Spirited by Nancy Holder

said, “My poor little darling, you’re burning up with fever.”
    The scene dissolved before her eyes as Isabella flushed from the crown of her head to her heels with unbearable heat. She became dimly aware that she had on no clothes, and that something was heaped over her body, making her very, very hot.
    Weakly she batted at the burdensome weight. Then she heard the sound of rattles and a man chanting in a deep, low voice.
    She felt a wet, cool cloth on her forehead; with great care and tenderness, the cloth moved from across her brow down the right side of her face, and then her left. She whimpered. She hurt, and her leg felt as if someone had dropped burning embers into the center of it.
    She mumbled, “Papa?”
    The cloth was taken away, and came back even cooler. Then something was placed beneath her nose. She smelled a wonderful scent, something floweryand spicy at the same time, and she gladly inhaled it. Fainter, the ruddy scent of smoke wafted toward her, as if someone were fanning a fire.
    The chanting began again. She tried to speak, but her mouth was too tired. She tried to move to push away the mound on top of her, but she couldn’t move so much as a finger.
    Then her father was leaning over her; there were his kind brown eyes, his salt-and-pepper brows knit with worry. He held her hand, stroked her forehead, and whispered, “You are very ill, Mahwah. You must help me chase the evil spirits from your body and your spirit.”
    “Yes.” That was reasonable.
    She heard more singing. She was confused; could it be Papa? He only sang in church. The pitch varied, from low to high and back again, carrying her along with it until she felt as if it were a wave on the ocean, and she rode a storm-tossed boat. She stood at the rail with her mother’s arm around her; she wore her pale green traveling coat, gloves, and a hat. The wind lufted the sails; the seamen scrambled as the officers called out orders beneath a lowering sky.
    Her mother put her arm around Isabella and smiled lovingly at her. She said, “Stay with me, my little Bella. Don’t go ashore. I’ve missed you so.”
    Her father continued to sing as Isabella put both her arms around her mother’s neck and pressed her face into the lace fichu scented with perfume. Her mother, her mother. Her heart pounded with happiness.
    “Yes, Mama, I shall,” she told her. “I shall stay.”
    Then a different man’s voice murmured, “Mahwah. Fight. The demons come to trick you.”
    She recognized that voice. Perspiration trickled down her forehead as she panicked. Where was she? What had happened to her mother and father?
    Then she stood on the deck of the ship with her mother once more. Emily Stevens’s perfume enveloped her; the sea smelled clean and new and fresh. “My Bella,” her mother murmured, cradling her head. “Stay with me always, my sweet.”
    “Mama.” She held her more tightly, sinking against her. All her terrors faded. “I had such a terrible dream,” she said. We were captured by savages.” She gripped her hard. “But you … you were dead by then. In my… dream.”
    She began to sob. “Thank God it wasn’t true.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “It wasn’t true!”
    “Mahwah, I will fight with you,” a man whispered.
    “No, no,” she moaned, clinging to her mother. “No! Mama!”
    Then she opened her eyes, and screamed.
    A monster perched on her chest. It sat back on its haunches like a cat. Its face was black and blue; its eyes were slitted and glowed like embers. Its ears fanned upward like a bat’s.
    It smiled at her, huge teeth glistened; then its fanged jaws opened wide as it leaned forward, as if to engulf her entire head.
    A man loomed above the creature, holding a warclub. He wore only a breechcloth; his muscular chest, legs, and feet were bare. His face was painted. His face was blue and dotted with black. He whirled in a circle, holding the club to his chest; as he rotated around, he extended his arms. The club