Spirited (19 page)

Wabun-Anung swept past him, maintaining her dignity despite the fact that with each step, she sank knee-deep into the snow. Wusamequin moved up beside her; when Isabella scrambled to keep up with him, he shook his head at her. She was not to walk with him. She was to walk behind him.

She obeyed, flustered and uneasy. Odina and her sister moved on either side of her, crowding her. She kept her gaze on Wusamequin’s back, assuring herself that they certainly would not harm her while he was with them.

They walked seemingly forever. She grew tired but did her best to keep up. Odina pointed at her leg as she spoke to Wabun-Anung, who nodded and frowned at Wusamequin.

They did not enter the cave where Afraid-of-Everything had led her out. Instead, they veered off to the right. Soon the tumultuous thunder of the falls blotted out all conversation.

Steam rose off the running water, which glittered like strands of silver chains as it shot down the cliffs. Isabella marveled once more at the beauty of nature in this wild, untamed place.

She was huffing by the time they ascended the stair-like projections of rock that lined the falls. After a time, Odina shoved the basket of fish in her arms. Keshkecho handed her the spade-like implement as well. Free of their burdens, the women moved more quickly, tripping up the stairs behind Wusamequin and Wabun-Anung.

Seeing them, he looked over his shoulder at Isabella, who was struggling with her burdens. She was unaccustomed to physical labor, and she had been cooped up so long in the chamber that she was a little shaky on her feet.

She expected him to take the fish and the spade from
her, but he did not. He didn’t even look at her again.

Boor. Uncouth peasant
, she flung at him in her mind. She railed at him, calling him all kinds of names … but it wasn’t until the five of them had reached the main entrance of the cave that she realized she had yet to call him a savage. The word somehow no longer applied to him.

Once inside the cave, Wabun-Anung pinched Isabella’s arm and dragged her toward a semicircle of three tents erected against the back wall. Other Indians looked up from various chores—cooking, mending things—and Isabella had to skip to keep up with the older woman. She glanced anxiously back at Wusamequin, but his face was unreadable.

Wabun-Anung jerked Isabella to a stop. Isabella stood stock still as the woman swept
inside
the grandest of the tents. She tried to catch Wusamequin’s eye, but he still would not look at her.

The woman reemerged with Oneko at her side. The chief stood with his arms folded as his wife spoke to Odina, who marched up to Isabella, yanked up her dress, and pulled down her legging.

Her healed thigh was revealed for all to see.

Questioning faces turned toward Wusamequin.

He spoke calmly. Then Oneko talked to him, gesturing at Isabella. Wusamequin lowered his head.

Then he walked over to Isabella. As she tilted her head back to look up at him, he said, “Wabun-Anung says you are strong enough to work now. No one eats without working. Oneko agrees to this.”

Odina flashed her a cruel smile. Isabella said anxiously, “But there are many here who wish me harm.”

His expression remained stolid. She couldn’t believe he was the same man who had flung starry shadows on the wall; the same man who fought supernatural creatures to keep her from harm, and who had shared his power with her. The man who had named her beautiful.

“Oneko has said that you are well now. If you are harmed, the one who harms you will pay. He says that his truth will be honored.”

Then his veneer cracked, and she saw real concern on his face. His forehead was creased; beneath his long nose, he had sucked in his cheeks and clamped his mouth shut. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was drawing blood from biting his cheek.

She said to him, “There’s something you aren’t telling me.”

“Oneko has said that our scouts still seek
les français.
If he can sell you, he may do it after all. He does not want bad blood in the village.”

“I am bad blood?” she blurted, but he didn’t have to answer. “But…”

He held up a hand. “I am the shaman here. Oneko is the sachem.”

“Wabun-Anung,” she said bitterly.

“The hearts of the women are hard against you,” he conceded. “Now, come.
You
will be safe tonight.” He turned to go, indicating that she should follow after him.

Like a dog
, she thought angrily, as Afraid-of-Everything trotted beside her. I’ll
bet he didn’t tell them about the scar on his back. That
I
helped him.

As they walked through the vast, colorful cavern, a buzz rose up. People gestured toward her. A puffy-eyed woman holding a baby wrapped in a fur gingerly approached, holding the infant out to Wusamequin. Mucus ran from its tiny nose and its breathing was troubled.

Wusamequin halted, took the baby from its mother, and held it in his arms. Isabella could tell that he was asking the mother questions, and that the woman was frantic. Yet his voice remained calm, and the mother began to grow calmer as well. Isabella saw the effect and thought back to the preceding few minutes, when everyone else had been so furious, and he had seemed passive in comparison. She had translated his lack of emotion to mean that he didn’t care about her fate. But it was possible that that was his way—to avoid adding fuel to the fire.

He turned to her and said, “Mahwah, go home. Baby has bad spirits. I must stay.” He began to say something else, but sighed instead. He said, “Mahwah, go.”

She hesitated, afraid to go without him. He spoke to the wolf, whose ears pricked up. Afraid-of-Everything leaned up against Isabella’s leg and looked up at her.

“Afraid-of-Everything walks with you.”

“I may be of help. My father treated many children
in Albany, and before chat, in London, and I…”

He gazed hard at her, his dark brown eyes hooded by his eyebrows.

“Very well.” She said to the woman, “I hope your baby feels better.”

The woman’s response was to narrow her eyes and place her hands protectively on the baby’s head.

“Silence, Mahwah,” he said. “Go.”

She understood; the mother was either afraid she would hurt the baby or else simply despised her. The realization stung, but there was nothing to be done about it. The best thing she could do was obey.

Afraid-of-Everything seemed to sense her mood; he moved slightly ahead of her, leading her toward the tunnel. She looked over her shoulder at Wusamequin, but his attention was on the baby. It was as if he had forgotten about her entirely.

Papa is the same, when he’s about his business.

The wolf escorted her into the tunnel, which was as dark as a tomb. She had a momentary sense of panic, in which she imagined that practically every person in the tribe was lurking in the dark, waiting to strike her down. Afraid-of-Everything nuzzled her hand as if to reassure her that all was well.

They had walked perhaps a dozen paces when suddenly, lit torches appeared on both sides of the tunnel walls. Each was spaced approximately two feet apart, and they brightly lit her way.

The wolf looked up at her as if to say,
You see? He is still looking out for you.

They hurried down the tunnel and went into the chamber, which burst into glowing light as she crossed the threshold. The hanging vines of flowers had been pulled back from the center and fastened to the walls, so that they resembled curtains. A warm fire danced in the fire ring; surrounding it were gaily colored pieces of leather, upon which over a dozen gourds and bowls brimming with food were arranged.

The four Makiawisug had changed their furs and hides for brilliant flower petals of midnight blue and white; they were dancing around a circlet of exquisite red flowers, the like of which Isabella had never seen before.

When they saw her, they raced toward her, chattering and laughing. Titania said,
“Komeekha!”

“Wneeweh”
Isabella replied. She spread her arms wide to take in the feast.
“Wunneet!”

“Gemeze! Menackh!”
Oberon urged her.
“Mattape!”

“Qu’in a month’ee?”
Puck queried.

“Are you asking me about Wusamequin?” she asked the little man.

“’Nia ktachwahnen,’”
Cobweb said in a singsong voice, and the four set to laughing.

Her cheeks warmed; she knew they were teasing her but she had no idea what they were saying.

She crossed her ankles and slowly sank to the earth. She peered at the many dishes of food, her mouth watering. Then her lips parted in astonishment as her gaze dropped upon what could only be a
dish of trifle—berries and sponge cake and a froth of cream. She smelled the sherry in the blend.

Where did he find this?
she thought wonderingly. Her mind raced.
Is my father here? Did he prepare it?

But she knew the answer: Wusamequin had created it for her, by magic.

Tears of gratitude welled in her eyes. She picked up the heavenly confection and held it against her chest.

“Wneeweh
, Wusamequin,” she said.

She tucked into the food with gusto. Now and then she glanced into the tunnel, hoping that he would come. But he did not.

The four fairy people danced and sang to her, and she felt her eyes growing heavy. After a time she gave in to her desire to sleep, and crawled into her soft bed. Afraid-of-Everything curled up beside her. That was not his custom; he usually slept on the other side of the vine partition with his master.

Isabella soon sank into a deep slumber. As she slept, the fire crackled and the four Makiawisug curled in her hair and at her elbow. Titania’s lips brushed her cheek. The chamber grew hushed with the sibilant breathing of the sleepers.

Chapter Fourteen

Isabella slept she knew not for how long. Then suddenly she shot into awareness. On the wall, Wusamequin’s form hovered before her. His face was pinched with misery; he was holding the baby in his arms, and it was limp and gray.

Behind him, two wolves threw back their heads and howled like the dread Banshee of Ireland, said to herald untimely death.

“Oh, no!” Isabella cried as she ran to the image. Without thinking, she reached out a hand and touched Wusamequin’s face. “It cannot be!”

His face was as solid as if he stood before her. She jerked her hand away, then touched his cheek, tears welling in her eyes.

He did not seem as shocked as she did; then he held the baby out to her. She took it, cradling it in her arms. The little thing was not dead, but breathing very faintly. Its mouth was slack.

“Mahwah,” Wusamequin said. He held out his left hand.

She took it.

And at once, she and he were charging through a forest, he with a bow and arrow, she carrying a spear.
Their feet flew over brush and brambles. Ahead of them raced a demon much like the one they had routed; it was flying over the ground, shrieking and cackling like a mad thing.

Over hill, down into a valley; past tracks of trees and then they raced past a cornfield, and another—and then she realized with a start that they had run to Wusamequin’s village, which they had quitted to come here. The wigwams stood empty. The fire ring carried ash.

The demon lurched into a very long wigwam, at least twice as big as any she had seen, and shaped in a U. Moving as one, Isabella and Wusamequin followed it in.

Roaring, the demon shambled toward a figure at the other end of the wigwam. It was an Englishman at the other end of the wigwam, and she knew him. It was Major Samuel Whyte. He was holding a small pair of moccasins and gazing all around, calling, “Miss Stevens?”

The monster swiped at Major Whyte’s head but its claw passed through as if it—or Major Whyte—were a ghost. Major Whyte was oblivious to all of it. He continued to examine the moccasins, then moved to a cradle board and picked it up.

The creature threw itself at Major Whyte. Isabella screamed, “Samuel! Have a care!”

Wusamequin gave her a look, planted his feet on the earth, and expertly grabbed an arrow from the quiver over his shoulder. As rapidly as any man with a
flintlock, he notched it against his bow and took aim.