The Legend of the Bloodstone (39 page)

“No! Leave her!” she screamed, punching wildly at the warrior who caught her by the upper arm. Her heart plummeted when the other man held her daughter out, as if she were a hot potato,
blistering his hands.

“
Here. Take the child!” the man said in stilted English.

“
My husband is not here!” she snapped. Kwetii began to cry softly, and Maggie raised her to her shoulder, trying to comfort her while she figured out what the warriors wanted.

The first scowled.  He pointed to Maggie, then to the woods.  She clutched the baby and shook her head, her eyes darting past the men to see if anyone else had returned to the cave. It was achingly quiet, leaving her to deal with the unwelcomed visitors herself.

“You go!” the native ordered again, pointing more forcefully this time toward the woods.

“No! I’m not going anywhere!” she
hissed. 

At her vocal protest, the men looked briefly at each other, and then the second man unsheathed the knife at his side. Kwetii squealed as Maggie stepped backward and stumbled, caught by the warrior at her side. She had no idea what intent they held toward her, and with the horror of realization rising she knew she could not fight with them without causing harm to her daughter.

She passed one more fleeting glance toward the cave in hopes anyone had returned, and then mutely went along with the two Powhatan warriors.

***

Winn dropped the small deer carcass near the fire and looked around the yard. He heard voices down by the waterfall, and recognized the gleeful laugh of Ahi Kekeleksu, probably getting one last bath from Teyas before they set out on their journey to find a new home.  He wondered if Maggie and the babe were down there as well, and he smiled when he thought of sneaking up on them as a surprise.

He slid the rifle off his shoulder and meant to put it inside the cave, but when he walked toward the crevice, his gait slowed.  Standing upright, stiff in the ground, was the spear of a warrior, a red tipped feather attached to it blowing gently with the breeze.

“Maggie,” he called, to no response. “
Tentay Teh!”
His skin felt cold and he felt a pressure around his chest, squeezing slowly until he shouted again. “Maggie!”

Teyas and Ahi Kekeleksu came running at his frantic call, but
neither Maggie nor the babe were with them.  He pulled the spear from the ground and swore, swinging around to challenge the empty woods for want of any other to vent his rage on, his arms spread apart like an eagle ready to take flight.

“I will come for them!” he screamed.

Chapter 26

Maggie sat stiffly beside the other women on the furs that flanked the Weroance.  Opechancanough perched on the highest dais, surrounded on each side by two of his wives, one his favorite wife, and the other his newest, youngest wife. Both were quite beautiful, decked out in all the finery they possessed, their skin stained with bright red ochre and decorated with layers of copper and silver bangles.  The Weroance was most impressive of all, showing off his riches by wearing every piece of jewelry he could manage to fit onto his sinewy weathered body. 

He was a tall man, and when seated his new wife stood barely taller than the top of his head
as she stood beside him. Maggie only noticed when the woman approached him to sit down, because women did not presume to speak or stand in the presence of the Weroance without invitation.  Opechancanough ruled without resistance, and although Maggie thought of him as a vindictive, bitter warrior, his people clearly showed intense love for him by the way they worshipped his very presence. 

Maggie rocked Kwetii, who thankfully slept peacefully through the pounding of drums and joyous cries throughout the long house. She dared another glance at the Weroance, who silently watched the celebration and occasionally nodded his approval.  She noticed his eyelids drooped a bit, as if sleepy, and that he seemed more fatigued as the night wore on.  She had no idea what they were celebrating, her understanding of the Powhatan language not much more than conversational, and certainly not
sufficient enough to risk an attempt with her captives.

She watched the proceedings from her spot of semi-importance among the
Weroance’s less favorite wives, and considered herself lucky for the moment that they had treated her quite well.  As the night wore on, she wondered what the Weroance planned for her, and when she saw Winn enter the long house she realized the purpose of her presence.

She was bait.

He displaced the light around him when he passed through the doorway, his wide shoulders braced, his arms tensed tight to the ends of his clenched fists. His chest marked with black paint, his face streaked and shadowed so that his teeth appeared to glow with malevolence, he carried a long decorated spear as he approached the high dais. His sapphire eye gleamed as he stared down the Weroance, and Maggie felt her composure slip away when she realized he was going to confront his Uncle.

The
drumbeats stopped, and the long house fell silent.  Winn raised the spear over his head with both hands and then thrust it down into the ground, where it stood shuddering before the Weroance.  She dared not let out a breath as she watched her husband clench his jaw and kneel down before his Uncle.

Winn pounded one fisted hand to his chest, and looked up at
Opechancanough. He kept his breathing shallow, barely expanding his chest, and she could see his fingers clench and unclench as he waited to be acknowledged by his Uncle.

“I see you, nephew, and I will hear you now,” the Weroance called out.  Whispers commenced throughout the crowd, and from the faces of the people around her Maggie could not tell if they were voices of admiration or disgust.

Winn remained on bent knee, but stared defiantly at the Weroance, one hand braced on the impaled spear, his knuckles standing out pale against the dark wood.

“I come for my wife,” he said, slow but loud, as if he desired everyone in the long house to hear it. Maggie wa
s sure they all did, as the eyes of every native were fixed on the rash warrior as he spoke.

Opechancanough narrowed his brows, and his eyes focused most impetuously on Winn.

“What will you give me for her?” he asked.  “She is quite valuable to me.”

Winn must have anticipated the answer, since he shot his response back in quick succession.

“I will stand by your side against the English during this treaty.”

The Weroance pursed his lips, and then his creased face broke into a wide smile. Maggie wondered how he managed to eat with nary a tooth in his blasted stubborn head.

“Then join me here, nephew, and I will give you the Red Woman,” Opechancanough pronounced, spreading his arms wide in a show of pleasure at the deal. The long house erupted into a chasm of relieved cries, and the rhythmic thud of the drums started anew. Winn rose up off his knee, his hand still gripping the spear.

“I have one more request.”

Maggie felt the blood leave her cheeks, and the drums stopped again. Opechancanough rose from his sitting position and approached Winn.  Maggie swallowed hard at the sight of the ceremonial mallet he held in his hand, knowing how easily the bastard could flip the switch of his temper and turn into an irrational sod.

“Tell me your request.”

Winn glanced beyond his Uncle to where the warriors stood flanking the Weroance.

“I ask for the right to challenge the warrior who stole my woman. I will take his life, and then I will stand at your side for this English treaty.”

“No!” Maggie moaned, pressing her daughter to her face, the doeskin blanket muffling both her cries and that of the startled baby.  Why did he have to make a challenge? Couldn’t he see that both Maggie and Kwetii were perfectly fine, that the entire thing had just been to extract his compliance? Even Maggie knew if Opechancanough wanted her dead, she would have been exterminated long before now.  It was clear the entire kidnapping served only as a means to bring Winn back in line. 

“You may have your challenge.” The Weroance flicked his hand at his wives, and they obediently rose to follow him. “We will gather by the Great Fire, and see your
fight.”

A long line of warriors followed behind the wives, and then
the less favored wives began to file out, one of them holding onto her arm to keep her inside the pack as they walked past Winn. The remainder of the Indians in the long house filed out in an unruly crowd, shouts and taunts bouncing through them. Some glared at Winn and some turned their backs, but most smiled and acknowledged him with a respectful nod. Maggie looked helplessly at him and longed to go to him, though she knew she could not. 

His eyes met hers as she passed.  She saw a flicker in his gaze,
and no other sign of acknowledgement, but she was certain he saw in her heart what words she could not let loose.

The entire village gathered at the Great Fire, even the children.  Faces turned toward the warriors in the circle,
eyes alight with anticipation.  Hands drew Maggie back inside the crowd, the wives embracing her within their ranks to watch the spectacle. 

“What will they do?” Maggie asked.

“Quiet!” came a hiss from the woman beside her.

Kwetii dozed at her shoulder, the baby thankfully exhausted from the excitement, snoring while making tiny mewling sounds against her. Maggie rocked her and patted her bottom, more to give herself a task than to comfort the child. The babe slept soundly when she needed to, no matter what was going on around her, safe in her arms and oblivious to the risk her father was about to embark on. 

Murmurs from the crowd abruptly stopped.

Winn pushed through a barrage of hands, reaching the clearing in the middle of the circular throng of people.  He had no weapon save his capable
hands, which turned white across the knuckles as he clenched them at his sides.  Stripped of his clothes, he stood waiting for his opponent, wearing only a simple undecorated breechclout.  His wide chest was streaked with black paint, three lines slashed on each side of his chest, like wings stretching out from his ribs. The bottom of his face was covered from ears through his jaw, the black mask heightening the whiteness in his teeth when he flashed a snarl to his opponent.

Kwetii squirmed with a sleepy squeal.  Maggie looked down at her own clenched arms and immediately lightened her grasp, patting the baby to apologize.  She had not realized she was gripping her harder until the baby stirred.

The village priest entered the clearing. Clad in ceremonial garb, a white fur cloak across his hunched shoulders, the man stood between the two warriors. A horned helmet enclosed his head, giving him enough height to near that of Winn, yet the diminutive man still looked fragile to her rather than fierce. He raised a feather-decorated spear above his head as if in salute, and all fell silent once again.

“Kweshkwesh and Winkeohkwet!” he screamed. “Finish this!”

Crouched low, hands outstretched, Kweshkwesh darted at Winn’s knees the moment the priest left the circle. The crowd erupted into bellows and howls, and multiple drums thudded in unison around the men.  Louder, stronger, the drums set the rhythm, swallowing the cries and screams, dulling the sounds until all she could hear was a distant echo as she watched her husband fight.

Arms locked on each other, the men were head to shoulder, their feet scraping the ground to find purchase as each struggled to get the upper hand.  Kweshkwesh lunged with his knife, slicing across Winn’s chest, and Maggie cried out at the surge of blood on his skin.

“No!” she shouted, her plea muted into nothingness among the voices of the villagers. She saw Opechancanough with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the fight as he stood next to the priest. How could he stand there and watch his own nephew fight to the death? What a bastard he was!

Winn paid no mind to the wound as he showed his own knife, slashing at Kweshkwesh in retaliation.  He made contact and lunged forward, knocking Kweshkwesh to the ground, his chest heaving and dripping blood as he straddled the warrior. Winn held the knife to his throat, and as he paused in finishing the act, suddenly the noise among the people diminished and heads turned to Opechancanough.

Winn looked toward the Weroance, and then down at the man he held against the ground.

“I will not kill this man!” Winn shouted.

There was a sharp intake of gasps among the crowd, but Opechancanough did not waver.

“This man only followed orders, and I will not take his life for it.”

Winn stood up, his knife still clutched in his fist, his blue eyes fastened on the Weroance.  Kweshkwesh slowly rose from the ground, his head hanging and his face shielded, and as two women came forward to help him, he shrugged off their hands and stalked away from the circle.

“Let it be known to all. No man will take what is mine!”he bellowed.

Winn impaled his knife in the dirt at the feet of Opechancanough and stared at the man, their gazes locked for what seemed like hours, as the villagers waited for the outcome. The Weroance betrayed no surprise at the challenge,
instead merely meeting Winn’s angry stare with a pensive one of his own. 

Kwetii whimpered beneath her swaddling blanket.