by E.B. Brown
“I will come for them!” he screamed.
CHAPTER 44
Maggie sat stiffly beside the other women on the furs that flanked the Weroance. Opechancanough perched on the highest dais, surrounded on each side by two of his wives. One was his favorite wife, and the other his newest, youngest wife. Both were quite beautiful, decked out in all the finery they possessed, their skin stained with bright red ochre and decorated with layers of copper and silver bangles. The Weroance was most impressive of all, showing off his riches by wearing every piece of jewelry he could manage to fit onto his sinewy weathered body.
He was a tall man, and when seated his new wife stood barely taller than the top of his head as she stood beside him. Maggie only noticed when the woman approached him to sit down, because women did not presume to speak or stand in the presence of the Weroance without invitation. Opechancanough ruled without resistance, and although Maggie thought of him as a vindictive, bitter warrior, his people clearly showed intense love for him by the way they worshipped his very presence.
Maggie rocked Kwetii, who thankfully slept peacefully through the pounding of drums and joyous cries throughout the long house. She dared another glance at the Weroance, who silently watched the celebration and occasionally nodded his approval. She noticed his eyelids drooped a bit, as if sleepy, and that he seemed more fatigued as the night wore on. She had no idea what they were celebrating, her understanding of the Powhatan language not much more than conversational. It was certainly not sufficient enough to risk an attempt at speaking with her captives.
She watched the proceedings from her spot of semi-importance among the Weroance’s less favorite wives, and considered herself lucky for the moment that they had treated her quite well. As the night wore on, she wondered what the Weroance planned for her, and when she saw Winn enter the long house she realized the purpose of her presence.
She was bait.
He displaced the light around him when he passed through the doorway, his wide shoulders braced, his arms tensed tight to the ends of his clenched fingers. His chest marked with black paint, his face streaked and shadowed so that his teeth appeared to glow with malevolence, he carried a long decorated spear as he approached the high dais. His bright blue eyes gleamed as he stared down the Weroance, and Maggie felt her composure slip away when she realized he was going to confront his uncle.
The drumbeats stopped and the Long House fell silent. Winn raised the spear over his head with both hands and then thrust it down into the ground, where it stood shuddering before the Weroance. Maggie dared not let out a breath as she watched her husband slowly kneel down before his uncle.
Winn pounded one fisted hand to his chest and looked up at Opechancanough. He kept his breathing shallow, barely expanding his chest, and she could see his fingers clench and unclench as he waited to be acknowledged by his uncle.
“I see you, nephew, and I will hear you now,” the Weroance called out. Whispers commenced throughout the crowd, and from the faces of the people around her Maggie could not tell if they were voices of admiration or disgust.
Winn remained on bent knee, but stared defiantly at the Weroance, one hand braced on the impaled spear and his knuckles standing out pale against the dark wood.
“I come for my wife,” he said, slow but loud, as if he desired everyone in the Long House to hear it. Maggie was sure they all did, as the eyes of every native were fixed on the impetuous warrior as he spoke.
Opechancanough narrowed his brows, and his eyes focused on Winn.
“What will you give me for her?” he asked. “She is quite valuable to me.”
Winn must have anticipated the answer, since he shot his response back in quick succession.
“I will stand by your side against the English during this treaty.”
The Weroance pursed his lips, and then his creased face broke into a wide smile. Maggie wondered how he managed to eat with nary a tooth in his blasted stubborn head.
“Then join me here, nephew, and I will give you the Red Woman,” Opechancanough pronounced, spreading his arms wide in a show of pleasure at the deal. The long house erupted into a chasm of relieved cries, and the rhythmic thud of the drums started anew. Winn rose up off his knee, his hand still gripping the spear.
“I have one more request.”
Maggie felt the blood leave her cheeks, and the drums stopped again. Opechancanough rose from his sitting position and approached Winn. Maggie swallowed hard at the sight of the ceremonial mallet he held in his hand, knowing how easily the bastard could flip the switch of his temper and turn into an irrational sod.
“Tell me your request.”
Winn glanced beyond his uncle to where the warriors stood flanking the Weroance.
“I ask for the right to challenge the warrior who stole my woman. I will take his life, and then I will stand at your side for this English treaty.”
“No!” Maggie moaned, pressing her daughter to her face, the doeskin blanket muffling both her cries and that of the startled baby. Why did he have to make a challenge? Couldn’t he see that both Maggie and Kwetii were perfectly fine, that the entire thing had just been to extract his compliance? Even Maggie knew if Opechancanough wanted her dead, she would have been exterminated long before now. It was clear the entire kidnapping served only as a means to bring Winn back in line.
“You may have your challenge.” The Weroance flicked his hand at his wives, and they obediently rose to follow him. “We will gather by the Great Fire, and see your fight.”
A long line of warriors followed behind the wives, and then the less favored wives began to file out, one of them holding onto her arm to keep her inside the pack as they walked past Winn. The remainder of the Indians in the Long House filed out in an unruly crowd, shouts and taunts bouncing through them. Some glared at Winn and some turned their backs, but most smiled and acknowledged him with a respectful nod. Maggie looked helplessly at him and longed to go to him, though she knew she could not.
His eyes met hers as she passed. She saw a flicker in his gaze, and no other sign of acknowledgement, but she was certain he saw in her heart what words she could not let loose.
The entire village gathered at the Great Fire, even the children. Faces turned toward the warriors in the circle, eyes alight with anticipation. Hands drew Maggie back inside the crowd, the wives embracing her within their ranks to watch the spectacle.
“What will they do?” Maggie asked.
“Quiet!” came a hiss from the woman beside her.
Kwetii dozed at her shoulder, the baby thankfully exhausted from the excitement, snoring while making tiny mewling sounds against her. Maggie rocked her and patted her bottom, more to give herself a task than to comfort the child. The babe slept soundly when she needed to, no matter what was going on around her, safe in her arms and oblivious to the risk her father was about to embark on.
Murmurs from the crowd abruptly stopped.
Winn pushed through a barrage of hands, reaching the clearing in the middle of the circular throng of people. He had no weapon save his capable hands, which turned white across the knuckles as he clenched them at his sides. Stripped of his clothes, he stood waiting for his opponent, wearing only a simple undecorated breechcloth. His wide chest was streaked with black paint, three lines slashed on each side of his chest, like wings stretching out from his ribs. The bottom of his face was covered with paint from ears through his jaw, the black mask heightening the whiteness in his teeth when he flashed a snarl at his opponent.
Kwetii squirmed with a sleepy squeal. Maggie looked down at her own clenched arms and immediately lightened her grasp, patting the baby to apologize. She had not realized she was gripping her harder until the baby stirred.
The village priest entered the clearing. Clad in ceremonial garb, a white fur cloak across his hunched shoulders, the man stood between the two warriors. A horned helmet enclosed his head, giving him enough height to near that of Winn, yet the dimin
utive man still looked fragile to her rather than fierce. He raised a feather-decorated spear above his head as if in salute, and all fell silent once again.
“Kweshkwesh and Winkeohkwet!” he screamed. “Finish this!”
Crouched low, hands outstretched, Kweshkwesh darted at Winn’s knees the moment the priest left the circle. The crowd erupted into bellows and howls, and multiple drums thudded in unison around the men. Louder, stronger, the drums set the rhythm, swallowing the cries and screams, dulling the sounds until all she could hear was a distant echo as she watched her husband fight.
Arms locked on each other, the men were head to shoulder, their feet scraping the ground to find purchase as each struggled to get the upper hand. Kweshkwesh lunged with his knife, slicing across Winn’s chest, and Maggie cried out at the surge of blood on his skin.
“No!” she shouted, her plea muted into nothingness among the voices of the villagers. She saw Opechancanough with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the fight as he stood next to the priest. How could he stand there and watch his own nephew fight to the death? What a bastard he was!
Winn paid no mind to the wound as he showed his own knife, slashing at Kweshkwesh in retaliation. He made contact and lunged forward, knocking Kweshkwesh to the ground, his chest heaving and dripping blood as he straddled the warrior. Winn held the knife to his throat, and as he paused in finishing the act, suddenly the noise among the people diminished and heads turned to Opechancanough.
Winn looked toward the Weroance, and then down at the man he held against the ground.
“I will not kill this man!” Winn shouted.
There was a sharp intake of gasps among the crowd, but Opechancanough did not waver.
“This man only followed orders, and I will not take his life for it.”
Winn stood up, his knife still clutched in his fist, his blue eyes fastened on the Weroance. Kweshkwesh slowly rose from the ground, his head hanging and his face shielded, and as two women came forward to help him, he shrugged off their hands and stalked away from the circle.
“Let it be known to all. No man will take what is mine!” he bellowed.
Winn impaled his knife in the dirt at the feet of Opechancanough and stared at the man, their gazes locked for what seemed like hours, as the villagers waited for the outcome. The Weroance betrayed no surprise at the challenge, instead merely meeting Winn’s angry stare with a pensive one of his own.
Kwetii whimpered beneath her swaddling blanket.
The Weroance straightened his back and stepped one pace toward Winn.
“We hear you, warrior!” he shouted. Before he could finish the words, shouts and whoops filled the air, and the drum began to beat out a frantic celebratory rhythm. Men and women broke off from the circle and began to dance, and the children scattered like rabbits through the mesh of people.
As villagers vanished in all directions, Maggie pushed through the crowd to get to Winn. He turned, and she could see his eyes scan the crowd for her, finally meeting her own as relief flooded his face. Damn the Indians and all their tribal rules, she was going to her husband and no one would stop her this time. She threw herself into his arms.
“Winn!”
“Ntehem,” he said. He held her tight, his breath warm upon her hair.
“You could have been killed!”
“You think so little of my skill, woman?”
“You didn’t have to fight him!”
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
She bent her head to his chest, the babe sheltered between them, and his arms tightened around them.
“The English come here tomorrow to make peace. I will stand with my uncle, and then we will leave.”
“Your brothers?”
“They wait for us to return.”
They passed over the celebration and instead retired to a nearby yehakin, escorted by several of the less favored wives and left with a multitude of supplies. Furs heaped on a sleeping mat, and a basket lined with down for the baby, they had all the comforts they needed for what Maggie hoped would be a very short stay. The women accompanied them as they readied the yehakin, bringing them bowls of food and stone jugs of drink, which they placed near the fire. One took the baby from Maggie and placed her in the makeshift cradle.
Maggie did not understand their words, which seemed different from the Paspahegh she was accustomed to, yet Winn had no such impediment and spoke softly to the women. One older woman in particular talked to him at length, and from the intimacy of their exchange Maggie was sure the woman was known to him. She was comely, with one long braid down her back, her oval face creased with tiny lines at the edges of her round brown eyes but betraying no other sign of her age. She placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder and Maggie watched it linger before she gave him a half-bow and summoned the other women.
As she left, she gave Maggie a shy smile, and then one more nod to Winn before she was gone.
“What was that about?”
“What?”
“That woman! Who is she?”
Maggie had never seen her husband blush and she was not reassured by the sight. His neck flushed, the color creeping up his jaw and cheeks, until he met her gaze with a hooded stare.
“Sesapatae, wife to my uncle. I lived with her family when I stayed here.”
“Oh. It just seemed like you – like she was someone special.”
“She was the first woman I shared furs with.”
Maggie sat down hard on the fur pallet.
“Oh. Oh, okay,” she said. She had no idea what the proper response to such a revelation should be, so she clamped her mouth shut and pulled a fur over her shoulders. Winn said nothing as he sank into the furs beside her, nor as he wrapped his arms around her and pressed his naked skin to hers.
She should not be surprised to hear his explanation, since she was well aware she was not the first woman he laid hands on, but she was perplexed that the woman was his uncle’s wife. She thought she would drop the subject, as Winn clearly had once he crawled beneath the furs, but when he still said nothing her curiosity won out.
“So how on earth did that happen?” she asked.
He moved above onto one elbow and squinted down at her.
“Like this,” he murmured. He untied the laces on the front of her dress, and his other hand slid down over her thigh. His mouth dipped down onto her neck, sending shivers over her skin as he nuzzled her playfully.
“But –”
“No more talk,” he whispered as he continued the path down her body. When he paused to give attention to her full breasts, she moaned at the contact, the pleasure of his touch mingled with the soreness from nursing, excruciating yet blissful pain that scattered the questions she meant to ask.
“Stop that and answer me!”
He shook his head and parted her thighs with his knee, continuing his gentle ministrations as he gave worship to her body. Slick with sweat under the heavy furs, their skin slipped against each other, his touch rising in urgency until he finally slid inside her, effectively silencing her remaining protests as he rocked her back against the furs.
“My wife and child were stolen from me today. I fought the man who stole her, and I threatened my Weroance in front of the entire village,” he said, his mouth pressed against her ear. “I will have you now, and you will have me!’
He rose up above her, his thrust boring her down, their limbs entwined. She knew no tenderness in his touch, for it was anger and despair that drove him, the sweet culmination sealing the oath of possession between their bodies as they moved as one.
Later, when he lay spent, his head nestled against her shoulder, she felt the breath leave him and his tense muscles finally softened. He played with a lock of her hair, absently twisting it into a ringlet, his palm resting on her breast.
“It is the way of our people,” he said quietly. “I lived here when I became a man. It is custom for the uncle’s wife to lead the nephew into manhood. There is no more to i
t than that.”
“All right then,” she replied, ready to dismiss the topic until another thought took root. “But you wouldn’t expect me – I mean, what about Ahi Kekeleksu?” she stammered.
“It will be the wife to the mother’s brother. Not you.”
“Oh.” She had more questions, but held her tongue.
She heard him laugh, and she reached out to smack his chest in response. He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest.
“You are too busy teaching me, ntehem. I will not share you with any other.”
The conversation was finished, and she was glad for it.
CHAPTER 45
Maggie watched the Englishman give his theatrical speech as she sat next to Winn.
Captain Tucker was an enigmatic speaker, his thick baritone sharp and clear as he bellowed out his pledge to the Powhatans. Maggie expected a more imposing figure that would correlate more with the tales told of the man, but instead of an invincible solider, she only saw an average height man wearing a partial suit of overly decorated armor. His girth had long outgrown the outfit, and when he stood up straight to address the crowd, a crack of his belly showed beneath the armor. Maggie smirked each time he raised his arm.
“Will this take very long, you think?” she asked Winn. He sat cross-legged next to Opechancanough, but he had been silent through most of the demonstration other than to nod in agreement with the Weroance.
“I know not,” he replied.
The two opposing sides met on the banks of the Potomac, a neutral place where each felt on equal footing. Although he seemed like a psychotic beast at times, Maggie had to admit that Opechancanough was a skilled tactical leader. He had taken years planning the 1622 massacre, cultivating trust with the English so that his warriors could enter their homes without suspicion, until he took his vengeance out on them in one fatal day. Every Powhatan man, woman, and child had known the plan for years, yet he managed to keep their blind loyalty long enough to carry through with the attack.