Free Blue Birds by Caroline Starr Rose

I could do nothing.
    The wooden bird
    brought the two of us together,
    but will it protect Alis?
    This montoac,
    what good is it,
    if I leave her helpless?

September 1587

Alis
    Mother shakes out an apron,
    her golden hair swept back,
    her blue eyes full of light.
    She hums as her iron glides.
    Her strength since Samuel’s birth has returned.
    â€œWhat is that noise?”
    She peers out the window.
    There is such commotion,
    I open wide the door.
    â€œIndians!”
    George rushes through the village,
    hollering so loudly,
    Virginia startles in her cradle,
    Samuel begins to cry.
    â€œI was hunting,"
    he says to those who've gathered.
    â€œRan back when I saw them.”
    George stumbles to a nearby bench,
    sweat rolling down his face.
    â€œTwo other boys are out there still.”
    Long into the evening,
    men swarm about with muskets,
    trickle through the palisade,
    searching for the others.
    George is never far from Manteo,
    as if the two patrol together.
    But when George steps behind him,
    though he does not fire,
    he trains his musket
    on the Indian’s back.

Alis
    Mr. Dare said
    now that he’s a father,
    he couldn’t rest until
    those missing boys were found.
    Mr. Dare was
    with the first who checked
    the woods outside our borders.
    He has not
    yet
    returned.

Alis
    I wake to shouts outside our window,
    torches flickering past.
    Father jumps from bed,
    rushes outside.
    â€œMother?” I call.
    â€œI’m here, darling.”
    I climb into the warmth
    Father has left behind.
    Mother strokes my hair,
    Samuel nestled between us.
    I pull close to her,
    try to block the ever-rising voices.
    Father bursts through the door.
    â€œThe boys are safe,
    said they lost their way,
    but Dare,"
    Father stops,
    cleans his throat,
    â€œhe’s been
    shot through
    with arrows.”

Alis
    All are screaming,
    rushing, running
    to the square.
    Two men drag his feet,
    arrows buried in his chest.
    â€œAnanias!”
    Mrs. Dare falls to the ground
    beside her husband’s body,
    her sleeves thicken with his blood.
    It is daybreak
    before Mother can persuade her
    to hold her wailing child.

KIMI
    All day is spent
    in feast and celebration.
    My people deserve peace.
    But I no longer believe
    war is the only way
    to find it.

KIMI
    Wanchese says
    we teach our enemies their wrongdoings,
    demonstrate the errors of their ways,
    like the man he killed
    after Wingina was beheaded,
    and the fire he set
    that frightened the others away.
    Did the English understand?
    For they came back again.
    There was the man who hunted crabs.
    How quickly he was slain.
    Yet the English have remained.
    Now our men celebrate
    the man killed in the forest.
    But this I wonder:
    If the English
    know nothing of our purpose,
    these lessons are lost on them,
    mean no more than
    violence like their own.

Alis
    I stroke my brother’s cheek,
    place my thumb in his palm.
    His soft fingers wrap around mine,
    his feet kick as he laughs.
    Virginia is
    without a father now.
    Since his death,
    even through his burial
    near the bones and Mr. Howe,
    Mrs. Dare has worn the dress
    stained with her husband’s blood.

Alis
    Mother bustles into our cottage,
    allows the door to slam behind her.
    Both my hands fly to the cradles to keep the babies still.
    Her face is hardened in a way I’ve never seen.
    She bangs her bowl on the table,
    kneads at dough so roughly
    I am certain it is overworked,
    will never start to rise.
    My shoulders ache with rocking,
    yet I dare not let the babies stir,
    for I will not miss this chance to speak.
    â€œWhat is it?” I whisper.
    â€œLeave it be, Alis.”
    Her response stings;
    my gentle mother doesn’t speak like this.
    â€œI’m no longer a child.
    If it’s about our village,
    it does concern me.”
    Mother’s eyes grow wide at my impudence,
    narrow just as quickly.
    â€œVery well,” she says slowly,
    â€œif you must know,
    there’s talk of Manteo amongst the