Spirited (7 page)

What shall I do with her? Wusamequin wondered. And why have I spared her and her father? All the others that we could kill, we have killed. The ones who ran are being hunted down and put to the blade.

My family is avenged, and I may walk with honor through the village. I am Wusamequin, medicine man of the People of the River. Now my wife and son will leave the Land Beyond and walk the Road of Stars.

He gazed up at the sky.

Where the Road of Stars will take them, I cannot know for sure. But I do know it will be a more wonderful place than even the Land Beyond. They will dance with the spirits. They will become spirits.

I have accomplished my deeds this day, for them. My life as a man and as a warrior is redeemed.

The price was light. Tashtassuck was wounded, but only by shot. He is able to walk home. But Great Bear, walking in this world, was slaughtered. I should kill these two for his sake. Why do I stay my hand?

Why had he stopped Sasious from savoring the spoils of victory?

It was her courage. She fought like a woman of my people
,
not a weak Yangee. I could not let her spirit be shamed.

He shook his head. Now who was being weak?

He glanced at Sasious, who had a shallow flesh wound from the white skin woman’s knife. He was glowering from the insult.

I
have probably made an enemy. That was foolish of me.

He scanned overhead, seeking signs. A hawk wheeled in the newly cleansed heavens. Passenger pigeons fluttered away, warning one another of the threat.

Two deer paused in the underbrush as he and Sasious led the party toward the cliff where, twenty feet behind them, the waterfall rushed and burbled. Three moons ago—Buck Moon—he had had a dream that told him that upon occasion, his wife visited him in the world wearing the guise of a deer. Perhaps the second deer was his son, whose name he also did not mention, in order to ensure his easy journey on the Road of Stars.

He signed greetings and love to them. The two deer calmly watched, then turned tail and trotted into the forest.

The white woman beside him watched their progress as well.

Sasious started up the steep path that had been cut into the cliff. Wusamequin paused, indicating that the woman should go ahead of him. She hesitated, then did so, looking behind to catch sight of her father. After she assured herself that the grayhair was still there, she took the first foothold. He could
see her exhaustion and admired her attempts to conceal it. He admired her pride.

He watched her body move as she climbed the steep incline. She was wearing the odd forms beneath her skirt that mocked her womanly shape, flaring out her hips so that she looked like a bizarre sort of duck. The clothes of the Yangees were ridiculous. They trussed their women into walking prisons—to no purpose that he could see, save to emphasize their indolence and uselessness. White skin women were like badly made pieces of pottery—garishly painted but created too poorly to be of value.

The men, too, wore so many clothes that they could neither run nor work with any ease of movement. They spent inordinate amounts of time either caring for their clothing, or working to earn wampum to purchase more. It was madness.

He scowled. It was a madness his own people had caught. Until the white skins came, the People had made all their own clothes, their weapons, and their household necessities. Now they traded for these things, and the People were beginning to forget how to make them. They had grown soft and foolish, dependent on the Yangees and
les Français.

His anger flared, and he gripped his tomahawk. The white skins were murdering his people in so many ways. Better that they all be put to death.

He stared at her back, watching the muscles work beneath the frayed fabric. For the sake of her modesty, she had wound strips of outer garment over her
ruined clothing. He was moved. He was not an ignorant man; he was aware that the world was a vast place, and he was tolerant of many of the white skins’ customs. She needed to cover herself in this way to walk in the Way of her people.

But the white skins were not tolerant of any departure from their way of doing things. They judged others’ ways with disdain and sought to stamp out anything that did not come from them. They were arrogant and dangerous, like a young brave overcome with rum. The Indians who lived in All-ba-nee had reported at last year’s potlach that the Yangees were fond of saying, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

He felt shame for having prevented Sasious from ravishing her. The war leader had been humiliated and for what? A white woman.

She is one of them. She is my enemy.

After they reached the top of the cliff, Wusamequin surveyed the scene below. So many dead. So much blood. Let the vultures and wolves devour the flesh and defile the hearts of the dead Yangees. It pleased him.

Ninigret moved up beside him. He clapped a hand on Wusamequin’s shoulder and said, “My heart soars for you.” Then he tilted his head, studying the shaman. “Something is not well with you, my brother. What more can you need today? Your family honor has been restored.”

Wusamequin said nothing.

Ninigret said thoughtfully, “Tashtassuck will recover?”

“Yes.”

“And your family … is it that the memories do not want to leave you?”

“They wish to haunt me,” Wusamequin agreed.

“We will sit in the sweat lodge with you and force them to depart,” Ninigret offered. “After we have killed the prisoners.” His smile returned. “It was wise of you to save captives for the women and the elders. They have need of vengeance as well. The massacre affected all of us. Our dead brother and sister were much loved.”

“Yes.” Wusamequin considered Ninigret’s words. He spoke truth.

The war party continued the trek back to the village. The white captives were tiring; it took many jerks on the rope to force the grayhair to keep up. The woman’s gaze had taken on the dazed expression of those pushed beyond their endurance. She walked like a ghost, and he was sorry. He missed her fire.

The familiar scent of cooking pots told him he was near home. The war band walked past the women’s fields of corn, ready for harvest. The village dogs bounded toward the warriors, yipping and leaping on them, overjoyed to see them. Wusamequin’s tame wolf, Afraid-of-Everything, nuzzled his master’s hand, licking off the blood—both Wusamequin’s own and that of his enemies. He caught the girl staring at the wolf in horror. Then she turned and silently retched.

Wearing his ceremonial blanket, Oneko met the party at the boundary of the village. He held a coup stick and he regarded Wusamequin with pride. There was sorrow, too, for the one who had died.

As he surveyed the two prisoners with a cold gaze, he said, “Wusamequin, are you avenged? Did your tomahawk drink the blood of Yangee soldiers this day?”

Wusamequin held his head high. “Yes, great Sachem.” He gestured to the collections of scalps that fluttered against the leggings of the warriors. “You will hear us count coup at the fire tonight. Tashtassuck has a wound, but he is well.”

Oneko smiled broadly. “My heart soars for all of you. This is a wonderful boon for the
keutikaw
of your family.” He gestured to the bloody group of men. “Now go to the sweat lodge and purge death from yourselves. Don’t bring death into our village.” He glanced at the captives. “Although we will happily kill these two at our fires tonight.”

Wusamequin said nothing. But as he turned to accompany the other men to the sweat lodge, located in a clearing on the village outskirts, he heard the white woman call after him in a voice filled with fear and despair.

“Sir! Sir, I beg of you! Do not leave us!”

Though his heart urged him to turn to her, give her some gesture of reassurance, he made no effort to respond. She was the slave, not he.

And most likely, she would be dead by morning.

Unless I receive a sign to spare her. If I do spare her, her life will belong to my people, and she will be a slave until the day she dies.

“For the love of God, help us!” she shouted.

The girl had fallen to the ground, and she was curling into a ball and covering her head as Oneko’s wife, Wabun-Anung, delivered a sharp kick to her ribs. The grayhair, sprawled beside her, was bleeding from a fresh blow to the head.

So the taunting of the condemned had begun.

“Great Sachem!” he called to Oneko.

His chief glanced from the spectacle to the medicine man.

“Yes, Wusamequin?”

“We need to ask the white skins about the plans of the Yangees,” he reminded Oneko. “Where they were going and why. We need to keep the prisoners alive and able to speak until that time.”

Sasious spat on the ground beside Wusamequin.

“Why bother? They’ll only lie. That’s all the white skin devils know how to do. Lie. Better to kill them and be done with it. Tonight is the
keutikaw
, the great feast to mark the passage of thirteen moons, when we will end the mourning of your dead loved ones. It’s fitting they should die tonight.”

Oneko looked from Sasious to Wusamequin. Wusamequin saw the glimmer of interest in his eyes; the great chief knew that bad blood simmered between the two of them.

Wusamequin had not understood the woman’s
barrage of Yangee words. She had spoken too fast. That was no source of shame to him; he spoke more English than any other tribal member. In the days when things were better between the People and the Yangee, he had spent a lot of time with a Yangee trapper named James Anderson. James Anderson had taught him English, even shown him many of the markings that were used to record thoughts. The People used beaded belts in the same way as James Anderson’s “papers,” and Wusamequin wished he could have learned James Anderson’s Way before they had separated.

Oneko said, “Sasious speaks truth. We were once great friends with the Yangee. We believed his words and treated him as a brother. And the People of the River have suffered terribly for that trust. The Yangee told us he was our friend. And then he killed your wife and son, Wusamequin.”

The Sachem gestured to the prisoners. The young woman had thrown herself on top of her father’s still form and was kicking out at anyone who tried to come close enough to harm him. This had set most of the village to laughing—an indication of their admiration for her courage—and she was screaming at them with English words he had never heard before.

She had balled her fists and was punching at the air, crying and shrieking like the winter wind. What was left of her dress was in shreds, but she gave no thought to her once-treasured modesty. Her fury reminded her of the vengeful protection of Great Bear. The death of such a woman would be a loss…
unless she lived to bear Yangee sons.

Then her death would be welcome.

“What a wild thing,” Oneko said approvingly as he watched her.

“She won’t even burn well,” Sasious hissed. “There’s no fat on her. The Yangee have starved her.”

There was an angry cut above her eye and a scratch on her cheek.

I’d use monarda—bee balm—and pollen on that
, Wusamequin found himself thinking. He was looking at her with a healer’s eye. But if she burned tonight at the fire, what need was there to dress her wounds?

It took Wusamequin a moment to realize that Oneko was studying him. Warmth touched his face as he looked questioningly at the tribal leader. Oneko was smiling.

“Very well, medicine man,” he said. “We shall make sure the prisoners are able to answer questions. Now go to the sweat lodge. You carry death with you.” He raised his voice. “All of you, purify yourselves!”

Sasious hefted his tomahawk as he turned away from Oneko and Wusamequin. The medicine man began to turn as well, but Oneko said, “What has happened between you?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Was it the woman? Does she plead with your heart?”

“She is a Yangee,” Wusamequin declared. “Nothing more.”

“After you have gone to the sweat lodge, come to my wigwam and talk to me. I have things to say to you.” Oneko adjusted his blanket around his shoulders.
His hair was turning white; he was becoming a very old man. In the Way of the People, elders were revered above all else. The world was difficult; it required not only physical strength, but skill and wisdom to live a long life.

Wusamequin included his head. “I will.”

He cast another glance at the woman and her father. The laughter of the People had grown so intense that some of the squaws were doubled over. Afraid-of-Everything was prancing among the children, licking at fingers and searching for treats.

“I will put the captives away, where they will be safe,” Oneko drawled. “And we will talk”

Wusamequin drew himself up. He said coolly, “They’re of no interest to me, Great Sachem Oneko. With your permission, I’ll be on my way.”

Oneko reached out a hand, but he didn’t touch Wusamequin’s contaminated flesh. It was the way of the People to avoid contact with those who had killed, until the death was washed away.

“Today’s a day filled with joy for you, and with sorrow, too. Hatred has lived in your heart for a long time. It will leave a hole in your heart that still must be healed. You are our medicine man. You know this to be true.”

“I do,” Wusamequin replied.

“Do not fill your heart with a bad spirit,” Oneko continued. “It will not stay empty long, if you walk your path well. It will heal now that you have fulfilled your vow.” He smiled kindly at the younger man. “Go
with your brothers, who love you.”

He gestured meaningfully at the retreating Sasious. “Give your brother a gift, something you treasure. Let him know that you value his friendship.”

It was a wise suggestion. Wusamequin felt his features soften. Oneko was the closest thing Wusamequin had to father or uncle; his blood elders were dead.

“I will.”

Oneko smiled at him. “Remember who you are, young shaman. You are more than just another brave. You are our spirit warrior. It is a strong thing to walk side by side with you. Those who believe themselves cast away from you will feel weaker for the loss of your company. That will frighten them.