by E.B. Brown
Chulensak Asuwak and Teyas tended him faithfully, taking turns cleaning the bullet wound, but despite their attentive efforts it festered anyway. When the fever took him they moved him to the sweat lodge for five days expecting either his death or recovery, he was not sure which. Whatever the intent had been at the time, he was grateful they cared enough to nurse him, since he would need to recover every ounce of his strength before he went to find his wife.
Winn expected the villagers to denounce him when he announced his bond to Maggie, but he was stunned to see that he retained their loyalty. He would never have asked it of them, knowing he risked his own life by defying Opechancanough, and he did not expect any other to stand by his side in defense of a Time Walker. Yet their love humbled him, and he gladly accepted it.
“Brother,” Chetan spoke as he entered the yehakin.
Winn opened his eyes and watched the warrior kneel beside him. His eyes were downcast, and by the lines creasing his face Winn could see he was troubled. Makedewa entered a moment later, yet he hung back, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Did you get word to her? Is she well? What say you?” he demanded, his hoarse voice rising as he surveyed his brothers. Winn had only been awake less than a day since the fever broke, but his first thought had been to retrieve Maggie. He knew she watched him fall from the rifle shot, and he feared she would think the worst when he did not return for her. Somehow he staggered out of the furs and made it to the door, but his brothers stopped him and insisted they would carry a message to her.
Now as he looked at the expressions of the two anxious men, he feared to hear their tale.
“She is well, brother. Benjamin Dixon tends to her,” Chetan said carefully. Winn noticed that Chetan glanced at Makedewa, who appeared ready to boil over as he waited to speak. Winn nodded with relief to Chetan and looked to his second brother.
“What, Makedewa? Does Chetan not speak truth?”
“He speaks true, brother. Yet he does not tell all. The Red Woman married Benjamin Dixon. She breeds his babe even now.”
Winn felt the grip of icy fingers around his neck as his blood rushed cold.
“You must be mistaken,” he growled.
“No, it is true. Benjamin told us both by his own tongue. I wanted to kill him and bring her back to you, but Chetan refused me. Give me your word, and I will go back to finish it,” Makedewa ground out.
Winn struggled to sit up and was glad the braves did not move to help him. He felt his wound tear, only a minimal disruption, but the healing flesh parted and a fresh gush of blood began to spread over the dressing on his chest.
“No. I do not believe it.” Winn grimaced and tried to stand, but at this both warriors moved forward to stop him.
“It is truth. I am sorry. I ask Makedewa to wait to hear your word before we act,” Chetan said.
Winn swallowed hard. Benjamin? The man he called brother left him for dead slung over the back of his horse, and then stole his woman? And what of Maggie – his wife, his heart? She would marry another and take his seed, as if her body were nothing more than a bottle of rum to be passed around? He remembered the words she once spoke during an argument.
Whore, she had said, as if the world was most distasteful. A woman who sleeps with any man.
No. He would not believe that of her. He would believe the vows they spoke. He would believe the fire in her gaze and the softness of her yielding to him as he loved upon her. He could believe nothing else, or risk slipping back down deep into that dank place the fever took him to, that soulless void bereft of light.
“Leave me, brothers,” he said. “I will think on these things.”
CHAPTER 34
She tucked her hands beneath her thighs as she sat on the plank bench next to a young blond haired girl. The girl did not talk much but Maggie did not mind, content to watch the others dance from her perch away from the festivity.
Benjamin stood across the barn with a handful of similarly dressed men, drinking from a pewter mug that he refilled at least twice from a cask at his feet. She hoped he would drink enough to ensure a quick slumber when they arrived home. He caught her eye and smiled, raising his mug up to her in salute through the crowd of dancers. She tilted her chin up to show him her acknowledgement, and he turned his attention back to the men.
A brisk fiddle beat filled the barn. It was a temporary meeting place in Wolstenholme town, sitting next to the community storehouse, serving the various needs of the citizens until more suitable accommodations were built. Although they went to church twice a day, the English spent an equal amount of time on their entertainment, finding some reason or another to drink and play music nearly every night.
“Would ye care to dance, Mistress Dixon?”
She looked up at the grainy voice. Charles Potts stood beside her, hand outstretched in a most polite fashion. His stick-straight hair stood out like thorns beyond his brown woolen hat, his pox-marked face shaved clean for the evening, yet he still held an air of arrogance and she did not want to spend anytime in his presence.
She shook her head demurely.
“I’m sorry, I fear I am taken a bit ill. I think I’ll take some air.”
“Are ye sure? Should I escort ye, miss?”
“Ah, no. Thank you,” she said firmly, putting a distinct end to the near uncomfortable discussion. He gave her a quick half-bow as she stood up. She left him standing there and made her way out of the barn.
Once outside, she leaned back on the plank wall and pulled her bodice away from her breast. It was damn hot in the place, with all the warm dancing bodies and half-soused men stumbling around. She fanned her neck and chest with her hand. There, that felt better.
The wail of the fiddle could still be heard, the stomps of the dancers thudding off the wall she leaned against. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, her breath misting as it left her lungs in a sigh.
She thought she heard a rustle of leaves coming from the tree line, distinct from the pounding of dancing feet, yet still the fiddles wailed and she supposed it was only her imagination.
“Ye shouldna be out here by yer lonesome, Mistress.”
Charles Potts stood in front of her, an arm’s length away, her cloak folded over his elbow. She scowled and snatched it from him, but he held onto it and used it as an excuse to move close to her. She shrunk back into the solid wall to keep a proper space between them, suspicious of the gleam in his muddy brown eyes. Her stomach curled when he spit out a chunk of wet tobacco at her feet.
“I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be going to find my husband now,” she said dismissively, trying to brush past him. His hand shot out to block her exit, braced against the barn at the height of her shoulders. She did not turn to look at him, gritting her jaw as she tried to keep her voice low. If there was one thing she knew for sure about the English, it was their distaste for public embarrassment, and if she caused a scene, she knew she would be considered the one at fault, not the teetering Master Potts.
“Are ye out here meeting someone? Maybe yer savage lover?” he sneered.
“You’re a disgusting sod. Let me pass!” she hissed. She shrugged off the hand he placed on her shoulder. “And keep your hands to yourself, you bloody bastard!”
The insult struck a nerve, and before she could get away he shoved her against the wall. His faced came close to hers in all its rancid glory, his breath like curdled milk tainted with ale. Her head snapped back painfully when he clamped a hand over her mouth.
“You best keep that trap shut, if ye know what’s good fer ye! Yer the blasted harlot with the savage bastard in yer belly, are ye not?”
She cursed him, her words muffled under his hand. Suddenly he let go, looking her up and down from breast to toes, nodding to himself.
“Off with ye, now. I wouldna touch the leavings of a savage, in any case,” he muttered.
She darted away, her cloak clutched in her hands. It was not the first time a man made in
appropriate advances, and she was certain it would not be the last. The colony was sorely lacking in women, and when the men drank too much they could be quite obnoxious. Just like men of any other time, she thought angrily.
When she reached the inside of the barn without further pursuit, she stood there for a moment, scanning the crowd. Her heart hammered like a jackrabbit through her chest as she searched for Benjamin, who she finally spotted in a crowd of men. He saw her and grinned, and raised one finger with his brows raised at her. She nodded and took her former seat watching the dancers.
The frantic squeal of the fiddle rose above the laughter, a rhythmic illusion of happiness in the air. She felt the wetness on her cheek, streaking down as she closed her eyes, wishing the numbness to take her far away.
Looking around at English, skirts rustling and cloaks flinging in dance, she let out a sob and found camaraderie in the tears. Is this how her life would be, and endless cycle of aimless dance, pleasing her husband, pleasing the townsfolk, yet bereft to fill the empty pit where her heart once resided?
Now you will never be lonely, for we will be together.
His voice smothered those of the celebration. She could hear it as if he were next to her, holding her hand, brushing his lips across her cheek, the sweet simple touch of the man who held her heart.
But Winn, I am lonely.
She felt a wave of nausea, that gentle reminder of the life growing inside her. She placed her hand over her belly.
She would carry on, because she must. She would endure a life in his time without him, because she must. She would protect their son with the last bit of her breath, if it was needed of her.
And she would love Winn until the day she died, because without the ache of such emotion, she feared her charred heart would beat no more.
*****
Maggie watched as Finola tended the last customer of the day. She was not often present when the healer closed down her wares for the evening, and frankly was puzzled Benjamin left her at the shop for such a lengthy visit. Whatever motive was behind his reasoning, she was grateful for it, happy to relax with Finola. The only comfort she felt of late was spent in the presence of the healer, the only person who knew all her secrets and accepted her as such.
“Some tea, child?” Finola asked. Maggie nodded and rose to help her with the heavy copper kettle.
“Here, let me.”
“Nay! Sit yerself, dear, I can manage.” The older woman tossed her long blond braid back over her shoulder, her brows raised as she surveyed Maggie. “Has the sickness passed yet? I fear ye eat not enough to feed the babe.”
“I’m eating more now, it will be enough,” Maggie assured her.
“Ye thinks the wean a boy or girl? I canna see myself what it be.”
Maggie smiled as Finola shook her head. The witch had been trying to see the sex of the babe for the last few weeks, eager to give an identity to the child. The English rarely asked for her predictions, so she was out of practice, and with a much more personal stake in the knowledge of Maggie’s pregnancy the woman tried every method she knew of to decipher what it would be.
“If only we had an ultrasound, there would be no question,” Maggie laughed.
“What do ye speak of? Tell me of this magic!”
“Ah, it’s no magic. Just a … a machine that makes a picture of the baby, inside the womb. It uses sound waves to make the image.” Maggie did the best she could explaining the marvelous use of the medical device. Finola was a most avid listener, devouring every tidbit Maggie explained of the life she left behind. In their frequent talks, Maggie had already described television and cameras, so the description of ultrasound was not too far of a leap to comprehend.
“Tis most useful then, this yulta-sound?”
“Yes,” Maggie sighed, knowing she would have no such comforts of the well-being of her babe during the pregnancy. Although she had no bleeding or other indication of problems, she still worried damage was done by the beating she endured. “I would give just about anything to have an ultrasound right now.”
Maggie felt Finola pat her hand, then the woman turned quickly back to the boiling kettle.
“Perhaps we should send ye back. Back to ye own time.”
Maggie froze. Surely, she had not heard the woman correctly. There was no way to return, Maggie had accepted that fact.
“There is no way to return, is there, Finola?” Maggie asked, her hoarse voice rising shrill the more she spoke. “Please tell me!”
“Aye, I know no way, without yer own Bloodstone,” the woman admitted, shaking her head with her eyes fastened on the mug of tea she poured. “But I will go to the Paspahegh village, and try to find it for ye, if that’s what you need to be happy, child.”
Maggie felt the wetness on her cheeks, unaware she was crying.
“You would do that for me?”
“Oh, I would,” the woman murmured, taking her into her arms. Maggie squeezed her tight, never in her life knowing what the embrace of a mother’s love felt like, yet knowing her friendship with Finola echoed the spirit of it. “Of course I would. If sending ye back to yer time would make it all easier to bear, then yes, I would.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Maggie sniffed, feeling the comfort of Finola gently patting her back. “I don’t know where I belong. Here, or in the future, I would still miss him. Can the Bloodstone take this pain away, can it make me forget? Or can it take me back…” she stood upright away from Finola, tremors overtaking her body as the ideas leapt into her mind. “Can I go back to stop it? Can I stop what happened that day, to save Winn?” She grabbed Finola’s hands, barely able to contain the rush of hope. They sat down together on a wooden bench.
“No, child. It does not work in such a way. You canna live a time more than once. And if ye do not know the runes to direct ye, ye should have a bit of yer place on ye when you go, so the Bloodstone knows where to send ye. It’s a tricky thing, ye see.”
“Runes? A bit of your place?”
“The mark of a rune will send ye to a place, but if ye have no rune, ye need a piece of the time yer meant for. Something tied to that place. Anything will do. A button, a brooch, any small tidbit of the time ye mean to travel to. It helps to point the way.”
Maggie reached into the folds of her apron and pulled out the raven. The pitted stone was heavy in her hand, but the tiny likeness felt solid. She held it out to Finola.
“Something like this? How could it matter, it’s just a toy.”
Finola reached slowly for the charm. The woman raised it up with both hands in front of her face, her blue eyes widening at she studied it. She looked at Maggie, then back to the stone raven, her mouth falling open.
“Where did ye get this?” Finola finally asked.
“I’ve always had it. I used to have terrible nightmares, awful dreams, sent me screaming bloody murder to grandpa’s room every night.” She smiled a bit at the memory. “Marcus said the raven would chase away the monsters, that no one could hurt me as long as the raven watched over me. I’ve kept it ever since. It traveled through time with me, it’s the only thing I have left from the place I come from.”
They both looked up at the creak of floorboards. Benjamin stood in the doorway. His face was etched in a mask, his skin pale beneath his crumpled brows. Behind him was Charles Potts. Maggie stood reflexively and patted down her apron, shielding her eyes as creeping fingers of panic gripped her. How much of their conversation had the men heard?
“Good day, Mistress,” Benjamin said. He nodded curtly to Finola, and took Maggie’s hand firmly in his. She did not resist the pressure of his touch, even though his fingers tightened so much she feared he would bruise her.
Maggie met Finola’s eyes. They shared one panicked glance before Benjamin pulled her into the street.
*****
Maggie watched at the window for Benjamin’s return. He did not speak to her on the ride home, his gloved hands fisted over the reins, and she was
reluctant to spark a conversation. It was clear he overheard some of the exchange, yet Maggie could not tell how much information he gleaned from his eavesdropping.
“Get ye in the house and wait for my return. Stay inside,” was all he uttered. He took a fresh horse from the barn and rode off back toward town, and it was the last Maggie had seen of him since he brought her home from her visit with Finola.
A wide bright moon lit the darkness as night wore on. After she had changed into a simple white shift and let her hair down for bed, she finally heard the pounding of hooves against earth and knew he had returned.
“Benjamin! I was worried!” she said as he crossed the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a thud and she felt the tremor of the floorboards beneath her bare feet with the force of it. He shed his cloak and hat, tossing them carelessly into a heap near the fire.
She took a deep breath to steady herself. Turning to the hearth, she reached for a bowl to ladle him a bit of stew, but stopped at the sound of his low, cold voice.
“I want truth between us, my wife,” he said evenly, advancing toward her one slow pace at a time. She equaled it by stepping backward, keeping the distance as best she could. She had never seen him so affected, not certain what emotion lay beneath his features as the veins on his neck bulged and sweat glistened on the chest exposed by his half-opened shirt.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied. He reeked of spirits, but his eyes were still sharp as he latched his steady gaze on her. She had never feared Benjamin, yet the manner in which he stalked her made her heart start to thud against her bodice. They had an arrangement; he would not come to her bed without invitation, and with the stench he carried in from the tavern she was certain that time would not be tonight.
Her hand bumped the latch to her bedroom, and she sprung it, trying to slam the door shut before he could reach it. She was certain he would be more reasonable in the morning after he slept off the liquor.