by E. B. Brown
“Nay, no spirit. Just a man,” Marcus mumbled. “I thought you had taken the others and left for Vinland, Erich.”
“Then you are just in time. We near gave up on seeing you again.”
Maggie watched as the men clasped arms again.
“This is Winkeohkwet. My son,” Marcus said. Erich made a half bow, his head lowered in respect to Winn. “And his family. I—”
“By the Gods! Esa?” Erich whispered. The color drained from his face as he looked to Maggie. She stayed kneeling on the ground next her sleeping daughter, unwilling to risk waking the child in the midst of such confusion. She had no idea who the men were or what was going on, and until her husband made indication it was safe she would not leave the child. Erich started to approach her, and Winn immediately stepped between them with his knife drawn. Makedewa gripped his knife and Chetan moved closer to Maggie at Winn’s motion.
“Please,” Erich said. “I mean no harm.” He slowly placed his sword on the ground and then held up both hands extended in a gesture of submission to Winn. Marcus put a hand on Winn’s shoulder. After a terse exchange in Paspahegh between the brothers, they lowered their weapons.
“He willna harm them. He’s kin to her,” Marcus said. Maggie’s head snapped up. Kin to her? She had no family, other than the loved ones she shared with Winn. The sting of realization of yet another betrayal by Marcus was only dampened by her curiosity. Who was the massive beast of a man staring at her?
“What is yer name, astin min?” he asked. He knelt beside her with his hand extended. She did not flinch when he gently touched her cheek with his calloused fingertips, too entranced by his deep jade eyes to move. It had been a long time since she had seen her eyes in a mirror, yet she knew the ones staring at her mimicked her own.
“Maggie. Maggie McMillan,” she said softly. His eyes widened and his lips parted.
“Maggie MacMhaolian. Aye, of course. And this wee miting by yer side, she be yer child?”
She nodded. “Winn’s daughter and mine. Who are you?”
“I am Erich MacMhaolian. Thank ye, my lord,” he said, bowing his head when Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder. “My greatest thanks for keeping her safe.”
“Ye would do no less, in my stead,” Marcus answered.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Yer uncle. Erich is brother to yer mother,” Marcus said.
It was fortunate she chose to remain seated, for if not, she was certain she would have fallen on the ground.
“I thought my family was gone,” she replied, glancing up at Marcus, who had the good sense to grimace at her accusation and bow his head.
“Aye, I was dead to ye, as far as a man in the past would be. We hoped to have ye returned to us one day, but it’s been so long…one never returns to a time once lived, even with the magic of the Gothi. I only thought to meet ye someday in Valhalla, with yer mother.”
“My mother?”
“And what of my sister, my lord?” Erich said to Marcus, although his eyes remained still fastened on her as if he feared she would disappear.
“I’m sorry. She’s gone, and Malcolm as well.”
Erich’s jaw tightened and he nodded his head. He slowly rose to his feet and extended a hand to Maggie.
“Come. We have much to celebrate.”
*****
At first glance, the Norse village could have been mistaken for Powhatan. A straight central path divided two rows of long-house style dwellings, taller and larger than the yehakins the Indians used, but similar in structure with thatched roofs and bark slat shingles. As they rode the path through the village, the sounds of crushed stone beneath the horse’s hooves announced them. Wide-eyed women and children peered out from doorways as they passed, clad in homespun tunics with cord-wrapped waists, with long locks braided amongst red and golden hair. Maggie did not know if she felt sheltered or trapped as she rode surrounded by the Norse, her heart pounding against the toddler bound in her lap. As they came upon a massive Long House at the end of the path and dismounted, several young boys ran out to take the horses. She was stunned to see a copper-skinned youth among them, a boy with long black hair and eyes like coal pellets, dressed in breeches like the others. He was clearly part Indian, living among a colony of Norsemen.
The men walked clustered behind Marcus and Erich. They were an intimidating bunch, all brawn and steel weapons among bared chests and fur-covered shoulders. Most were brawny, like Marcus and Winn. Many were fair-haired like Erich, with reddish blond locks lying long down their backs. They carried decorated weapons, lavish appearing items that seemed out of place considering the simple way they lived.
Winn and Maggie were escorted to the end of a long plank table that sat centered in the Noroanveror Skali, the place they called the Northern Hall. End to end, it breached the span of the room, with enough spaces on the benches to hold more than the number of warriors that accompanied them. Other smaller tables lined one wall and a fire rose from a pit in the other corner. Women and children began filling in as well, and from the smell of thick venison in the air she imagined it was time for a meal. Teyas offered to take Kwetii and Maggie gladly complied.
“What is this place?” Maggie asked, craning her neck to see past the men. Winn studied the warriors in silence before he answered her.
“I have heard of Tassantassas that live near the Nansemond, but I have never been to this place. If my uncle knew of them, they would all be dead. What else Pale Feather lies about, I know not,” Winn said tersely.
“I don’t think he lied about this, Winn. He told me most of the other Time Walkers were gone. He seemed just as surprised as we were when they showed up. Maybe he didn’t know.”
He grunted his doubt.
“Believe what you must,” he replied.
Maggie was shown a seat to the left of Marcus, who held position at the head of the table. She saw him attempt to refuse the chair but Erich insisted, and finally Marcus grabbed the tall chair and shoved it back, plunking down with a scowl on his face. She expected equal resistance from Winn, yet was surprised when he took the bench across from her at the immediate right hand of Marcus.
“I hope ye find our table suffices, my lady,” Erich said as he sat down beside her. He stared at her for a moment with his full lips parted as if to speak, but then clamped his mouth shut while shaking his head.
“What is it?” she asked. She had no idea what to say to the stranger, nor how to address him. Growing accustomed to living in another time had been difficult enough, but now as she sat beside her newfound relative, the reality of it all felt like an elephant sitting on her chest. She held her breath, afraid to look too closely at him, lest he disappear. Was he truly her uncle, this massive brute of a man? And if so, why had he sent her mother, his sister, away with Marcus to the future?
“Ye have yer mother’s look is all. I’m afraid ye might be a ghost sitting beside me, and if I look away for too long, ye’ll be gone.”
Erich looked sincere, but it was too much for her to tolerate much longer. Marcus, or Dagr, whatever name he was called by, sat perched at the head of the table like their long suffering King. Men came by, patting him on the shoulders with hearty welcome, then moved to Winn to welcome him. With the scowl on his face and the doubt in his eyes, she was perplexed to see him nod gracefully to each man who approached him. Makedewa and Chetan looked on, their faces reserved, while Ahi Kekeleksu made friends with the other youths running through the hall. The intensity of testosterone-induced semantics was rapidly rising to more than she could bear, so when Erich patted her hand in a soothing manner, she jerked away from him. She had known the man all of an afternoon. How dare he treat her as if he had claim to her, as if being a blood relative meant anything?
“You sent my mother away. Why? If you loved her so damn much, how could you do that?” she snapped, her voice rising a pitch. The murmurs in the hall silenced and heads turned their way. She stood up, knocking her bench over backward in the process, un
flinching when it clattered to the ground.
“I can explain—” Erich said.
He reached for her hand and she shrunk back from him, stepping further away as a gasp came from the crowd.
“Don’t touch me!” she said. In the next moment, Winn was at her side, catching her wrist before she slapped her uncle’s perplexed face.
“Sit down, Fire Heart,” he said. Erich drew away, and someone else righted her bench. Teyas and Rebecca made room for Winn to sit next to her.
She glared at Winn, every ounce of her frustration now bent on him, taking the last slice of her self-control to keep from screaming at him as well. She knew he could see it from the way she trembled, her finger nails digging into his arms.
“I sent yer mother with my lord to seek safety. I knew he would protect my sister with his life. Jarl Dagr is my Chief, and my most trusted friend,” Erich said. Marcus watched the interaction, still seated, resting his elbows on the table in front on him. “I see ye know nothing of yer Gothi blood. Have ye told her naught, my lord?” Erich said, directing his question to Marcus.
“She knows verra little. I leave that to ye now.”
Eric grinned. He leaned up over the table, nearly upending his bench as he waved a younger man to his side.
“Harald! Up fer a tale, boy?” he shouted. “He fancies himself our Skald, ye know,” Erich laughed, shooting a sly glance at Marcus.
The young man approached, eyeing them shyly from beneath thick dark lashes. His tousled brown hair was worn shoulder length, like some of the other men, with small sections wrapped in cord hanging about his narrow face.
“Yes, my Lord. A good one, fer our guests, then?” Harald said. Erich glanced in a questioning manner at Marcus, who waved him on with a flick of his wrist and resorted to downing the rest of his drink. When young Harald smiled, Maggie could not help but let out a giggle, which she muffled under her fist. He was missing the bottom half of one front tooth, which did not seem to bother him in the least as he started his story.
“Aye, but they are no guests. This man is son to our Chief. My lady is a blooded MacMhaolian. Make it yer best fer them, boy,” Erich declared. Children gathered in a circle at his feet, shooed over by elders to enjoy the tale.
Harald made a sweeping bow to Marcus and then another to her, bringing a smile to her face. He was a gangly young man, eager to please, and she liked him immediately. He was a welcome contrast to the testosterone infused brawn and bulk that surrounded her, masquerading as newfound kinfolk.
“Once there was a man called Jarl Drustan. He was born at Brattahlid, in the land of Greenland, a most treacherous place, indeed,” Harald jumped up onto the bench beside Maggie. He placed a hand across his brow, his knobby elbow sticking out, searching the room from end to end. “Jarl Drustan was a man of the sea, and he made his home in New Vinland. But he was a man of secrets as well, for it was his kin, and his alone that were bound by blood for a greater task!”
“What task? What task!” the children cried, their faces upturned in rapt anticipation.
“Oh, it is a great honor, that which he had! For Jarl Drustan protected the blood of the Gothi, our very own blessed ones.”
Maggie’s heart skipped and her mouth felt suddenly dry.
“A finer man ye wouldna find in new Vinland, Our Lord Drustan. One fateful day the King ordered our Lord Drustan to the sea, where he was to go a-Viking. He set out with his clan to search fer new lands, on a fine new Longship made fer such occasion.”
“Where did he go?” A tow-headed boy called out. Maggie noticed Ahi Kekeleksu sitting with the boys, just as enthralled in the tale as the other children.
“He searched and searched, for many long days, and many long nights. He searched for land, but never found it. He searched until the last of the food was eaten, and the people began to suffer of hunger. There was no land to be found, and it seemed he had led his people to death.” He crouched down in dramatic pause, on eye level with the children. “Aye, ye know this tale, do ye not?”
“Nay, nay, tell it again, again!” the children shouted.
“Well, our Lord and protector, he would not let his people die at sea fer his own fault. He knew the blood of a Chief could save them, and so he bid his lovely Finola goodbye. Before they could beg him off, he held his Bloodstone, and spilled his blood upon the vessel. He sent his people to a new place. They came safe to this time, aye, and now ye all sit before us, all ye little hens,” he said, reaching out to pat the head of a blond haired girl. He tapped the heads of the children one by one as he murmured, “Each of ye have a bit of the Gothi in ye, a sprinkle here, a tad bit there. Not enough fer such a grand journey, but enough in ye to be one of us.”
“Why did he die? Could he not go with them?” the blond girl asked, her round face scrunched into a frown.
“Oh, nay, little one. It takes too much to send a whole Longship through time. It takes all the blood of a Chief to do such a great deed. The life of a Chief, or a blooded MacMhaolian, only one of them can make that magic work. Ye know the Bloodstone’s a harsh magic. That’s why none of ye wear them round yer necks. None except our MacMhaolian lady, returned to us by our Great Chief Dagr.”
All heads turned to Maggie as Harald knelt down beside her, taking her hand into his with a flourish. He made great sport of kissing it, and then bowed deep to both her and to Marcus. Maggie’s pulse pounded in her throat as the hall full of onlookers focused on her.
Marcus lifted up his hand. In his fist was a long, tapered white horn, embellished with gold and silver filigree and studded with dozens of gemstones. The hall fell silent once again as he raised it in salute, then took a long drink.
“Esa svá gott, sem gott kveþa,
öl alda sunum,
þvít fæ'ra veit, es fleira drekkr,
síns til geþs gumi!”
The Long House erupted in chaos, men and women shouting and stomping, beating their fists on tables and screaming their approval. She looked slowly around the room. Erich had a grin on his lips, raising his tankard to Marcus in a silent gesture.
“What did he say?” she whispered, not directly addressing Erich, yet knowing he was the only one who might answer her.
“He shouts his thanks to be among his people once more, and bids us all many cups of mead.”
Marcus left his perch, drinking horn held carefully out as he came to their side. He placed one hand on Winn’s shoulder, and while he looked briefly at Winn, he offered the horn to Maggie.
“Margret, I have watched over ye since the day ye were born. There is much to tell you of how it came to pass, and tell ye, we will. But for now, drink. This is the vessel of my ancestors. Take of it, wife of my son, daughter of my heart. Drink and be happy.”
She wanted nothing more than to pour it on his head, but when her husband took the horn and drank, she felt she had no choice. When both she and Winn had tasted, a roar of shouts emerged from the crowd once again. The ground beneath her feet seemed to rumble with the pounding of the drums, and the rowdy voices of men broke into song.
To her chagrin, Winn had the look of amusement about him. As those around them bent to the task of celebrating, he pulled her near and whispered in her ear.
“How is it?” he asked. She scrunched her brow.
“How is what?”
“Being the kin of a Norseman? Do they seem so brave to you now?”
“Not funny, Winn,” she replied, kicking him lightly with the tip of her moccasin-clad toe. “Not funny at all.”
Chapter 13
Winn
Winn noticed the women gather the small children as they made ready to leave the Long House. Although he sat with Marcus and Erich, he waited for Maggie to look to him. Angry or no, she would not leave without some sort of acknowledgement. She wiped Kwetii’s mouth with the edge of her shift and adjusted the sleepy child in her arms, and as she turned to say something to Teyas, her eyes met his across the room. She issued him a wry smile, and he nodded in return. It was
a small gesture but a necessary one, and he was glad she had calmed her fire long enough to relax with her kin.
He stood up from his seat beside Marcus with intent to join his wife, but both Marcus and Erich protested. Other young men filled in the benches where the women had left, shouldering in to grab the next pass of the mead tankard. Winn had seen the Englishmen soused on ale many times, but it was nothing compared to how the Norse consumed. He lost track hours ago of how much he had taken, drank only because each warrior who greeted him insisted on filling his tankard after slapping him heartily on the back. Apparently, being the son of the leader held many perks among the Norse, and having a plentiful supply of mead was one of them.
“Stay. The women need us naught, let them tend the mitings,” Marcus said, filling Winn’s mug yet again. Winn eyed his father warily.
“You know little of my wife. She looks now to see there is no bloodshed.” He felt her presence behind him before her fingers touched his shoulder, the scent of her musky skin stirring his blood. He clenched his jaw, wanting nothing more to bury his frustration into his wife’s willing arms, but when he glanced at her he could see she was as agitated as he.
“I’ll see you soon, husband?” she murmured, bending close to his ear. He nodded.
“Take your rest. I will join you soon.”
He touched Kwetii’s trailing heel before they left, and turned back to the men. He noticed Marcus and Erich watch her leave as well, and wondered how his wife would adapt with such change. Suddenly she had a family, when her entire life, she had only Marcus and her grandfather. He listened when she told him the stories of her childhood, often fascinated by the tales of the future she told, yet in one very deep-rooted way he could understand her anger. Suddenly thrust into a family where secrets and lies abounded? Yes, that was an anger he knew well.
“I know that woman as much as ye, and don’t ye forget it. I’m surprised she hasn’t split ye over the head yet, with the way ye order her about. She doesn’t take so well to orders,” Marcus grumbled, taking a swig of his mead. “They grow up different in the future. Where did ye find her, when the Bloodstone took her from me?”
