Spirited (25 page)

She was moved. But before she could say anything—though what words of comfort she could offer, she had no idea—the young man stood.

“I’ll be brave, if the time comes,” he assured her. Then he straightened his shoulders and raised his chin. “I’m English, after all.”

“That you are,” she murmured.

He left. She wondered what it would be like to have a son. Wusamequin’s son …

She wept again. Then, exhausted, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

She was shaken awake.

Against flickering candlelight, Odina’s face loomed over her. A knife flew against Mahwah’s throat and a finger pressed against her lips. Mahwah nodded, silently promising not to cry out.

She sat up and gasped. A candle in a holder beside her bed revealed that Odina was invisible, save for her face, which appeared to float of its own accord in the darkness.

“Have you come to murder me?” Isabella whispered.

The other woman narrowed her eyes with hatred. Isabella gripped the sheets, working out a strategy by which she could save her own life.

I’ll
grab the candleholder and smash it over her head. Then—

Odina whispered, “Wusamequin.
Tah.”
She tapped Mahwah’s chest.
“Tah.”

“Heart?” She grew alarmed. “Wusamequin’s heart? Is he all right?”

Odina closed her eyes and allowed her face to grow slack. She looked dead.

“Oh, God, no!” she cried.

In a trice, Odina pushed the knife against her throat, indenting the skin.

“Is he alive? Please, tell me,” Mahwah whispered fiercely. “Wusamequin?”

Odina ignored her. She was looking around the room. Then she caught sight of the green-and-brown striped skirt, pale green overblouse, and brown and gold embroidered corset that Mrs. O’Malloy had lent her. Odina crossed to them and plucked them off the pegboard on which they had been hung, tossing them to Mahwah.

“Wusamequin,” Odina said.

“You’ll take me to him?”

This may be a trap
, she thought.
Perhaps she thinks to murder me once we’re outside the fort. But why would she risk her life to do that?

She dressed quickly, not caring that Odina watched. Then Odina produced a clay container, which smelled of the lovely flowers the Makiawisug had squeezed to produce the juice of invisibility. Mahwah understood that she had transported it in her invisible clothing.

“I understand,” Mahwah said. Taking the container, she dipped her fingers into the liquid. They immediately disappeared. She began to wipe the lotion on her arm.

Then there were heavy footsteps outside the door. Startled, Mahwah jerked.

The clay jar crashed to the floor. The liquid seeped into the wood floor even as Mahwah fell to her knees and tried to soak some of it up in her skirt.

The footfalls paused. “Miss Stevens? Is aught amiss?”

It was Colonel Ramsland.

Odina showed Mahwah the knife. “I’m quite well,” Mahwah called back. “I’m so very sorry to disturb you. I dropped something. I—I’ll clean it up at once.”

“No need to trouble yourself. Mrs. O’Malloy can take care of it the morning.”

“All right then. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Miss Stevens.”

His noisy boots retreated.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Mahwah said. Odina
hoisted her to her feet, pushed her in front of herself, and jabbed the tip of the knife between her shoulder blades.

Mahwah sensed that they dare not wait, and yet, it was a risky thing they were undertaking. If only she hadn’t dropped the magic potion!

She got to the door, took a breath, and pressed on the latch.

She stepped into the hall, and paused.

There was no one in the corridor.

Then Odina took her hand, leading her. She went in an entirely different direction than Mahwah would have, and navigated twists and turns that finally led to a tiny square cut at the base of a section of fencing. Odina pushed her through, then maneuvered her way through as well. Mahwah thought of the night she and her father had escaped from the hut.

On the other side, Titania, Oberon, Puck, and Cobweb waited. At least a dozen other little people were there as well, huddled together and somber. Mahwah’s four raced to her and she picked them up. They clung to her, weeping.

Titania sobbed, “Wusamequin!”

“We’ll go to him. We’ll go now,” Mahwah promised her.

Then she and Odina ran into the dark embrace of the forest.

Chapter Eighteen

Tethered in the forest, Odina had brought with her the horses Mahwah’s father and Major Whyte had been riding that fateful day The two women mounted. Mahwah had never ridden astride before, only sidesaddle, and she was amazed at how much easier it was.

They rode all night. In the morning, it rained, washing Odina’s protective potion away. The next day it snowed, chilling them both to the bone.

On the third day, they entered the environs of the old village. The cornfields were rotting; the squashes and beans as well.

In the village, the braves worked outside their wigwams, sharpening tomahawks, stringing bows, whittling arrows.

Are
they preparing for war?

She had no time for further thought, as Odina dragged her into Wusamequin’s wigwam.

He was lying on the floor, in his bed. His profile was sharply etched against the shadows. Afraid-of-Everything was curled at his feet; the wolf raised his head and whimpered, forlornly wagging his tail.

“Oh, God,” Mahwah murmured as she fell to the ground beside him.

He did not move.

“Wusamequin, it is I, Mahwah,” she said brokenly. “Please, don’t be dead. I couldn’t bear it. Wusamequin…”

And then she knew the meaning of the words the Makiawisug had teased them with. She knew what she had always known:

Nia ktachwahnen
meant that Wusamequin’s spirit had called her from England. It had called her to be here, in this moment, with him.

Nia ktachewahnen
meant that they made magic together, left hand in left hand, soul and spirit together.

Nia ktachewahnen
meant that together, he and she, they were a new people. Not English, and not of the People of the River. Something that had never existed before.

She took up his limp left hand and placed it over her heart. She pressed her own left hand over his.

“Oh, Wusamequin, you are my love. You are the man of my heart and of my spirit.
Nia ktachwahnen
, my darling,” she whispered.

The room burst into a rainbow of light that glistened and gleamed. Drums pounded; she heard the voices of men and women raised in chanting. Very distantly, two wolves howled, raising their voices in chorus.

Stars flashed into existence at the ceiling of the wigwam, then fell toward the earthen floor. Where they touched, flowers sprouted and opened.

Soon the room was a profusion of beauty and light.

And in the center of it, lying on his bed of fragrant grass, Wusamequin opened his eyes. The expression on his face was so much more than a smile; he was glowing; he was overjoyed.

“Mahwah,” he said, and her Indian name on his lips was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard.

“Oh, my love, my love,” she said in English.

Then he pulled her against himself, tightly. Her heart beat faster; then it grew warm. It seemed to grow inside her body; and then she knew another thing:

She was going to have children with this man.

He held her. He whispered against her neck, “Mahwah.
Nia ktachwahnen”

“Wusamequin.”

Her heart grew; then she felt warmth and joy blossoming and increasing; when he drew back slightly and looked down at his torso, she saw light emanating from her chest and entering his.

As one, they rose and faced each other, clasping hands.

Then Odina screamed.

“I’m sorry,” Mahwah said, turning to her.

But the other woman was not looking at either of them. Her back was to them and she was staring out of the wigwam.

Galloping horse hooves overlaid Wusamequin’s shouts as he pushed Mahwah behind himself. He bent down and picked up a tomahawk from beside his bed.

Outside the wigwam, a fife began to play. A drum answered it.

Then a British voice cried, “Fire!” and a musket fired. Another. People began screaming.

Smoke blew into the wigwam.

“We’re being attacked!” Mahwah shouted. “It’s the British!”

Wusamequin yelled something at her, raced to the doorway, and pulled Odina inside. With a war cry, he jumped over the threshold and raced outside.

Both women flew to the doorway, crowding one another to look out.

Soldiers. Everywhere.

And Colonel Ramsland rode among them.

Odina whirled on Mahwah with death in her eyes.

“They must have followed us!” Mahwah cried. “They must have seen us leave!”

Mahwah pushed past Odina and ran out of the wigwam, realizing too late that she was unarmed. Thick smoke roiled around her, searing her eyes and lungs. She waved her arms in front of herself, attempting to clear her way, but it was no use.

“Wusamequin!” she shouted.

Flintlocks exploded; fires crackled. Orange flames danced in the smoke; red coats blurred all around her. A horse galloped past, grazing her shoulder and throwing her to the ground.

The Yangee soldiers marched through the village in rows like corn. Armed with pistols, war chiefs on horseback shouted orders to them, and they obeyed. They raised their muskets; they fired.

Like harvest rows of corn, People fell.

Oneko had found Wusamequin, and entreated him with gestures to stand with him on a grassy rise above the village.

“You
must help us with your medicine,” Oneko ordered him.
“Now.”

Oneko beat a drum to help his shaman find his focus. He was relieved that his medicine man had been restored to vigor, and just in time to help the People. Oneko had seen Mahwah fall in the battle, and he wondered if she had led the Yangees into the village. He knew Wusamequin was worried about her, and that it took every ounce of strength for the medicine man to stay beside him, Oneko, instead of running into the chaos to find her and save her. The young man had already lost one squaw to the Yangees’ treachery. It must be terrible on him to face losing another.

For Oneko had accepted the truth of Wusamequin’s Way: Mahwah was his new squaw. If they lived through this day, they would make children who stood in both the world of the People and the world of the Yangees.

Sasious was leading the People’s defense in the daylight world; Wusamequin had gone to a still place to find help for the People in the veiled world of the spirits.

From the six directions of the world, I call upon my spirit guide and all his relatives and ancestors
, Wusamequin
chanted.
From east, west, north, south, above and below, Great hear, I call you!

I call upon the gods of the winds!

I call upon the gods of the clouds!

I call upon the gods of fire!

The People will die without your assistance!

The drum pounded. Dying People screamed. Flintlocks erupted.

It is my right to demand your help!

He felt the drumming in his blood. He felt his heart grow warm.

A terrible wind rose up, dervishing around Wusamequin and Oneko like thirty demons. It was a storm of wind, whistling and wailing. It gained strength and hurtled itself at the chaos around it. The roofs of wigwams tore away; the rushes and mats ripped free and sailed into the forest. Chestnut trees bent over like old men, straining not to break.

The wind blew the smoke toward the Yangees, who were still marching into the village. Most were on foot; three or four rode horses. Like sky-sized pieces of leather, the smoke hung between them and the People, who were fleeing their wigwams with the children and elders as the braves raced toward the British, most of whom advanced on foot. The smoke acted as a curtain, but it was not substantial. The British flintlocks poked holes in it, and shot at the People.

It is not enough!

Great Bear, I call upon you! I call upon your spirit!