“That’s enough, Sandy.” Grumps tries to pull her away from me, and she resists, moving closer.
Sandy whispers in my ear and I smell smoky blankets. “No matter what those fools in the rest of New England like to boast, our leaves are better here in New Hampshire than anywhere else. Our maple syrup is better, too.”
“Enough,” grumbles Grumps. “City Gal here has better things to do than worry about who’s got the best foliage and maple syrup. She’s a blues musician and a good one.”
“Another artist! How wonderful!” Sandy touches my unsmiling lips, fondly. “Mona Lisa, you run off and have a look around. I’ll help your grouchy old grandpa set up his booth.”
Before I can get away, half a dozen other elder Abenaki women pile in for kissy introductions. They all look a little like me. It’s funny: seeing people with the same face as mine makes me feel better about the way I look. They are joined by clusters of women from Mi’kmaq, Maliseet, Passamaquoddy, and Penobscot, all wishing me well. I’d never seen people be this friendly at a powwow before. They all call me their Wabanaki sister.
I finally get a break when bees swarm us, and we disperse. Bees are a fixture at powwows. I bustle past them toward a dusty cloud of sage because I know bees avoid smoke. Waving to a familiar Wampanoag potter, I pass other vendors and pause to admire a wampum eagle barrette that would look amazing in anyone’s hair but mine.
Wind whirls at my feet, creating dust devils that seem to smile at me. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m wearing Bilki’s regalia or what, but I feel comfortable here. I search the crowd for familiar faces and spot my cousin Aaron Elmwood from Mohegan. He never misses a New England powwow and nobody ever misses him; he is the biggest Indian around, bigger than Bear. I wave at him but he doesn’t see me, most likely because of my Abenaki disguise. It’s somewhat unusual for an Indian to wear the traditional clothes of more than one tribe, like I’m doing. Seeing me in Abenaki regalia is bound to shock some folks who only know me as a Mohegan who wears the regalia of that tribe. Like lots of Mohegan teenagers, I made my Mohegan ceremonial clothes in the arts and crafts room on the reservation. Now I own clothes I presume Bilki made, as well. They are my heirlooms. I’m proud to come from two tribes, and wearing the clothes that Bilki left me makes me feel closer to her.
The midday crowd bulges at the ticket entrance, a fragrant cocoa butter wind blows my way. My heart skips one…two…three scheduled beats as a group of floppy-haired boys from Lake Winnipesaukee blasts in wearing loud plaid shorts and glowing summer tans. They swing their arms freely, as if they they can snatch whatever or whoever they choose. Maybe they’re right about that. I don’t spot Beetle with this group, and my heart sinks. Even if he is here, somewhere, with what I’m wearing, he’ll never recognize me, or want to.
I head for the love charm booth, which is overflowing with girls my age. The sign says the vendor’s name is Black Racer Woman. I remember the black racer snake I spotted on my first day in Indian Stream. Mom said it wasn’t poisonous but Black Racer Woman still seems like a spine-chilling name for an Indian woman to choose. Of course in all fairness, she probably didn’t pick out that name herself. Traditional Indian names often come from parents or other elders, like mine did. Take my Indian name, it’s worse than Black Racer Woman, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, it’s so bad I’d rather not discuss it. But I can tell you that I blame my mainstream first and middle names on my old-school, boring, French Canadian father who couldn’t stop himself from giving me an old-school, boring, French name.
A high-pitched cackle erupts from a lean elderly woman seated behind the love charms booth. I assume this is Black Racer Woman. A heavy rope of iron hair creeps down onto her beaded buckskin vest like a boa constrictor. Her wrinkled lips pinch an ancient stone pipe that looks as if it could’ve come from one of my father’s archaeological digs. She wears grimy moose hide moccasins that make me wonder if she lives in a wigwam with a dirt floor. The more I examine the beadwork on her buckskin vest, skirt, and hood, the more familiar it looks. I check the design on my skirt and shiver; it’s the same pattern.
A lemonheaded girl buys a ball of vines from her table and stuffs it in a brown paper bag. When she turns around, I recognize her.
“Hey, Scales!” I yell.
She doesn’t notice me, or maybe doesn’t want to.
I gag on the strong scent of fake strawberries and trace it to a freckle-faced girl with a frizzy red ponytail. She pushes in front of me, into Black Racer Woman’s wares, and grasps another ball of vines just like the one that Scales bought. Up close, I see it’s labeled “Love Winder Charm.” I feel my cheeks burn.
The freckled girl rails at the old woman, “I know what your little note says. But is this a real love charm?”
Black Racer Woman responds by tapping the handwritten card attached to the charmed ball with her fingernail that’s been filed to a fang-point. “Read for yourself, kid.” The gold rims on her oak-colored eyes flare as bright and fierce as the hot August sun overhead. It occurs to me that Mom’s eyes are the same oaky color, minus the solar flare effect.
The girl sneers and rolls her eyes.
Black Racer Woman cocks her head. “Oh, I see. You can’t read. Poor thing. I’ll help you.” She chants:
Here before you lies a way, a man’s affections for to sway.
This Winder Charm, which costs a fee, when e’er unwinds shall romance see.
These words sound more like Shakespearean hocus-pocus than Native American magic. Or perhaps the two are more similar than I thought. After hearing exactly how this charm lures men, I am twice as irritated at Scales for buying it. When the freckled frizzy red-haired girl hears Black Racer Woman’s words, she loses color and her freckles stand out like constellations in an albino sky. She clutches the ball to her chest, tosses a twenty-dollar bill at Black Racer Woman, and races off with her prize.
Black Racer Woman shrugs at me, as if to say, “another one bites the dust.”
I’m eyeing the small red leather pouches beaded with the eight-pointed stars, on the other end of her table, each one bulging with enchantment. I feel an unexpected tug at my heartstrings when I notice there’s only one left. Another Abenaki girl reaches for it at the same time I do. Black Racer Woman slaps the girl’s hand and points her fang-finger in my direction. “This last pouch is meant for you. It carries the Wabanaki star.”
I know she can’t be talking to me, so I turn to the brilliantly feathered dancer waiting in line behind me, tilting my head to indicate that this old woman is obviously speaking to her, but the dancer shrugs innocently.
Black Racer Woman taps one of the charms on the bracelet on my wrist. “I am speaking to you, Mona Lisa LaPierre. I recognize your charms. I bought that star charm for your grandmother.”
I’m suddenly less fond of my bracelet.
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
She chews her pipe stem and takes a long draft of her smoking mixture before answering. The air fills with the aroma of bearberry. “The man who chose your name was my father, your great grandfather. He named you Mona Lisa, after that great painting because he wished for you to paint these woods, just as your mother did.”
I know Black Racer Woman meant to say, “Just as your grandmother did.” Mom has never painted anything. But Black Racer Woman is old so I let her mistake slide. Besides, I’m stunned to discover I was named after a famous painting because my Abenaki great grandfather wanted me to become a painter. I was sure my name came from my dad’s French heritage. How come I haven’t heard about this art-loving Abenaki great grandfather before? It dawns on me that I should be grateful he didn’t name me after Edvard Munch’s The Scream or Salvador Dali’s Skull. Although, Starry Night by Van Gogh would have made for a cool Hollywood-style Indian name that Beetle would love and Mom would hate—which still works.
She leans over and grabs my wrist, shaking my ch
arm bracelet. She clearly has no idea that jingling this bracelet calls her sister. Her fractious dark medicine can’t harm me.
She pulls on my paintbrush charm. “Your great grandfather bought this charm. He also wanted you to become a painter, like your mother, but he misspoke his wish for you and said the word ‘artist.’ It was an easy mistake but a significant one. It will make things trickier for you when it comes time to fulfill your destiny, my dear grand niece.”
I ignore her idiotic remark about my destiny. “So you’re my great aunt?” I sputter.
“Yes. ” She holds the “s” a little too long, making it hiss.
“Bear mentioned me having a great aunt. That must be you,” I say. “Why haven’t we met before?”
She scrapes her fang-tipped fingernail back and forth across her neck as if she wants to shed her second skin. I hope this hair-raising woman is no indication of what I can expect from the rest of my northern relations. I rub my neck. It feels like something is winding around it, tightening its grip.
“Are you some kind of Medicine Woman?” I ask, sus-
piciously.
She cackles. “I am many things, Mona Lisa. Your grandfather thinks I’m a snake. But not all snakes are poisonous. Just because something has frightful qualities, that doesn’t make it bad. Snakes can be healing creatures. Rattlesnake tails eliminate pain during childbirth. Did you know that?”
She didn’t answer my question. But then, old-time Indians never do. A group of teen tourists buffets me, pushing for a better look at her inveigling wares. She leans way over her table to hand me the red leather pouch before any of them try and take it. My hands stiffen around it, like they have been bitten or stung, and I drop the pouch on the dusty ground.
Black Racer Woman lets loose another one of her flock of crows’ cackles. “I knew you would feel its medicine. This pouch will help you fulfill your destiny.”
I pick up the pouch again, gingerly. I can’t stop looking at its eight-pointed beaded star. “I don’t have a destiny,” I tell her.
“Of course you do.” Her oaky eyes catch fire again. “It is marked by the colors on your regalia. “I ought to know; I beaded it.” She leans back, gauging my reaction.
“What’s inside the pouch?” I ask, holding it out, trying not to think about her hand in making my regalia.
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.
Wabanaki Blues Page 12