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Authors: Nancy Holder

BOOK: Spirited
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“Were there mountains?” he asked patiently.

“Aye, everywhere.” She touched her forehead. “If you don’t mind sir, I am sorry, but I have no idea where I was taken.”

The man sighed heavily. “As I had feared. One assumes that a young lady brought up in the hustle and bustle of London would find the wilderness
unremarkable, save in its endless oppressiveness.”

“Quite,” Mahwah concurred.

“Well, then I should like to also know how many warriors they had, and how they were armed—”

“Sir, with your permission,” Mahwah demurred. “I am freezing and hungry.”

“Of course.” He swept her a small bow. “My apologies. Doctor, again, my felicitations upon the restoration of your child to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mahwah’s father replied, beaming at her. “I am certain it will be easier for her to cooperate once she has had some food and rest.”

“Indeed, sir,” Mahwah said, curtseying again.

“I look forward to that,” Colonel Ramsland said.

As the colonel quitted the infirmary, Maude O’Malloy, the woman who had brought Mahwah her tea, swept back in. She was the wife of one of the Colonial Militia attached to the fort. She had been hired to help with the cooking, and also because she spoke both French and some Iroquois.

“We must change you out of those wet things, Miss Stevens,” she said to Mahwah. Then, with a mischievous grin, she reached into the pocket of her apron and produced a letter. “It’s Mrs. DeWitt again.”

“Ah. How pleasant.” Dr. Stevens smiled at Mahwah as he reached for the letter. “She will be delighted to hear of your daring escape.”

“Indeed,” Isabella said. She was pleased that the two had started up a correspondence.

Mrs. O’Malloy led her out of the room and down a flight of stairs. She said, “We live here.”

She pushed open a door. Isabella walked into a plain but rustic sitting room that reminded her somewhat of Albany. Her own home was far grander, but it had been a long month since she had stood in a room with English furniture. There was a painting over the mantel, of the tame, green fields of home.

“I’ll bring you hot water,” Mrs. O’Malloy told her. “I’ve laid out a dressing gown on the bed.”

“Thank you. You’re too kind,” Mahwah said, suddenly overcome with the realization that she was back among her own people.

But if they are my people, why do I feel so tremendously out of place?

“Not at all. After what you’ve been through … Welcome home, miss.” The woman bobbed a curtsey and left Mahwah to her privacy.

As the door shut, Mahwah sank into a chair. She opened the medicine bag at her waist and took out the two bear figurines—the one that had originally been in the bag, and the second one, which Wusamequin had placed in the basket of food. Two large tears spilled down her cheeks; one splashed on the bear in her left hand.

“How are you faring, Wusamequin?” she whispered.

Blossoming like a rose, an image formed on the wall.

It was he.

She saw his profile etched against the setting sun. He was standing in their chamber, and in his hand he held the shredded remnants of her pale green traveling coat.

As she watched, he buried his face in it.

The image faded.

She choked back tears as she put the two bears back into her bag. Then she peeled off her Indian clothing and slipped on the dressing gown.

With her arms around her, shivering with cold and weeping with grief, she leaned back in a chair to wait for the hot water, and she fell asleep.

Oneko joined Wusamequin on the ledge overlooking the waterfall. The two stood in companionable silence.

“In the matter of the horse,” Oneko began. “Odina has confessed that she had gone to visit them, and forgot to shut the gate.”

Wusamequin gathered his fur wrap around himself as he watched the steam rise off the waterfall. The day was clear and cold. The sky, brittle and sad. He knew Odina wished to gain favor with him with the lie.

“Are we safe here?” Oneko asked him.

Wusamequin thought a moment. “To be safe, perhaps we should move again.”

Anchored at the crown of his head, Oneko’s feathers fluttered in the breeze. He could count great coup at the council fires of his ancestors. He was lucky.

“I am too old for this,” he grumbled. “Before, when we moved, it was to enjoy the gifts of the Mother. For sugaring time among the maple trees. To catch young shad and harvest oysters. Now, we scatter like mice simply to avoid confrontation. Sasious thinks we should attack the fort, especially if the Yangees are weak and sick.”

Wusamequin was shocked. “They have more weapons than we shall ever have.”

“Our hearts are stronger.”

“They can shoot our hearts.” Wusamequin looked hard at his leader. “Do Sasious’s words walk straight with you?”

“We are warriors,” Oneko replied thoughtfully. “All this hiding…” He gestured to the encampment.” We’re living like rodents. This cannot be the People’s Way.”

Wusamequin knew this was a terribly important conversation. Oneko had not idly joined him to admire the scenery. He said, “Great Sachem Oneko, the tides have turned. We were a great people, but sickness and war have preyed on us. We must find a way to survive, until the white skins tire of persecuting us and move on to other things. That is our Way in this time.”

Oneko raised a brow as he folded his arms over his chest. “Is that what your heart tells you? That the great People of the River should allow this mistreatment?”

Wusamequin felt his elder’s sorrow and shame. He felt his own. He wished he could speak other words,
but it was his responsibility to be honest, if his words could affect the welfare of the people. And they could.

“Onkeo, my heart tells me that we must do what we can to survive. We cannot attack the fort.”

They were both silent for a moment. Then Oneko said, “Following that argument, you should marry Odina. To survive. You need living children in this world so that you can pass on your legacy. You cannot be the last of Miantonomi’s seed.” He smiled faintly. “Had I a chance to put sons in Odin’s belly… But I’m an old man.”

Wusamequin felt weary. “She is a sister to me.”

Oneko cut in, “Mahwah is gone.”

“She was called in the manner of Isabella,” Wusamequin replied. “She was a white skin woman.”

“You
cherished her,” Oneko said bluntly. “Don’t deny it. Yet if you had had sons with her, they would not have been sons of the People. Nor sons of the Yangees. They would have been no one’s sons. There is no land for them. No refuge from cold and hunger.

“In both places, they would have been outcasts.”

Wusamequin thought again of the medicine bag he had given her. He wondered if she understood its significance; she carried his spirit with her. The man who stood before his leader was not a whole man. He had been split in two. Such a man could not love anyone.

Could not make sons with another.

“Your
sister
approaches,” Oneko drawled.

Clearly it was no accident when Odina appeared
from behind an outcropping of rock. Oneko and Odina had planned this ambush, and she was dressed for the war dance of the heart. She was wearing a fine leather cape covered with feathers, and her hair gleamed with beads and silver. She was graceful as she moved, despite her snowshoes.

Moving away, Oneko clasped Wusamequin on the shoulder. “Of the women who love you, Odina is most suitable.”

Wusamequin silently nodded.

His elder departed just as Odina reached Wusamequin’s side. She was radiant. Her skin glowed. She was very young and very pretty.

He continued to stare at her, wishing he could feel for her. But his spirit was not with him.

“Wusamequin?” she asked flirtatiously. “Do you see the care I’ve taken for you?”

He began to sweat. Heat washed over him like wind. He parted his lips and murmured, “The bag. They are burning the bag.”

Then his heart stopped.

He lurched right, left, swaying, and then he fell backward.

Down he soared, headfirst down, down, into the icy cascade as it thundered and crashed around him.

Down, as the water beat and battered him.

Down…

And he sank in the icy, churning waters, his breath knocked out of him. In his heavy clothes, he could not swim.
The force of the falls kept him under, and under, and still, his heart did not beat.

Then he thought of her …

An image wobbled before him, glowing and shimmering; he saw Isabella Stevens reaching with her hands into a fire in a square box; blisters were raising on her hands but she kept grabbing at something.

His eyes rolled back in his head.

He woke. The fragrant grass he stood in reached to his knees. Plump rabbits and fully grown deer darted through a moonlit meadow before him. Shiny fish jumped from a stream.

The stars in the skies twirled and danced.

Beside him, Great Bear gestured to him and said, “Wusamequin, this is your path. This is the Land Beyond. Your journey begins here.”

So I have died
, he thought.

He looked around for his dead wife and child.

They have walked on, to the stars
, Great Bear said.

I
shall be alone here, then
, Wusamequin replied.

His spirit guide shook his head.
No. Not alone. Never alone again, Man Split into Two.

This is your Way, Wusamequin. Remember it.

The shaman of the People of the River awoke in his chamber behind the falls. Puffy-eyed but silent, Odina knelt beside his bed, and several Makiawisug sat with her. That gave him pause. The Makiawisug allowed few people to see them. They had never
revealed themselves to anyone else in the village except Mahwah. And now, Odina.

What did that mean?

One of them, a little woman, had gathered up the hem of Odina’s skirt, as Mahwah’s Ti-ti-nay-ah had done, and when she saw that Wusamequin was awake, she shrieked with pleasure.

The Makiawisug began to dance and frolic as they saw that he had come back. They tried to scramble onto him, but Odina shooed them away with her hands.

“Odina,” he said.

“Wusamequin.” She had been crying. “Do you come back from the Land Beyond to say good-bye?”

“No. I am back,” he answered.

They sat in silence. Then she said, “There were pictures on the wall. Of her.” She took a deep breath. “You bound yourself to her. She has your spirit.”

There was no use in dishonesty. He must leave the earth with a clean heart. “Your words are straight,” he admitted. “I put my spirit in a medicine bag, and gave it to her.”

“And she took it with her?” Odina queried, her eyes huge with disbelief. When he did not dispute her, she grabbed his shoulders and peered into his face. “And now, because she has left, you’re dying! Your spirit is too far from you! Because of her!”

“I’m dying,” he confirmed. “Because the bag was destroyed.”

“How could you do that?” she shouted at him. “How could you give it to her? Of course she destroyed it! She is a witch! A white skin witch!”

She threw back her head and began to wail a dirge for the dead.

I cannot believe it was she who destroyed it
, he wanted to tell her.

But it was too difficult to speak. It was too difficult to think.

However, it was very easy to die again.

In her father’s quarters, Mahwah lay with her face to the wall. She had lain there for days. They thought she was ill with the pestilence.

Let them.

At Colonel Ramsland’s order, Mrs. O’Malloy had burned Mahwah’s Indian dress and Wusamequin’s medicine bag. Without it, she could not see Wusamequin’s image. Their bond had been severed.

I
shall never see him again
, she thought.

The shadows lengthened; the sun rose. And set again. She couldn’t move, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think. She could only grieve.

Her father got better, and came to see her. One late afternoon, he sat beside her bed with a letter in his hands. He reached out and stroked her cheek.

“Poppet, I’ve wonderful news,” he told her. “We’re going back to England. There is to be an armed convoy, and we shall go with it.” Before she could say
anything, he took a breath and added, “And Mrs. DeWitt shall be going with us. As your new mother.”

“Oh.” She tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. She was shattered. “Dearest Papa, my felicitations.”

He reached out and stroked her cheek. “It is my hope that this will bring the color back into your cheeks. The nightmare is ending, my Bella.”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Yes, Papa.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

“Well, then. We shall begin preparations in the morning. We’ll be sailing in a fortnight. Not a lot of time to get everything in order.”

He patted her shoulder, rose, and left the room.

She sobbed for hours, and then she tried to send out her thoughts, her spirit, her soul.

My love
, she called.
My love…

But he did not answer her.

Night hung uneasily over the fort. There was talk that the French were advancing. The war would come to Fort William Henry, and soon. Mahwah couldn’t help her treacherous thoughts:
Perhaps we shall be prevented from leaving for England.

I should almost prefer death, here, than to live in England knowing I should never see him again …

She began to dream of him, seeing his dear face as stars twinkled and danced behind him; she saw him gliding, swooping, circling to a rhythm she could not hear.

Wusamequin. I miss you.

Apologizing for bothering her so late at night, Jamie Munsfield came to visit. He wore his uniform jacket all buttoned up, and he looked awkward in it as he sat beside her bed. A child, dressed up in his father’s colors.

Licking his lips, he said, “Have you ever been in a battle, Miss Stevens?”

“Just the one,” she replied, smoothing her coverlet as she spoke. “With the… People.” When he looked at her uncomprehendingly, she amended, “The Indians.”

“I’ve never been in battle.” He swallowed, so young there was only a smattering of beard on his chin. “I … I’m a bit anxious, I may confess.”

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