Authors: Caroline Starr Rose
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.
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 say 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?
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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?
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.
I wonder what Joan would think
of the Indian girl,
how my loneliness has lessened
in knowing she is somewhere near.
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 Englishman
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.
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.