Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (8 page)

She saw how his smile faded and his eyes dimmed as he considered her response, and she suddenly had a feeling her words meant more to him. He reached out with a fist and grabbed her rein, stopping her mount beside his.

“So where will my people go, when so many whites come? Already our lands are used up, and many of our people forced to move. Even now the Paspaheghs are few. What will happen to the Powhatans? When does it happen?”

Her teeth closed over her lower lip, and she pushed a strand of wayward hair back behind one ear. Should she tell him the truth of what happened, or was this knowledge of the future too much for him to handle?  She still was not sure of her role in this time travel business, but with the turn their conversation took she suddenly feared what impact her actions could have.  Would changing the past in turn change the future? And was it up to her to do so?

“Winn, I don’t think –”

“Tell me,” he insisted, his voice betraying that he expected the worst. She sighed with the knowledge she must tell him the truth, and tried to find the words to describe the end of the life he knew.

“I’m sorry…” she began. He listened without interruption, and when she finished the tale he remained wordless.  His clear blue eyes exposed his despair, the azure depths reduced to empty hollows as the impact hit him.  He appeared to pale beneath his soft copper skin, even the tips of his ears and his soft full lips drained of color. They rode in silence together, her heel tapping gently against his with each stride of her pony, until they joined his brothers again.

Makedewa kneeled over a small fire in a shallow pit in the sand, laying several fish pierced on stakes across the piles of rocks he lined the fire with.  The fish hung suspended above the licking flames, the searing scent of their flesh cooking rising from the smoke.  Chetan walked back from the surf, a wide grin across his round face as he held a snapping crab in his upraised hand.  He took a proffered stick from Makedewa and speared it through, then tossed it on the fire with the fish, and her belly made a growling sound at the scent of fresh charred seafood as the food began to roast.

“Uhm, I’ll be right back,” she said.  Winn raised an eyebrow as she dismounted. “I just need a minute…to myself,” she stammered.  She had no idea what words to use to explain she needed to void, so she was relieved when Winn made no protest. He pointed over to the trees where they had entered the beach, and she gladly took his direction.

She wished she had even a smidgeon of the confidence the Indian women had, and she was deftly reminded of her more modest nature every time she needed to relieve herself.  She walked further back in the woods than was truly necessary for privacy, and when she was content she was adequately hidden, she squatted down and raised her dress.

“Akekweh!”

Maggie shot to her feet at the angry utterance and swung around to holler at whichever man had followed her, her face streaked with crimson at being interrupted.  When she did not recognize the intruder, she let the leaves she had gathered fall from her hand and stepped back a pace.

Not just one, but two natives approached. The nearest one spoke to her again, his words slower but much different cadence of the Paspahegh speech she had grown accustomed to, and he stepped toward her when she did not answer.

“I don’t understand,” she said, feeling her heart start to pound in her ears.  Already backed up to a thick grove of narrow young saplings, she had chosen the place for its natural screen, unaware it would become a prison in a few short moments. 

The man continued his approach.  Tall and lean, his chest heavily scarred and his eyes hollow beneath hooded brows, his black hair was shaved completely except for a section of long braid trailing from the top of his head down his back.  Both men wore only breechcloths, and their skin was stained with black slashes of paint and an array of intricate tattoos.  She held her breath as the first man reached out to her, taking one of her red braids in his hand.  He peered at it for a moment, and then a grin spread slowly over his face when he looked up at her. 

“What?” she croaked.  His smile was not comforting, only serving to show her the gap where his lower tooth should be, and with his close proximity, the stale stench of his breath. He ran one finger across the black grease pattern on his chest, then reached out and ran the fingertip across her forehead, leaving a dark smudge on her pale skin. Stunned, she let out her breath.  Perhaps it was a friendly gesture, and he would be on his way.

The men spoke amongst themselves, and then the first one turned swiftly back to her and grabbed her wrist, towing her with him as they went back the way they had arrived.  She let out a screech and tried to pull away from him to no avail, and he grunted but otherwise ignored her as he dragged her along.

“No! Let me go!” she screamed.  She dug her heels into the ground until he was forced to stop, at which point he turned back to her with a knife brandished.  She froze when he held it under her chin and grunted something she did not understand, then proceeded to continue dragging her away.

“Nahkihela!”

The native stopped so fast that she stumbled into his back, and relief washed through her when she realized the new voice belonged to Winn.

Great, she thought. Winn would clear up the little misunderstanding and they could go back to the beach peacefully to eat their fish.

She tried to shake off the hand that held her, but it remained locked like binding around her wrist.

Winn made no eye contact with her as he confronted the man, but his muscles were tensed like bowstrings as he approached.  The second man swung around to flank him, leaving Winn surrounded as he spoke in rapid Paspahegh to the intruders.

Something Winn said suddenly angered the man, and he snatched her forward and thrust the knife beneath her chin as Winn stepped toward him.  At the sight of the knife and her gasp of surprise Winn immediately stopped, his feet planted shoulder stance apart, crouched slightly, his breathing slowed and cautious. 

“Winn?” she whispered.  His eyes met hers, and she shuddered to see the flare of anger held back within, his jaw tight as he remained poised to strike. She made her decision, and after taking a deep breath in preparation, she raised her knee up and struck backward with all her might.  Her heel made contact with one knee in a sickening snap, and in a blur of copper skin and limbs she was shoved away to fall into the sandy soil at their feet as the warriors tumbled to the ground.

She saw the second man move to enter the fray, and since she had nothing with which to fight, she grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him.  He blocked her attempt but it slowed him down enough for her to find a nearby rock, which she also threw at him to little effect. When he unsheathed his knife and approached the two men who fought, she let out a piercing scream.  Winn had the other man beneath him on the ground, wide open to the second man.

“No!” she yelled. There was a sickening thump and suddenly the man slumped to the ground, an arrow protruding from his temple and his eyes staring blindly at the sky.  Makedewa stepped through the bushes, his bow poised for a second shot, Chetan flanking his side.

She scrambled backward on her bottom away from the dead man and watched as the brothers simply surveyed Winn as he fought.  It made no sense to her why they did not jump in to help him.  Winn rolled the man onto his back, hitting the man with his bloodied closed fist, bone connecting bone with a sickening crunch.  Winn shouted at the man, and the intruder seemed to smile through his missing teeth, and when Winn shook him he spit a mass of blood out that splattered Winn’s face and chest.

Winn raised his knife and thrust it deep into the side of the man’s neck.  The intruder went limp, and Winn slowly stepped off the man.  His chest heaved then, as if he released his anger in one final breath, and as she met his eyes she saw the rabid fierceness slowly fade. He swiped the back of his arm across his face, then sheathed his knife before he approached where she still sat on the ground.

“Winn?”

He kneeled in front of her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly. She shook her head. She stayed motionless when he reached out for her forehead and his fingers rubbed the smudge from her skin. His blue eyes burned like two slanted embers when he looked down at her, her heart beating like a jack rabbit trapped in a snare.

“You will never wear the mark of another warrior.”

The words were coarse from his gritted jaw, and in one motion he swept her up into his arms.  She rode in his lap back to the village, her riderless pony trailing behind.

C
hapter 10

“P
atawomecks. They were
scouts,” Makedewa said. He inhaled smoke from the long pipe, passing it to Winn as he exhaled. They sat with the other men in the Long House, cross-legged on furs in a circle. There were few Paspahegh men left in the village, many eradicated by English raids or white man’s diseases, and of the forty odd men, only half were able bodied enough to be considered warriors. Though only twenty strong, they were still fierce fighters and Winn was confident they could handle the threat from a few rogue Patawomecks.

“What reason do they have to spy on us? We leave their lands to them. We let them trade with the English as they please,” another warrior spoke. Pimtune, an older man, sat up and addressed the others. Born with a twisted upper lip, he looked as if he always smiled, even when he was clearly agitated.

“They do not join with Opechancanough. I hear they want no more war with the English. The man I killed said nothing before his death,” Winn said. His feet and hands felt heavy as he inhaled the sweet pipe smoke, the slow rush spreading a warmth through his essence as it cleared his troubled mind.  He knew the Patawomeck opposed the upcoming attack on the English that his uncle had been planning for years. The Patawomeck had already refused to join the Powhatan and pledged they would remain neutral.  Opechancanough had given up trying to ally with them as the time drew near, so this breech of territory worried Winn. There was no good reason for the Patawomeck to be in Powhatan territory, especially in the small Paspahegh lands.

“It is not usual for them to take English slaves, yet they tried to take the Red Woman,” Makedewa said.  The other warriors looked up at the revelation. Pimtune creased his brows yet remained respectful as he glanced toward Winn.  Winn passed the pipe to him,
and did not look at Makedewa, unwilling to show his brother how much the statement bothered him.

“What say you, Winkeohkwet?” Pimtune asked.

Winn nodded. “Yes, the dog marked her. It was clear he meant to take her as a slave.”

Murmurs erupted among the men.  A canopy of smoke hung over them, a wisp funneling up through the fire hole at the top of the Long House where the wind whipped above. Rumbles of an autumn storm shook the walls and the wind wailed outside. Winn wondered if Maggie was warm by the fire in his
yehakin
.

“We will send word to Opechancanough. He will want to hear of this.”

The men grunted in agreement with Winn, and resumed passing the pipe amongst them.

C
hapter 11

S
he lay curled
under several furs, chilled by the unseasonably cold winds and eager to warm her frozen fingers and toes. Darkness had fallen hours before, yet Winn had still not returned. She waited up as long as she could, trying to keep the fire burning and failing miserably, until finally she gave up and retired to her sleeping space. Her mind would not rest, however, even though the remainder of her body begged to succumb, fatigue not enough of a distraction to keep away visions of the dead warriors.

An arrow to the temple, quick and effective.

A blade jammed into the neck? Equally as efficient, yet somehow seeming much more brutal. She recalled his eyes when he did it, the frigid, focused stare, flaming with violence, intent on bloodshed. Yet Winn came to her afterward, the fire dimmed, his gaze anxious, his touch gentle and calming.

He had killed a man to protect her, taken a life as if it meant nothing. She could not grasp how such violence could be turned on, and then off, like a simple switch to be flipped at a whim. He could turn that on her at any moment, yet some tiny voice inside whispered he would never turn that hatred on her.

She heard the flap of the door covering and knew he returned. With her scattered thoughts still fresh, she did not immediately rise, instead keeping her eyes closed to mimic sleep.  She was afraid to face him, wanting to thank him, but unsure if thanking him for killing a man was something appropriate to do.

“
Tentay teh,”
he said softly.  Warmth rushed through her when she felt him sit down beside her. Although the furs separated them, she still felt his heat, and his closeness caused her throat to tighten and her palms to moisten as they lay curled under her chin. He ran his hand over her hair, drifting down her chin, then to her shoulder.

She swallowed back against her closed throat and opened her eyes. He seemed unsurprised she was awake. His nearness was disarming, so much so she sat up and put a bit of distance between them.  She crossed her arms over her chest.

“I did not mean to wake you,” he said.

“It’s okay. I wanted to see you.” She bit her lower lip, the words seeming to come out in a disjointed mess instead of how she wanted them to.  She held her breath as he reached over.  He pulled a fur up over her shoulders and enclosed her in it, his fingers brushing her bared arms but nothing more.

“Oh? Why?” He sat back away from her, staring at her with his wide full mouth slightly parted, his blue eyes soft and serene.

“To thank you. For what you did,” she replied. He frowned and ducked his head a bit, then met her stare again. She hesitated to explain further, but made the attempt anyway. “Men don’t do things like that where I come from. Kill people, I mean.  Not over a woman. Certainly not over me,” she stammered.

His gaze hardened, his jaw tight, and she saw the skin across his abdomen crease as he held his breath. She was confused when he left her side and began adding kindling to the fire.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Men of your time,” he snapped. “Are they all such weaklings? Are there no warriors? I protect what is mine,
Tentay teh
. Until breath leaves my body, I will do so.”

Maggie sat back, stunned at his confession, unwilling to move a muscle before she could gather her senses to respond. He continued to toss wood to the flames.

“You think me savage, because men of your time spill no blood? I say your men know nothing of honor. Why do you want to return to such a time?”

“It’s where I belong, Winn,” she said softly.

“
Je fais partie ou la lumiere me prend,”
he murmured. 

“Is that Paspahegh?”

“No. French words, from a book. It means ‘I belong where the light takes me’. Just as you do.”

“Who are you?” she asked, filled with wonder at each snippet of soul he revealed to her. She rose from the furs and approached him. “Where did you learn that? You speak so beautifully.”

His shoulders tensed, and she felt him stiffen when she slipped her hand into his.

“You think this savage knows nothing? I know many languages. I can read from your books. I am quite valuable to my Weroance.”

She placed her other hand softly on his chest and moved closer to him so he could not avoid her gaze. He looked angry, yet controlled, but she needed to ease the fire and staunch the distance between them.

“I meant no insult,” she said, trying to lighten his mood. “I was being nice.” He frowned.

“Nice? Humph,” he grunted.

“Here, sit. I have a gift for you,” she said softly. He let her pull him down next to the fire, where Teyas had left a few supplies for her. A clamshell that fit snug in her hand, a bowl of thick bear fat, and a soft deerskin to use as a towel.  When Maggie asked her how to properly thank Winn for what he had done, Teyas assured her that shaving his scalp would show him just how grateful she was. She only hoped she could do it without hurting him.

“Maggie—”

“Please. Let me do this for you.”

When he watched her dip her hand in the grease, she saw his throat tighten. She kneeled in front of him, and while placing one hand on his shoulder to steady herself, she carefully smeared the grease on the crescent of short hairs over his right ear. His eyes followed her every movement.

“Be still,” she said. She took the sharp shell in the palm of her hand as Teyas instructed her, and slowly scraped it along his skin. She was pleased when the hair came cleanly away, leaving his bared scalp slick from the grease. His breath felt warm on her neck as she worked with her face close to his, going over the moon shaped patch to ensure it was smooth. As she leaned in to pat his skin dry, he
turned his chin, a slight movement, yet enough for his lips to brush the side of her neck.

“Thank you for what you did today,” she said.

She touched his cheek softly with her closed lips, meaning to give him something to show her sincerity, but at the contact, the urge to feel even more assaulted her.  He caught her head in his hands before she pulled away, moving his mouth to gently cover her lips. Sweet with brandy wine he kissed her, his palms cupped around her face.

She felt him shudder, and her own hands shook as she placed them flat upon his chest. She meant to move closer, every ounce of her being drawn to him, but suddenly he broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he looked down at her. His gaze flickered down, and she knew her dress laces fell half opened yet did not care, only focused on the heat in his blue eyes when he met her stare again.

“Go,” he said, his voice hoarse, “take your rest. I will see you when the sun rises.”

She thought he would kiss her again, yet he did not.  He left her there alone by the fire, wondering what exactly had just happened between them.

“Did you cut him?” Teyas asked.

Maggie shook her head.

“I did a pretty good job, if I may say so myself,” she replied.  They worked together with the other village women, grounding Tuckahoe root into flour.  Maggie would have liked to go out on the boats to retrieve it, but she was reluctant to make any suggestions since most of the women viewed her with suspicion.  She imagined they wondered if she was a slave or a guest, and since she was hardly sure herself, she could see why they might be leery of her.

“Oh, good! He liked it, then?”

“Seemed so,” Maggie admitted.  The memory of his kiss distracted her, and blood rushed to her cheeks as she dropped her wooden mortar.  Teyas giggled.

“Is that so? My brother makes you clumsy. Maybe you should do more wife duties!” the girl laughed.  Maggie stiffened and turned on her.

“What are you talking about? Wife duties?” she asked. No, surely Teyas would not be so sneaky! Maggie was fully aware it would take years for her to grasp the extent of the Paspahegh customs. Simple things she saw no meaning in were chock-full of implication in their world, so much so that she was afraid to make any move without prior instruction. When Teyas suggested she shave his scalp as a show of thanks, Maggie suspected nothing of it.

“When a woman shaves a man, she tells him she accepts his courting. Do not worry, Maggie, it is the proper way to show love.”

“Wait a second!” Maggie sputtered. “I only wanted to thank him! I don’t love him!” she hissed. Teyas grinned.

“Ah, thanks…love? The same,” she laughed. Teyas continued with her grinding, and the women around them broke out in song, perhaps as a way to muffle the strange strangled sounds Maggie was making. Teyas nudged her with her foot, flashing a faux chagrined smile.

“Not funny, Teyas,” she seethed. “Not funny at all.”

Some of the other women chuckled, and Maggie clamped her mouth shut.