Wabi by Joseph Bruchac Page B

into the leaves, making so much noise that I was shocked none of the humans seemed to notice.
    I should probably go into the village now, I thought.
    But still I hesitated, listening. Soon I was glad that I had listened further. What I heard gave me hope.
    Dojihla’s father had drawn his daughter off to the side and was speaking to her in a voice meant for no one else to hear.
    â€œMy daughter,” he was saying, “you must accept this. I am sorry that none of these young men interest you. Your dream of marrying the Village Guardian is a foolish one. He is nothing more than a story.”
    None of those young men interested her? Wonderful! It was clearly the moment for me to make my entrance. I stood up, walked to the edge of their circle of light, and spoke in a clear and pleasant voice.
    â€œKWAI KWAI, NIDOBAK.”
    In my excitement, my voice boomed out a bit more than I had intended. Everyone, with the exception of Dojihla, leaped so high at the sound of my friendly greeting that it seemed as if the entire village was trying to find wings and take flight. Dojihla, though, just narrowed her eyes and peered in my direction. Was it eagerness to see who this new arrival was or just annoyance at yet another troubling suitor? I hoped for the former, but my heart sank a bit as I realized it was more likely the latter.
    But if you don’t hop off the branch, you’ll never catch anything.
    â€œKwai kwai, nidobak,” I said again, trying to make my voice as sweet and melodious as possible. And not as loud.
    Then I stepped forward to show myself to all those waiting. Nervous eyes were straining in the direction of my voice. To my relief, the gray-haired sagamon who had greeted all the others extended that same welcome to me in a voice that sounded relieved.
    â€œHello, my friend,” he said, extending an open hand toward me. “Welcome. Enter as a friend and join our circle around the fire.”

CHAPTER 18
    His Name Was Nadialid
    â€œMY NAME,” I SAID, “IS Wabi. My great-grandfather was from this place. His name was Nadialid.”
    People nodded at that.
    â€œNadialid?” said an old man. “There was a fine young man of that name when I was a small boy. Tall and strong he was, much as you are. But that Nadialid just went off hunting one day and never returned.”
    Perfect!
    â€œYes,” I quickly said, “that is the same Nadialid who was my great-grandfather.”
    â€œWhy did he never return to our village?” someone else asked.
    I recognized that sweet but skeptical voice. Dojihla.
    â€œAh, he was taken by an urge to...uh, to wander,” I said, both telling the truth and making things up as I went along. “To see things he had never seen before.” (Such as how the world looks when you view it from the sky.) “After he met my great-grandmother, they chose each other as mates for life. His love for her was so great that he decided to stay with her and follow the ways of her people.”
    I smiled and looked around me. It seemed to be working. People were nodding their heads in approval. Even Dojihla seemed interested in this tale of how my great-grandfather had given up everything—more than she could imagine, in fact—to be with my great-grandmother.
    â€œAfter his passing, my great-grandmother and their fledglings—uh, children—remained with . . . her own people. But his story was passed on down to me. It fascinated me. So I made the long journey to reach this place.”
    â€œYour only reason for coming to our village was to see the home of your ancestors?” asked Dojihla’s father.
    â€œOf course,” I said. “What better reason could there be to come to this beautiful place?”
    Several people smiled at this and one or two of the young men in the circle looked relieved. Dojihla, though, looked either disappointed or disbelieving.
    â€œYou do not know of the contest?” She spat out that