through window, door creak open, calls me to find my spirit. Sister Anne bounces switch in her hand all eyes on switch—except me. My eyes on door. She commands us to copy letters heads bent over slates, she walks up and down the aisle past me, past Joe.
My spirit calls me.
I take Joe’s hand run towards door her back is to us—we run—me and Joe run—past the pasture, the outhouse into the woods—warning bells ring—I hold tight to Joe. Someone is behind us, Joe trips—lets go—he screams they get him—I run, I shout, “Joe, Joe!”
“Run big sister run!” he cries.
“I will come back for you.” I dash into trees I can’t turn back—my spirit calls—so fast I run I run until it’s dark. I run until I can’t see.
They tie you up to a tree and leave you there oh Joe, Joe. The last one that tried to run, they caught and tied him to a tree. We couldn’t talk to him, or give him food or water, his eyes, lifeless, until he couldn’t stand no more. I rock back and forth under a tree, I rock, the owl hoots, tears stream down for Joe, I rock, listen for spirit.
BIRD MAN
Coo of dove calls me, time to keep moving. Father Sun shines through green leaves of trees. My stomach rumbles for food, I spot pink flowers ahead of me. My mama and aunties showed me how to dig up roots and find the nuts. I get a stick and dig out the thickest root of the vine, pull it hard and out comes a necklace of round nuts. I brush them off, eat half and save the rest. I run to tall reeds of grass, sunlight bounces off pointed edges, smell water. Come to edge of riverbank and wait in sunlight, maybe spirit is in water, I drink from it, wait for river to bring my spirit back.
I lay back on the rock, river rushes past me. The warmth of stone heals my back, still feel Sister Anne’s switch. I drift in dreamland—
Little one, remember the story of Bear Island. We are the bear clan. My mother Sophia, a bear medicine woman, your grandmother. She had healing powers to cure ill, foraged forests for plants and herbs. White man disease came too strong—the pox. Came to Bear Island—whole island suffered, the wails echoed at night, wolves across the bay answered back. My mother tried, used herbs for my father Joseph, my brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles—pox took them. We went to bring them to rest with ancestors, to the mainland. We carry dead in a canoe heading toward mainland, they shoot arrows at us, forcing us to go back. They didn’t want the pox. My mother set the camp on fire, we left at night in a canoe, wolves howling, people howling, owls hooting—there was no peace that night.
Long journey, yes it was, all night gliding down the river, stars leading the way. Father Sun rises, on the shore, my mother offers tobacco. I carefully step out of the canoe and join her, facing the four directions. We walk in silence through the forest. My mother shows me what herbs and roots to pick. I eat berries and my mother fasts, so she can be hollow like a drum to receive the spirit. She thanks the plants as we go. My moccasins worn, I keep going. The cries of the people and the wolf howls haunt me, I keep going. Grandmother Moon lights our way to the bay. I gather branches for the fire. I sleep curled in my mother’s lap.
Father Sun peeks through the trees. We walk to the river, to the stones. Father Sun rises, the stones light up and pictures appear. The spirit rocks speak to my mother. She sits and prays listening for the song of our ancestors, waiting for the medicine. I don’t speak—the images speak to me: bird men flying, a woman with two dogs her arms raised to the sky world, a salamander from under the earth world, all carved in stone. I wait until sun shifts across the sky and magic pictures disappear. Across the bay a mother bear wades in the river with her cubs, she catches a salmon. My mother speaks to the bear. The fish squirms in the bear’s mouth. She heads into the forest with her little ones behind her.
“Judah,” my mother says, “come.” I follow her into the woods and help her strip birch bark off the birch trees. We wind the birch around a stick and tie it, to save for later to catch salmon. We rest before sundown, head back to the cove—the pictures light up one last time, the message from our ancestors fading with the light. We light the birch torch. My mother holds the torch over the water, I take out my knife waiting for the fish. Something in the water flutters towards the light, I stab the fish, my mother says a prayer. It wriggles as we carry it to shore. We thank the salmon. I light a fire and we cook the fish, my mother finally eats, and what we don’t eat, we give back to the river.
I awake to my mother talking with a deer, we follow it through the forest, back to our canoe. My mother lights sage, offers tobacco, giving thanks to great spirit mystery. And that’s how we came here little one, your grandmother, bear medicine woman, from Bear Island. Always remember, we belong to the land.
“Papa.” I call for him. I lift my head, he’s not here. It was the stone, he spoke to me through the stone.
“I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.”
A voice rises from the river like some great bird. A man sings alone in canoe.
“As she wheeled her wheelbarrow
through streets broad and narrow
crying cockles and mussels
alive alive-oh!”
I want his canoe. I start throwing rocks at this Bird Man, big rocks—
“Alive alive-oh—” He stops singing, and frowns. I hide behind stone and throw one smack on back of his head—that stops his singing—
“Who’s there?” he hollers, he sees me, rock in hand. I keep throwing them, pelting him. He paddles canoe to shore, I dart into tall reeds.
“Why are you throwing stones at me, lass? Is my singing that bad?”
I throw another one, it hits his leg, he winces. He has boots on, is white man with a funny way to speak. I throw another stone at him—he rushes towards me and I run to his canoe, he runs after me and catches me like I’m a fish—caught in his net arms. I struggle, kick, he strong, he got me.
“Okay, lass, you want to go in the canoe, let’s go in the canoe.” He picks me up, drops me in, ties my hands behind me and paddles down the river. He starts singing again: “Alive alive-oh, oh Alive alive-oh—crying cockles and mussels alive alive-oh.”
I am a fish trapped—
“What, you’re angry because you got no stones to throw?” He takes a drink from a bottle, it shines and reflects the sun—
“Alive-alive-oh, oh Alive-Alive Oh—crying cockles and mussels alive alive-oh.”
Where are you, spirit? I am fish now caught waiting for you. This strange man won’t stop singing. Joe, where is Joe? Father’s blue eyes, Sister Anne’s switch, the smell of the floorboards—I don’t know it but I’m shaking, shaking and writhing about like a fish out of water. The singing man tries to stop me: “There, there, have some of this to calm you down.”
He offers me the bottle, I take it. I drink it, tastes awful. I drink more, my head feels light, my body warm—oh spirit have I found you?
Where am I? Am I dead? Owl’s omen come true? Where’s Joe? Where’s Joe? I jump out of bed running into other room—
“Joe! Joe!” There are many
