"I was wrong, Grandmother Willow, I followed the wrong path. I feel so lost."

I had gathered up all of the books and little trinkets that John had given to me and brought them here, to Grandmother Willow, to bury. After they killed him, his body would probably be cast into the sea, or left out in the elements. The least I could do for him would be to give him a sacred burial spot for his possessions.

I wanted to cry out for my mother, to the Great Spirit, to anyone who could help me. How had I gone so wrong? She would be so disappointed in me. She had tried so hard while she was alive to teach me how to know what path to take, and I had never been able to listen.

"Child, remember your dream!"

"My dream?" I said it more to myself than out loud. The spinning arrow. Hadn't I once compared John to an arrow? But that was all in my mind.

Then the compass rolled out onto the ground in front of me.

John had told me that these were used to find directions when you were lost, but I had not really looked at it closely, because I already knew what signs to look for to guide my path. Well, I thought I knew. I picked it up, its copper setting shining almost as brightly as the gold he had shown me. But—did the arrow move? Was it broken? I turned it again, reading all the symbols while doing so, and noticed that the arrow was always turning the opposite way, so when I stopped, it always faced north. But it wasn't just jerking. It was spinning.

A spinning arrow.

"It's the arrow from your dream!" said Grandmother Willow, just as I realized it myself. All at once, my mother's lullaby rose around me, higher and more resonant than before. And I felt her, smelled her, heard her voice as clearly as the last day I had spoken to her.

You know your path. I faced the horizon, the tiniest glow of orange just beginning to peek out. I did know my path. Now follow it.

As I ran, my mind jumped between two thoughts: that my mother was with me, and that there had to be hope, there had to be time. However, when I heard two drumbeats—not just the familiar low, deep sound that I heard all my life, but a high, fast, tinny tune that I could assume was the English war drum—I knew I had to go faster even than my legs could carry me now. Once John Smith was dead, a massacre would begin. I had to ask for help. I closed my eyes and silently asked my mother how to enlist the help of the spirits. No sooner had I thought this than images began to rush through my mind once more, like they had so long ago. They were foggy, but soon two became clear, just as before: A soaring eagle, and a mountain.

I formed the words in my own spontaneous melody.

Eagle, help my feet to fly.

Mountain, help my heart be great.

Not sure if this was enough, I called on the help of even the beings that had no names.

Spirits of the earth and sky,

Please don't let it be too late…

I was flying, leaping over chasms, soaring though meadows, my toes barely touching the ground. And all the while, my mother's breath tickled my back, her hands pushing me the whole way. The glow of the sun had turned the entire sky red, and suddenly, I saw a cliff silhouetted against the sky with people of my tribe and others who had come to help us in battle. And one moment later, there was John, being dragged towards the place of his execution.

Everything happened so quickly, it was like a gust of wind had sped me forward through time to the edge of the cliff. The club was falling, falling, and as I threw myself over John's body, screaming, "NO!" I could barely tell if I was dead or alive. But I could still feel him beneath me. Stillness settled over everything; even the wind stopped.

"Daughter, STAND BACK." My father looked at me as though I was possessed. I would not give up that easily.

"I won't stand back! If you kill him, you'll have to kill me too. I love him, Father." Shock was apparent in the faces of every single person on the cliff, and even the white men in the clearing below. Had they heard me? Even if they had, how could they understand me? But it didn't matter; it was my father I had to convince.

"Father, he has done nothing wrong. This is where hatred has brought us, to killing an innocent man." Leaning down to place my cheek next to John's, I felt tears on his eyelashes.

"This is the path I choose, father. What will yours be?"

My father had once told me that he could feel my mother's presence whenever the wind blew through the trees. Now that I could feel her too, I knew that she was whispering in his ear, just as she had whispered in mine just moments earlier. I knew he was remembering the time when they had first met, and maybe she was even showing him a time when they had broken tradition to be together. Leaves whirled around his feet and over his head. Finally, he raised his club again. But now it was in peace.

"My daughter speaks with a wisdom beyond her years. We have all come here armed with our weapons and the anger in our hearts, but she has come with courage and understanding. Her voice echoes that of the Great Spirit, and His will is mine. If there is to be more killing, it will not start with me. Release him."

John was unsteady on his feet, and his whole body trembled like a leaf before he pulled me to him, stroking my hair and murmuring "Thank God. Thank God. Thank God." I was so engulfed by joy and relief that I didn't pay any attention to the commotion I heard far below. But when John's head jerked sideways, I knew that something was wrong.

Then he tore himself from me, and a loud CRACK split the sky. Time slowed down as I saw his body fly backwards through the air and hit the ground at my father's feet.