Spirited, p.1
Spirited, page 1
She could not breathe.
He stopped walking and stood shirtless, his chest slathered with blood and war paint. His breechcloth rode low on his hips; leggings were tied around his sinewy thighs and at his knees. He had long legs and long arms, and in his right hand he held a knife.
There was blood on the blade.
She scrabbled away from him; he hurried toward her, transferring his knife to his left hand and showing her his empty right palm. She shook her head wordlessly.
He said to her, “Mahwah.”
It was the voice.
Soft in her ear, the voice she had heard whispering through the forest.
She cleared her throat, but no sound came out. She tried again to move away from him, slipping in the mud.
He glided easily to her side and grabbed her wrist. He smelled of smoke. He braced himself and pulled her up, grinning faintly as she tried to ensure that her body was shielded from his gaze while at the same time keeping her balance.
Then all thought of herself fled as she caught sight of the scene behind him.
“Once Upon a Time…” is timely again in these retold fairy tales:
THE STORYTELLER’S DAUGHTER
by Cameron Dokey
BEAUTY SLEEP
by Cameron Dokey
Snow
by Tracy Lynn
MIDNIGHT PEARLS
by Debbie Viguié
SCARLET moon
by Debbie Viguié
SUNLIGHT and SHADOW
by Cameron Dokey
SPIRITED
by Nancy Holder
From Simon Pulse
Published by Simon & Schuster
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 2004 by Nancy Holder
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered
trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Debra Sfetsios
The text of this book was set in Adobe Jenson.
Printed in the United States of America
First Simon Pulse edition November 2004
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Control Number 2004107972
ISBN 0-689-87063-9
eISBN 978-1-4391-2048-4
To my beautiful and wonderful daughter, Belle Claire Christine Holder, who is a shining spirit.
Nia ktachwahnen, Wauntheet Monnitoow.
It takes a village to write a book. Wneeweh: my editors, past and present: Amanda Berger, Bethany Buck, and Lisa Clancy, who shares my love 1992 version of the film The Last of the Mohicans and was the one to say yes. My agent, Howard Morhaim and his assistant Erin Mcghee. Rebecca Morhaim, Aquai. To my friends, family, and Kearny Villa Road homies. To my Joys of Research helpers and the women of SF-FW’s. To Liz Cratty, Kym Toia, and Christy Holt. To Daniel Day-Lewis.
As I walk, as I walk
The universe is walking with me
In beauty it walks before me
In beauty it walks behind me
In beauty it walks below me
In beauty it walks above me
Beauty is on every side
As I walk, I walk with Beauty.
Traditional Navajo Prayer
This is a medicine story.
It tells of a Way.
The Way is called “achwahndowagan”
in the language of the People.
The Way is called “love” in the language of Mahwah.
The Way is called “Mahwah” in the language of my spirit.
It is my Way.
—Wusamequin, Medicine Man of the People of the River, in the Land Beyond
Chapter One
The forest was magical, a world Isabella Stevens could never have imagined, a land undreamed of. If anyone had ever told her that such a place existed, she would have called him a liar or a lunatic, despite the fact that such harsh words ought never to pass the lips of a well-bred lady.
Isabella had been carefully brought up. She was the daughter of Surgeon Phillip Stevens, who was an officer and a gentleman in King George’s Royal Army, and she had been trained since infancy to always remember that her behavior reflected directly on him. She had learned her lessons; she was sixteen now, a young woman, and a credit, so she was told, to her family name.
Since the death of her beloved mother, Emily Elizabeth Stevens, Isabella Anne was the only lady to grace Dr. Stevens’s household. Sometimes it seemed a heavy responsibility to take charge of Mamas duties; but today, in the forest, she was glad her father needed her help at his new posting at Fort William Henry. The wildness of the forest excited her. As she looked this way and that, her cheeks warmed with pleasure. Another chestnut curl escaped the circlet braided atop her head, moist with the May warmth. She tucked it behind her ear, grazing her golden, rose-shaped earbob, and continued to drink in the beauty surrounding her.
With one gray doeskin glove to her broad-brimmed straw hat, she ducked beneath an overhanging branch of brilliant autumn foliage. The colors astonished her. The dead leaves jittered free of the branch, and she raised her face in delight as they showered her with color. Gold and scarlet gleamed like the coats of the four-and-twenty soldiers of the 35th Regiment of Foot, who were escorting her and her father to Fort William Henry. Deep, rich purple glowed like the heather on the misty moors back home in England. Silver sparkled like the silver locket she wore on a black velvet band around her neck. Inside the oval of silver rested two tiny portraits—a miniature of Papa on the left; and on the right, Mama, dead and buried these nine long months.
Entranced, she pressed her other soft leather glove against the cream edging of her pale green, wool traveling cloak. Mrs. Cora DeWitt, a neighbor who had been extraordinarily kind to Isabella and her father back in Albany, had advised her to lace her corset tight, to spare her back as she rode the long hours sidesaddle on her little roan mare, Dulcie. Isabella had done as Mrs. DeWitt suggested, but she was beginning to suspect that she might have overdone it. Her breathing was constricted and she was a trifle dizzy.
She wasn’t certain what to do about it, and unclear if it would be proper to ask her father to help her loosen her stays. But neither was she certain she would be able to manage it on her own.
Three sat on horseback as the company journeyed through the forest. Riding very closely beside her on a bay Galloway gelding was her father. He and Isabella had lived one year in the Colonies.
The third rider was Major Whyte, who had been in the Americas for three years. He was in charge of their escort, and he sat very tall upon his cavalry saddle and thick saddle blanket beneath. His Friesian was pitch black and he guided it expertly with a double bridle. His spine straight as a ramrod, his head high beneath his tricorne hat, he was the perfect British officer.
Samuel was his Christian name, and she blushed at the occasional glances he directed her way. He was a broad-shouldered man and pleasing to look at, for all that he could have been her brother, with his oval face and queue of natural, deep brown hair. In other features they departed: His eyes were hazel; hers were a very heavily lashed deep blue. Her mother used to tell her that her eyes were her best feature.
“The same cannot be said of your hair, alas,” Mama would go on to say. She would speak of “taming” the masses of thick, unruly curls that tumbled over her daughter’s shoulders and down to the small of her back. She would often chide Isabella for her hair’s “wildness,” as if it were Isabella’s fault that it was so hard to care for, and that she herself should do something about it. Even now, as they rode, yet another tendril escaped from the braided circlet she had arranged atop her head. It bobbed against her cheek with a faint tickle like the kiss of a butterfly. She supposed she looked rather strange, glassy-eyed from lack of air, and her hair springing loose in mad ringlets, like Chinese fireworks.
So … perhaps it was not admiration that caused Major Whyte to look at her so often. Perhaps he was simply fascinated by her bizarre appearance. Or perhaps he was wishing her away. He had strenuously objected to her traveling with her father to Fort William Henry. He had said it was far too dangerous for a lady, with savages in the wilderness and pestilence in the garrison, and that she should stay in Albany.
Though her father agreed with the major, Isabella would not hear of it.
So far we have been safe. Perhaps our luck will hold, she thought. And as for the pestilence, Papa is bringing the soldiers the medicine that will cure it. I’ve naught to fear on that score.
A sudden movement caught her attention. Her eyes widened in wonder as a bright red cardinal fluttered from inside a hollow in a thick tree trunk. It cocked its head at her like a toy cuckoo in a clock. It chirped at her once; then rose effortlessly into the canopy of gold and scarlet, disappearing into the azure sky.
The wilderness was a busy, noisy place. Birdsong trilled as squirrels chittered up and down the branches of the birch, maple, chestnut, and pine trees. The leaves blazed in their glory. The soldiers marched, their leather boots thudding on the forest path. In a quick intake of air, she brea thed in her horse’s clean scent and the odor of the damp, black earth.
To think that I almost missed this… that I almost consented when Mama and Papa begged me to remain in England, safe and securely buried in the country with Aunt Mary-Elizabeth. It was the first time I refused either of them anything.
Something told my heart to come here, to this strange New World. I just knew that I had to leave London and journey across the water. It was as if an angel whispered in my ear that I was wanted here.
And good thing, too, now that Mama is gone. Though my father claims that his work fills the emptiness she left behind, he would not have lasted a fortnight in the Americas without me.
She fingered the locket around her neck, a lump forming in her throat.
The second time I disobeyed Papa was coming with him now, on this journey. When Major Whyte explained how dangerous it was, he begged me to stay in town. But as before, something told me to come with him. And as before, I listened.
I wonder what will come of that decision.
At that moment, lacy yellow-green ferns shifted and bobbed as something moved among them. She caught her breath—or tried to. Then a delicate deer raised its head from the ferns. It was exquisite, its head so thin and its innocent brown eyes soft and gentle. It did not move a muscle, but gazed placidly at the young Englishwoman riding through its home.
Isabella leaned over and tapped her father’s arm. He was riding closely beside her, keeping a protective watch over her. When she had his attention, she gestured with her head toward the deer. Dr. Stevens followed her line of vision and cocked his salt-and-pepper head beneath his three-cornered hat. His smile was a joy to her. He didn’t smile so often these days.
“Papa, it’s so beautiful, is it not?” she murmured.
Her father nodded without speaking. He reached over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze.
Eagerly she added, “The wilderness is so much more wonderful than I had expec—”
“Miss Stevens, I beg of you, keep silent,” Major Whyte said quietly from his position just ahead of them. He turned in his saddle as he spoke. The gold buttons of his coat flashed in the sun as he touched his gloved hand to his lips. He was being stern, and yet there was courtesy there, and respect.
Cheeks burning, she inclined her head in a gesture of apology. He gave her a small nod, his look lingering on her face. Blushing harder, she lowered her gaze to her gloves.
He stares at me because I look strange, she insisted to herself.
When she glanced back at the deer, it had vanished from sight.
They rode on, bridles jingling, the black leather boots of the soldiers thudding against the dirt. The men wore the peaked mitre caps of their regiment and were quite smartly turned out in their uniforms and knapsacks, all matching like lead nursery toys. The sight of them filled her with pride. With men like these in her regiments, England would prevail once again over her enemies.
Let it be soon, she prayed. Too much blood has been spilled in these colonies; there has been too much death for a land so young and fair.
She soaked in the vista surrounding her, taking in the lacy ferns, the shadowed woods, the dappled bower of colorful leaves. It was difficult to believe that this wonderland harbored death, but it did, and they must move through it as quickly as possible to the fort. The British were at war—with France, again—and the Indians who dwelled in these dense woodlands had taken up sides. Some fought for France, and some had allied themselves with Isabella’s sovereign, King George II of England.
But none of them was to be trusted any more than one would trust a wild animal. She shuddered at the memory of the Indians she had seen in Albany—half-naked, copper-colored men adorned with bizarre tattoos all over their bodies, some even extending across their faces. With their flintlocks and tomahawks strapped across their backs, they swaggered through the streets as if they owned them. They wore their contempt as they wore their battle scars, displayed for all to see. Feathers and beads decorated tufts of black hair on the tops of their heads, arranged in a fashion to give their enemies something to grab onto while scalping them.
She tried to keep herself from forming an image of a scalped man.
She had not been able to understand how civilized men could have anything to do with such savages. Her father had explained to her that the natives hadn’t the same sorts of minds as civilized people. But all the same, they had the ability to fight. The French were using them very poorly, promising them all sorts of outlandish things in order to secure their help in their war against the British: Gold, jewels, rum, gin, and brandy. Huge quantities of drink. Firewater, as they called it. Not a man among them could handle it. And what need had savages for fine jewels and gold bracelets? They had no sense of taste or refinement. It had to be the sparkle that attracted them.
The British watched these exchanges … and learned. They bartered more reasonable items: beads that the Indians used for their clothing and also as money; blankets and axes, that sort of thing. Seeing that the Indians could not be expected to sort out complicated loyalties, the English simplified their agreements with the local chiefs. The King was spoken of as their Great White Father, and the British authorities were his representatives. The Indians were called the children of the Great White Father, and it was quite appropriate. They were simple, like children—at times surly and stubborn; at others, impulsive and quite unable to restrain themselves when the urge to violence came upon them.
And that urge came swift and sure, as the hapless settlers in these parts could attest: the Hurons, allies of the French, had torn through settlements not far from here, butchering and scalping the men and capturing the women and children, either to torture to death or keep as slaves.
As if he could read her darkening thoughts, her father checked the pistol tucked into his belt. His powder horn was looped around a clip on his saddle. He was not a warlike man; he was a physician, and they were riding to the fort on a mission of mercy. But he was also an officer, and he had seen battle before. He could be counted on if there was trouble.
Still, Isabella couldn’t believe that he would need to use his firearm. Because their traveling party carried medicines to Fort William Henry, they were noncombatants, by the rules of war. Instead of a drummer, their company was led by a soldier carrying a white flag, the universal symbol of peace. Surely even primitives would honor their banner and grant them safe passage.
She glanced anxiously at her father, studying his profile. She saw new lines in his forehead and creases around his mouth. This year in the Colonies had aged him.
And it had killed her mother, who now slept beneath a weeping angel in the churchyard in Albany. Her personal physician had declared her death to be a result of nervous exhaustion. From the moment they had debarked their brig, the Necessity, she had hated this land and begged to go home. Though disappointed to be parted from his wife and child, Papa made all the arrangements to send them back. Aunt Mary-Elizabeth’s it was to be, after all.
But then war had been declared between Britain and France the following May, both at home and in their American possessions. Sea travel was out of the question.
“We are trapped!” her mother had shrieked, grabbing onto Isabella as if she were drowning. Her blue eyes nearly spun, she was so overwrought. She clung to her child and shouted at her husband, “My child and I will die in this godforsaken wilderness!”
And so Mama had.
As Isabella rode motherless beside her father now, she felt a sharp pang, then resolutely forced it away. She grieved only at night, and only alone, when the shadows cloaked her from her father. She would not for the world disturb him with her tears. Their nation was at war, and his skills must be at the ready for the wounded and the sick. Mourning was a luxury denied him. It must therefore be denied to his daughter as well.
Later, we will weep for Mama. But not now.
We have men to save.
