Wabanaki Blues (12 page)

Her fanglike fingertip snags three pieces of withered gray root from inside. “This is May apple root. It's different from my other wares. It's not a love charm, so it causes no deception. It's merely an ancient fortune-telling tool.” She rolls the pieces of root around on her well-lined palm. “When you are caught between two love interests, you name a piece of this root after each of them. The third piece you name after yourself.” Her irises fleck gold, orange and yellow, like burning embers. Her intense eyes make me think she is peering into another realm beyond this one. She continues to roll the threesome around in her deeply lined palm. “Whichever piece of root winds up closest to your piece is the one that represents your one true love. It's all about where your roots land.”

My heart quickens at the thought of learning my romantic fate until I hear a mockingbird laugh inside my head. “She's tricking you,” says Bilki.

Sometimes Bilki can be a nuisance. I try and ignore her. But I can't ignore Grumps.

I overhear him arguing with some swamp Yankee about the price of his antlers, and I realize I'll need to pay for this pouch. But I'm broke. My hand shakes as I place it back on the table.

“Don't you want it?” my great aunt asks, disbelieving.

“How much is it?”

“My pouches are always free.” She pushes the roots back inside the tiny red leather sack and squeezes my fingers around it. “That way, if they don't work, you can't complain.”

The pouch begins to warm in my hand. I hope using it will clear up my plaguing questions about Beetle and Del. That's why I want this stupid pouch so badly.

“
Wliwni
!” I say, thanking her in Abenaki. It's one of the few words Bilki taught me. She lowers her eyes approvingly. I hang the pouch around my neck and tuck it under my shirt.

Dust fills the air, signaling the approach of someone in a great hurry. I turn and find Grumps at my heels, his shoulders squared off like a moose in rut.

“What mischief are you up to with my granddaughter, witch?” he asks Black Racer Woman. “Are you filling her head with the same crazy stories that ruined her mother? Only a lunatic believes every old Indian story, word for word, like you do. Our tales are allegories. If a story talks about sacrifice, it means to work hard to do the right thing. You don't need to slaughter anything. Don't you dare fill my granddaughter's head with your primitive sacrificial nonsense.”

Black Racer Woman pokes her thousand-year-old pipe stem into Grumps' tight shoulder. “Stay out of this, Mohegan. Your people lost their Connecticut woods long ago because you watered down the old beliefs! I'm protecting my land the old way! We both know what Mona needs to do to save these woods.”

He grabs her pipe and pokes the stem back into her chest. “Mona Lisa is none of your affair. Keep away from her. You've already done more than enough damage for one wicked lifetime. It's your fault Lila left here. Don't you dare drive Mona away.”

“You need only look in the mirror to see who drove Lila away, old man. You'll probably scare this one away, too. Then who will save these woods?”

Black Racer Woman retrieves her pipe and sucks down smoke like a greedy chimney and then exhales upward, creating a brand new storm cloud.

Grumps drags me back to his booth, fuming about how crazy he was to marry an Abenaki woman and get mixed up with these backwoods people. He is so angry he knocks five bucks off the price of his antlers—all except the one he finished last night depicting baby bears playing in a pile of fall leaves. He puts a sold sticker on that one and sticks it back in his truck bed.

Del's bandmate, Bear, appears at our booth before we have a chance to stop vibrating from the intense energy of our volcanic encounter with my great aunt.

He grabs me with his enormous hands and spins me around. “Tribal Sista is lookin' fine!”

I'm relieved to see his familiar face, even if he is wearing a Blond Bear band tee shirt. Black Racer Woman blows a kiss our way and Bear pushes me behind him. He shouts in her direction, “Be careful about the company you keep, Mona Lisa. Some Indians are dangerous!”

“What do you mean by that, exactly?” I ask.

He waves off my question. “Just promise you'll tell me if your great aunt asks you to do anything stupid. Okay?”

“Sure. Whatever. Speaking of no-good Indians, why aren't you dressed in your Abenaki regalia?”

He puts a finger to his lips, his eyes teasing, “Shhh! Quiet. I am temporarily disguised as a tourist. I'll soon be changing into my powwow best.”

I can't help but notice, once again, how much he looks like me, and he isn't bad-looking. How is this possible?

He flaps his giant elbows in a funky chicken kind of way. “Keep an eye out for my dance moves during the northern men's traditional competition. You're looking at the winner, right here. I got somebody to impress today.”

He slides his mudwood eyes suggestively toward a group of long-haired Navajo women who are putting the finishing touches on their magnificent regalia, decorated with hummingbirds, butterflies, and other exotic flying creatures, beaded in unnaturally vibrant colors. I wonder which one of these beauties he's after. To me they are an irritating shampoo commercial. My hair will never be long, shiny, or silky. Choppy tree bark is all that will grow from this head. One of the women has combed a lightning bolt part into her perfect raven mien. It reminds me of the “Thunder and Lightning” song I wrote for Beetle. I scan the growing crowd for the boys from Winnipesaukee but can't find them.

Bear nudges me. “Speaking of impressing people, did you work things out with Del?”

“No.” I squeeze my new pouch. “His father is a dangerous nut job.”

Bear twists his mouth in a quirky way, hopelessly trying to make me crack a smile. “For the record, I don't believe people should be judged by their parents' actions. My dad has made some colossal mistakes. I'm sure your parents have, too.”

“I doubt they've done anything as bad as Will Pyne.”

He pulls at his smooth chin. “Don't be too sure. Besides, there's something special between you and Del. It would be a shame to waste it.” He stretches up onto his tiptoes to scan the powwow grounds, “I thought for sure he'd be here today. Sometimes he conducts summer research in the Yale woods in northern Connecticut. But there's usually no set date for that. I've still got six weeks of freedom before the University of Maine reclaims my soul. But I hope to spend some time in Arizona, first.” He jiggles his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “I want to convince somebody from there to come back east with me in the fall, if you know what I mean.” His eyes widen at the sight of a new girl stepping into the well-groomed Navajo crowd. “Bin-go! There she is! I
gots
to go, Tribal Sista.” He kisses the top of my Abenaki cap.

I feel like I've lost a brother but don't have time to mope about it, as our booth fills up fast. We sell nine sets of antlers in fifteen minutes, and these things aren't cheap. Grand Entry hasn't even begun and we've already cashed in—big-time. Grumps tosses me an “I told you so” look and asks me to count out the contents of his cash box while he chats with a friend. I'm up to eight hundred and sixty-five dollars when a little girl clenching a powdered sugar-coated piece of frybread rushes toward me and slams into our booth, dusting my laid-out cash like a first snow. The careless kid is wearing a Disney princess tee shirt with ALL of the princesses on it, like she's the official keeper of princessdom.

“Mommy! Pretty costume!” She sticks a chubby pinky finger in my direction.

Her mom has dark circles under her eyes. She doesn't apologize for the mess her kid made and grabs the hem of my skirt as if I'm a mannequin. “Louisiana, maybe we can find a costume like this for you to wear for Halloween. With a better hat. You can be mommy's little Indian princess.”

I am about to explain that my hat is actually a traditional peaked cap, and that I am not a mannequin or a princess, and that what I'm wearing is not called a costume. But the kid's father picks up one of Grumps' antlers, and I don't want to blow a sale. Just as the man pulls out his wallet, Princess Louisiana gets bored with me and drags both of her parents back in the direction of Black Racer Woman's booth.

Grumps returns as the loudspeaker booms with the lineup instructions for Grand Entry. The master of ceremonies speaks from a raised wooden platform. He's wearing the same clothes he had on earlier, with the addition of a buckskin vest beaded with a glittering American Flag. I whisper to Grumps that I think he's an Iraqi War vet. He says he guesses the man more likely served in Afghanistan because of his eagle-eyed look.

The master of ceremonies speaks like a drill sergeant. “All First Nations line up at the entrance to the big tent. Royalty up front!”

There's a funny look on some of the spectators' faces when they hear the word “royalty” used to indicate Chiefs and other traditional tribal leaders. Watching the tourists' curious expressions over these unfamiliar Indian customs is half the fun of attending powwows.

Grumps tosses a plastic red checkered tablecloth to cover his antlers and offers me his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman. “I'm privileged to dance this year's powwow Grand Entry with my well-dressed granddaughter. Let's you and me make some Good Medicine in that dance circle. We're going to need all the good spirits we can muster after dealing with your poisonous snake of a great aunt. Get in line, City Gal.”

As I mentioned, I'm not crazy about dancing. Thankfully, Bilki offers some timely advice. “The point of powwows is to dance on somebody else's territory and realize it's all part of the same dusty earth. We humans are huddled together on a tiny blue bead, spinning through the star-studded universe.”

That was trippy. My head is still spinning from her words, as the dancers start shaking their feathered headdresses, ankle bells, and gourd rattles to warm up. The women dancers bob straight up and down, the men begin to stomp, and the earth itself feels wobbly, as if it's moving with them.

A serious-faced little boy flashing a lime feather bustle and tangerine ribbon shirt carries a shell filled with smoking sage past our line of waiting dancers. I ask him for an extra-thorough smudge, and he circles me up and down with sweet smoke. I need a good spiritual cleansing after meeting tiny Princess Louisiana and Black Racer Woman. They're standing in front of my aunt's booth, laughing together, and sharing some demonic joke. My heart flutters fearfully at the thought of them teaming up and conquering the known universe, snuffing out the light of every star in the sky.

Grumps strays out of line to greet a few more friends. I spot a guy standing beside our vendor booth with spiked dark hair and lichen-green eyes. It's Del! The first drumbeat thunders. Our eyes meet. A second loud drumbeat sounds. I lunge out of the dance line.

Someone grabs my arm and brings me back. “There's no stepping out now, City Gal, says Grumps. “The circle has begun. You can't break it.”

I feel the pressure of my grandfather's hand on my arm. His pulse is keeping pace with the rhythm of the drum, urging my legs to do the same. Del's lichen eyes plead with me to step out of the circle. But I can't, even though he's a magnet for me. I'm thinking maybe Bear is right and it's unfair of me to have blamed Del for his dad's addiction. My guilt and longing make me fall out of step. I want his arms around me. I want his soft, fiery lips on mine. I stumble and realize I need to pay more attention to my feet. When we circle around again, Del is gone from our booth. An elder from Shinnecock waves at me reassuringly with her turkey feather fan. I miss a beat. Her smoky eyes pull my concentration back to the circle.

My steps are suddenly in sync for the first time. The earth's heartbeat surges through my feet—toe heel, toe heel. I take sure steps. The dance circle resonates through my mind, body and spirit. I'm fully connected with it all: toddlers waddling to their first drumbeats, jingle dancers clanging rhythmically, grass dancers spinning into a blur of color, proud grandmothers swishing their long-fringed shawls, old warriors shaking ceremonial clubs and making every arthritic step count. There are Indians here today from across the four winds of this hemisphere—from the Wabanaki people of the eastern dawn, to as far south as mountainous Ecuador, to as far west as the adobe Pueblos and as far north as the Inupiat of the Arctic. I am one with them, one with the circle, one with the universe. I am dancing in step with it all. Toe heel, toe heel. I climb upward into the air and leap on the back of a swooping eagle, toe heel, toe heel. I jump off and fly higher, on my own, beyond the birds and into the heavens.

Out of the corner of my eye, I look down and catch sight of Del again. His back is turned; he's walking away. My mind leaves the circle with him. I tumble like a shooting star and crash back toward earth, past the MC, the drummers, the tourists, the ever-watchful tribal elders, the mothers, fathers, babies, and ancestors, toe heel, toe heel. My foot lands hard and the last drumbeat sounds. My eyes dart everywhere. There is no sign of Del. My spirit runs dry.

I spring from the circle, searching. Someone tugs on my Abenaki cap from overhead. I raise my uncertain eyes and tremble, realizing I almost forgot how delicious butterscotch bangs and licorice eyes can be. It's Beetle! I shake from the sight of him, from the power of dancing the circle, from feeling the living beat of the drum, from seeing Del and losing Del. Thunder and lightning are falling from the sky, and I am the only one who realizes it.

“What's up with the pointy witches' hat, Guitar Girl?” Beetle asks, yanking me back to a world without ceremony.

I'm suddenly embarrassed. I'm dressed in moth-eaten wool garments from my grandfather's hoary trunk. Yet Beetle appears confident, donning his riot of candy plaids and checks, a ridiculous style reserved for the frolicking preppy New England summer elite. Both of us wear our respective regalias. I shudder as the worlds of Indian Stream and Hartford collide.