He did not look up as she neared, and she slowed to a walk. His long, raven hair had been woven into a single braid that fell to the middle of his back, and his burnished skin shone with a copper glint where errant streaks of sunlight brushed against it. He was a big man, even hunched down at the table the way he was, and the fingers of his hands, clasped before him in a twisted knot, were gnarled and thick. He wore what appeared to be an army field jacket with the sleeves torn out, pants that were baggy and frayed, boots so scuffed they lacked any semblance of a shine, and a red bandanna tied loosely about his neck.
Somewhere in the distance a child squealed with delight. The Indian did not react.
Nest moved to a picnic table thirty feet away from the Indian and seated herself. She was off to one side, out of his direct line of sight, where she could study him at her leisure. Pick perched on her shoulder, whispering furiously in her ear. When she failed to respond, he began to jump up and down in irritation.
"What's the matter with you?" he hissed. "How can you learn anything from all the way back here? You've got to get closer! Must I tell you how to do everything!"
She reached up, lifted him off her shoulder, and placed him on the table, frowning in reproof. Patience, she mouthed.
In truth, she was trying to make up her mind about the man. He looked like he might be an Indian, but how could she be sure? Most of what she knew about Indians she'd learned from movies and a few reports she'd done in school–not what you'd call a definitive education. She couldn't see his face clearly, and he wasn't wearing anything that looked remotely Indian. No jewelry, no feathers, no buckskins, no buffalo robes. He looked more like a combat veteran. She wondered suddenly if he was homeless. A heavy knapsack and a bedroll were settled on the bench beside him, and he had the look of a man who had been out in the weather a lot.
"Who is he, do you think?" she asked softly, almost to herself. Then she glanced down at Pick. "Have you ever seen him before?"
The sylvan was apoplectic. "No, I haven't seen him before! And I don't have the foggiest notion who he is! What do you think we're doing out here? Haven't you heard anything I've said?"
"Shhhhh," she hushed him gently.
They sat there for a time without speaking (although Pick muttered incessantly) and watched the man. He did not seem aware of them. He did not turn their way. He did not move at all. The sun slipped below the treeline, and the shadows deepened. Nest glanced about guardedly, but she did not see the feeders. Behind her, back toward the center of the park, the baseball games were winding down and the first cars were beginning to pull out from the parking spaces behind the backstops and turn toward the highway.
Then suddenly the man rose, picked up his knapsack and bedroll, and came toward Nest. Nest was so surprised she did not even have the presence of mind to think of running away. She sat there, frozen in place as he approached. She could see his face clearly now, his heavy, prominent features–dark brows, flat nose, and wide cheekbones. He moved with the grace and ease of a younger man, but the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth suggested he was much older.
He sat down across from her without a word, depositing his belongings on the bench beside him. She realized suddenly that Pick had disappeared.
"Why are you looking at me?" he said. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. He didn't sound or look angry, but his face and voice were hard to read. "Cat got your tongue?" he pressed. She cleared her throat and swallowed. "I was wondering if you were an Indian."
He stared at her without expression. "You mean Native American, don't you?"
She bit her lower lip and blushed. "Sorry. Native American." He smiled, a tight, thin compression of his lips. "I suppose it doesn't matter what you call me. Native American. Indian. Redskin. The words of themselves do not define me. No more so than your histories do my people." The dark eyes squinted at her. "Who are you?" "Nest Freemark," she told him.
"Huh, little bird's Nest, crafted of twigs and bits of string. Do you live nearby?"
She nodded, then glanced over her shoulder. "At the edge of the park. Why did you call me 'bird's Nest' like that?"
The dark eyes bore into her. "Isn't that what you were called when you were little?"
"By my grandmother, a long time ago. Then by some of the kids in school, when they wanted to tease me." She held his gaze. "How did you know?" "I do magic," he told her in a whisper. "Don't you?" She stared at him, not knowing what to say. "Sometimes." He nodded. "A girl named Nest is bound to be called 'bird's Nest' by someone. Doesn't take much to figure that out. But 'Nest'-that is a name that has power. It has a history in the world, a presence."
Nest nodded. "It is Welsh. The woman who bore it first was the wife and mother of Welsh and English kings." She was surprised at how freely she was talking with the man, almost as if she knew him already.
"You have a good name, Nest. My name is Two Bears. I was given my name by my father, who on seeing me, newly born and quite large, declared, 'He is as big as two bears!' So I was called afterward, although that is not my Indian name. In the language of my people, my name is O'olish Amaneh."
"O'olish Amaneh," Nest repeated carefully. "Where do you come from, Two Bears?"
"First we must shake hands to mark the beginning of our friendship, little bird's Nest," he declared. "Then we can speak freely."
He motioned for Nest to extend her hand, and then he clasped it firmly in his own. His hand was as hard and coarse as rusted iron.
"Good. Because of your age, we will skip the part that involves smoking a peace pipe." He did not smile or change expression. "You ask me where I come from. I come from everywhere. I have lived a lot of places. But this" — he gestured about him — "is my real home."
"You're from Hopewell?" Nest said dubiously.
"No. But my people are of this land, of the Rock River Valley, from before Hopewell. They have all been dead a long time, my people, but sometimes I come back to visit them. They are buried just over there." He pointed toward the Indian mounds. "I was born in Springfield. That was a long time ago, too. How old do you think I am?"
He waited, but she could only shake her head. "I don't know."
"Fifty–two," he said softly. "My life slips rapidly away. I fought in Vietnam. I walked and slept with death; I knew her as I would a lover. I was young before, but afterward I was very old. I died in the Nam so many times, I lost count. But I killed a lot of men, too. I was a LURP. Do you know what that means?"
Nest shook her head once more.
"It doesn't matter," he said, brushing at the air with his big hand. "I was there for six years, and when it was over, I was no longer young. I came home, and I no longer knew myself or my people or my country. I was an Indian, a Native American, and a Redskin all rolled into one, and I was none of these. I was dead, but I was still walking around."
He looked at her without speaking for a moment, his eyes impenetrable. "On the other hand, maybe it was all a dream." His flat features shifted in the failing light, almost as if they were changing shape. "The trouble with dreams is that sometimes they are as real as life, and you cannot tell the two apart. Do you have dreams, little bird's Nest?"
"Sometimes," she replied, fascinated by the way his voice rose and fell as he talked, rough and silky, soft and bold. "Are you really an Indian, Two Bears?"
He glanced down then for a moment, shifting his hard gaze away from her, placing the palms of his big hands flat against the top of the picnic table. "Why should I tell you?"