Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (40 page)

“She birthed Ahi Kekeleksu and then died of the spotted fever. The English killed her after all.” He frowned and looked down at her. “I tell you this to show you what a brother is. I would give my life for my brothers, as they would give for you. They need not ask it of me, they have it by honor of our bond. There was a time when Benjamin was brother to me, you know this,” he said, his voice rising. Kwetii stirred and hiccupped across the
yehakin
.

“I understand, Winn, I do,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek. She felt him tremble, the anger palatable under her fingertips.

“No, you do not. Chetan did not ask me to save his woman, he did not need to speak any words to show me the way. The day Benjamin took you from me, when I lay wounded with him at my side, I thought soon I might take my last breath.  I asked it of Benjamin, to protect you, since I could not. Do you know what it means, to ask such a thing of a man?”

“Winn—”

“My English brother, the man I called friend? He stole you from me and left me for dead. He kept you with him by his lies. He sent you to hang as a witch—with my daughter in your belly! Do not ask it of me, wife. Do not ask me to call him brother. He is nothing to me but another Englishman.”

“I won’t ask it,” she whispered. She bowed her head to his shoulder, tearing away from his searing blue eyes, unable to take in the intensity of his gaze. In the end, Benjamin had saved her, but that fact meant nothing to her husband. She could not fault him for his resolve, yet even as she held him and felt his tremors ease, she knew it was a matter long from settled.

“Stay out of the fields while I am gone tomorrow. Keep near the
yehakins
until we return,” he mumbled, effectively ending the discussion with a demand. Although she did not voice her submission, she nodded in agreement.

He pulled her snugly against his chest and kissed her forehead. She felt his breathing grow shallow in the silence, and his heartbeat slowed beneath the touch of her ear pressed against his skin.

Winn

Chetan led the way, always the guide on any excursion they made. He was the best tracker of the three brothers, and Winn valued his skill above any other. Makedewa hung back in his usual position flanking the group from behind, keeping a careful watch for any danger that followed. Winn slowed his mount to ride with his younger brother, unwilling to ride alongside Marcus.

Pale Feather, the coward.  Whoever the man was, he could ride alone.

“What do you think of the tempers in town?” Winn asked Makedewa. The other warrior shrugged and uttered a non-committal grunt.

“No different than usual. They speak with one face to you, another face to their King. For now we should have no trouble.”

“I see you leave your pretty red coat behind. No need of it today?” Winn grinned, chiding him.  Winn knew full well why Makedewa stopped wearing the English solider coat, and it had nothing to do with fearing the townsfolk.  Makedewa won the coat fairly in a dice game, along with a small flask of gunpowder and a jug of sack. The three brothers had enjoyed the wine while tending to the horses the night before, and as they finished it Makedewa confessed he only wore it to impress Rebecca. Unfortunately, his attempt had backfired. The young Englishwoman thought it obscene and told the warrior as much.

“Ah, that coat reeks of
Tassantassas.
I will not wear it again,” Makedewa grumbled.

“You worry too much of what that girl thinks. Wear it if you please.”

Makedewa laughed aloud at Winn’s words.

“Oh, yes, brother. I think too much of a woman? Maybe you do not see the sun through the clouds. If Maggie smiles, you smile. If she cries, you sulk. And help us, Creator, when she rages, for then you act a fool!” he laughed.

Winn shook his head in mock disgust, yet laughed with him.

“You will see, little brother.”

“No, I will not,” Makedewa said, as his laughter eased and his lips tightened. “She will never smile at me as Maggie smiles at you.”

Winn cocked his head to the side as his pony plodded on. He looked up ahead to ensure the others did not listen, and once satisfied they paid no heed, he spoke quietly to his younger brother. He saw the change in Makedewa at his confession. Tall, lean, every ounce a powerful warrior, his brother had shown an unusual glimpse of kindness to the girl. It had been Makedewa who saved her during the Great Assault, slaying another warrior who meant to take her as captive. Since that fateful day more than two years past, Rebecca had remained living with them with no desire to return to the colony and Makedewa had mooned over her like a love struck buffoon.  Whatever damage had been done to her, however, appeared lasting, and the young woman seemed to care for nothing more than friendship.

“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, like 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.