Return of the Pale Feather

by E. B. Brown

  He rubbed her back absently, his blue eyes shadowed as he looked up at the moonlight through the smoke hole.

  “I don’t like you going into town. I’m afraid they’ll turn on you. Look at how they burned the crops—they even attack the peaceful tribes. There’s no sense to it.”

  “They have few men they trust to negotiate, and the new English soldiers have orders to keep peace. There will be no trouble for me, wife.” He was right. The English crown had taken over control of the colony in the last few months after revoking the charter of the Virginia Company, and so far, the English had sought to calm relations between the settlers and the Indians. She hoped it would be enough to save her small crop of corn this season, as it had been burned by English scabs in the fall.

  “You’ll take your brothers, too, then?” she asked. “Makedewa and Chetan, I mean.”

  “If you would have it so, then yes,” he replied.

  She waited for him to acknowledge the unanswered question, giving him the chance to speak on it. After a few minutes his breathing slowed, and she knew if she did not broach the subject, it might never be said.

  “Winn?” she whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  “What about your …brother?”

  She traced the line of his tattoo from the point of his hip to the indent of his navel, the black ink design raised slightly from his skin. She felt him shudder and he grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

  “Chetan had a wife, years ago, when we were young warriors. She was called Sapalente.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it.

  “English men visited the village to trade with us. We had little to share with them that year, enough for our people, but not enough for the English as well. They were angry, they thought our women hid the corn. So they took our women to the Long House, and bound them hand and foot. They put the women inside and set the Great Yehakin on fire.”

  His muscles grew tight beneath her hand. She could see the throbbing of the pulse in his neck, standing out like a cord. The flat Bloodstone pendant lay on his chest, betraying the quickening of his breath as he spoke.

  “Many men were away hunting, as was Chetan. Makedewa and I stayed behind to meet with the Council. Men of the Council were old men, no warriors, and they were rounded up by the English as well. I killed the man who touched Sapalente first. And then Makedewa and I killed the others.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “And the women? Sapalente? Did she live?” she asked.

  “Yes. No women died that day.”

  “But what happened to her?”

  “She birthed Ahi Kekeleksu and then died of the spotted fever. The English killed her after all.” He frowned and looked down at her. “I tell you this to show you what a brother is. I would give my life for my brothers, as they would give for you. They need not ask it of me, they have it by honor of our bond. There was a time when Benjamin was brother to me, you know this,” he said, his voice rising. Kwetii stirred and hiccupped across the yehakin.

  “I understand, Winn, I do,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek. She felt him tremble, the anger palatable under her fingertips.

  “No, you do not. Chetan did not ask me to save his woman, he did not need to speak any words to show me the way. The day Benjamin took you from me, when I lay wounded with him at my side, I thought soon I might take my last breath. I asked it of Benjamin, to protect you, since I could not. Do you know what it means, to ask such a thing of a man?”

  “Winn—”

  “My English brother, the man I called friend? He stole you from me and left me for dead. He kept you with him by his lies. He sent you to hang as a witch—with my daughter in your belly! Do not ask it of me, wife. Do not ask me to call him brother. He is nothing to me but another Englishman.”

  “I won’t ask it,” she whispered. She bowed her head to his shoulder, tearing away from his searing blue eyes, unable to take in the intensity of his gaze. In the end, Benjamin had saved her, but that fact meant nothing to her husband. She could not fault him for his resolve, yet even as she held him and felt his tremors ease, she knew it was a matter long from settled.

  “Stay out of the fields while I am gone tomorrow. Keep near the yehakins until we return,” he mumbled, effectively ending the discussion with a demand. Although she did not voice her submission, she nodded in agreement.

  He pulled her snugly against his chest and kissed her forehead. She felt his breathing grow shallow in the silence, and his heartbeat slowed beneath the touch of her ear pressed against his skin.

  Chapter 6

  Winn

  Chetan led the way, always the guide on any excursion they made. He was the best tracker of the three brothers, and Winn valued his skill above any other. Makedewa hung back in his usual position flanking the group from behind, keeping a careful watch for any danger that followed. Winn slowed his mount to ride with his younger brother, unwilling to ride alongside Marcus.

  Pale Feather, the coward. Whoever the man was, he could ride alone.

  “What do you think of the tempers in town?” Winn asked Makedewa. The other warrior shrugged and uttered a non-committal grunt.

  “No different than usual. They speak with one face to you, another face to their King. For now we should have no trouble.”

  “I see you leave your pretty red coat behind. No need of it today?” Winn grinned, chiding him. Winn knew full well why Makedewa stopped wearing the English solider coat, and it had nothing to do with fearing the townsfolk. Makedewa won the coat fairly in a dice game, along with a small flask of gunpowder and a jug of sack. The three brothers had enjoyed the wine while tending to the horses the night before, and as they finished it Makedewa confessed he only wore it to impress Rebecca. Unfortunately, his attempt had backfired. The young Englishwoman thought it obscene and told the warrior as much.

  “Ah, that coat reeks of Tassantassas. I will not wear it again,” Makedewa grumbled.

  “You worry too much of what that girl thinks. Wear it if you please.”

  Makedewa laughed aloud at Winn’s words.

  “Oh, yes, brother. I think too much of a woman? Maybe you do not see the sun through the clouds. If Maggie smiles, you smile. If she cries, you sulk. And help us, Creator, when she rages, for then you act a fool!” he laughed.

  Winn shook his head in mock disgust, yet laughed with him.

  “You will see, little brother.”

  “No, I will not,” Makedewa said, as his laughter eased and his lips tightened. “She will never smile at me as Maggie smiles at you.”

  Winn cocked his head to the side as his pony plodded on. He looked up ahead to ensure the others did not listen, and once satisfied they paid no heed, he spoke quietly to his younger brother. He saw the change in Makedewa at his confession. Tall, lean, every ounce a powerful warrior, his brother had shown an unusual glimpse of kindness to the girl. It had been Makedewa who saved her during the Great Assault, slaying another warrior who meant to take her as captive. Since that fateful day more than two years past, Rebecca had remained living with them with no desire to return to the colony and Makedewa had mooned over her like a love struck buffoon. Whatever damage had been done to her, however, appeared lasting, and the young woman seemed to care for nothing more than friendship.

  “Find a gift for her while we visit town today. Something to make her smile,” he advised.

  Makedewa shook his head.

  “No. We have no time for such things.”

  “Says who? I say we do,” Winn answered. He was willing to spare a few minutes in trade if it would make Makedewa happy. It would serve for the betterment of everyone to see some tension diminished between his brother and Rebecca, and if a simple trinket would make that happen, it was well worth the time lost.

  “We shall find word of Benjamin and nothing more.”

  “Ah, kemata tepahta!” Winn cursed, rolling his eyes skyward with a snort. Makedewa continued to stare straight ahead,
ignoring his outburst.

  “He does not look so fierce,” Makedewa commented, effectively changing the subject. Winn looked ahead to where Makedewa pointed.

  Marcus rode beside Chetan, the two men seeming to speak in an easy rhythm as their ponies paced along. Winn wondered what they found in common to talk about, but then quickly purged the thought away. Why should he care for what the coward might speak of?

  “Who says he is fierce?” Winn asked.

  “Your wife said he killed Kweshkwesh with one blow of his axe,” Makedewa replied, raising his brows.

  “I killed Kweshkwesh. Marcus killed his son. And it is called a bryntroll, it is different from the weapon we have. So he says.” Winn nodded to the small hand axe hanging from Makedewa’s belt. “One large blade on a long handle, with symbols carved into the iron. I know not what meaning.”

  “It means Pale Feather is a fierce warrior,” Makedewa muttered.

  Maybe it means he is a coward and liar, Winn thought, although he kept it to himself. He would not let his brother bait him into an argument, which Makedewa seemed to enjoy doing.

  “Is that what Norse-men look like?”

  Winn shrugged the question off, his eyes now focused on his father’s back. The stout bryntroll sat secured in the flat straps crossing his wide shoulders, over the white linen trade-shirt the women had given him. A heavy sword lay sheathed at his side, another weapon inlaid with intricate designs. Other than the shade of the tousled dark hair tied back with rawhide on his neck, Winn could see no resemblance between them. Perhaps they had similar height, and the breadth of their shoulders matched somewhat, but nothing more.

  “He looks like only a man to me,” Winn said.

  “Are the weapons from his future time? Did you ask Fire Heart?”

  “No.”

  “I will ask him.”

  “Go then. Ask if you must,” Winn muttered.

  Makedewa tapped his heels and urged the pony forward to meet the others. Chetan glanced back at Winn as Makedewa caught up, and Winn raised his chin a notch at the inquisition. They would reach town soon enough and all the foolishness would end.

  The sooner they found the information Marcus needed, the sooner the man would be out of their lives. As Winn watched Marcus speak with his brothers, he thought perhaps Makedewa was right.

  They had no time for such things.

  *****

  Winn dropped down off his horse into the mud. Even with the dry summer air, the ground in James City remained sodden in places, especially in the heavily traveled areas like the town common. A straight sandy road cut the central market square in two, the narrow pathway through town littered with shallow ruts. A horse could be easily crippled if one did not pay close mind to the debris.

  He grimaced at the stench as he tied his pony to a hitching post. It had been a month since he last visited the town, and he could see little had changed. The English still lived like pigs, growing their precious tobacco amidst hills of filth within their city palisades. He stepped out of the mud and went to join his companions.

  In the two years since the Great Assault, the undressed log dwellings had been replaced by frame houses within the fort limits. The population had grown dense, with those who lived on the outskirts of the James City community drawing closer to town or moving within the palisades for protection. There was no doubt so many living in such close quarters contributed to the stench.

  “Ye have a plan? Who to talk to?” Marcus asked. Winn glanced at his father while adjusting the knife at his waist. He wanted to take his musket as well, but thought better of it and left it behind, aware that the English soldiers always found a reason to confiscate such items from the Indians. Unlike some warriors, Winn would use whatever means necessary to fight the English, and if that meant using their weapons against them, then so be it.

  “I know a man who will talk,” Winn replied.

  He noticed the way people stared when they entered town, and he was sure Marcus observed it as well. A group of men gathered in the square glared openly at them, growing silent as they left their horses and set off further into town. At the end of the row, standing like a statue against the clear morning sky was the church. Recently rebuilt with wide double wooden doors, it housed the English who huddled there seeking comfort in their singular God. As Winn and the others walked down the street, women clutched their hats and the crowds parted.

  Winn could see Marcus tense. He shook his head when Marcus placed his hand on the butt of his sword.

  “They mean no trouble, Pale Feather,” Winn said.

  His brothers looked up at his words. Marcus dropped his hand.

  “Let’s get where we’re going, then,” Marcus muttered.

  It was a short walk to the gunsmith shop. A small dwelling made of coarse cut logs, it was one of the original structures to the settlement. Thick smoke rushed out through a shaft on the thatch roof, and the air inside was uncomfortably close.

  Makedewa and Chetan kept watch at the door as Winn entered the building. He did not need to ask his brothers to keep track of the dispersing Englishmen as they conducted their business.

  John Jackson looked up from his seat at his table and immediately rose to greet them, his eyes wide and hopeful. He was a slight man, standing a head shorter than even Chetan, uncharacteristically refined compared to most of the other Englishmen. His lithe stature was most likely a gift from his French mother; his long, thin face unfortunately came from his father.

  “Winn! Vous batard sournois! Que faites-vous ici!”

  Winn grinned at the oath riddled welcome. He had known John Jackson long enough to expect nothing less than to be called foul names in lieu of a proper greeting.

  “Oui, j'ai raté votre visage laid,” he replied as they grasped forearms. Winn was unpracticed, but his French was still passable.

  “Miss my ugly face, eh? Then fog off, ye bloody whoreson,” John laughed. The gunsmith raised his chin in acknowledgement of Marcus, who stood behind Winn inside the cottage. “Who’s ye friend? And why do ye darken my door today?”

  Winn watched as John wiped his hands on his leather apron.

  “Kin of my wife,” Winn said quickly. He felt uneasy with the explanation, yet he could not describe Marcus in any other way. “I come to ask your help, friend. We look for Benjamin Dixon.”

  John stopped his ministrations abruptly. One eye squinted shut, the other focused on Marcus, he straightened up.

  “Ye dinna bring yer wife here, did ye? Ye puntain de batard-“

  “No, salaud!” Winn barked, his patience at an end with the jibes. The older Frenchman had a foul mouth and a loose tongue. “You know that would be foolish. We want no trouble.”

  “Ah, the townsfolk. They dinna forget the whole bloody mess, with her being accused of witchery and the like. There be no witness left to try her, but ye know folks remember.”

  “I know this. I ask for what you know of Dixon, nothing more.”

  The older man pursed his lips and turned his back on them. He opened a tall wooden cupboard stacked against the wall and fumbled with a drawer inside. After rifling through the contents for a moment, he produced a tiny satchel one might fit snugly into the palm of a large man.

  “Governor Wyatt released him, oh, ‘bout a months hence. On account there was no man for witness against him, like yer red-headed squaw.”

  Winn leaned over the table, his fingers gripping into the soft wood as he clenched his fists. He was nearing the end of his tolerance with the man’s gibes. Acquaintance or friend, whatever the Frenchman was, he would be speaking through broken teeth if he kept up his banter.

  “Why did they keep him so long, if they meant to release him?” Marcus interrupted. “Do ye know where he went, or where he might be now?”

  “What meaning have ye? He only showed up a month hence, as I told ye. Right turned himself in, that one did, so folks thought him gone barmy. The minister at Martin’s Hundred found him sleeping on the floor inside the church, daft as
a loon. They took him here to stand trial, and that’s when ye Governor set him loose.”

  Winn saw Marcus flex his grip over the handle of his sword. Winn gave him a quick shake of the head, relieved when Marcus lowered his hand.

  “This helps us. Thank you,” Winn said to the gunsmith. He noticed a movement beyond John by the entrance to the side room. It was a young boy of about six or seven, with a mop of blond hair and huge round eyes staring at them, peeking curiously around the corner.

  “Who is the boy?” Winn asked.

  “Don’t ye know Old Morgan’s boy? He has no kin, none to see him fed, in any case. He’s a good lad. Pay him no heed.” The child ducked away at the sound of his name.

  John sat down across from Winn, his eyes shifting back and forth between the men. He dropped the tiny satchel on the table between them.

  “Ye know what it’s like to have yer kin stolen from ye. I want mine back, the same as ye. I’ll tell ye where Dixon went, if ye send my sister back with the next batch.” John pushed the bag toward Winn. “Ye still have that flintlock musket, I suppose? That’s my best powder, ye know they can hang me fer giving it to ye. Take it, and whatever else ye want. Just give me yer word ye’ll bring my sister home.”

  Winn bit back a retort as he looked into the man’s pleading eyes. Yes, John was a sneaky fellow, but he had done no wrong to Winn and had helped him when he asked. Of course there was usually a price attached to his help, and Winn could not fault him for taking advantage in such circumstances. In this case, however, Winn would not be able to help him, and he was reluctant to disclose what he knew of John’s sister.

  “John, your sister is treated fairly in Pamukey. She has come to no harm, I can tell you that,” Winn answered. He would not mention that John’s sister was the squaw of a Pamukey warrior, nor that in the two years since the Great Assault she had given birth to a son. It was assuredly more information than the Frenchman could tolerate.

  “Then bring her back next. You’ve exchanged three women so far, why not my sister? If it’s guns, or food, tell me what ye ask, and I will give it,” John pleaded. Winn saw the rims of his eyes glisten as the man swiped the back of one hand over his face.