The Legend of the Bloodstone (41 page)

Her arms ached as she paddled, the muscles in her shoulders screaming in protest at the unaccustomed labor. She closed her eyes to the pain and continued to push the oar through the murky water, grimacing when it caught on a bushel of Tuckahoe roots and she had to yank it free. Kwetii continued to wail.

“Here, I will row,” the woman beside her said. “Feed the babe.” Crusted with mud down her back, her one arm bloodied but intact, the woman took the paddle from Maggie and resumed the chore. Maggie glanced down at her daughter, somewhat stunned at her own inability to recognize the child’s cry for milk.  Her body, however, was much more attuned, and she felt a rush of milk let down as the babe latched onto her swollen nipple.

“The men will follow us. Your warrior will return.”

Maggie looked up at the soft spoken voice. It was Sesapatae, and it was she who had taken the paddle from her hands. Maggie could only nod in return, not trusting her voice for fear of wavering.  If she spoke her fears aloud, would it make her unworthy? Should she hold her own hopelessness inside the empty chamber where her beating heart should rest? She felt beaten and bruised, unable to raise the spirit within to battle the hopelessness, the site of Winn walking back toward the battle etched into her mind. She could not strike it away, neither by closing her eyes nor by screaming, the hated image burning bright and clenching off all glimmers of hope.

She felt unworthy of his love, unworthy of his trust, when it would take but a gentle push to send her over the edge of madness. She could easily run screaming from the destruction, and if not for the tugging of the tiny babe at her
breast, she would have done so.

The dugout canoe bumped bottom and slid onto loose sand, and they all helped pull it up onto the bank. There were three other canoes with the occupants doing the same, their backs illuminated in the moonlight as they worked wordlessly across the shimmering sand. Up ahead, she saw four men carry Opechancanough from the lead canoe and take him immediately to the long house.

She felt a thin hand slip around her own. Sesapatae led her away from the riverbank.

“Come with me, Red Woman.”

Maggie looked back toward the river. The water was calm, lapping the beach with a gentle slapping sound as it gleamed in the light of the full moon. They had left to meet the English with more than two dozen canoes. Only four returned.

She let Sesapatae guide her up the riverbank to the village. Only a few remained behind, and those
who were able rushed down to help the wounded and sick.  A woman walking ahead, supported by two other women, vomited up a blood-tinged froth, but managed to make it to the Long House without falling.  Several children, crying but otherwise unharmed, ran ahead, luckily among those too young to share the gift of the English rum. They were fortunate, because it seemed those smaller and weaker fell first, like the young braves who first teetered and collapsed, and the wiry young Taster.  The Taster who had saved her life, and the lives of all those she loved.

She did not know she cried until the hot tears stung her splintered lip. She reached up and brushed them away with her filthy fingers, ashamed of her weakness in the face of so much stoicism among the women.

Before they reached the Long House, a warrior came striding toward them, his face etched with despair.  Her stomach flipped over as she realized he was coming straight for her, and she grasped her daughter convulsively to her chest to protect her from what was to come.

“Come with me. My Weroance will speak to you,” he said.  Sesapatae held out her arms for the baby, but Maggie shook her head. She knew the offer was sincere and that she could trust the woman, but she also knew she
could not be parted from her child. If there was nothing within her power to do, she at least was sure she could protect her flesh and blood.

She followed the warrior into the Long House. There were no women sitting regally at his side this time, no warrior standing ready to pounce.
He lay alone on his raised dais, his only comfort his oldest wife who tended his wound. Opechancanough bled from a wound to his stomach, and although it appeared to be more lateral to his flank, it could very well be fatal.  When he turned his head and opened his round brown eyes, she could see he was well aware of that fact.

“Leave us,” he commanded. His voice held a tremor, yet even in his
weakness, he would not be opposed. The wife finished bandaging the wound and quickly obeyed. The Long House emptied, and Maggie had an abrupt sense of déjà vu wash through her. It was a different Long House and a different village, yet the legendary man lying wounded in front of her was one and the same.

“
Come closer, Red Woman. Let me see the child.”

She did as he asked, although her hands trembled as she pulled back the sling and released her sleeping daughter. The child often slept like the dead when he belly was milk full, and she hoped the child remained quiet throughout their exchange.

“I will hold her,” he said gruffly.  Maggie was shocked when he pulled himself into a sitting position, so much so that she rushed forward to help him when he let out a moan and clutched his side. He grunted and shrugged off her ministrations, instead holding his arms out for Kwetii.

“Not too tight,” she whispered. Seeing her lifeblood held in his arms weakened her, and the only motion left in her power was to sit down next to the Weroance on his
dais.  He raised an eyebrow at her and chuckled, but quickly returned his gaze to Kwetii, appearing enamored with her. 

“You think I do not know how? I am a Great Warrior, as well as your husband is,” he said. “This life means much to me.”

He ran one crooked finger along her cheek, and she opened her blue eyes to stare at him. Usually the child made her presence known by screaming upon waking, but laying there in the arms of the elder Weroance she merely studied his weathered face. Maggie let out a sigh.

“Why did you save me?” he asked, keeping his gaze steady on the babe. Maggie swallowed hard and cleared her throat before she spoke.

“I don’t know,” she said softly. She had no urge to lie to him, only the desire to serve him the truth as she knew it, as scattered as it was from her slivered memory of childhood history lessons. “I didn’t think of it as saving you. I just realized too late that it was all poisoned. I didn’t want to see anyone die.”

He nodded, more to himself than to her, and patted the babe as he rocked her.

“Was this my time, Red Woman? Did you chase death from me today?”

“No,” she replied hoarsely. “You will not die just yet, old man.”

He smiled.

“I have ordered the death of all the
Time Walkers, and all my warriors obey my command. Yet my own nephew, my favorite, son of my sister, he defies me … for you. For one red-haired Time Walker, he defied me. And now here in my arms, is this blood of my blood, this blood of a Time Walker.” He bent down and pressed his lips gently to Kwetii’s forehead, and the babe continued to stare peacefully at the warrior. “I see you there, you know. You are the one who will send me to death. You are the Time Walker who will bring death to me.”

Maggie put a hand on his arm. Her touch was light, yet she needed to connect to him, to show him somehow that she was no enemy.

“It will not be by my hand, and it will not be today. I can promise you that.”

He winced once more, seeming in pain, and gently turned to place the babe back in her arms.
She helped him lay back down, yet as he stretched back onto the furs he reached up with one hand to cup her cheek.

“
Keep safe my blood, Red Woman.”

She nodded. The old warrior closed his eyes, and she tucked a fur a
round him, placing Kwetii next to him as they both gave in to slumber. She would sit with him until his wife returned.

A shadow crossed the doorway, and Maggie threw herself into
Winn’s waiting arms. Bruised and bleeding with the scent of smoke searing his skin, but blessedly intact, he held her tight as his body trembled.

“Don’t ever leave me again!” she cried, not caring that she
was smeared with blood and sweat, nor that he shook his head furiously and clutched her harder.

“
Shh,
ntehem
,” he whispered.

Only a few warriors returned from the peace treaty dinner. Winn was back, and he was safe. It wa
s all she could ask for.

***

They spoke each night in quiet whispers as they embraced beneath the furs, seeking answer to the question of where to take their small family.  Although Chulensak Asuwak decided to return to the remains of the Paspahegh village, Teyas insisted on staying with their band of misfits.  Ahi Kekeleksu refused to leave, and although Maggie thought it merely an excuse for Chetan to stay, she was surprised Makedewa opted to join them as well.

Rebecca, however, was another matter entirely. She grew stronger while she lived amongst them, eventually coming to the point where she could tolerate interaction with the men without flying into a panic.
Luckily her mind was sharp and she found comfort in the daily labors of living with them, and she knew the people who saved her from the Massacre meant her no harm.

For all his faults, Makedewa was still a brooding male, yet they all noticed the change in him since that fateful day. Formerly rash and loud, he became more thoughtful in his actions and made effort to speak in a neutral manner instead of round-the-clock-angry. 
Clearly, he held more interest in Rebecca then just friendship, and Maggie found it amusing to watch him around the girl. She would have never expected him to fall for an Englishwoman, but as she watched him follow the girl around the camp like a lovesick puppy, she knew he was smitten. He knew how she had been damaged, and for all the desire in his eyes, there also burned a temperate patience he never showed before.  Maggie was sure he would never do anything to harm her.

The decision on where to
live, however, fell only on Winn, and for that matter, Winn demanded answers of Maggie that she could not give him. He wanted to go north to live among the Nansemonds, where he knew they would be welcomed, but Maggie had doubts living among any Indian tribe would be safe for very long. She was frustrated by the lack of history she knew for sure, yet Winn banked their lives on the few facts she was certain of.  It was an impasse, for sure, but one that had to be rapidly resolved. Winter would overcome them soon, and to be settled well before the first frost would see much to ensure their survival.

The decision
was made, however, and they believed it to be the right one. Maggie could offer no guarantee, and Winn had only his knowledge to guide them.  Their destiny lay ahead, a future in the past.  North, it would be.

They left on one of those lingering days of summer, where the sun still scorched their skin as they worked, but the night brought enough chill to chase them beneath layers of furs.  The horses stood waiting, Blaze tied to Maggie’s fat older mare, the yearling nipping at her flanks and causing her to squeal and stomp. 

“Ready, Maggie?” Teyas called.  Maggie finished tightening the rawhide strap that held her traveling sacks around the barrel of her pony, and Teyas peered over her shoulder.

“If Winn is ready, I’m good.”

“Find him, then, sister, I think he lingers too long at the waterfall.”

“
All right. You go on, we’ll catch up. I think Kwetii will sleep some more,” Maggie replied.  Teyas shrugged and mounted up, Kwetii carried in front of her in a makeshift pouch. Maggie crafted it after the babe outgrew the swaddling board, and Teyas liked to use it when they rode. The child was nearing too big to use the contraption any longer, but it would serve well for the ride, at least when she slept.

He was not difficult to find. Winn stood looking out over the wa
terfall when she approached, his countenance sculpted in thought, his warrior’s body softened in a forgiving stance as he gazed at the crashing water.  When she moved to his side and slipped her arm through his, she was surprised to see her bloodstone suspended from a lanyard, hanging from his hand.

“You still have that,” she said softly.

“It belongs to you,” he replied. He placed it in her hand, closing his fist over it for a moment before he let go.

“I belong to you.”

“And I am yours,
ntehem
,” he whispered. “But I wonder if it is wrong of me to keep you here. I wonder if it is wrong of me to love you so much, to want you…to make you stay in this time.”

“You’re a fool, warrior,” she said softly.  She placed her hand on his cheek and kissed him. “You can
’t
make
me do anything! Haven’t you learned that yet?”

She turned abruptly. She would end his troubles, strike the worry from his heart,
and tear the seeds of doubt away with one quick launch. Pulling her arm back, she prepared to throw the Bloodstone into the waterfall, but he stopped her with a firm hand around her wrist.

“No, little Fire H
eart,” he murmured.  He placed the lanyard around her neck, then pressed his hand over the stone against her heart. “It is part of you now. Keep it with you, as I will keep you, and let the right or wrong of it be damned.”