by E. B. Brown
“Tell me your request.”
Winn glanced beyond his Uncle to where the warriors stood flanking the Weroance.
“I ask for the right to challenge the warrior who stole my woman. I will take his life, and then I will stand at your side for this English treaty.”
“No!” Maggie moaned, pressing her daughter to her face, the doeskin blanket muffling both her cries and that of the startled baby. Why did he have to make a challenge? Couldn’t he see that both Maggie and Kwetii were perfectly fine, that the entire thing had just been to extract his compliance? Even Maggie knew if Opechancanough wanted her dead, she would have been exterminated long before now. It was clear the entire kidnapping served only as a means to bring Winn back in line.
“You may have your challenge.” The Weroance flicked his hand at his wives, and they obediently rose to follow him. “We will gather by the Great Fire, and see your fight.”
A long line of warriors followed behind the wives, and then the less favored wives began to file out, one of them holding onto her arm to keep her inside the pack as they walked past Winn. The remainder of the Indians in the long house filed out in an unruly crowd, shouts and taunts bouncing through them. Some glared at Winn and some turned their backs, but most smiled and acknowledged him with a respectful nod. Maggie looked helplessly at him and longed to go to him, though she knew she could not.
His eyes met hers as she passed. She saw a flicker in his gaze, and no other sign of acknowledgement, but she was certain he saw in her heart what words she could not let loose.
The entire village gathered at the Great Fire, even the children. Faces turned toward the warriors in the circle, eyes alight with anticipation. Hands drew Maggie back inside the crowd, the wives embracing her within their ranks to watch the spectacle.
“What will they do?” Maggie asked.
“Quiet!” came a hiss from the woman beside her.
Kwetii dozed at her shoulder, the baby thankfully exhausted from the excitement, snoring while making tiny mewling sounds against her. Maggie rocked her and patted her bottom, more to give herself a task than to comfort the child. The babe slept soundly when she needed to, no matter what was going on around her, safe in her arms and oblivious to the risk her father was about to embark on.
Murmurs from the crowd abruptly stopped.
Winn pushed through a barrage of hands, reaching the clearing in the middle of the circular throng of people. He had no weapon save his capable hands, which turned white across the knuckles as he clenched them at his sides. Stripped of his clothes, he stood waiting for his opponent, wearing only a simple undecorated breechclout. His wide chest was streaked with black paint, three lines slashed on each side of his chest, like wings stretching out from his ribs. The bottom of his face was covered from ears through his jaw, the black mask heightening the whiteness in his teeth when he flashed a snarl to his opponent.
Kwetii squirmed with a sleepy squeal. Maggie looked down at her own clenched arms and immediately lightened her grasp, patting the baby to apologize. She had not realized she was gripping her harder until the baby stirred.
The village priest entered the clearing. Clad in ceremonial garb, a white fur cloak across his hunched shoulders, the man stood between the two warriors. A horned helmet enclosed his head, giving him enough height to near that of Winn, yet the diminutive man still looked fragile to her rather than fierce. He raised a feather-decorated spear above his head as if in salute, and all fell silent once again.
“Kweshkwesh and Winkeohkwet!” he screamed. “Finish this!”
Crouched low, hands outstretched, Kweshkwesh darted at Winn’s knees the moment the priest left the circle. The crowd erupted into bellows and howls, and multiple drums thudded in unison around the men. Louder, stronger, the drums set the rhythm, swallowing the cries and screams, dulling the sounds until all she could hear was a distant echo as she watched her husband fight.
Arms locked on each other, the men were head to shoulder, their feet scraping the ground to find purchase as each struggled to get the upper hand. Kweshkwesh lunged with his knife, slicing across Winn’s chest, and Maggie cried out at the surge of blood on his skin.
“No!” she shouted, her plea muted into nothingness among the voices of the villagers. She saw Opechancanough with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the fight as he stood next to the priest. How could he stand there and watch his own nephew fight to the death? What a bastard he was!
Winn paid no mind to the wound as he showed his own knife, slashing at Kweshkwesh in retaliation. He made contact and lunged forward, knocking Kweshkwesh to the ground, his chest heaving and dripping blood as he straddled the warrior. Winn held the knife to his throat, and as he paused in finishing the act, suddenly the noise among the people diminished and heads turned to Opechancanough.
Winn looked toward the Weroance, and then down at the man he held against the ground.
“I will not kill this man!” Winn shouted.
There was a sharp intake of gasps among the crowd, but Opechancanough did not waver.
“This man only followed orders, and I will not take his life for it.”
Winn stood up, his knife still clutched in his fist, his blue eyes fastened on the Weroance. Kweshkwesh slowly rose from the ground, his head hanging and his face shielded, and as two women came forward to help him, he shrugged off their hands and stalked away from the circle.
“Let it be known to all. No man will take what is mine!”he bellowed.
Winn impaled his knife in the dirt at the feet of Opechancanough and stared at the man, their gazes locked for what seemed like hours, as the villagers waited for the outcome. The Weroance betrayed no surprise at the challenge, instead merely meeting Winn’s angry stare with a pensive one of his own.
Kwetii whimpered beneath her swaddling blanket.
The Weroance straightened his back and stepped one pace toward Winn.
“We hear you, warrior!” he shouted. Before he could finish the words, shouts and whoops filled the air, and the drum began to beat out a frantic celebratory rhythm. Men and women broke off from the circle and began to dance, and the children scattered like rabbits through the mesh of people.
As villagers vanished in all directions, Maggie pushed through the crowd to get to Winn. He turned, and she could see his eyes scan the crowd for her, finally meeting her own as relief flooded his face. Damn the Indians and all their tribal rules, she was going to her husband and no one would stop her this time. She threw herself into his arms.
“Winn!”
“Tentay teh,” he said. He held her tight, his breath warm upon her hair.
“You could have been killed!”
“You think so little of my skill, woman?”
“You didn’t have to fight him!”
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
She bent her head to his chest, the babe sheltered between them, and his arms tightened around them.
“The English come here tomorrow to make peace. I will stand with my Uncle, and then we will leave.”
“Your brothers?”
“They wait for us to return.”
They passed over the celebration and instead retired to a nearby yehakin, escorted by several of the less favored wives and left with a multitude of supplies. Furs heaped on a sleeping mat, and a basket lined with down for the baby, they had all the comforts they needed for what Maggie hoped would be a very short stay. The women accompanied them as they readied the yehakin, bringing them bowls of food and stone jugs of drink, which they placed near the fire. One took the baby from Maggie and placed her in the makeshift cradle.
Maggie did not understand their words, which seemed different from the Paspahegh she was accustomed to, yet Winn had no such impediment and spoke softly to the women. One older woman in particular talked to him at length, and from the intimacy of their exchange Maggie was sure the woman was known to him. She was comely, with one long braid down her back, her oval face creased with tiny lines at the
edges of her round brown eyes but betraying no other sign of her age. She placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder and Maggie watched it linger before she gave him a half-bow and summoned the other women.
As she left, she gave Maggie a shy smile, and then one more nod to Winn before she was gone.
“What was that about?”
“What?”
“That woman! Who is she?”
Maggie had never seen her husband blush and she was not reassured by the sight. His neck flushed, the color creeping up his jaw and cheeks, until he met her gaze with a hooded stare.
“Sesapatae, wife to my uncle. I lived with her family when I stayed here.”
“Oh. It just seemed like you – like she was someone special.”
“She was the first woman I shared furs with.”
Maggie sat down hard on the fur pallet.
“Oh. Oh, okay,” she said. She had no idea what the proper response to such a revelation should be, so she clamped her mouth shut and pulled a fur over her shoulders. Winn said nothing as he sank into the furs beside her, nor as he wrapped his arms around her and pressed his naked skin to hers.
She should not be surprised to hear his explanation, since she was well aware she was not the first woman he laid hands on, but she was perplexed that the woman was his Uncle’s wife. She thought she would drop the subject, as Winn clearly had once he crawled beneath the furs, but when he still said nothing her curiosity won out.
“So how on earth did that happen?” she asked.
He moved above onto one elbow and squinted down at her.
“Like this,” he murmured. He untied the laces on the front of her dress, and his other hand slid down over her thigh. His mouth dipped down onto her neck, sending shivers over her skin as he nuzzled her playfully.
“But – “
“No more talk,” he whispered as he continued the path down her body. When he paused to give attention to her full breasts, she moaned at the contact, the pleasure of his touch mingled with the soreness from nursing, excruciating yet blissful pain that scattered the questions she meant to ask.
“Stop that and answer me!”
He shook his head and parted her thighs with his knee, continuing his gentle ministrations as he gave worship to her body. Slick with sweat under the heavy furs, their skin slipped against each other, his touch rising in urgency until he finally slid inside her, effectively silencing her remaining protests as he rocked her back against the furs.
“My wife and child were stolen from me today. I fought the man who stole her, and I threatened my Weroance in front of the entire village,” he said, his mouth pressed against her ear. “I will have you now, and you will have me!’
He rose up above her, his thrust boring her down, their limbs entwined. She knew no tenderness in his touch, for it was anger and despair that drove him, the sweet culmination sealing the oath of possession between their bodies as they moved as one.
Later, when he lay spent, his head nestled against her shoulder, she felt the breath leave him and his tense muscles finally softened. He played with a lock of her hair, absently twisting it into a ringlet, his palm resting on her breast.
“It is the way of our people,” he said quietly. “I lived here when I became a man. It is custom for the Uncle’s wife to lead the nephew into manhood. There is no more to it than that.”
“Allright then,” she replied, ready to dismiss the topic until another thought took root. “But you wouldn’t expect me – I mean, what about Ahi Kekeleksu?” she stammered.
“It will be the wife to the mother’s brother. Not you.”
“Oh.” She had more questions, but held her tongue.
She heard him laugh, and she reached out to smack his chest in response. He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest.
“You are too busy teaching me, Ntehem. I will not share you with any other.”
The conversation was finished, and she was glad for it.
Chapter 27
Maggie watched the Englishman give his theatrical speech as she sat next to Winn.
Captain Tucker was an enigmatic speaker, his thick baritone sharp and clear as he bellowed out his pledge to the Powhatans. Maggie expected a more imposing figure that would correlate more with the tales told of the man, but instead of an invincible solider, she only saw an average height man wearing a partial suit of overly decorated armor. His girth had long outgrown the outfit, and when he stood up straight to address the crowd, a crack of his belly showed beneath the armor. Maggie smirked each time he raised his arm.
“Will this take very long, you think?” she asked Winn. He sat cross-legged next to Opechancanough, but had been silent through most of the demonstration other than to nod in agreement with the Weroance.
“I know not,” he replied.
The two opposing sides met on the banks of the Potomac, a neutral place where each felt on equal footing. Although he seemed like a psychotic beast at times, Maggie had to admit that Opechancanough was a skilled tactical leader. He had taken years planning the 1622 massacre, cultivating trust with the English so that his warriors could enter their homes without suspicion, until he took his vengeance out on them in one fatal day. Every Powhatan man, woman, and child had known the plan for years, yet he managed to keep their blind loyalty long enough to carry through on the attack.
Now the Great Weroance sat beside her husband, dressed in his finest attire, watching the Englishman pledge a truce to the Powhatan people. She could feel the tension roll off them in waves, from the sly glances they shared and the grunts of disproval from the Weroance as the Englishman spoke.
Maggie looked over Winn’s shoulder to where Kwetii lay in the arms of a Powhatan woman. It made her nervous to see her daughter out of her immediate reach, but Opechancanough had insisted one of his wives hold the child. She suspected it was just another ploy to keep both her and Winn in line throughout the ceremony, and a successful one at that.
“We share this meal as we meet as friends. All who take of this food today make this promise!” Opechancanough called out, raising his hands in the air. The Powhatans hooted and hollered, and the sounds of joyful noise filled the air. The Englishmen, few as they were, and none that she recognized, joined in by clapping and nodding in agreement. She fleetingly wondered why no English women were present, but then she recalled the subservient role they played in Jamestown society and realized they would not be included in such activities.
“Business has no place fer women,” Charles said. Benjamin waved the man off.
“Then you know not my wife, Charles. She is quite clever.” Benjamin replied.
Maggie shuddered at the unwelcome memory. Its shadow persisted, however, nipping at her ankles like hungry fleas, begging for acknowledgement, wanting her blood. Was Benjamin safely returned to his own time? She knew she might never know the answer, and it was best left in the past. She glanced sideways at Winn.
He watched the English as he ate, taking the offered bowl of food from the Taster. Winn only gave her bits from his bowl, and stopped her hand when she reached for his untouched mug of rum.
“Wait.”
He handed the mug to the thin man seated behind them, who took a gulp. Winn watched the Taster for a few moments, shrugged, and then handed it to Maggie. She noticed the Weroance did the same.
Doctor Potts began passing around jugs of ale, which the Indians gladly filled their mugs with. He was another little man, yet dressed in the fine clothes of an aristocrat with a starched stand up collar and shiny new shoes, his brown hair tied neatly with a blue ribbon at his nape. His eyes followed the jugs as he watched the Indians pour out their share.
“’Tis the best we have, for our loyal friends!” Potts shouted, his arm outstretched, pointing to the clay jugs.
The Taster was given an overflowing mug, which he topped off with a gulp before handing it to the Weroance. Opechancanough grinned and raised it in salute.
Maggie looked around the gathering at the Indians seated in
a circle, her mug sitting still full in front of her. Men, women, and children were present, nearly three hundred total, a token of trust to show the English they were sincere in desire for a treaty. A young brave teetered across the fire, and the women around him snickered and laughed.
Then another young brave fell to his knees.
Maggie turned to Winn, who had also seen the men fall, and then she saw Opechancanough lifting his mug to his lips. She lurched over Winn and knocked the mug from the hand of the Weroance in one quick motion, falling into Winn’s arms as a flurry of activity erupted around them.
“Red Woman!” the Weroance shouted. Maggie felt hands trying to pry her from Winn, but her husband held fast and shielded her from her would-be captors.
“It’s poisoned!” she hissed. Both Winn and Opechancanough stared at her, and then turned their attention to the Taster, who hiccupped and promptly fell to the ground in a heap of twitching limbs. Thick foaming bubbles of saliva began to drain from his opened mouth into the dirt.
“Liars! We will kill you all for this!” Opechancanough shouted.
Bedlam exploded around them. Warriors pulled the Weroance to his feet and shuttled him to the dugout boats waiting at the river. He barked out commands and the Indians began to mill toward the canoes, some stumbling and falling into the mud amidst screaming and crying. Maggie franticly searched for Kwetii and nearly keeled over with relief when Winn handed her the babe.
Shots rang out, and Maggie saw the Weroance stumble before he was pulled into a canoe. As the crowd surged toward the shoreline, many men fell, never to rise, all foaming at the mouth as the Taster had done. Women screamed and cried as they ran, dragging children behind them.
The English fired into the crowd, taking down more than the poison could finish off, pecking off the Indians blow by blow. She let Winn push her into a canoe, then reached up for his hand to guide him in, panicked when he kissed her roughly then thrust her away. As the bellow of gunfire roared around them, he pushed the canoe into the current instead of getting in.
