Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel Page A

wonder what’s up with all his locked doors.
    The old man tucks the key ring under his armpit and turns to look me in the eye, like he’s reading my mind. “Curious about my locked doors, aren’t you, City Gal? One day they’ll be yours to open, and you’ll wish you’d kept them shut. For now, all you need to know is that they contain several treasures, including The Secret of Wabanaki.”
    â€œThe Secret of Wah?” I say. “All I’ve seen so far are household goods. I’m not twelve anymore, Grumps. I can’t be enticed by magic doors filled with secrets.”
    I know he’s trying to inveigle me, a trick he learned from Bilki. My phone beeps to signal it’s nearly lost power. I realize there’s no way to recharge it, no way to text anyone or call for help if he decides to lock me inside one of these cupboards. I sneak a peek at his wristwatch to check the time. It’s got a big white plastic domed face and winds by hand. It’s the kind of watch that was popular in the early 1970s. Currently, it reads nine o’clock.
    Grumps catches me looking and glances at his watch. “Look at the time! You should hit the hay, City Gal. Things always look better in the morning.”
    â€œIt’s too early for me to go to sleep.”
    â€œNot when you have to get up at five.”
    â€œWhy would I get up at five?”
    â€œTo feed the bears. Up here, we make sacrifices for the animals and the trees. They do the same for us.” He points to the woodstove. “This stove is fueled with wood, and we cook animal meat on it. That’s two sacrifices the trees and animals have made for us. In return, we do things for them, like feeding the bears.”
    â€œI don’t eat meat and we heat our Hartford apartment with gas,” I quip.
    He shakes his head and unlocks another secret door. From inside, he pulls out a huge bunch of bananas and lays them on the kitchen counter. “I know you enjoy bananas. But remember, they’re mostly for the bears. Still, we don’t want them to become tame, so we let them find their own nuts and honey.”
    I gawk slack-jawed at the bananas. “Couldn’t you poison a bear from New England by giving it tropical fruit?”
    â€œWhy? You’re a Native of New England, and you love banana with your peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Right?”
    I close my eyes, reminding myself that my city logic is bunk in these woods.
    â€œYou let me worry about what to feed the bears, City Gal. I know a bit more about the creatures of these woods than you do. Your grandmother’s family has protected this place for a long time. I also learned about the woods, growing up with the old-timers at Mohegan. But I learned much more up here, from the deep woods themselves. Of course, I’m only the interim caretaker of these northern woods until one of your grandmother’s Wabanaki people steps in to take over.”
    â€œThat won’t be me,” I say, patting my chest, worried by his mispronnuntiation of her tribe’s name.
    â€œWe’ll see,” he replies.
    I’ve had enough of this old man. I put in my earbuds. With the last juice in my phone, I listen to the full-length version of blues’ goddess Bessie Smith’s “St. Louis Blues.” Her words suggest an option for me, if things get too weird here.
    â€œFeel tomorrow like I feel today, I’ll pack my trunk, make my getaway.”

Three
    The Secrets of Indian Stream
    Pots and pans clank at dawn. I stumble out of my room to use the outhouse and smell something cooking on the stove that’s definitely not vegetarian. Bull briars catch my ankle, and I focus on my footsteps. Something smacks into my forehead. It’s big, furry, alive, and smells like musky honey. Everything goes blurry. My legs wobble. My body throbs. I’ve run into Chenoo. Chenoo, for sure. Chenoo, the cold-hearted, the flesh-eater, the