle house with a father who would rather not have had his offspring around. Here, children never went without food, shelter, or love. The entire village was a family, and the parents of one child felt responsible for every other child as well. No one was ever alone. Yes, I was jealous. But more than that, I was forever grateful at being accepted.

  Summer was in its prime. Vivid green leaves quivered in the breeze, birds called and flew through the forest, bouncing from one branch to the next. Goldenrod and purpletop swayed within the grass.

  Today, as I often did, I took the familiar walk to Kokila’s house to enjoy the quiet transition from day to dusk with her. Adelaide was there already, so I sat beside her. We pulled shawls over our shoulders, not so much for the warmth—it wasn’t too cool at night—but to discourage hordes of greedy mosquitoes. Kokila beamed up at Eenuheegahtee, who was joined by two friends. Wahyaw GahgoAheesuh, or Wolf Who Walks, was one of them. He was tall like his friend, but broader in the chest than Eenuheegahtee. Wahyaw had a younger brother, Oohlaysaygee Soquili, or Dark Horse. They were all about the same age as we were, seventeen or eighteen, growing easily into strong, handsome warriors. Eenuheegahtee and Kokila were engrossed in each other most of the time, which left Adelaide, Wahyaw, Soquili, and me to get to know one another better.

  It took a while before conversation between the four of us flowed. It wasn’t so much a question of the language, because Adelaide and I became more comfortable with their tongue every day. But our trust in men had been shredded, and it would take more than friendly faces to patch up the damage.

  Wahyaw wasn’t a patient man. He was constantly on the move, pacing or abruptly leaving a conversation without notice, moving with the ease of a wild animal. When I spoke with him, his eyes always strayed just beyond me, but I was fairly sure he heard every word I said. He had a quick temper, but it was offset by a rich laugh that rolled through his chest.

  Wahyaw was a beautiful example of a Cherokee man. The sides of his head had been plucked bare since childhood, as were those of most of the men. A thick, vertical comb of black hair protruded stiffly from the top of his skull, usually adorned with one or two feathers that hung loosely down one side. He rarely wore a shirt or moccasins, preferring only a breechclout. He wore cone-shaped earrings, and a ring pierced his nose.
Black triangular tattoos, interlaced with images of running wolves, circled his muscular biceps. A red tattoo slashed through the right side of his face, running jaggedly down his high, bronze cheekbone. If I hadn’t been adopted into this Cherokee family, the appearance of these men would have terrified me. As it was, they were becoming my friends. In fact, Wahyaw, Soquili, and Kokila were the first friends I’d ever had in my life, beside my sisters.

  Soquili was about three inches shorter than his brother, which still left him almost a foot taller than I was. He was also very attractive, but his features were softer. Neither face tattoo nor nose piercing marked his face. His eyes focused on every sound I uttered. He hardly even blinked when he listened. Speaking with him could be a little disconcerting, but at least I knew I was being heard.

  Occasionally the brothers took Adelaide and me hiking so we could experience our surroundings a little more. One morning they led us along a path we hadn’t seen before, up a steady vertical climb. We walked in silence until we reached the top of one of the seemingly endless peaks. Centuries had rounded the shoulders of the hills around us, and they were blanketed by a patchwork quilt of green and gold. Wahyaw took us to the edge of a cliff, and the magnificent Keowee Valley opened below us. The Keowee River glittered under the sun, its waters a sparkling trail of jewels. Along its shores grew endless forests, coloured by trees of every kind.

  Wahyaw heard something within the forest and, true to form, disappeared without comment behind the wall of trees. Soquili ignored his brother’s apparent concern and came to stand between Adelaide and me. We stood for a while, lost in the view. Then Soquili spoke.

  “The Cherokee believe the earth is a great island floating in a sea of water,” he said, seeming to study the vista. He frowned and looked from Adelaide to me, making sure we were both paying attention.

  “It is held at four points by a rope hanging down from the sky. When the world grows old, the cords will break. The earth will sink into the ocean, and all will be water again.”

  We stayed quiet and he turned back toward the view. It was easy to believe his story when the evidence was spread out in front of us.

  “Many years ago, before the Cherokee,” Soquili said, “all of this was water. The animals lived above the water in Galunadi, beyond the arch.” He raised an uplifted palm toward the sky. “It was crowded, and they needed more room. They wondered what was below the water. At last Daya Unisi, the Water Beetle, went to learn the answer. He dove to the bottom, and when he rose, he carried soft mud with him. The mud began to grow and spread on every side until it became the island which we call the earth.”

  Soquili’s voice was full and rich, and I smiled at him in encouragement. His voice flowed with his words, his strong hands gestured, and his fingers drew in the air, moving like a dance.

  “The earth was flat and soft and wet. The animals wanted to get to it so they sent the Buzzard to make it ready for them. This was the Great Buzzard,” he clarified, making sure we understood the significance. “The father of all the buzzards we see now. He flew over the earth, near the ground. It was a long way to go, and when he reached the land, he was very tired. He flew lower and lower, and when he flapped his wings, they touched the soft ground. Wherever they struck, a valley was born, and where his wings turned up again, a mountain was created. When the animals saw this, they were afraid the whole world would be mountains, so they called him back.”

  Soquili’s smile was peaceful. “That is what the Cherokee know,” he said. “I will go and find my brother now, but I will not be gone long. Stay here and rest. Let the mountain speak to you.”

  The air was clear and fresh. The occasional gust of wind stirred the leaves, like a bird plumping its plumage. I walked to the edge of the cliff and inhaled, then glanced up when a raven flew low over my head, beating its wings in a wide whoop whoop whoop, as solid as a drum. It soared over the valley in a fluid arc, casting a shadow that stretched and shrank with the terrain.

  Adelaide stood beside me, gazing with silent awe.

  “Close your eyes and breathe, Addy,” I whispered.

  She did, inhaling the ripe scents of composting leaves, herbs and grasses, the pine sap, and even the water below us. I watched her face and saw the lines of fear and tension relax just a little.

  Soquili emerged from the bushes beside us, quiet as a breeze. “Wahyaw is hunting. He doesn’t need me. Come. Let us eat.”

  We followed Soquili away from the precipice, stepping over fallen rocks and trees, wary of the sharp drop beside us. He found a natural rock chair within a cluster of broken boulders and sat there in watchful silence while we settled beside him. Adelaide pulled out some biscuits and dried venison she had packed and handed them out. The climb had taken over an hour, so both the rest and the food were welcome. After a while, my sister lay down by the wide trunk of an oak and rested her head in a cushion of dry leaves. Her breathing slowed and softened, blending into the breeze. When I saw her like this, calm and peaceful, I hoped one day she might come back to me and be the happy girl from before. I missed her.

  When she was asleep, I lay back into a cold throne of silver-gray rock. The chill of the stone was soothing against my legs and I yawned, closing my eyes and dozing.

  Calm descended on me like mist, cooling and warming me at the same time. I was no longer aware of anyone around me, just a perfect merge with the air, earth, and water. My visions joined me, soothing as a velvet river, filling my subconscious with pictures, thoughts, and words. I coasted through them, recognising some, indifferent to others, floating in their existence.

  My raft suddenly dropped anchor, and I knew my sleeping lips rose in a smile. Wolf lay in a field, sprawled peacefully among waving purple flowers. A dark woolen sash crossed over his shirt from one shoulder to his hip, where it pooled over him like a blanket. It was a deep green, darker than the grass in which he lay. The warm breeze tousled his hair, loose on the ground beneath his head. A short, stocky horse stood at his side, calmly mouthing the grass.

  So often I saw him in times of crisis. Now he was at peace, and my entire being ached to lie next to him in the stiff stalks of grass. The need took over the vision until suddenly I was on the ground beside him, sensing everything he sensed, feeling the cushion of grass tickling my back and arms. I thought I could smell him, sweat and sun-warmed skin mingled with the scent of the earth. My fingers vibrated with a desire to touch him. I turned my face toward him, and he looked back at me with eyes that were just as astonished, and just as full of joy as my own. I sensed pressure around my fingers as he took my hand. His eyes were so close, so real, so much a part of my own being, I would gladly have melted into them.

  “I will find ye,” he murmured through soft, gentle lips.

  I stared at him, mesmerised. There was a pleasant lilt to his voice I couldn’t place. It drifted through me like a lullaby but woke every part of my body to an exquisite awareness. He lifted my hand and brought it to his cheek, where it hovered, a promise, a breath away. I imagined the warmth of his breath tickling my palm and my fingertips touching the bristle of a new beard. He watched me without blinking, then kissed the sensitive skin of my hand. A breath away.

  “I know,” I replied.

  I did know. I had only to wait.

  Suddenly, without warning, Wolf and the meadow were gone. I lay alone on a hard, gray stone that jutted against my back, rendering me numb from its cold, jagged edge. Soquili was leaning over me. His lips moved but I couldn’t hear the words.

  “What?” I demanded, angry at him for pulling me from the dream. If he sensed my irritation, he didn’t show it.

  “It is time to go, Ma-kee. It grows late.”

  He helped me to my feet and I stretched my back, still chilled from the stone seat. A storm was approaching, and the air cooled under the trees. Soquili was right. We had to go, although every part of me wanted to return to that meadow. I turned away from the stones, but the vision stayed with me. I could still close my eyes and see Wolf besid
e me, hear his simple words.

  I will find ye.

  Chapter 17

  Restless Souls

  Adelaide created beautiful crafts. I did not. I tried, but I eventually abandoned my tangled attempts and moved to tasks where I could be more useful: skinning, preparing food, and watching children for their busy mothers. That was one of my favourite duties. I ran and laughed with them, chasing and being chased. Fears and worries vanished when I joined their games. We took walks through the woods, collecting berries and nuts, picking flowers and herbs for Waw-Li and the other women. These were simple days of pleasure, filled with laughter and learning.

  On other days, when I craved quiet, I knew where to go. Scattered around the village were numerous stone-covered mounds that marked burial places of clan members. The surrounding air quivered with restless death. Echoes of past voices haunted the burial mounds, whispering words never spoken. The ground beneath my moccasin-clad feet hummed.

  For the Cherokee, it was comforting, I supposed, to know their ancestors were nearby. The only graveyard I had ever known was at an old church in the valley, hours from my home. The churchyard was dotted by wooden crosses. Our father was buried beneath one of those. We paid the church a fee we couldn’t afford so he could lie there.

  We were not a religious family. My mother read the Bible to us and told us stories of the saints, but we weren’t given to much prayer or contemplation. Ironically, it was here, in a village that did not worship Christ, that I began to understand the power of prayer. The spiritual beliefs of the Cherokee gave me sanctuary. If, as they said, the earth connected us all, then my mother and Ruth were together right now, still connected to Adelaide and me. Sometimes I still felt them with me. My mother and Ruth deserved a peaceful burial spot like those I saw around the Cherokee village.