Spirited by Nancy Holder Read Free Book Online Page B

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 herruined 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