The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “Your mother showed me this passage. Here, read this,” he said, turning to a page marked with an unusually flat piece of what she assumed was wood. She squinted her eyes and tried to recall her teachings as she read the English words.

  “John Basse married ye dafter of ye King of ye Nansemond Nation by name Elizabeth in Holy Baptizm and in Holy Matrimonie ye 14th day of August in ye yeare of Our Blessed Lord 1638 Dyed 1699 A.D.”

  She raised her brows as she finished the sentence.

  “Da, what is this?”

  Winn closed the book.

  “There is more, for another time,” he said softly. She felt tears spring to her eyes as her father took her face in her hands, his gaze cutting through straight to her heart. “I am sorry, daughter. I know not what saved you, be it magic or some God, but I thank them all the same.”

  “Da,” she whispered. She buried her head in his strong shoulder, relief strumming through her like a melody. “I’m so sorry. I though ye hated me, I failed ye so miserably –”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. He smiled as he stood up, taking the book from her. “I love ye, daughter of mine.”

  He turned back to her before he left the room, a sad smile upon his face.

  “Your history is in this book. You will marry Morgan White, and I was a fool to try to stop that.”

  She pulled the quilt to her chin, staring at the door long after he left.

  CHAPTER 26

  Winn

  “SOMEDAY,” MARCUS SAID, “ye will leave this place. Ye will know when it is time.”

  “Why must I leave, father?” Winn asked. There was scarce respect between them then. Winn did not yet trust his father, nor did he wish to hear his advice. “I was born of this earth, raised in this place. No man can make me leave it.”

  Marcus shook his head, his blue eyes cast sadly downward.

  “No man can make ye leave it. Yet ye will know when it is time to let go.”

  Winn thought of Marcus often since his journey to the future. Although the memories were few, he cherished them, wishing to hold onto that tiny piece of connection he kept with his father. The sadness of loss held constant in their lives, but the recollections of those they loved could never be erased.

  Marcus was right. It was time to let go.

  He found Maggie in their longhouse. Finola’s white cloak lay over a chair by the hearth, the bright white fur a stark reminder of her death. Maggie wanted to bury Finola with it, but Gwen insisted a Norse woman’s cloak was meant to be passed on. She claimed it was magical, and after seeing Kyra pulled back from the hands of death, Winn had no doubt. Be it the magic in the medicine he brought from the future, or the hum of an ancient Norse ritual, to Winn it was all the same. The force that saved his daughter was sacred, no matter which God sent that blessing.

  “Hey,” she said softly. Red hair shrouded her face, her head dipped down over a shirt she was attempting to mend. Winn smiled, taking it gently from her hands despite her objections.

  “Did my wife do this? These stitches are fine, indeed,” he declared. She snorted, snatching the linen from his hands as she rolled her eyes.

  “Hardly. I know it’s terrible,” she muttered.

  “No, it is the truth. I have many shirts for you to fix,” he insisted, raising his brow to peer into her lap. She scrunched the shirt into a ball as he traced his finger over the crooked stitches. “Well, I can do it myself I suppose.”

  “That’s not funny, Winn,” she shot back. She smiled, however, so Winn knew she was not too angry at him. His laughter dimmed as he shed his tunic, the reminder of his purpose resounding through him.

  “What you told me of the future…the reservations…,” he said, losing his thought for an instant. No matter how many times they discussed it, it was still difficult for him to accept. “You said the Powhatan will be no more, but you know the Nansemond survive. That in your time, Chief Basse leads them.”

  She nodded. “It is true.”

  “I know it cannot be changed. It is too late for that. We will leave this village. Our time here will end,” he said. “You will travel with the others to Basse’s Choice. I shall meet you there when I return.”

  She immediately objected.

  “You can’t leave – not now, Winn! We need you here –”

  “If what you say is true, then no more warriors should die for this war. He never believed it from your lips – but I can tell him what I have seen with my own eyes in the future.”

  Maggie quieted. She bit down on her lip as she returned his stare.

  “It won’t matter to him. He won’t listen to you. He won’t listen to anyone,” she said quietly.

  “I went to your time, ntehem. I walked on Tsenacommacah land. There was no sign of my people – nothing to say we once lived here, that we once were part of this place. All of this that I know,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “all of this is gone. As if it never was. No, my uncle may not listen to me. Still, I must try.”

  His hands fell to his sides. He did not like to speak the truth aloud, as if saying the words somehow made it an unchangeable truth. Maggie did not argue. As much as he often wished she would follow his commands without question, when his wife simply lowered her eyes and nodded it gave him pause.

  “I will leave today,” he said.

  “Go quickly, then, so you will return to me sooner,” she whispered.

  Who was the woman before him? Downcast gaze, her mouth tightly closed, it was some stranger that handed him his traveling satchel. Fight, screamed the voice inside him. Show me the one I love, the one who will stand down to no man!

  She gave no answer. Her red hair fell across her face, hiding her eyes as she murmured farewell. He should feel triumphant that his wife supported him, proud of her silent acquiescence.

  Yet as he rode away his limbs were numb and it seemed there was a hollow thing where his heart should be.

  CHAPTER 27

  Makedewa

  PÌMISKODJÌSÌ JABBED a bony elbow into Makedewa’s flank. He glared at the warrior. Although Pìmiskodjìsì was a favorite of Opechancanough, Makedewa would tolerate no aggression from the man. Since his arrival in the village, there were frequent attempts to challenge his loyalty; Makedewa met each action with swift response, and this insult would be no different.

  “Your traitor brother joins us,” Pìmiskodjìsì said, his words coarse in their native tongue. Makedewa followed the direction the warrior noted and was stunned to see Winn surrounded by a crowd of villagers. Soft light from the stars seemed to illuminate him, his blue eyes shining despite the cover of nightfall as he smiled at the women. It was a much better reception than Makedewa had endured on his own return to their uncle’s village.

  It was always that way. Beloved Winn. Honorable Winn.

  Makedewa grunted an oath and turned away.

  “I have no brother,” he snapped. The words were sour on his lips, but he said them anyway.

  “Hmpf,” Pìmiskodjìsì replied. “We shall see.”

  The others did not know what wall stood between Makedewa and Winn, but Makedewa felt the distance once more when he met Winn’s gaze. He returned his attention to the warmth of the fire, focusing on the flickering flames to dampen the surge of anger in his blood.

  “So you guard our uncle now. This is where you lay your head.”

  Makedewa did not look up at Winn’s voice. He noticed the warriors stepped away. Not far, because they tended the fire in front of the Weroance’s yehakin, but it was enough to give them some semblance of privacy.

  “Scurry away, Norseman. They do not care for traitors here,” Makedewa muttered. Before Winn could reply, Makedewa left the fire. He stalked off into the woods, unwilling to abide the ache in his heart when he said words to his brother in hatred.

  When they were children, Makedewa stole a spear from one of the warriors and hid it in his mother’s yehakin. It was not long after Makedewa returned from Henricus, angry at the world and longing to make the pai
n go away. As a youth of twelve, he had no words to explain what had been done to him there, nor a way to calm the despair of helplessness in his soul. He stole the spear and hid it, intending to leave the village and return to Henricus. Killing the Englishman was the only way.

  A furor soon arose over the missing weapon, quickly found in their yehakin. Although Makedewa did not speak of it, Winn somehow knew what his young brother endured, and when Winn saw the panic in Makedewa’s eyes, he spoke softly to his brother. Winn stood up and claimed the spear, and then his older brother took the punishment in Makedewa’s place.

  “Worry not,” Winn whispered. “I will see no harm come to you. You are my brother. As you will always be.”

  Now, as a man, seeing his brother stalk toward him with rage in his eyes sent him deep into despair. How had they fallen so far?

  “Traitor? Is that what you think of me?” Winn demanded.

  Makedewa glared back at him.

  “Would a traitor care for your son, take him into his home – protect him as if he were his own?” Winn shouted.

  He gritted his jaw, lowering his gaze from Winn’s. He did not wish to consider his son. Only in the dark of night did he think on him, when Makedewa watched the Norse village from afar. Then he could think of him, as he caught a glimpse of the boy in Maggie’s arms. He could bear no more than that, and the words from Winn’s mouth stung him.

  “Enough,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  “Would a traitor bury your wife? Would he wrap her in her marriage blanket, would he place her in the ground?”

  “Stop it,” Makedewa growled.

  “You were not there. It should have been you. Instead it was a traitor that buried your wife. And a traitor that cares for your son, even now.”

  He could take no more. Makedewa lunged at Winn, shoving him back into a tree with the force of his assault. With a roar he pummeled his brother with closed fists, striking the man before him as if his pain might be swallowed whole. It did not help, the truth too much to bear, and slaking his rage on his brother only served to worsen it. He felt the blow to his chest as Winn drove him down and he knew that if Winn truly meant to hurt him, he would be dead.

  His chest shuddered as he struggled for air. Winn’s hands gripped his face, and Makedewa let his weary forehead rest upon his brother’s. Brow to brow they sat there, until their breaths slowed and their tempers faded.

  “Your son needs you,” Winn said. “Come home.”

  Makedewa closed his eyes, his answer pained. “My brother will kill me. I would do the same to one who harmed my wife.”

  “You are my brother,” Winn said quietly. “As you will always be. I will see no harm come to you. And I know you will do no harm to my wife.”

  The pain faded, washing over Makedewa as he nodded to his brother. It was still there, as he knew it always would be. Yet somehow, he thought, he might find the strength to go on, if not in the love of his brother, then the heart of his son.

  Although Winn slept peacefully that night, Makedewa was restless. His dreams were usually of her, visions of the woman he loved so much. Yet under the glow of the moonlight, Makedewa saw a different vision, once where he held his son in his arms and promised the boy he would never abandon him again.

  He heard them before he saw them. A rustle of footsteps beside his head, and then suddenly his vision exploded as he was struck in the temple. As he rolled away he landed on all fours, shaking his head to regain his senses as screams pierced the air around him.

  The scent of dirt filled his nostrils, his fingers digging into the damp earth. He scrambled through the ground cover, sliding on wet leaves as he struggled to his feet. Women ran through the village, chased by English soldiers.

  They were everywhere.

  There were too many of them.

  Dozens swarmed the village, firing shots seeming at random into the yehakins where villagers lay sleeping. His heart plummeted when he saw them carry Opechancanough from the Great Yehakin, the Weroance guarded by a bevy of Englishmen as they took him away on a litter.

  Makedewa turned toward the shouts and froze. A soldier stood a few paces away, musket leveled in aim.

  Winn grabbed the man from behind, buried his knife in the back of the Englishman’s neck, and then dropped the body to the ground.

  “Go!” Winn shouted. Makedewa obeyed his brother, taking off in a run toward the woods.

  As he ran he heard a shot and then his legs felt heavy. Suddenly he could no longer direct them. He stumbled to the ground, first to one knee, then to the earth. With his face buried in wet leaves he tried to rise, attempting to make his useless limbs do something other than falter. Perplexed at why his numb body would not obey, he ran his hand over his chest and he knew why.

  “No!” Winn shouted. His brother’s voice echoed, as if it came from another time. As Winn rolled him over, Makedewa smiled. He took his bloody hand and placed it on his brother’s shoulder.

  “She calls to me,” he whispered.

  Makedewa saw her there, in the shimmer of moonlight above the trees. Just as she was on their wedding day, sent from the Great Creator to smile upon him.

  “Come to me, husband,” she said.

  He ran.

  CHAPTER 28

  Maggie

  “WILL WE BE THERE for the wedding, Mama?” Kyra asked.

  Morgan was out of earshot, busy securing supplies on the cart. A new horse stood harnessed to the contraption, both gifts from John Basse. There had been several offerings from the Englishman after the broken betrothal, and in Winn’s absence Maggie tried to decline, but John was insistent. Despite John’s distress over the matter, Maggie could not fault him. John was in love with a Nansemond maiden, the beautiful young daughter of a Weroance. She went by the Christian name Elizabeth, one of the first from the Nansemond to convert. Maggie was more than happy to support John, especially when their alliance remained intact and Kyra could have a chance at happiness.

  “Yes, we will,” Maggie replied. “How does Morgan feel about going?”

  “Oh, he has no worry. He knows where my heart rests,” she said.

  Morgan glanced their way and grinned.

  “Have ye two done any work yet? Truly, I will let ye help,” he called out.

  “Nay. My father says this is man’s work. I willna not disobey him,” Kyra announced.

  “Oh, of course not. You’re all about listening to your father,” Maggie laughed. She wrapped her arms over her belly and enjoyed the good humor, but it was tapered by the reminder that Winn was still gone.

  Intent on doing her duty, Maggie tried to carry on without her husband. It was what he asked of her. If she was useless for all things women should do in that time, at least she could follow her husband’s orders.

  Seeing everyone safely to Basse’s Choice was a task she was going to fulfill, and when Winn returned, he would be pleased to see he could depend on her for something. It was a coordinated effort. Erich and Gwen left with a small caravan of villagers two days prior, taking Dagr, who had recovered sufficiently with them, and Malcolm, who had never been ill. Maggie stayed behind with those still recovering from the sickness, only a handful of Norse who were near ready to travel. She was not thrilled with the prospect of staying in a near- empty village, but she knew Chetan and Keke would return soon from helping the Nansemond move.

  When Winn returned, they would be settled in their new home near Basse’s Choice. Kyra was eager to plan her wedding day celebration, and Maggie was just as anxious for some sort of normalcy. Finally, she believed their struggles neared a conclusion.

  “Keke?” Kyra called out. Keke thundered into the yard, jumping off his horse before the beast stopped. He left the animal ground tied as he ran to them, his chest heaving as he tried to speak. Sweat streaked his dark skin, his long hair twisted in a careless knot at his nape.

  “They captured him,” he panted, leaning over and placing his hands on his knees. He spit into the dusty earth and struggled to recover
his breath. “Opechancanough. They took him to Jamestown.”

  “The others?” Maggie asked, not truly wishing to know the answer.

  “Captured. All of them. If Winkeohkwet lives, he is with them.”

  They argued on what plan to take, with both young men insisting they should go straight to Basse’s Choice. Morgan agreed to see her daughter safely there as they had already planned, and since Kyra was not well enough to travel alone it was easy to convince Morgan he must go. There he could alert Erich and the others to what had happened, saving them precious time.

  Keke was another matter entirely.

  “If he is there, my father will find him,” Keke argued.

  “How will he do that? Chetan won’t get anywhere near Jamestown without being captured himself,” Maggie replied. Her nephew was insistent, shaking his head vehemently at her plan, but she knew what was going to happen to the prisoners and she would not be swayed.

  “Winn will kill me if I let you go alone,” Keke said.

  “You can’t go near the English, either. We have no choice.”

  Keke knew few details. Opechcanough led another massive attack on the English, a virtual re-enactment of the 1622 Great Assault where over three hundred English were killed. The shrewd leader coordinated a repeat battle, this time killing more than five hundred English, yet the results were less than desirable. In 1622, a few hundred deaths nearly ended the English colony; years later, the English population had grown to such proportions that the deaths of five hundred made little impact.

  Opechcanough risked everything to drive the English away, yet his reign had come to an end. Captured at a village upriver in Pamunkey, the Weroance was transported to Jamestown for trial. It was difficult for Keke to relay the story to her, so she gently reminded him that he need not give her all the details. As his dark eyes softened and he insisted on telling her, it was clear by his adamant tone he needed to speak of it. He knew as well as she did what Opechancanough’s capture meant. Perhaps by speaking it aloud, it provided the young warrior some solace.