Roam: Time Walkers World Special Edition

by E. B. Brown

  “I’m not going back there,” she whispered. As she gained more courage, her voice echoed her resolve and it was near shouting when she added, “I’m going home. With you.”

  He turned to face her, and to her chagrin he dropped to one knee with his head bent down.

  “What are ye doing?” she asked.

  “I ask to speak in private with a woman who is no longer my wife. If you wish, then have Kaleb stay, but I ask to speak between us.”

  “Of course,” Kaleb muttered. He gathered his horse and gave them a private space of about ten feet, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the exchange. Too shocked to protest, Rebecca knelt down beside him and touched his face.

  He did not pull away. Instead, he turned his cheek toward her palm and rested it there, closing his eyes.

  “Ye don’t understand,” she murmured. He shook his head, opening his eyes to meet her gaze. Stark brown orbs, rounded and soft, a touch of dampness glazed over his pupils.

  “If you wish to keep the house we shared, it is yours. I thought–I thought I could stay near, to watch over you, but I will not stay in the village. You will always have…my protection.”

  “Is that all I have?” she whispered, her heart feeling as if it stopped beating within her chest at the pain he suffered. It was what she would suffer if she thought he no longer loved her.

  “You have that. Always,” he replied.

  “I will have more from ye. All of it.”

  He raised an eyebrow, his mouth set in a twisted line.

  “Then take it all, chulentet,” he said softly. “For all I have is yours.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes boring into his, and placed her lips very softly against his. She thought he would explode with passion, but instead he lowered his forehead to hers and rested it there, heavy upon her.

  “I love ye, husband. My mother did me a grave betrayal, she put yer moccasins outside. It was not I, because I love ye so. I’m so sorry,” she told him, choking back tears as he gripped her harder.

  His hands slid down to her neck, and his head fell down onto her shoulder.

  “That brings me joy wife, and I would show you how much…if I could just take another breath …” he groaned. He slid further down her body, his hands falling limp as he lost his grip on her and collapsed.

  “Oh, God, Kaleb, help!” she screamed.

  Blood bubbled from a wound under his right arm. It was high up on his chest, and when she pressed her ear to his skin she could hear it make a hissing sound.

  CHAPTER 17

  Makedewa

  HE FELT A stabbing in his chest with each jarring motion of the horse, and by the time he recognized where they were he was near to darkness. It seemed easier than staying awake, and for someone who had rarely taken an easy path that was a startling assumption to make. Yet with each breath, each tiny shift of his body, the pain came back, as if she took a dagger to his heart with the image of the sweet face he so loved upon it.

  He moaned when someone dragged him down off the horse. His nose grazed the mane of the animal, bring a snort from the horse and a groan from Makedewa’s lips.

  Did any of it matter now? Of course there was a wound. He had felt the warrior’s knife pierce his flesh, felt it bury deep into his side before he killed the man. Yet until Makedewa kneeled at her feet he did not feel it, as if he needed her words to drive it truly home.

  “I will have more from ye. All of it,” she had said.

  He raised an eyebrow, his mouth set in a twisted line. So she had become greedy in the short time with her English kin? Well, he would gladly give it to her. He would carve his beating heart from his chest and hand it to her, if that is what she asked of him. After all, it served no purpose if she was no longer his wife.

  “Then take it all, chulentet,” he said softly. “For all I have is yours.”

  “Maggie, get Maggie!” he heard someone say. He wished to speak, to tell them Maggie was not who he wanted at his side as he took his last breath.

  Even if she was not his, even if she cast him out, it was Rebecca he wanted there when his heart stopped its fight. If only he could raise his hand, if only he could make his mouth form words…

  “Please!”

  It was Rebecca’s voice then, and he felt comfort that she was near. He tried to move his left arm, the one undamaged. Wasn’t the wound to his right side? Then why would his body not obey? It was only an arm, only one limb. He still had one good arm to touch her with.

  “Do not move, husband,” she demanded. “Stay still, ye stubborn lout!”

  He smiled at her oath. Although he did not wish her distress, at least that meant she had some care for him. He had never heard her use foul language in all the years they had known each other.

  “Winn?” Maggie whispered.

  “I will do it,” Winn said. So his brother was near as well, as it should be. He hoped Chetan was there to show him to the spirit world. He would be very angry at them if his spirit should wander.

  He felt her fingers twist into those of his good left hand. He thought he squeezed them, but he was not certain until he heard her let out a sob and then he instantly regretted it. He could not raise his limbs to comfort her. He did not want her to cry for him.

  A baby squealed. It was a hearty bellow from a robust babe. He recalled Winn saying what a plump greedy fellow Young Dagr was growing into. He was the only newborn in the village; it could be no other than the cry of the blooded MacMhaolian.

  Suddenly a warmth washed over him. He heard the voices fade to murmurs, and the scent of blood filled his dried nostrils. Yes, it was unmistakable, the scent of death. Or was it the aroma of life? His chest felt heavy, as if it meant to burst free from his body, and with one sweeping whoosh he felt air rush into his broken lungs. He cried out when his back arched and the fire left him, replaced by a gentle wave of mist that settled him softly back onto the pallet. Like a mischievous tingle of life it embraced him, dancing around him, holding him within the sweetness that was living. He felt it trickle away and he felt bereaved of it.

  “Come back,” he whispered. A resultant chucked erupted around him, and then the images began to slowly focus in his vision.

  “Ye canna keep them, lad,” Gwen laughed.

  “Rebecca?” he replied. More laughter.

  “I’m here, husband,” she whispered. He brushed the smeared dirt and tears from her cheek. He recalled it all now, and he felt shame for doubting her. She smiled and kissed his fingers, not budging when Gwen tried to shove her aside to make him drink.

  Chetan stood next to Winn at his bedside, and they both smiled. Winn’s arm were wrapped firmly around Maggie’s waist, and in her arms she clutched Young Dagr. When Makedewa met the boy’s gaze, the infant stared calmly back as if he knew his exalted blood had saved a life. The boy had a fresh bandage on his heel.

  Something had happened to him, beyond the scope of sense or reason. It was nothing that could be explained by legend or lore, nor by the Great Creator or God himself. It was simply the heart of a child, the blood of an ancient one, given freely by those who guarded him.

  With his wife clutching his hand and his brothers at his side, suddenly he knew he had everything to live for. He had everything to fight for, everything to protect. And it was more than any man could ask for in one meager lifetime.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. He met Maggie’s gaze, and she smiled back.

  *****

  When Gwen gave him the elixir to ease the ache in his healing body, it also brought him a short measure of sleep. The irony of waking in the Northern Hall was not lost on him; the Noroanveror Skali was the place they had taken Marcus when they knew his time was short. He supposed it was only natural to bring him there when they knew his wound was fatal, and fatal it would have been but for the blood of his brother’s son.

  The others did not notice him rouse as they sat drinking mead around the long table, too caught up in their argument to see him wake. It was the vehement
disagreement that stirred him from slumber, so loud he was surprised the women were not cackling at the men like hens over it.

  “Kaleb saved my brother’s life by bringing him here,” Winn announced.

  A chorus of dissention rose like a rumble through the older men, especially Erich. Makedewa could pick out his seething grunt amongst the others with ease.

  “The lass saved yer brother. The Englishman would have run. He’s a coward, and now he knows too much,” Erich answered. Although others voiced their support of Erich, he was the only one who would openly voice his opposition to Winn. Makedewa expected Cormaic to support his father and he was almost disappointed when he did not. Cormaic stood amongst the men to make his point.

  “We canna kill him. He’s done no wrong. It was our fault he saw what he saw, we shoulda thought to keep him out. But see it, he did, and now he knows what Young Dagr is. Let it rest on us to protect our own, as it always has,” Cormaic said. It was a wise speech, more than was usual for Cormaic, and Makedewa wondered if age and time had not given him more heart and brain than his brawn. If so, he would serve Winn well. Chief Winn needed men to challenge him, to make him think when there was so much at stake.

  Until Young Dagr’s blood had saved his life, Makedewa had not realized how much they had to lose. It was worth all of them to protect it, yet with that responsibility a great patience was needed. They needed a level head, a calm disposition, the strength to take care and step back before one stepped into battle.

  Makedewa sat up from the fur covered pallet.

  “Cormaic is right. Let him go. He will not share our secret. I shall take it on myself to stand for him.”

  His muscles ached on the side where he had taken the blade, but when he stretched his shoulders back and raised his arms above his head they loosened quite nicely. He ached as if he had slumbered for days, not a few hours, and his skin prickled at the surge of sensation that washed over his flesh. He felt renewed. Alive. And he owed that in part to Kaleb Tucker.

  “If Makedewa stands for him, then I shall let no man bring him harm,” Winn said. “The Englishman will have my protection to return home.”

  “Aye, Chief!” Erich shouted, raising his tankard in salute. The others milling about the table responded in kind, and Cormaic stood up to echo his agreement to his Chief with a wide grin gracing his blond bearded face.

  Makedewa placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder. Chetan was conspicuously absent from the celebration. When Makedewa made his exit and left the Northern Hall in search of his wife, he found his brother by the fire with Rebecca. Kaleb sat alongside, entranced by the dance before him.

  Chetan crouched down, then rose up, his movements fluid as he waved the essence of life toward the fire. He held Rebecca’s hand as she mimicked the dance at his side, dressed only in a simple thin shift that showed the curve of her sculpted calves as she twirled. Her hair was loose, alive around her shoulders, and she closed her eyes as Chetan uttered the magical chant. Makedewa recognized the ancient dance, one meant to show the life force to the afterworld, to ensure a speedy journey free from the temptation of an earthy life. Sometimes it was difficult for a spirit to leave ones it loved; it wished to cling to those earthbound beings like stubborn moss to a stone. With the sacred dance, the spirit was shown the proper way to leave, ensuring it a place alongside the Great Creator.

  He watched them silently until they finished, and then he joined them beside the fire. Eyes glowing like embers, Rebecca smiled when Chetan placed her hand into his.

  “Young Dagr gifted you a spirit. You asked it to stay, brother. You know you cannot keep a spirit bound to you,” Chetan said.

  “No, I cannot. But this woman here, I can keep her bound to me. That is something I can do,” he replied. “If she wishes it, that is.”

  “I do wish it. I meant every word of my vows. And I shall keep my word … if only I have a promise from ye,” Rebecca said softly. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Oh? If you ask it of me, then you shall have it.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead to his. He could feel the curve of her body fit neatly into his, and he was pleased to feel that his body was blessedly intact in every way.

  “Never doubt me again. Trust in me as I trust in ye.”

  She kissed him gently on the lips, despite the audience around them, then raised her brow at him in question.

  “Well?” she asked, her words throaty and low.

  “You have it, wife. It is yours.”

  *****

  Makedewa and Rebecca rode out with Kaleb to the edge of the meadow, well past the entrance to the narrow path through the hills. It was far enough away that Kaleb would not easily find his way back, and they decided that it was better that way for all of them. With Kaleb’s pledge to never speak of the magic he witnessed, Makedewa took that vow and held onto it. After all, the man had helped haul him back to the village, and thus saved his life. The Englishman could have taken Rebecca back to Elizabeth City and left him for dead. That knowledge alone was enough to give Makedewa some confidence in his honor.

  When Kaleb turned back to them, his eyes fell downcast and his shoulders slumped. It was a small gesture, but enough for Makedewa to see the man meant what he said: he would keep his word of silence, although he knew he might face questioning for it. A thought of running the Englishman through with his knife entered Makedewa’s thoughts. It was a fire, smoldering under his skin, the urge to silence the voice from the coward’s lips nearly leaving him singed.

  Yet feeling the young woman beside him, so close that her golden hair grazed his skin, gave him the strength to battle down the rage as it surfaced. Another death would serve no one; and in this acquiescence, Makedewa felt the debt was paid, if ever there was one.

  “Go. Take her, take the horses. Go back to yer people,” Kaleb demanded. “Make haste. Let me never see ye again.”

  Makedewa swung up on the horse. Rebecca took his hand and lifted up effortlessly behind him. She was nothing like the frightened girl he had rescued from the Massacre that day.

  “Indian,” Kaleb called out in a strangled voice.

  Makedewa swung the horse around.

  “I knew what he did at Henricus. I did nothing. I knew it, and I did nothing,” Kaleb said hoarsely. “I was weak. I am sorry.”

  He felt Rebecca’s fingers tighten into the fabric of his tunic, her hands clenched into fists at his sides. Makedewa stared down at the man, and as he looked into the Englishman’s eyes he felt something leave him. It was a hint of the spirit, the whisper of a life past, and he was glad to see it go.

  “I know, Kaleb,” Makedewa replied. “I know.”

  He turned the horse toward home, and this time it was Rebecca who planted her heels into the beast to urge it on.

  CHAPTER 18

  Benjamin

  THEIR WEDDING WAS a muted affair. Attended by Agnarr and a decidedly complacent Reinn with a fresh bandage on his hand, Benjamin expected to be struck down by lightening before they left the church. After all, was it not a sin to enter into marriage with lies between two people? Whatever truth could be said, at least Benjamin knew Jora was glad to be at his side, and that was much more than he could say for his previous marriage.

  He shook off the memory. It was not one he would think on.

  Not ever again.

  For all intent and purpose, he was a man without kin, a man with no blood ties. The closest tie to the past he now had was the man standing beside him, a filthy rich blond-haired devil with a spawn of loyal Englishmen in his employ. Somehow there was a connection between them, and someday Benjamin knew he would find it. It would take patience, he must be canny; he could make no mistake in his quest to reveal what need Agnarr had for the blooded MacMhaolian.

  The memory of his father demanded it. The memory of his lost brother required it. As for love lost, well, perhaps some semblance of care might be gained through the alliance with Jora.

  She was a pleasing lass,
quite bonny to look on, and for that alone he knew he was a fortunate man to have her as his wife. Women were still quite scarce in the colony, and to have a beautiful young lady at his side leant him an air of admiration among the men. This time he had given all he had for a woman he did not trust; perhaps as time wore on something more might come of their union.

  Benjamin and Jora would leave the plantation to live at the tavern in Elizabeth City in the morning, but their wedding night would be spent at Wakehill. He was eager to have it finished and be gone from Agnarr’s watchful eye. Both he and Jora would rest easier without the constant supervision.

  As Benjamin prepared to enter his room, Agnarr stopped him with an offer of brandy. It was an expensive batch, newly acquired off a ship from England. Agnarr consumed only the best, and Benjamin supposed he should feign a gracious attitude that his benefactor shared it.

  “Thank ye,” he murmured, sipping the brandy as quickly as he could without causing offense. Agnarr noticed, of course, in that introspective manner he had of seeing through the façade of any man. This time, however, he played it off to Benjamin’s eagerness to bed his bride, and a wide grin graced his face as he sipped.

  “Such a hurry? Well, I shall not keep ye from yer task,” Agnarr chuckled. Benjamin gripped his crystal glass, wanting nothing more than to smash it into Agnarr’s smirking face. Instead, he smiled and tipped the glass gracefully to his benefactor.

  “Did ye learn much from yer Time Walker kin, lad?”

  Benjamin froze with his hand on the door latch. Why would Agnarr bring such a thing up now?

  “Nay. I knew nothing. I told ye, I was a boy when I traveled,” he replied. He did not turn back to Agnarr, hoping it would be the last of his inquiry.

  “Well. Then I suppose ye do not know if ye were bled when ye were a bairn, now would ye?”

  At this Benjamin stirred, his curiosity piqued. Bled?