Spirited by Nancy Holder Page B

“The People are very frightened, Wusamequin. We have been weakened by the white skins. We must form strong bonds of brotherhood among ourselves.”
    “I understand you,” Wusamequin said.
    Oneko pointed to the scalp knife in his hand. “That would be a fine gift. That’s an exquisite weapon.”
    Wusamequin shook his head. “It’s not mine to give. It belongs to Odina’s father, Wopigwoot.”
    Oneko grinned slyly at his shaman. “Wopigwoot would be happy if it were carried by a son-in-law. And a son-in-law would have the right to give it to whomever he pleased.” He crinkled his eyes and pursed his lips, and he looked like a grizzled old turtle.
    He continued, “We are few, and the white skins are many. We must have children, Wusamequin. You’re a young man. Vigorous. You can put many sons in the belly of a wife. You need to take a new wife. If she is still in the Land Beyond, your wife understands that. Soon she will walk the Road of Stars, and she will let this world go.”
    “I…” Wusamequin bowed his head, not wishing to think of that in this moment. Oneko, I…”
    “Don’t stutter,” Oneko said, feinting a box to Wusamequin’s ear. “Go and wash yourself. I don’t like to stand so close to death.”
    Wusamequin hesitated. Oneko blew out a sigh and called to the squaws and children, “Gather up the white skins. We will put them away for now.”
    Cheers and laughter rose from the throng as Odina and her sister, Keshkecho, darted toward the white woman and tried to grab her arms. The woman lunged at them, her teeth bared, swiping at them with her hands. Odina laughed shrilly and bent down to her side. She picked up a small rock and hefted it in her hand, preparing to take aim—
    “No!” Oneko called to her. “Just put them away.” To Wusamequin, he said, “Does that satisfy you?”
    The medicine man crossed his hands over his chest. “I told you, the white skins are not my concern.”
    With that, he left for the sweat lodge.

Chapter Six
     
    Surrounded by screaming women, laughing children, and barking, wolflike dogs, Isabella struggled as two of the Indian women grabbed her wrists and hoisted her to her feet. “No!” she shrieked, kicking at them and yanking her arms as hard as she could. “Papa!”
    She pushed herself against the ground to give herself the momentum to look back at her father as she was pulled along. Not far behind her, he was being half-lifted, half-dragged by six or seven women, almost like a man in his coffin carried aloft by his pall bearers. His head drooped over the shoulder of an ancient crone. She said something and the others burst into a flurry of giggles.
    Then they were herded toward a small circular building constructed of saplings and bark. She thought of the cairns of Ireland, hillocks in which Celtic kings were buried. For a moment, terror got the best of her—was this to be her tomb?—and then she gathered her wits about herself again. It had to mean something that they hadn’t been killed in the forest. Unless the Indians simply wanted to share the pleasure of butchering Englishmen with their families.
    She was surprised at how little she knew of the ways of the Indians. She had never actually touched an Indian before. She had lived in the Colonies for almost a year, and yet she couldn’t speak even a single word of their language.
    “There is no need, my dear, to speak their tongue,” Mrs. DeWitt had once commented. “After all, they need to learn English, if they are to make their way in the new order of things. Their languages will die out, and a fine thing that is, too. It’s all gibberish and prevents them from progressing, don’t you know.”
    If only I could speak one word. Just one. Perhaps they would understand that I mean no harm. That I am just a frightened girl.
    The prettier of her two captors spoke roughly to her and gestured toward the hut. Then a much younger girl raced to the hut and pulled back the flap. She gestured excitedly