Spirited (14 page)

As she began to eat, Wusamequin lifted up the hem of her dress, revealing her thigh, which was wrapped in leaves and bound with leather. She was embarrassed, but understood that she must allow him to examine it. She concentrated on her food, so impatient for it that she burned her fingertips. She didn’t care.

She leaned over to look at the wound, but the shaman spread his fingers over her thigh and said, “Mahwah, do not look.”

“Is it that bad?” she asked anxiously, but he didn’t appear to understand her question.

He said, “Gemeze. Eat.”

Rays of crimson sun hit his cheeks, making them appear rosy. The silver earbob he wore sparkled. His profile was rather … noble, actually. He had a very straight nose, and a long neck, for a man. All that hair … British men dressed theirs, and the upper classes wore wigs. She tried to imagine him in the clothes of a nobleman—for such he was, within his tribe—and stifled a giggle.

He raised a questioning brow, then dropped his gaze to her thigh. She tried to obey him by continuing to eat her stew. His fingers probed the location of her injury; the tender flesh stung where he touched it. Then a searing pain made her wince and grab his shoulder. He pushed directly on the wound; a pressure built; it hurt worse. Without thinking, she gave his shoulder a smack and cried, “Stop it!”

His lips parted; he looked terribly shocked. Flustered, she glanced down—and saw the hideous, gaping hole in her leg. He had stuffed it full of something green, and pus was oozing out of it.

She screamed.

He clamped his hand over her mouth and jerked her hard. His face inches from hers, he hissed, “Do not cry out.”

Above his fingers she stared wide-eyed. His gaze moved from her to their surroundings; she saw heads turned in her direction, stony faces, disapproving expressions.

They are on the run
, she realized, from
my people.

Rising from a campfire approximately twenty feet away, Sasious stomped over and began gesticulating at her, speaking rapidly and harshly in his language. He folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her, tilting his head at Wusamequin, who began to speak.

Without breaking eye contact with the brave, he said to her, “Sasious says that if you cry out again, he cuts out your tongue. He says that Oneko permits it. I agree.

She was so shocked that she nearly dropped her bowl of stew. Wusamequin noticed and deftly slid his hand under the bowl, dipping two of his fingers into the contents as if he were merely taking his turn at their communal meal. He continued, “Your people search for you. We run.”

“It
hurt,” she
murmured, embarrassed. “That’s why I cried out.”

He shrugged. “A woman of the People does not cry out.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m not a woman of the People. I’m an Englishwoman.”

“I do not forget, Mahwah,” he replied, his voice flat. He turned to Sasious and spoke to him. To Isabella, he said, “Sasious has my truth that you will not cry out.”

His truth was his promise, she translated. Flushing, she inclined her head to show her concession. “He has my truth, as well.” She raised her chin and ordered herself to look Sasious straight in the eye.
“Wunneet,”
she said firmly.

If she had expected to surprise or shock him, she was disappointed. He blinked, then said something to Wusamequin in their language; he finished off by tapping the tip of his tongue, then turned and walked away.

Both the medicine man and Isabella watched him go. “What did he say?” she asked him.

“Your heart knows,” he replied. He handed her back the bowl and showed her some fresh green material. It was dried moss, she now realized.

He took her hand and clamped it onto his shoulder. Gazing at her, he pointed to his nose and said, “Do not cry out.”

His hands returned to her thigh. She seized as he started doing things to it. He reached up and pointed to his nose again. She stared at it, her nostrils flaring. He made a show of breathing in slowly;
and just as slowly, exhaling. She understood, and copied his movements.

The pain hovered beyond her endurance. She stared at his nose, and breathed.

Then he was finished. He lowered her dress and handed her back her bowl. He said,
“Wunneet.”

“Wneeweh,”
she rasped.

He smiled, pleased, and walked away. She was feeling faint, but she said nothing as she stared at his retreating back.

He went to the nearest campfire and secured another bowl of food. He sat with the others, eating and chatting, ignoring her. Her eyes watered from the effort of sitting upright, and the throbbing pain in her leg. She screwed up her courage and examined the wound. He had repacked it with fresh moss. She saw now that he had also previously sewn it shut, with small stitches such as her father would have used. He appeared to have used some kind of gut. The stitches were still in place; he had not disturbed them as he had cleaned and redressed the wound. He was quite skilled, quite deft.

Particularly when one takes into account that he is a savage.

Feeling vulnerable to the stares of everyone, she ate more stew. She had nearly licked the bowl clean when Wusamequin returned. A shy young Indian maiden was with him again; she took Isabella’s bowl and vanished into the darkening landscape.

“Mahwah, you sleep with Wusamequin,” he announced. Before she could respond, he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward one of the tents. Her thigh hurt; he sniffed, and she remembered to look at his nose.

They moved into some underbrush to a tent beneath a trio of fragrant pines. The young maiden was there, holding open the flap. She lowered her gaze as the spirit warrior carried the English hostage inside.

Inside, bent over because the tent ceiling was low, Wusamequin paused in the dark and murmured,
“Wanakusak.”

A trio of tiny glowing lights appeared at the top of leather hangings, casting soft, muted light on their surroundings. At Wusamequin’s feet, a bed of grass had been arranged, a folded fur covering to the right of it. It looked rather narrow for two people, and panic washed over her. Surely he didn’t mean to … to do anything. He knew she was injured. And her father would see him hung if he realized anything had gone … awry.

Wusamequin said, “Komeekha.”

Then he lay her down on the bed. Her heart was thundering; it skipped a beat as he reached down to the hem of his leather jerkin and pulled it over his head. Bare-chested, he lay beside her on the grass. He unfolded the heavy fur and drew it over both of them.

She couldn’t breathe as she braced herself for whatever came next. But he gazed at her for perhaps
ten seconds, then rolled over, away from her, and settled in.

He was going to do nothing, leave her in peace. She was grateful to her soul.

She licked her lips and whispered,
“Wneeweh.”

If he heard her, he gave no sign of it.

If she dreamed, she did not remember it.

Dawn crept into the tent, damp and chilly. There was frost on the leather drapes of the tent, and she snuggled more deeply into the fur. Doves cooed; branches rustled. She opened her eyes and listened intently. She assumed that Wusamequin had brought her into his tent to guard her from those who would wish her harm. She sincerely doubted he believed her capable of running. Her injury was too severe.

Wusamequin still slept, his back to her. She stared at his dark hair, seeing that it was not all black. There were rich strands of mahogany, and some closer to dark blue. Seeing his hair tangled and sleep-tossed, she felt a rush of tenderness that she didn’t understand, and so she pushed it away.

She had to relieve herself, and had no idea how to manage it without disturbing him. She didn’t think that her leg would support her, and she wasn’t sure she could force herself to stand on it.

As she pondered what to do, he turned over. His eyes were closed; his face was very dose to hers, and his sigh warmed her cheek. His breath was fresh and smelled of herbs. She wondered if he cleaned his
teeth with some kind of powdered mixture, as civilized people did.

She waited for a time, but her need was becoming urgent. Gingerly she began to pull the fur away, and then he rolled the other way again, his back to her.

She caught her breath. A long, deep purple scar ran from the nape of his neck down to the small of his back. Perhaps lower. It was thick and ugly, and she wondered how he had been wounded. Who had tended him? She tentatively reached out her fingers.

He rolled back over. There was such a look of joy and wonder on his face that she tingled. He touched his forehead and murmured something in his language. Then he chuckled and exhaled slowly.

He said, “Mahwah,
tahaso.”
He made as if to shiver and reached down for the fur.

She cleared her throat. “Ah, sir, I have to …” She closed her eyes. Such things were not permitted to be discussed in civilized society.

Well this is not civilized society, is it?
she thought in a fit of pique.

In the distance, a whippoorwill sang out its song. Then she felt something tugging on her hair. She opened her mouth to cry out, but remembered just in time that she might lose her tongue. She flipped over on her back, ramming into him, grunting heavily at the pain in her thigh.

Then she would have screamed—no matter the cost—if Wusamequin had not clamped his hand over her mouth.

A tiny creature gazed up at her. It resembled a male human being, except for its size: it stood perhaps six inches tall. It—
he
—was dressed in a skirt of fur, a tiny crown of flowers encircling his brow, and strands of her hair dangled between his hands as if he had been tying up the line of a great brigantine.

As Isabella pushed herself back into Wusamequin’s chest, the little man dropped her hair, put his hands on his hips, and laughed at her.

Then another creature popped out of the grass bed. This one was a female, and she wore a leather dress much like Isabella’s. Both she and the little man were barefoot, but seemed oblivious to the cold.

“Makiawisug,”
Wusamequin said to her. The two tiny sprites dashed over to him; he put out his hand and they leaped onto it, then cheered in squeaky voices as he raised them to his eye level.

He spoke to them, and each in turn giggled and stared at Isabella. The woman scrambled up Wusamequin’s arm, reaching the summit of his shoulder. She reached up to bat both hands against his earbob, making it gently swing. She spoke to the medicine man again, and pointed at Isabella.

Meanwhile, the male sauntered over to her. He folded his arms and inclined his head as he chattered in a high, squeaky voice.

Over her initial shock, she found the pair quite charming. “Little people?” she asked Wusamequin, not taking her eyes off the elfin man. “Leprechauns? Brownies?”

Both of those sorts of Little People were actually quite mischievous, if not malicious. They would curdle milk, rip clothes to tatters. It was even said that they gave human babies to the faery, in return for faery babies, changelings, who were taken in and cared for by their unsuspecting human parents.

Before Wusamequin could answer, a third Makiawisug burst from the grass. Then another one crawled from beneath the tent flap. They both dashed over to Wusamequin, as a child might race to a favorite uncle.

He said something to the quartet; the female slid down his arm to his open palm, jumped off, and landed in the grass. Wusamequin leaned over Isabella and pulled open the entrance to the tent, and the four raced outside.

They quickly returned with a very plain gray bowl, held above their heads as the Indians had carried her father. They set it down in front of her and skittered back, forming a line.

Wusamequin gestured to the bowl. She stared first at it, and then at him. He made as if to lift his breechcloth.

“A chamber pot?” she asked breathlessly. “You want me to … to use it? Here? In the tent?”

He folded his arms. She scratched her cheek, unsure how to proceed, but knowing that she was running out of time.

After a moment, she extended her hand, pointing to the tent flap. She said,
“Wunneet.”

His face drew up in an amused smile. He reached for his shirt as he got to his feet. Hunching his shoulders, he chuckled as he left the tent, taking his shirt with him.

The Makiawisug backed away from the bowl, their upturned faces a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Isabella pointed to the tent flap and said, “Away. I am a lady.”

The foursome burst into merry giggles and decamped, dashing off after Wusamequin.

Feeling incredibly awkward, Isabella heeded the call of nature, lifted up the side of the tent, and dumped the bowl out onto the grass.

She reasoned that Wusamequin, too, had morning oblations to fulfill, so she lay back down. She was thirsty and hungry. Her leg was sore, but as she pulled up her dress and examined it, she noted that the proud flesh—the area that swelled around a wound—had become less puffy. She was continuing to heal.

The flap opened and Wusamequin entered with two bowls, one in each hand. The four little people rode on his shoulders, swinging their legs in a carefree, easy manner. The little female smiled at Isabella and got to her feet, standing on tiptoe to grab at Wusamequin’s earbob. He tilted his head obligingly, and she whispered in Wusamequin’s ear. He blushed. Isabella was stunned. She would never have imagined Wusamequin capable of blushing.

The female noticed it, too. She pointed at the
color in his cheek and laughed, a shimmering sound that sent a ripple through Isabella. She found herself smiling as the three little men joined in, all four of them squeaking like mice.

The medicine man flashed her a crooked smile as he crossed his ankles and lowered himself to the floor. Isabella was fascinated by the ease with which he moved. It was as if natural laws did not apply to him; he was like a spirit of the air.

“Aquai,”
he said to her. She realized it was a greeting.

“Aquai,”
Isabella replied.

Pleased, he nodded.
“Quin’a month’ee?”