“Find a gift for her while we visit town today. Something to make her smile,” he advised.
Makedewa shook his head.
“No. We have no time for such things.”
“Says who? I say we do,” Winn answered. He was willing to spare a few minutes in trade if it would make Makedewa happy. It would serve for the betterment of everyone to see some tension diminished between his brother and Rebecca, and if a simple trinket would make that happen, it was well worth the time lost.
“We shall find word of Benjamin and nothing more.”
“Ah, kemata tepahta!” Winn cursed, rolling his eyes skyward with a snort. Makedewa continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring his outburst.
“He does not look so fierce,” Makedewa commented, effectively changing the subject. Winn looked ahead to where Makedewa pointed.
Marcus rode beside Chetan, the two men seeming to speak in an easy rhythm as their ponies paced along. Winn wondered what they found in common to talk about, but then quickly purged the thought away. Why should he care for what the coward might speak of?
“Who says he is fierce?” Winn asked.
“Your wife said he killed Kweshkwesh with one blow of his axe,” Makedewa replied, raising his brows.
“I killed Kweshkwesh. Marcus killed his son. And it is called a bryntroll, it is different from the weapon we have. So he says.” Winn nodded to the small hand axe hanging from Makedewa’s belt. “One large blade on a long handle, with symbols carved into the iron. I know not what meaning.”
“It means Pale Feather is a fierce warrior,” Makedewa muttered.
Maybe it means he is a coward and liar, Winn thought, although he kept it to himself. He would not let his brother bait him into an argument, which Makedewa seemed to enjoy doing.
“Is that what Norse-men look like?”
Winn shrugged the question off, his eyes now focused on his father’s back. The stout bryntroll sat secured in the flat straps crossing his wide shoulders, over the white linen trade-shirt the women had given him. A heavy sword lay sheathed at his side, another weapon inlaid with intricate designs. Other than the shade of the tousled dark hair tied back with rawhide on his neck, Winn could see no resemblance between them. Perhaps they had similar height, and the breadth of their shoulders matched somewhat, but nothing more.
“He looks like only a man to me,” Winn said.
“Are the weapons from his future time? Did you ask Fire Heart?”
“No.”
“I will ask him.”
“Go then. Ask if you must,” Winn muttered.
Makedewa tapped his heels and urged the pony forward to meet the others. Chetan glanced back at Winn as Makedewa caught up, and Winn raised his chin a notch at the inquisition. They would reach town soon enough and all the foolishness would end.
The sooner they found the information Marcus needed, the sooner the man would be out of their lives. As Winn watched Marcus speak with his brothers, he thought perhaps Makedewa was right.
They had no time for such things.
Winn dropped down off his horse into the mud. Even with the dry summer air, the ground in James City remained sodden in places, especially in the heavily traveled areas like the town common. A straight sandy road cut the central market square in two, the narrow pathway through town littered with shallow ruts. A horse could be easily crippled if one did not pay close mind to the debris.
He grimaced at the stench as he tied his pony to a hitching post. It had been a month since he last visited the town, and he could see little had changed. The English still lived like pigs, growing their precious tobacco amidst hills of filth within their city palisades. He stepped out of the mud and went to join his companions.
In the two years since the Great Assault, the undressed log dwellings had been replaced by frame houses within the fort limits. The population had grown dense, with those who lived on the outskirts of the James City community drawing closer to town or moving within the palisades for protection. There was no doubt so many living in such close quarters contributed to the stench.
“Ye have a plan? Who to talk to?” Marcus asked. Winn glanced at his father while adjusting the knife at his waist. He wanted to take his musket as well, but thought better of it and left it behind, aware that the English soldiers always found a reason to confiscate such items from the Indians. Unlike some warriors, Winn would use whatever means necessary to fight the English, and if that meant using their weapons against them, then so be it.
“I know a man who will talk,” Winn replied.
He noticed the way people stared when they entered town, and he was sure Marcus observed it as well. A group of men gathered in the square glared openly at them, growing silent as they left their horses and set off further into town. At the end of the row, standing like a statue against the clear morning sky was the church. Recently rebuilt with wide double wooden doors, it housed the English who huddled there seeking comfort in their singular God. As Winn and the others walked down the street, women clutched their hats and the crowds parted.
Winn could see Marcus tense. He shook his head when Marcus placed his hand on the butt of his sword.
“They mean no trouble, Pale Feather,” Winn said.
His brothers looked up at his words. Marcus dropped his hand.
“Let’s get where we’re going, then,” Marcus muttered.
It was a short walk to the gunsmith shop. A small dwelling made of coarse cut logs, it was one of the original structures to the settlement. Thick smoke rushed out through a shaft on the thatch roof, and the air inside was uncomfortably close.
Makedewa and Chetan kept watch at the door as Winn entered the building. He did not need to ask his brothers to keep track of the dispersing Englishmen as they conducted their business.
John Jackson looked up from his seat at his table and immediately rose to greet them, his eyes wide and hopeful. He was a slight man, standing a head shorter than even Chetan, uncharacteristically refined compared to most of the other Englishmen. His lithe stature was most likely a gift from his French mother; his long, thin face unfortunately came from his father.
“Winn! Vous batard sournois! Que faites-vous ici!”
Winn grinned at the oath riddled welcome. He had known John Jackson long enough to expect nothing less than to be called foul names in lieu of a proper greeting.
“Oui, j'ai raté votre visage laid,” he replied as they grasped forearms. Winn was unpracticed, but his French was still passable.
“Miss my ugly face, eh? Then fog off, ye bloody whoreson,” John laughed. The gunsmith raised his chin in acknowledgement of Marcus, who stood behind Winn inside the cottage. “Who’s ye friend? And why do ye darken my door today?”
Winn watched as John wiped his hands on his leather apron.
“Kin of my wife,” Winn said quickly. He felt uneasy with the explanation, yet he could not describe Marcus in any other way. “I come to ask your help, friend. We look for Benjamin Dixon.”
John stopped his ministrations abruptly. One eye squinted shut, the other focused on Marcus, he straightened up.
“Ye dinna bring yer wife here, did ye? Ye puntain de batard–”
“No, salaud!” Winn barked, his patience at an end with the jibes. The older Frenchman had a foul mouth and a loose tongue. “You know that would be foolish. We want no trouble.”
“Ah, the townsfolk. They dinna forget the whole bloody mess, with her being accused of witchery and the like. There be no witness left to try her, but ye know folks remember.”
“I know this. I ask for what you know of Dixon, nothing more.”
The older man pursed his lips and turned his back on them. He opened a tall wooden cupboard stacked against the wall and fumbled with a drawer inside. After rifling through the contents for a moment, he produced a tiny satchel one might fit snugly into the palm of a large man.
“Governor Wyatt released him, oh, ‘bout a months hence. On account there was no man for witness against him, li
ke yer red-headed squaw.”
Winn leaned over the table, his fingers gripping into the soft wood as he clenched his fists. He was nearing the end of his tolerance with the man’s gibes. Acquaintance or friend, whatever the Frenchman was, he would be speaking through broken teeth if he kept up his banter.
“Why did they keep him so long, if they meant to release him?” Marcus interrupted. “Do ye know where he went, or where he might be now?”
“What meaning have ye? He only showed up a month hence, as I told ye. Right turned himself in, that one did, so folks thought him gone barmy. The minister at Martin’s Hundred found him sleeping on the floor inside the church, daft as a loon. They took him here to stand trial, and that’s when ye Governor set him loose.”
Winn saw Marcus flex his grip over the handle of his sword. Winn gave him a quick shake of the head, relieved when Marcus lowered his hand.
“This helps us. Thank you,” Winn said to the gunsmith. He noticed a movement beyond John by the entrance to the side room. It was a young boy of about six or seven, with a mop of blond hair and huge round eyes staring at them, peeking curiously around the corner.
“Who is the boy?” Winn asked.
“Don’t ye know Old Morgan’s boy? He has no kin, none to see him fed, in any case. He’s a good lad. Pay him no heed.” The child ducked away at the sound of his name.
John sat down across from Winn, his eyes shifting back and forth between the men. He dropped the tiny satchel on the table between them.
“Ye know what it’s like to have yer kin stolen from ye. I want mine back, the same as ye. I’ll tell ye where Dixon went, if ye send my sister back with the next batch.” John pushed the bag toward Winn. “Ye still have that flintlock musket, I suppose? That’s my best powder, ye know they can hang me fer giving it to ye. Take it, and whatever else ye want. Just give me yer word ye’ll bring my sister home.”
Winn bit back a retort as he looked into the man’s pleading eyes. Yes, John was a sneaky fellow, but he had done no wrong to Winn and had helped him when he asked. Of course there was usually a price attached to his help, and Winn could not fault him for taking advantage in such circumstances. In this case, however, Winn would not be able to help him, and he was reluctant to disclose what he knew of John’s sister.
“John, your sister is treated fairly in Pamukey. She has come to no harm, I can tell you that,” Winn answered. He would not mention that John’s sister was the squaw of a Pamukey warrior, nor that in the two years since the Great Assault she had given birth to a son. It was assuredly more information than the Frenchman could tolerate.
“Then bring her back next. You’ve exchanged three women so far, why not my sister? If it’s guns, or food, tell me what ye ask, and I will give it,” John pleaded. Winn saw the rims of his eyes glisten as the man swiped the back of one hand over his face.
“It is not for me to choose. Governor Wyatt decides who we bargain for. You must speak to him for this. I am sorry,” Winn said quietly.
John reached over and put the satchel in Winn’s hand.
“Take it anyway. Just give me yer word she is safe, I see it as even exchange.”
“I give you my word. And what of Dixon, what do you know of him?”
“He went looking for your kin, that Nansemond, Pepamhu. Said something about searching fer the woman Finola. I think he sought the Indian as a tracker. Lord knows, Dixon could ne’er track to save his skin.”
Winn stood up. He dropped the gunpowder onto the table. As much as he needed it, he would not take it. He thanked the gunsmith for his trouble and left the cottage, Marcus trailing behind.
Marcus was quiet on the return home. Winn knew they did not find the answers he wanted, but he had enough to start the search so he considered it a day well spent. The sooner he could help Marcus find Benjamin, the sooner he would be out of their lives.
From the story John Jackson told, it seemed Benjamin was found lying senseless in the church at Martin’s Hundred. It was the same place Maggie and Finola had given him the Bloodstone and sent him back to his future time on the day of the Great Assault, the day the English referred to as a massacre.
Winn knew little of how the stones worked, only that the magic was dangerous, so he was not shocked to hear that something had gone wrong with his brother’s travel. Although his grandmother had tried to speak to him about the magic in his blood many times over the years, Winn had refused to hear her tales, denying any part of his white blood. He wondered exactly what part Finola played in all that had happened. She must have realized who Benjamin was, or perhaps she knew all along. Just looking at Marcus was like seeing an image of Benjamin, and Winn was certain his grandmother could not have mistaken it. Whatever secrets she held, she would account for them when he found her.
“The Pale Witch said you would return. She said on a night the stars fell from the sky, her son would come back to this time,” Winn said. He did not turn his head toward his father as they rode.
“She was a Seer. Our people feared her magic,” Marcus replied.
Winn nodded in agreement. “My uncle would not kill her, as he did the other Time Walkers. He feared her as well.”
“So where does she live? Do ye think Benjamin went searching for her?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. John Jackson said he searches for her. It makes sense that Benjamin would do so. He knows now he is a Time Walker, even if he is not very good at it,” Winn said, a grin tugging at his lips despite his annoyance. “My grandmother finds her own way. She refused to come live with us. She lives with a family outside James City, working at the trading post.”
“Ye don’t look out for her?” Marcus shot back, his voice rising. Winn snorted under his breath.
“When she has need, she makes it known. It has always been that way. She was banished when I was a boy, I did not truly know her until I lived with the English, and now…now she wishes to remain where she is. It is her decision.”
“How far is it?”
“Too far for a visit today. I will show you the way on the day you leave.”
Marcus said nothing, staring straight ahead as he rode. Winn wondered briefly if his father would search so faithfully for him, should the situation be reversed. He quickly dismissed the thought, his attention distracted as Chetan turned his horse in a tight circle and pointed ahead.
“Winkeohkwet! Look!” he shouted.
Over the tops of the evergreens, a cloud of black smoke wound up into the sky through the trees. It was coming from the same direction as their home.
They urged their horses into a gallop.
CHAPTER 7
Maggie
Maggie pulled up the moonflower vine at the roots. Pretty, but damaging, the things grew rampant around the base of the corn stalks in a twist of blue and green buds. It was only a small garden plot, yet if it survived to maturity without being looted or burned, she would be grateful. One could only eat so much Tuckahoe.
She flicked her braid back over her shoulder with a quick flip of her chin and squinted up at the sky. It was another humid day in the Virginia sun, and she would be glad to see it end. Soon the men would be home, and they would enjoy a well-deserved meal together.
Rebecca sat cross legged on the ground between the rows, patiently showing Kwetii how to pull up weeds. Teyas worked alone nearby. Usually Winn’s sister was the most productive of the group and today was no exception. Teyas was accustomed to such work, and although Rebecca made honest effort, the Englishwoman was simply not cut out for such things. As Maggie watched the blond-haired girl play with her daughter, she wondered if Rebecca would ever find such happiness of her own. Even two years past the massacre, she still seemed fragile, like a broken bird. Perhaps she would never recover from the trauma.
“Whoop! Whoop!” Ahi Kekeleksu waved his arms overhead, swatting at the black crows swooping in to pick at the corn. He raced down the aisle away from the women, taking his job as scarecrow most seriously. Kwetii giggled at his antics, and Maggie sm
iled.
The boy suddenly slid to a stop at the end of the aisle. The corn was not mature grown yet, and as Maggie stood to her feet she could easily see over the waving silk tassels to the direction the boy looked. Her breath hitched at the sight.
“Rebecca, take Kwetii to the house,” Maggie ordered. Rebecca looked up from her game with a confused frown.
“Why? What’s the matter?” she asked.
There were two riders with scarlet lined coats opened and flapping loose in the breeze as they galloped toward the settlement. Soldiers dressed in such disarray meant one thing: deserters. And deserters were even more dangerous than the law-abiding English.
“Teyas, take them and go. Hide in the house, you can all fit in the root cellar.” Maggie took her sister’s hand. “Please, take the children and Rebecca. I’ll send them away,” she insisted.
Maggie looked at Rebecca, standing wide eyed with Kwetii on her hip. She pressed her lips hard to her daughter’s cheek and grabbed Rebecca by the chin.
“Do as I say. Go to the cellar and stay there until I come for you,” Maggie demanded. Rebecca began to cry, but she nodded through her tears.
“I will stay with you,” Teyas said.
“No, go! There’s a better chance they’ll listen to me then you, and you know it.”
“Sister–”
“Damn it, Teyas, please! You can keep the others safe. I’ll deal with the strangers. Ahi Kekeleksu! Take them! Go!”
Not yet a man, even Ahi Kekeleksu knew the danger they were in. The warriors had all left early that morning for town and would not arrive home until nightfall, and as the only man left among them he stepped up to protect them. He grabbed Rebecca’s hand and barked a command at Teyas, and Maggie watched them hurry back toward the cottage.
The riders approached from the north, and she stood as if a barrier between them and those she loved. A mixed group of Indians and white women was an invitation for trouble. Rebecca was not strong enough to fight, neither in spirit nor body. Kwetii was completely vulnerable. Ahi Kekeleksu was full of heart with courage too big for his adolescent body. And Teyas, as strong as she was, she was the only one who had any hope of saving the others if Maggie could not send the soldiers away. She let out the breath she’d been holding once they reached the cottage and were safely inside.
The Blooded Ones Page 33
