by E. B. Brown
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. She overplayed her hand against his composure and lost, a startled yelp escaping her lips when he snatched her chin in his fingers, his ebony eyes flaring.
“I will touch what I please, madam,” he snarled. “You only breathe right now because of my command. Perhaps you should consider that before you speak.” He released her chin and she sat back on the ground, her eyes still set warily on him as she fought to control her rapid breathing.
“What do you mean to do with me?” she asked.
“What my nephew failed to do.”
“Your nephew is a…a decent man.”
One eyebrow rose slightly. “Decent? What meaning is that, Red Woman?”
“It means good. Kind.”
His black eyes narrowed into slits and his weathered face hardened.
“Winkeohkwet will not disobey me. No warrior of mine makes such a mistake. You think you are so important to my nephew, you think he would not crush your skull at my command?”
He meant every syllable, from his expression of wonder at her protest to his pledge to murder her himself. She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and closed her eyes.
“I know he would not hurt me,” she whispered.
He darted forward and grabbed her neck with one large and surprisingly vise-like hand, the other latched to her shoulder to make it easier to drag her close to his pedestal. There he slammed her head down onto a flat, round stump protruding from the ground, the skin of her neck and shoulders scraping against the roots that anchored the stump to the ground. Her vision split into blackness with shredded stars whirling above, but before she could succumb to losing consciousness, his hand loosened on her throat enough for her to gasp air back into her lungs.
“I have killed many Time Walkers. You are one of many, Red Woman, and you will not be the last.”
She saw dark dried blood on the stump, her cheek pressed into the slimy wood that she realized was slick with gore from another recent sacrifice. She gasped another breath of air through her narrowed windpipe, unable to move since his fingers still held her down by the neck. What could she say to save herself? She was no Pale Witch, nor a witch of any kind, and her magic came from her knowledge of her own time, not some spell. Her stomach whirled and dropped when she saw him raise a mallet in his other hand.
“I know when you will die,” she croaked. The effect was not instantaneous, but it worked. He slowly lowered the weapon and removed his hand from her neck, and she gauged her actions against his by very carefully raising her head. She kneeled in front of him, hoping her attempt at mimicking other Indian women would show him her deference. Trying to control her rapid breathing as her lungs screamed for more air, she remained hunched over at his command, her cheek caked with wet gore from a previous sacrifice on the stump.
“Then your magic is more powerful than even the Pale Witch,” he said, careful and controlled in his response, spoken more to himself than to her. “Tell me, Red Woman, when will I die?”
She made the decision, not certain if it would keep her alive, but afraid it was her only hope.
“I see you trick the English by sharing their food. I see your warriors take many lives in one bloody day, in all the English villages. It will be called the Massacre of 1622. You think it will drive them back across the ocean, but it will not,” she said. Her voice gained conviction as she thought up more nonsense to cast doubt in his mind. “A Weroance who knows when his time ends cannot lead his people,” she said. “And the man who kills the Red Woman will curse his people for eternity.” She dared to look up, and saw his eyes opened wide and his mouth slightly agape. “I have seen it…and it will be!” she hissed.
She clenched her hands tightly but could not feel the pain as her nails dug into her palms, too focused on the way the deep bronze of his skin faded to a grey tinged pallor on his face. The hand holding the mallet twitched and rose slightly, indecisive, before it dropped back down at his side.
“Nemattanew!”
The warrior responded to the Weroance’s command with only a few seconds delay, and Maggie realized he had been standing nearby the entire time.
“Take her to the English, since they claim her as kin. She will share their fate.”
Opechancanough lowered his head close to her crusted cheek, and though her heart pounded loudly in her ears, his words were clear.
“You may keep your life today, Red Woman, as I spared the Pale Witch once before. When you see her, tell her what was done here today,” he whispered. “You will die, but not by hand. I will not let you curse my people.”
He straightened up and nodded. Nemattanew grabbed her by her bound wrists and dragged her out of the long house.
Part Three
Creep along, lest the fight falls upon you
Chapter 15
She sat in a wagon, her head feeling as if an axe had split it, although it remained intact and throbbing. Nemattanew rode beside the wagon, the man called Thomas Martin driving from a bench in front of her, ambling along as if it they found a stray white woman every day. She closed her eyes for a moment with a semblance of relief. She was still alive, and that was enough of a victory for the moment.
Maggie sat numb behind the man who claimed to be her Uncle. Whether he truly had mistaken her for his kin or had some other devious plan in mind, she did not know, but she was certain she wanted no part in it either way. She subdued the urge to tell him exactly why she was not his niece, but the warnings from Winn still resonated through her.
Thomas Martin finally breeched the silence by clearing his throat with a cough.
“I am glad to see ye hale my niece. It seems the savages treated you with kindness. I am saddened to hear of your ordeal since the accident and wish you a speedy return to good health.”
“W-what accident?” was the only sensible thing she could muster.
“Why, yer fall from the ship. Ye were thought dead in the river. Ye know not what I speak of?”
“Uhm, no. No, I don’t remember falling off a boat,” she murmured. He cracked the reins against the hide of the horse to urge it faster through the dense wooded trail.
“No memory? Have ye lost your sense, girl?” he asked.
“No! I just don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.
“So there it is. The escorts from the Company said you took a fall no man could survive. Perhaps it jumbled yer memory a bit,” he shook his head in disgust. “I hope you recover yer wits soon, or I will lose the price I paid for ye passage,” he grumbled.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your speech is queer, niece, did my brother speak so? Mayhap he spoke that blasted French and twisted your English tongue for it.” He shook his head at her expectant appraisal. “No matter. I think young Benjamin has already taken a fancy to ye, so do not worry. He is a good man. Perhaps he will contract for you.”
“Contract me?” she choked. One of his eyebrows rose up and he peered back at her.
“Ye signed the contract before you left England, girl. You will wed one of the men in the colony, which is why I paid ye passage. Jack-of-a-Feather is a good friend to us, be glad he returned ye. Your rescue came at a good time, lest I would be lost of my money with no bride to barter with.”
“There has been some mistake, I am not your niece!”
He looked sideways at her. “Yes. Yes you are. Hold yer tongue, girl, if ye know what is good for you.” He spit out a dark wad of tobacco and clucked to the horses. “Ye have the look of yer McMillan mother, ye know, blasted bloody wench she was.”
Maggie had learned something of the time she was stuck in, and knew when it was prudent to keep silent. As much as she wanted to jump from the wagon and start running, she had seen enough of the untamed wilderness and knew better than to risk her neck in it with little more than the doeskin on her back. As if he read her thoughts, Thomas looked down at her, a frown on his lips and his heavy brows slanted.
“We will get ye i
nto suitable clothes as soon as we return. Yer heathen dress will surely give your aunt a fright, but she will make do.”
Maggie agreed. She would give anyone a fright with little trouble.
***
Nighttime had fallen by the time they reached the town. The wagon came to a stop and Thomas jumped quickly down, but Maggie remained still, unable to remove her fingers from where they were clenched around the plank supports.
“Mistress?”
Benjamin stood beside the wagon, holding his hand out to her expectantly. She turned slowly and looked down into his clear blue eyes, noting with a flush that the shade reminded her of Winn’s odd blue Indian eyes. The man smiled at the color rising in her cheeks, and she imagined he assumed it meant something else. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and took his offered hand, and as she stepped down, she glanced past him.
Still seated on his war pony, Nemattanew watched them. His face was a flat mask that betrayed no indication of unease, but Maggie knew she spotted a flicker in his gaze when their eyes met.
She choked back a sob. She had thrived on the strength in her anger, and it fed her resolve to carry on like a dysfunctional crutch. Now, separated from Winn, she felt that urge drain away like a wound gone bloodless, and the sickly taste of fear pricked her soul as she wondered if he would ever find her. She knew her American history, and she knew Jamestown was not a safe haven. Nemattanew was leaving her here to rot with the other whites, getting rid of the Red Woman one way or another.
“Thank you,” she mumbled. She turned her attention to Benjamin. Taller than the others, with thick wavy dark hair curling around his collar, he took her dusty hand and tucked it in his elbow. A stray curl fell over his brow as he dipped his head to speak.
“Are you steady, Mistress? I will carry you should ye have need,” he said quietly, heard only to her ears. She shook her head and let him lead her to the house.
Larger than she expected and constructed of stone and wood, she followed Benjamin through the plank doorway inside the house. Thomas Martin had already roused a woman she imagined was his wife, and she was comforted by the kindness in her eyes. Short and pleasingly round with a swath of ebony hair twisted at her nape, she listened to a whispered explanation from Thomas and placed both hands to her lips as he eyes widened. The woman then nodded vigorously and pressed her hands against her heart as she turned to Maggie.
“Welcome home, Margaret. Do you remember me, child, your Uncle said you took a blow to the head? I am your Aunt Alice. We are blessed to see ye live and well,” she said. She motioned with a hand for Maggie to follow. “Come with me, we shall leave the men to their business.”
Benjamin nodded at her as if in blessing, and Maggie let her hand slip from his arm to follow Alice into another room off the main area.
“I fear my dress may be a bit short for you, dear, but it will do until we can fit ye for another. Anything will serve better than that which you wear-thank our Lord no other women were about to see you arrive. Tis good they know nothing of this,” Alice muttered, pulling a white cotton shift from a wooden chest next to the lone window in the room. Two functional shutters stood open to admit the brisk night breeze, the opening naked and free of glass. Alice noticed her staring at the space.
“My husband says he will have glass windows for us before the winter falls, dear. He is so busy now with managing those who work the tobacco fields, he cannot tend to it yet. But soon he will remedy that,” she assured Maggie. Maggie said nothing as the woman thrust the shift and a wool dress at her, as if Maggie knew what to do with it. “I will tend to the men and return for ye, dear.”
Maggie stared blankly at her back as she left the room, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. She sat down on the edge of a narrow cot, one of the few furnishings in the room. Dropping the clothes in a heap on the floor, she put her head in her hands. The tears came fast, staining her dusty cheeks with hot denial. She had no idea how to get herself out of the unbelievable mess she was in. Maggie lay down on the stiff cot and curled her knees to her chest, hugging herself as she cried. She startled at the hand on her hair, relieved to see it was only Alice patting her head when she opened her tear-swollen eyes.
“There, there, dearie. You just sleep now. The rest will wait for morning.”
The older woman pulled a soft woolen blanket over her shoulders and tucked it under her chin, patting her back softly in comfort. Maggie closed her eyes to the gesture and let the exhaustion of sleep carry off her weary mind.
She heard the lock click securely into place when the woman left.
***
Maggie kicked at the ankle length skirt restricting her pace as she tried to keep in step with Alice, but her gait was clumsy enough to cause the other woman to pause in wait. Alice pursed her lips but said nothing while she waited for Maggie to regain her bearings.
“I hate this dress!” Maggie muttered. If she had even a notion of where she was at in relation to the Paspahegh village, she would have made a run for it as soon as they stepped out of the house, but being that Thomas already had an idea she might be a flight risk, her opportunities to flee were kept to a minimum. Not that she would have made it very far. She suspected that in the clothes she currently wore, she was more likely to fall on her face than escape.
She could feel the sweat dripping down her back and her scent was no better, reminding her of the way sweatpants smelled after a good workout. The stench did not seem to bother Alice as much, and she knew the other woman thought her daft for insisting on a bath that morning. Maggie had two-fold reason for her cleanly ways, the most of which was the desire to keep her nearly healed shoulder wound from festering in the moist warmth. The other was her fear of becoming too much like the women around her.
“Hush, girl! What else would you wear?” Alice chastised her.
“I have a few ideas,” Maggie mumbled. They resumed walking toward the church. Nervous about her ability to sit through a long Christian church service, Maggie was eager to have it over with. She tried to plead sickness, but Alice would not be swayed, insistent she must do her duty and attend her first church service at Martin’s Hundred after her “terrible ordeal with the savages.” The constant proximity of either Alice or Thomas kept her imprisoned, and she was acutely aware she had not any private moments, other than using a chamber pot. They used an outside closet, but they insisted she not “tax” herself. Maggie was convinced it was just another method to keep her from fleeing.
“Young Benjamin is coming toward us, Margaret. Be kind!” Alice warned.
Maggie had also noticed the tall man striding toward them through the crowd. Instead of going toward the church, as the groups dispersed through the town center were, he cut through others with a well-placed smile and nod of apology as he made way to them. His earnest grin was too infectious to miss, and she found she could not be too unkind to him.
“Good morning ladies! I pray you will allow me to escort you to church?”
Maggie was not too affected by him to decline, but Alice squashed her refusal before it left her lips.
“Why, of course, dear Benjamin! My niece takes kindly on your offer, but I will walk with my husband. I see he joins us,” Alice answered. Thomas Martin approached as well, and although the crowd parted for him, he did not garner the same glance of appreciation that Benjamin did.
“Thank you, Mistress Alice. I will take good care of Mistress Margaret at your leave,” Benjamin promised. He waited a long moment with his elbow outstretched before Maggie would take it, and she was certain he would give up if she simply ignored him, but she was surprised to see he continued waiting through the awkward moment until she finally slipped her hand onto his elbow. Her brows creased at the warmth of his grin and the way he placed his other hand over her fingers, as if to keep them from slipping away.
“So, Mistress Margaret, how do you fare since your return?” he asked when Alice and Thomas were out of earshot.
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?
” She bristled at his words, certain it was another display of distaste for her spending time with the Indians. She had heard enough of it from the whispers between Thomas and Alice.
His skin flushed at her words, and his half-smile seemed strained at her response.
“I just thought your ordeal may have been quite distressing, with the accident. That is all I meant, Mistress Margaret.”
“There was no accident!” she hissed. “You need to help me get away from these idiots!”
“Ah, uh … quiet down,” he whispered, his eyes briefly darting around at passersby. “It’s not so simple! Thomas Martin swears you are his niece!”
“I’m not!”
“Then who exactly are ye?” he asked. His fingers tightened over hers as she moved to pull away, so she could not disengage herself without making a considerable scene.
“I’m just… not his niece, that’s all,” she mumbled. There was nothing she could say to prove her identity. No driver’s license, no credit card, nothing of value to illustrate exactly whom she belonged to. As far the colonists were concerned, the word of a man was law, and she was most painfully aware that her word held as little meaning as that of the Indians.
“You needn’t be afraid of Winn anymore, miss. You can tell me the truth of where you come from. You need not return to the Indians.”
She squinted up at him. She heard a tremor in his voice, only slight, but enough to cause an undercurrent of unease to wash over her, pinpricks of goose bumps rising up on her arms in response.
“I thought you were his friend,” she said softly. His head dipped down toward her ear, and he slowed their pace by pulling back on her arm.
“He is my friend! ‘Tis the only reason I did not put a bullet through his foolish whoreson head for this!” He raked a hand through his tousled hair, disrupting the binding enough so that scattered curls sprung free. She moved to step back, but he held her arm firm. “I thought more of him than this – that he would steal a good English woman and – and act on his savage instincts! He asks too much for me to stand by with no action!”
