They passed a ramp leading down into an open–sided parking garage that abutted the expressway:. .and the sound of passing cars was a dull whine of tires on concrete. Then a park came into view. It was a small park, barely more than an open space with a grassy knoll at its center, clusters of small trees, and a sidewalk winding out from the street to a railing that overlooked Elliott Bay. Wooden benches lined the sidewalk and quarter–slat telescopes pointed out toward the Olympics. A juncture of streets leading down to the Market from the city fronted the little park, and traffic crawled past sluggishly in the afternoon sun.
A blue and red sign at the edge of the lawn proclaimed that this was‑Victor Steinbrueck Park.
`Here," said Ariel.
Nest walked up into the park for a closer look, drawn by the vista of the bay and the distant mountains, by the bright, sunny mix of blue water, green trees, and white–capped mountain peaks.
She glanced around at the people in the park. They were an eclectic group. There were schoolchildren clustered at the railing with their supervising teachers and parents. There were shoppers on their way to and from the market. Businessmen and women were reading newspapers and magazines in the warmth of the sun as they munched sandwiches and sipped coffee.
But mostly there were Native Americans. They occupied the majority of the benches, particularly those fronting Western. They sat together in small groups on the grassy knoll. One or two lay sleeping in the sunshine, wrapped in old blankets or coats. They were a ragged, sullen group, their copper faces weathered, their black hair lank, and their clothes shabby. The ones sitting on the benches fronting the sidewalk on Western had placed paper cups and boxes in front of them to solicit handouts from passersby. They kept their faces lowered and their eyes on each other, seldom bothering even to look up at the people they begged from. Some drank from bottles wrapped in brown paper sacks. Must were men, but there were a few women, as well.
Nest turned to find Ariel, to ask who it was that they had come to meet, but the tatterdemalion was gone,
`Hello, little bird's Nest' someone growled from behind.
She knew the voice instantly, and even so she couldn't quite believe it. She turned around, and there stood Two Bears. The Sinnissippi was as ageless and unchanging as John Boss, his copper–coloured features blunt and smooth, his fang hair ink black and woven into a single braid, and his eyes so dark they seemed depthless. He wore the familiar army fatigue pants and boots, but here, where it was cooler, he also wore a heavy jacket over a checked flannel shirt. The silver buckle of his belt was tarnished and the leather scarred. He was as big and imposing as she remembered, with huge shoulders and thick, gnarled fingers. He was a solid and immutable presence.
`O'olish Amaneh: She spoke his Indian name Fatefully, as if it were made of glass.
`You remember; he said approvingly. `Good'
Are you the one I'm supposed to meet?'
He cocked his head, 'I don't know. Have you come here to Meet someone, little bird's Nest?"
She nodded. 'My friend Arial brought me. She said. .
'Your friend? Have you come with a friend? Where is she?'
Nest looked around. `Gone, I guess. Hiding'
'Ah, just like your friend in the park five years ago. Mr. Pick' Two Bears seemed amused. His broad face creased with his smile. All your friends want to hide from me, it seems'
She coloured slightly. `Maybe you frighten them'
'Do you think so?' He shrugged, as if disclaiming responsibility. 'You've changed, little bird's Nest. Maybe I can't call you that anymore. Maybe you're too old, too grown up'
'You haven't changed' she replied. `You look just the same. What are you doing here?'
He looked around speculatively. `Maybe I've come to be with my brothers and sisters. The Sinnissippi are gone, but there are still plenty of other tribes. Some of them have prospered. They run casinos and sell fireworks. They have councils to govern their people and rules to enforce their proclamations. The government in Washington recognizes their authority. They call them Native Americans and pass laws that give them special privileges. They don't call them Indians or Redskins anymore. At least, not to their faces'
He cocked an eyebrow at her. `There is even a segment of the population who believes that my people were wronged once, long ago, when white Europeans took away their land and their way of life. Can you imagine that?'
Nest shook her head noncommittally. 'Are you sure Ariel didn't bring me here to see you?'
His face remained expressionless. "Why don't we sit down and talk, little bird's Nest?°
He led her to a bench facing out toward the hater. A group of weathered men was sitting there, passing around a bottle and speaking in law voices. Two Bears said something to them in another language–and they rose at once and moved away. Two Bears took their place an the bench, and Nest sat dawn next to him.
`What did you say to them?' she asked.
He shrugged. `I told them they have no pride in themselves and should be ashamed: The copper skin of his blunt features tightened around his bones. 'We are such a sad and hopeless people. Such a lost people. There are some of us, it is true, who have money and property. There are some who have found a way of life that provides. But most of us have nothing but empty hearts and alcohol and bad memories. Our pride in ourselves was stripped away a long time ago, and we were left hollow. It is a sad thing to see. Sadder to live'
He looked at her. `Do you know what is wrong with us, little bird's Nest? We are homeless. It Is a bad way to be in the world. But that is how we are. We are adrift, tiny boats in a large ocean. Even those of us who have land and houses and friends and neighbours and some sort of life. It is a condition indigenous to our people. We bear a legacy of loss passed down to us by our ancestors. "We bear the memory of what we had and what was taken. It haunts us.'
He shook his head slowly. `You can be homeless in different ways. You can be homeless like those o£ my people you see here, living on the streets, surviving on handouts, marking time between the seasons. But you can be homeless in your heart, too. You can be empty inside yourself because you have no spiritual centre. You can wander through life without any real sense of who you are or where you belong. You coo exist without purpose or cause. Have you ever felt like that, little bird's Nest?'
`No' she said at once, wondering where he was going with this.
`Indians know;" he said softly. We have known for a long time. We are homeless in the streets and we are homeless m our hearts as well. We have no purpose in the world. We have no centre. Our way of life was changed for us long ago. and it will never return. Our new life is someone else's life imposed on us; it is a false life. We struggle to find our home, our centre, but it is as faded as the Sinnissippi. A building is a home if the people who inhabit it have memories and love and a place in the world. Otherwise, it is just a building, a shelter against the elements, and it can never be anything more. Indians know'
He bent close to her, pausing. `There are others who know this, too. A few, who have been uprooted and displaced, who have been banished to the road and a life of wandering, who have lost any sense of who they are. Some of these are like us men and women whose way of life has been taken from them. Some of them are looking for a way back home again. Maybe you even know one'