The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

“When a raw Bloodstone is used to travel, it binds to the bearer. You can use no other stone to travel,” he said softly. He took her branded hand and turned it over to reveal the healed scar, tracing the delicate knot in an unending twist upon her palm. “I keep this Bloodstone to remind me.”

  “To remind you of what, Winn?”

  “That my blood is not true Paspahegh. My father was a Norse-Man, and he chose to leave with his Bloodstone before my birth. I need reminder of how worthless all whites are, so I will never waver when it comes time to end them,” he said carefully. “He knows not what he left behind, and I hate him for that. As a boy, I felt anger for the difference in my skin and that of my brothers, and some English called me Half-Man. Children are most cruel to those who are different.”

  “A Norseman? You mean a Viking?” she interrupted.

  He rubbed her lower back with one warm hand and nodded.

  “Some called them Vikings. They were said to control powerful magic.”

  “I’d say. Those Bloodstones pack some punch,” she snorted. She chose to avoid the subject of his father, even as her curiosity rose, knowing Winn had conflicted feelings about the man. “So you went to live with your uncle?”

  “I was sent to live with Opechancanough and spent many years there as his favorite nephew. It gave me great status, and when I returned to the Paspahegh, I was welcomed. My return to my own people was to serve as War Chief and lead the few left, serving Opechancanough in his plans. I have watched over them, and always have given my loyalty to my Mamanatowick.”

  “I thought he was Weroance?” she asked.

  “Mamanatowick means Great Weroance, Great Chief of all Powhatan, of all Tsenacommacah lands. He has many names, and that is one.”

  “Oh. Sounds like a busy man.”

  She ran her finger lightly over the winding tattoo on his torso, an intricate swirl across his ribs that ended below his navel. Although they shared a growing intimacy, she remained in awe of his powerful body, each muscle and sinew honed by hunting and fighting, strong yet yielding beneath her touch.

  “Does this have meaning?” she asked, placing her palm flat against his navel.

  “Some objected to my presence when I went to live with Opechancanough, since I was son of a Time Walker. He marked me to silence them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He sighed.

  “Those born to the Weroance bloodlines, like Opechancanough and my mother, may never have such a mark placed on their bodies. Only common men decorate their bodies. I could never be Weroance because of the Time Walker’s blood in my veins. He marked me to show the people I am one of them. War Chief is the most honor a common man could hope for in his life.”

  He placed his hand over hers, and traced over a part of the tattoo near his hip.

  “This one, here,” he said, “Is for the first man I killed. This part, here, is for the day I became a man. And this, this one shows I am different, that I am not true Paspahegh, that I carry the blood of the whites.”

  “Does it bother you? Being marked that way, I mean?”

  She felt his shoulders shrug, and he made a dismissive sound.

  “Once it did, but no longer. It is part of me now.”

  He grinned, and pulled her snugly against him. She buried her clenched hands next to his skin, giggling when he jumped at her cold touch.

  “Here, let me warm you,” he murmured. He clasped his larger hands over hers, and gently blew into them to drench her chilled fingers. Dipping his head down, he kissed her knuckles with a smile.

  “What does your history say of the Norse-men?” he asked, very softly. She saw his throat tighten and his eyes widen a bit, his brows raised. Her heart lurched at his change, the way his face filled like an expectant boy, almost childish as he asked an innocent question. She paused before she spoke, hoping to say the right words to ease his mind and help heal his ache.

  “They were fierce warriors. Stories were written about their journeys, legends, really, that children still read in my time, about all their brave adventures.” She pressed her lips to his skin and threaded a lock of his dark hair in her fingers. “Tall, strong, like you. You must get your blue eyes from your father.”

  She felt his hands tighten around her, only for a moment, a gentle reminder that his feelings for his father were much more complicated than a tale could absolve.

  “So the dog gave me eyes like the sky, and then ran away as a coward. Brave? Humph.”

  Maggie wondered if he could ever let go of the ache, the depth of his feelings apparent as they ran so close below the surface, the hurt little boy buried so far he was nearly forgotten. She said nothing, giving him the choice to continue, barely surprised when he nestled his head to her shoulder and remained silent.

  She stroked his hair as his breathing finally slowed into sleep, comforting him in the only way she knew how.

  Ghosts of the future haunted her that night, begging acknowledgement, refusing to be put to sleep.

  She placed her raven on the ground as she played on the floor of the old barn. No one would bother her there. Grandpa had no use for the space, but she liked it. It was a secret place, her hiding spot, a place to call her own among the world of adults.

  Hinges creaked, and she saw the wood plank door open. A pair of round blue eyes peered at her between the slats.

  “Can I come in, Maggie?” he asked. She rolled her eyes. It was the boy, Marcus’s son. He wasn’t so bad.

  “Oh, I guess. Hurry up and close the door.”

  He slithered in and plopped down beside her.

  “Ach, crap, I cut my finger on the stupid door. Gimme your sock, will ya?”

  “No, I’m not giving you anything! Go get a Band-Aid, or keep bleeding, I don’t care!” she sniped. He shrugged.

  When he saw her raven sitting solitary in the dirt, he fished in his pocket for a moment until he produced his own treasure.

  The boy held it up, a wide toothless grin stretching across his face.

  “See? Da gave you the raven, but I have the eagle. It’s better than the raven,” he bragged.

  “No it’s not!” she hissed.

  “Aye, it is! My Da said so!”

  “You’re a liar, and I’m telling!” she shrieked. She jumped up and left him in the dirt.

  It was the last time she saw him. Grandpa said not to speak of it, poor Marcus could not bear it. His little son, disappeared without a trace. The police said the mother must have taken him.

  Divorced spouses kidnap their kids all the time. It was just one of those sad things that happen sometimes.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes and burrowed in closer to Winn. Memories like that, well, they were best forgotten. There was surely enough trouble in this time to keep her occupied.

  Poor Marcus. They never found his son, and Marcus carried on somehow. She hoped he did not suffer now in the same manner. If only she could find a way to tell him she was alive, that she missed him. Then perhaps the leaving of him would not ache so much.

  CHAPTER 20

  Winn placed A pile of kindling onto the fire, stirring it with a long stick. Embers of the morning sun darted over the horizon, yet the moon still shone above. Although the men had been awake for some time, they let the women sleep longer, knowing they would need rest to travel on as the day grew warmer.

  Makedewa sat on a log near the fire, tossing in bits of a branch he picked apart in his hands. His demeanor was unchanged from his usual angry mask, the same scowl he wore upon waking and the one he walked with each day.

  Winn wondered if his younger brother would ever find happiness, or at least something to occupy his anger other than planning the next raid on the English. Oftentimes rash, known among the villagers as a hothead, Winn knew the warrior was a much deeper man than his disguise portrayed. Unlike Chetan, who laughed and loved with no care what others thought, Makedewa lacked such confidence. Winn wished he would not suffer so much for his own pride.

  “Nemattanew kille
d Morgan White. I know not why, but I am sure of it.” Makedewa continued to stare into the fire as he spoke, his gaze unwavering.

  “Did he admit as much to you?” Winn asked. Makedewa nodded.

  “He said the English will never find the body.”

  Winn let out his breath in a sigh as he shook his head. It served no purpose to agitate the English at this time, and Nemattanew was aware of that fact more so than any Powhatan brave. With one rash act, the foolish warrior had given the English cause to mistrust them all, making it even more dangerous for the Paspahegh to remain cordial with the settlers.

  “We should return to the village today. Ready the horses and pack our supplies.” Winn stared hard at Makedewa. “My uncle will hear of this, and he will not be pleased. I hope Nemattanew has not brought his wrath upon us.”

  Makedewa grunted, and set off to dismantle the campsite. Winn looked toward the cabin where Benjamin lived. He wondered if he should wake the man to bid him goodbye. Glancing down at Maggie, sleeping peacefully beneath his furs, he decided against it. The image of the Englishman spying on them in the woods made his chest tighten, sparking his ire.

  No, it was better this way. Let things cool between them before they met again. There had never been anything they could not find agreement on, and although Benjamin mediated between the English and Paspahegh, he was still a loyal friend. Winn wondered if things now had changed. He was willing to wager they did, after seeing how Benjamin stared at his woman.

  His woman.

  Winn tickled her neck until her sleepy jade eyes opened and she smiled up at him, despite him rousing her from her dreams. He kissed her gently along her ear and buried his face in the sweet meadow scent of her hair for a moment.

  “Time to wake, ntehem. We leave soon.”

  He resisted the urge to melt back down into the furs with her, instead taking her hand to help her to her feet.

  CHAPTER 21

  She was happy to be back in the village. It was almost funny that she now viewed it as the height of civilization, especially since she never thought she would survive a week within the culture. Yet after she had been exposed to the way the English lived, she was quite content to remain among the Paspahegh. In fact, she would be happy to stay anywhere, as long as Winn were there.

  As she sat with Teyas near the Great Fire awaiting the start of the evening feast, Maggie noticed the sounds of whispered uproar throughout the village. She looked up to see what they were fussing about. Across the thruway near the horse corral, a group of men entered the clearing.

  White men.

  She sat up straighter and stuck her fisted hands in her lap, her eyes searching the warriors who gathered for any sign of hostility. Were the men friends, or enemies?

  Their group consisted of a half-dozen Englishmen, all dressed in similar knee-high breeches and linen shirts, wielding rifles which they kept slung over their backs in what Maggie perceived must be a less threatening gesture than if they carried them outright. On entering the village, one bold man led the others, flanked by the reluctant entourage who followed with caution. It was Benjamin Dixon.

  Shouts rose from the men, and for a moment Maggie was terrified there would be a violent response. Her fear dissipated quickly when she saw a warrior break from the crowd of men to approach the visitors. Benjamin clasped arms with the warrior and Maggie saw a broad smile crease his face.

  The warrior who welcomed him was none other than Winn.

  “Who are those men?” Maggie nudged Teyas, who was watching the exchange as well.

  “You know Benjamin Dixon. He is a friend to us. He brings many of the English with him today,” Teyas answered with a frown. “Thomas Martin is with him as well, he is the fat one next to Benjamin. I hope they do not need more corn, we have little to share,” she sighed.

  “Do they always need supplies?”

  “Most times. They are lazy people, they grow little food on their own.”

  “They look like trouble,” Maggie said, her voice escalating a pitch. It made her nervous to see the English visit the village, no matter what pretense they offered, since she knew full well how they abused the kindness of the Indians.

  Teyas shrugged and shushed her. Winn approached, Benjamin walking in stride beside him. Winn led the white men by the fire next to where the warriors gathered, escorting them to a place of honor apart from the others. Not quite as welcoming as Winn but not hostile, either, the warriors made space for the guests and settled back into the spirit of the feast. The hollow thud of a drum resounded, and the interruption seemed forgotten.

  Winn looked in her direction from across the fire where he stood with Benjamin. Their eyes met for a moment, and Maggie glimpsed an edge of something unsettling in his gaze. There was no acknowledgement in his wooden stare, but she could see the muscles in his crossed arms tighten and the way his back stiffened at her inquisitive perusal of the strangers. He quickly broke contact and turned back to the visitor.

  “Will Winn eat with us?” Maggie asked. Teyas shook her head.

  “No, he will eat with the men.”

  “Is there some rule that says I can’t talk to him now?”

  “Shush, Maggie! No, no rule. But we wait to be spoken to at this feast,” the girl hissed back, jabbing her in the rib with her elbow. “He will take you to his yehakin soon, be patient!”

  Maggie scowled as her cheeks flushed at the implication. She ignored the jibe and continued questioning the girl, curious to glean information about the visitors.

  “I just want to talk to him,” she said.

  “You must wait to be spoken to! He will be angry if you go to him now!”

  “Well, he can be angry at me later. I just want a second to talk to him.”

  Maggie stood up, but Teyas was fast on her heels and grabbed her by the back of her dress before she could go very far.

  “Teyas, let go!” she hissed as she tried to shake the other woman off.

  “Sit down!” Teyas pleaded. Panic laced her words. Maggie suddenly felt bad for causing a scene, and let Teyas pull her back down to sit on the grass. A few of the other woman shot them hard looks and shook their heads.

  “Ah, kemata tepahta! Now Winn sees us!” Teyas groaned.

  Winn was staring at them from across the fire, as was the visitor at his side. Benjamin tapped Winn’s arm and pointed at the quarreling women in question. Maggie watched as Winn said something tense to the man and waved his question off, shaking his head, while pushing a bowl of food into the man’s hands as if to distract him. Winn clapped Benjamin on the back in a friendly manner and then spoke again. Maggie wished she could hear what they were saying, but the distance was too great and it was enough just to decipher the expressions on their faces. Winn left the visitor and turned to one of the warriors that flanked his sides, his attention shifting for the moment. He uttered some direction to the warrior before he left his position, his destination clear to both Maggie and Teyas.

  Maggie prepared to face his onslaught, unaware of what to expect since she knew little of what stoked the obvious temper he was in. She glanced back across the fire and noticed Benjamin was staring straight at her, confusion etched on his face as he squinted to see her in the glare of the setting sun. When their eyes met his mouth fell open, and she quickly ducked her head. No good could come of making contact with the visitors in front of the villagers.

  Maggie felt Teyas nudge her in warning before Winn grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

  “Ouch! What the hell-“

  “Be silent. You will go back to my yehakin. Now!” he demanded, his words uttered hoarse and low next to her ear. She allowed him to hold her upper arm, but turned to meet his steel gaze.

  “Why? What is going on?”

  “Go, ntehem. I will meet you soon.”

  An unsettling surge of fear at the look in his eyes challenged her resolve, as she could see Winn was worried about something. It was not like him to show such emotion in front of others, and with a deepen
ing sense of unease Maggie realized he was afraid. Of what, she had no notion.

  “Teyas, come! You will eat with Maggie and tend her wound,” he growled. His sister immediately obeyed, taking Maggie’s hand and urging her back toward the yehakin. Maggie let out a sigh and succumbed to being led away. Winn stood rooted in place, watching them go. Maggie saw Nemattanew approach and was glad to leave.

  “Wait!”

  Maggie swung around at the clear English plea. Her eyes shifted to Benjamin, who was standing next to Winn and looking at the women expectantly.

  “Please, Miss, if I could have a word with you? Surely you do not mind, Winn?” Benjamin asked. Behind the Englishman stood two other older men, dressed in similar attire but both equally as interested by the astonished looks on their faces.

  “The woman was wounded by a bear. She needs her wound tended,” Winn replied tersely.

  “Well, yes, of course! But it will only take a moment, my friend,” Benjamin insisted. “Can ye tell me how ye came to be in these parts, Miss?”

  Maggie thought a simple white lie was enough to quell Benjamin’s curiosity and show the man he need not worry that she was being kept against her will, so she eagerly responded.

  “I don’t remember. I must have hit my head. The last thing I remember was Winn saving me from a bear attack.”

  Winn froze at her words and Benjamin’s mouth fell open.

  “’Tis as I said, Dixon, she is my niece,” another man announced.

  The man Teyas had called Thomas Martin stepped forward toward Maggie. Towheaded and stocky, but not in a pleasing manner, the gentleman pushed past his companions to approach her. Maggie held her ground as he scrutinized her with tiny piercing black eyes, making her feel like a piece of prime meat on display. The urge to inform him he was sadly mistaken crossed her mind, but she opted to keep her mouth shut for the moment. She looked helplessly to Winn, fully aware she could not tell the Englishman where she truly came from. In light of the manner which Winn barely contained his anger, she stepped a pace away from the man instead.