July 1619. Unknown location.
I do not know what day it is or even where I am presently located. I have been stranded on this island for some lengthy duration of time. On the horizon before me, all I can see is a landscape filled with a variation of blues from the sky above to the depths of the ocean. The land on which I stand is uninhabited, aside from a few burrowing creatures and birds. It was so peaceful that I once believed it to be the afterlife. I do not know how I arrived here, only that I woke up on the beautiful yet desolate shores of this island after enduring what was perhaps the second most terrifying experience I have ever been through - the hijacking of a ship at sea. I am not a sailor, but a slave. I was present on the commandeered vessel, not as a passenger, but as cargo. My ocean battered body was covered in the salty residue of the sea and I still wore the loincloth I was given during my onboarding. The heavy and rusted fetters of my captors still clench my wrists. The chains were severed in the attack, but true freedom that day came by way of the restless sea, the same sea which also liberated many of my brethren from their bondage that day. In the evasion of a hopeless future, one which we had already been preparing ourselves for in a foreign land, several fellow captives willingly and unwillingly plunged themselves into the translucent portal of the vast underworld, set free from their bondage, never to be seen again. Their bones would gently rest on the ocean floor beside those of our kinsman who had gone before them.
The attackers of the ship were Englishmen, aboard a Dutch vessel called The White Lion. We were chained and crammed into the bottom of the boat when we first heard the commotion of the privateers. After the attack, one of the Englishmen led those of us who survived, twenty-something in number, out from the lower deck and prepared to board us onto their ship. The scene was brutal. Many of the ship’s Portuguese sailors lay mutilated on the upper deck. Others were held captive by the crewmen of The White Lion. Our new captors severed our chains in the process of placing new ones on us, and in my mind this was an opportune time for me to escape. Without thinking and without a moment’s hesitation, I jumped into the water. Down was my only trajectory in the cool ocean waters as I purposefully submerged myself as much as I could in order to avoid the anticipated gunshots of the privateers, but they decided to abandon me to the cruelty of the sea. The ship began to move north towards the horizon and I swam as fast and as far as I could away from the boat. Sometime later, my arms began to grow tired and I began treading water until, in my fatigue, I began to drift off. The bright sun began descending into the ocean’s pocket. Night began to fall. Water began to fill my lungs. My body felt as though I had been saddled with sandbags as my weight became tremendously burdensome. I began to sink, all the while concluding that this would be the end of my life. A brief sense of pride illuminated my mind because I knew I would not die a slave. But I would die nevertheless, and I knew that the pre captured young man from Ndongo would have never imagined just weeks earlier that he would be alone here in the vastness of an unknown ocean. A sense of overwhelming dread slowly transformed into an inner peace. Drifting off, a shadow of darkness appeared overhead covering the last pale rays of the sunet. I heard loud thunder followed by the cry of what sounded like a bird.
To reiterate, this frightful day was secondary in comparison to the most difficult experience I have ever been through, an experience which preceded the aforementioned events. It happened three months prior in my homeland of Ndongo. For some time, the white faces of the Portuguese had been a presence in our land, most of whom were soldiers and missionaries from the nearby Portuguese colony. Many years ago,their presence was initially met with suspicion but eventually our leaders became acquainted with their ways. Our black faces caused them to believe we were ignorant, but to us their faces would convey a deep irony. Growing up, Mama and Sekeji (my aunt) would tell us ancient stories of evil spirits donning white, and during rituals, some in our village would emulate these spirits by covering themselves with white chalk while dancing as a way to ward them off. Whenever the Portuguese came to our village outside of Kabasa, the curiosity of several children who had never before seen white skin moved them to do what everyone in our village had thought about at one point but never did; they ran towards the men, touching their skin so as to attempt to wipe off the white chalk. But eventually, it would be their bodies - described and dehumanized by the Portuguese as “black” - that would be wiped out. One day the Portuguese soldiers along with several mercenaries from our land came to our small farming village, not as evil spirits, but vessels possessed by them.
They came to make war with our people in order to overtake our city. Our capital was in the throes of a political upheaval and the Portuguese sought to take advantage of our kingdom’s instability. They invaded our cities and our villages, murdering hundreds and taking captive many more. I can still remember the day that my home and my village were invaded by the white men and the mercenaries. How dearly I miss my home in Ndongo. My entire family was slaughtered during the invasion except for me and my sister. We ran out of our inzo just before it was burned to the ground. Shortly thereafter, we were captured by the mercenaries, taken back to the Portuguese colony, placed into the stockade and sold. The next day, I would be forever separated from my sister. Stripped, chained, and without food or water, we marched well over a hundred miles to the shore and I was boarded onto a ship that, just weeks later, would be hijacked by the sailors on The White Lion.
For weeks I sat alone on this island, unsure of my reason for being alive. I needed answers. Mama had raised us to believe that the Unknown always heard us, and so I called to it. I called out to my ancestors to speak on my behalf. More than this, I called to one whom I had only recently believed, the Christian God introduced to me by the Portuguese missionaries. For some time my people had known about this God. The missionaries pictured him to be a white man hanging on their crucifixes, but I was told by one missionary that he was not from where the Portuguese came from. He had lived in our land and his message came to our people and our land even before it came to the Portuguese. This God’s message was love. So despite my burning disdain for the people who destroyed my home and placed me in chains, at this moment I hesitated to pray to this God of their missionaries. It was they who told me he is love, but why then would they conquer and exploit my people in his name? Why would they slaughter my family and enslave thousands of my people to expand their religious empire? Somewhat doubtful that the Christian God would hear me or would want anything to do with me nor I with him, I still prayed. The monologue of my thoughts began to cause a surge of deep emotions within me bringing impatience racing to the forefront of my spirit. From my lips poured out rage and frustration. And that’s when I heard a response. An audible voice answered me from the thicket of the island forest
“Come up to the mountain, my son. You are here to carry out an important task.”
November, 1621 . Virginia.
Tsenacommacah is our home. We are it’s people. We belong to this land. We are it’s stewards. It’s resources nourish us. The land’s beauty and vastness protects us, and we must protect it. We are connected to the land. Kišux, Nipahëm, Mpi, they all sustain us. Noosh (my father) would say these words to me as nunksqua. Before I became a warrior and a hunter for our people, as a young girl, he would tell me stories about the great heroes of our land and the Great Mystery who created everything.
For some time our land has become filled with new inhabitants. They are people with white faces and, while their initial company was small, their numbers have increased over time. Some of the elders on our council had forewarnings in their dreams of their arrival. The chief of our people engaged the new settlers in a friendly manner and instructed us to bring them gifts and food, but some of their leaders resisted our help and sought to do us harm. Many of them arrived with an air of superiority and a deep lust for the land. They claimed the land in the name of their god, but disregarded it’s sacredness. They failed to see that this land had claimed us as it’s people. They sought to deprive the land of its wealth and ignore our interconnectedness with it. For some time, The Great Mystery who sees all and looks over our land frustrated their efforts. Their colony deteriorated and the people did not reciprocate our hospitality. Tensions between our people and the white people began to intensify. Our chief informed us that these people were making themselves permanent residents on the land and that they would try to force us to make peace with what they believed was their destiny. We refused and conflict ensued between us. Several of our people were killed, kidnapped, or enslaved including the chief’s daughter, who was forced to marry a white man and taken from the land. Our crops were attacked and our land was encroached upon. Their missionaries told us that we were savages in need of their education and religion, while offending the Great Spirit by violating the land.
While hunting one day in the great woodlands, surrounded by the beautiful harmony of pastel browns, reds, oranges, and greens of the seasonally transformed Virginia forests, the sky suddenly became dark. Thunder clapped as the shade of what I believed were clouds blanketed the previously illuminated trees. The deer and squirrel that had been hiding themselves from my sight suddenly emerged from their camouflage and scattered as though neither I nor my weapons were their greatest threat at that moment. Something greater than all of us entered into the forest and commanded our attention, and for a brief moment, the entire forest froze.
Suddenly, a voice thundered, “Daughter, I have seen the woundedness in the souls of the land’s creatures and I must respond.”
Who are you? Are you the Great Mystery? I replied.
I have been sent by the Great Mystery to protect this land.
I am at your service, I said.
The voice responded, “A Great Winter is coming and I have been sent to warn the people of the land of the destruction in its wake. For ages the Great Mystery has appointed me and I have fought the many winters and I have guided them into Spring. I have ushered in the rains to provide nourishment for the land and life to the people. But now, there is a great winter coming which will forever change this sacred land. I have chosen you to speak a warning to our people and to those who would inhabit this place.”
“What warning? Who are you?” I responded
Suddenly, the earth trembled beneath me. The thicket of shaded trees before me swayed and rustled and shook violently as if they were hiding a great animal devouring its prey. Dozens of multi-colored leaves fell like rain from their branches to the earth and from the bases and exposed roots of the swaying trees emerged a large avian foot, it’s talons black as obsidian stone, crunching the leaves on the forest floor. Stepping forward through the multi-colored curtain of oak, hickory, and pine trees was a figure that I had only known of from legend: The Great Thunderbird. The birds of the trees dispersed into the air with a chorus of reverence and awe. It’s presence was majestic and unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was the height of 20 men and it’s width was up to 13 men. It’s wingspan was 80 horses in length. It’s likeness was like a great eagle but it’s feathers were midnight black like the crow’s. It’s beak appeared to be yellow in the shadows, but as glimpses of the sun began to crack through the thick and thunderous clouds, it appeared as fire. Moving forward and slightly raising its wings, the plumage of this great bird contained large feathers of many colors: red, maroon, green, teal, orange, peach, sky blue, and violet. It’s eyes were a piercing golden brown. It’s pupils, unlike most birds, didn't flash in quick movements and dilation, but moved as if they were the eyes of a human: reading, sensing, calculating, and discerning. Paralyzed in its presence, I was seen by this great bird; known by it.
The Thunderbird spoke, “I am ‘The Great Bird of storm and tempest who was appointed in the beginning of things to keep the earth and also the upper air pure and clean. I am a servant of the Great Mystery and my work is good.”1. I have been sent because The Great Mystery loves justice and hates robbery and wrongdoing. There is a great winter of injustice and robbery coming to this land and many lands abroad which they have never known. It is a winter which will destroy dignity and despise the sacredness of all living things .Great lands will be violated and exploited. People will be killed and enslaved, all so that power and human destiny can be achieved. This great winter that is to come is inevitable. It will become so powerful and pervasive that even I, the Great protector of these lands, will be unable to stop it. In mercy, you must warn your people, and you must cleave to the legacy of your ancestors that this winter will threaten to erase. But you must also warn the people who will bring this winter with them. If they are indomitable in their efforts, they must recognize the truth that they are destroying beloved creations of the Great Mystery and robbing appointed lands.
The Thunderbird took me to a clearing at the edge of the forest. Before me was a vast clearing, a field being plowed by dark-skinned laborers. Their clothes were worn, their heads were covered in scarves. The bright Fall sun glistened on their skin. Some of our people who had interacted with the white settlers told us that these people had been brought in from far away lands, enslaved and kept in servitude to the settlers. A commandeered boat arrived last year carrying twenty and some odd number of these people who were eventually sold to the settlers. Many of them despised their slaves as they did our people, believing us to be inferior. The slaves, who were hunched over in this field, dug their hands into the grounded soil, planting what would become the resource that would fill, not their hands but the hands of their white masters, with a harvest of new opportunities and wealth. Like the tobacco seeds buried in the ground, their bodies are the main resource upon which this colony is being built. They will never taste any of the wealth gained or benefit from any of the opportunities seized by their oppressors.
In the distance smoke billowed from the tops of small cabins. The noise of hammers slamming nails into wood reverberated off of the wall of trees at the edge of the forest. A chapel was being built. The white settlers who were cultivating this particular piece of land arrived last year were a devoutly religious people and upon the day of their arrival, their Captain spoke these words, “We ordain that this day of our ships arrival, at the place assigned for plantation, in the land of Virginia, shall be yearly and perpetually kept holy as a day of Thanksgiving to Almighty God.” It had been a year since the Captain’s declaration and this holy day of which he spoke was taking place again in no less than seven days, but I wondered, was this day a holy day for these slaves? What would they be giving thanks for? Who was this almighty god of the settlers that would condone the kidnapping of people and the robbery of sacred lands? This day approaching was certainly not a holy day for my people. It, like every other day that these settlers remained on our land, was a day in which sacred things were being defiled. And yet we were willing to share our residence because we believe this land is not to be claimed, but rather, it claims, and it has claimed us as it’s people.
The Thunderbird, remaining silent at my observance, knew everything I thought. It spoke again, saying, “The Coming Winter will have a lasting impact on your people and the people of the laborers you see in this field. Your fates on this land, while each possessing their own complexities, are inextricably woven together. The Great Mystery sees you both and will sustain you and your dignity. This is why you must warn your people, my daughter.. Taking a brief pause so as to let the sobering words settle in, the Great Bird said, “I will take your form over the next several days, and when the time comes, I will reveal myself.”
I hurriedly returned to the village to speak to one of the elders, Tekakwitha, an older woman and prophet in our village who told me that the Great Thunderbird visits the people every 400 years or in times of great need or judgment. I told her the warning given to me by the Thunderbird about the coming winter, to which she replied, “Gather the people.”
to be continued…
Kerven, Rosalind. Native American Myths: collected 1636-1919, Talking Stone, Swindoburn Cottage West, Sharperton Morpeth, Northumberland, NE65 7AP, pg 134