Authors: Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel
Wabanaki Blues (29 page)
I rev the engine faster, clouding the air with grit from the unpaved road. Bang! I hit a wicked boulder, the worst so far. It's so dusty I couldn't even see it. This isn't a hot Harley I'm driving; it's a beat up pickup. It's kicking up clunky stones and dust, bumping and banging me forward, as long as these tires hold out. Sunbeams trickle through the settling dust like falling stars, as that burning fireball in the eastern sky continues to rise, its rays crowning the New Hampshire hilltops.
My phone rings, startling me. I guess it's finally charged.
I hit the speaker, “Hello.”
“Hey, It's Del. Where are you, Mona Lisa? I just got back here from Hartford. Can you believe what's happened?”
My pickup veers to the right, even though I didn't turn the wheel. I wonder if I've got a flat tire or a broken axle. That last boulder may have done me in.
“Hold on, Del. I've got to find a place to pull over and check the truck.”
I step out, blinking, rubbing my faulty eyes. I must be overtired because I'm seeing things. The doctor warned me about not getting enough sleep after what I went through in that basement closet. I try to shake away what's before me because it can't be true. The rising sunbeams have illuminated something unimaginable. The valley below me is full of lustrous crimson and gold trees. It is the first day of November, far too late in the season for colorful fall foliage to first emerge this far north. Yet, these woods have suddenly transformed into a spectral palette, as if a cosmic miracle just rained down from the stars.
I hear Del calling out from the phone in my hand, “Are you there, Mona?”
“I'm here,” I whisper, returning the phone to my ear.
“You are seeing this, aren't you? Can you believe it? It's awesome. Isn't it?”
I think quickly, groping for an answer that gets me off the hook. “You did this, Delaney Pyne. You made this miracle. You saved these woods by sacrificing and devoting yourself to the bears and to this place. New Hampshire is where you belong.”
On the other end of the line, a chair shuffles, “Where exactly are you, Mona Lisa?”
“I'm on the road.”
“Are you on your way home to the cabin?”
“No.”
I hear a guitar string twang and hold its vibration. “I thought we were forever, Mona, like the stars.”
“You're like the stars, Del, dependable and luminous. You're the one everyone was talking about when they said somebody had to make a sacrifice for these woods, not me. And you succeeded. You'll have your forestry degree soon and settle down in Indian Stream, for good. You gave yourself to these woods and this is the result. You're like The Great Bear from the old Wabanaki story. But that story has nothing to do with me. I'm destined for someplace else, someplace far from here, someplace bigger and duskier.”
His voice falters, skipping pieces of words. “But you said you were The Hunter. If I'm The Great Bear, that means we're connected. Don't break our connection, Mona Lisa.”
My throat dries and I fail to swallow. I wasn't ready to have this conversation. But I think of Shankdaddy leaving Dibble without a word and realize I owe Del something.
“Yes, we are connected,” I say. “But I'm only eighteen. You're only twenty. We have plenty of roads we need to travel before we get
too
connected. We've both lived with parents who were trapped by youthful entanglements. I won't wind up like them. I need to get away from New England for a while, to leave my family weirdness behind me and perform a true reality check. ”
The pitch of his voice rises. “Before you go anywhere, my mechanic Dad should perform a reality check on that relic of a truck of yours.”
“Oh man, the truck! I got so distracted by the leaves that I forgot to check the tires. Hold on.”
I lay the phone down on the hood and inspect the front and back wheels. They appear fine. But the dust on the road has settled, and I see something behind the truck. I walk toward it, for a closer look. I know I'm overtired because I'm definitely seeing things. I shut my eyes, hoping to improve my vision, hoping more than I've hoped for anything in my entire life. When I reopen them, the faulty image remains. Before me lies a fallen creature with chestnut brown eyes, a cracked bulbous nose, and a balding head, soaked in a pool of blood that shimmers in the broken dawn like a puddle of stars.
I yank on my hairâlike Beetle does when he is confused. I'm picturing the blood red bear that Mia painted on the wall of the janitor's closet. It was a sign, a sign I should have heeded. I've suffered a star-crossed accident, like Mom. I've killed the ancient bear.
I tremble as the east wind calls my name, “
Nadialwinno
.” Hunter.
“That's not my name!” I protest.
The ocean blue sky swallows the last morning star. Rounded and full, the newborn sun tops the prickly pines. My knees fall to the frosty earth, and my back bows to the blooming dawn. I am older now, not eighteen, nor even eight hundred. I am forever, like the stars and the seasons, like The Great Bear and the blues song that repeats and circles back again. I grind my heels into the earth and force myself to stand and take my first timeless step. I no longer walk a finite woman's trail. I am one with the circle, one with the universe. I am in step with it all. Toe heel, toe heel. I soar into the cosmos and cross a chain of stars, in gold, crimson, and stellar blue. I ride an icy comet to The Hunter constellation and call it home. I wave to a million starry ancestors and their light shines through me. Toe heel, toe heel, toe heelâ¦
This book is a work of fiction inspired by the ancient Mohegan connection to the Wabanaki, passed on to me through Oral Tradition by Mohegan Elder Gladys Tantaquidgeon and Abenaki Elder Elie Joubert, stating that the Mohegan were affiliated with that confederacy which famously includes the Abenaki, Maliseet, Passamaquoddy, Mi'kmaq, and Penobscot. The word Wabanaki means “people of the dawnland” in the Algonquin language.
To learn more about the traditions of the Wabanaki, Abenaki, Mohegan, and The Great Bear reflected in this story, visit tribal websites and the following sources:
Brooks, Lisa Tanya.
The Common Pot: The Recovery of Native Space in the Northeast
. Vol. 7. U of Minnesota Press, 2008.
Bruchac, Joseph, and Ka-Hon-Hes.
The Faithful Hunter: Abenaki Stories
. Greenfield Review Press, 1988.
Bruchac, Margaret.
Dreaming Again: Algonkian Poetry
. lulu.com, 2012.
Calloway, Colin G., ed.
Dawnland Encounters: Indians and Europeans in Northern New England
. UPNE, 2000.
Dana, Carol.
When No One is Looking
. lulu.com, 2014.
Fawcett, Melissa Jayne, and Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel.
Medicine Trail: The life and lessons of Gladys Tantaquidgeon
. University of Arizona Press, 2000.
Nicolar, Joseph,
The Life and Traditions of the Red Man.
C.H. Glass, 1893.
Savageau, Cheryl.
Mother/land
. Salt Publishing, 2006.
Soctomah, Donald.
Remember Me, Mikwid Hamin: Tomah Joseph's Gift to Franklin Roosevelt
. Tilbury House, 2010.
Senier, Siobhan, ed.
Dawnland Voices: An Anthology of Indigenous Writing from New England
. U of Nebraska Press, 2014.
Speck, Frank G., and Jesse Moses. “The Celestial Bear Comes Down to Earth.”
Reading Publ. Mus. Art. Gall. Scient. Publ 7
(1945)
To download a teacher's guide to this book visit:
www.melissatantaquidgeonzobel.com/#!teachers-guide/cr7q
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