Roam: Time Walkers World Special Edition

by E. B. Brown

  “Well, good thing ye have yer aunt here, child. It seems like ye need a good dose of help if you’ll be using that blasted magic!” she grumbled.

  “None of that, Gwen. She’ll not be using any more of it, not while I take breath. I’ll not have ye foolin’ with it. Ye know the laws as well as I.”

  “What laws?” Maggie asked. Gwen and Erich fell silent. “Well, are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask Marcus? And what is this nonsense about marrying a son of Marcus?”

  Erich uttered a groan and waved his hand at them in dismissal.

  “Yer mother was the last blooded MacMhaolian, the most powerful ones among us. We meant to protect her, and ye, by sending ye forward in time. But using a Bloodstone to return to the past like ye did is forbidden. No one will question Chief Dagr, but ye must know it’s not permitted among our people. Best ye forget about the Bloodstone. Leave off with it, aye?”

  “So Marcus can do whatever he wants. Must be nice to be the Chief,” Maggie muttered.

  “He followed ye back to see ye safe, child. He’s a good Chief, and a fine man. Ye’d do well to be wed to any son of his,” Gwen murmured. Erich shot her a seething stare.

  Gwen put an arm around Maggie’s shoulders and shuffled her away as she muttered under her breath. Maggie could not help smiling. Her aunt seemed like a right fine woman.

  “Here, take ye some mead, it’s from the old stock, but still fine,” she said to Erich, pushing a pewter tankard across the table toward him. He grunted in acknowledgement and sat down on the bench, his sword clattering against the wood and catching on the edge of the table.

  “Take ye sword off, ye bloody fookin idiot!” Gwen screeched. Maggie covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile, pretending she needed to cough, while she watched Erich’s eyes open wide as he scrambled to right himself. Clearly he respected the woman, and she was certainly the kind of woman Maggie could see being friends with.

  “I should clapper yer tongue, ye know that, woman?” he snarled, taking a swig of the mead once he was settled. He raised an eyebrow at her, his mouth twisted in a half-grin.

  “Aye, and yer arse needs a good washin’, ye bletherin’ fool, but ye no hear me makin’ sass about it, do ye?”

  “Ah!” Erich growled.

  “Right then!” Gwen retorted, as she glowered at him. “Here, keep the girl company whilst I tend to the lucht.”

  “What does lucht mean?” Maggie whispered. Erich grinned.

  “It’s not fit fer yer ears,” he replied with a chuckle.

  The older woman swung one thick blond braid over her shoulder then grabbed a pitcher and a stack of linen. Erich shrugged and waved her off, so she followed Gwen into the back of the house where she ducked behind a curtain hanging across the thatched roof.

  Lying on a narrow cot was a sleeping, or unconscious man. He was too tall for the bed, his feet hanging off at the ankles, and his shoulders resting a good two inches off each side so much it appeared he might topple over. A thick dark beard covered his face, and as Gwen knelt down next to him and put a sponge to his forehead, Maggie sucked in a sharp breath.

  “What’s wrong with him?” she whispered.

  “He took a blow to the head. He’s been like this for past a sennight. Why does it trouble you, girl?” Gwen asked as she wiped his sweating brow.

  Maggie sank down beside her and took the man’s hand.

  “It’s Benjamin. We’ve been looking for him.”

  *****

  Maggie watched as Marcus sat in silence beside him, unmoving as he stared down at his lost son. Finally, he bowed his head, his thick curling hair falling gently forward to shield the sadness on his face, and he placed one large hand over Benjamin’s. Clasped together and folded on his chest, Benjamin looked like a body prepared for burial, not a man who might yet live. There were no outward signs of severe injury, yet his skin held a grey pallor and the right side of his forehead had a slight swelling accompanied by a bluish-yellow bruise. To her it did not appear serious, yet evidently, it was the injury that put him down.

  When she confided to Gwen who Benjamin was, both her aunt and uncle were shocked. Erich confessed his culpability in Benjamin’s current condition. About a week prior, the English stranger came into the village asking questions about Bloodstones and Time Walkers, and then became violent when they told him to leave. It was Erich who clouted him in the head, intending to give him a chance to cool off. Instead the blow rendered him unconscious, and he had been unresponsive ever since.

  When she heard Marcus sigh, she could no longer let him suffer alone. Although she knew Erich did not want her to intervene with their newly restored Chief, he knew nothing of her relationship with Marcus. Yes, things between them had changed irrevocably, yet he was the same man who had raised her. She would give him no less than the comfort he had always shown her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, placing her hand on his shoulder from behind. His throat contracted as he swallowed.

  “The last time I saw him, he was only a lad. Look at him now, a man full grown,” he said quietly. “We canna take care of him here. Not like this,” he said.

  She held her tongue. What he alluded to was clearly forbidden, as both Erich and Gwen had proclaimed. Yet Marcus was their leader, a man they called Chief. Would he challenge them all by using the Bloodstone magic again? She had little doubt. If she knew anything about Marcus, it was that he would do whatever it took to keep his family safe. If he thought returning Benjamin to the future would save him, then he would do it, and God help any man who would stand in his way.

  “He could wake up anytime. There’s no wound, just some swelling,” she said.

  “It’s been more than a week, Maggie. Ye and I both know enough of modern medicine to see it’s serious. They canna care for him here, not like doctors do where we came from.”

  “You wouldn’t do that. You can’t leave,” she replied.

  “Says who? I’ll do as I need, as I always have.”

  “You’d leave me? And your son? For Christ’s sake, if you do that, I will never forgive you!” she snapped, trying to keep her voice level, yet failing miserably.

  “He’s my son. He needs a hospital, and I don’t see one here for three hundred years!” he bellowed back. “I’ll do what I must to see my son healed!”

  “There are laws on using the magic, aren’t there?” she shouted. “You can’t just jump around through time however you please!”

  “I can if I see fit, it’s my right!” he bellowed.

  “Benjamin is not the only son you have, Jarl Dagr!” she shot back. She felt a hand on her upper arm and shook it angrily off. “No, leave me be! If you leave, I will never forgive you! Do you hear me, Marcus Nielsson? Never.”

  She swung around on her heel, and crashed into her husband, who had been standing behind her. Her heart sank as she realized he must have heard the entire exchange. She shrugged past him and left the cottage, back to her own temporary space.

  *****

  The drying line was too high for her to reach, so she searched the room for something to stand on. Makedewa had hung it for her earlier in the day, stringing a thin piece of braided rawhide across two rafters on the roof so that she could dry clothes more effectively by the fire. As she jumped and tried to toss a damp swaddling cloth across the improvised clothesline, she heard a chuckle behind her.

  “You do it, then,” she said, handing the nappy to her husband. He laid it carefully over the line, adjusted the adjacent garment, and gave her a smirk.

  “Have you always been so small, wife?”

  She smiled in return, but she knew it did not reach her eyes. She ducked her gaze and grabbed a pile of clothes, sorting through them to keep busy. His breath on her skin was warm, his unique scent sending goose bumps down the back of her neck. The smell of damp earth from training and a touch of evergreen, mixed with the sweat of his work, it was his smell, and she closed her eyes to it for a moment. He put his hands on her shoulders,
and kissed her ear very softly.

  “Will you tell me?” he asked.

  “Tell you what?” she murmured.

  “What troubles you.”

  She turned to face him, wringing her hands in the damp shift she held.

  “I’m just shocked, that’s all.”

  He nodded.

  “As am I. Do you think he will live?”

  “Does it matter?” she said, regretting the words the moment they left her lips.

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders and stepped back. She watched as he silently removed his weapons and placed them on the table, first his knife, then the new sword at his side. It was heavy, a broad steel blade, the handle encrusted with colorful stones. Along one edge near the hilt were symbols she could not decipher, but she suspected they were runes. She had seen rune symbols carved into nearly everything in the village.

  “A sword?” she asked.

  “From Erich. He said it belonged to Jarl Drustan Nielsson, father to Pale Feather. It is still quite sharp.” Winn traced his finger along the length of the blade, looking up to meet her stare. “I will leave today to fetch the English prisoner from the Nansemond. Then I will bring Finola here. Chetan will ride with me. We will not be gone long.”

  “But I don’t want you to go,” she said.

  “Makedewa will stay here.”

  “I don’t want your brother, I want you,” she insisted. She saw his jaw flex and his brows dart down. Could she put her foot in her mouth any further?

  “I meant–” she added quickly, but he cut her off.

  “I know what you meant. It changes nothing. You will stay here. I will return soon. Prepare to leave when I return, we will join the Nansemond.”

  “But–”

  “Enough!” he snapped, snatching the linens from her hand. “I say where we live, not you. I will hear no more on this, woman!” He looked at the clothes for a moment, then bunched them up and tossed them into a basket on the floor. He threw his hands up and made an agitated grunting sound, cursing in Paspahegh from what she could gather.

  “Fine. Do what you want. I’ll just sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you’re gone, like a good little wife!” she shouted. She grabbed the linen basket off the floor and moved to stalk past him. When she reached the door she paused, her chest heaving with shallow breaths and her heart racing. What on earth were they fighting about? Was it Benjamin’s presence bringing so much strife between them? She heard him let out a long sigh and then felt his presence at her side.

  “Here. Let me help you,” he said, his voice strained.

  “All right,” she agreed. She handed him the basket. He tucked it under one arm, and cupped her face with his free hand.

  “A good little wife, hmm?”

  She smiled despite her annoyance. When he kissed her, relief flooded through her. They would not part angry at each other.

  “As always,” she murmured.

  CHAPTER 17

  Winn

  IT HAD BEEN nearly two years since the Great Assault. Although his uncle, the Weroance Opechancanough had envisioned it would drive the English back across the sea, the coordinated effort served only to worsen conditions for both the Indians and the English. As Winn and Chetan rode through the lands of Tsenacommacah to the village of Mattanock, he felt a growing sense of dread. Perhaps it was his imagination, or only his own bitterness, but he could swear the songs of the birds had deserted the Powhatan lands, and the very earth they rode on wept for a time long destroyed. He knew Chetan noticed it as well, as the hollow tap of hooves on packed clay emitted the only sound in the forest.

  The village looked worse than before. The Nansemond were a peaceful people, but nevertheless they had supported Opechancanough in his war and they had paid the price. As they rode through the fields, he could see the crops were minimal, hardly enough to sustain a family such as Winn’s, let alone a village of hungry people. What food they managed to grow without being burned by the English he did not know, but if the sight of the soot-blackened fields was an indication, he suspected it was not much. Winn could still smell the smoke from the most recent burning.

  He saw Chetan bow his head as they passed through the fields, his brother’s stout body nodding with the rhythm of his pony. It was brisk again at night as fall descended and Chetan wore a fur-lined cloak Cormaic had gifted to him. It was decorated with the strange rune marks the Norse used on everything, and knew Chetan would wear it proudly among the Indians. No one would dare question Chetan.

  A group of children rang out welcome when they arrived, and as he listened to the joyful cries and laughter Winn felt an ache in his chest. He had lived in Mattanock with the Nansemond for a time, and although to some he had never been truly accepted, he had been treated fairly. For a fleeting moment he recalled how Pepamhu had branded part of the tattoo on his torso, and his hand reached down to cover it as if by reflex. It no longer ached, but it marked him.

  Pepamhu came forth to greet them, flanked by his mother. She looked older than he remembered, her face thinner than he recalled and her clothes fitting loose about her body. Pepamhu, however, retained his lean disposition, appearing younger than his years. His physique still reflected a man who trained daily with his warriors, always prepared to face the next threat to his people. After the children took the ponies, Winn and Chetan bowed in respectful greeting to the brave. Winn was glad to see the man Maggie called his ‘step-father’ and he knew Chetan was happy to visit as well.

  “It has been too long, my sons,” Pepamhu said, clapping his hand down on Chetan’s shoulder as he glanced at Winn. “I hope your journey was peaceful.”

  “It was,” Winn agreed. His mother stood quietly at Pepamhu’s side and Winn gave her a tiny smile. She would wait to be spoken to. He wondered briefly if his wife would ever behave as his mother did, but shook the thought from his mind. No, Maggie did not have a submissive bone in her body, and he would want it no other way. Despite their differences, he loved her spirit and would not wish it dampened.

  When Pepamhu motioned for them to follow, his mother reached out and touched his arm as he passed, dipping her head down. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and continued inside the Great Yehakin with her husband. Winn would find her after speaking with Pepamhu. Women were not permitted inside when the men gathered, but he knew he would see her after they spoke.

  A handful elder tribesmen were gathered inside when they sat down. There was a high platform in the corner which remained empty, reserved for the times the Weroance visited the village. Pepamhu was a leader by his skill in negotiation; he spoke several languages as well as Winn did, and he had a talent for securing peace between enemies when all else had failed. Mattanock had lost its minor Weroance not long after the Great Assault, as many of the tribes had, and they had not recovered the strength of their numbers. Winn noticed a few Tassantassas among the villagers, which was not unheard of, especially since the Nansemond had claimed several English prisoners on the day of the Great Assault. Winn wondered which woman was the one to be returned to the English in trade.

  “Hupotam,” Pepamhu said, holding out a pipe in offering. Winn nodded briefly as he received it, taking a long, slow inhale of the sweet smoke before he passed it to Chetan. It had been months since he enjoyed such things, and although it never crossed his mind to miss it, his spirit lifted as the tingle settled through his blood. As he exhaled, his limbs felt heavy and he relaxed forward to rest his arms on his upraised knees.

  “You come for the English woman. She is not happy to leave, but she will go with you. Governor Wyatt has given much in exchange, so we will honor the trade,” Pepamhu said. The others in the circle continued to pass the pipe, the tangy smoke a cloud around their heads as they murmured in agreement.

  “Good. We will leave when the sun rises. I wish to return to my family without delay,” Winn answered.

  “How is your Red Woman? And your daughter?”

  The pipe made rounds back to him and he gladly took it. I
t was a powerful blend, causing a ripple of numbness to creep over his skin.

  “They are well. We stay with Pale Feather’s people for now. I know not when we will leave them.”

  The murmurs abruptly ceased, and all heads turned toward Winn. Pepamhu made a coarse grunting command at the elder tribesmen and they resumed speaking amongst themselves, but Winn felt the unease among them. Yes, his wife was safe, according to the order of Opechancanough, but the Powhatans had hunted the Time Walkers for too long to forget. Although the Nansemond elders knew of the Norse village, speaking of it aloud was another matter entirely.

  Winn straightened his back. He would not cower to them over the Tassantassas blood he bore, as he once had. He was no longer that young brave who sought such approval.

  “So Pale Feather has returned, and you join them in their village.”

  “For now.”

  Chetan leaned in toward them, his voice low.

  “His father is Chief of the Norsemen, and a good fighter. They call Winn Jarl now. Jarl Winn, Jarl Winn,” Chetan chuckled. Winn scowled at his brother as Pepamhu grinned.

  “Pale Feather was a great warrior, for a Tassantassas,” Pepamhu agreed. “I see you still have two arms, and two legs. Was your father a worthy fighter?”

  Winn’s eyes narrowed. His mother’s husband had been the closest thing Winn ever knew to a father, and Pepamhu was well aware of the anger Winn held toward the man who sired him. To see Chetan and Pepamhu make light of it caused his arms to clench and his back to stiffen once more.

  “He fights well, but I am better,” Winn muttered through gritted teeth. “Perhaps I should show you, Chetan.”

  Chetan rolled his eyes and plucked the pipe from Winn’s hands.

  “Now, or later, brother? I think you forget the strength of my fist,” Chetan smirked. Pepamhu laughed aloud, jabbing Winn in the ribs with a bony elbow.

  “Ah, enough, the two of you!” he said. “There is much to speak of tonight. Your sister, she is well?”