Wabanaki Blues (25 page)

I finally understand his perspective. To him, a broken promise can kill. I think of how betrayed Will felt when he heard Mia had chosen Worthy over him. But if he'd searched for her to confront her and kept his promise to pick her up, she'd still be alive. Del is right about that. Still, his reasoning is flawed. I'm about to remind Del that Cricket Dill was more to blame for his parents' mishap than any broken promises, when a high-pitched voice tinkles through the air like shattered crystal.

“You don't have to break your promise to me, Delsy. I'll do it for you.”

It's Scales. She's standing in my doorway, wearing a pink and green flannel shirt and carrying a stylish shopping bag from someplace far, far away from Indian Stream.

“As of this moment, we are officially unengaged,” she says, throwing the shopping bag at me. “As for you Mona Lisa LaPierre, I came here to bring you a thank you gift for helping Will —you know, the guy who is supposed to become my father-in-law. But please, keep the shirt.” She kicks the bag my way. “The color suits you perfectly. It's yellow.”

I recall I was wearing a yellow George Harrison “Here Comes the Sun” shirt when Scales and I first met. She may think it's my favorite color. Only, I doubt that's what she means by her remark.

Her eyes flare at Del. “Speaking of colors, for these last few months I've tried to tell myself I liked to wear white. But just so you know, I hate white. Thanks to what I just overheard, I don't have to worry about that anymore. Our wedding is off. I'm breaking your promise for you, and I'm leaving this dump of a hick town for good.”

Del starts to speak and then snaps his jaw shut, like a bear with a mouthful of mashed bananas that he doesn't want to lose.

Scales holds out her hand like a traffic cop. “Please refrain from jumping for joy, Delaney Pyne. In the interest of full disclosure I want you to know I met a Native American musician of my own. He's a Mashpee Wampanoag jazz singer from the Cape named Cliff. I planned on telling him today that it was over because I was getting married. But you have offered me and Cliff a second chance.” She turns to me. “Who knows, Mona. Maybe Cliff and I will start a duo. It seems anybody can do that successfully nowadays.”

I step between the would-be bride and groom. “Scales, I want you to know I didn't come here to stalk your fiancé. I came here because the fall leaves look so bad.”

Her skin flares the fuchsia color of Celine's hibiscus dress. “Mona, do you hear yourself?” She mimics me in a whiny voice, tossing her lemony head from side to side, “‘I came here to help the leaves.' What kind of Native American Earth Mother bullshit is that? You're a phony, just like your great aunt! Her love potions are fake. I know that for a fact. I also know she is insane, the way she cackles like a fairy tale villain. Ha! Ha! Ha! You two are both psychotic. I mean, you never crack a smile. I must be a total loser to have admired you.” She raises a finger as if to correct herself. “Although, I must admit you do not
suck as a musician.”

She slaps the air. “Good luck, you two. Have fun protecting your stupid trees and your stupid bears. I am relieved to know I will not be stuck here for the rest of my life, living with a bear magnet. They're always prowling around you, Del, and I don't understand why that doesn't bother you. They're dangerous as hell, regardless of what Mona's Looney Tunes grandfather told you. Good-bye, Del Pyne.” She stretches her arms as if liberated, “And good-bye, Indian Stream!”

Twenty-one

Finding Indian Stream

Early October nights in northern New Hampshire bring the kind of cool that normally prompts New England leaves to blush scarlet, or shine like golden flint corn, or erupt into fiery squash blossoms. But those colors are only memories. Autumn in New England appears to have vanished.

The Yale Forestry School sent Del and other students on a road trip to research the leaf problem. I‘m happy for the space. I've got to figure out where my musical career is going. Del also needs to think about where he is going, after his big breakup with Scales.

Bilki would appreciate his work with the trees. I think of how much she loved to paint vibrant foliage, how much she loved color, period. She used to sign her holiday cards with the phrase, “May the colors of your world be many.”

I ask her, “Bilki, what can be done to bring color to these leaves?”

She replies, “Not every door is locked.”

I cringe, but only briefly. I'm learning to process her cryptic remarks as helpful advice, rather than perturbing provocation. Maybe there are some unlocked doors built into the floors or walls or cabin furniture that she wants me to uncover. I start with my room, knocking my knuckles on the blue leaf floor mural, then the dresser painted with azure cornflowers, and then the bedposts covered with teal ivy. I hit the headboard, which is bolted to the wall, and voilà! I hear a hollow clunk on the left side. I hit it harder with my palm and a door pops open. Inside, I discover a long narrow wooden compartment, containing a handmade map that looks like something from a Disney pirate movie. It shows a “Snapping Turtle Rock” linked with a dotted line to a stream marked “Yellow Clay,” on to a “Tipping Rock,” and beyond in the direction of a rising sun, to a place called “White Woods,” which is marked with a skull and crossbones over the initials “BRW.”

I flip it over and it says:

Dear Lila,

Here's a map, so you can always find me.

Your loving aunt,

BRW

Black Racer Woman. I don't think of her as anyone's loving
aunt. But Del said she knew a story about autumn leaves, so I need to visit her right now, loving or not.

I head out for the first landmark on the map. It's the “Snapping Turtle Rock” I saw on the first day I arrived in Indian Stream. With all the woodland greenery oddly withered, I follow a clear dirt path to the stream marked “Yellow Clay.” It runs across ten different logging trails rutted with tire treads from heavy machinery. This must be the real Indian Stream. I can imagine the beautiful golden clay pottery it once produced.

A tipping rock looms ahead. I've seen similar rocks in Mohegan territory—a large boulder balanced on a smaller one that can be jiggled to make a thunderous sound. This boulder is twice as big as the ones in Connecticut. In a rare cultural communique, my mother once told me that old-time Indians used these tipping rocks to send messages over long distances. I wonder if Black Racer Woman shared any messages by rocking this giant boulder, and with whom.

Over the next rise, I spot what appears to be an autumn blizzard. I move closer and realize it's a white birch forest, with feathery strips of snowy bark peeling off the tree trunks like ancient pages, hinting at some long-forgotten story. I step into these white woods and discover a faint trail of smoke. I follow it to an old-time birch bark wigwam that reminds me a little of my toy wigwam, back home. Mom always insisted wigwams were passé, that eastern Indians today all live in regular apartments, mobile homes, or modern houses. Now, I know of at least one exception.

Black Racer Woman emerges from the bark house wrapped in a musty moth-eaten wool blanket. She smells of rotting woods, much like The Great Bear.

“Welcome, Great Niece! I see you found the map.” She extends her arms invitingly. “You are just in time for lunch. Come inside and get warm.” She pulls back a stiff mildewed deerskin door flap at the entrance of her white birch bark home and points to a cot made from crossed sticks, lashed together with twine and covered with a bearskin. “Please, have a seat here with your guitar.”

I eye the formless, eyeless, lifeless bear draped across the cot and say, “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She stirs a steaming black kettle of some orange mixture over a crackling fire. A sweet earthy smell wafts my way, not like any stew I know of, more like an intoxicating mix of stars and autumn dreams.

The shelves inside her wigwam are made of split logs, separated by bricks, lined with Mason jars filled with stewed tomatoes, pickled squash, dried wolf beans, and ground flint corn. A battered fishing pole, a well-polished hunting rifle, a pistol, and plenty of ammo boxes lean against the wall. On the floor lay various wooden utensils—bowls, spoons, and dippers, all carved with woodland Indian trails and floral designs.

Black Racer Woman scoops some of her kettle concoction into a maple bowl and hands me a wooden spoon. I'm starving and about to chomp down a heaping spoonful of what appears to be orange pineo mushroom stew but could just as easily be made from deadly orange jack o' lantern mushrooms. I think of how Bear, Grumps, and Bilki distrust my great aunt and how easy it would be for her to poison this food. I need to figure out if she is trustworthy before I can accept her hospitality.

I put the spoon down. “People say you caused the accident in which Mom hit a bear because of some crazy old Indian myth.”

“Nothing of the sort. The day of her accident was chaotic. Will was on a bender. He needed someone to babysit Del, but your grandparents were sick with the flu. He asked your mom to do it because he knew she was up here visiting me. She'd come for the same reason you're here, right now; she wanted to find out why the fall leaves weren't changing their usual colors. When I told her it was because we needed a bear sacrifice, she got upset. She drove to Will's in such a hurry she didn't watch where she was going and crashed into that poor old bear. Her truck was a mess but her face looked worse. You're lucky to be alive because she was newly pregnant with you when it happened.”

“What? Why couldn't Mom tell me this, herself?”

“That would require her to face reality, and that accident shook her up so badly that she lost touch with everything, permanently. She claimed it was Mia Delaney who saved her life and yours. Of course, Mia was already dead. But Lila didn't accept that. She saw Mia's ghost all the time after she died, especially when she was in Hartford.

I don't mention to my great aunt that I see the dead. I'm afraid she'll think I‘m as crazy as my mom. But I'm grateful to her for helping me understand how my spirit became entwined with Mia's long ago, and why Mia chose to haunt me. It would seem Mom wasn't getting the job done of finding her killer. So Mia enlisted me.

I realize I'm off-topic and refocus. “Aunty. I appreciate all of this critical family information. But none of it explains why Grumps blames you for Mom's accident.”

Black Racer Woman grabs me with an arm that's much stronger than I imagined. “He blames me because he is an illogical fool! As I said, your Mom and I had been discussing the need for a bear sacrifice to save these woods when the call came and she rushed off and hit that bear. That's what you call a bad coincidence. Grumps assumed the death of that bear was somehow my doing because your mother had been with me, beforehand.” She slaps her hands on her hips. “How could I have caused her accident when I was sitting right here when it happened?”

“Do you believe in animal sacrifice or not?”

“I've been known to snare a rabbit or shoot a turkey when I'm hungry. I killed a pineo mushroom to make this stew. There are many forms of sacrifice.”

“That's not an answer.”

“All right. Yes, I believe in sacrifice! I have stayed here to protect this place, all my life. As you can see, living here is my sacrifice.” She points to the surrounding white birch trees. “The beauty of these woods makes it all worthwhile. Once upon a time, they were crawling with black racer snakes. They were beautiful creatures that didn't bother anybody. But the newcomers confused them with rattlesnakes and put bounties on them. My family gave me my name so I would represent the interest of those snakes. Your Indian name is quite the opposite. I chose it so you could represent those who sacrifice animals. The universe is about balance. Our people have lived in this magnificent forest for thousands of years because we maintained that balance.”

I try not to think about the fact that she chose my Indian name because I hate it. Nobody but Mom and I knows it, and I want to keep it that way. “Couldn't you perform your sacrifice in these woods just as well living in a cabin?”

“No. Living this way helps me see things the old way. Every tree is precious to me. That old mindset helps me stand in the way of what some people call progress. The lumber companies want to log these woods so they spread rumors about me. If they can have me convicted of a serious crime—like murder—they can steal my trees. They've tried to evict my family from here for centuries. Some man even wrote a book once, claiming our tribe was extinct, in order to steal our land.” She pulls a glowing stick from the fire and waves it like a wand. “That's when my great grandmother took action and turned the author into a toad.”

My feet shift, ready to run, but she blocks the door. I jiggle my bracelet. It's become a habit when I'm scared. I think of it as dialing spiritual 911.

Black Racer Woman flips her braid off her shoulder and lets loose a flock-of-crows laugh. “I'm kidding about the toad, Mona Lisa. I'm no witch—as some would have you believe.” I detect a slight serpentine hiss in her words. “Besides, there is someone else more worthy of that description.

“Who are you talking about?”

“I heard at the general store that Cricket Dill's sentence may be reduced because of mitigating circumstances. Your principal testified that Mia bullied Cricket as a teenager. She claimed the poor fragile thing had been seeing a school psychologist for her depression and suicidal tendencies, due to Mia's abuse. I guess Cricket tried to jump off the roof of some high-rise in Hartford called City Place. I believe you know the building.” Her eyes do that solar flare thing again.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “This makes no sense. The school janitor told me that Mia's murder inquiry made Principal Dibble's life a living hell. Why would she be so quick to forgive Cricket?”

“Perhaps you should go to Hartford and ask her yourself.”

“But you and I need to talk more about the leaves.”

“The leaves can wait. Right now you need to find out why Mia Delaney's murderer is going to skate—before Del or Will Pyne overreact to that news.”