Spirited (10 page)

“She did not run, as the wounded soldiers did,” Wusamequin added grimly.

“But we caught them all. There were no survivors,” Sasious reminded him. “My warriors achieved that.”

Oneko crossed his arms. “Let us leave it at this: I’ll
search for
les Français
until the next moon, which is Cold Moon. We’ll take that time to seek counsel from the spirits concerning the fate of the white skin woman, and when we have their answer, we’ll follow their advice. But we are agreed that the grayhair shall die if we find no one to purchase him.”

Sasious said, “Agreed.”

Wasumaquin thought of the grief he had felt upon losing his father. Mahwah’s spirit would be crushed. But he lowered his head and said, “Agreed.” It was not his problem that her father was a Yangee. It was hers.

Oneko gestured to the captives and said, “I’ll put them away again in their wigwam.”

“They should be fed,” Wusamequin observed. “They haven’t eaten.” At the surprised expressions on the other men’s faces, he said, “They will be more highly prized if they are well. They will be well if they are treated well.”

“You have a healer’s heart,” Oneko said. Then he turned to the waiting crowd, which was growing restive.

“People of the River,” he began, “I wish to sell these Yangees to
les Français.”

There was a roar of disapproval—led, Wusamequin noted, by Odina and her plump sister, Keshkecho. He wondered if her anger was for his sake: after all, the Yangees had killed his woman. Here was a chance to exactly even the score, by killing one of theirs.

His heart was troubled. He had no idea why he cared so much about the fate of this enemy. Sasious
was wise to doubt him. He doubted himself.

He stood beside Sasious as Oneko led the People down the path of his decision. Sasious was their war leader; Wusamequin was their medicine man—the two men formed a picture of placid solidarity with their sachem. But as his look shifted to Mahwah, his heart was tormented. He wondered if she had bewitched him in some way to make him falter thus.

He needed to confer with Great Bear. His guide would help sort out the way of his heart in this.

He was startled out of his reverie as Oneko said to Sasious, “Choose a strong warrior to guard them.”

Mingled among the other villagers, the braves straightened, awaiting the honor of being selected. The captives had been declared valuable property, and standing watch over them would aid the tribe. Hence, doing so would enhance the reputation of whomever was selected.

“Wematin,” Sasious said, gesturing to the young man. Wematin swaggered from the circle and approached the burning stakes, where the captives were still secured. He barked orders at two more braves, and the trio began untying Mahwah and Stevens.

The other villagers registered their disapproval with hisses and raised fists. But no one laid a hand on Mahwah or her father as they were escorted from the tribal circle.

Wusamequin stayed as he was, watching with a stone face.

Her people murdered your family
, he reminded himself.
She
is
nothing to you. And it would be an easy thing to give her to Sasious. Oneko said to give him a thing of value
.

She is nothing to me.

But as the three muscular braves grouped around her and her father, and she disappeared from his gaze, his heart whispered back,
You are lying.

Wusamequin participated in the
keutikaw
, the ritual feast to bid farewell to his dead wife and son. He ate squirrel, trout, and moose. He danced and urged his family to take the Road of Stars. Their time in the Land Beyond was done.

The village said good-bye as well, many with long faces. His wife had been well liked. High hope had been placed on his son that he would grow up to be a credit to his grandfather’s shamanistic legacy.

Odina was sweet smiles and pretty looks, as if to say that now that his mourning was over, she would entice him into her wigwam.

He turned his back on the circle and began to walk toward the forest. He needed to be alone, to sort out his confusing feelings. His heart was at war with itself.

There was an old riddle among his people:
There are two wolves in your heart. One wolf is fear and one wolf is courage. Both are evenly matched, and both are willing to fight to the death. And yet, one wolf will win. Which wolf will it be?

The answer is: the one you feed.

He frowned, wondering why the riddle had come to mind. If its rising in his thoughts was Great Bear’s
way of trying to tell him something. If so, he didn’t understand the message. There was nothing he feared. He was a warrior.

He walked from the village into the tall stands of chestnuts and sumacs. Overhead, a thousand stars glittered, the monument of the Mother of All, whose body was the earth and all its beauty. He gazed up at them, his face dry of tears, and whispered to his dead wife, “Are you free now?”

He covered his eyes with the knuckles of his hands and breathed in slowly, deliberately breathed out. He leaned back his head and shut tight his lids, allowing the moon to see him. This moon was called Hunter’s Moon. The brown leaves stood for the pelts of the game the hunters killed; the yellow leaves stood for the fat. The next moon, the one that would end Mahwah’s life no matter what became of her, was called Cold Moon. He would call it the Moon of Dead Spirits, for it would signal the end of hers.

It is of no matter. She is only a white skin woman.

He came to a clearing that glowed with moonlight. He reached into his medicine bag and filled his fist with pollen, which he held into the night breeze and allowed to scatter. Then he took his shirt off, exposing his bare chest to the gaze of the night.

He used sign language to say, I call
Great Bear to me again. I have need of his wise counsel again.

Then he sat cross-legged in the center of the meadow, and waited for his totem to speak. He sat with his back straight and his head up. He was alert.

Then Great Bear formed in the sky above him, the stars dancing and twirling. He heard the voices of his ancestors raised in a chant, saw their finery as they capered and pranced around the great council fire.

Your time has come, Wusamequin.
Wusamequin, We of the Land Beyond decree
That your time has come.

His lids grew heavy; he began to doze, and to dream. He saw Great Bear form in the night mists and moonlit clouds and slowly descend to earth before him. As the ghostly paws settled against the dewy grasses, Wusamequin felt his body melt; his head fell forward on his chest, and then slowly, he lay on his side, the grass sheltering him.

The wind breezed over him, and the night caressed the scar on his back. He saw in his mind his wife walking the trail of the stars, his child bundled in a board on her back.

She stopped once and turned, gazing down on him with such love that in his sleep he moaned, tormented. His heart cried out,
Come back to me. Come back, come back.

And Great Bear whispered:
Your wolves are not fear and courage, my human nephew. They are grief and hope.

Chapter Eight

In the hut, Isabella’s Indian jailer yawned. Father and daughter said not a word. Dr. Stevens kept his gaze fixed on the ground, and Isabella followed suit.

They had been given steamed fish and a sort of corn pudding filled with dried blueberries and nuts. Also, water to drink. After they had finished, their hands had been tied behind their backs. Her shoulders ached.

The muscular guard, dressed in leggings, a breechcloth, and a leather shirt, narrowed his eyes as he studied them, his hatred nearly a living thing. At his mocassined feet lay a scalping knife and a tomahawk. Isabella was certain he would have no qualms about using them if they did anything to displease him—and claim later, perhaps, that they had tried to escape. Such were these savages—lying, deceitful, evil.

She had no idea how much time passed; but after a time, the man’s lids began to flicker. He roused himself, straightening his shoulders. Then it happened once more.

At the same time, she sensed her father’s eyes on her. She turned her head the merest fraction of
an inch, and followed his line of sight as he shifted his attention to the back of the hut.

The four walls of the hut were made of tree limbs, covered over with mats that reminded her of thatch. She studied the place that he scrutinized, trying to see what he was trying to show her. In some places, there was a little more space between the sections, and there she could see the dark night sky. But there was nothing truly out of the ordinary, at least to her untrained eye.

Her father looked back at her, then again to the same area in the hut.

She knit her brows and gave her head a shake to show him that she didn’t understand what he was trying to tell her.

The guard yawned, drawing the attention of both father and daughter. Isabella tried to watch him without giving the appearance of doing so. He fought a second yawn, but eventually gave in to it; simply observing him made Isabella feel tired.

In the distance, an owl hooted. Isabella thought mournfully of her feather bed back in Albany; and of Fort William Henry. Surely, search parties had been sent out from there to look for them.

The guard shifted, spreading his legs farther apart to help him with his balance. He yawned a third time. Then, as she watched in astonishment, his arms dropped to his sides; his head lolled forward; and he slowly sank to the floor like a character in a fairy story who has been enchanted. He sprawled
out on the ground and began to softly snore.

Isabella gaped at him, blinking in surprise. The only people she had ever seen faint dead away were women overcome by what was commonly referred to as “the vapors”—but which she now realized were simply cases of being laced in their corsets too tightly. Something else had put this man to sleep. Was he ill? She thought of the pestilence at the fort. Had it traveled here in some fashion, perhaps through the night air?

After a few seconds, her father began to scoot toward the guard. Without speaking, he urged her to follow his example. Her heart pounded at the thought of moving closer to the man. She found it was easier to walk on her knees, though she was still off-balance and clumsy, tripping herself up on the remnants of her skirt.

Longer-limbed and wearing trousers, which gave greater ease of movement, her father outpaced her; with a quick, grim smile, he worked his way toward the knife and turned to the side, bending backward in a diagonal line in an effort to grab it up” His fingers stretched as his hands hovered just inches from his target. He bent farther back, and this time his fingertips brushed the blade. But he could not seem to manage to pick up the weapon.

He straightened back up on his knees and huffed in quiet frustration. Isabella took a deep breath and crept on her knees up beside him. Then she copied his movements, bending sideways and down … and grabbed up the knife.

She caught her breath. Her father gazed at her steadily, and she crept over to him. She turned her back, and she felt him painstakingly easing the knife out of her hand. She remained as she was; soon she felt him sawing through the rope.

Though it cost her in discomfort, she pulled her hands apart as hard as she could. He continued to saw; she continued to pull.

Then her right hand sprang free. She swallowed down her joyful cry and remained still as he sawed at the left hand. Then she yanked her hand hard, and that one was free, too.

Painful tingles shot up and down her hands and arms. She rubbed them together, flexing her fingers, until some ease of movement was restored to them.

Eagerly she pivoted around and took the knife from her father. Her hands still tingling, she sawed through his restraints, not as agile with the blade as he.

What if someone comes to check on us?
she thought anxiously, glancing toward the flap. The brave was snoring quietly; she would have been surprised if anyone outside the hut could hear him, but perhaps someone would come to relieve him, or bring him some food.