The Legend of the Bloodstone

by E.B. Brown

  “Winn truly hides a Time Walker?” He raised his head to the stars and let out a chilling howl of laughter. “He thinks to keep you? What a fool he is!”

  She fumbled backward and felt the stab of a branch in her ribs and leaves brush her neck.

  “Run,” he grinned, his words dripping with excitement and malice. “Run as fast as you can. I give you a count of five before I gut you.” He traced a path on his own chest with one finger from the base of his throat down to his navel. “I will see great honor when I bring your head to my Weroance.”

  She believed every ounce of his threat and took off in a sprint. The satchel bounced against her kidney as she darted through the trees, wincing at the sting of branches tearing at her face and neck. She jumped over a rotted fallen tree and lost her balance, falling to her knees on the pine-needle-strewn ground. Looking around, she tried to catch a breath, her chest heaving with the effort, and she sighed when she realized he was not pursuing her. When she struggled to her feet, her head still spinning, she was immediately knocked back to the ground by a blow from behind.

  She felt his face against the back of her neck as he leaned in close to her ear, with the stink of his rancid breath causing her nose to wrinkle in disgust.

  “Where is your warrior now, Red Woman? I see no man here, except me.”

  He bound her wrists behind her back with a thick rope and hauled her to her feet.

  *****

  She sat on her knees in the dirt, a pair of viselike hands gripping her shoulders to keep her as much upright as was possible with her head hanging limp. The return to awareness was abrupt, as if a light switch had been flicked on and suddenly she could see again, but a thick sour smoke filled her lungs and she twisted her head away from the scent. The hands held her tighter, and then she spotted a burning ember smoldering in the hand of another held directly under her nose. She scrunched her nose and sneezed, and struggled to sit back away from the ember and smoke.

  “Enough! Stop it!” she snapped. At the sound of her voice, the brown hand with the burning bundle of twigs pulled back away from her face and she coughed out the last remnants of smoke from her lungs.

  “Welcome, Red Woman.”

  Maggie looked up. The voice was stilted but clear, authority ringing through his words as sure as the smoke smothering her breath. It was Nemattanew who stood at her side keeping her upright, but the man who spoke sat on a high dais in front of her. He wore a decorated breechcloth riddled with brilliant colored beads, his arms littered with thick copper bracelets and smeared with bright red paint. His face was creased with age, tanned to a dark hue, a stark pallet of amused disgust gracing his expression as he considered the white woman kneeling in a disoriented heap before him.

  “Welcome? This is hardly a welcome!” she replied, prompting a wave of gasps from onlookers. She suspected she was in a long house and with the cluster of people gathered, she could see this was some sort of ceremonial assembly. She desperately hoped that not all the pomp and circumstance was in honor of her appearance.

  The man considered her words, his black eyes narrowing into slits. The two beautiful women at his side moved closer to him when she spoke as if to shield him from the advance of the evil Red Woman. Maggie could not help a stifled laugh that emerged as the gloriously half-naked woman clung to the man, equally decorated in finery.

  “I am Weroance Opechancanough,” he said. His voice betrayed no anger at her words, only a curious tolerance, but his face still was hardened in a formidable mask. The strength of her resolve began to crumble as a sick feeling permeated the pit of her stomach and she realized exactly who the man was and how tenuous her situation had become.

  “I’m Maggie,” she answered, her voice wavering only slightly.

  “Tell me, Maggie,” he said. “Do you put a spell upon my nephew, as the Pale Witch put a spell on me?”

  “I don’t know any spells,” she replied evenly, figuring the stronger she sounded, the better. To sit like a quivering idiot and plead for her life would be useless, so if she were going to burn she would do it with a fight. “But I do know what happens to you and your people. Is that why you want me dead?”

  His lips pursed tightly and he patted the shoulders of each woman beside him, and then gave a curt nod to the other spectators in the Long House.

  “Leave us.”

  Nemattanew continued to keep a grip on her shoulder, and he made one attempt to argue in his own language before the Weroance issued a final order to dismiss him. The Long House emptied completely in less than a minute, leaving her on her knees at the feet of the leader.

  “I wonder why you still have a tongue, with the way you speak. Have you turned my nephew into a fool? Is sharing your furs such pleasure he would forget he is a man?”

  “Winn is no fool.”

  He slid off the platform, with much more finesse and grace than Maggie expected from an older warrior, then squatted down in front of her to eye level. When he reached out to touch one of her thick red braids, she swatted at his hand with her bound fists, which only caused him to smile. It was not a pleasant smile by any means, more forced and maligned, but it kept his hand away and for that, she was grateful.

  “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. She overplayed her hand against his composure and lost, a startled yelp escaping her lips when he snatched her chin in his fingers, his ebony eyes flaring.

  “I will touch what I please,” he snarled. “You only breathe right now because of my command. Perhaps you should consider that before you speak.” He released her chin and she sat back on the ground, her eyes still set warily on him as she fought to control her rapid breathing.

  “What do you plan to do with me?” she asked.

  “What my nephew failed to do.”

  “Your nephew is a…a decent man.”

  One eyebrow rose slightly. “Decent? What meaning is that, Red Woman?”

  “It means good. Kind.”

  His black eyes narrowed into slits and his weathered face hardened.

  “Winkeohkwet will not disobey me. No warrior of mine makes such a mistake. You think you are so important to my nephew, you think he would not crush your skull at my command?”

  She was sure he meant every syllable, from his declaration of wonder at her protest to his pledge to murder her himself. She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and closed her eyes.

  “I know he would not hurt me,” she whispered.

  He darted forward and grabbed her neck with one large and surprisingly vise-like hand, the other latched to her shoulder to make it easier to drag her close to his pedestal. There he slammed her head down onto a flat, round stump protruding from the ground, the skin of her neck and shoulders scraping against the roots that anchored the stump to the ground. Her vision split into blackness with shredded stars whirling above, but before she could succumb to losing consciousness, his hand loosened on her throat enough for her to gasp air back into her lungs.

  “I have killed many Time Walkers. You are one of many, Red Woman, and you will not be the last.”

  She saw dark dried blood on the stump, her cheek pressed into the slimy wood that she realized was slick with gore from another recent sacrifice. She gasped another breath of air through her narrowed windpipe, unable to move since his fingers still held her down by the neck. What could she say to save herself? She was no Pale Witch, nor a witch of any kind, and her magic came from her knowledge of her own time, not some spell. Her stomach whirled and dropped when she saw him raise a mallet in his other hand.

  “I know when you will die,” she croaked. The effect was not instantaneous, but it worked. He slowly lowered the weapon and removed his hand from her neck, and she gauged her actions against his by very carefully raising her head. She kneeled in front of him, hoping her attempt at mimicking other Indian women would show him her deference. Trying to control her rapid breathing as her lungs screamed for more air, she remained hunched over at his command, her cheek caked with we
t gore from a previous sacrifice on the stump.

  “Then your magic is more powerful than even the Pale Witch,” he said, careful and controlled in his response, spoken more to himself than to her. “Tell me, Red Woman, when will I die?”

  She made the decision, not certain if it would keep her alive, but afraid it was her only hope.

  “I see you trick the English by sharing their food. I see your warriors take many lives in one bloody day, in all the English villages. It will be called the Massacre of 1622. You think it will drive them back across the ocean, but it will not,” she said. Her voice gained conviction as she thought up more nonsense to cast doubt in his mind. “A Weroance who knows when his time ends cannot lead his people,” she said. “And the man who kills the Red Woman will curse his people for eternity.” She dared to look up and saw his eyes opened wide and his mouth slightly agape. “I have seen it…and it will be!”

  She clenched her hands tightly but could not feel the pain as her nails dug into her palms, too focused on the way the deep bronze of his skin faded to a gray tinged pallor on his face. The hand holding the mallet twitched and rose slightly, indecisive, before it dropped back down at his side.

  “Nemattanew!”

  The warrior responded to the Weroance’s command with only a few seconds delay, and Maggie realized he had been standing nearby the entire time.

  “Take her to the English, since they claim her as kin. She will share their fate.”

  Opechancanough lowered his head close to her crusted cheek, and though her heart pounded loudly in her ears, his words were clear.

  “You may keep your life today, Red Woman, as I spared the Pale Witch once before. When you see her, tell her what was done here today,” he whispered. “You will die, but not by my hand. I will not let you curse my people.”

  He straightened up and nodded. Nemattanew grabbed her by her bound wrists and dragged her out of the Long House.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 24

  She sat numb on the wagon bench, her head feeling as if an axe had split it, although it remained intact and throbbing. Nemattanew rode silently beside the wagon. The man called Thomas Martin who claimed to be her uncle drove from a bench in front of her, ambling along as if they found a stray Englishwoman every day. She closed her eyes for a moment with a semblance of relief. She was still alive, and that was enough of a victory for the moment.

  Whether Thomas had truly mistaken her for his kin or had some other devious plan in mind, she did not know, but she was certain she wanted no part in it either way. She subdued the urge to tell him exactly why she was not his niece, but the warnings from Winn still resonated through her. No one could know where she came from. No one would believe her, and the truth would likely get her strung up for witchery. Her only option was to play along with the English until she had an opportunity to escape.

  Thomas Martin finally breached the silence by clearing his throat with a cough.

  “I am glad to see ye hale my niece. It seems the savages treated ye with kindness. I am saddened to hear of yer ordeal since the accident and wish ye a speedy return to good health.”

  “W-what accident?” was the only sensible thing she could muster.

  “Why, yer fall from the ship. Ye were thought dead in the river. Ye know not what I speak of?”

  “Uhm, no. No, I don’t remember falling off a boat,” she murmured. He cracked the reins against the hide of the horse to urge it faster through the dense wooded trail.

  “No memory? Have ye lost yer sense, girl?” he asked.

  “No! I just don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

  “So there it is. The escorts from the Company said ye took a fall no man could survive. Perhaps it jumbled yer memory a bit,” he shook his head in disgust. “I hope ye recover yer wits soon, or I will lose the price I paid for ye passage,” he grumbled.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yer speech is queer, niece, did my brother speak so? Mayhap he spoke that blasted Scots like his wife and twisted yer English tongue for it.” He shook his head at her expectant appraisal. “No matter. I think young Benjamin has already taken a fancy to ye, so do not worry. He is a good man. Perhaps he will contract for you.”

  “Contract me?” she choked. One of his eyebrows rose up and he peered back at her.

  “Ye signed the contract before you left England, girl. You will wed one of the men in the colony, which is why I paid ye passage. Jack-of-a-Feather is a good friend to us, be glad he returned ye. Your rescue came at a good time, lest I would be lost of my money with no bride to barter with.”

  “There has been some mistake, I am not your niece!”

  He looked sideways at her. “Yes. Yes ye are. Hold yer tongue, girl, if ye know what is good for ye.” He spit out a dark wad of tobacco and clucked to the horses. “Ye have the look of yer mother, ye know, blasted bloody wench she was.”

  Maggie had learned something of the time she was stuck in and knew when it was prudent to keep silent. As much as she wanted to jump from the wagon and start running, she had seen enough of the untamed wilderness and knew better than to risk her neck in it with little more than the doeskin on her back. As if he read her thoughts, Thomas looked down at her, a frown on his lips and his heavy brows slanted.

  “We will get ye into suitable clothes as soon as we return. Yer heathen dress will surely give yer aunt a fright, but she will make do.”

  Maggie agreed. She would give anyone a fright with little trouble.

  *****

  Nighttime had fallen by the time they reached the town. The wagon came to a stop and Thomas jumped quickly down, but Maggie remained frozen, unable to remove her fingers from where they were clenched around the plank supports.

  “Mistress?”

  Benjamin stood beside the wagon, holding his hand out to her expectantly. She turned slowly and looked down into his clear blue eyes, noting with a flush that the shade reminded her of Winn’s odd blue Indian eyes. The man smiled at the color rising in her cheeks, and she imagined he assumed it meant something else. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and took his offered hand, and as she stepped down, she glanced past him.

  Still seated on his war pony, Nemattanew watched them. His face was a flat mask that betrayed no indication of unease, but Maggie thought she spotted a flicker in his gaze when their eyes met.

  She choked back a sob. She had thrived on the strength of her anger, and it fed her resolve to carry on like a dysfunctional crutch. Now, separated from Winn, she felt that urge drain away like a wound gone bloodless, and the sickly taste of fear pricked her soul as she wondered if he would ever find her. She knew her American history, and she knew Jamestown was not a safe haven. Nemattanew was leaving her here to rot with the other whites, getting rid of the Red Woman one way or another.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled. She turned her attention to Benjamin. Taller than the others, with thick wavy dark hair curling around his collar, he took her dusty hand and tucked it in his elbow. A stray curl fell over his brow as he dipped his head to speak. She stared hard at him for a long moment in the moonlight, his image reminding her of the hulking protector she left behind in the future. Similar in stature to Marcus, there was something about Benjamin that radiated protection and strength. She wondered if she could trust that instinct in regards to Benjamin, or if her desperate imagination was only reaching for the safe haven she once knew back home.

  “Are you steady, Mistress? I will carry ye should ye have need,” he said quietly, heard only to her ears. She shook her head and let him lead her to the house.

  Larger than she expected and constructed of stone and wood, she followed Benjamin through the plank doorway inside the house. Thomas Martin had already roused a woman she imagined was his wife, and she was comforted by the kindness in her eyes. Short and pleasingly round with a swath of ebony hair twisted at her nape, she listened to a whispered explanation from Thomas and placed both hands to her
lips as he eyes widened. The woman then nodded vigorously and pressed her hands against her heart as she turned to Maggie.

  “Welcome home, Margaret. How do ye fair, girl, yer uncle said ye took a blow to the head? We haven’t seen ye since ye were a child, but I am yer Aunt Alice. What a blessing to see ye live and well,” she said. She motioned with a hand for Maggie to follow. “Come with me, we shall leave the men to their business.”

  Benjamin nodded at her as if in blessing, and Maggie let her hand slip from his arm to follow Alice into another room off the main area.

  “I fear my dress may be a bit short for you, dear, but it will do until we can fit ye for another. Anything will serve better than that which ye wear—thank our Lord no other women were about to see ye arrive. ‘Tis good they know nothing of this,” Alice muttered, pulling a white cotton shift from a wooden chest next to the lone window in the room. Two functional shutters stood open to admit the brisk night breeze, the opening naked and free of glass. Alice noticed her staring at the space.

  “My husband says he will have glass windows for us before the winter falls, dear. He is so busy now with managing those who work the tobacco fields, he canna tend to it yet. But soon he will remedy that,” she assured Maggie. Maggie said nothing as the woman thrust the shift and a wool dress at her, as if Maggie knew what to do with it. “I will tend to the men and return for ye, dear.”

  Maggie stared blankly at her back as she left the room, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. She sat down on the edge of a narrow cot, one of the few furnishings in the room. Dropping the clothes in a heap on the floor, she put her head in her hands. The tears came fast, staining her dusty cheeks with hot denial. She had no idea how to get herself out of the unbelievable mess she was in. Maggie lay down on the stiff cot and curled her knees to her chest, hugging herself as she cried. She startled at the hand on her hair, relieved to see it was only Alice patting her head when she opened her tear-swollen eyes.

  “There, there, dearest. Ye just sleep now. The rest will wait for morning.”