Return of the Pale Feather

by E. B. Brown

  “If you wish,” he muttered. “Tomorrow. I will teach you tomorrow.”

  She smiled, and they both stood up.

  “Thank ye. If you wish, I will teach you to read. I—I used to teach the children…once.”

  Makedewa nodded without looking at her.

  “A fair trade. You may teach me.”

  She turned quickly, giving him a brief smile and an awkward nod before she walked back to the cottage.

  Makedewa watched her go. It had been a long two years waiting for her to smile on him, and he would do anything to see it again. He would not mention he was already quite fluent in reading English.

  Chapter 11

  Rebecca

  Rebecca decided it was time. For too long she had pushed his friendship away, yet still he persisted with silent patience. If there was ever a man she could trust, surely it was the quiet warrior who she shared a home with. She was tired of feeling like a burden to their mismatched family, the only woman among them who could not wield a weapon or contribute in a useful way. Yes, she cooked and cared for the children, but seeing the way Maggie and Winn interacted made her long for more. Her English life was long gone, and as Maggie had been telling her for months, there was much more to life than living in the past.

  She lifted her skirts above her ankles as she made way through the tall grass. Makedewa was waiting in the field, where he had hung a hide against a wide tree trunk to take aim at. She watched him as she approached, noting with a flush of heat to her face how his skin glistened over his shoulders as he drew back the bow string, his arms flexed in readiness. He lowered the bow when he noticed her approach.

  “The wind is quiet today. A good day to learn,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. She glanced up at the bright sky.

  “It’s beautiful out today, surely,” she agreed. She smiled but he scowled, and suddenly her brave intention flew away. Had she already done something to annoy him? Sometimes it seemed her very presence irritated him, and her hopes for the day dimmed.

  “Turn around,” he snapped. She did so without question, her breath a sharp intake when he untied the ribbon from her hair. He paused for a long moment, and then twisted her hair into a knot at her nape, securing it with a tug of the ribbon more toward her left shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. She turned to face him, perplexed at the way his eyes softened and his grimace lightened.

  “For what?”

  “I should have thought—my hair, I mean,” she said.

  “You know nothing of how to shoot. Be sorry for naught,” he mumbled. “That is why my scalp is shaved here, so that the arrow does not get caught.” He pointed to the swatch of crescent shaped skin over his right ear, the skin smooth of any offending hair. The rest of his black mane fell loose down his back, which was unusual for him since he most often wore it knotted or in a braid. She thought he looked softer somehow with it down, as if his body had relaxed with the easy motion. Even the corner of his mouth appeared to twitch as if he wanted to smile but held back.

  He thrust a smaller bow into her hands, holding an arrow in his fist as he stepped away. He picked up his own larger bow and demonstrated how to pull back on the string.

  “Try this first, before I give you the arrow. Make your arm straight. Pull your hand back to your nose.”

  She did so, plucking the string, which snapped back with a deep twang. She liked the feel of the curved wood in her hand and a smile spread over her lips as she glanced at Makedewa. He had dropped his bow and stood watching her, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Good. Here, now try this.”

  He leaned across her and placed the notched end of the arrow on the string, grunting his approval when she balanced it on top of her other outstretched fist. When he stepped away, she drew the string but the arrow faltered, dipping to the side. She made several attempts to steady the thing before he would assist her, stepping to her side again. As much as she wanted to shoot the blasted arrow, his presence beside her led to complete distraction. Like the day he pulled her from the root cellar and held her in his arms, she could smell the scent of sweat on his skin and feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Her throat tightened when he placed his hand over hers to steady the arrow and he slowly circled her shoulders with his other arm.

  “Hold tight, here. Looser, here,” he said. She relaxed the fingers gripping the string and smiled when it worked. The arrow drifted back to meet the bow.

  “Let go,” he murmured. She released her fingers and the arrow took flight, striking the edge of the target flap to lodge into the bark. She squealed with delight.

  “Did ye see that? I did it! I hit the tree!” she laughed, swirling around in her excitement. He was still very close with his hand resting on her waist, but she did not mind it. In fact, it felt quite nice, and he had the making of a grin on his lips. For a man who rarely smiled, when his deep dark eyes softened and he relaxed, he looked nearly attractive.

  “Good shot. Try again,” he agreed. He bent abruptly to pick up his own bow, standing beside her to shoot at the target. They practiced like that until the target was full of holes and the tree bark was shredded beneath the hide. Makedewa gave her occasional instruction but otherwise just supervised as she found her own technique, and by the end of the afternoon, she was quite pleased to be hitting the hide on every shot.

  Her fingers ached and there were blisters on her thumb when she finally sat down beside him where he had taken a break, lying on the soft moss beneath another tree. He offered her a drink from his flask, which she took, watching as he leaned back onto his elbows and stretched out.

  “The bow I use is much smaller than yours. Should I try the one ye use?” she commented.

  “Keep the small one. It fits your hand, as it should. I made it for you.”

  She smiled. It was strange to be alone with him, sitting in a field surrounded by nothingness. She thought briefly of her mother, and wondered what the woman would have thought of such a thing. Although she sometimes missed her parents, she did not miss the strict life they lived, with the constant threat of damnation forever held over her head. Learning to live with the Indians and accepting that she was no harlot for sharing the afternoon with a man? Well, those were things she still needed to resolve for herself.

  His eyes closed to the sun overhead. As she looked down at him, sipping from his flask, she felt a tugging down deep in her belly. It was an unfamiliar sensation but it possessed her, and suddenly her hand moved as if directed by a devil and slid onto his chest. His body stiffened at her touch, the rise of his chest trapped in place, and he opened his eyes as he swallowed. He said nothing, his soft brown eyes fixed on hers as she slowly drew her hand away. He caught her fingers in his own and placed her hand flat against his heart.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered.

  “I am not,” he replied, keeping her palm under his, his eyes still focused on hers. She felt the thud of his heart under her hand and saw the heat in his gaze pulling her closer. For once, she felt no panic. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to be closer to him, to explore something beyond their tenuous friendship. She had no experience with men, but she suspected he felt the same way underneath his angry facade.

  “I never see ye smile, Makedewa,” she whispered.

  “I smile…at times,” he said.

  “Even now ye look angry. Do I anger ye?” she asked.

  “It is not anger you see, I promise you.”

  She nearly drew away when his hand slid up to cup her face, but instead she turned her cheek into his hand and closed her eyes. He moved swiftly then, sitting up beside her and taking her into his arms. She kept her eyes tightly closed, the feel of his touch burning her skin with rivulets of anticipation. Then his soft lips were on hers, gently covering her trembling mouth, the scent of his leather and sweat sending her senses into a spiral. Searching yet restrained, holding her face so tenderly as if she might crumble, his kiss led her closer into his embrace. When he pulle
d away he placed his cheek against hers and she could feel he struggled to slow his breathing the same as she.

  “Was that pleasing to ye?” she asked, at loss to say anything meaningful.

  “You please me quite well,” he replied, his voice low and measured. She felt the blush rise to her cheeks, and dipped her head to avoid his heated stare.

  “I have never kissed a man,” she said softly. She did not know why she felt the need to confess it to him, but suddenly she felt as if her heart was flayed open and she wished to share all the things she had kept buried for so long. He would not allow her to look away, taking her chin in his fingers and tilting it back upward.

  “Then I thank you for that honor,” he whispered. His hand caressed the small of her back as he captured her gaze. “I would be the only man to ever have that honor, if you would have me. I want you for my wife, Rebecca.”

  She did not realize she cried until he kissed her tears away, and when he covered her mouth again with his own she tasted the salt of her tears between them.

  “Ye do not want me,” she said quietly, as he tried to kiss away her protests. An urgent surge of need washed through her and she pressed closer into his lap, feeling the response of his body hard against her. She tried to stem the panic as their embrace became more heated, loving his gentle hands on her flesh, yet fighting the surge of buried memories all the same.

  “I do. I have always wanted you,” he murmured.

  “How could ye, when ye know my shame?” she said, letting out a soft cry when he pulled away. He held her face in his hands and stared into her eyes, his face etched as if in pain.

  “You bear no shame for what was done to you,” he whispered, his voice fierce and tense.

  “But I am no maid,” she protested.

  “You are to me,” he replied.

  She placed her hand on his face and then kissed him softly.

  “Why do ye act so fearful, when ye have such a kind heart?”

  He sighed and made the agitated half growl, half snort the men often uttered.

  “There is no kindness here, chulentet,” he murmured. “Perhaps a bit for you, that is all, my little bird.”

  She smiled. They both looked up at the sound of voices. Ahi Kekeleksu had found them, calling them to the late day meal. It was an unwelcome distraction but they drew apart nonetheless. They gathered the bows and made their way back to the cottage, and for the first time in what seemed ages her heart soared with pleasure at the knowledge Makedewa watched her every move.

  Chapter 12

  Maggie

  Traveling with their party was by no means speedy, as Winn had predicted. After three longs days of being astride a horse she was ready to wash the sweat from her skin and catch a few hours of rest. When her feet finally hit the ground again her legs felt like jelly and she suspected she walked like an old cowboy, bowlegged and bedraggled to boot.

  “The village is not far from here. We should reach it in the morning,” Winn assured her when they stopped. As she helped Teyas start a fire while the men tended the horses, she took a look around. The forest was filled with dense growing cypress, the ancient trees more common the deeper they traveled inland. She had never been so far away from the banks of the streams they typically lived near, so although she expected the different terrain it still made her uneasy. The soil was less sandy than the lowlands, and the men were pleased to find small game more plentiful for hunting. Winn was right. Their lives would be better the further they lived from the English towns.

  Makedewa resumed teaching Rebecca how to shoot the bow, and Maggie settled down by the fire to watch them. Exhausted from the travel, Kwetii slept curled into a ball on the furs beside her, with her tiny thumb pressed up against the roof of her gaping mouth as she gently snored. Maggie brushed the child’s dark hair off her heart-shaped face with a smile.

  Winn sat down beside her while the other men stood watching the lesson. He offered her a sip from his flask that she gladly took. It was the last of the sack Makedewa had won playing dice and it left a pleasant burning warmth in her belly as it settled.

  “Is Rebecca well?” he asked. He sat resting his arm on one bent knee, watching his brother. Maggie raised an eyebrow.

  “Why do you ask? She’s fine, as far as I know.” She noticed the subtle nuzzle Makedewa gave Rebecca when he leaned close in his instruction, and the way Rebecca leaned into him with a smile. Apparently, they were getting on quite fine.

  “I thought she lost her sense. I never thought to see her use a weapon.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, yeah, why not? She’s as capable as anyone else is. She just needs a little confidence,” Maggie replied. “Rebecca, strike quickly when you mean to kill a man! A warrior once told me that!” she called out. Winn chuckled.

  “Leave them be, woman,” he grinned.

  “Us girls need to stick together.”

  “No doubt.”

  She snuck a sly glance at his profile. Sculpted and strong, with bright blue eyes set against thick brows, he still made her breath hitch when he looked at her. The way he cocked an eyebrow at her, or twisted the corner of his lip in that secret boyish grin, it was enough to render her senseless, even after all they had been through. Would it always be so between them?

  She reached for his hand and he smiled, clasping it firmly in his own. He rubbed the base of her wrist with his thumb, a firm yet gentle pressure, sending a shock of goose bumps over her skin. She felt the warmth spread at the contact, and a flush rose to her cheeks.

  Yes. It would never change. He would always be a flame in her darkness, searing her with his heat. As if he sensed her thoughts, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the scar upon her palm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “For what, ntehem?”

  “For tending the fields that day. I didn’t think any harm of it.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  “You are no obedient wife. I know that well.” He ran his fingers up the length of her arm and pressed a gentle kiss to her bared shoulder, where he rested his lips for a moment. “There are things I fear losing in this life now. Before you, I feared nothing.”

  His words were gentle, considering the circumstances. It was not the first time they had such conflict. Despite her desire to behave like a proper wife, it was an endless struggle to subdue what was left of the twenty-first century woman inside her. At times she feared the way their pasts pulled them apart, yet she knew it was their differences that also bound them together.

  She stiffened and sat up as he pulled abruptly away. She saw them at the same time as he did, the strangers standing at the edge of the clearing. Two men, both tall, both fair skinned, with full beards and long, unruly hair.

  Rebecca dropped the bow when Makedewa pushed her behind him, and Teyas grabbed her hand. Chetan crouched, hand on his knife, and Marcus unsheathed the axe on his back. The sound of metal sliding from the sheath screamed in the silence, followed by the clang of weapons revealed by the newcomers. Other than drawing weapons, the men remained still as they inspected each other.

  Winn slowly stood, his eyes never wavering from them. Marcus stepped forward in front of the others, standing between all of them and the intruders.

  “Hvata bak, ofugr,” one said, taking a step toward them. He was taller than the first but younger, nearly as broad as Marcus was through the shoulders. His hair was a russet gold hue, hanging thick down his back with a series of tiny braids edging his scalp. Crisscrossed over his chest he wore flat leather straps, which secured several weapons including a knife. The handle of a sword protruded over his shoulder from where it was secured to his back. She did not recognize the language he spoke, yet she suspected Marcus did by the way his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

  “Go back where you came from. You are not welcome here,” the stranger said in stilted English.

  There was a rustle from the woods beyond the clearing and suddenly a half-dozen more men came for
ward. All attired in a similar manner, every man appeared ready to fight.

  “Sa er tala? Show me who commands ye,” Marcus replied, his arms flexed with gripping the sword. Maggie gasped when Winn moved to stand beside Marcus. His knife was drawn, his muscles tensed, his body coiled like a spring as he shielded them from the intruders. Makedewa and Chetan flanked them.

  An older man stepped forward. His russet hair was similar to the first, his beard longer and streaked with scattered grey. He put up his hand and motioned to the younger man, who immediately sheathed his weapon.

  “Dagr?” the older man said. Marcus did not waver when he moved closer, his stark blue eyes widening. Marcus dropped his hand to his side.

  “Erich?” Marcus replied.

  The man called Erich suddenly reached out and clasped both hands around the one arm Marcus extended. They stared into each other’s faces for a brief moment without words, and then the stranger dropped down on one knee before Marcus and Winn.

  His deep voice was strangled yet loud when he spoke.

  “Chief Dagr has finally returned to us! Thank Odin for his safe passage! Long life to Chief Dagr!”

  Maggie let out the breath she held as the strangers fell to their knees, the sounds of their reverence a growing murmur which rolled through them as a gathering roar.

  “Long life to Chief Dagr! Chief Dagr!” they shouted. She saw Winn take a step back and look to his brothers, who were staring at the kneeling men in wonder.

  She had never seen Marcus so unsettled. His back straightened and his eyes swept over the men before him. Biceps tensed, the veins standing out like a web over his skin, she watched him tremble as he spoke.

  “Rise. Stand up, ye needn’t kneel to me,” Marcus said, his voice strained and low. The man called Erich stood with a grin spreading across his face. The others remained bent in deference.

  “Ach, no, ye never did wish to be Chief. But Chief ye are, and thank Odin you’ve returned to us. You’ve come back from Valhalla, yet you’re no spirit.”