Spirited (13 page)

“Wusamequin,” he replied. His face was strangely light, his mouth almost curved into a smile as he touched his chest. “Wusamequin.”

“That is your name,” she realized. He nodded. ’Ah! And I… well, you know that I am Isabella.”

“You are called in the manner of Mahwah,” he corrected.

She swallowed. “As you wish.”
For now. But I will never, ever forget that I am Isabella Anne Stevens, and an Englishwoman.

“What is happening?” she asked, looking around. “Where are we going?”

“The People of the River travel,” he told her. “A new village. The Yangees will not find us.”

“Oh.” Her stomach clutched.
Then how will Papa ever find me?

He looked at her with his dark, deep-set eyes and said, “If the Yangees come, Mahwah stands between us and them. Our hostage.”

She swallowed. “Oh. So I’m … I’m not going to the French, then?”

He regarded her steadily. “No.”

Her emotions confused her. On the one hand, she was more likely to be treated in a civilized manner by the French. They might even return her to her father in a gesture of gallantry—French officers were civilized men, for all of their being warmongers.

But part of her was vastly relieved that she would not be sent away from Wusamequin. That alarmed her. It’s
because he nursed me, and has looked after me
, she assured herself. I
may not have such a good friend among the French.

“Your wound was deep,” he continued. “You lost much….” He thought for a moment. “Your spirit came out of you.”

Blood loss
, she translated in her mind. She was a trifle amused at his naive way of putting it. He was a healer, true, but he was also a superstitious native who had never been to a proper medical college.

“It was very kind of you to care for me,” she answered, inclining her head.

“To save your life,” he countered. He looked hard at her. “Mahwah, you and Stevens ran.
You
, Mahwah, traveled to the Land Beyond.”

She frowned. “I … the what?”

“The Land Beyond.” He closed his eyes as if to illustrate. There was something deeply eerie in his face—the cast of his skin, the absolute slackness of his muscles. He looked like a corpse.

I
nearly died
, she translated, a chill rushing up her spine. “You would have run too, sir, would you not?” she asked.

His stern expression softened. “I would run.”

“But I haven’t been punished,” she asked, not wanting to ask, but needing to know. In England, sometimes prisoners who were injured were made well before their punishments were meted out. When he didn’t appear to understand, she said, “My father and I ran. I came back. But I was not… hurt more.”

He nodded and looked at her earnestly. “You did not kill Wematin. That spoke to the heart of Oneko. He said not to hurt you more.”

I
knew it!
she thought, relief flooding through her. I
knew we oughtn’t kill our guard.

He raised a cautioning hand. “Oneko saw your spirit. But there are others who see a Yangee woman, and death lives in their hearts. Walk with care, Mahwah.”

“When I
can
walk.” She shifted her legs, and found
to her surprise that her thigh was no longer throbbing with pain. He smiled and raised his chin in an expression of pride that reminded her of her father. But his face was darker and the angles and planes were much sharper. Her father had a gentle English face. She wondered if she would ever see that beloved face again.

“You healed me,” she said to him. “Thank you.”

“Wneeweh,”
he replied. “Thank you in our tongue,”

She licked her lips.
“Wneeweh.”

“Wunneet.
It is good.” He gestured to her bed. “Sleep, Mahwah. Your spirit has fought bravely. It must sleep now.”

“When will we be at the new village?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Oneko, Sasious, and Wusamequin—I—will say.” He held up three fingers.

So it was to be a joint decision among Wusamequin, who was her personal physician; Oneko, the head of the tribe, who had decreed that she go unpunished for trying to escape; and Sasious, the man who had tried to burn her at the stake. They were the three leaders. The thought that Sasious might hold her fate in his hands disturbed her greatly.

The thought that she might never see her father again shattered her.

Perhaps it would be better to go to the French
, she thought.

But she had no say in the matter. It appeared that she had no say in anything.

She was pondering that, when the pretty woman
who had taken her earbob sidled up to Wusamequin. Her black hair was pulled up and threaded down her back in a single braid. She was carrying a cumbersome bundle, and Isabella noted that Wusamequin made no offer to take it from her, although he was walking barehanded.

The woman scrunched up her nose as she looked over at Isabella. Though she was seething, Isabella lowered her gaze. She knew this woman was one of the ones whose hearts wished her dead.

“Mahwah, the manner she is called is Odina,” Wusamequin said. The woman raised her chin and narrowed her eyes with disdain, just like a British noblewoman whose presence had been contaminated by a peasant.

Now Isabella had a name to go with the poisonous look. Mindful of Wusamequin’s warning, she took a deep breath.
“Wunneet.”

Odina rolled her eyes and snickered. She spoke to Wusamequin, an imperious little smile on her face, and sauntered away. He looked after her, then back to Isabella.

She said in English, “Death-hearted woman.”

One side of his mouth turned up in a lazy grin and he chuckled. The sight warmed her, though she wasn’t certain why. She gave him a grin back.

It was a wonderful moment. It was a moment that calmed her, and gave her hope.

Then he raised his hand, gesturing at her bed.
“Travois,”
he said.” Les
Français.
And your
cheval.”

Her eyes widened. She spoke some French.
Cheval
was the word for horse.

She tried to lift herself up so that she could see beyond the upper lip of the
travois.
Wusamequin reached over and put his hands under her shoulders, then easily raised her into the air. Sure enough, her mare pulled the
travois.
So they had found their horses—or at least Isabella’s. The sight of the mare gave her more hope.

She began to scheme.
If I can figure out a way to get to her…

As if he could read her thoughts, Wusamequin frowned at her. “Mahwah, do not run,” he said. “Sasious will catch you.”

The most dangerous of her enemies. The mere mention of his name set her on edge. She fidgeted with the fur, teasing the bristles with her fingertips as she said, “Wusamequin, I am a Yangee. Why are you so kind to me?”

Her question was met by silence. When she dared to look up at him, a shadow had slipped over his face, concealing him from view.

She waited. At length, he said quietly, “I do not know.”

The tribe wound its way deep into the forest, down a ravine, and then up and over a mountaintop. There, Wusamequin burned tobacco and chanted, holding something powdery and yellow in his fist at the four directions of the compass, and then straight up and straight down. Isabella felt a thrill of pride she
did not understand as she watched him. She lay no claim to him; his actions had nothing to do with her.

The mountains were lavender; the valleys green, lush, and untamed. The transcendent natural beauty surrounded and enfolded both her and the savages who held her captive. Surely God would be merciful, and no harm would come to her. She could not imagine that cruelty could exist alongside such harmony; that a day of mustard-colored sunshine could bring anything but happiness.

Have a care, Isabella
, she told herself.
You know much of tragedy. You know that fate can tiptoe in and take away all your reason for joy.

The day had been long; as dusk fell, Wusamequin still walked beside her
travois.
He had remained at her side nearly all day, and several times carried her into the forest so that she could relieve herself. He had given her dried meat and more of their tasty bread dotted with nuts and dried berries. When she was finished, he urged her to drink her fill of berry juice. Then he gave her more dried meat to feed his tame wolf, whose name he translated for her as Afraid-of-Everything.

“It’s a strange name,” she said to him as the yellow-eyed wolf gazed at her. “He doesn’t seem particularly fearful.” In case she spoke in overly complicated language, she added, “He is not afraid of everything.”

“He was called in the manner of Afraid-of-Everything as a baby.” He reached down and affectionately
scratched the wolf behind his ears, his face relaxing into a smile.

Then the smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “His mother was killed. My wife …” He clamped his mouth shut, a cloud passing over his face. He seemed angry, but she couldn’t be certain. He was impossible to read.

“He is my son now,” he said finally. Then he spoke to the wolf in his language. The animal listened, and chuffed as if in answer. Wusamequin said, “He will guard you.”

After that, the creature would not leave her side, not even when Wusamequin was called away by the chief to discuss their route. And Isabella realized she had another guard. In this place where she was a hostage, could she have a real friend?

She twisted around and watched Wusamequin standing ahead and to one side of the column of Indians, deep in conversation with Sasious and Oneko. She knew they were assessing their route, trying to devise the surest path to keep the British off their trail.

Will I ever see my father again?
she wondered.

The yellow-eyed wolf gazed at her with his head cocked as if to say, I
do not know.

Chapter Ten

The sky was nearly dark by the time the People stopped moving for the night. The misty heather mountains blurred to purple, and then to gray. The vibrant colors of autumn leeched to dark yellow, then gray as well.

Wusamequin had taken his leave of her while she’d been asleep. Afraid-of-Everything walked stalwartly beside her, then sat back on his haunches as an Indian man she had not seen before put his hand on Dulcie’s forelock and the horse halted. Then the man walked away without so much as looking at her.

It was time to make camp, and the natives set to work. Isabella was surprised by how efficiently the untamed wilderness was transformed into a village. Women built several fire rings and brought out cooking pots. Soon the fragrant odors of meat and vegetables wafted through the encampment.

Men created makeshift shelters of branches draped with hides, the weight causing the branches to bend so that small, round, tentlike structures were created. It was quite ingenious, and Isabella thought His Majesty’s regiments could benefit from using such an arrangement for the troops. As it now stood,
soldiers slept in their bedrolls out in the open; only officers bivouacked tents.

As the villagers gathered around the campfires, Isabella’s stomach rumbled. She was very hungry, but she was uncertain what to do. She had no idea if she would be welcome at anyone’s fire.

Then Wusamequin appeared with a bowl steaming with savory odors, which he set on a nearby flat-topped boulder. He peeled the furs off her, then slid one hand under her knees and another around her back. He had lifted her in that way all day, to carry her into the bushes for her private duties. But this time he hesitated, shook his head, and moved the one hand from behind her knees to wrap it instead across her chest. Then he hoisted her to a half-standing position and lifted her against his chest.

“You must use your leg,” he said.

She remembered how he had held her after the massacre, and felt a sharp panic. Then it subsided, and he carried her to the boulder. He smelled of leather and sweat, but it was not unpleasant. His body was warm. Her face was lodged beneath his jaw line, and the pulse in his throat played against her temple.

She was wearing a leather Indian dress, and below that, leggings. The dress was decorated with dyed quills, which fanned over the bodice in an elaborate spray of wildflowers. His gaze swept over the dress as he handed her the bowl; the sight of a thick, brown stew made her mouth water. Tentatively she dipped
her fingers into it, wincing slightly at how hot it was.