The Legend of the Bloodstone

by E. B. Brown

  “Ah, more silly clothes my daughter will ruin?”

  Maggie rolled her eyes at Winn as he approached. They watched Kwetii scramble onto her belly and sit up on the blanket, her round blue eyes searching for something to hold her attention, looking up at the ancient willow tree that shaded their serene resting place. She spotted Winn standing behind Maggie and let out a screech with her two chubby arms upraised toward her father. When he scooped her up, Maggie noticed the rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “Hunting?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, we will return before dark. How goes the packing?”

  “Most of it is ready. We can leave on your word,” she replied, scrunching her shoulder to her ear as he kissed her neck , his touch sending shivers down her back. He held Kwetii at his hip with one arm and wrapped his other around her waist, lifting her up and spinning them both around as they screeched with laughter.

  “Stop, stop, enough!” she laughed. Kwetii emitted a brisk hiccup through her wide toothless grin. The child clutched one long piece of hair in her hand, but Winn did not seem to mind.

  Her chest heaved with the effort of catching her breath and trying not to laugh, and as she looked down at his chest where her hand rested, she could see Winn was breathing heavy as well. Warmed from the mid day sun, his skin felt hot beneath her fingers, and she could feel the stagger of his heart beat under his breast.

  “You have to leave?” she asked breathlessly.

  He shifted very slightly, but enough for her to feel he could be convinced to stay if she gave him a good reason. She lifted her chin and placed a fleeting kiss on his neck, beneath his chin, where she knew he was sensitive, and she smiled when he groaned and his fingers tightened on her waist. With all the preparations of leaving, they had whittled the yehakins down and all slept now in the cave, and under the watchful eye of five other people and one cranky baby, they had done little more than sleep at night.

  Outside on such a beautiful day, with nature smiling around them, she realized how long it had been and her body thrummed like a plucked string in anticipation of his touch. She stretched up on her toes and nipped at his earlobe, pleased when he shivered and his head ducked toward hers. His raven hair brushed her shoulder as his hungry mouth sought hers, his free arm drawing her closer so that she felt just how much he wanted her as well.

  “Come inside,” he murmured between kisses.

  “We’ll have to hurry, the others will be back soon.”

  He grinned. “It will be faster if I take you here, ntehem.”

  She gasped when his hand slid under her dress and covered one buttock, grasping her firmly to him.

  “See? I will not need long,” he whispered. He lowered the baby to the blanket and quickly returned to attack her, pushing her dress up and sliding his hand between her thighs to test her readiness.

  “Here?” she squeaked. He nodded, one hand busy with the laces at her neck, grunting when the doeskin fell open and he had access to her breasts.

  “Yes, here.”

  She straddled his hips as he lifted her up, wincing as the bark scratched against her back when he pushed her against the tree trunk, the pain only a minor discomfort compared to the feel of his lips on her skin.

  The butt of the gun smacked against her knuckles and she moaned.

  “Rifle,” she said. He lifted the strap off with one quick swipe and leaned the gun next to her on the tree. His breechclout was pushed aside and she cried out with his thrust, the delicious joining serving her to a place where time slowed to nothingness and her blood knew naught but his.

  “Ah, yes!” he groaned, bearing them back harder against the tree, the force of the movement sending a tremor down deep through her core. She tasted blood on her tongue from where she bit her own lip, felt the abrasion of her skin upon the rough bark, but she heard nothing in her ears except the whisper of need between them, roaring with a violence as if a current through her veins. Hard and soft, wicked and weak, they moved together in frantic rhythm, taking enough for the moment but wanting it all.

  “Ntehem,” he said when he leaned spent against her, his forehead pressed to hers. “I told you it would be quick.”

  She giggled and kissed his trembling lips as her legs slid down to support her own weight. The baby let out a wail, piercing the peaceful glow between them, and they reluctantly separated. Maggie pulled the wailing child into her arms and sighed when Kwetii latched frantically onto a sore nipple, wincing as the babe clutched at her breast but relieved to give her comfort all the same.

  Winn picked up the rifle and slung it over his shoulder by the carrying strap, then kissed her flushed cheek. His mouth twisted up into a grin, his blue eyes squinted half-closed as he looked down on the nursing babe.

  “If only I could spend my day like that,” he murmured.

  “Like a baby?” she asked. He nodded.

  “Suckling your breast? Yes, that would be a good life,” he grinned.

  Maggie rolled her eyes and pursed her lips together, but was unable to stifle a laugh when he enclosed them both in a fierce hug. His lips sent a shiver through her when he kissed her ear and whispered sweet Paspahegh endearments, his breath thick and warm on her neck.

  “Hurry back,” she said.

  “You will see me at nightfall. Be good, ntehem.”

  She watched him walk to the path at the edge of the woods, and when she could no longer see the outline of his bronzed shoulders, she took the baby back to the cave.

  ***

  She rolled the letter tight and bound it with a thin piece of rawhide. Winn’s pewter flask, a gift from Benjamin, sat waiting to receive the missive. It would have to do. She could think of no other way to let Marcus know she lived, and that although she would be long dead before such word reached him, he would know she lived a happy life in the past.

  On the outside of the rolled parchment, written with a dove quill dipped in some ink Chetan brought back from town, she left directions. It was to be given to Marcus Neilson on Saturday, October sixth, two thousand twelve, the day after the Bloodstone took her. She knew it was possible the letter would never reach him, but she had to try. It was the only way she could put the ghosts of her future to rest.

  May 1623

  Dear Marcus,

  I can only pray that this letter somehow reaches you, and that you can forgive me for not returning home. Believe me, I tried to return, many times, but the longer I stayed, the more I came to see my life was meant to be lived in the past.

  I’m not crazy. I do not write this under duress. Nothing bad happened to me when I disappeared. I think I heard you calling me as I left that day in the barn, so you probably saw me disappear. Please know there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. Some things are just meant to be, and I truly believe my leaving was one of them.

  It was a strange black stone that did it, a shiny warm stone with a streak of red running through the center like a bloody vein. It is called a Bloodstone, and it is very powerful. My husband buried them many years ago, a small pile of them inside an old trunk, right where our barn was built. They must have been dug up and just thrown into the foundation when they built the place. If you find any more of them in the barn, please bury them deep in the earth so no one can ever find them. Although the Bloodstone brought me here, I cannot say for sure how the magic works, so I view them with more fear than curiosity.

  Please know I am safe and happy here with my husband, Winkeohkwet. We have a beautiful daughter, and I am sure the future will be filled with happiness.

  I must tell you something, and though I hesitate to cause you grief, I know you would want to hear it. Your son, Benjamin, was here in the past. My friend Finola tells me he traveled here as a young boy, and then lived among the English settlers at Martin’s Hundred, outside of Jamestown. We helped him use the Bloodstone to return to your time. I hope that Benjamin reached you and that he is safe. It would comfort me to know you see him again, that your son is returned to you. He will
have much to tell you about this time, but I will leave that to him, as it is his story to tell.

  May your future be happy. I love you very much, and think of you often. Please take care, and rest easy, knowing I am happy as well.

  Love always,

  Maggie-mae

  The Bloodstones sat piled inside the Viking chest, a square metal lined thing that Winn buried them in. Someday, somehow, those stones ended up in the foundation of her barn, so Maggie hoped that by leaving the flask with the stones, the letter might find its way to Marcus.

  She placed the flask inside and closed the trunk. Kwetii let out a squeal from where she lay on her belly watching as Maggie shoved dirt back over the chest.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Everything is okay now.”

  ***

  Kwetii was crying, her sobs echoing against the walls of the cavern.

  Maggie reached out to the babe, but found an empty space beside her where the babe should be.

  The cries became weaker, and Maggie screamed for Winn.

  “Winn?” she whispered, sitting up groggily on her pallet, the furs tumbling down in a pile around her. The events of the nightmare came back in one disjointed flash, and she reached for her daughter amidst her panic. “Oh, sweetheart!” she sighed. She brushed back a tear from her eye and placed the sleeping baby against her chest.

  She looked up at the sky as she left the cave. It was just past dusk, the sky slathered with streaks of purple and orange as the sun dipped low over the horizon. She must have dozed off after feeding the baby, as they often did, which was good since that meant Winn would be back soon. Maggie did not like to be alone at the settlement, but with the others tied up with preparing to leave, she found herself there with just the baby for company quite often.

  Maggie placed the baby on the ground, still swaddled in a soft doeskin blanket, and walked a few paces away into the underbrush to relieve her bladder. She hastily patted dry and rose to her feet.

  They had not made a sound. Standing over Kwetii were two familiar warriors. Maggie recognized the scalplock hair immediately, and as bile rose up from the pit of her stomach, she knew they were the men sent by Opechancanough.

  “Kwishali!” She said forcefully, tilting her head up to address them in the few words of their language she knew. She hoped if she told them they frightened her, they would back away from the baby, but her hopes dimmed when she saw they did not budge. Their faces displayed nothing, two granite slabs staring at her and the baby as if they had stumbled onto something that perplexed them. One man glanced at the other and muttered a string of curt words she did not understand, and the other nodded and made a quick retort. When one man bent to pick up the child, she darted toward him and grabbed for her daughter.

  “No! Leave her!” she screamed, punching wildly at the warrior who caught her by the upper arm. Her heart plummeted when the other man held her daughter out, as if she were a hot potato, blistering his hands.

  “Here. Take the child!” the man said in stilted English.

  “My husband is not here!” she snapped. Kwetii began to cry softly, and Maggie raised her to her shoulder, trying to comfort her while she figured out what the warriors wanted.

  The first scowled. He pointed to Maggie, then to the woods. She clutched the baby and shook her head, her eyes darting past the men to see if anyone else had returned to the cave. It was achingly quiet, leaving her to deal with the unwelcomed visitors herself.

  “You go!” the native ordered again, pointing more forcefully this time toward the woods.

  “No! I’m not going anywhere!” she hissed.

  At her vocal protest, the men looked briefly at each other, and then the second man unsheathed the knife at his side. Kwetii squealed as Maggie stepped backward and stumbled, caught by the warrior at her side. She had no idea what intent they held toward her, and with the horror of realization rising she knew she could not fight with them without causing harm to her daughter.

  She passed one more fleeting glance toward the cave in hopes anyone had returned, and then mutely went along with the two Powhatan warriors.

  ***

  Winn dropped the small deer carcass near the fire and looked around the yard. He heard voices down by the waterfall, and recognized the gleeful laugh of Ahi Kekeleksu, probably getting one last bath from Teyas before they set out on their journey to find a new home. He wondered if Maggie and the babe were down there as well, and he smiled when he thought of sneaking up on them as a surprise.

  He slid the rifle off his shoulder and meant to put it inside the cave, but when he walked toward the crevice, his gait slowed. Standing upright, stiff in the ground, was the spear of a warrior, a red tipped feather attached to it blowing gently with the breeze.

  “Maggie,” he called, to no response. “Tentay Teh!” His skin felt cold and he felt a pressure around his chest, squeezing slowly until he shouted again. “Maggie!”

  Teyas and Ahi Kekeleksu came running at his frantic call, but neither Maggie nor the babe were with them. He pulled the spear from the ground and swore, swinging around to challenge the empty woods for want of any other to vent his rage on, his arms spread apart like an eagle ready to take flight.

  “I will come for them!” he screamed.

  Chapter 26

  Maggie sat stiffly beside the other women on the furs that flanked the Weroance. Opechancanough perched on the highest dais, surrounded on each side by two of his wives, one his favorite wife, and the other his newest, youngest wife. Both were quite beautiful, decked out in all the finery they possessed, their skin stained with bright red ochre and decorated with layers of copper and silver bangles. The Weroance was most impressive of all, showing off his riches by wearing every piece of jewelry he could manage to fit onto his sinewy weathered body.

  He was a tall man, and when seated his new wife stood barely taller than the top of his head as she stood beside him. Maggie only noticed when the woman approached him to sit down, because women did not presume to speak or stand in the presence of the Weroance without invitation. Opechancanough ruled without resistance, and although Maggie thought of him as a vindictive, bitter warrior, his people clearly showed intense love for him by the way they worshipped his very presence.

  Maggie rocked Kwetii, who thankfully slept peacefully through the pounding of drums and joyous cries throughout the long house. She dared another glance at the Weroance, who silently watched the celebration and occasionally nodded his approval. She noticed his eyelids drooped a bit, as if sleepy, and that he seemed more fatigued as the night wore on. She had no idea what they were celebrating, her understanding of the Powhatan language not much more than conversational, and certainly not sufficient enough to risk an attempt with her captives.

  She watched the proceedings from her spot of semi-importance among the Weroance’s less favorite wives, and considered herself lucky for the moment that they had treated her quite well. As the night wore on, she wondered what the Weroance planned for her, and when she saw Winn enter the long house she realized the purpose of her presence.

  She was bait.

  He displaced the light around him when he passed through the doorway, his wide shoulders braced, his arms tensed tight to the ends of his clenched fists. His chest marked with black paint, his face streaked and shadowed so that his teeth appeared to glow with malevolence, he carried a long decorated spear as he approached the high dais. His sapphire eye gleamed as he stared down the Weroance, and Maggie felt her composure slip away when she realized he was going to confront his Uncle.

  The drumbeats stopped, and the long house fell silent. Winn raised the spear over his head with both hands and then thrust it down into the ground, where it stood shuddering before the Weroance. She dared not let out a breath as she watched her husband clench his jaw and kneel down before his Uncle.

  Winn pounded one fisted hand to his chest, and looked up at Opechancanough. He kept his breathing shallow, barely expanding his chest, and she could see h
is fingers clench and unclench as he waited to be acknowledged by his Uncle.

  “I see you, nephew, and I will hear you now,” the Weroance called out. Whispers commenced throughout the crowd, and from the faces of the people around her Maggie could not tell if they were voices of admiration or disgust.

  Winn remained on bent knee, but stared defiantly at the Weroance, one hand braced on the impaled spear, his knuckles standing out pale against the dark wood.

  “I come for my wife,” he said, slow but loud, as if he desired everyone in the long house to hear it. Maggie was sure they all did, as the eyes of every native were fixed on the rash warrior as he spoke.

  Opechancanough narrowed his brows, and his eyes focused most impetuously on Winn.

  “What will you give me for her?” he asked. “She is quite valuable to me.”

  Winn must have anticipated the answer, since he shot his response back in quick succession.

  “I will stand by your side against the English during this treaty.”

  The Weroance pursed his lips, and then his creased face broke into a wide smile. Maggie wondered how he managed to eat with nary a tooth in his blasted stubborn head.

  “Then join me here, nephew, and I will give you the Red Woman,” Opechancanough pronounced, spreading his arms wide in a show of pleasure at the deal. The long house erupted into a chasm of relieved cries, and the rhythmic thud of the drums started anew. Winn rose up off his knee, his hand still gripping the spear.

  “I have one more request.”

  Maggie felt the blood leave her cheeks, and the drums stopped again. Opechancanough rose from his sitting position and approached Winn. Maggie swallowed hard at the sight of the ceremonial mallet he held in his hand, knowing how easily the bastard could flip the switch of his temper and turn into an irrational sod.