Flying from the Utmost Parts of the Earth:The Long Now of the Indigenous Eighteenth Century Coll Thrush (bio) In the summer of 1733, a group of Yamacraw people stood high on a bluff over a river that would soon be renamed the Savannah, in a place some would soon call Georgia. They watched as a group of newcomers arrived from the sea, and in short order danced for the strangers, offering them sacred White Drink and shaking rods covered with bells. They stroked the bodies of the newcomers with eagle-feather fans, simultaneously welcoming the foreigners and reminding them whose territory they were visiting. The view out from that bluff, then, both took in a new world in the making and asserted a world that already existed. One of the Yamacraw leaders, a man named Tomochichi, would describe the British as having flown "from the utmost parts of the earth."1 On that occasion, the Yamacraw brought eagle feathers with them to be presented to their British counterparts as an expression of goodwill, curiosity, and Yamacraw sovereignty. In a painting made of their visit to the trustees of the nascent colony of Georgia, an eagle stands in one corner, symbolizing the ways in which the Yamacraw had also flown from seemingly utmost corners to the so-called center of empire. These two peoples, these two rivers, and these two views were caught up in a suturing story, of worlds already under way coming together anew, of places becoming entangled with each other—for better and for worse.2 [End Page 163] The eighteenth century, as Peter B. Villella reminds us in his piece in this special issue, was an inflection point in the history of colonialism and globalization. Competing empires and enlightenments, the ascendancy of mercantile and other forms of capitalism, and the metastasis of intercontinental wars were hinges between the radically different worlds of the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries; indeed, much that we now frame as modern took form in the long eighteenth century. That Indigenous peoples were at the center of this story is no longer in question. While in the past many historians and others portrayed Indigenous peoples as passive recipients of these changes—if they portrayed them at all—we now know that Indigenous people, territories, ideas, and cultural belongings transformed the "old world" as much as the "new world" was changed through the presence of Europeans, Africans, and others. As historian Michael Witgen has argued, these worldings were imbricated and multidirectional, an "infinity of nations" coming into view as they collided, coalesced, and in some cases collapsed.3 At the heart of this story is movement. Like the Georgian colonists' visit to Yamacraw territory, or the mirroring journey of Tomochichi and his compatriots to London, the flight of people, things, and, we might even say, places across the Atlantic and other spaces in the eighteenth century rock and capsize notions of easily-bounded territories and identities. This mobility could be seen not only in the journeys made by humans, but also in the peregrinations of the other-than-human. As essays in this issue illustrate, items as quotidian as iron nails (in 'Ilaheva Tua'one's contribution) or as puissant as alder bird-rattles (in Julia Lum's) were travelers in their own right. And as other scholars have shown, non-human presences such as tobacco and chocolate began their worlding voyages as sacred beings and became transformational commodities in the economic and cultural cauldron of European colonialism.4 Symbols also migrated across these maritime networks, whether in the form of the Catholic saints in Indigenous homes about which Caterina Pizzigoni writes, notions about oppositional "Indians" that are the subject of Matt Bahar's essay, or in the Miwok, Kodiak, and other names people took or were given in the account shared by Jeff Glover. Whether in the development of scientific knowledge in the Atlantic world or in the maritime fur trades of the Pacific coast of North America, a place Alan Gallay takes us in his recounting of a captivity among the Nuu-chah-nulth, Indigenous practices and ways of knowing were fundamental to the creation of the world we now call modern...