Spirited Read Free

and rose to a standing position. He was tall for a man of his people; his name was a good name, speaking of strength. It had also been the name of a number of illustrious chiefs of his people.
    He reached into his medicine pouch and sprinkled the ashes with dried tobacco, bee balm, snake-wort, and tobacco. The mixture disappeared inside the mouths of orange and red. He rubbed some of it onto his face and his arms, then covered his eyes with his fingertips, forcing back a heavy sob.
    He lowered his arms to his sides, took a deep breath, and raised his chin. He was Wusamequin, and he had the right to speak to the spirits.
    “Thirteen moons have passed since my wife andchild were stolen from me,” he told the east wind. “From the chill snowy moon, which is Wolf Moon, to the thaw of Pink Moon; from hot Sturgeon Moon to bountiful Harvest Moon; to the darkest moon, which is Cold Moon, I have mourned my dead for an entire cycle of the Mother’s life.”
    The wind answered back, whistling through the branches of the trees in a single voice, like the flute of a brave who has lost his chance at love.
    Your time will come.
    He turned to the west wind and spread wide his arms. “Thirteen moons since I swore I would paint my tomahawk with the blood of their killers.”
    Your time will come.
    He pulled his tomahawk from the leather strap on his breechcloth and showed the spirits of the north his unblemished blade. He shook it at the sunny sky.
    “Thirteen moons, and my scalp pole stands empty!”
    Your time will come.
    To the south, he cried, “Why do you not send British soldiers to me, so my wife and my infant son can walk the Road of Stars? I am dishonored, and my loved ones go unavenged!”
    He threw back his head and cried out in frustration as he spoke to the firmament. His voice echoed like a rifle shot through the valleys of the purple mountains.
Unavenged… unavenged …it
was a bitter chant of rage and despair.
    “I cannot fail in this!” he shouted to the earth below. “My spirit is worthless until I fulfill my vow!”
    As if in answer, an icy wind whipped low across the forest floor, raising a whirlpool of desiccated pine needles and leaves the color of blood. The wind grew stronger; its force slapped his hair against his hollow cheeks like a stinging lash. He did not feel it. His chest was heaving. He was dizzy with fury.
    The wind carried the leaves and needles into the fire, feeding it; the flames rose higher, feeding the heat in his heart, the heat of his anger. If only he had a Yangee soldier within his grasp; he would make the white devil pay for the destruction of his life.
    He would make the Yangee pay for days.
    For the death of his young wife, and of his tiny son, only days old…
    By every drop of blood inside his body, by every tear he had not shed, he would make him pay.
    He threw back his head and whispered to the spirits, “Give me my vengeance. I am dying day by day.”
    Your time will come.
    “I am tired of waiting! I am a man! I do not sit by the fire like an old squaw!”
    The sky darkened; the wood crackled and snapped, and Wusamequin began to dance. He moved his lean body around the campfire, fists clenched, biceps flexed; he danced of torture and revenge.
    The spirits of the air watched, and they approved.
    The dance of a medicine man conjured powerful magic; and Miantonomi, the father of Wusamequin, had been a shaman unrivaled in power among his people. But his father had died from one of the manyhorrible diseases the white skins brought with them from their villages across the great water. His skin erupted in sores; his body shook; he vomited black blood. And there had been nothing his son could do to save him. There was no magic in his medicine bag more powerful than the white skins’ disease.
    As soon as his father breathed the last breath, Wusamequin had been elected to his office by the elder women of the tribe, as was their right. They had brought him a beaded belt and led him to a