Spirited (8 page)

“Frightened men do what they must to feel stronger.” Oneko sighed heavily. “The People are very frightened, Wusamequin. We have been weakened by the white skins. We must form strong bonds of brotherhood among ourselves.”

“I understand you,” Wusamequin said.

Oneko pointed to the scalp knife in his hand. “That would be a fine gift. That’s an exquisite weapon.”

Wusamequin shook his head. “It’s not mine to give. It belongs to Odina’s father, Wopigwoot.”

Oneko grinned slyly at his shaman. “Wopigwoot would be happy if it were carried by a son-in-law. And a son-in-law would have the right to give it to whomever he pleased.” He crinkled his eyes and pursed his lips, and he looked like a grizzled old turtle.

He continued, “We are few, and the white skins are many. We must have children, Wusamequin. You’re a young man. Vigorous. You can put many sons in the belly of a wife. You need to take a new wife. If she is still in the Land Beyond, your wife understands that. Soon she will walk the Road of Stars, and she will let this world go.”

“I…” Wusamequin bowed his head, not wishing to think of that in this moment. Oneko, I…”

“Don’t stutter,” Oneko said, feinting a box to Wusamequin’s ear. “Go and wash yourself. I don’t like to stand so close to death.”

Wusamequin hesitated. Oneko blew out a sigh and called to the squaws and children, “Gather up the white skins. We will put them away for now.”

Cheers and laughter rose from the throng as Odina and her sister, Keshkecho, darted toward the white woman and tried to grab her arms. The woman lunged at them, her teeth bared, swiping at them with her hands. Odina laughed shrilly and bent down to her side. She picked up a small rock and hefted it in her hand, preparing to take aim—

“No!” Oneko called to her. “Just put them away.” To Wusamequin, he said, “Does that satisfy you?”

The medicine man crossed his hands over his chest. “I told you, the white skins are not my concern.”

With that, he left for the sweat lodge.

Chapter Six

Surrounded by screaming women, laughing children, and barking, wolflike dogs, Isabella struggled as two of the Indian women grabbed her wrists and hoisted her to her feet. “No!” she shrieked, kicking at them and yanking her arms as hard as she could. “Papa!”

She pushed herself against the ground to give herself the momentum to look back at her father as she was pulled along. Not far behind her, he was being half-lifted, half-dragged by six or seven women, almost like a man in his coffin carried aloft by his pall bearers. His head drooped over the shoulder of an ancient crone. She said something and the others burst into a flurry of giggles.

Then they were herded toward a small circular building constructed of saplings and bark. She thought of the cairns of Ireland, hillocks in which Celtic kings were buried. For a moment, terror got the best of her—was this to be her tomb?—and then she gathered her wits about herself again. It had to mean something that they hadn’t been killed in the forest. Unless the Indians simply wanted to share the pleasure of butchering Englishmen with their families.

She was surprised at how little she knew of the ways of the Indians. She had never actually touched an Indian before. She had lived in the Colonies for almost a year, and yet she couldn’t speak even a single word of their language.

“There is no need, my dear, to speak their tongue,” Mrs. DeWitt had once commented. “After all, they need to learn English, if they are to make their way in the new order of things. Their languages will die out, and a fine thing that is, too. It’s all gibberish and prevents them from progressing, don’t you know.”

If only I could speak one word. Just one. Perhaps they would understand that I mean no harm. That I am just a frightened girl.

The prettier of her two captors spoke roughly to her and gestured toward the hut. Then a much younger girl raced to the hut and pulled back the flap. She gestured excitedly for Isabella to be taken inside. The two women who held her arms started speaking in higher, more excited voices.

“Papa!” She strained to reach him, pushing the hand of the pretty woman away as she worked her arm free. She lurched forward, crying, “Please, he is a physician! Do any among you have wounds? Diseases? He can heal you!”

A little boy trotted up beside her and swatted her on the thigh with a stick. Despite the layers of mud-caked petticoats that served as protective layers
between her flesh and his weapon, the blow still hurt. When she yelped, he giggled at her and scampered away

“We came in peace,” she said brokenly. “Will no one listen to me? I am … I am …”

And then she heard the voice inside her head, the one that had carried on the wind.

His voice, saying
“Mahwah”

She said it aloud.
“Mahwah”

The pretty woman beside her jerked her head toward her. Isabella’s eyes widened with hope that she had at last distracted her from her single-minded cruelty.

“Mahwah,”
Isabella repeated.

“Mahwah,”
the woman echoed, looking mildly shocked. Then she spoke to the other woman, who was rather plain and quite plump, and the two looked back at Isabella.

“Mahwah,”
Isabella said again.

The plain woman spoke to the pretty woman, and they both laughed. Then the pretty one yanked hard on Isabella’s rose-shaped earbob. It would have ripped through her earlobe except that the hanger broke in the woman’s grasp.

“Ow!” Isabella cried.

The woman danged it in front of Isabella’s face.
“Mahwah,”
she said, and placed the earbob into a small leather pouch back at her waist.

“Please, take the other one as well,” Isabella urged,
unfastening it from her ear. She held it out to the woman, who snatched it from her and tossed it lazily to her companion. Then she sneered at Isabella and flicked her forefinger against Isabella’s cheek, as if to say, I
may do whatever I wish to you.

Then her father’s convoy reached the front of the hut; the flap was raised and they tossed him inside as if he were a cord of wood. The pretty woman glared at her with a look of triumph. Then she half-led, half-dragged Isabella toward the flap, which was still being held up by a very old woman who had no teeth. Isabella could see nothing beyond it; the interior of the hut was pitch dark.

The pretty woman sneered at her and said,
“Mahwah!”
Then she drove Isabella into the hut, pushing her with all her strength.

Isabella stumbled in the darkness and nearly fell over her father, who was lying on the floor.

The flap dropped unceremoniously back into place.

“Papa,” Isabella said, feeling for him. “Papa!” She was touching his face, her fingers running across his forehead. It was sticky and wet.

“I’m … I’m all right, poppet,” he said hoarsely.

“What is happening? What are they doing?”

“I’m not certain.” His voice was strained. He coughed hard.

“You’re lying to me,” she accused him. “Please, Papa, tell me what is to become of us.”

“I …” He sighed. “My impression is that they
mean to …” He cleared his throat. “You are very young and beautiful. It may be that one of the men will … marry you.”

“Marry
me?” Her words were shrill. “That’s not what you really mean, is it, Papa?”

“They are not Christians,” he reminded her. “They do not follow Christian practices.”

“They do not marry, then.”

“Not as we do, no.”

“They do not marry. And they cut the hair off living men.” She choked back her sobs. “They murder men savagely. They butchered our escort and dispatched our wounded. Why have we been spared thus far?”

“I cannot say, girl. Perhaps they realized that I was an officer.” He groaned. “Isabella, my hands are bound. Please see if you can untie them.”

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she blurted, fumbling to find his wrists. He was lying on them; she eased him gently onto his side and started feeling the thick rope, trying to locate the knot.

“Have you anything sharp?” he asked”

“No, I haven’t,” she said, frustrated and frightened. She worked at the rope. Her fingers were bleeding and sore, and the fibers of the rope jabbed like pins.

“Keep trying,” he urged her. “Or perhaps you can find something on the ground. A piece of broken pottery.

“Yes, Papa.” She raised up on her hands and knees,
feeling the earth. She remembered the knife she had found in the mud. That had seemed miraculous. Perhaps she would be so blessed a second time.

But after a few minutes’ searching, she said despondently, “Papa, I have found nothing.” She choked back a sob. “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s not your fault, my girl,” he assured her. “Now, listen, Isabella. We mustn’t give up hope. We must pray and stay alert. We must escape if we have the chance. If you see an opportunity to run, you must leave me behind. Do you understand me?”

“I would never do that!” she shot back as she came to him and put her arms around his neck. “Never in a century, Papa!”

“You must, if you have the chance. And … and I shall do the same, Isabella. If one of us can reach civilization, we can summon help for the other.”

“All… all right,” she murmured, though she didn’t honestly believe that her father would desert her, as Major Whyte had done.

“Good.” His voice was firm and steady, filled with authority. “So that is our plan.”

“Our … plan?” She was incredulous, but fought to hide it. That was no plan. “How shall we accomplish it?”

“We can hope that Providence will provide. Now help me up to a sitting position,” he told her. “I don’t want them to find me lying here trussed like a deer when they come to check on us.”

“Indeed not,” she said. It was awkward, but she accomplished it at last, easing him upright until he found his balance.

Then there was a sound like heavy fabric being torn. Isabella glanced fearfully in the direction of the flap, which was being lifted up.

A man stood in the opening to the hut. It was the brave who had attacked her, and he was carrying a torch. He was clean and he wore fresh clothing of beaded, fringed leather. His face was clear of paint, and he was an evil-looking man, with brows that tapered diagonally from his nose to his temples, and a hooked nose. His lips were thin and mean.

He gestured toward Isabella, indicating that she should come to him.

“Oh, Papa,” she murmured, her eyes huge. Her face prickled with fear. “Papa, help me.”

“Be strong, Isabella.” His voice caught. “I love you, my daughter.”

She stared at the man, so frightened that she couldn’t remember how to move. Her corset was no longer an impediment. It had been such a ruin that she had cast it off as they had walked here. For the first time she realized how skimpily dressed she was, and how cold the air had grown. She was shivering violently, but she had been unaware of it.

The Indian gestured again and spoke gruffly to her.

She licked her lips and was about to say her single word in his language,
“Mahwah.”

But someone said it before she could.

“Mahwah.”

It was the tall, handsome man, the one who had saved her. He appeared beside a man Isabella guessed was the tribe’s leader, an older man with a distinguished bearing, for all of his being a savage, standing at his side. The chief was elaborately dressed, with several feathers twined into his long hair, and two beaded earbobs in his ear. Her rescuer wore a leather jerkin that had been decorated with dyed porcupine quills in purple and red. It stretched across his broad chest and tapered to his hips. He wore leggings and moccasins as before, and a breechcloth.

His hair had been arranged so that it was caught up at the crown of his head and allowed to cascade over his shoulders. He wore a silver earring and a cuff around his wrist.

Isabella’s ravisher moved toward her; she shrank back against her father. His eyes narrowed; then he moved past her and he gripped her father’s arm.

In turn, the tall man wrapped his fingers around Isabella’s forearm. His face was very grim, and he wouldn’t look at her. She could feel the muscles of his hand through her threadbare sleeve, and she realized that he was very strong.