The Legend of the Bloodstone

by E. B. Brown

  “Maybe you are here because you should be. I think if you open your eyes, you will find happiness here with our people.”

  She did not answer him, unwilling to argue when he was trying to be kind, so she shrugged her shoulders in response as she remained silent.

  “Winn buried the Bloodstones to keep you away, but still you are here. He thought never to disobey our Uncle. He was sure he would kill the Red Woman if ever she arrived.”

  “Everyone would be happier if he just let me go home.”

  Chetan smiled, shaking his bowed head.

  “No, I think not. Not my brother, and not you. I hear your words, but I see your heart. You were meant for this place, Fire Heart.”

  A protest formed on her lips, but she did not voice it. There was no argument she could make against such magical things.

  “Do you ride horses as well as you care for them?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows at his words.

  “Well, yes, yes I do. I’m a good rider.”

  “Then come with me. I go to scout our border.”

  She glanced around him at Makedewa, who she could tell was listening but held his tongue. What harm would it do to take a ride? She was tired of being treated like a prisoner, as if she had no more value than an ear of corn, so perhaps a ride would ease her anxiety for a few hours.

  “All right, I would like that. But will Winn be upset if I leave?”

  Chetan made a deep snorting sound. “Upset? Yes, he will be. My brother is War Chief, but I am still a man. If you want to ride, you can come with me.”

  She grinned like a schoolgirl playing hooky when he slung a hackamore bridle on a spotted pony and gave her a leg up. She was unaccustomed to riding bareback, a pursuit she left behind in adolescence, but she was eager to leave the village for a while and would have submitted to anything to do so. The animal was plump with a thick stout neck, making for a more comfortable ride than a more lean horse, and she settled quickly into the motion of keeping her seat with her thigh muscles as they left the village.

  They passed by the long house and entered the woods, keeping to a narrow dirt trail winding through the evergreens. There was a gentle cool breeze among the trees, and as it lifted her hair from the nape of her neck, she raised her hands high and stretched. Although her healing shoulder ached, it still felt wonderful, and as her chest expanded, the heady scent of the forest filled her lungs. Rocking with the motion of the horse, she let out a deep sigh and replaced her hands back down to rest on her bared thighs. She had never ridden bareback dressed so scantily, but the exhilaration of freedom squashed any doubts she might have had.

  Chetan glanced at her and smiled as she stretched, and she heard an annoyed grunt from Makedewa, which she ignored. They clicked their tongues and urged their mounts into a faster pace, and she squeezed her knees to press her fat pony into an easy lope to keep up. She wondered why they suddenly changed speed, and was dismayed to hear another rider approaching. The men seemed unconcerned so she knew they were safe, but she hoped it was not someone who would object to her riding out.

  “Did you hear me call, Chetan?” Winn growled as his pony caught up to them. The horses all slowed to a brisk walk, and Winn continued to rail at Chetan as he shrugged his shoulders in amused indifference.

  “No, brother, I heard you not. I was enjoying the ride.”

  Maggie turned backward on her pony to look at the men following behind. Although Makedewa rode ahead, she was clear on what Chetan implicated and she twisted back around before she was tempted to yell at him.

  She ignored the two men as they argued, and continued on to follow Makedewa, who had pulled ahead quite a bit. Her pony navigated a narrow sandy trail that opened up from the woods onto a wide beach, stretching as far as she could see in both directions. When Makedewa took off, she felt a surge of excitement seeing him gallop away, and before she could contain the urge she tapped her heels against her pony and they took off after him. She wound her fingers through his mane and ducked her head against his neck, feeling sand spike up to dart her face like tiny needles as the sound of the surf muffled her peals of laughter. Saltwater splashed out like a wake around them, and seagulls screamed their displeasure at the intrusion as they conquered the beach. Her pony was not as fast, but he had plenty of heart, and it was not long before he was barrel side with Makedewa’s mount, their hooves pounding in near synch across the sand. His eyes opened wide when he saw her, and although he did not smile, he did not scowl either, so she figured he was not too annoyed that she had followed him.

  His pony slid to a stop, and hers responded the same, circling Makedewa a few times before the little beast was ready to cease pursuit. Nostril flaring, his lips lathered, the pony snorted and stomped, and she patted him firmly on the neck to calm him. She could see Chetan and Winn riding toward them, and when she glanced back at Makedewa, she thought she glimpsed a smidgeon of a grin.

  “You ride well, woman,” he said gruffly without making eye contact.

  “You ride okay yourself,” she replied. His brows furrowed and his jaw tightened as he shook his head, turning his horse around in a tight circle.

  “I think you are much trouble for my brother, Red Woman.”

  “I don’t want to be trouble for anyone. I just want to go home.”

  He made one of those half laugh, half-snort sounds the Indian men were known to utter when they had nothing nice to say, then reached out and slapped her pony on the rump. The horse jumped, but did not take off, instead succumbing to being rounded up and sent back in the direction of Chetan and Winn. Makedewa dismounted. He pulled a spear off his back as the other men caught up with them.

  “Good ride, Maggie,” Chetan grinned. She smiled back, despite the look of gloom on Winn’s face.

  “Thanks. It’s beautiful here,” she breathed, looking out toward the ocean. Low waves rolled in, crashing against the reefs to break their splendor before they rushed back toward the shore, creating a haphazard foam barrier along the sand. The water was a deep blue, brighter and clearer than any shore she had ever seen, and she recalled with sadness how sickly beaches of the future looked in comparison.

  “Yes…beautiful,” Chetan laughed. Maggie saw him shoot Winn a sly look, and then Chetan dismounted to follow Makedewa. She watched them stalk a shallow tide pool, thrusting their spears in to snare the fish trapped in the barrier. Winn’s pony bumped into her own.

  “Come on. We will ride some more,” he offered, his voice controlled with the invitation. His blue eyes seemed cautious, betraying a glimpse of uncertainty, or perhaps bashfulness, both of which perplexed her when she was accustomed to a much different temperament.

  “All right,” she agreed. Their ponies paced off together so closely that her bare knee bumped against his with each stride, a constant tap to remind her he was still there. Although his shoulders pointed straight ahead, his dark head tilted toward her a bit and his braid fell across his arm, as if their words were some sort of secret between them.

  “Chetan takes notice of you.”

  “Oh?”

  “As do many of my people. Teyas sees you as a sister.” His startling blue eyes met hers and held, and she could feel a stirring in her belly as he kept her gaze. He turned away abruptly and looked down at his hands for a moment before he adjusted his rein, then turned his head back ahead. “You look happy here today. Is your world so different than mine, Tentay teh?”

  Maggie considered the question for a moment before she responded. Yes, her world was much different in many ways, but how could she make him understand? Loyalty, dedication, a home – they were all things that drove her to find a way back, yet with each passing day in the past, another sliver of her resolve flaked off and dissolved. Looking at his profile, seeing his jaw set against his teeth and his almond shaped blue eyes squinting against the sun, she wished they could just keep riding and somehow their peace could continue.

  “Some things are very different. We don’t ride horses anymore, that is, most people
don’t.”

  “So they travel by water instead?”

  “Well, we have these…wagons. Wagons that drive without a horse. There’s an engine to make it move.”

  She could see his face relax and his smile turned genuine as she described cars to him. He snorted when she told him they ran on gasoline, a fossil fuel, and he laughed when she explained how people bought expensive cars to impress each other. Her tales of the future clearly intrigued him, however, and she prattled on with descriptions of indoor plumbing and spring-coiled mattresses.

  “Is it from the English that all these things come?” he asked.

  “Uhm, I guess. Mostly. But there will be many different kinds of people to come live here in the future, not just the English.”

  She saw how his smile faded and his eyes dimmed as he considered her response, and she suddenly had a feeling her words meant more to him. He reached out with a fist and grabbed her rein, stopping her mount beside his.

  “So where will my people go, when so many whites come? Already our lands are used up, and many of our people forced to move. Even now the Paspaheghs are few. What will happened to the Powhatans?”

  Her teeth closed over her lower lip, and she pushed a strand of wayward hair back behind one ear. Should she tell him the truth of what happened, or was this knowledge of the future too much for him to handle? She still was not sure of her role in this time travel business, but with the turn their conversation took she suddenly feared what impact her actions could have. Would changing the past in turn change the future? And was it up to her to do so?

  “Winn, I don’t think-”

  “Tell me, Maggie,” he insisted, his voice betraying that he expected the worst. She sighed with the knowledge she must tell him the truth, and tried to find the words to describe the end of the life he knew.

  “I’m sorry…” she began. He listened without interruption, and when she finished the tale he remained wordless. His clear blue eyes exposed his despair, the azure depths reduced to empty hollows as the impact hit him. He appeared to pale beneath his soft copper skin, even the tips of his ears and his soft full lips drained of color. They rode in silence together, her knee tapping gently against his with each stride of her pony, until they joined his brothers again.

  Makedewa kneeled over a small fire in a shallow pit in the sand, laying several fish pierced on stakes across the piles of rocks he lined the fire with. The fish hung suspended above the licking flames, the searing scent of their flesh cooking rising from the smoke. Chetan walked back from the surf, a wide grin across his round face as he held a snapping crab in his upraised hand. He took a proffered stick from Makedewa and speared it through, then tossed it on the fire with the fish, and her belly made a growling sound at the scent of fresh charred seafood as the food began to roast.

  “Uhm, I’ll be right back,” she said. Winn raised an eyebrow as she dismounted. “I just need a minute…to myself,” she stammered. She had no idea what words to use to explain she needed to void, so she was relieved when Winn made no protest. He pointed over to the trees where they had entered the beach, and she gladly took his direction.

  She wished she had even a smidgeon of the confidence the Indian women had, and she was deftly reminded of her more modest nature every time she needed to relieve herself. She walked further back in the woods than was truly necessary for privacy, and when she was content she was adequately hidden, she squatted down and raised her dress.

  “Akekweh!”

  Maggie shot to her feet at the angry utterance and swung around to holler at whichever man had followed her, her face streaked with crimson at being interrupted. When she did not recognize the intruder, she let the leaves she had gathered fall from her hand and stepped back a pace.

  Not just one, but two natives approached. The nearest one spoke to her again, his words slower but much different cadence of the Paspahegh speech she had grown accustomed to, and he stepped toward her when she did not answer.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, feeling her heart start to pound in her ears. Already backed up to a thick grove of narrow young saplings, she had chosen the place for its natural screen, unaware it would become a prison in a few short moments.

  The man continued his approach. Tall and lean, his chest heavily scarred and his eyes hollow beneath hooded brows, his black hair was shaved completely except for a section of long braid trailing from the top of his head down his back. Both men wore only breechclouts, and their skin was stained with black slashes of paint and an array of intricate tattoos. She held her breath as the first man reached out to her, taking one of her red braids in his hand. He peered at it for a moment, and then a grin spread slowly over his face when he looked up at her.

  “What?” she croaked. His smile was not comforting, only serving to show her the gap where his lower tooth should be, and with his close proximity, the stale stench of his breath. He ran one finger across the black grease pattern on his chest, then reached out and ran the fingertip across her forehead, leaving a dark smudge on her pale skin. Stunned, she let out her breath. Perhaps it was a friendly gesture, and he would be on his way.

  The men spoke amongst themselves, and then the first one turned swiftly back to her and grabbed her wrist, towing her with him as they went back the way they had arrived. She let out a screech and tried to pull away from him to no avail, and he grunted but otherwise ignored her as he drug her along.

  “No! Let me go!” she screamed. She dug her heels into the ground until he was forced to stop, at which point he turned back to her with a knife brandished. She froze when he held it under her chin and grunted something she did not understand, then proceeded to continue dragging her away.

  “Nahkihela!”

  The native stopped so fast that she stumbled into his back, and relief washed through her when she realized the new voice belonged to Winn. Great, he would clear up the little misunderstanding, and they could go back to the beach peacefully to eat their fish. She tried to shake off the hand that held her, but it remained locked like binding around her wrist.

  Winn made no eye contact with her as he confronted the man, but his muscles were tensed like bowstrings as he approached. The second man swung around to flank him, leaving Winn surrounded as he spoke in rapid Paspahegh to the intruders.

  Something Winn said suddenly angered the man, and he snatched her forward and thrust the knife beneath her chin as Winn stepped toward him. At the sight of the knife and her gasp of surprise Winn immediately stopped, his feet planted shoulder stance apart, crouched slightly, his breathing slowed and cautious.

  “Winn?” she whispered. His eyes met hers, and she shuddered to see the flare of anger held back within, his jaw tight as he remained poised to strike. She made her decision, and after taking a deep breath in preparation, she raised her knee up and struck backward with all her might. Her heel made contact with one knee in a sickening snap, and in a blur of copper skin and limbs she was shoved away to fall into the sandy soil at their feet as the warriors tumbled to the ground.

  She saw the second man move to enter the fray, and since she had nothing with which to fight, she grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. He blocked her attempt but it slowed him down enough for her to find a nearby rock, which she also threw at him to little effect. When he unsheathed his knife and approached the two men who fought, she let out a piercing scream. Winn had the other man beneath him on the ground, wide open to the second man.

  “No!” she yelled. There was a sickening thump and suddenly the man slumped to the ground, an arrow protruding from his temple and his eyes staring blindly at the sky. Makedewa stepped through the bushes, his bow poised for a second shot, Chetan flanking his side.

  She scrambled backward on her bottom away from the dead man and watched as the brothers simply surveyed Winn as he fought. It made no sense to her why they did not jump in to help him. Winn rolled the man onto his back, hitting the man with his bloodied closed fist, bone connecting bone with a sickening crunc
h. Winn shouted at the man, and the intruder seemed to smile through his missing teeth, and when Winn shook him he spit a mass of blood out that splattered Winn’s face and chest.

  Winn raised his knife and thrust it deep into the side of the man’s neck. The intruder went limp, and Winn slowly stepped off the man. His chest heaved then, as if he released his anger in one final breath, and as she met his eyes she saw the rabid fierceness slowly fade. He swiped the back of his arm across his face, then sheathed his knife before he approached where she still sat on the ground.

  “Winn?”

  He kneeled in front of her.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked softly. She shook her head. She stayed motionless when he reached out for her forehead and his fingers rubbed the smudge from her skin. His blue eyes burned like two slanted embers when he looked down at her, her heart beating like a jack rabbit trapped in a snare.

  “You will never wear the mark of another warrior.”

  The words were coarse from his gritted jaw, and in one motion he swept her up into his arms. She rode in his lap back to the village, her riderless pony trailing behind.

  ***

  “Patawomecks. They were scouts,” Makedewa said. He inhaled smoke from the long pipe, passing it to Winn as he exhaled. They sat with the other men in the Long House, cross-legged on furs in a circle. There were few Paspahegh men left in the village, many eradicated by English raids or white man’s diseases, and of the forty odd men, only half were able bodied enough to be considered warriors. Though only twenty strong, they were still fierce fighters, and Winn was confident they could handle the threat from a few rogue Patawomeck.

  “What reason do they have to spy on us? We leave their lands to them. We let them trade with the English as they please,” another warrior spoke. Pimtune, an older man, sat up and addressed the others. Born with a twisted upper lip, he looked as if he always smiled, even when he was clearly agitated.