Under the Same Sky (14 page)

The vision showed me a small Indian boy, lying at the bottom of a hill. He was curled on his side nearby, on the edge of the village. His knees were bleeding and his eyes were squeezed shut, his dark lashes resting on tear-soaked cheeks. I opened my eyes a crack, cautiously allowing light in. The women clustered around me, their curiousity blocking the direct sunlight. After a moment my eyes cleared, and I looked around the group. One of the faces caught my attention, and I looked directly at her. I don’t know if it was her resemblance to the little boy or just the fact that I
knew
, but this woman was his mother. It had to be.

I hesitated before saying anything. My mind whispered my mother’s words:
Keep quiet, say nothing.
I took a deep breath, released it, and rejected all of my mother’s warnings.

“Your son,” I said to the woman. “Your son needs you. He’s fallen.”

She stared at me, her soft brow creased, and I realised my English words meant nothing to her. I kept my eyes on hers even as she tried to withdraw from my unwanted attention. Grasping inspiration from the air, I folded my arms across my chest as if I were rocking a baby. The women around me murmured among themselves, trying to interpret my message. I rolled my hands to indicate someone tumbling down a hill, then pointed at my own injured knees. Finally, I gestured to a nearby hill. The woman blinked in bewilderment as
I repeated my pantomime and the others consulted each other in soft questions. Suddenly the woman’s eyes widened, and she looked at me in surprise.

“Omnatea!” she cried. “Omnatea!” She tore herself away from the group of women and ran toward the hill where the little boy had fallen, calling his name as she went.

I looked from one face to the next, trying to read what they were thinking but getting nothing but a sense of wary puzzlement. The girl who’d brought me from the house sat very still beside me. After a few moments one of the older women turned to a younger one, barked a command, and waved her away. The young woman ran, obeying without question.

Had I made a mistake? Should I have kept my gift a secret? My mother, sisters, and I had never told anyone, afraid of the consequences. Afraid I might die on a burning stake like my grandmother. Here, surrounded by these strange people, my dreams had stepped into the sunlight, free at last. But at what price?

A new vision suddenly shoved its way into my sight: two little faces I had never seen before, deathly pale but for their damp red hair and terrified blue eyes. My arms felt the ache of physical combat; the clash of swords rang in my ears. The children were safe from the chaos, but still in the centre of my vision. What was this? Why was I seeing people I knew nothing about? What did this have to do with me?

My mind shifted naturally to the answer. Wolf. He looked tired. Yesterday he had led me to my escape, armed and protected me. Now I needed to ask him for more, and I wasn’t even sure why. I couldn’t know if my message would reach him or not, but I concentrated hard. I brought the children’s faces into focus and pushed a silent scream toward his image.

The picture of the children disappeared as suddenly as it had
appeared, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. My friend sat beside me on the dirt, drawing circles on my back with her palm until I relaxed. The other women had evidently lost interest, going on about their business and leaving the two of us alone by the doorway.

The morning activity in the village was a welcome distraction, constantly in motion. Small boys dressed in nothing but bits of leather around their waists laughed and squealed, kicking a cloth ball through the grass. In the doorway of the house next to ours, a tall, slender woman leaned into an even taller man, her eyes dark with suggestion. Beyond them a riot of dogs chased each other in circles, tails swinging with abandon. Casting a spell over it all was the magnificent backdrop of forest-covered hills, their mantle of green highlighted with gold by the day’s early sunshine.

My life from before was over. My mother was gone, Ruth was gone. Adelaide suffered. My innocence was gone.

I had learned the darker side of men; I had killed a man.

I felt a soft touch on my shoulder and turned to see Adelaide, my only link to that life. She was barely there, barely solid enough to stand, but she was there, and she needed me. I stood up to support her, then folded her into my arms. She shook against me, and I held her tight.

From over her shoulder, I watched the village. Something about this place felt familiar. Comfortable. As if I had been here before. A breeze shivered the leaves on the trees at the outer bounds of the camp, whispering to me. It wound its way over the children playing ball and the young couple and the dogs, reaching out to ruffle my hair and cool my neck like water. It tugged me forward and I stepped into my new life.

There were nights when I jolted awake, my heart beating madly and my body damp with sweat. There were also nights when it took a long time to fall asleep. How could I sleep when my mother’s face came to me as soon as I shut my eyes, the bullet hole in her forehead staring like a third dead eye? And Ruth. Ruth was always in my thoughts: her golden curls bouncing around angel blue eyes, her soft pink skin torn to shreds, left to rot in the dark forest. Ruth had always been afraid of the dark.

Healing and encouragement surrounded my dear remaining sister and me. The Indian women cared for us as if we were members of their families. They washed our bruised bodies and provided us with doeskin tunics and leggings. They combed our hair until it shone and tied it like their own, in long braids that tickled down the centres of our backs.

The little boy, Omnatea, whom I had “seen” tumbling down the hill, had become my constant shadow, peeking through the longhouse
doorway, watching me eat or sleep. His mother was usually with him, dark eyes just as curious.

One morning, the girl who had first arrived at my side came to escort me out of the longhouse where I slept. She carried out a detailed inspection of my appearance, flipping her fingers over the beaded tunic, petting my long brown braids. She talked and giggled and I nodded blankly in response. It didn’t seem to bother her that no matter what she said, or how she said it, I didn’t know what she was talking about. Her happiness was contagious. Today she seemed more enthusiastic than usual, and I got the impression that something important was about to happen.

She grabbed my hand, and I squeezed hers, feeling stronger with her beside me. She pointed at her chest with one finger and spoke slowly and clearly, as if I were a child.

“Kokila,” she said, then repeated herself twice more. “Kokila, Kokila.”

She watched to make sure I was paying attention, then pressed my hand against her shoulder and encouraged me to say the word as well.

“Kokila,” I repeated dutifully, burning her name into my memory. “Kokila.”

Kokila beamed, then tugged me outside. The air was heavy, still and quiet with the pressure of an impending thunderstorm.

Kokila spread her arms wide and, with a broad grin, indicated the entire village.

“Chair-oh-key,” she said, “Chair-oh-key.”

“Cherokee,” I echoed, taking in the forty or so squat brown houses. I looked back at her and grinned. “Kokila,” I said. Then I jabbed my finger into my own chest. “Maggie,” I said.

She laughed and spun around. “Ma-kee! Ma-kee!” she chanted, emphasising the second syllable. I liked the sound of it.

I liked everything about this place. The last village or town I’d visited was the one where my sisters and I had, in another lifetime, traded eggs for cloth. The place had been far from welcoming, and my memories were coloured with an impersonal gray. Here among the Cherokee the colours of the land and the people spun together. There were no fences separating the long wooden houses.

I think Adelaide was content in the village, though we didn’t talk a lot. She hardly spoke. Physically, she improved daily. But her eyes moved constantly, sweeping the faces around her, searching. She retreated into a glassy-eyed stare, focusing on monsters that lurked in her mind.

She knew our attackers were dead. We had both seen the remains of the camp. But their ghosts still haunted her mind.

Adelaide wasn’t in the house when Kokila came for me. She had been spending more time with some of the women lately, so I assumed that was where she was now.

Kokila still held my hand, and began walking faster, probably hoping to outrun the storm. The wind had risen, easing the clouds past the mountains so they towered over the village, blocking out the sun. She led me toward the big house in the centre of the village: a long, seven-sided building I assumed was used for important meetings.

The wind swirled the ground beneath our feet, spinning dust through the village and chasing families into their homes. Fat, heavy raindrops began to dot the dirt around our moccasins. They drummed against the thatched roof of the house. Kokila and I ducked through the entryway just as the storm hit with full force.

It was dark inside, and very warm, as it was in all the buildings. A small fire burned at the far end of the house, and I could see the outlines of a few people sitting nearby. An animal hide hung partway over a hole in the ceiling, keeping out the wind and the rain, but
letting out the hearth smoke. Kokila and I walked closer to the glow of the fire, and our eyes adjusted to the dim light.

I knew the woman the moment I saw her. She sat at the far wall, tiny and still. I had never seen her before, but her features were more than familiar. Her face was shrunken and wrinkled like a dried apple, and sparse gray hairs hung over ears that seemed oddly large for her head. Her body seemed to have collapsed in upon itself, but whatever strength it once held was now contained in her infinitely dark eyes, which were blazing and alert.

Three other women sat with her, cross-legged on the floor. One had narrow eyes that bored into mine, but friendly curiosity brightened the toothless smiles of the other two.

Kokila murmured something and squeezed my hand, then backed out of the house, leaving me alone with the women. One of them stretched out a thick, knobbly finger, indicating for me to sit. I did, and they examined me. Their eyes were keen and curious.

I was uncomfortable under their stares and tried not to squirm. Then I felt a veil of calmness descend over me, like a light caress. Without conscious effort, all of my thoughts melded, centred on the ancient woman I somehow knew. I felt drawn to her, almost physically. My body seemed to be vibrating—as if something crawled beneath my skin—and my vision narrowed so all I saw was her. Her lips moved and she hummed and spoke, hummed and spoke.

I was mesmerised. Somehow she was reaching inside me with her mind, seeking something within my thoughts. I could
feel
it. The air was taut, as if she held strings and could tighten or loosen them as she wished. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think; my senses were paralysed in fascination. Her mind wandered through mine, asking, answering, looking, and seeing. Without a single word I could hear her, and she could hear me.

Once I realised what she was doing, I relaxed and concentrated
my thoughts toward her. Her reaction was immediate. She opened her rheumy eyes wide and sat up straight, heaving in a rattling breath. The deep lines of her face cracked into a smile, and her hands flew to her toothless mouth. She cackled and babbled to the women beside her, gesturing toward me with her gnarled fingers.

The women looked from her to me, interest brightening their expressions.

After a moment the old woman resumed her humming meditation, staring at me through her wrinkled old face. Her intensity blanketed me, almost smothered me, making me feel as if I had been drinking the hypnotic tea again. She appeared to me in constantly shifting patterns of browns and golds, and in the state I was in, I thought she actually floated a few inches above the woven rug on the floor.

The wind screamed and pellets of rain battered all seven walls, but I barely noticed. Why should I care what the outside world did? I had no intention of going anywhere. The sensations racing through me were amazing, flooding me with a rush of images. The woman showed me pictures from her past she wanted me to see, brief flashes of pain and joy she had experienced. I saw her face as it had been in her youth: plain, yet somehow more intricate than any beadwork. The woman in the vision laughed, held hands with a man, cried by the side of a roaring fire.

Flitting between the images, binding them together with silvery feathers of sound, came the syllables “Waw-Li,” and I began to understand that these syllables were the old woman’s name. Her thoughts began to shift into words, and I realised with mounting excitement that she was feeding me what she could of her own language. Words of her Cherokee tongue intertwined with English until I could pick out words and phrases. Sounds started to fall into place as if they had always belonged there.

Kokila
, I suddenly thought, and knew that my friend’s name was Nightingale.

The old woman’s eyes opened wide and the thin line of her mouth stretched into the warmest, most understanding smile I had ever seen.