Return of the Pale Feather

by E. B. Brown

  “I wanted to go. He wouldn’t let me!”

  She heard the sharp intake of his breath, and watched him wave his hands at her in dismissal.

  “What would ye do, save him yerself? Dinna I raise ye to have more sense than that? Jesus, Maggie, sometimes I think ye haven’t the good brains ye were born with!”

  “You can go to hell, Marcus! I am sick and tired of being treated like I have no say in things! I’m sick of all you stinking men, running around like a bunch of idiots, making all the decisions! I’m sick of this stupid time, the stupid English—and—and you bloody men!” she shrieked.

  She threw an empty bowl at him and watched him duck to avoid it. He glared at her, eyes widening in surprise before he closed the distance in two strides. He grabbed her arms before she could launch another missile, shaking her like a child.

  “In this time, you have no say in it,” he snapped as she tried to twist away from him. He shook her roughly by the arms, his face contorted. “This is the time ye were meant to be born to. Ye live here now, and ye cannot change the ways of men. Do ye want to see them dead, for want of yer stubborn pride? For you to say ye saved him, like a woman of your time might do? Yer foolish plan will get him killed. Both of them this time. Both my sons.”

  She felt her anger slipping away as he stared down at her, the sounds of their ragged breaths the only murmur between them. His fingers loosened on her arms, and with a sigh his frown deepened.

  “I know ye think ye have no power here, Maggie. But ye have it all, ye just don’t know it yet,” he said softly.

  “Do you mean as a Gothi? I still don’t understand.”

  “Aye, there’s that. But more than that. Ye have the love of two brave men, who each would move the earth itself to see ye happy. In this time, my wee hellion, that power is the most fearsome of all.”

  She felt her throat constrict as tears smeared her cheeks. She had no answer for him. Her heart was filled with the love of one man, yet she knew in some part that his words held truth.

  “I bid ye keep yer arse here while we fetch my sons. I’ve never had cause to take ye over my knee, but if I find ye up to any more trouble, I’ll tan ye good, grown woman or no. Agreed?”

  She nodded. He kissed the top of her head before he left the Long House, slamming the door behind him.

  *****

  The village was quiet without the men. The women gathered in the Northern Hall to prepare for the eventual return of the warriors, yet a veil of unease hung thick among them as they worked. She sat next to Gwen, who was focused in a dedicated manner pounding dried stockfish with a mallet. Maggie idly stirred the thick butter mixture they would soak the fish in later for the night meal as she stared off toward the doorway. She felt the eyes of the other women upon her as she worked, her skin prickling with the unsaid accusations. The men were gone to battle to retrieve her husband, and there was nothing she could do but sit by and wait to see if they all returned safely.

  “Do you think they will return soon?” Maggie asked. Gwen continued to pound the fish, her mallet sliding off the slippery table edge as she worked.

  “They’ll nay be long, worry not.” Gwen answered. “And ye would be dead right now if ye’d gone to town,” the older woman added.

  Maggie dropped her ladle and looked up.

  “I know,” Maggie replied quietly. She had already endured being chastised by Marcus. As much as Maggie knew she deserved it, she felt a heaviness in her chest at the thought of Gwen being angry with her as well.

  “Ye dinna mean any harm, I can see that. But fer want of your foolish acts, our men might die,” Gwen said as she clenched her mallet. “We’ve survived here peaceably until today. No one bothers us, and we keep to ourselves. Some of these women willna forget if the men do not return.”

  “Gwen, I’m so sorry,” Maggie whispered, her voice trembling. “They’ll all come home safely, they will—”

  Gwen cut her off, pointing the mallet at Maggie.

  “Ye need to take yer place here, girl, and remember who ye are. Ye cannot act alone as ye did today. Winn will be our Chief someday, and he needs a strong wife. Not a spoilt girl who thinks only of herself.”

  Maggie could not answer. The breath caught in her lungs and tears coursed down her cheeks. Gwen was right.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Maggie said. Gwen clucked her tongue and shook her head, laying down her mallet. Maggie put her face in her hands and brushed away the tears, trying to keep from falling apart as the painful truth roared in her ears.

  “I know ye are. I know yer sorry,” Gwen replied quietly.

  Maggie knew Gwen’s words were true, and the implication of her actions tore through her. If some of the men did not return, it would be her fault. She had made a foolish decision in a heated moment, and as a result, the lives of many men were put at risk. How would anyone ever forgive her if something terrible happened?

  “I can’t sit here like this. I’m going to check on Kwetii,” she said. She avoided looking into Gwen’s face. Maggie knew she would break down in front of all the women if she stayed any longer.

  “Go on then, have at it,” Gwen muttered. “Yer no help fer me here, with ye staring off and no work done.”

  Maggie left the Northern Hall and made a brisk walk back to her Long House. There was no way she could concentrate on anything but worrying over Winn and the others. She knew better than most how ruthless the English could be, and how bloody a battle between them might turn out. As she entered the space she currently called home and reached for her sleeping child, it was all she could do to lay beside her without crying.

  Maggie nestled down beside Kwetii, the child’s unique toddler scent comforting amidst the fear that threatened to suffocate her. Kwetii’s long lashes twitched as she slept, her bow-shaped lips making a sweet snoring sound as she breathed. Maggie suspected her daughter would be through with afternoon naps soon, but for now she watched the last remnants of her childhood slipping away too fast. Kwetii was born to the seventeenth century, and as such, her childhood would be a short one before she was thrust into the reality of life. Lying beside her and holding her close, Maggie wished she could shield her from what was to come. She prayed that Winn would be there to guide them.

  It was impossible for her to rest, knowing the men she loved were in danger. After watching Kwetii sleep for a few minutes, Maggie decided to busy herself with tidying the Long House.

  Since their arrival in the Norse village, they had acquired many more items than they were accustomed to owning. Winn found it strange to have personal possessions since the Indians regarded supplies as belonging to the community instead of individuals, yet even he had adapted to the change. She folded his braies and tunic and placed them in a basket hanging along the wall, and put his spare boots there as well. He must have worn his breechcloth and leggings into town, and she was not too surprised to see he had worn his native attire to conduct his business.

  After she arranged his clothes in the basket, she turned to the corner he piled his belongings in. Sitting there, propped against the wall, was his sword. It gleamed in the flicker of the hearth fire, the amber light bouncing off the smooth metal. She ran one finger down the long, thick handle, which was carved deep with a tangle of runes. The symbols were meaningless to her, but a part of both her blood and Winn’s. A grandfather he had never known, Chief Drustan Nielsson, had held that sword in his hands as he fought those who meant him harm. So many tales, so many legends. Would she ever sit with her husband and children, and listen to the stories?

  She looked up when Kwetii made a tiny mewling sound. The child did not wake, and for that she was glad. Maggie preferred to spend her desolation alone.

  Winn’s second pair of leggings was still damp from washing, so she decided to lay it out in the sun to dry. Fall was upon them, and winter would arrive soon, but still they had the last remnants of summer sun in the afternoons and she preferred to take advantage of it. She draped the doeskin leggings over a bench and sat d
own, letting the warmth of the sunshine caress her face. She wished it was his touch on her skin, his fingers in her hair, instead of her own hands raking over her face as the tears fell.

  What if the last words between them were those said in anger? If there were Gods in his time, did they listen to requests? If she asked for forgiveness, would it be granted? Perhaps if she promised to be a good wife, an obedient wife, a wife that Winn would not need to fight, it might be enough to please the Gods. Whatever Gods looked over the Powhatan, or the Norse, she would do anything to appease them. Even if it meant denying the time she was born to and all that she was.

  She heard a stifled cry from the Long House and hurriedly wiped her hand across her face. It sounded as if Kwetii were in the throes of a nightmare, and with a wry smile she thought of how both Winn and she had suffered the same as children. As she turned to retrieve the child, her attention was distracted by the scent of smoke in the air. Across the courtyard, the storehouse was in flames, its roof alight like a torch against the blue sky. Maggie could see the other village women gathered outside the burning structure. She raced back into the Long House for Kwetii.

  Crouched over her child was the misshapen back of a man. At the sound of her footsteps, he swung around, his fur cloak swirling around him as he snatched Kwetii into his arms. It was an older man she had never had words with, but she recognized him from meal times. Was his name Old Ivar? She could not recall.

  When she took a tentative step forward, he stepped back and held up one hand straight out. Her stomach made a sickening leap when she saw he held a knife.

  “Sir, I—I think my daughter must need me, if you please,” she said softly, her voice trembling. Kwetii hung from the crook of his elbow, her round eyes wide as she uttered a grunting cry. Her dangling legs kicked out. Maggie held out her arms. What on earth did he want with her child?

  “Keep yer distance, ye Gothi devil!” Ivar said. “Move away, or I’ll cut her, I swear it!”

  She noticed his arms shook, the knife quivering in his unsteady fingers. She kept her eyes on his instead of Kwetii, afraid seeing her child’s terror would cause her own fear to take over.

  “What do you want with her?” she asked.

  “You’re the ones with the power to send our ship back. I won’t stay in this blasted place anymore, I’m going back to Vinland, no matter what yer Chief says!”

  “I don’t understand. Truly. Let her go, we can talk about this -”

  “No! It’s too late fer that! I’m going back without them, let them rot here with the Indians and the English, I’ll nay be part of it any longer. Git out of my way, woman, now, I have a ship waiting fer me. All I need is the blood of the Gothi, and I can return to my true time.”

  “Then take me,” Maggie pleaded. Was this it? Was this her punishment for her crimes, for her rash actions? Would the Gods take her child as penance?

  She slowly dropped to her knees before him, bowing her head, her body wreaked with tremors as he gripped her crying child. If it was Kwetii’s blood he wanted, she shared it as well. She did not understand what he meant, or how he meant to time travel, but the sight of a man holding a knife to her daughter lent to desperate measures no matter what the reason.

  She felt his hand on her shoulder and she thought he might relent, but instead he thrust her aside and brushed past her with Kwetii in his arms. As she pushed to her knees, she saw a flash of yellow hair by the doorway, and then heard the hollow twang of a bowstring plucked.

  Ivar fell to his knees with a muffled groan. A single arrow protruded from his chest, and Kwetii rolled to the ground beside him.

  “A warrior woman once told me to strike swiftly, when I meant to kill a man,” Rebecca said. Her chest heaved against her snug shift, her bow poised in readiness for another shot as she glared at the fallen man. “I meant to kill that one.”

  Kwetii burst into a panicked howl, and Maggie gathered her into her arms.

  Chapter 29

  Winn

  Joseph Benning seemed like a competent man, and Winn thought he would serve Opechancanough well. Born to the Powhatans, Joseph had been sent to live with the English as a boy, and had even traveled across the ocean to England with the Tassantassas on several occasions. He was a slight fellow, slim in build with his Indian coloring typical, but his manner and dress was purely English. Winn suspected they were of similar age, yet Joseph had a solemn disposition that made him seem much older when he spoke. Like Winn, he was versed in several languages, trained from boyhood to be useful to his Weroance. Winn felt little regret at turning over his duties to Joseph. In fact, he could hardly finish the journey fast enough.

  Although leaving Teyas had been difficult, he knew she was in good hands with Makedewa and Chetan at her side. They would see her settled with her new husband and escort her traveling party to her new home. He was not certain yet what village that would be, but his brothers would bring word of it when they met again at the Norse settlement. Finally, he felt their struggles were nearing end; perhaps they could settle in peace, as Maggie wished among the Norse. Knowing now what Marcus predicted of the future, Winn knew he could not settle with his family among the Powhatans. He would make his wife happy and keep her safe. Although it was in a different way than he envisioned for his family, it was the path they must take. It was all he could ask for.

  Winn waited for Joseph outside the apothecary shop, where the other man had stopped for supplies. The sky overhead darkened with dense clouds, the signs of a storm moving in from the bay. He could see the pale underside of leaves as the wind whipped up the trees, and could smell the scent of salt in the air. Yes, a storm was brewing from the water, and it would likely be a harsh one, all the more reason to complete his task without haste.

  Winn checked the strap on his horse and patted the animal’s neck as he looked across the wide thruway. It was a quiet evening in town. John Jackson stood outside the smith’s shop, absently rubbing down the barrel of a gun with a rag. Winn met his gaze and lifted his chin in acknowledgement. He had not spoken to John during his visit, and it was likely the last he would see the man for some time. Instead of a wave or nod, John looked away, beyond Winn’s shoulder, and Winn suddenly felt the presence of others walking up behind him.

  “The Governor will see ye before ye leave, Speaker.”

  When he served negotiation to the townsfolk, they called him Speaker, but Winn did not miss the inflection in the Englishman’s tone. He did not recognize the man who spoke, but when he turned his head slightly to the side he spotted Thomas Martin among the group. He counted six men total. With a quick glance at the shop for his companion, he determined two additional Englishmen detained Joseph inside as well, and he stiffened his shoulders as he realized he could not fight six men alone.

  “I finished my business with the Governor. Tell him I will call on him another day. It grows late, and I am weary of talking.” Winn spoke his words, slow and even, as he turned back to his horse.

  One of the men raised a musket level with Winn’s chest.

  “Ye’ll come now, or have a hole in yer hide,” the one with the musket said.

  He heard Thomas Martin make a wheezing nasal laugh. Winn turned to the men, making a purposeful effort to relax his tense back as he surveyed them. The street was eerily empty except for the group surrounding him, with not even an English soldier in sight. It seemed the Englishmen had planned well.

  That one, he thought, glancing at Thomas Martin, that one he would kill last.

  He saw John Jackson watching, unmoving as he stood by his shop. Winn squinted up at the sky and considered mounting up. He could get away, but he would not make it out of the palisades, which remained closed and guarded.

  “Go then. Take me to the governor,” Winn said. He knew he was not being returned to the fanciful dwelling the Governor enjoyed within the settlement, but he complied nonetheless.

  He left his horse tied to a post and followed the men.

  *****

  Winn tw
isted his wrists against the rope binding, but the jailer had done his job well and they would not loosen. He sat upright with his arms bound behind him, and his ankles tied to the wooden legs of a chair. The English did not have a large space for detaining men, so they used a storehouse adjacent to the Governor’s dwelling. It was a simple one-room structure fit for no more than housing vermin. His shoulders ached from the strained position, and his head throbbed from where he had been struck with the butt of a rifle near his temple. Apparently, the English had more in mind for him than simply speaking with the Governor. He suspected Thomas Martin had much to do with his detainment.

  “If ye tell us where the village lies, perhaps we will kill ye quickly,” Martin said. Somehow, the English had knowledge of the Norse colony up in the hills, and they wanted it taken for their King.

  When Winn did not acknowledge the taunt, Thomas grabbed Winn’s hair and yanked his head up. The man’s squat, flushed face looked about to burst as he shoved it close to Winn, his breath nearly as rancid as the stench littering the storehouse.

  “Nothing to say? Yer not so hard to kill now, are ye? Why, if a musket dinna finish ye, maybe this will,” Thomas said, letting Winn’s head drop. As his chin hit his chest and his gaze clouded over, he felt the burn of a rope twisting around his neck. He summoned all the strength he could muster to fight then, wrenching his body away from the men as they cut his ankle ties and pulled him to his feet. His muscles failed him as they looped the end of the rope over a low-hanging rafter and stretched his body upward until only the tips of his toes touched the ground.

  Tighter it pulled, the pain of the rope burning like fire as he gasped for air, straining with all his might to keep his neck stiff against the hanging. His hands and legs fell numb and useless, like pins sticking him over every ounce of his skin, and when he thought he would take his last breath, they dropped him to the floor.