Melange

by Kristy Tate

“If you had brown eyes, you could be Native American,” Matias said before he started the bike.

  “Maybe there are green-eyed tribes.” She had to yell to be heard over the engine’s roar.

  “I’ve heard of green-eyed monsters, but not green-eyed Native Americans,” he said over his shoulder before gunning the engine and sending the bike skittering down the hill.

  Lizbet pressed herself against him and held on as they raced through the woods. Moments later, they came to a clearing and concrete parking lot surrounding a large building.

  “Where are we?” she asked in his ear.

  “A modern-day Indian village,” he said.

  He drove through the crowded parking lot to the front of the Kenda Casino. He slowed as they approached the entrance. “Want to go inside? It’s not just about gambling. They have some artifacts and information on the Magena tribe.”

  “Do you mind?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have anything going on today. How about you?”

  Lizbet knew what he was really asking: where was Declan? She ignored the hidden question. “I would love to learn about the Magena tribe.” The woman in her dream had green eyes and while she knew that dreams were usually grounded in fantasy more than fact, she couldn’t help wondering if her mother had been a Native American.

  Matias pulled into a parking space and cut the engine.

  Although many of the employees looked Native American, most of the clientele appeared to be retired senior citizens eager to try out the buffet and lose their money on the slot machines.

  “In a few weeks at the peak of the summer, people will come here by the busload,” Matias said as he guided her through the wide glass doors. Inside, the floor was a stunning mosaic of gold and beige tiles with a salmon motif. A giant bronze statue of flying fish rose from a water-spewing fountain. Dark wooden beams crisscrossed the soaring ceiling. Beyond the foyer came the mingled sounds of jingling slot machines, and laughter.

  Matias placed his hand on the small of Lizbet’s back and guided her to a set of glass-encased shelves housing pottery, arrowheads, intricately carved pipes, and yellowing maps.

  “These are all from the Magena tribe?” Lizbet asked.

  Matias nodded. “My grandfather and uncles still attend the tribal council meetings. They have invited me to come, but my father forbids it.”

  “Why?” Lizbet tore her attention from the artifacts to glance at Matias.

  He kept his focus on his hands. “He wants us to assimilate. He regrets not learning English and pursuing an education. He wants Maria and me to be true Americans.” He made air quotes around the last two words.

  “Learning about your mother’s culture doesn’t stop you from being an American! In fact, you could argue being a Magena is more American than—”

  “I know, but I have to respect my father’s wishes, even if I don’t completely agree with him.” He looked up, hopeful. “Would you like to meet my grandparents? They live on the reservation. They could answer your questions better than anything we can find here.”

  When she nodded, he took her hand and guided her back outside to the motorcycle.

  “According to my father, the Kenda casino brings in millions of dollars a day,” Matias said over his shoulder as they sped out of the parking lot and headed toward the Puget Sound. “But, as you can see, very little of the money actually falls into the hands of the people.”

  The twisting road through the tall pines led past weed-infested yards filled with rusting cars and lopsided trailers. Dogs of all sizes and breeds ran after the bike.

  “My grandparents both have an alcohol problem, as do my uncles. But it’s early in the day. We should be okay.” Matias had to yell over the engine’s roar and the dogs’ barking. The wind snatched his words away.

  “Will they mind our dropping by?” She spoke directly in his ear.

  “No, my grandparents love company. They resent how little they see of my mom, Maria, and me. They blame my dad, of course, because it is his fault. He has done his best to shun his own culture, and he cannot understand my mom’s desire to stay connected to her people.”

  The trees gave way as they approached a cliff bordering the Puget Sound. The early afternoon sun sparkled on the water and a few clouds wisped across the sky. As Matias turned off the main road and followed a dirt road down the bank, the bike’s tires spewed mud behind them. He stopped in front of a moss-colored wood-frame house. An aged dog, part hound and part something else, rose from the mat on the front porch and came to greet them on shaky arthritic legs.

  Matias climbed off the bike, held it for Lizbet as she did the same, and popped the kickstand. “This is Kudo,” he said, fondling the dog’s ears.

  “How do you do, Kudo?” Lizbet greeted the dog.

  He woofed, cocked his head, and watched her with swimmy eyes dim with cataracts. “I haven’t seen your kind in a moon’s age.”

  Surprised, Lizbet dropped to her knees so she could be nose to snout with the dog. “What do you mean?”

  “What does Kudo mean?” Matias asked. “Do all names have meanings?”

  “Your breed hasn’t passed this way in a long time.”

  “Breed?” Lizbet muttered.

  “Who knows?” Matias knocked on her helmet, reminding her to take it off.

  Lizbet climbed to her feet, waiting for Kudo to answer her. She pulled off the helmet and handed it to Matias.

  He draped the helmet’s straps over the bike’s handlebars.

  Lizbet petted Kudo’s giant head, silently willing him to tell her more.

  “Green-eyed Magena-girl,” Kudo whined. “You are indeed rare, not only in appearance but in abilities.”

  “But you’ve known others?” Lizbet asked.

  “Like Kudo?” Matias ruffled the dog’s ears. “Nah. Good thing, too. He’s an ugly mutt.”

  Kudo blew out a derision.

  “Ah, he didn’t mean it,” Lizbet consoled the dog. “You’re a fine creature.”

  The door banged open and a small wizened woman emerged from the house. She wore a large flannel shirt, a baggy pair of jeans, and a bandana wrapped around her gray-streaked dark hair. “Matias!” She held out her arms.

  Matias stooped to give his grandmother a kiss. “Mawmaw,” he said, straightening. “I want you to meet my friend, Lizbet. She has some questions about our people.”

  Even though Matias’s tiny Mawmaw had intelligent eyes and vibrant energy, Lizbet wondered if Kudo would have more answers for her. “I know so little of my real mother. I thought she might be Magena.”

  Mawmaw stepped off the porch, drew closer, and laid a withered palm on Lizbet’s cheek. “Perhaps.”

  Matias raised one eyebrow. “You’ve seen green-eyed Magena?”

  “It’s not impossible. In fact, there is a legend of the Ollos Verdes folk. They say that the Ollos Verdes can talk to all nature.”

  “Nature, like animals?” Lizbet’s voice squeaked.

  “Not just animals,” Mawmaw said. “But all nature—plants, weather, the moon and stars.”

  Lizbet touched her forehead and wavered on her feet as a dizzying wave washed through her.

  “Are you unwell, child?” Mawmaw asked.

  “Yes, but I want...” Lizbet stumbled over her words and her feet.

  Matias grabbed her elbow and steadied her.

  Lizbet pulled upright. “I want to hear more about the Ollos Verdes.”

  “Then come sit down.” Mawmaw motioned to a pair of rocking chairs on the porch. “’Tis a story best told with a glass of wine.”

  “Mawmaw.” Matias used a warning voice.

  “It’s just blackberry juice,” Mawmaw persisted. “It can harm no one.” She waved at the chairs. “Sit!” She pulled open the door and disappeared into the house.

  Matias rolled his eyes and pulled the wooden rockers side by side. Lizbet sank into one as Matias settled into the other.

  Mawmaw, with a bottle tucked under her arm and three glasses in her hands,
pushed through the door. She placed the glasses on the porch railing, uncorked the bottle, and filled the glasses with ruby liquid. Turning, she gave Lizbet a full glass and Matias the stink-eye.

  He understood her perfectly, and gave up his seat. He settled on the floor beside Kudo while Mawmaw leaned back into the rocker he’d just abandoned. She sipped her drink. “I don’t suppose you heard about the trouble the fishery department is giving your Uncle Joe.”

  “No, Mawmaw.” Matias gave Lizbet a sympathetic glance. “But Lizbet wants to learn about the Ollos Verdes, not Uncle Joe.”

  “Ah.” Mawmaw rocked back in her chair. “That’s right. It’s a long story.”

  Matias gave Lizbet a questioning look before answering. “We want to hear it.”

  “Well, many moons ago, the world was made of two equal parts,” Mawmaw began. “Animals lived in the water and people lived in a sky full of fertile fields, soaring mountains, and flower-filled valleys. One day, a Sky Child grew weary and fell asleep beneath the spreading branches of an apple tree. She slipped down a hole. Frightened, she wrapped her arms around the tree and it too fell through the sky.

  “She called for help and fortunately for her, two swans were swimming in the water-world below. They rose to save her. Spreading their wings, they formed a soft nest for the girl to lie upon. ‘What can I do now?’ the girl asked. ‘Can you return me to the sky world?’

  “But the birds were frightened to fly so close to the sun. ‘We’ll take you to Big Turtle,’ said one swan. ‘He knows everything,’ said the other.

  “Big Turtle listened to the girl’s story of a world with fertile land, tall mountains, and flower-filled fields.

  “’If we can get some soil, we can create our own earth of land, sky, and water,’ Big Turtle said.

  “’But where can we find the soil?’ Swan asked.

  “’’Tis below the water,’ Big Turtle told them. ‘We must dig deep.’

  “Otter, Beaver, and Muskrat argued over who would go.

  “’I’m the fastest,’ said Otter.

  “’But I’m the strongest,’ said Beaver.

  “’But I can swim the farthest,’ said Muskrat.

  “A little toad popped out of the water. ‘I’ll go. I can dive very deep.’

  “The other animals laughed and mocked.

  “’You’re too small,’ said Beaver.

  “’You’re too ugly,’ said Otter.

  “’You’re too slow,’ said Muskrat.

  “’Hush!’ Big Turtle said in a loud voice. ‘We are all equal, and we’re all able to do our best. We will need the efforts of all.’

  “The vain Otter smoothed his glossy fur, took a deep breath, and disappeared into the water. Beaver slapped his tail against the water before diving in. Muskrat followed. One by one they returned, gasping for air.

  “’It’s too deep,’ said Otter.

  “’It’s too dark,’ said Beaver.

  “’No one can dive so deep,’ said Muskrat.

  “’I will go,’ said Toad, before she sucked in a deep breath and disappeared beneath a wave.

  “’We will never see her again,’ said Otter.

  “’She will die from bravery,’ said Beaver.

  “’She will surely drown,’ said Muskrat.

  “Moments later, Swan pointed at bubbles breaking the water’s surface. Toad’s ugly face appeared. She spat a mouthful of soil onto Big Turtle’s back before sinking to the bottom of the sea.

  “Big Turtle commanded all the creatures to rub the soil into his shell. The seeds of grain sprouted and grew and grew until a large island was formed. It grew into the world as we know it today.

  “Eventually, the sky people noticed and grew envious. More and more fell from the hole in the sky to join our world. But only the descendants of the first Sky Child are the Earth’s people. They are the Ollos Verdes—the green-eyed ones. Only they can converse with the Earth and its creations.”

  Slowly, Mawmaw raised her drink to her lips. “’Tis but a legend, more pleasing to those with green eyes than to those of us whose eyes are the color of the soil.”

  “It’s true, you know,” Kudo whined.

  “But how can the whole world be on the back of a turtle?” Lizbet asked.

  “They say when the turtle moves, the earth quakes.”Mawmaw raised her glass and peered into the liquid as if it had answers.

  Matias laughed. “Well, that explains a lot.”

  Mawmaw frowned at him. “Do not mock what you cannot understand.”

  Matias opened his mouth as if to argue, but closed it again, and shook his head.

  Lizbet took a swallow from her glass. Her vision clouded, and a memory danced before her eyes. It was Rose—the woman she’d known as Daugherty, her birth mom. She was laughing, and the sound filled Lizbet’s head, making her ears ring. When the memory faded, sadness washed over her. She stared into the wine for a moment before taking another swallow. This time she saw Rose chattering with a squirrel perched on her shoulder. Again, the memory faded too soon.

  “This juice...” Lizbet began. “What is it?”

  “It’s not alcoholic,” Matias assured her. “I don’t want your mom or grandmother to think I’ve been slipping you booze.”

  “I figured that, but...it’s good.”

  Mawmaw beamed. “You like it, yes?”

  “Very much. It’s...dangerously good. Do you make it yourself?”

  “Yes. It’s an old recipe.” She spat angrily. “That Igasho winery thought they could steal our brew! They are phonies!”

  “My mom makes something like this. I guess you would call her a phony, too. It’s good, but it’s not...” She searched for the right word, but gave up and took another sip. This time she was young, younger than she thought she could possibly remember, and running through a field, her dog Wordsworth by her side. Grief, sudden and intense, ripped through her for her lost dog.

  “It toys with your mind, no?” Mawmaw smiled and took a long swallow.

  “What happens when you drink it?” Lizbet asked Matias.

  He swirled the glass. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well,” she shot Mawmaw a questioning glance, “what do you see?”

  “The same things I always see.” Matias frowned at her and then his glass.

  “Here, try mine.” Lizbet shoved her cup at him.

  He raised an eyebrow, took the drink, sipped and swallowed. Licking his lips, he smiled at her. “I see you.”

  Lizbet swung back to Mawmaw. “Can I have your recipe?”

  Mawmaw blanched. “No. It is a family recipe. It is only for Magena.”

  “But Mawmaw,” Matias said, “we think Lizbet might be one of us.”

  Mawmaw firmly shook her head. “No! Might be is not the same as rightfully.”

  Lizbet bounced to her feet. “This winery. I want to try their wine.”

  Matias laughed. “You’ll have to wait until you’re twenty-one.”

  She blew out a breath when she realized he was right and fixed him with a steady stare.

  He took the hint. “We need to go, Mawmaw.” He climbed to his feet and bent to give his grandmother a farewell kiss.

  “It was lovely to meet you,” Lizbet said, taking Mawmaw’s hand.

  “Tell Grandpa and Uncle Joe hey for me,” Matias said as he waved goodbye.

  THE WIND WHIPPED THROUGH the alleyways between the buildings, tossing leaves and torn bits of the wine’s packaging labels and carrying the scent of wild blackberries. The Igasho Winery consisted of a collection of wood-framed buildings. The humming vats provided background noise. In the distance, the Cascade Mountains loomed over the acres of blackberry bushes. Declan found it hard to believe that all this now belonged to him.

  Beside him, Gloria radiated with pleasure. It didn’t seem to bother her that she wasn’t the benefactor. He watched her out of the corner of his eye while Holbrook St. James droned on about the winery’s profitability.

  “Now, just to be clear
,” Gloria said, “since everything is Declan’s, Godwin—should he resurface—can have no claim on it. Is that correct?”

  Cabriolet cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  The accountant, Mr. St. James, frowned at the attorney, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. St. James looked as if he’d researched all the stereotypes of accountants and glommed them all. Slicked-back hair, thin tie, white button-down shirt, pencil neck—Declan could easily imagine him sitting at a desk, punching numbers into a calculator, and humming delightedly as he counted money.

  “Now, exactly how many acres are there?” Gloria asked.

  St. James murmured a reply.

  “We’re not selling it,” Declan spoke up.

  Gloria cast him a surprised look. “Well, maybe not right away...”

  “Not at all.” The forcefulness in Declan’s voice surprised even him.

  “Goodness, Declan,” his mom said. “I didn’t even think you were paying attention and now you’re saying you want to keep this place? You can’t run a winery.”

  “Not right now, but that doesn’t mean I want to sell it.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” His mom folded her arms and pinned him with her best mom-glare.

  “It runs itself, right?” He turned to St. James. “We just met Mr. Eldridge, the manager. I assume running the winery is his job.”

  “Indeed.” St. James looked pleased.

  His mother much less so. “This would be a wonderful location for a condo complex, or one of those urban centers—”

  Declan shook his head. “I’m not interested in developing anything other than blackberries.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Gloria began. She stopped talking when she spotted someone, or something, over Declan’s shoulder. Her eyebrows lowered dangerously.

  Declan glanced behind him to see Lizbet and Matias rolling through the wide wrought-iron gates on a motorcycle. “Excuse me,” he said to St. James and his mom.

  Gloria grabbed his arm. “This behavior clearly demonstrates how inadequate you are for running a business!”

  “What behavior?” Declan could also lower his eyebrows dangerously.

  “Your pretty little girlfriend shows up and you immediately check out.”