The United States of Us

by Kate Sundara

  ‘An accent,’ notices the lady. ‘You’re not from these parts. What brings you way out here?’

  ‘I’m not sure anymore.’

  ‘I grew up not far from here, before I moved to different cities.’

  ‘But you came back?’

  She presses her lips into a smile, ‘When life gets messy, I think sometimes it helps to return to the root of the thing.’

  ‘The thing?’

  The lady looks at the plaque. ‘You know her story?’ she asks, her voice like earth.

  To Mia the girl on the plaque looks like Pocahontas or Hiawatha. She shakes her head, suddenly feeling inadequate for her apparent ignorance when it comes to American history. ‘No. But I’m always searching for a story.’

  ‘Look her up,’ says the lady. ‘This valley’s full of stories. Stories are everywhere in the land when you start to look.’ She notices the journal Mia’s holding by her side. ‘You should be careful out walking alone. Especially after sundown. Coyote’s on the loose.’

  ‘A coyote? Are they that dangerous?’

  ‘There’s talk of a bushwhacker in these parts. Some guy ambushed a couple women – they got away, but both were roughed up.’

  Mia recalls Ruth mentioning that. ‘That’s terrible,’ she replies.

  ‘The man’s got Coyote spirit inside o’ him. Coyote makes men go all kinds of crazy.’

  Mia think of Zak. ‘Coyote must be busy,’ she says.

  The lady and Mia stand gazing at each other in saccharine evening light as if with some strange recognition of each other’s souls… or, in Mia’s case, because she already knows her face from Zak’s photo.

  ‘I’ve seen you in a photograph,’ she reveals. ‘Before I came out here.’

  The lady looks intrigued.

  ‘It was taken by Zak, my… He showed me some of his local photography. You were in it. Do you know him?’

  The lady just gives a vague little smile, momentarily glancing down at the scattered blossoms. ‘Lot of kids in this valley passionate about their art-forms. I’m happy to help out if I’m asked.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ says Mia, noticing the lady’s artfully carved white feather necklace.

  ‘Thank you. I carved it.’

  ‘It’s an eagle feather?’

  ‘You know about animal totems?’

  ‘Only a little. Eagle’s your totem?’

  ‘No. Not right now, although a person’s totem can change throughout their lifetime. We can even have multiple totems at the same time. Our totems find us,’ she explains.

  Mia looks back at the pendant.

  ‘It’s a talisman,’ says the lady. ‘Eagle’s significant. He’s Protector. Communicator between the earthly and heavenly realms. That’s why its feather is offered up in prayer. To wear a real eagle feather is a great honour. Only the bravest of Indians would be rewarded such a gift after earning it through a courageous deed. The feather I carved, it doesn’t matter what kind of feather it is, the basic structure is the same. The shaft down the centre represents the path each person must walk. Every barb coming off it represents the decisions we make and how they’re attached to that path. Do you see?’

  ‘I see.’

  A long silence, then–

  ‘Here. I want you to have it.’

  ‘Oh! I couldn’t, really, it looks far too precious to give away!’

  But the lady’s already moving behind her, laying the leather strap around her neck. She smells of cedar, rosewood or sweet grass – as she lifts Mia’s hair, her fingers brush the nape of Mia’s neck, sending tingles all down her spine. Mia’s awash with a graceful sort of power, the hairs on her forearms stand on end and she’s almost light-headed. The lady comes back in front of her.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ says Mia, rubbing the enamel between her thumb and finger.

  ‘To help you find what you’re looking for on your path.’

  ‘Maybe I’m looking for my path,’ says Mia.

  The lady smiles.

  Mia tells her, ‘But… I don’t even know your name!’

  ‘You love nature, you love the trees?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You don’t have to know all the names of the trees, do you?’

  Mia knows maple, pine, elderberry, mountain-ash, cottonwood, cherry and snowberry. She’s just been reading about them on a forest sign, not that she’s seen a single berry on a tree here. She remembers the abundance of fruit growing in Utopia.

  ‘Rosa,’ the woman concedes. ‘My name is Rosa. Owl killed birds by naming them.’

  Rosa doesn’t ask Mia her name and, after what she just said, Mia doesn’t feel the need to offer it. Rosa just stands, watching her with a tired, wistful smile – the sort of smile that says she’s been walking these streets for a hundred years, a smile that believes we really are all One, just as the all the different trees and birds are all still trees and birds. They’re just two souls passing, sharing a brief but tender moment of humanity.

  ‘I’d like to know more about that,’ says Mia.

  ‘I’d be happy to share some local legends with you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the shelter tomorrow night?’ Mia asks her.

  ‘Not tomorrow. I go sometimes. How about you come to my place instead?’ Rosa looks to Mia’s journal in her bag. ‘You got a pen to go with that? I’ll give you my address.’

  Mia offers the back of her journal and a Biro.

  Rosa draws directions to her home, Chokecherry Shack, ‘as the crow flies’. Handing the things back to Mia, ‘Come by the day after tomorrow,’ she tells her. ‘Thursday. You free in the morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ She’s not fazed by Rosa’s familiarity – the energy around her tranquil, good-humoured; her eyes sparkling as if, behind the wrinkles, something young and sprightly is at play – that is, until the women walk their separate ways and Rosa turns and says something stranger still. Without having told Rosa her name, ‘Be careful, Mia,’ she warns her.

  Mia watches the lady wander on, that peculiar sensation, both blissful and bizarre, tingling in rivers down Mia’s spine.

  * * *

  When Mia and Ruth arrive at the Dale house party on Wednesday night students are already spilled out onto the steps and the front lawn. Instantly there’s a great mood in the air, a friendly vibe that even I am beckoned by.

  Wil ‘with one L’ emerges from the crowd and disappears again to go get both the girls drinks. In the kitchen a game’s in full-swing, involving a keg, crazy-glasses, hosepipe and funnel, above the cupboards a flashing beer-sign that looks like it’s been stolen from a bar. The back door is open, letting the smoke from the barbecue waft inside. Mia says she’s glad for the smells of cooking meat because, thanks to a butter-fingered fellow volunteer at the shelter tonight, she and Ruth reek of chicken-juice. That’s another shift done.

  The Dale house is a homely, honey-coloured place. Without the comfy oatmeal carpet it’d look like a giant sauna – pine walls, views to distant mountains – with so many people inside it’s almost warm enough to be one too. Post-it notes of funny quotations, a collection of beer-mats and a busty pin-up adorn the living room walls, tally charts for things Mia says she doesn’t understand and Ruth replies is best not to know.

  The girls aren’t hungry after inhaling all those thick smells during their shift at the shelter. Mia nibbles on peanuts, more so she has something to do with her hands, then Wil returns with a couple of cool beers and a tanned blue-eyed boy who introduces himself to Mia as Brent. Brent moves closer to her, sporting a boyish grin. ‘Hey,’ he says with a wink; he leans into the wall beside her, takes a casual swig from his bottle, nearly bowling her over with his aftershave. I’m knocked-sideways too, not by his scent, but by Mia suddenly being the focus of more male attention. Things are changing and suddenly I feel even more displaced.

  Mia leaves Ruth to talk with Wil while she and Brent chat about England.

  ‘Have you
been there?’ she asks him.

  ‘I’ve never been outside the US; I’m happy here. I can show you around town if you like. How about we start with my bedroom?’ Brent looks to a door just along from the kitchen.

  ‘No thank you,’ says Mia.

  ‘Well, if you ever need a place to crash… I’ve got a huge bed. You’re more than welcome.’

  Mia says nothing.

  ‘What brings you to the valley?’

  ‘My boyfriend,’ she answers.

  Brent loses all interest in England after that.

  ‘Don’t worry about Brent,’ Wil smiles apologetically, eyes magnified by those hideous thick glasses. ‘He’s a good guy really – mostly talk. I hope you’re not offended.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Mia looks over to Brent, now separating frozen burgers while he talks with Ruth.

  ‘So how d’ya rate the valley?’ asks Wil. Behind all the facial hair, Mia sees that Bigfoot has a lovely smile. He has to have some charm if Ruth’s been in love with him all these years.

  ‘Oh, I like it. It’s a nature lover’s dream! Funny though, all the maple trees lining every street… I always associated maple trees with Canada.’

  ‘Actually, our tree-lined streets date back to the eighteen hundreds. Norwegian maple seeds were carried here from New England via steam engine, paddle-boat and wagon. The cherries aren’t exactly native either. Y’know, this is home to over twenty thousand trees?’

  Mia smiles. So Ruth has a soft spot for geeks…

  ‘There’s no fruit growing on them – on the cherry trees?’ she asks Wil.

  ‘No, they don’t produce fruit, just blossom.’

  ‘That feels like a false promise,’ says Mia.

  Wil nods. ‘Oh, um, Mia,’ he says, gingerly. She’s temporarily distracted by the drinking-game. ‘Did you know you have a – er – teabag in your hood?’

  She fumbles behind her neck but Wil passes her the little herbal bag, likely fallen from one of the shelves at the shelter.

  ‘Her name’s Mia,’ she hears Ruth tell Brent as he struggles to prize the burgers apart.

  ‘Her English is pretty good for a second language,’ he responds too earnestly.

  Ruth stares at him, dumbfounded, rolls her eyes then whacks his biceps.

  Wil asks Mia a million questions about herself, contrary to Zak who hasn’t asked her a thing.

  ‘So… a year as counsellor?’ she begins, turning the questions around to Wil. ‘And three years of archaeology? Are you going to follow either of those paths any further?’

  Wil shrugs. ‘Beyond summer, I have no clue what to do with my life. What about you?’ he asks. Another question.

  ‘Same,’ she answers, sipping her beer. ‘All I know is that I want to write.’

  ‘What would you like to write?’

  ‘A story. A good one. I’m always on the lookout. I met a woman from the shelter who says this valley’s full of stories. She invited me to her house in the morning, said she’ll share some local legends with me.’

  ‘You’re into local legends?’

  ‘Absolutely. Anything like that. I’ve always wanted to know more about Native American stuff – the little I know is fascinating. Since I’m out here it’s a good time to learn. I’m in the right place.’

  ‘You’re definitely in the right place, Mia.’

  I’m not sure yet if either of us are. That’s why I need to stay.

  * * *

  Beauty before me, I walk with.

  Beauty behind me, I walk with.

  Beauty above me, I walk with.

  Beauty below me, I walk with.

  Beauty all around me, I walk with.

  Mia had already noticed that Rosa liked to walk. The Navaho text-tapestry in her porch is surrounded by wind-chimes, animal-horns, hobgoblins and knick-knacks. A bunch of dried chokecherries hang above the front door where Mia knocks and waits.

  Inside Rosa’s white wooden home are shelves stacked with smoke-stained books, a couple of watercolour prints of mountain-elk, bright circular tapestries, kitsch floral curtains and some modest-looking furniture.

  Rosa sits in her rocking chair while she and Mia sip rooibos tea and nibble on cookies.

  ‘How did you know my name?’ Mia asks her.

  ‘It’s a small town.’

  Mia half smiles.

  ‘Those stories you mentioned before,’ she says. ‘About Coyote, Eagle and Owl…’

  ‘I’m a keeper of the old tales, from the times when animals spoke and acted as humans do.’

  ‘Which tribe are they from?’

  ‘Shoshone. Some anyways. My grandfather was Shoshone and he practically raised me. I’m part Shoshone, Creek, Crow, Cherokee. I can’t be exactly sure since no-one knew who’d fathered my father, leading some of the elders to say it musta been that ol’ trickster Coyote. Coyote can get inside a man a whole bunch of ways. He’s a shape-shifter, can turn himself into anything – object, man or beast. A man’s weak against Coyote…’

  Mia’s both surprised and relieved by Rosa’s apparent openness. She knows that indigenous folk can be reserved about themselves and their culture – and with good reason – so much already taken from them. Most of the people who trailed through the doors of the shelter seemed guarded, heads bowed, eyes averted – but not Rosa, her tawny owl-like eyes almost ask for questions. Mia can see herself in those eyes that transfix her with their strange balance of sadness and light. As Rosa speaks to her of the city she left behind and how she misses the New York skyline, the shining moon and bright neon lights start to appear in their dark. There’s something else about Rosa that Mia can’t put her finger on. They hold each other’s gaze again, like that recognition of each other’s souls.

  ‘Do you have an Indian name?’ Somehow it doesn’t feel too personal and when Rosa smiles she’s assured it’s okay.

  ‘When I was a kid on the rez, my grandfather called me Little Prairie Deer in his language. I’d go on rabbit-hunts with him, he’d set the traps and I’d run for the catch. He said I ran and leapt like a baby deer, but those sorts of names were banished at school, like our native tongue. I’ve always been Rosa.’ She lights a pipe, the air soon filling with an unusual fragrance, smoke-rings slowly expanding upward.

  ‘I saw you the other morning,’ says Mia. ‘Walking at dawn, so early.’

  Rosa smiles, knowingly. ‘You know there’s a point in time, just before daybreak, when the world’s still sleeping and the universe comes to a standstill? At the beginning of each day it happens for one short moment. That’s the best time, that’s when magic enters the world. Anything is possible then.’ Mia catches a sparkle of old magic in Rosa’s eyes as she looks to that talisman Mia wears on her neck.

  ‘They say to walk gently in springtime,’ says Rosa, ‘that’s when Mother Earth is pregnant. Well, I walk the dawn in springtime, I’ve the best of both worlds.’ She fills her lungs again, gives Mia a little wink. And, to Mia, it seems like Rosa does live between two worlds – this one and the other. Sort of like me…

  Rosa goes off to the bathroom. Mia browses Rosa’s bountiful bookshelves.

  ‘You have a lot of literature,’ remarks Mia when she returns.

  ‘I’m a self-educated woman.’

  ‘Will you tell me a native story, or are they too sacred?’ Although Mia knows she has no entitlement – quite the contrary – it’d be an honour and privilege to be told a story, and she also recalls it was Rosa who offered in the first place. ‘What about one from this book?’ suggests Mia, tentatively.

  ‘Oh I know those stories by heart.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Well aren’t you a little Nicholas Wilson,’ smiles Rosa.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’ve never heard the story of the white Indian boy? True story, a Shoshone one at that.’

  ‘White Indian?’

  Rosa nods. ‘There are customs that allow an outsider to be taken in by a group. Traditionally a Making of Relations ceremony would be performe
d. It’s not right to be alone, to have no roots, no bloodline. It means a person’s disconnected. Community is everything.’

  ‘Is that why you eat at the shelter? I mean, you’re not homeless and…’ – glancing at her basic but well-stacked kitchen shelves – ‘it looks like you enjoy cooking. Is that how you know so much about other tribes and ceremonies?’

  ‘You mean do we sit around powwowing, telling each other stories of old? Ha! That’s not the way it is, not these days. Ever heard an Indian boast about his roots and traditions at the shelter? Most who still remember are secretive about their customs. They’ve been forced to hide them so long they’ve learned to keep their mouths shut. Best stories used to be told by word of mouth.’

  Mia sits cross-legged on the floor.

  Rosa chortles. ‘Ah alright,’ she says, opening the window. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Tell me the story of Sacajawea, the girl on that plaque by where we met.’

  ‘You sure you’ve got nowhere to be?’

  ‘Nowhere in the world.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, let’s see now… It involves you Europeans…’ Rosa dons an invisible top-hat and draws on her pipe with mock haughtiness and pomp, like a person of old British gentry, but only for an instant before she breaks out a laugh. Her eccentricity reminds Mia of someone – she can’t think who – she decides it must be Zia, her great aunt in Italy. Surely that’s why Rosa feels so familiar, why Mia always feels comfortable in her presence, because she reminds her of someone she’s already connected to. But as for Rosa, Mia feels like she’s getting special treatment and she’s not sure why.

  ‘So she was an Indian girl who led a whole expedition across America, with a baby on her back, when she was only sixteen?’

  ‘Shoshone, she was Shoshone. And yes, the Lewis and Clark Expedition – it passed right through here – one of many, many places they trekked through en route.’

  ‘But why would she do that?’

  ‘Sacajawea had been kidnapped by a Hidatsa tribe when she was ten. She married a French-Canadian trapper, a mean tyke who’d won her in a game. He was abusive, saw her as nothing more than a trophy. He was joining Lewis and Clark on the expedition.