by James Bird
I pass hundreds of sticks, rocks, and leaves, but my imagination doesn’t dance. I just see sticks, rocks, and leaves. Am I so boring that I can’t even enjoy a walk home by myself? I need an old lady to walk with me to appreciate the stroll?
About twenty yards away from my house, I pick up a stick and carry it with me. I’m not sure why, but I refuse to be boring. This is not a stick. It’s a gun … But I don’t really like guns. When I was nine, a kid in my class found a gun in his dad’s dresser and accidentally shot his sister. She died. I’ve hated guns ever since. So I drop the gun and enter my front yard.
For the first time, I can actually walk into my house through the front door. That is, if I want to. But I don’t. Instead, I take my usual route. I open the gate to the backyard. One step in, and I stop in awe.
Now our dried-up and dead backyard is now completely green and full of life, just like Orenda’s yard. How is this possible? I do a double take to make sure I’m in the correct yard. Yep, I am home. I guess the rain last night revived the ground or something. The land sure is different here in Minnesota. I see why my grandmother treats it like it’s alive, because it is. I’m a believer. I may not fully understand it, but seeing is believing, right?
Seven greets me in the grass, and we throw the ball around for a little bit. Yes, it’s the same ball that smacked me in the head a few days ago. I think Seven notices that I’m not really in a playing mood, so after a few fetches, she lies down by the sliding glass door and leaves me to my thoughts, which are pulled up toward Orenda and her tree house.
I squeeze through the fence and walk through the minefield of half-eaten, soggy, storm-battled peaches. The smell of them causes me to hold my nose all the way to the tree. The rope is already there, waiting for me to climb it.
So I do.
I spent the entire day in an office, not talking to anyone, which usually is fine with me, but I’m different now. I want to talk. Maybe not to strangers yet, but to my grandma, my mom, those little kids, and yes, Orenda. I may have not had the best start being my new, strong, confident self, but just being around Orenda makes me feel like I am getting stronger. And not just mentally, physically too. Lifting your own body weight isn’t exactly easy, even when you’re on the thin side like me. But it already feels easier.
Orenda is sitting on her bed surrounded by pillows and blankets, listening to music through her earbuds. She’s facing the wall of butterfly paintings, so I don’t think she knows I’m here.
I should announce my presence, but instead I tiptoe as quietly as I can to get a better angle of her face. As I step, the floorboards creak, but not loud enough to draw attention. I settle on a profile view of her and remain perfectly still.
She’s so beautiful that my heart skips a beat. I always thought that was just a silly thing people say to each other on Valentine’s Day, but it’s real. My heart is actually beating so fast it interrupts my breathing. And what’s strange is, every day Orenda looks different. Always beautiful, but different. Today her hair is shorter and cut in an Egyptian-style bob, like Cleopatra.
The song in her ears ends. She removes the earbuds and wipes a few tears from her eyes. It must have been an emotional song. But she hasn’t moved her body yet, so she still doesn’t know I’m with her. Should I clear my throat? Or am I overstepping my bounds being here without her permission? I take a step closer toward the opening to make it look like I just got here, but the floorboard creaks and she turns to see me.
“How long have you been here?” she asks. She looks startled.
“I just got here. I swear.”
She gets up, grabs her cane, and slowly walks to me. If she’s mad that I snuck in here and watched her cry, she’ll easily be able to beat me with it and toss me out the window like I was one of her peaches. Instead she places both earbuds into my ears and smiles.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
I close my eyes. But it’s not a song that plays. Instead it is a recording. A young man begins to speak.
All right, Orenda. You’re much better than me at this, but I think you’ll like this one. I haven’t thought of a title yet, so maybe you can help me with that. Here it goes … One night, during one of the most violent storms the people of the forest had ever faced, a baby boy was swept away from his village by a heavy flood. His family and the rest of the tribe searched for days for the little one, but never found him. They figured he must have died. But he didn’t die. And after being dragged for miles through the thick mud and heavy rain, he found himself at the other end of the forest. This area belonged to the wolves.
While out hunting for food, a mother wolf came upon this human baby covered in mud. Knowing that if she left him there alone, he would surely die, this mother wolf decided to take the baby back to her den.
Word got out that she’d brought a human baby home, so all the other wolves called a meeting to discuss what to do. Some wolves thought they should put the baby back where it was found; others suggested eating the baby. But the leader of the wolf pack let the mother wolf who found the baby decide.
“You brought him home, so he is now your responsibility. What shall you do?” the chief wolf asked.
“Clearly the humans didn’t want him. And if we put him back, aren’t we telling the baby that we also don’t want him?” she replied.
“Never mind what the humans want. Never mind what we want. The question is … what do YOU want?” he asked her.
The mother wolf stared deep into the baby’s eyes. She didn’t see a human, or a wolf … She simply saw a baby. And every baby needs a mother. So she addressed the pack and said, “I will raise him as if he were one of my own.”
The wolves laughed at her, for they knew a human would have no chance in the wild, living the life of a wolf.
“He’ll be too slow,” one wolf shouted.
“He’ll be too weak,” declared another.
But the mother wolf simply replied, “Then together, we shall teach him how to be fast and strong.”
The story abruptly stops. I open my eyes to see Orenda removing the earbuds from my ears. Her hands are trembling.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“Soon,” she says.
“I have to wait to hear the rest?”
“Yes. When you’re ready, you’ll hear more,” she says, and with her cane, slowly walks over to her wheelchair and sits in it.
“How do I become ready?” I ask.
She smiles and wheels herself to the opening. And like clockwork, she fastens the rope to her chair and guides the wheelchair down toward the ground. Before she begins her descent, she says, “We teach you,” and then lowers herself to the ground.
Even with the way her body moves, she’s better at climbing down than I am. She’s already in her wheelchair and halfway across her yard by the time my feet touch soil. But she’s not heading toward her house. Instead, she pulls up to the broken part of the fence and stops.
“You’re going to teach me how to be ready to hear more of a children’s story at my house?” I ask.
“Yes. You will learn how to be strong and fast, the same way I taught Aji how to be strong and fast.”
“Wait. You knew Aji?”
“Of course, I know Aji!” she says, grabbing hold of the fence and pulling herself out of the wheelchair. I see the strain in her face, but it’s easily overshadowed by her strength. She tosses her cane over the fence, and as if she’s done it a million times before, she squeezes through the opening with ease.
On the other side, in my backyard, I see Seven grab her cane from the grass and run off with it. Orenda laughs.
“She’s got a new toy,” she shouts, while trying to keep her balance by holding the fence with one hand.
“Fourteen,” I say through the fence.
Orenda knew Aji. That makes sense. They lived right next door to each other. I wonder how close they were. There are so many things I’d like to ask about him, but I haven’t even really gotten to know her yet.
>
“What should I do with your wheelchair?” I ask.
“Leave it there,” she says.
She snaps her fingers and howls, which causes Seven to rush back with her cane. She snaps her fingers again and gives a grunt. Seven gives the cane back to Orenda’s open palm. I’ve never taught Seven that. Orenda must speak dog. How impressive.
“Twelve,” I say, and slip through the fence.
She presses her wooden cane into the ground and slowly walks through my yard toward the sliding glass door. I follow her, and Seven follows me.
“We got grass now,” I say to her, like my name is Captain Obvious.
“Yes. This home is happy again,” she says, and slides the door open.
“Twenty-three.”
I follow her inside, and she heads through the living room, but stops at Aji’s urn. I can’t understand what she’s saying—she is practically whispering, and she’s speaking in another language. But whatever she says must be quite personal. She intermittently wipes escaping tears from her cheeks as she talks to him.
Is this Ojibwe? I need to learn Ojibwe.
Even Seven feels the moment, because she leaves us and heads into the kitchen to finish whatever food is left in her bowl from lunch. Orenda turns around, forcing a smile, and gives me a thumbs-up.
“Thumbs-up for what?” I ask.
“Aji fully supports my decision to train you,” she says.
“Thirty-six. Train me to be strong and fast so I’ll be ready to listen to stories?”
She takes a few steps toward the garage door and turns to face me. “Exactly. You want to be a fearless Native American warrior—well, this is how.”
“Sixty-one. Teach me.”
She continues into the garage, and I follow her. There must be something about being in this room that brings back memories, because her eyes well up as she looks around.
“You spent a lot of time in here?” I ask.
She nods and approaches the punching bag. Her hand pushes it, and it sways slightly back and forth. She grabs the two boxing gloves and tosses them to me.
“Put these on.”
“Ten.”
I fit them over my hands.
She puts her hands together above her sternum and rubs them together, like someone trying to start a fire would.
“You’re not as strong as Aji yet, so we’ll start easy,” she says.
I step closer.
“Thirty-nine. You want me to punch the bag?”
“Repeatedly for three minutes straight,” she says, and looks up at the clock that is mounted onto the wall.
“Thirty-three. Sounds easy enough,” I say.
She laughs, but I don’t see what’s funny.
“Now?” I ask.
She shoots her eyes back to the clock and waits until the secondhand hits twelve.
“Now.”
I count three letters in my head and swing, hitting the bag with my left, then my right. It moves, but not much. I continue this for another thirty seconds. I see now why she was laughing. My arms are beginning to burn and feel as heavy as elephants. My heart pounds. My breathing changes. I begin to sweat. My punches feel like they’re moving in slow motion, through quicksand.
“Two more minutes to go,” she says.
Her letters fill my head. I focus on each word, keeping my mind away from the exhaustion setting in. Two equals three letters. More is four letters. Minutes is seven. To is two, and go is two. I add them up as they squeeze my skull.
“Eighteen,” I release them into the air.
My voice is pleading with my breath. She claps her hands frantically. I’m slowing down. My hands are dropping. I’m about to stop.
“Don’t give up!” she shouts, sending a small burst of energy back into my body.
“I won’t!” I reply as I pound away at the bag.
I look up and see there’s only one minute left. This should give me some relief, but this last minute feels like an hour already. I can barely lift my arms. I dig down to search for any reserves my body has and send them straight into my hands. I fight through the fact that they feel like they are on fire. I want to stop, drop, and roll … but I don’t. For her, I keep punching.
“Time!” she announces, and I drop to my knees and catch my breath.
“Four,” I say in between my panting.
Orenda bends down to me and pushes my sweaty hair back, away from my face.
“You feel stronger yet?” she asks.
“Eighteen. I feel dead,” I say, and she belly laughs.
“Good. You gotta feel dead to appreciate life sometimes.”
“Forty-five.”
She walks over toward a small fridge against the wall. I didn’t even know it was there. Orenda knows my home better than I do. She pulls out a bottle of water and tosses it to me. I tell my arms to lift, but they don’t move. It hits me in the chest. Orenda laughs again.
“We’ll work on your catching skills tomorrow,” she says.
I reach down and open the bottle of water. I put it up to my lips and drink the entire bottle in a matter of seconds. H2Oh my God, water has never tasted so good!
“Thirty-six,” I say as I pull the empty water bottle from my face.
“Interesting,” she says, and nudges me in the butt with her cane, signaling me to stand.
“Eleven. What’s interesting?”
“You already got a bit stronger.”
“Twenty-five. What makes you say that?” I ask as I struggle back up to my feet.
“When I said, ‘Don’t give up,’ you didn’t count my letters.”
I try to play it all back in my head, but I’m honestly too exhausted to remember that far back. Is it true? Did her words slip past my mind undetected? Don’t give up, huh? I know it’s ten, but if I didn’t total it up for her, then simply knowing the total doesn’t matter. But as I think of this small breakthrough, her current sentence floods my brain.
“Forty-one. Did I really not say ten?” I ask.
She nods.
“How did it work?” I ask her, becoming a bit more excited now that my energy has started to replenish itself.
“Not sure, but we aren’t done yet,” she says, and pushes the punching bag with her cane, swaying it.
“Twenty-four. What do you mean?” I ask.
“That was only round one. Time for round two,” she says, and looks at the clock, getting prepared to set the time.
“Thirty-four. Are you serious?”
She smiles and crosses her arms.
“Begin,” she orders.
“Five,” I say, and take a deep breath.
I start whaling away at the punching bag. The words don’t give up play over and over in my head, on a constant loop. Partly because I forgot to count them, but maybe also because, for the first time in my life, I am starting to somehow believe in myself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE STORYTELLER (28)
Somehow, I survived all three rounds of boxing. I can now barely lift my arms. They feel like two fire hydrants attached to my shoulders. I wonder how easy this was for my brother. I lie down and watch Orenda, with her cane, slowly walk toward my next assignment: reading.
She selects a book from the long and crowded bookshelf. She balances it under her arm as she approaches me—still on the ground, still exhausted.
I should tell her that I don’t read very often except for the occasional comic book. But I don’t want to come off as weak and stupid.
She places the book on my chest.
“This is an excellent book,” she says, and carefully lowers herself to the floor near my head. It’s not so easy for her. But once she’s in position, I forget about all the wrongs in the world. I just stare into her eyes. Right now, with her beside me, the whole world is perfectly perfect.
“You want me to read this entire book? Are you serious?”
“Yes and yes,” she replies.
“Nine.”
“Nein means ‘no’ in German
. Wrong answer. If you want to ever be strong, you’ll read this book.”
“Seventy,” I say, and pick up the book and read the cover.
It is titled How to Hang a Witch.
“Is it scary?”
“It’s a thriller. Why? Do you scare easily?”
“Thirty-one. No, but.”
“Woman up. Time to look fear in the face and slap it silly,” she says.
“Forty-four. Okay … is this a chick book?” I ask.
She tilts her head, and her eyebrows rise. “Says the boy who just asked if it was scary?”
“Thirty-four. Good point. I’ll read it.”
“The main character in it is a total badass. Like me,” she says, and pushes it toward my face. “It was one of Aji’s favorites.”
I tally up her letters then ask her a question I’ve been wondering all day, “How well did you know him?” I ask.
Her eyes lower, like she doesn’t want me to notice her vulnerable side. But I do.
“Very well.”
“Eight. I wish I had the chance to know him.”
“You’re getting to know him right now. You’re punching his bag, reading his books, and hearing his story.”
Wait, what? His story? Then it dawns on me.
“Eighty-one. That was Aji?” I ask. “The recording?”
She nods.
“That was my brother?” I repeat, even though she already answered me.
She nods again.
I don’t know how to feel. I can’t believe I heard my brother’s voice. I picture the urn in the living room. No, I scrub that image away from my mind and instead imagine the young man in the military uniform framed in the hallway. He sounded like he was so full of life. And he was, until he wasn’t. He sounded happy. I hope my brother was happy right up until the very last moment.
I won’t dare ask her or my mom how he died exactly, because it doesn’t really matter. After all, war is war, and in war horrible things happen to people. I’ll leave it at that.
“Can I hear more of the story now?” I ask her.
She looks up at the clock. “I have to go.”
“Nine. Please?”
“Read the book. Then, if your arms have any strength left, come to the tree house to hear a bit more of your brother’s story,” she says, and slowly walks out of the garage.
