Return of the Pale Feather

by E. B. Brown

  Winn walked toward their Long House, but when he saw her, he stopped. Although he had returned safely to her, she could see something was terribly wrong. His grey eyes seemed to stare through her as she approached him, and she saw his fists clenched at his sides in unspoken rage. The despair in his face should have made her afraid to approach him, but she had tamed her warrior husband before and would do it again if needed. If she had power over nothing else in their life together, she had that. She refused to fear the sight of his berserker eyes and rigid muscles.

  “Winn,” she said softly as she joined him. As he stared down at her with haunted eyes, she could see the handprint on his face was blood, and if it belonged to him or another lost soul, she did not know. She braced her own trembling as she reached for him, running her palm over his chest, then up to his shoulder. He stood straight, unyielding, until finally he let loose and pulled her into his arms. She felt her breath leave her chest as he squeezed her, and she let out a little cry when she felt him shudder.

  “Ntehem,” he said. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, then buried his lips in her hair as he clutched her to his chest. The torn skin on his neck bled as she felt the sticky blood of her husband on her hands, but it did not sway her as she cried and he whispered sweet words in her ear. “I am so sorry,” he murmured.

  “For what?” she asked. “Here, come inside, let me help you, you’re bleeding—”

  “No, not now,” he said. She pulled back so that she might see his face, yet when she saw the echo of despair in his eyes she was not reassured.

  “Come to the Northern Hall. The others are there,” he said.

  It was then that she saw it. The litter was carried by four warriors, one at each corner. On it was the still body of Winn’s father.

  Time halted to a blur as they followed the litter inside. Among the sounds of weeping, Maggie and Winn kneeled down by his side. Marcus was not yet gone, but it would not be long. She watched as Gwen peeled back the torn tunic to reveal the injury. Across his navel was a deep, jagged wound, pulsing with each staggered breath he took despite the pressure one of the men held on it with a makeshift bandage. Maggie felt the hot tears on her cheek as Gwen pulled away with a grim shake of her head.

  “I will bring him a drink to ease his journey,” Gwen said as she left and pushed through the gathered crowd. Maggie heard Gwen shout a barrage of orders, and soon the others moved away. Erich and Cormaic stood nearby. Winn put his hands on her waist as she sunk to the ground beside Marcus, steadying her as if she would fall.

  His skin had drained to a grey pallor, the hollows of his eyes standing out like shadows on his face. She could see he still breathed by the occasional rise and fall of his chest, but with each movement his face winced and he uttered a groan. When Gwen returned with a cupful of liquid, Winn helped him sit up to take a sip. As Gwen pressed the cup to his lips, Marcus opened his eyes.

  “Is this the drink of the Gods?” he asked. Gwen nodded, tears in her eyes.

  “Yes, my lord,” she said.

  “Good then. Help me rise, so I may take it.”

  Gwen helped him drink, and then she placed a series of rune stones on his chest when she laid him back down. They were round and flat, lying stark against his pale skin as he struggled through each breath.

  Maggie bit back a sob as she watched him drink the thick honeyed liquid. As her eyes darted to those watching, she realized with a sickness in her belly that they all knew what it was.

  They were sending their Chief on his way. They eased his journey with a sweet nectar drink, a gift to lighten the load he must bear.

  “No,” she whispered, starting to rise. Winn held her tight, refusing to let her move from his father’s side. Marcus finished the last swallow, some of it leaving his mouth in a drip to stain his cheek. Maggie reached for his face to wipe him with the edge of her gunna apron and he smiled, closing his hand over hers. Her fingertips tingled where the nectar smeared her skin.

  “No crying, lamb. Ye know I canna stand it, not from ye,” he said. “Here, lay yer head down. It’s been awhile since ye were a bairn, but I see ye as that, always.”

  She did as he requested, placing her head gently on his chest as he gripped her hand. The sound of his heart was far away, a slow thud that would not be chased, its message fading with each breath he took. She felt his hand on her hair, and the soft touch of his chin on her forehead. Whether it was the strength of the drink or the despair in her soul she did not know, but at his touch, numbness seared her skin. She hoped that same numbness gave him comfort as the last of his lifeblood drained away.

  “Yer grandda would be happy to see ye with yer kin again. It’s where ye belong, make no mistake,” Marcus murmured. He tried to push himself up again, but fell back down at the effort with a strained moan, his hand moving to his wound. His fingers were stained with blood. “Go now, Maggie. I must speak to my sons for a bit. I’ll see ye later.”

  Her teeth closed tight over her lower lip at the attempted jest. They both knew quite well there would be no later, yet they were the parting words they had shared her entire life.

  When she left for school each day. When she took her first drive in their farm truck as a reckless sixteen-year-old. When she left on her first date as a teenager in the car of a boy he did not like. It was a promise between them, one she always knew he would keep.

  “I’ll see you later,” Marcus promised.

  “All right, then,” she whispered. She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and her lips immediately felt numb. “I’ll see you later.”

  She left him there, tears hot on her cheeks, even as she did her best to hide them. Winn and Benjamin knelt down at his side, and as she walked away she could hear the murmur of his last words, fading like the whisper of sunshine on an autumn evening as he spoke softly to his sons.

  Chapter 31

  Winn

  Winn stood at the doorway of Gwen’s house, watching in silence as Maggie took hold of Finola’s hand. His grandmother sat motionless in her chair by the hearth, her grey eyes wide open, yet staring off at the wall as if something entranced her. She had spoke little since her arrival in the village, and he feared the outcome should she chose to finally find her voice again. The Pale Witch would not find any consolation in the truth of her predictions this time. He could see now why such things drove her to madness.

  “Finola, it’s me. Maggie,” his wife murmured. Maggie brushed a stray lock of yellowed hair from the older woman’s forehead and gently shook her shoulder with her other hand. With her chest rising in a deep breath, Finola closed her eyes, and then turned toward Maggie.

  “I know why ye come here. I see my son in Valhalla, waiting to feast with the Kings,” Finola whispered, her voice surprisingly steady. It was if she possessed her old strength on simple impulse, finding some purpose in the grief of the Chief’s passing.

  Maggie’s eyes opened wider, and she moved back away from Finola to stare at the older woman. Finola’s face was a flat slab, an empty canvas as to what her true feelings might be. Winn recognized the sudden light in her eyes, the way the blue eyes glowed like tepid orbs beneath her fair brows. The spirit of the Gothi had returned to her, and he was glad for it.

  “Take me to him, my Chief,” she whispered. The voice was not her own. It was the voice of a priestess, the commune of the magical host within her, a welcome intruder that would use her earthly body for the duty ahead.

  They escorted her to the Northern Hall. The space was filled with the villagers, each tending a task to send the Chief on his way. Winn did not fully understand the ways of the Norse, yet from what Erich explained it was the only way to send Marcus to the afterlife. Women were busy at tables, preparing food for the journey. Fresh honeyed mead and the scent of charred lamb filled the air, mixed amongst the smoke of the funeral pyre sneaking in from the courtyard. Someone had sparked it when Marcus took his last breath, and from what information he gleaned from the Norse, the fire was meant to keep bur
ning until the Chief was sent on his way.

  The hall fell silent when they entered. In the few days since his father had passed, Winn felt a growing discomfort with the sudden title thrust upon him, and the further reverence others showed him. They called him Chief, and Jarl, and waited for his command on all things. What once had been a source of amusement for his brothers to tease him with was now a stark reality. His father had fallen, and now Winn was expected to take his place. There was no fight over such a position; it was his by right of blood, the blood of the first born son.

  The heads of men bowed when he entered the hall, and women bent low at the waist as he passed. He could feel Maggie tense beside him, also unsure of her new role, her fingers entwined tightly in his as she walked at his side.

  Gwen and Erich approached and Winn grimaced when they behaved in a similar fashion. He placed his hand on Erich’s shoulder.

  “Will it be today?” Winn said.

  “Yes, my lord. The fire burns, and his vessel is ready to receive him,” Erich replied.

  “The other men are in agreement?” Winn asked. Erich’s eyes squinted down, darting toward Gwen for a moment. Gwen took Finola’s hand and led her toward the other women, and Maggie followed them after giving Winn’s hand a gentle squeeze.

  “The decision is yours,” Erich answered. Winn tightened his grip on the older warrior’s shoulder, looking him in the eye.

  “I wish to know if the men agree. They have labored long to make the ship. I would not allow it if they object,” Winn insisted. He did not fully understand the Norse ways, and it seemed wasteful to him to burn a ship for a dead man. Yet, if it was what the people wished for the fallen chief, Winn would agree to honor the tradition.

  Erich sighed.

  “Winn, I know ye have doubt in leading these men. But this is not the time to dwell on yer fear. Send yer father to Valhalla on the ship, give him the respect he deserves. We saw his own father buried the same, and his father before him. Our Chiefs deserve such a reward when they have given their very lives in battle. It is an honorable way to die.”

  “I was not born to this life, as you were. If I lead them, it will be in my way,” Winn replied. “And my way is to know what the people I serve wish of their Chief.”

  “Then give me yer trust, as yer faithful man. I tell ye, yer people wish it so. It will give us all great pleasure to see him sent off as such.”

  “And my brother? What does he say of this?”

  “That, I cannot tell ye. He made his offering this morn, and I have not seen him since. I would not worry on it. He is like ye, born of another place, he does not understand our ways.”

  Winn was aware Benjamin had been absent from the funeral preparations. In fact, Winn had not spoken with him since the day they knelt down at his father’s deathbed and heard the Chief’s last words.

  “Benjamin…my son,” Marcus said. They could see the strength leave his limbs as he lay prostate on the platform, the rune stones lying over his scarred skin like brands on his flesh. The scent of death surrounded him, a dank fog amidst the echo of his fading spirit. His color fell gray, his lips tinged blue as he spoke, and Winn was glad Maggie was not there to see him falter. Benjamin slipped his hand around that of his father, and bowed his head down, his dark curls falling over his anguished eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, father,” Benjamin whispered, low and strained.

  “No. Say nothing of the sort. I am sorry fer leaving ye lads like this. There is much I meant to tell ye,” Marcus said. He grimaced then, uttering a stifled groan with a deep sigh, after which he was silent for a long moment. He opened his eyes again once more, however, and this time he stared at Winn.

  “I failed ye both, as I was never a father to either of ye…for that I have suffered. But by right of our blood, I served our cause, as my father did, and his father before him. You must both bid me promise that ye will do the same.”

  “I do not understand,” Benjamin said. Winn felt no power to answer, knowing exactly what his father meant. Marcus had tried to tell him of the old ways, many times, and each time Winn had let his anger rule him and refused to listen. How curious it was that he now understood. He knew the power of the magic in Maggie’s blood, the magic in his daughter’s blood. Even before now, he would have protected them with his own life, yet now he understood there was a much greater duty upon him than that of a husband to his family.

  “The blooded MacMhaolian, our most powerful Gothi,” Winn answered, his eyes meeting those of his father. Marcus made a small nod, staring back at him with those ice-laden blue eyes so like his own.

  “It was the blood of a Gothi Chieftain that brought us here. Only great magic can send a Longship through time. The power of time travel must remain our secret, and ye are sworn to protect it. Put aside yer quarrels, for the good of your people. I left my family, and all those I loved, to see it safe. Do not make it for nothing. Keep them close, see that they live on. I was born to protect them, and so are ye. I ask ye both, as my sons, to make it so.”

  “Father—” Benjamin said. Marcus shook his head.

  “No. Give me yer oath, as protectors of our blood. Give me yer oath!”

  The choked demand strained Marcus, and he fell back onto the furs. Winn took his father’s hand and bowed his head to him.

  “I give it to you, father,” Winn said. Marcus clenched his hand, a slight gesture, yet enough for Winn to know his pledge was accepted.

  “As do I,” Benjamin agreed.

  “It may take ye from this time. It may take you from yer own people. But it is yer duty now, and I expect ye to honor it. I tell you now, be ready. Others will search for her, as they have always searched for her kind. No other King must ever take her from us, lest all will be lost. The secret of Time Travel is ours to bear, ours to guard. Give me my knife.”

  Winn handed Marcus his dagger. He had tried to learn the meaning of the runes and did not expect to recognize the markings, but when he looked down at the weapon he felt his chest tighten. His father’s dagger bore a familiar twisted knot on its hilt, a deep carving on a weapon meant for the Chieftain Protector of the Gothi.

  Winn did not flinch at the cut, nor when Marcus sliced Benjamin as well. Marcus clasped their bleeding arms together, brother to brother, their blood bound now more beyond what time or family could envision. Marcus seemed satisfied at that, and he lay back onto the furs with a long sigh.

  Death took him. In the shadows of the Northern Hall, Winn saw them descend. The Norse called them Valkryies; he thought them only messengers of the Great Creator. Across the divide of time and the separation of their lives, they came together in that moment, two sons and a father, as they watched his lifeblood slip away.

  “See to the final arrangements. We will send my father to Valhalla tonight. I will speak to Benjamin,” Winn said. Erich nodded and left to join the men. Winn went in search of his brother.

  *****

  Winn searched the village for Benjamin without a hint of his whereabouts, finally checking on his wife again in the hall before he looked in one more spot. In his travels he had seen nearly every person in the village, and none knew of where Benjamin might be. There was only one place Winn had not thought to look, and it was that place that he finally found his brother.

  The door to the Long House he shared with Maggie was ajar, and Winn could hear the murmur of Kwetii’s laughter inside. She was a cheerful child who reveled in any attention shown to her like a hungry scamp, taking it all in with her greedy little smile. Although she likened to most adults with ease, it made his chest heavy to see her so enthralled with his brother. She sat perched in Benjamin’s arms as they stood by the hearth, speaking softly and pointing to the figurines on the mantle. Benjamin handed her one tiny sparrow, which made her coo with delight, and then he carefully returned it to its spot so they could consider the next one.

  There was little resemblance between Benjamin and Winn, other than the peculiar blue berserker eyes and their physical size. With
Kwetii, however, Winn could see the Nielsson blood. Her small, round tipped nose, her thick brown brows, and the shape of her high, flushed cheeks. Did her heart-shaped face come from them as well, or was that a feature of her Gothi blood? Yet it seemed to no longer matter as he stood watching his brother hold his daughter, and Winn knew with a sickness in his gut it would be the last he saw of Benjamin.

  Winn cleared his throat, more in defeat than meaning to disturb them, but Kwetii quickly perked up, distracted from her quiet conversation with Benjamin.

  “Da!” Kwetii cried. She held her arms out to Winn.

  “Go on, then, ye fickle one,” Benjamin chided her, handing her over. She smothered Winn with a wet kiss, and he smiled.

  “I thought Rebecca watched her,” Winn commented.

  “Makedewa walks with her to give her his farewell.”

  Winn took in that confession, the ache in his chest growing stronger. He had suspected it of Benjamin, but not Makedewa, yet he was hardly surprised by the revelation. Both men were damaged. Perhaps they would find peace as they journeyed together.

  “Must I order you to stay?” Winn asked. He saw a wry smile twist his brother’s mouth.

  “Aye, order me, then, my Chief. And I will disobey you. Then what? Will you take your sword to my neck?” Benjamin shook his head. “Nay, give me no order, brother. It is better this way, surely you know it.”

  “If it is for the sake of her,” Winn said, unwilling to speak Maggie’s name, “Then put it from your mind. She wishes you to stay, as I do.”

  Benjamin shook his head.

  “What part would I play in this life here? It is our father’s blood that stains my hands, just as surely as if I dealt the blow. It was my mistake that ended him. I cannot see the faces of these men every day, knowing what I have done. I cannot see yer face, each day….knowing what I have done.”