Spirited (12 page)

Chanting?

Isabella heard rattling and smelled smoke. The room floated and swirled; she felt as if she were floating up through the stars. Then she began walking on stars, in a vast meadow of stars. Stars hung from the trees; a zephyr breeze scattered tiny stars no bigger than a diamond.

Someone walked beside her, holding her hand. The hand was strong and powerful; and it was a reddish copper against her white skin. The veins on the back of the hand were pronounced; the wrist was thick with muscle.

“Your heart is heavy with sorrow,” said a deep, masculine voice. “It may not live through the night.”

Her head tilted back to see a tall, handsome man. She knew him, but she could not remember why. Stars glittered at the corners of his eyes; she lifted a hand and touched one. It was a tear. He was crying.

“My heart is wounded as well,” he said to her.” We are both sick in our spirits.”

The stars blurred and shimmered; he moved away from her and began to chant in his native tongue, the nonsensical words of a savage. He was half-naked,
wearing only a loincloth, and there were symbols inscribed on his chest. He was holding two palm-size spheres across which leather had been stretched, and he was shaking them in rhythm to his chant.

Isabella dozed, and dreamed she was in Albany again, with Mrs. DeWitt. The apple-cheeked woman was wearing burgundy and gold, and wearing a mobcap from which wisps of gray hair poked. She sat across from Isabella in the damask sitting room of the DeWitt home in Albany. They were having tea; and the dear woman leaned forward, pushing Isabella’s hair away from her face and said, “My poor little darling, you’re burning up with fever.”

The scene dissolved before her eyes as Isabella flushed from the crown of her head to her heels with unbearable heat. She became dimly aware that she had on no clothes, and that something was heaped over her body, making her very, very hot.

Weakly she batted at the burdensome weight. Then she heard the sound of rattles and a man chanting in a deep, low voice.

She felt a wet, cool cloth on her forehead; with great care and tenderness, the cloth moved from across her brow down the right side of her face, and then her left. She whimpered. She hurt, and her leg felt as if someone had dropped burning embers into the center of it.

She mumbled, “Papa?”

The cloth was taken away, and came back even cooler. Then something was placed beneath her nose. She smelled a wonderful scent, something flowery
and spicy at the same time, and she gladly inhaled it. Fainter, the ruddy scent of smoke wafted toward her, as if someone were fanning a fire.

The chanting began again. She tried to speak, but her mouth was too tired. She tried to move to push away the mound on top of her, but she couldn’t move so much as a finger.

Then her father was leaning over her; there were his kind brown eyes, his salt-and-pepper brows knit with worry. He held her hand, stroked her forehead, and whispered, “You are very ill, Mahwah. You must help me chase the evil spirits from your body and your spirit.”

“Yes.” That was reasonable.

She heard more singing. She was confused; could it be Papa? He only sang in church. The pitch varied, from low to high and back again, carrying her along with it until she felt as if it were a wave on the ocean, and she rode a storm-tossed boat. She stood at the rail with her mother’s arm around her; she wore her pale green traveling coat, gloves, and a hat. The wind lufted the sails; the seamen scrambled as the officers called out orders beneath a lowering sky.

Her mother put her arm around Isabella and smiled lovingly at her. She said, “Stay with me, my little Bella. Don’t go ashore. I’ve missed you so.”

Her father continued to sing as Isabella put both her arms around her mother’s neck and pressed her face into the lace fichu scented with perfume. Her mother, her mother. Her heart pounded with happiness.

“Yes, Mama, I shall,” she told her. “I shall stay.”

Then a different man’s voice murmured, “Mahwah. Fight. The demons come to trick you.”

She recognized that voice. Perspiration trickled down her forehead as she panicked. Where was she? What had happened to her mother and father?

Then she stood on the deck of the ship with her mother once more. Emily Stevens’s perfume enveloped her; the sea smelled clean and new and fresh. “My Bella,” her mother murmured, cradling her head. “Stay with me always, my sweet.”

“Mama.” She held her more tightly, sinking against her. All her terrors faded. “I had such a terrible dream,” she said. We were captured by savages.” She gripped her hard. “But you … you were dead by then. In my… dream.”

She began to sob. “Thank God it wasn’t true.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “It wasn’t true!”

“Mahwah, I will fight with you,” a man whispered.

“No, no,” she moaned, clinging to her mother. “No! Mama!”

Then she opened her eyes, and screamed.

A monster perched on her chest. It sat back on its haunches like a cat. Its face was black and blue; its eyes were slitted and glowed like embers. Its ears fanned upward like a bat’s.

It smiled at her, huge teeth glistened; then its fanged jaws opened wide as it leaned forward, as if to engulf her entire head.

A man loomed above the creature, holding a war
club. He wore only a breechcloth; his muscular chest, legs, and feet were bare. His face was painted. His face was blue and dotted with black. He whirled in a circle, holding the club to his chest; as he rotated around, he extended his arms. The club swiped at the monster, but the creature ducked, leaping off Isabella’s chest and hurtling itself at the man.

It slammed into his chest, knocking the man backward. The man hit the earthen floor hard, then rolled to the left, taking the creature with him. The monster lay beneath him. The man rose up on his knees, arced his war club over his head, and brought it down on the creatures face.

It bellowed and screamed, slashing at him. One of the talons sliced his cheek; his response was to pummel it a second time with his club.

The creature shrieked with rage. The man leaped to his feet, straddling the monster. He leaned forward and gripped the monster by its shoulders, grunting as he forced it to a standing position. As it wobbled, he threw down his club and began to chant. He made fists and threw himself at the monster, head-butting it in the abdomen.

The creature staggered backward. Then the man began to dance. He extended his arms to the side and stamped his feet against the ground, whirling in a circle. His hair whipped like a cape around his face. His back and chest glistened with sweat. He lifted one knee and whirled in another circle, his voice rising and falling, cresting and waving…

Isabella stood on the deck of the ship again; her mother slowly released her, gazing sadly at her. She said, “Now is not our time, my Bella. Our rime has passed.”

Fog rolled across the deck as her mother stepped away from her, slowly waving. The fog thickened; her mother glided backward into it, touching her fingers to her lips and blowing Isabella a kiss …

“Mama!” she screamed, throwing open her arms. “No!”

Then the man spun in a circle around the monster, stamping his feet harder, harder; his voice was insistent—
hey-a, hey-a!
The monster lunged at him, its talons flashing. But its movements were duller. Its roar, softer.

He danced; and as she watched, he attacked the monster again, kicking and punching it; blood gushed from its fanged mouth. It batted at him.

Then he pulled a knife from his breechcloth and drove it straight into the monster’s heart.

The thing threw back its enormous head and screamed, and he picked it up and hurled it against a wall made of thatch.

It shattered into pieces, and each piece became a shooting star.

Isabella stared mutely, too stunned to make a sound. Her forehead trickled with sweat and she was suddenly quite cold.

Then she fainted dead away.

“Mahwah.”

Isabella started. Her eyes flew open to find the tall man standing over her. Then, as she took in the wall of matting behind him, the horrible realization hit her: She was back in the prison hut.

She broke down. “We didn’t make it,” she sobbed. “Oh, please, please, what have you done to my father?”

A hand slipped beneath her heavy coverlet and wrapped around her bare shoulder. It held tight as she surrendered to all the fear and horror of the last days, weeping miserably, completely at a loss. She had never felt so defeated and hopeless in her entire life.

She was so sick and exhausted that she stopped sobbing almost as soon as she had begun. Then she lay passively, her eyes half-closed, as tears streamed down her blank face. She felt her mind leaving, as if it could no longer bear the weight of everything that had happened to her.

“Your father lives,” the man said gently, steadily. “Mahwah, your father lives.”

“Wh … what?” she asked, holding her breath. She tried to turn over to look at him, but the weight upon her was too heavy. She realized that a heap of furs had been lain over her. She wondered if her fevered mind had turned them into a demon; she vaguely remembered dreams, good and bad. She understood that she had been delirious. No matter; a thousand demons could plague her if only her father were alive.

He released her, and walked around her head to
face
her on her other side, apparently so that she could see him comfortably without moving. She ticked her glance up to him, and caught her breath. She had never seen a man in so few clothes as he, and it seemed unbearably intimate to look him in the eye.

She said to him, “Where is my father?”

He replied, “Stevens ran into the forest.”

He escaped
, she realized, her heart flooding with happiness.
He made it. I…
I
did not. But he’ll come for me.

The man crossed his ankles, then sank easily down beside her. She swallowed hard. “I ran into a tree branch,” she said.

He nodded, settling his forearms on his knees. His unearthly paint gave him the aspect of a demon. Dim images of a battle between him and a terrifying creature flashed in her mind, but she couldn’t quite recall them. Still, it made her feel even shyer around him, thinking of how bravely he had fought … and on her account. Rather like a knight doing battle for his lady, instead of a half-naked savage overheating her with tanned animal hides.

“What is to become of me?” she asked him.

He cocked his head and did not answer. She didn’t know if he didn’t understand, or if he didn’t know.

Or if he didn’t want to say.

He reached to the left, where he picked up a clay bowl, examining the contents as he swirled it. Satisfied, he gazed at her and made a show of taking a drink, as if to assure her that it was safe. Swallowing, he set down the bowl. Raising up, he
slipped his arm under her shoulders, and helped her sit up just enough to sip from the bowl.

Accustomed to the foul taste of medicine, she braced herself as he put the bowl to her lips. But to her surprise, the liquid was rather sweet. She looked at him questioningly, and he
said, “Menachk.
Drink more.”

She obeyed, feeling somewhat refreshed. He studied her face, gazing at her eyes, and lay her back down. Then he slipped his hands beneath the heavy pile of furs. His fingertips grazed her thigh; her leg jerked with pain.

She gasped, “Please, don’t touch it.”

He clenched his jaw; a muscle jumped in his cheek as he took one of his hands from beneath the furs, grabbed up something, and moved his hand back toward the wound.

The pain was unbelievable. Unimaginable.

She screamed and screamed and screamed and—

—She awoke to discover that she was lying on a portable bed of sorts, which was being dragged behind an animal that she could not see. She was dressed in native garb, which was surprisingly soft and supple to the touch. There were colorful quill designs on the bodice, and the sleeves were fringed. She touched her hair, to discover that it had been plaited into two long braids. A headband held them in place.

Who dressed me?
she wondered shyly. No man had so much as seen her in her chemise since she was an infant.

She let go of that disturbing thought, delighted to
see that she was in the forest again. The trees shimmered in their autumn garb and birds and squirrels capered away as Indians walked all around her. Dressed warmly in leather clothes, the women carried large bundles wrapped in furs or leather. An elderly squaw shuffled to the far left, balancing a pot on her head. Babies jostled along on cradleboards. Men were weighed down with weapons: tomahawks, spears, and bows and arrows.

In his leather jerkin, his hair pulled up and secured by a silver clasp, a silver earring dangling from his right earlobe and wearing a choker of colorful beads, the man strode beside her bed with his tame wolf beside him. The wolf seemed to notice her first; then he made a chuffing sound that alerted his master.

The man looked down at the wolf, and then at Isabella. His features softened as he said,
“Aquai.”
He looked at her. “Aquai, Mahwah.”

“Aquai”
The world felt strange on her lips.