Wabanaki Blues

by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel

  Del pulls me back to him by my belt, which is loose from all the weight I’ve lost since getting trapped in the janitor’s closet. I don’t resist. “You’re right about your aunt being dark and dangerous,” he says. “Just hearing her name creeps me out. How does somebody get a name like that?” He lifts his furry teepee eyebrows, as if something strange just occurred to him. “You know, I never asked, do you have a traditional Indian name?”

  Something clicks inside of me. I consider my Indian name and its peculiar connotations. “It’s Nadialwinno,” I say. “Bilki gave it to me. It means ‘Hunter.’”

  “You, a hunter?” he stifles a nervous laugh. “You’re a vegetarian.”

  My eyes twinkle. “Not exactly, I eat fried fish. I’m Abenaki, after all. But, yeah, essentially I don’t eat things people hunt. I always figured it was a sarcastic zinger. Mom got into a fight with Bilki over the name. But Bilki insisted it was the only proper name for me.”

  There is an awkward pause in the conversation, as we both remember Bilki, and stare up into the uncertain night, where The Great Bear sits newly in the northern sky.

  Earth and sky are connected, you know. I remember that’s what Black Racer Woman said. She also talked about balance and how all bears have their hunters. I scan the sky. The Hunter constellation has not appeared yet.

  Headlights glare through the woods and a van grumbles toward us, bumping along the rocky dirt all the way up to our fire. I’m grateful for the distraction until I realize it’s Will.

  He hops out and kicks the edge of our blanket. “Well look who’s here. If it isn’t sonny boy and Little Lila all cozied up together by the fire. Son, I don’t know why you had to wait till the last minute to call off that wedding. The whole planet knew lemonhead had to go.”

  “You’re hysterical, Pops.” Del eyes him, suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

  Will raises a finger to indicate he is about to reveal his motive. He opens the back of the van and hauls out a four-foot high, three-foot wide rectangular brown paper package, shuffling his feet as he pulls it, trying to keep it from hitting the ground.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asks Del.

  Will’s bile-green eyes catch the firelight. They are bulging more than usual. Del limps over to help him with the cumbersome package. Will yanks it away like he’s a little kid with a new toy he refuses to share.

  “This ain’t for you, Delaney Pyne. It’s something I promised your friend, Little Lila —though I kind of figured you’d be here at her cabin when I arrived.” Will clears his throat suggestively. “Celine predicted I’d find you two together when I saw her and Big Lila at my new gallery yesterday.” He licks his gray teeth. “Ten points for the pretty psychic with the sapphire braids!”

  I clench my own teeth at his mention of Celine. “You met Mom and Celine in Hartford?”

  Will examines his watch. “Sure, they stopped by my gallery. Lots of people visit me now. I’m a local hero. The Hartford News calls me “Mia Delaney’s faithful lover and avenger.’ Women adore me. As soon as Del helps me move the rest of my paintings to Hartford, I’m out of Indian Stream for good.” He rubs his hands together, “Good riddance to this hick town. I’m looking forward to spending time with your mom and Celine.” He pinches up his eyes, tenderly. “Celine is a wise woman. She says these dull leaves are a dark sign. I believe her. I could listen to that woman talk for hours. Damn, she’s great. I had one hell of a time with her and your mom, and I didn’t drink a single drop.”

  He leans a dreamy elbow on Del’s shoulder. “Son, I’ve been clean and sober for a month now. When you sent Cricket Dill to jail for your mom’s murder, I gave up drinking, as my thank you to the universe.” He leans another elbow on me. “Then after what happened with Mona and Millicent Dibble, I gave up even thinking about drinking. I hope the judge throws away the key on that monster principal bitch.”

  He shakes a cocktail napkin that has a telephone number written on it in hibiscus-colored ink and grins like a wildcat. “Guess whose number this is?”

  A hot acid rush infuses my chest. So much for Celine and her “I hate moldy bologna and hot sauce” routine. I ask Will, “You think it’s okay to date Mia’s sister?” I fold my arms protectively.

  “Yes I do. She’s the first woman who has made me laugh since Mia died.” He lowers his pitch. “By the way, Big Lila said to tell you that Beetle is asking for you, now that his crazy mother is free.” He shoots Del a worried glance.

  I struggle to maintain a blank expression.

  Del breaks the tension by reaching for his father’s brown paper package again. Will pushes him away.

  Del’s bad leg gives out, and I reach for him before he topples over.

  “Whoa,” he says, catching himself before I do.

  “Sorry, Son, this present is for Little Lila and only Little Lila.” Will shoves the package, face front, in my direction. “Let ‘er rip m’lady.”

  Something makes me hesitate to tear off the brown paper wrapping.

  Will shakes his gift at me eagerly. “C’mon! Open it! It won’t bite!”

  I give in and rip the paper. Anything is better than listening to him say another word about Beetle or his new obsession with Celine. Will holds the package to his chest from behind, so it faces the firelight and me. I step back a few yards to examine what Will brought me. It’s a huge painted photo of my loathsome face. My imperfections are blown up several feet high, enhanced by Will’s incisive slashes of paint, creating a swirling vortex around my fingers. He’s made them my portal, my means of escape from here and Hartford and this entire planet; they can take me anywhere I want to go. I love that. Each element of this work is perfectly executed: the muddy eyes, the shaggy tree bark hair. Except, my hair and eyes aren’t their usual colorless selves. Thanks to Will’s artistry, they’re streaked with red, blue and yellow, like the flames in the fire. At first I don’t understand. I think he’s gone overboard with color. Then I realize he’s used the hues that naturally make up brown. There is so much more color in this world than most people see. All painters know that. All humans should.

  Still, I’m slightly miffed over how Will has altered my mouth, painting it with a wry, strawberry, Mona Lisa smile, just like Bilki’s. A log slips in the fire, making the flames blossom into a plume that stretches toward the stars, lighting Will’s portrait like a glowing chiaroscuro, momentarily transforming it into the style of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa masterpiece.

  “Not bad, eh, Little Lila?” Will nervously reaches for the hip pocket on his pants that used to hold his flask and slaps his pants leg. “I hope you don’t mind me adding that smile. Since you never smile, I wanted to see what you looked like with one.” He jingles the change in his pockets and shifts his hips back and forth, anticipating my verdict.

  I consider the surprising details of the portrait: the iconic smile, the eye-glint of a blues musician’s tortured soul. Will nailed that; he knows torture. The hair shows texture, reflecting its bark-like quality. Yes, this is a true likeness and artfully done. I have to admit, Will is a virtuoso.

  “I love it, Will,” I tell him.

  “May the colors of your world be many,” he says, evoking Bilki’s favorite saying. “May the colors of your world be many,” I repeat, somewhat melancholy, thinking of the dull autumn leaves. I give the world’s scariest man a hug to make sure he hasn’t been lying to me about being sober. Tropical men’s cologne with a hint of hibiscus has replaced his whiskey scent, and he appears to have showered. Will continues to hold the painting in front of him while I admire it.

  Del sneers at my portrait, his lichen-green eyes bulging enough to be mistaken for his dad’s. He hasn’t said a word since viewing the painting. He clearly hates it. At least he hasn’t voiced that opinion. I don’t think it’s wise of him to be overly critical, due to his dad’s fragile state of early recovery from alcohol addiction. />
  Will sags over his son’s negative reaction. “What’s wrong, Son? You liked it well enough when you saw it before.”

  I don’t want Del to respond. I try and keep things upbeat, pointing out what I perceive to be the painting’s true element of genius. “Will, I love your decision to blend colorful fall leaves into the background. Those leaves pick up the colors in my hair, and they seem so hopeful right now.” I tug at the maple leaf charm on my bracelet.

  “What leaves?” mumbles Will. His monster gumball eyes widen like never before. He swings the canvas around to face him, so he can inspect it. He has not actually viewed the uncovered painting, till now. After examining the front of his work, he teeter-totters. Del rushes over to steady him.

  I hear a rustle in the beige woods and quickly turn my head. I’ve learned to be wary of bears. But it’s not a bear. Out of the dreary trees steps a woman made of stars with a strawberry smile, carrying a paintbrush and palette in her twinkling hand. I can’t believe it. This is the first time I’ve actually seen Bilki.

  “I put those leaves in Will’s painting to remind you that you can save these dreary woods,” she says. “The Hunter and The Bear must both make sacrifices to make that happen.”

  Del calls out, “Mona Lisa, I can’t believe it.”

  Will slaps both hands on his head, in awe. “Me, either.”

  “I know!” I say. But when I look their way, I realize they’re not looking at the woman made of stars. They can’t see her. She is not the miracle they’re acknowledging. They’re staring at my face.

  “You’re smiling, Little Lila. You look just like my painting!”

  “He’s right, Mona Lisa. You have an amazing smile.” Del eyes his father suspiciously. “Dad, when did you add the colored leaves to your painting?”

  “I didn’t paint those leaves, Son. I swear. I don’t know who did.”

  “Bilki painted them,” I explain, flush with newfound wisdom. “And she told me what I need to do…”

  Twenty-four

  The Charms of Wabanaki

  It’s Halloween, when the bounds between the living and the dead are as lacey as a spider’s web. This is the night when monsters come out to play. I picture all the little vampires and Frankensteins hitting the streets of Hartford, taking a break from their trick-or-treating to watch the demolition of my school. That event was scheduled for sundown. It’s well past that now. I wonder if Del and his dad took time off from moving paintings into his new gallery to watch the big blowup. I’m sure the Hartford Police hooted and hollered when the place came tumbling down. Not every unsolved teen murder case leads to such an embarrassing conclusion: the school principal did it. Ha! It’s almost a cliché. Deep down, doesn’t every high school student suspect her principal of being wicked?

  Good riddance, Colt High, home of the homicidal Millicent Dibble. I lift my wrist, looking to kiss the bumblebee charm on my bracelet that Dad sent me as a graduation gift, albeit belatedly. I twirl the charms on my wrist around, searching for the bee mascot, but it’s gone! I drop to my knees and comb the cold pine floorboards, filling my hands and knees with splinters. I spot it under the picture of Bilki and hook it back on with a sigh. I want to remember Colt High, for better or for worse, not to mention my absent dad. All of the charms on this bracelet help me hold those memories and make me who I am. Losing one is like losing a part of myself.

  From this low angle, I notice a new keyhole in the wall. After finding that secret compartment in my room, I know this cabin holds endless secrets. The potential of opening this new locked door sends me frantically hunting down Grumps’ skeleton keys. I flip through them until I’m down to the ones that haven’t fit anything yet. The first one is far too big for the hole. The second one turns in the lock but jams, as if the tumbler hasn’t been used in decades. I force it, even though I’m worried the key will snap. My charm bracelet jangles and jangles, as I twist and turn the key. Finally, it gives. I pull open this stubborn door to find a locked iron box inside. The box contains a much tinier keyhole, the size used to lock diaries. This is absurd. Grumps doesn’t have any keys this small.

  Then I remember something and examine the charms on my bracelet. There’s a paintbrush, palette, easel, wolf, history book, guitar, musical note, log cabin, woodstove, bear, eagle, star, maple leaf, powwow drum, arrowhead, moccasin, robin, trout, spider’s web, and a key…Yes, a key! I recall my dream about the blue bear that handed me a key, shaped like a musical note, and how he told me to go outside and unlock the stars. Grumps treated his keys with reverence, as though they held some special magic.”

  I pinch the key charm between my thumb and forefinger to try it in the locked box. I insert it into the keyhole and hear a gentle click. I open it and find a single sheet of handmade yellow parchment paper inside, its edges wax-pressed with fragments of fall leaves. My heart plummets when I see these leafy remnants of autumn’s former glory, now inexplicably missing from the landscape. Painted in the center is the image of a hunter chasing a bear through a forest. Swirling paintbrush strokes inveigle the eye into the vortex at the center of the scene; it looks like a portal into another world.

  “Thanks, Bilki,” I say. This is clearly her work.

  I stand up and touch Bilki’s cheek in the picture on the wall. It feels warm. I flip the paper over and it says, “The Story of The Great Bear.” Grumps wasn’t kidding! This must be the Secret of Wabanaki he was talking about. This is what Mom was searching for and failed to find, right after he died. Funny that she would be scrambling around for something Bilki painted, especially when it turns out, it’s a mere story.

  I hear Bilki scolding, “A mere story! Remember: stories are what human beings hold most sacred.”

  I feel humbled and solemn.

  Scribbled in the corner of this parchment are the words, “Read this in autumn by firelight.” I grab the scratchy wool blanket from the foot of my bed along with a couple of logs and head out to face this chilly late October night. The fire pit remains filled with charcoal from where Del and I shared our fire. I pile some fresh kindling and new logs on top of the charred remains. Overhead, the New Hampshire sky sparkles with a bold galactic majesty, offering all the infinite possibilities of a glittering, newborn universe. The golden rays of Grandmother Moon sear through a wispy cloud, bathing the woods in the healing white light of a loving cosmos.

  I start a fire, sending sparks hopping and swirling into the night, like waltzing stars. A winding trail of smoke climbs through the clouds toward the Milky Way, sending my wishes to the heavens. A log falls and flames flare, illuminating the edge of the woods. A twig crackling in the distance makes me mindful of the animals cloistered in the shadows. A gentle west wind blows dry beige leaves along the ground, and they clatter like ghostly applause, hastening me to begin.

  I wrap my blanket tight and read:

  “This story takes place in a time when the autumn leaves were not as colorful as they are now. In those days, the people harvested and prepared their crops, game, fish, and foragings in a despondent way, as the fading summer greenery signaled that the first snowfall was not far ahead. The animals shared in this gloom, especially the bears, which wearily filled up on bark, berries, and bugs, preparing for their great hibernation. Indeed, the bears were most disturbed by this bleak time, as it offered them a poor send-off for their long winter’s nap. The humans also wished for something to cheer them, knowing how hard it would be to survive the coming season of darkness and cold.

  “An old black bear wanted to alleviate this melancholia. The creature lifted its head to the sky and told the Great Spirit it wanted to help its fellow creatures during this trying time. At the same moment, a hunter offered a pinch of tobacco to a fire and made the same proposition to the Great Spirit.

  “The Great Spirit lifted both creatures to the sky and explained that making this season less grim would require a sacrifice from both of them. The Great S
pirit asked the bear to lay down its life for the hunter, and for the hunter to take the life of The Great Bear.

  “The hunter begged to switch roles with the bear, saying that the animal was too great to sacrifice. The bear argued that its tremendous size and medicine made its sacrifice more powerful.

  “The Great Spirit agreed with the bear, instructing the hunter to kill the animal that very night, there among the stars. With a sore heart, the hunter shot an arrow into the bear’s chest and slit the animal’s throat with a knife. The Great Spirit told the hunter to set the lifeless creature’s remains afire, there atop the burning stars.

  “A great flaming pyre licked the sky, and the bear’s blood and fat rained down from the heavens, upon the dreary woodlands, transforming the once dull fall leaves to vibrant shades of crimson and gold. When the earthly creatures saw this rapturous sight, their own life-blood was renewed.

  “Forever after, the constellations of The Great Bear and The Hunter remained among the stars to remind us that every fall a sacrifice must take place to renew autumn’s glory. The Hunter must take the Bear’s life, to repaint the leaves and bring color into our world.”

  This is the story that so vexed Black Racer Woman. I see how her strict interpretation of it caused conflict with Grumps. He thought the tale of the hunter and the bear was an allegory for sacrifice, urging his family to make personal concessions to protect these woodlands. She viewed it as a rigid mandate to kill a bear. That’s why she tried to kill one, herself, but failed when Del stepped in front of it and took her bullet in his leg. This story also explains why Mom hates fall. Black Racer Woman definitely made her hit that bear with her truck. I’m sure of it, now, regardless of her claims to the contrary.

  I throw another log on the fire. The flames erupt, illuminating the woods. I swallow hard at the sight of the dry leaves catching the firelight. An icy wind slaps my cheek, drawing me closer to the fire’s warmth. My mind feels as crisp as the late October air. I survey the stars, knowing my grandparents are up there, shining down on me, along with the Hunter and The Great Bear. I wave to them all, and a shooting star falls from the sky, signaling change. The wispy cloud-cover thins like fading faces. I wouldn’t mind seeing my dead friends right now. But for their sake, I hope they’ve found their rest.