Spirited (23 page)

The Makiawisug climbed onto her, patting her face and stroking her forehead. Her mind raced. She said to them in English, “I cannot bear this! My father is ill. I must go. I must leave. Now.”

They looked up at her. She sat up carefully, allowing them to slide into her palms. Then she set them down, trying to formulate a plan as she ran her shaking fingers over the crown of her head.

“How can I escape?” she asked them.

She did not wait for a reply as she tore apart the room, opening baskets and peeking in clay bowls and gourds. She found some dried fruit and cornmeal, a large cache of dried meat, and herbs for tea. Soon she had a small pile; she searched some more, then found
a
small piece of leather in which to bundle it up.

She would need a fur to wrap in. If only she had her own snowshoes …

Titania looked from the bundle to Isabella and back again. Then she held up a hand as if to stop her. Isabella shook her head. “I have to go,” she said gently. “My father is ill. There is … there’s no place for me here.” She picked up the bundle. “I shall miss you, Titania. You have all been so kind to me.”

The little fairy queen cupped her hands around her mouth and turned toward the curtain of flowering vines. The vines began to shake and undulate. Then more tiny Makiawisug faces popped from behind the lush blossoms. Mahwah counted two, three… six… at least a dozen.

The fairies grinned at her and waved. Then they began jumping onto the flowers, their weight separating the blossoms from the vines. As soon as a flower would break from its stalk, they would set to working on plucking another. Soon a shower of blossoms was dropping onto Wusamequin’s bed.

“This is so sweet,” Mahwah told them. “But I haven’t time …”

Then Titania grasped the nearest petal and gestured for Mahwah to take it. Her tiny face was wild with urgency.

“What?” Mahwah asked.

Titania said,
“Tpochgo. Pachkenum.”
She pointed to Mahwah’s hands and pretended to crush the flower between her palms.

Mahwah complied, picking up the flower and crushing the petals as Titania showed her. From its pale yellow juice, an intoxicating fragrance filled the room.

And Mahwah’s fingertips disappeared!

“What?” she cried. She held up the flower. “This is magic? This can make me disappear?”

She picked up another flower and squeezed it into her palm. Where the liquid touched, that part of her flesh vanished as well.

“Oh, thank you!” she cried.

At Titania’s urging, she lay on her side on Wusamequin’s bed and squeezed the blossoms into a clay bowl that Oberon and Puck dragged over to her. The four-and-twenty Makiawisug dipped the petals in the liquid and began to rub it over her clothes and exposed skin. They even rubbed it into her hair and onto her bundle of food.

“Hurry, hurry,” she begged, helping as best she could. She wiped the liquid on her face. Her heart was skipping beats; she was crazed with fear that Wusamequin would come back before they were finished.

At last they were done. Puck and Cobweb helped Isabella fill her invisible bundle with more blossoms. She raced into the hall and down the tunnel. She knew she musn’t go out the side way; Wusamequin and the other men were out there. He might not see her, but it was likely that he could magically sense her presence.

She glanced down at her hands, and saw nothing.
She had no idea how long the magic lasted, but she knew she must seize the moment. Another would not come.

So she ran down the corridor to the entrance into the main cavern. Taking a deep breath, she emerged, glancing fearfully at the Indian guards posted on either side. Neither reacted.

She hurried through the cavern and out the main entrance, stepping onto the ledge behind the waterfall. She kept well away from the spray, assuming that if any of the flower juice were washed off, that part of her would become visible again.

Though she wanted to run, she moved slowly and carefully along the slimy rocks. Sure enough, once the bottoms of her moccasins absorbed moisture, they were visible.

She left the ledge and clambered up the staircase toward the crest of the cliff. She was breathless with fear.

At the top, she stopped and peered over the ledge.

Something was burning where Samuel Whyte had died. She imagined it was his body. She nodded grimly. It was less likely the People would catch the disease this way. But she knew he would have wanted to be buried properly.

She took a breath and whispered, “Farewell, Wusamequin. Farewell, Afraid-of-Everything.” She swallowed down a lump. “Rest in peace, Samuel Whyte.”

Then she turned and faced the wilderness. She
had no idea which way to go.

Something tugged on her braid. Then a little voice chattered in her ear.

“Titania!” she cried.

The fairy queen must have crawled into her bundle. She was invisible.

As were the other Makiawisug who yanked on her braids. She felt around for them and counted a total of four; her dear quartet. They had come with her.

“Wneeweh,”
she said feelingly. Then she tried to explain where they needed to go. If they could lead her to the village, she could try to use the map from there. Unless it, too, had become invisible.

But when she brought it from her medicine bag, she could still see it. She unfolded it, alarmed to see that the edges had soaked in some of the liquid and become invisible. But the body of the map was visible. There were the mountains they had traveled over, and there a stream. And there was a good sketch of Fort William Henry as well.

Titania and the others chattered excitedly.

Mahwah dared to hope. “Do you know how to get to the fort?”

Of course they didn’t understand, but their excited chatter did not fade.

She sent a prayer to the heavens, and then she set out.

The Makiawisug found the path the tribe had traveled from the village to the falls, and that made it easier to cover territory. But it was very cold, and she
didn’t know what she would do when night fell and it grew colder still.

As the sun dipped, she began to panic. She thought of her warm chamber, and the delicious food Wusamequin would prepare. The hot tea she would brew. The magic they could now conjure… together.

She shivered hard. Her little friends burrowed inside her fur, lending her a tiny bit of warmth.

An owl hooted. Creatures rustled in the underbrush on either side of the path as protective shadows lengthened around them.

Then she heard the distant, steady pounding of horse hooves along the ground, and she darted from the path into the brush. She began to tremble. God only knew what they would do to her if they caught her trying to escape.

As she watched through the gloom, Dulcie, her little mare, cantered to a halt. The sidesaddle and double bridle were nowhere to be seen, but a number of thick Indian blankets and furs had been secured across her back. A large basket had been tied to her side as well.

Isabella gingerly approached. The little mare whinnied, standing quite still. She patted the horse and said softly, “It is I, sweet Dulcie. Mahwah.” Then she heard herself and said, “Isabella.”

But she wasn’t Isabella anymore.

She opened the basket and peered inside. There was more dried food, and several clay bowls, and
some gourds. Isabella smelled the contents of one of the bowls; sure enough, it was the heat unguent Wusamequin had used on her.

In the bottom of the basket lay a shiny black bear figurine identical to the one in the medicine bag at her waist.

Her eyes brimmed.

“Wneeweh
, Wusamequin,” she said aloud.

She made sure the four Makiawisug were with her. Then she mounted the mare, and began to ride.

Chapter Seventeen

The fort.

A miracle to see, and yet … here she was.

Though the water had been icy, she had bathed the juice off herself in a nearby stream and unbraided her hair. Then she put some of the heating potion onto her arms and legs to warm herself up.

She could not coax the Makiawisug to come inside the fort with her, and she did not know if they lurked in the forest beyond, or if they had scampered for home.

Despite her attire, the sentries hailed her into the fort. They understood who she was, and one, a young man named Jamie Munsfield, escorted her to the infirmary.

There he was. Her father, her own.

She knelt at the side of his wooden trundle bed in the fort infirmary and grabbed up his hand, kissing it, then leaned forward and showered his face with kisses.

“Poppet,” he murmured joyously, raising himself on his elbow. He wore a nightshirt, and he had been much reduced by his illness. “Look at you.”

One of the women of the fort had bustled off to
find her something to wear and something to eat. She was cold and hungry, but nothing could have kept her from her father’s side.

A chair was brought, and strong tea and a blanket. Sipping the tea, she told him of her life among the Indians, saying only that Wusamequin, the medicine man who had treated his shoulder, had sheltered her and protected her from the wrath of the tribe at large.

“Sometimes white women are brought into the tribe,” he ventured. “Either as slaves or wives.”

Her face grew hot. She recalled his having used the term “marriage” to describe the untenable situation savage men were said to force upon civilized ladies, and knew that she would never tell him what had passed between her and Wusamequin.

At the thought of him, her heart squeezed painfully.

“I was not a wife,” she answered truthfully. “And though told I was a slave, seldom treated as one.”

“Should I ever see Wusamequin again, I should like to thank him,” her father told her. “He seemed a gentleman among savages.” He stirred. “What of Major Whyte? He told us he was off to search for you. For my money, he was escaping the fort, in fear of the sickness.”

“Samuel … that is, Major Whyte, died of the pestilence,” she added, refraining yet again from going into detail.

Her father’s face hardened. “He abandoned us to the savages.”

“No. He assured me that he did not. He hoped to survive, so that he could rescue us.”

“A pretty fiction,” her father retorted. “Ah, well, one must not speak ill of the dead. And you are here now, my darling girl.” He sniffed the air. “There is a pleasant odor in the room.”

“It is special salve. They use it to keep themselves warm,” she explained. She reached into her medicine pouch and took out the unguent Wusamequin had packed for her. After rubbing some on her hands, she stroked her father’s forehead with it.

“Ah, most efficacious,” he said happily.

She placed it back in the pouch and pulled it shut.

The infirmary door banged open. Colonel Ramsland, the commander of the fort, strode into the room in his noisy boots. He was a stringy, soldierly type of man, splendid in his uniform, all buttons gleaming, with an ivory-colored wig beneath his tricorne.

Mahwah rose to signal her respect, and swept him a deep curtsey. She must have looked a sight in her Indian costume.

“So it’s true,” he said jovially. “The young lady is restored to us.”

“It’s true,” she agreed.

“Providence is most kind.”

“Indeed, sir.”

He gestured for her to sit, which she did. “Forgive me for coming to you just after you’re arrived, but I
must ask you questions before certain details blessedly fade from your memory.”

“Of course, Colonel,” she said, the soul of a compliant, well-bred young lady. Inwardly, however, she was most nervous.

He rubbed his hands together. “It’s deucedly cold today. What of that snow, eh? The Colonials are frantic about their crops.”

He leaned forward. “I trust it snowed where you were being held prisoner.”

“Yes, it did,” she agreed.

He nodded to himself. “Very good. Where were they then, these fiends? Can you describe their encampment to us? Help us locate it?”

She had prepared herself for this. And she had not known what she would do or say… until this moment.

Wusamequin trusted me. He let me go knowing I might lead them back.

“Sir, alas, I cannot,” she lied, her eyes enormous and innocent. “I gave Dulcie her head, and my little mare found her way home. The forest was so dark and frightening…”