Makedewa swallowed against his hoarse throat. This was his brother giving him marriage advice, in the best way that he knew how.
“I will, brother,” Makedewa promised.
Chetan grinned. He reached out and shoved Makedewa, and he shoved his brother back. They saw the smoke rising from the sacrificial fire and made their way back toward the Norsemen. The ceremony would start soon.
“And forgive Winn’s wife, while you are taking my counsel. She cares for you too, you stubborn goat,” Chetan sniped. Makedewa grunted in reply and shoved his brother’s hand away.
He had enough to think over with his impending marriage. Learning to like Winn’s wife would wait for another day.
In early evening Makedewa joined the others on the beach for the naming ceremony of his niece and nephew. Kwetii was long overdue for a proper name; if they had remained with the Paspahegh, the girl might be on her third or fourth name. With the impudent manner the child behaved, Makedewa also knew she would have suffered many a tanned hide, yet in the Norse village her antics were regarded with only amusement. He had no doubt that someday Winn would regret allowing his daughter to grow up with the mind of a warrior.
Young Dagr was brought out by Finola. Makedewa could see Maggie tense up as the older Seer carried the babe toward them, but Winn’s headstrong wife remained seated despite her obvious discomfort. For a moment Makedewa wondered if Maggie had become a more complacent wife in the year he had been gone, but when he saw the way Winn’s hand on her thigh kept her glued firmly to her chair, he shook his head with a sigh. Some things never changed.
Finola placed the child on a thick fur at Winn’s feet. She poured water from a brass pitcher into her cupped hand, and then let it drip slowly over the child’s head, an action which caused the child to let out a hearty squeal. Maggie leaned forward at this Norse ritual, and Makedewa could see her teeth clenched down over her bottom lip until Finola picked the child up again. To Makedewa, the entire ceremony was bizarre, the ancient way they accepted their children into the family instead of turning them out to die. It seemed a foregone conclusion to him. There was no way anyone would harm Winn’s son, not while his brother or Maggie still breathed air.
Finola presented the boy child to Winn, who took the naked babe gently from her hands. The old Seer made the sign of the Hammer over the child’s head, and then bowed to the Chief.
Makedewa felt her at his side before she slipped her hand tentatively into his. He glanced down at Rebecca while trying to keep most of his attention on the ceremony, but she was too lovely to ignore. A smile graced her face and her eyes were round and soft as she looked up at him.
“Won’t ye come closer? I’m sure yer brother would want ye there,” she said. He shook his head.
“No. I can see fine from where I stand. And now you’re here, I have no reason to leave,” he murmured, squeezing her hand.
Kwetii stood watching between her parents. The child was dressed in a fine velvet gown, and Makedewa was sure it would be ruined as soon as the whelp had opportunity to get out of sight.
“It took three grown women to get that child dressed today,” Rebecca sighed with a giggle. “Kwetii is not eager to dress like a lady.”
“The girl is spoiled,” Makedewa snapped, the words rushing from his lips with little thought. He refused to look further at Rebecca, keeping his eyes firmly on the naming ritual, even though he could see Rebecca turn to stare up at him.
“Oh, is she? I think if we are so blessed to have children, I will spoil them the same,” she replied. He uttered a dismissive snort in response.
Finola sprinkled water on Kwetii’s head and the crowd burst into laughter as the child swatted the Seer away. At least Maggie had the good sense to grab the child and stop her, but it was Winn who finally calmed the hellion with a quick swat to her a bottom and a whisper in her ear. Kwetii commenced to enduring the blessing after that.
“I need only you. That is enough happiness for one life, I think,” he replied. He had seen women endure childbirth, and many times it had sent the mother to the afterlife. The thought of Rebecca enduring such pain on his account, and possibly dying for it was too much for him to consider. Until she had approached the subject, it had not occurred to him that she might want children.
“It is. But it would be a gift to have children of our own. One I could give to ye,” she said softly.
He shifted his stance as she laid her head on his shoulder.
“If it pleases you,” he muttered.
“It would,” she insisted.
A roar rose from the crowd as Winn lifted his infant son high above his head. Kwetii sat perched on her mother’s hip, a sour look scrunched over her heart-shaped face as the children were presented to the crowd.
“Dagr Drustan Neilsson, my son!” Winn shouted. “Kyra Alfrun Neilsson, my daughter! Welcome this blood of my blood!”
Amidst the raucous bellows and joyous outbursts, people began milling to the platform to give their offerings. Multiple swatches of fine cloth, baskets of fresh fruit, the bright white spotted hide of a snow leopard. Extravagant gifts, all for the honor of naming the children of the Chief. It seemed like a silly gesture to Makedewa.
“Do the English put such importance on naming their children?” he asked. She shook her head.
“Nay. A blessing when the child is born, but no gifts are given like this.” She tugged on his hand. “And for the Indians? Did ye have such a fuss for naming?”
“We would celebrate, but not like this. Children in my tribe are given many names, it is not such a grand thing as this.”
She was silent at that, and he could see that her demeanor turned thoughtful. With a quick glance at the others, Makedewa could see they were caught up in making offerings and no one was paying any attention in his direction. He slipped his hand up Rebecca’s back and drew her close, kissing her gently on the mouth before she could protest.
“What troubles you? Is it the children, or the Norse?” he asked. He loved the way her pale cheeks flushed rosy pink as she drew away.
“No, it’s not that. I–I just wonder where…how…we could be married. Our Gods…our beliefs….they are so different.”
He traced over her parted lips with his thumb. He could see the indecision in her, the remnants of the English life she left behind. Although she had never expressed desire to return to that life, he knew she still held pieces of it deep within as she read quietly to herself from her Bible. It was only natural she would harbor some apprehension as to how to meld their lives according to the Gods.
“They are not so different. Look at Winn and Maggie,” he said. Using them as an example was not his first choice, but it was all he could grasp when the need arose. “They come from different times, from different people. Yet they are happy together.” He brought her hand up and pressed her palm to his cheek. “We will marry here, in the Norse village, as the Norse marry. It means the same, no matter what place we join, or under what God. What matters is that you are mine, until our hearts beat no more. We can make that promise here with our family, and that is all that matters.”
She bent her head to his shoulder as she smiled, and he kissed the top of her head.
“I trust ye, in this and all things,” she said softly.
“Good. Then worry no more. Come, the others wait for us.”
Makedewa could see Chetan looking in their direction from where the others stood by the fire. Winn raised up a hand to wave them over. Makedewa took Rebecca’s hand and led her to his family.
They joined the others just as Finola took a narrow jeweled dagger in her hands. The old seer stood at Winn’s side, her eyes glazed with the white film that had never left her in the time since she had returned from the spirit world. Makedewa did not understand the Norse magic, and for the truth of it he only listened as much as he needed to get on amicably with the others. It was Makedewa’s loyalty to his blood brothers that kept him in the village, not any interest in the Norse ways, and soon he
hoped he would be tied to a certain maiden by marriage.
Most of the villagers had made way back to the Northern Hall in preparation for a long night of celebration, yet a small group of those closest to Winn remained on the sand. Erich and Gwen remained, and to Makedewa’s annoyance, Cormaic did as well. Chetan and his son looked on with less interest, but the others clearly knew that something was about to happen. Makedewa could see it in their faces, the way Gwen held her breath as she watched Finola take the heel of Winn’s infant son in her hand.
Finola pierced it quickly with the knife. It was only a small thing, but the stream of newborn blood was profuse enough to cause Makedewa to gasp. What was she doing to Winn’s son? Rebecca seemed just as confused, gripping his hand so tightly his fingers began to feel numb.
Winn looked on calmly as Finola held the child’s dripping heel over a shallow basket. The basket contained several wilted plants that appeared dead. As Young Dagr’s blood hit the crumpled petals, a collective gasp emerged from all the onlookers.
The plant’s dry brown color turned a luscious green, and the stem straightened on its stalk. A shriveled bud swelled up bright pink, twisting as if waking from sleep, until it opened its petals to reveal a shiny new bloom.
“Oh, my,” Rebecca breathed. He felt her body give way and rushed to hold her up, unable to tear his eyes from the magic in front of them.
“So another blooded MacMhaolian. Thank Odin for this most wondrous gift. Let us be worthy of protecting this sacred life,” Finola announced.
Maggie appeared unsettled, but not surprised as she took her son in her arms. Gwen hugged them both and then applied a bandage to the squirming child’s heel. Throughout the ordeal, the boy had remained silent, uttering not even a squeal when his heel was pricked, yet once in his mother’s arms he immediately rooted to nurse. Maggie darted a glance around, let out a short sigh, and let the child latch on.
“Ye can let me loose,” Rebecca whispered. Makedewa looked down, shocked to see how tightly he was gripping her arms, and then immediately released her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Did ye know the child was like them?” she asked.
“No. I did not know there was a way to–to see if the boy held the blood. I do not know much of how the Norse magic works,” Makedewa answered.
He wondered if Benjamin’s blood would cause such magic when spilled, and suddenly the need to understand the ancient power Winn protected seemed essential.
“Chulentet,” he said. “Join the women in the Northern Hall. I will meet you there soon.”
“If ye ask it, of course,” she agreed. He was glad she did not question his intent, as he did not understand it himself as he left her and joined the men. Makedewa reached Winn’s side as the group moved away toward the hall, and he touched his brother’s elbow to hold him back. Chetan noticed the subtle signal as well and slowed down with them, allowing the others to pass. Erich nodded as he gave his Chief a respectful acknowledgement.
“Finola says my son is the first blooded male since Maggie’s grandfather, Malcolm. She says he has the spirit of Great Chiefs in his heart,” Winn said.
Makedewa and Chetan remained silent as Winn glanced down. Winn studied his open palms for a moment, opening and closing them several times. He shook his head slowly, as if in some internal dialogue.
“What of Erich? He is the son of Malcolm, does he not have the power as well?” Chetan asked.
“Erich has some power, yet he is different. Finola said there is a touch of the Blooded Ones in all the Norse here, but only the Gods choose which MacMhaolians carry the most sacred power. And the Gods choose both my children.”
For once, Makedewa knew nothing to say to his brother. Winn spoke of his children with fierce pride, yet beneath that pledge was an undercurrent of unease unspoken.
“Do you bear the blood, brother?” Makedewa asked. Chetan glared at him, clearly annoyed that Makedewa posed such a question to Winn, but for this Makedewa refused to be swayed: he needed to know as much about the magic as Winn did, if there was any hope he could keep the ones he loved safe.
It unsettled him, to admit he was so vulnerable, yet he could no longer deny it. His alliance with Winn and the Norse placed him square in the path of the ancient magic. Makedewa suddenly had much more to lose than his own blackened soul.
“No. Only the Chief Protector’s blood. Did you see what my son made happen, with only a few drops of his blood?” Winn said. “The blood of a Chief Protector can be given to take his clan through time, but it would take my life. Yes, in my blood lies some magic, but it is nothing to what the Blooded MacMhaolian possess. It is the newborns that hold the healing power. When he passes his first year, his blood will no longer bring life to the dead, but he will still have power to time travel. If our clan must go, it would not take his life…as it would mine. So the Pale Witch tells me.”
“So your son can heal the dead?” Makedewa asked, a dread rising deep inside. It roiled his blood, stirred his greatest fears. Should any one person wield such power?
“Only in his first year. The power recedes as the child ages, and he is left with the power of time travel. It is all tied together, the bending of time and the giving of life. From what Finola and Gwen tell me, I believe the healing power remains…but it would take all of my son’s blood as an adult to heal the dead.”
“We should take them all away. We should go to Maggie’s future–she says it is safe there,” Makedewa said, his voice short despite his attempt to temper the rise of panic within. “I listen to what your wife says, brother. I know that this is the end for our people. If we cannot change the future, then let us join it.” Chetan let out a sigh, and Winn put his hand on Makedewa’s shoulder.
“We cannot. We can keep them safe here, in this time,” Winn replied. Makedewa shoved his brother’s hand away.
“Yes, you have all the Norse to keep your woman and your children safe. No harm will befall them. But what of who I mean to keep safe? What of those here, who are not so worthy?” Makedewa snapped. “Is it only the blood of your blood that matters?”
Makedewa knew he pushed his brother too far. He could see Winn’s neck tighten and his eyes slant down as his face turned into a slate mask.
“Every person in this village matters to me,” Winn said, his words spoken slow and even. Yet Makedewa could not subdue his doubt, and his ire flowed as a river without restraint.
“When the time comes–and it will, soon–what will you do? Benjamin has betrayed us, he has joined with another Blooded One. When they come for your wife and children, will you take them away to the future, as your father before you did? Will you leave the rest of us here, with no protection?”
“You dare question my honor?” Winn replied, the menace sharp in his tone.
Makedewa saw his brother’s fist flex and prepared himself for the blow. He expected an extreme response, and was disappointed when it did not come. Winn clearly wanted to thrash him, but held back. Instead, Winn’s shoulders slumped a bit and he stepped back away a few paces.
“Keptchat!” Chetan cursed as he stalked away in a different direction.
It was a rare thing for the brothers to display raw anger at each other, and as Makedewa raked his fingers through his hair he let out a frustrated groan.
“I have seen what you have not, Chief,” Makedewa finally said, his voice strained through his dry throat. “They have many guns, more than I could count. They have strength of numbers, and the support of the King’s Men. The leader has wealth like that of the Governor. And now,” he added, “They have Benjamin.”
Makedewa faced his brother now, unwilling to say the words he knew must be said. Somehow, he must make his brother understand the danger, that this fight had gone beyond a simple blood feud between two ancient families.
“They want your Time Walkers, these blooded MacMhaolian, the blood of your blood. They have Benjamin, but they will not rest at that. They will bring the English down upon us, and
unless you are ready to fight, we are all at risk. If you plan to leave like your father once did, then tell me now. Tell me now, so I know what we will face. I will stand by you, brother…but I must know how we will fight.”
Makedewa felt Winn’s fist grasp his tunic, his brother’s fingers clenched in the fabric of the cloth.
“When you question my honor, brother,” Winn said, his voice low, “look me in the eye. You will see me when you lay your claim at my feet.”
Slanted in controlled rage, the grief shone clear though Winn’s blue eyes when Makedewa met his brother’s searing gaze. Chetan placed a hand on each of their shoulders, but Makedewa was numb to the touch as he stared at his oldest brother. Winn’s grip slowly loosened, and Makedewa let out the breath he held tight in his chest.
“The magic of time travel is not meant to be used as a weapon. I made a vow to protect it, and to protect those who bear the sacred blood. And I make a vow to you now, my brothers, that I will protect these people here–all of them–with my life. If it is needed of me, I will give it. Is that not enough for you? Is my word no longer enough?”
They all knew what Winn’s proclamation meant. If it was needed, he would give his life by taking them all to another time. There was no more that needed to be said.
Makedewa felt Chetan beside them again, his presence not splitting them apart, but only a reminder of what they were to each other. Makedewa placed his hand over Winn’s wrist, his brother’s fist still clenched with a knot of Makedewa’s tunic.
The Blooded Ones Page 56
