by E. B. Brown
“Ye say yer from my Clan, that I am yer Chief. Then I must have returned to the past. What is it that will make me risk taking Maggie back there? I can think of nothing that would make me risk her life that way,” Marcus asked.
Winn was aware that his actions in this time would not change the past he meant to return to, but the loop of time travel magic was an uncertain thing. He did not know if it was wise to share many details of the truth with Marcus, or what impact it might have to do so.
“You did not bring her back. It was an accident, and you returned for her,” Winn said.
“We must be friends, then, if I sent ye on such a journey.”
“You did not send me. I made the decision, and Maggie and Erich aided me.”
Marcus crossed his arms over his chest, his brown furrowed sharply downward.
“But ye said…oh, aye. I see. So I will die in the past, as I always thought I would,” Marcus murmured. “Tell me one more thing, then I’ll ask ye no more. Is Maggie happy…and safe?”
Winn nodded. “I would give my life for her. And for our children.”
Marcus startled at that, his eyes widening as his mouth fell open. Winn thought he had said too much, and he regretted to cause his father any distress. Perhaps the knowledge would help his father, in the future time he was in, somehow.
“She is my wife, and our children are sick. Many of our people are dying,” Winn said.
Marcus took in that information, his mouth closing in a tight line. He ran his hand through his hair as Winn had often seen him do, and then leaned over onto the table with both hands sprawled out. Winn was shocked to watch him sit down hard in a chair with a long sigh.
“Then by my blood vow, I should stop her from leaving. When does it happen, and how can I stop it?” Marcus asked, running his hands over his tired face.
Winn froze. If Maggie did not return, she would never belong to him. They would never have their children and never share a life together. So many things would be changed. Opechancanough would be dead from poison. Winn would have remained in the Paspahegh village, never knowing what he missed. And Winn would have never met his father. Yes, there were things any man looks back upon with a wish for another outcome, yet despite the ache in his heart for those he had lost, still, Winn knew the power of time travel was not meant to change the story history had already written.
No, Marcus could not change what was done. Winn did not know how this future would affect anything, but he felt strongly it was not up to him to alter it. As he stood before his father, Winn’s head ached with the implications of his actions, and he knew with every ounce of his being that this was the reason the blooded MacMhaolian must be protected. It was too dangerous a magic for any man to wield.
“No,” Winn choked. “You must change nothing. You, of all men, should know that. I made you a vow that I would protect her, that I would protect all the Blooded Ones with my last breath. She will return to my time, and I will serve her with my life. You will follow her. It is what is meant to be.”
“Who are you?” Marcus whispered. Winn stared into his father’s face.
“I am Chief Winn Neilsson, Protector of the blooded MacMhaolian. Husband to Maggie and father to our children. Brother to Benjamin,” Winn replied. “And first born son to Pale Feather of the Paspahegh people, our Great Chief Dagr.”
Marcus turned grey as Winn spoke, and although his father braced his hands on the table, Winn could see him shaking.
“I made a blood vow to you, and now I honor that pledge. We swore an oath to protect this magic so that it would not be used by selfish men. Help me return to my time now. Erich told me to ask you–he said you would give me a token so that I may return,” Winn said. He tried to keep his voice from wavering. It was difficult to see his father so distressed, especially since there had been such little time they spent together.
“All right. Wait here,” Marcus said, his voice strained. He left the room but returned quickly, his fist closed around something small and a book tucked under his arm. Winn wondered what object Erich had in mind, and when Marcus held it out to him he nearly gasped.
The crafted grey metal was worn smooth in places, but Winn could easily see the detail of the bear figurine in his father’s hand. It stood upright, arms extended, as if it were the same bear he had fought for Maggie so long ago.
“I have few things left to tie me to them. Take it. And this, as well,” Marcus said, holding out a dagger. It was the Chieftain’s dagger with the Bloodstone mark on the hilt. Marcus had used it on his deathbed to draw blood from his two sons and seal their vows. It was the same dagger Winn now had strapped to his waist.
Winn drew his own blade, and both men looked down upon them.
“No, father. Keep your knife. You will have use for it yet,” Winn answered.
Marcus did not seem startled at that confession, merely setting his knife down flat on the table. He then turned and lifted something from the surface of the tall cabinet, holding it out to Winn. It was a tiny painting, yet, it was not a painting. Maggie was in the middle of the portrait, flanked on one side by a much younger Marcus, and on the other, a man Winn did not recognize. He clutched the image in his hand and it flexed, then bounced back into place.
“It’s in a plastic sleeve. Keeps it protected,” Marcus said.
The second man in the miniature had bright green eyes, like Maggie, and his face was round with a pleasant grin. Between his brows were two furrows that were from age rather than laughter, and creasing his chin was a deep dimple splitting it in two. With that consideration, Winn suspected the identity of the second man.
“Erich looks much like old Malcolm,” Winn murmured.
“Aye,” Marcus said softly. “He was a good man. Maggie misses him something fierce. Take it, put it in yer sack. This book, as well. But hold the bear in yer hand when ye go, it will help point ye back. It helps, I think, to send ye where ye belong. My mother once said so, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Thank you,” Winn said.
They clasped forearms for a long moment. Winn did not want to let him go, but thoughts of his duty reminded him of his task.
Winn let him go, and left the house. As he stepped into the yard and looked toward the barn he could see Maggie holding something heavy in the bottom half of her cloak, which she had pulled up like a makeshift sack. He felt that pulling sensation his chest, that ache to return to his family, and with a smile he drew his knife. Bright red blood welled up immediately when he sliced his palm, but before he grasped his Bloodstone, he turned to Marcus.
“When we meet again, tell me time is short. Tell me there is no time to waste in anger over old wounds. Tell me that until I listen to you, father.”
CHAPTER 23
Maggie
DAGR RECOVERED, as most of the stronger young men seemed to do. Some, however, still lingered between light and dark, wavering in the decision to live or die. Maggie thanked all the Gods she knew for the blessing of her son’s health, yet at the same time she wanted to curse them for Kyra’s decline. As the days went by and she watched her daughter succumb, the ache in her heart was replaced by despair.
She promised Winn she would go on. She would not fail him.
She needed to think of it in a sensible manner, as Winn might do. It was one of the things she admired in him, his way of deciding on a course of action and then his determination to see it through. In previous times she lost her composure when faced with adversity, and she was the first one to admit it. Her future life had not prepared her for the challenges she faced in the seventeenth century, but as time wore on, she realized she could change, too.
The fact remained that Winn had not returned.
He might never return.
Yet she needed to help Kyra, so it was with that pledge she granted Finola leave to perform the ancient ritual.
“Bring her into the woods,” Finola demanded.
Morgan carried Kyra, cradling her limp body against his chest. He followed
the old woman, and Maggie could see he still did not trust their Norse magic. Although Morgan knew what Kyra was and why she was special to them all, he told her he agreed to the ceremony for one reason, and that was because he loved her daughter, nothing more.
It was enough, and Maggie was grateful for his help. Finola insisted only those closest to Kyra could attend her during the ritual. When she saw the long sickle-shaped knife Finola brandished, Maggie thought she would agree to anything the old woman asked.
A waxing crescent moon graced the sky above, casting a mystic glow upon the grove of trees. Covered in a white robe that dragged behind her on the ground, Finola appeared somehow younger, her face softer in the glow of moonlight. The old magic woman pointed above to the boughs of a great oak, where the tendrils of a mistletoe twined through the tree. She handed Malcolm the sickle, which he fastened to his belt. Malcolm shed his grey cloak, and after he placed it gently on his sister, he began his climb up the tree.
“Careful,” she whispered, watching him climb. He was strong for a youth of seven, agile enough to scale the golden oak yet still skilled enough to grab the mistletoe with one hand. Maggie gasped when he wrapped his legs around a branch and used them to steady himself.
As Malcolm cut the mistletoe away, he let it fall from his hands. It caught the breeze as it descended, gently drifting down until Finola could catch it with her white cloak.
“Will she wake after this?” Morgan asked.
“Yes,” she replied, at loss to believe in any other certainty.
Maggie placed a hand on her hip as she took a moment to gather her thoughts. Morgan leaned over and ran his hands through his thick blond hair, watching Kyra’s shallow breaths. The strain was clear on his angled jaw and creased brow. Seeing the way his eyes glazed hollow at Kyra, Maggie was struck by the change in him. He had always been a quiet, pleasant young man. Even as a boy he had been polite and respectful, never one to show too much or too little emotion. He was merely level-headed and true, even the day he rode into the Norse village as a young boy and confronted Marcus. Morgan had saved Winn’s life with his errand; it was something Maggie would never forget.
“She’ll get better. She will,” Maggie said softly. Morgan raised his eyes, and his throat contracted as he swallowed.
“She will. She must,” he replied.
Maggie reached for his hand. Unabashed pain was clear in his face as he gripped her hand. One might think it was a weak gesture for a man to make. She thought it only a measure of his love for her daughter, and she was glad for it. Morgan was steady and thoughtful. He was brave when needed, but otherwise he tempered his actions with quiet strength and resolve. Perhaps he was exactly what Kyra needed.
His face shadowed in grief, he looked warily at Finola as she approached. With her clouded eyes suddenly clear, Finola smiled, a rare moment of normalcy from a woman they feared was not sane.
“Of course,” Finola replied. She pressed a vine of mistletoe into Maggie’s hand and whispered in her ear. “Make a tea with this and have ‘er drink. In the morning she will wake, I promise ye.”
As the mist settled among the trees, they brought Kyra back to her bed. Maggie had a feeling there was some task left unfinished, as if they had missed something in their quest to tamper with ancient magic. When a figure appeared before her through the fog it became clear, and she flew into Winn’s waiting arms.
Was it the ritual that would help Kyra, or the magic of future medicine? 62 Neither Maggie nor Winn was willing to choose. Maggie ground up the antibiotics and placed them in the mistletoe tea, which Winn helped their daughter to drink.
Finola spoke true. When the morning sun split the sky, Kyra finally opened her eyes. Yet Finola’s eyes closed forever.
CHAPTER 24
Makedewa
HE WATCHED FROM above as they buried the old woman. He did not like that they gave her a Christian burial, or that they planted her body near that of his wife.
Rebecca should be free to soar, without the ghost of a Norse witch woman haunting her resting place.
Makedewa drew back on his bow. In his sight was a head full of red hair, a banner streaming down her back as she bowed her head in mourning. When he moved slightly, the dark head of the Chief came into his range, one he could easily pick off by letting go of his arrow.
Why had Winn cut off his hair? No warrior would ever do such a thing.
With a shake of his head, he stood up. Winn was no warrior.
He surveyed them for a moment longer, taking in the group of Norsemen he once called kin.
No more. Let them rot.
If they were not Powhatan, then they were nothing. Let them meet the same fate as the English.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 25
Kyra
SHE FELT SOMETHING in the bed beside her as she stirred. Opening her eyes took some effort since she been ill for so long, but she was curious to see what shared the space with her.
On top of her quilt was a thick book. It was unlike any book she had ever seen, and granted, there had only been a few. She did not have much use for reading, but she did still keep the fairy tale story her father gave her as a child. It was tucked under her feather pallet, safely away from her brothers who would tease her for girlish foolishness.
She picked it up as she sat up in bed. The motion made her head swim, but she was too curious to lay back down. Running her fingers over the smooth brown cover, she wondered what it was made of. It was not hide or polished wood, nor could it be metal for being so light. The pages were the thinnest of parchment, the lettering crisp upon the page without hint of smudge marks.
When Winn sat down beside her she did not look up, too engrossed in examining the book to give him any mind.
“My father gave this book to me,” he said quietly.
“Oh?” she replied. She knew he visited the future. Mama told her as much. She peered curiously at him, wondering if he still was angry. She deserved his anger, for surely she had behaved insolently. If John Basse had not wished to marry the Nansemond maiden, her actions could have put her family in great peril. She realized her selfishness now, her shame rushing to her cheeks at the thought of it.
“Your mother showed me this passage. Here, read this,” he said, turning to a page marked with an unusually flat piece of what she assumed was wood. She squinted her eyes and tried to recall her teachings as she read the English words.
“John Basse married ye dafter of ye King of ye Nansemond Nation by name Elizabeth in Holy Baptizm and in Holy Matrimonie ye 14th day of August in ye yeare of Our Blessed Lord 1638 Dyed 1699 A.D.”63
She raised her brows as she finished the sentence.
“Da, what is this?”
Winn closed the book.
“There is more, for another time,” he said softly. She felt tears spring to her eyes as her father took her face in her hands, his gaze cutting through straight to her heart. “I am sorry, daughter. I know not what saved you, be it magic or some God, but I thank them all the same.”
“Da,” she whispered. She buried her head in his strong shoulder, relief strumming through her like a melody. “I’m so sorry. I though ye hated me, I failed ye so miserably –”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. He smiled as he stood up, taking the book from her. “I love ye, daughter of mine.”
He turned back to her before he left the room, a sad smile upon his face.
“Your history is in this book. You will marry Morgan White, and I was a fool to try to stop that.”
She pulled the quilt to her chin, staring at the door long after he left.
CHAPTER 26
Winn
“SOMEDAY,” MARCUS SAID, “ye will leave this place. Ye will know when it is time.”
“Why must I leave, father?” Winn asked. There was scarce respect between them then. Winn did not yet trust his father, nor did he wish to hear his advice. “I was born of this earth, raised in this place. No man can make me leave it.”
M
arcus shook his head, his blue eyes cast sadly downward.
“No man can make ye leave it. Yet ye will know when it is time to let go.”
Winn thought of Marcus often since his journey to the future. Although the memories were few, he cherished them, wishing to hold onto that tiny piece of connection he kept with his father. The sadness of loss held constant in their lives, but the recollections of those they loved could never be erased.
Marcus was right. It was time to let go.
He found Maggie in their longhouse. Finola’s white cloak lay over a chair by the hearth, the bright white fur a stark reminder of her death. Maggie wanted to bury Finola with it, but Gwen insisted a Norse woman’s cloak was meant to be passed on. She claimed it was magical, and after seeing Kyra pulled back from the hands of death, Winn had no doubt. Be it the magic in the medicine he brought from the future, or the hum of an ancient Norse ritual, to Winn it was all the same. The force that saved his daughter was sacred, no matter which God sent that blessing.
“Hey,” she said softly. Red hair shrouded her face, her head dipped down over a shirt she was attempting to mend. Winn smiled, taking it gently from her hands despite her objections.
“Did my wife do this? These stitches are fine, indeed,” he declared. She snorted, snatching the linen from his hands as she rolled her eyes.
“Hardly. I know it’s terrible,” she muttered.
“No, it is the truth. I have many shirts for you to fix,” he insisted, raising his brow to peer into her lap. She scrunched the shirt into a ball as he traced his finger over the crooked stitches. “Well, I can do it myself I suppose.”
