Be Light Like a Bird

by Monika Schröder

  Theo’s dad stood up. “In the name of the citizens of Pyramid, we would like to express our opposition to the expansion,” he said. “Instead of destroying a beautiful piece of nature to make space for more garbage, the community should explore ways to recycle and reduce waste.”

  People applauded, and Theo looked very proud.

  “I think Robert Zusack has given us enough good reasons to support his measure,” one of the trustees said. “Even in light of the dissenting voices, which is hardly a majority.”

  Someone in the audience shouted, “We need to be heard!”

  The supervisor again called the room to order, and then our teacher, Mrs. Peters stood up. “I’d like to make the board aware of the fact that this voice of dissent originated from two middle school students who learned about the proposed expansion in class,” she said. “They like to watch birds at Pete’s Pond and have compiled an impressive series of photos that’s still on display at the library. I believe that we’re setting a bad example if we stifle their attempt to bring about change in their community.”

  Just then, Mrs. Russo came in. I caught her eye as she hurried toward the front, and she gave me a thumbs-up. She stopped behind my chair and handed me the turtle shell Theo and I had found, along with a sheet of paper. “Read this quickly and then tell the board.”

  The paper was a printout of an article about archaeological sites in the Upper Peninsula. Mrs. Russo had highlighted a portion of the text:

  Turtle shells are found in ancient Native American burial grounds. They were used for rattles, with perforated holes tying the upper and lower shells together, and for attaching a handle. Ancient native people may have given these rattles to the dead in their graves…

  In the margin Mrs. Russo had written, If Pete’s Pond is an ancient Native American burial ground, it cannot be destroyed!

  “We’ll go ahead and vote on the matter,” the supervisor said. “The motion will not be decided by referendum, but by a vote of the township board.”

  Mr. Zusack gave a satisfied nod, and I saw Theo’s dad shake his head in disappointment.

  “How can you just overrule the opinion of your citizens?” a young man called out from the back row.

  “The board will vote on the motion,” the supervisor reiterated.

  I looked at Mrs. Russo, who nodded encouragingly. “I would like to say something, Mr. Kondrick,” I said.

  The room was suddenly quiet, and everyone stared at me. I had to force myself to keep breathing.

  “We have found evidence that the area around Pete’s Pond was used by ancient Native Americans as a burial ground,” I announced.

  Mr. Kondrick frowned at me. “What kind of evidence would that be?”

  “Box turtle shells that were used by Native Americans as gifts to their dead. These shells were often made into rattles and then added to burial sites. We found one of those shells at Pete’s Pond. We also have evidence of another shell that was discovered there earlier.” I paused to take a breath. I was so nervous I could hear my heart beating.

  “You mean the area around Pete’s Pond could be an ancient Native American burial ground?” Mr. Zusack asked.

  “Exactly,” Randle added, standing up. “It also means that my people would like it to be preserved and not destroyed.”

  I looked at Theo and had to suppress a smile about the way Randle referred to the Chippewa as “his people.”

  “Your people?” Mr. Zusack asked.

  “I am part Chippewa myself, and I know the tribe will support the archeological examination of the site,” Randle said.

  Mr. Zusack massaged his forehead with his right hand and suddenly looked very concerned. “But you don’t know for sure,” he said. “All you have is this one turtle shell.”

  “No, we also have evidence that another shell with the same kind of holes was found near the pond thanks to a photo taken by my father, Edward Redbird,” Randle said.

  Now the audience’s murmur grew so loud that Mr. Kondrick had to call everyone to order again.

  “You see these holes?” Randle had taken the shell from my hand and was holding it up. “They were most likely used to attach a handle to the rattle. The Chippewa still make these rattles and use them in ceremonies.” He paused before continuing. “If finding these shells means that this is sacred ground to Native Americans, it cannot be debased by burying garbage in it.”

  “How come the tribe doesn’t know about the site? The expansion plans have been publicized, and no one from the tribal council has claimed the land,” Mr. Zusack said.

  “We don’t keep records of our burial grounds. Native Americans don’t administer the dead,” Randle said. “The shell is likely more than two hundred years old. At that time, Native Americans lived freely on the Upper Peninsula. Federal law protects Native American burial sites from further destruction. So, should the township give you permission to expand your business and proceed with your plan, the courts will decide. And” — Randle inhaled, making a dramatic pause — “I can assure you that this will be decided in favor of the Chippewa.”

  Mr. Zusack looked defeated. It was really hard not to gloat, and I had to make a fist so I wouldn’t jump up and scream. Randle had explained this better than we ever could.

  Mr. Kondrick whispered something to the trustee sitting next to him, who shook his head. “Well,” Mr. Kondrick said, “we’ll have to reconsider this motion in light of this new development. I suggest that the motion be dismissed until a further investigation into the matter has taken place. Those in favor of dismissal raise their hands.”

  The supervisor, the treasurer, the clerk, and the three trustees raised their hands. Mr. Zusack did not.

  “Motion dismissed,” said the clerk.

  * * *

  Outside, we thanked the people who had come to support us, but they mostly wanted to thank me. I told everyone that it was Mrs. Russo who had found the answer.

  “But you spoke up,” Theo’s dad said. “And that’s important.”

  When Randle joined us, I shook his hand. “Thank you very much,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Randle replied.

  “I am so proud of you,” Ma said, walking up behind me and giving me a hug.

  “Randle, this is my mom,” I said. “Ma, this is Randle.”

  “I know,” Ma said, smiling at Randle. “We’ve met at the retirement home. You certainly saved the day.”

  Randle smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

  Mrs. Russo joined us, and I gave her a hug. “Thank you so much,” I said.

  “I’m glad I could help,” she replied. “But this wouldn’t have happened without you and Theo.” She turned to Randle and added, “And you spoke so well tonight. It sure helped that you’re part Chippewa.”

  “He’s also a Buddhist,” I said. “But I’m sure the Buddha wouldn’t mind you speaking up to save an ancient Native American burial ground.”

  Randle laughed. “I think he would understand. The Buddha is in favor of preserving the environment and wants us to live in harmony with nature. He definitely doesn’t support unnecessary landfills.”

  43

  “My dad doesn’t think the landfill will be expanded,” Theo said when we were back at Pete’s Pond the following week. “An archeologist confirmed that the shell we found is really old and could be from a gravesite. He plans to file for permission to start a dig. And a group of his students is planning to petition the township to support more recycling. My dad said we started a movement.”

  “When we left the township meeting, I noticed that Mrs. Russo was talking to your dad for a long time,” I said. “That look they gave each other at the farmer’s market is apparently leading somewhere now?”

  “I don’t know,” Theo said. “I hope it’ll mean something.”

  “My mother told me that Randle asked her out for dinner,”
I said. “They met at the nursing home and then again at the township meeting. She wanted to know what I thought of them getting to know each other better.”

  “What did you say?”

  I shrugged. “That’s fine by me. I like Randle.”

  Loud cawing came from the forest behind us, and we both turned around to take a closer look.

  “Look at all those crows gathering,” Theo said, pointing his camera in their direction.

  “There’s a dead one lying on the ground,” I told him, zooming in on it with my binoculars.

  “All the others are sitting in the trees around it, screeching,” Theo said.

  “More are coming. It’s almost like they’re calling them to come to mourn,” I said.

  Soon the tree was filled with black birds. Then one of the perching crows swooped down and landed next to the dead crow. Others hopped closer, and soon a group of ten or twelve crows circled the dead bird.

  “If a group of crows is called a murder,” Theo said, watching through his camera, “is this a murder of crows mourning the murder of a crow?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s kind of sad.”

  “I hope it’s not your friend Joseph,” Theo said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “There’s no white spot on its head.”

  “Oh, by the way, I brought you something,” Theo said, pulling a digital camera from his backpack. “I know you said you didn’t want it, but I think you’re wasting your time with the drawings. I hate to break it to you, but you aren’t getting any better.”

  I took the camera and looked through the finder. “I know. I was never much of an artist. Will you show me how to use it?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Let’s start right now.”

  Theo showed me how to operate the zoom and which button to press to see the picture you’d just taken. I heard a blue jay and looked for its blue and white feathers in the trees. When I found it, I adjusted the camera until I could see the bird inside the frame. I zoomed in until the image was sharp, and clicked.

  “Not bad for a beginner,” Theo said, looking at the display. “We can go to my house later if you want. I’ll show you how to download the photos. Then we can print out the best ones for your journal.”

  I nodded. The crows had ended their wake and flown off. Just one bird remained, lying still and quiet on the ground. I knew I wouldn’t need to come back to bury it.

  44

  At the end of April, an envelope from the FAA arrived. Ma and I sat at the kitchen table, and I ripped it open. Inside was Dad’s fountain pen. I opened the cap and unscrewed the top. There was also a letter, which I handed to Ma.

  “The letter says that they found the pen a while ago and sent it to the pilot’s widow,” Ma said. “Since she returned it, they assumed it must be Dad’s.”

  I placed the pen on the kitchen table, and we stared at it for a few minutes in silence. Finally Ma asked, “Remember when we bought it for him?”

  I nodded. “The lady in the store looked like a Goth girl with her face powdered white and her eyebrows plucked to a thin black line.”

  Ma laughed. “You called her a fountain pen ghoul.”

  “Dad really liked that pen,” I said. We were quiet again for a while, both of us just looking at our gift and thinking of Dad. It was good to remember him together, even without any words.

  Eventually Ma picked up the pen and unscrewed the top. The silver tip was corroded. “What should we do with it?” she asked.

  “There’s still ink in it,” I said, looking at her blue-stained fingertips.

  “It probably still works,” Ma said. She reached for a piece of paper and scribbled on it. “Just needs a little cleaning and fresh ink. Maybe we should each write a letter to Dad.”

  “I like that idea,” I said. “We could put our letters in a box and take it to Lake Superior.”

  Ma smiled. “That’s a good plan.”

  * * *

  And that was exactly what we did. We each used the pen to write our letters. I wrote mine sitting on the boulder by the pond, listening to the birds.

  Dear Dad,

  They found your pen, and Ma and I are each writing you a letter.

  I was sad to hear that you cheated on Ma. She was mad at you, so mad that she wouldn’t even talk to me anymore. Your lie hurt both of us, even after you were gone. But I can’t do anything about that, and the most important thing is that Ma and I are talking again. I hope in her letter, she can forgive you too.

  We live in Pyramid, Michigan, now, and soon we’ll have enough money to buy a house. I still watch birds and use the journal that you gave me, but I gave up trying to draw the birds that I see. I’m just not getting any better at it. Instead, I take photos of them for my journal. My friend Theo, who is a great photographer himself, gave me his old camera. We watch birds together quite a bit, and it’s fun. I think you would like Theo.

  I also have a job here in Pyramid. I work in a health food store with a Frenchman who is going to teach Ma how to cook. Yes, believe it or not, she’s learning to cook — as in actually preparing a meal from scratch. Lots of things have changed but in a good way.

  I still miss you and will always love you.

  Wren

  45

  On a Sunday morning in early May, Ma and I drove out to Whitefish Bay on Lake Superior. It was a beautiful day, clear and calm, with only a few puffy clouds high up in the dark-blue sky. We parked near the lighthouse and walked to the beach.

  Ma had called ahead, and the man we were renting the boat from was waiting at his dock when we got there. We stepped into the small green rowboat, and Ma took up the oars. I let my finger run through the freezing water.

  When we were far enough out, Ma put down the oars, and we stayed still for a moment. I had brought along Dad’s fountain pen, because the night before, I’d wondered if it was the same one he’d used to write love letters to that other woman. He had lived with this big fat lie — by cheating on Ma, he also had cheated on me.

  “We should put the pen in the box,” I said.

  “Don’t you want to keep it?” Ma asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s better to let it go.”

  Saying those words made me think of Randle. For a moment, I felt guilty about letting my mind wander to him while we were saying goodbye to Dad. But then I looked at Ma holding the box over the water. She smiled at me and opened it so I could add the pen next to the stones we’d put inside to make sure the box would sink.

  “It would be better if we had his ashes,” Ma said.

  “I know,” I said. “But this is all we have.”

  “We also have our memories,” Ma said. “We’ll hang on to those as well — the good ones at least.”

  “So can you think of him now without getting mad?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. As long as I think of all the good times that we shared.”

  I looked out on the water and quietly said, “I love you, Dad. Goodbye.”

  Ma whispered goodbye too and then slipped the box into the water. Together we watched it sink beneath the surface, out of sight.

  After a moment, Ma bent forward to touch me, but the boat swayed dangerously and she had to catch herself. “I guess I’ll hug you later,” she said, and we had to laugh because it felt so clumsy.

  We rowed back to shore, and when we were in the car again, Ma opened her purse, pulled out a folder, and put it on my lap. “I spoke to a realtor, and she gave me this list of possible houses for us. Want to go and look at them when we get back?”

  “I sure do,” I said.

  Ma smiled and reached over to put her hand on mine. She started the car, and we drove east along Lakeshore Drive. Soon we passed a sign announcing: Pyramid — 8 miles.

  Ahead, I saw an osprey take off from her nest in a tall pine tree and soar ou
t over the bay, light and free. Watching the bird made me think of Theo. I was planning to meet him later at the boulder by Pete’s Pond. He’d want to know about our morning at the lake, and I’d ask how his father’s date with Mrs. Russo went. Then we would start birding.

  I looked forward to getting home.

  Monika Schröder

  Monika Schröder grew up in Germany, but has worked in American international schools in Egypt, Oman, Chile, and India. Before moving to the United States in 2011, she was the elementary school librarian at the American Embassy School in New Delhi. Monika currently lives with her husband and dog in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Be Light Like a Bird is her fourth novel for young readers. You can visit her online at www.monikaschroeder.com.

  Be Light Like a Bird is published by Capstone Young Readers

  A Capstone Imprint

  1710 Roe Crest Drive

  North Mankato, Minnesota 56003

  www.mycapstone.com

  Text © 2016 by Monika Schröder

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Schröder, Monika, 1965- author.

  Title: Be light like a bird / by Monika Schröder.

  Description: North Mankato, Minnesota : Stone Arch Books, a Capstone imprint, [2016] |

  Summary: When her father is killed in an accident, twelve-year-old Wren is grief stricken, but what upsets her even more is that her mother seems to be filled with anger, rather than sadness--as they move from place to place Wren is forced to cope with her mother’s strange behavior, her own grief, and all the problems that come with being the new girl in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where they finally end up.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015046433| ISBN 9781623707491 (paper over board) | ISBN 9781496533012 (library hardcover) | ISBN 9781496533029 (ebook pdf) | ISBN 9781623707507 (ebook)