Blue Birds (18 page)

Our friendship,

it is right,

Manteo said.

I'll hold to this smallest comfort.

Someone understands.

The sun nears the horizon.

The village feels abandoned.

No one is about.

But there is someone

coming from beyond the forge.

George, lunging as if he's new to land

after months at sea.

“Where have you been?” I ask him.

Does he even hear me?

His musket trails behind him,

cuts a wavering line.

“I went to her.

I saw the girl.

Told her I am sorry.”

He stumbles to the ground.

“Near their village.

I wanted to get close enough

to frighten them.”

He makes an awful sound,

as though he is in pain.

“I've killed an Indian,” he says.

I leave the fire's circle,

its ring of light emboldened

now that dusk approaches.

“Kimi,” Mother calls.

“It's time to eat.”

She holds a bowl of fish in her hand.

But my thoughts are elsewhere.

The boy tried to tell me something,

and now Chogan is missing.

Already the men search the forest,

where Chogan hunted.

I remember the English boys

circling ever closer to our village,

their weapons always ready,

how sometimes we'd see them

from the shelter of the corn.

I run to the fields

before I know

exactly what I'm doing.

The third-planting corn's bright tassels

dance in the sun's last golden rays.

The air tinged with coolness

speaks of harvest coming soon.

Before I enter the fields,

my feet stop moving

over the packed earth.

Everything about me

stills.

There a man lies,

his arm twisted under him,

a gaping wound on his back.

Chogan.

“What did you say?”

Dread wraps about me.

His clothes are filthy.

His eyes are far away.

“I've killed an Indian.”

“The girl?”

I cannot help

the anger in my voice.

He shakes his head.

“A man,” he whispers,

leans his head on his knees.

“I want my father.”

Sobs shake his body.

“I want him back again.”

“What's this?” Mrs. Archard says,

walking past with young Tommy.

“Someone help this boy!"

Soon we are surrounded.

I run the well-worn path

past the longhouses

to Wanchese,

fight for my breath,

tears blur my sight.

“Uncle!”

Wanchese hurries to my side.

“Chogan is dead.”

All rush

to the fields.

I wipe my face,

wait until they've gone.

And run.

Wanchese

will keep

striking,

My legs burn,

he will

not stop,

my chest screams,

until the English

are destroyed.

Only once outside their palisade

do I allow myself to rest.

Mr. Archard and Mr. Florrie

lift George to a bench.

Mrs. Archard holds a cup,

insists he drink.

Father shoves past the others,

his shirttails flying,

rushes to the middle of the crowd,

his forehead lined

with soot and sweat.

“What has happened?” he demands.

I step back from everyone.

I do not want to know

what George might say.

I am finished

with the fighting,

the mistrust in the village.

Yet how will it be different

when we leave for Chesapeake?

With other tribes

it only seems

division will remain.

Our surroundings will be new,

but our fears will be the same.

I have trusted my montoac

to protect her,

but to keep her truly safe,

I must tell the English

to leave immediately,

I must send her

away.

The ditch,

the middle boundary,

provides cover in the coming darkness,

but I will not stay huddled there.

I dart from one building

to the next,

pushing closer

to the center

of the village,

crouch low

behind a house,

remove her ribbon

from my skirts,

knot it

about my wrist.

With this

I'll show her people

I come peacefully,

hope they'll listen

when I tell them

it's best for them to go

now,

quickly,

before it is too late.

All the people crowd about,

surround a crying boy,

the one from the forest.

Desperate,

I search for Alis.

Rough fingers

grasp

my wrist!

jerk

my arm,

spin me

around.

“I've caught an Indian

here in our village!”

The dusk's alive with voices

“. . . others must be coming!”

“. . . go find shelter!”

people scatter from the square.

Old Lump-and-Bump

leads Kimi

by the arm.

We balance

on that edge

of time

before

all

collapses.

“Go,” Kimi whispers to me.

“Go,” she shouts.

Her voice rings out

for all to hear.

The word's power

fills the air around us.

The English aren't the only ones

who can use their montoac.

Wanchese is coming,

I am certain of this.

The only way

to keep her safe

is to make her go.

Go.

The word's

permission.

It is

invitation,

freedom.

It's protection

from the danger

Kimi faces here.

I grip

her hand.

I didn't know

until this moment

this word

was what

I waited for.

Together,

we flee.

Tumbling,

the ditch catches us,

then running,

we pass through the palisade.

We fly

like blue birds

to the forest's embrace.

We duck

under branches,

weave

between trees,

travel

farther from those

calling

my

name.

I race

from their voices,

venture deeper

into the forest's shelter,

until

I can go

no

more.

My word was meant

to keep her safe,

to send her elsewhere.

But she

chose

to go

with

me.

We rest for a moment,

under the low-reaching branches of a tree.

From my pocket,

I take the blue bird I've carved for her.

It's flawed,

this crude attempt,

the work of a beginner,

yet Kimi lifts it in the early moonlight,

holds it to her cheek.

“Iacháwanes,” she whispers.

“Montoac.”

My voice breaks.