Mostly White. Alison Hart

waiting for the medicine. I don’t speak—the images speak to me: bird men flying, a woman with two dogs her arms raised to the sky world, a salamander from under the earth world, all carved in stone. I wait until sun shifts across the sky and magic pictures disappear. Across the bay a mother bear wades in the river with her cubs, she catches a salmon. My mother speaks to the bear. The fish squirms in the bear’s mouth. She heads into the forest with her little ones behind her.

      “Judah,” my mother says, “come.” I follow her into the woods and help her strip birch bark off the birch trees. We wind the birch around a stick and tie it, to save for later to catch salmon. We rest before sundown, head back to the cove—the pictures light up one last time, the message from our ancestors fading with the light. We light the birch torch. My mother holds the torch over the water, I take out my knife waiting for the fish. Something in the water flutters towards the light, I stab the fish, my mother says a prayer. It wriggles as we carry it to shore. We thank the salmon. I light a fire and we cook the fish, my mother finally eats, and what we don’t eat, we give back to the river.

      I awake to my mother talking with a deer, we follow it through the forest, back to our canoe. My mother lights sage, offers tobacco, giving thanks to great spirit mystery. And that’s how we came here little one, your grandmother, bear medicine woman, from Bear Island. Always remember, we belong to the land.

      “Papa.” I call for him. I lift my head, he’s not here. It was the stone, he spoke to me through the stone.

       “I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.”

      A voice rises from the river like some great bird. A man sings alone in canoe.

       “As she wheeled her wheelbarrow

       through streets broad and narrow

       crying cockles and mussels

       alive alive-oh!”

      I want his canoe. I start throwing rocks at this Bird Man, big rocks—

      “Alive alive-oh—” He stops singing, and frowns. I hide behind stone and throw one smack on back of his head—that stops his singing—

      “Who’s there?” he hollers, he sees me, rock in hand. I keep throwing them, pelting him. He paddles canoe to shore, I dart into tall reeds.

      “Why are you throwing stones at me, lass? Is my singing that bad?”

      I throw another one, it hits his leg, he winces. He has boots on, is white man with a funny way to speak. I throw another stone at him—he rushes towards me and I run to his canoe, he runs after me and catches me like I’m a fish—caught in his net arms. I struggle, kick, he strong, he got me.

      “Okay, lass, you want to go in the canoe, let’s go in the canoe.” He picks me up, drops me in, ties my hands behind me and paddles down the river. He starts singing again: “Alive alive-oh, oh Alive alive-oh—crying cockles and mussels alive alive-oh.”

      I am a fish trapped—

      “What, you’re angry because you got no stones to throw?” He takes a drink from a bottle, it shines and reflects the sun—

       “Alive-alive-oh, oh Alive-Alive Oh—crying cockles and mussels alive alive-oh.”

      Where are you, spirit? I am fish now caught waiting for you. This strange man won’t stop singing. Joe, where is Joe? Father’s blue eyes, Sister Anne’s switch, the smell of the floorboards—I don’t know it but I’m shaking, shaking and writhing about like a fish out of water. The singing man tries to stop me: “There, there, have some of this to calm you down.”

      He offers me the bottle, I take it. I drink it, tastes awful. I drink more, my head feels light, my body warm—oh spirit have I found you?

      Where am I? Am I dead? Owl’s omen come true? Where’s Joe? Where’s Joe? I jump out of bed running into other room—

      “Joe! Joe!” There are many barrels big, and bottles empty like the one in the canoe. Where is that strange Bird Man? Did he bring me here? I turn quick, a bottle crashes. Bird Man walks in smoking a pipe.

      “What’s all the ruckus in here? Someone finally woke up?”

      “Joe! Joe!” I shout—

      “There’s no Joe here. My name’s Patrick, and you, what should I call you?”

      “Why you take me here?” I pick up broken bottle, I jab him—

      “Whoa, whoa, lass.”

      I jab bottle closer—“You tell me where’s Joe? What did you do with Joe?”

      He twists my hand, bottle crashes. “Now, we’ll have none of that, there is no Joe here. My name is Patrick.” He pushes me towards chair. Where am I? Heaven hell heaven—

      “You must be hungry.”

      He brings me a piece of bread and cup of water. I grab it and shove it in my mouth squinting at this blue-eyed man.

      “Now, now, slow down, slow down, it will go down easier.” He gives me another piece. My mama warned me of the blue-eyed devils. He takes a puff on his pipe, smoke rises above us, is he praying to the ancestors? “Now what do you call yourself?”

      I eat the bread—should I run and find Joe? Maybe Papa will find me.

      “So, no words?”

      “Where’s Joe! Where’s Joe!” I get up, go outside on porch—“Papa! Joe! Papa, Joe! Where are you?” He holds me down—I fight him, I fight, I fight. My body goes limp. I stop. I can’t move anymore.

      “There, there.” He leads me back to barrels and bottles room. He brings me more bread. He makes tea, singing as he makes it. I sit. I eat. I drink. I don’t know where Joe is I don’t know where I am I am lost. I miss my mama. I can feel her soft dark hand on my cheek. “Mama?” I reach out for her, she gets up to leave.

      “Mama!” She vanishes. What world have I entered? Papa speaks to me.

      Let me tell you how I met your mother. She came to me in a dream first—as a sick deer with big eyes. She showed me the plants that heal. I helped her dig them out and fed them to her. She got better and never left me.

      Two black women came to my door, Aunt Julia and Mary. Mary was leaning on Aunt Julia barely able to stand. Mary had the same eyes as the deer in the dream, I recognized her, and she recognized me.

      “They say you are a healer.” Aunt Julia approached me. “They won’t take blacks at the hospital. I’m Julia and this is my sister Mary. She’s got TB, I don’t have much, this is what I have.” Julia gave me a small purse. I couldn’t take my eyes off Mary. “Wait,” I said, and I ran out the door into the forest. I ran to the woods in the dream. I offered the plants tobacco, thanked them first and dug them out. I ran as fast as I could back home and boiled the herbs for Mary to drink. Slowly your mama regained her strength, and her coughing stopped. She came to the forest with me, to offer tobacco to the plants. She helped pull up the roots. She stayed with me and learned the ways of the medicine.

      We had a wedding, and she was my wife. She helped people who came for medicine, some Indian, some black, we helped whoever came. And you little one was born, and then Joe. The sickness came back, this time it was too strong. I prayed for a dream and fasted in the forest waiting to find the medicine that would save Mary, my love. It rained, sharp, cold rain, the coldness too strong, it took your mama, it was time for her to go. It was her time.

      His voice stops, I reach out my hands to catch him—gone. “Papa!” Father Sun rises—I run outside to catch it, to the edge of the river. Across the river is a great bear, he stands on his hind legs. “Papa!” I rush into the river my arms outstretched—he turns around and walks into the woods.

      “Lass, you’re going to catch a death out here!”