The Legend of the Bloodstone

by E. B. Brown

  “Come now, we’re not all such rakes,” Benjamin grinned, taking a sip. “Speaking of…tell me of the woman. Where did you steal her from? I cannot help you if I know nothing of it, and you know they will want her returned, whoever her kin are.”

  “No kin will look for her, I promise you that,” Winn answered truthfully. “She is mine, that is all you must know.”

  Benjamin looked back in Maggie’s direction where she sat laughing with Teyas. Winn felt a twinge of unease at the way his friend stared at her. Was it curiosity, or something more in his eyes?

  “You’ve never claimed a woman, brother.”

  They watched her stand, make a shrugging gesture at Teyas, and then rub her belly before she set off toward the woods. Winn stood up.

  “I must make sure she’s safe,” Winn muttered, leaving Benjamin with the others. He followed her into the trees, reluctant to let her out of his sight although it was obvious she needed a moment alone.

  She had learned to be fast with such things, and Winn caught her as she was righting her dress. She let out a squeak when he snuck up behind her and grabbed her around the waist, but her alarm dissipated as soon as she realized it was him. How he loved to hear her laugh!

  “Winn!” she laughed. He kissed the back of her neck, pulling her hips firmly into his, feeling the surge of arousal at the touch of her soft welcoming backside nestled against him. She leaned into him in a teasing manner and giggled, and it was all the permission he needed.

  There would be no more waiting, he would have her now, returning to the camp be damned.

  “I like your hair down,” he murmured against her ear. He felt her shiver as he ran one hand up her thigh, bringing her dress up around her hips. She squirmed and tried to turn around, but he held her tight.

  “Not here, Winn! They might hear us!”

  “Yes, here. Be silent,” he soothed her. He pulled her down onto the soft moss, at loss to find a better method among the scattered brush of the forest, knowing only he needed to possess her and that he would wait no longer. He pushed her hands down to the ground and took hold of her hips as she tried to scramble away.

  “Winn!”

  “Quiet!”

  “Oh!”

  Her words turned to moans and he thought his heart would pound out of his chest with the force of their joining. Frantic and needful, he buried his fear and longing within her, a lustful sinner comforted by the warmth of salvation as she cried out beneath him, begging him not to stop. She reared back against him as she reached her peak, and he sunk his fingers into her soft white hips at his own release. He smiled at the soft mewling sound she made as he pulled her up into his arms, and they sat there on their knees, clutched together as they tried to steady their breathing.

  As she pressed her face to his chest, he kissed her hair, loving the way she trembled like a butterfly in his arms. He heard the snap of a branch, and then another, and was stunned when he found the source of the noise as he looked over her shoulder.

  His face was a pale outline against the evergreens, his mouth parted open, his eyes wide. Winn felt his throat tighten as he met the Englishman’s gaze. Benjamin quickly turned and left.

  ***

  Maggie was glad Benjamin left before they returned from camp, certain their activities in the forest would be evident on their faces when they returned. Winn showed little surprise his friend retired without seeing them settled, so she brushed off her insecurity and felt no qualm over lying down beside him to sleep. She was restless, however, and thought Winn was in a pleasant enough mood to field her questions, so she turned her curiosity onto him.

  “How do you know Benjamin?” she asked. He let out a long sigh and pulled her closer before he answered.

  “My Uncle sent me to live with the English for a time. I spent two summers with the Dixon family, and Benjamin became my friend.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Benjamin? As much as I trust any white man,” he said. “My Uncle wanted me to learn the English ways, so I could help in his plan to drive them away. He was not pleased we became friends.” Winn nuzzled her neck and nipped her with his teeth. “Just as he will not be pleased to know I keep a Time Walker here, safe in my arms.”

  He looked a little sad at this confession, his eyes darkening, and his hands tightening around her.

  “Why does your Uncle hate the Time Walkers so much?” she whispered as they snuggled beneath the furs.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious, that’s all.”

  “It is a story much older than my years. Time Walkers lived peacefully among the Paspahegh until Opechancanough had his vision. He saw a Time Walker end his life, and after that, they were all in danger. My grandmother was spared death and instead banished by my Uncle, but this happened before I was born. I have only known her as the Pale Witch, living here with the English, and I visit her as much as I can.”

  “So it is true, then, that your father was English?”

  Winn shook his head. “My father was white, but not English. He traveled here with Finola through the Bloodstones as a young boy. They came from a place where they had great long boats to travel far, and his people read from books and wrote in them. Grandmother speaks little of him; I think it pains her to know he is gone.”

  “Why did he leave without his wife?”

  “I know not, and mother does not speak of it. He used his Bloodstone soon after he wed my mother. After he left, she became second wife to Pepamhu of the Nansemond, and bore my brothers and sister.”

  He lifted the necklace from his neck and separated the black feathers that shielded the pendant. In his palm, enclosed in tarnished melted copper, was a tiny Bloodstone charm. She felt his eyes upon her as she slowly reached out to touch it and then jerked back away before she could make contact. She had no idea how it worked and was not willing to test it any further.

  “When a Bloodstone is used to travel, it bonds its mark to the bearer,” he said softly. He took her branded hand and turned it over to reveal the healed scar, tracing the delicate knot in an unending twist upon her palm. “You can never use another stone to travel, only the one that marked you. I keep this Bloodstone to remind me.”

  “To remind you of what, Winn?”

  “That my blood is not true Paspahegh. My father was a Norse-Man, and he chose to leave before my birth. I need reminder of how worthless all whites are, so I will never waver when it comes time to end them,” he said carefully. “He knows not what he left behind, and I hate him for that. As a boy, I felt anger for the difference in my skin and that of my brothers, and some English called me Half-Man. Children are most cruel to those who are different.”

  “A Norseman? You mean a Viking?” she interrupted.

  He rubbed her lower back with one warm hand and nodded.

  “Some called them shaman, or Gothi. They were said to control powerful magic.”

  “I’d say. Those Bloodstones pack some punch,” she snorted. She chose to avoid the subject of his father, even as her curiosity rose, knowing Winn had conflicted feelings about the man. “So you went to live with your Uncle?”

  “I was sent to live with Opechancanough and spent many years there as his favorite nephew. It gave me great status, and when I returned to the Paspahegh, I was welcomed. My return to my own people was to serve as War Chief and lead the few left, serving Opechancanough in his plans. I have watched over them since I was a young man, and always have given my loyalty to my Mamanatowick.”

  “I thought he was Weroance?” she asked.

  “Mamanatowick means Great Weroance, Great Chief of all Powhatan, of all Tsenacommacah lands. He has many names, and that is one.”

  “Oh. Sounds like a busy man.”

  She ran her finger lightly over the winding tattoo on his torso, an intricate swirl across his ribs that ended below his navel. Although they shared a growing intimacy, she remained in awe of his powerful body, each muscle and sinew honed by hunting and fighting, strong yet yiel
ding beneath her touch.

  “Does this have meaning?” she asked, placing her palm flat against his navel.

  “Some objected to my presence when I went to live with Opechancanough, since I was son of a Time Walker. He marked me to silence them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He sighed.

  “Those born to the Weroance bloodlines, like Opechancanough, and my mother, may never have such a mark placed on their bodies. Only common men decorate their bodies. He marked me to show the people I am one of them.”

  He placed his hand over hers, and traced over a part of the tattoo near his hip.

  “This one, here,” he said, “Is for the first man I killed. This part, here, is for the day I became a man. And this, this one shows I am different, that I am not true Paspahegh, that I carry the blood of the whites in my veins.”

  “Does it bother you? Being marked that way, I mean?”

  She felt his shoulders shrug, and he made a dismissive sound.

  “Once it did, but no longer. It is part of me now.”

  He grinned, and pulled her snugly against him. She buried her clenched hands next to his skin, giggling when he jumped at her cold touch.

  “Here, let me warm you,” he murmured. He clasped his larger hands over hers, and gently blew into them to drench her chilled fingers. Dipping his head down, he kissed her knuckles with a smile.

  “What does your history say of the Norse-men?” he asked, very softly. She saw his throat tighten and his eyes widen a bit, his brows raised. Her heart lurched at his change, the way his face filled like an expectant boy, almost childish as he asked an innocent question. She paused before she spoke, hoping to say the right words to ease his mind and help heal his ache.

  “They were fierce warriors. Stories were written about their journeys, Legends, really, that children still read in my time, about all their brave adventures.” She pressed her lips to his skin and threaded a lock of his dark hair in her fingers. “Tall, strong, like you. You must get your blue eyes from your father.”

  She felt his hands tighten around her, only for a moment, a gentle reminder that his feelings for his father were much more complicated than a tale could absolve.

  “So the dog gave me eyes like the sky, and then ran away as a coward. Brave? Humph.”

  Maggie wondered if he could ever let go of the ache, the depth of his feelings apparent as they ran so close below the surface, the hurt little boy buried so far he was near forgotten. She said nothing, giving him the choice to continue, barely surprised when he nestled his head to her shoulder and remained silent.

  She stroked his hair as his breathing finally slowed into sleep, comforting him as her grandfather had once done for her.

  ***

  Ghosts of the future haunted her that night, begging acknowledgement, refusing to be put to sleep.

  She placed her raven on the ground as she played on the floor of the old barn. No one would bother her there. Grandpa had no use for the space, but she liked it. It was a secret place, her hiding spot, a place to call her own among the world of adults.

  Hinges creaked, and she saw the wood plank door open. A pair of round blue eyes peered at her between the slats.

  “Can I come in, Maggie?” he asked. She rolled her eyes. It was the boy, Marcus’s son. He wasn’t so bad.

  “Oh, I guess. Hurry up and close the door.”

  He slithered in and plopped down beside her.

  “Ach, crap, I cut my finger on the stupid door. Gimmie your sock, will ya?”

  “No, I’m not giving you anything! Go get a band aid, or keep bleeding, I don’t care!” she sniped. He shrugged.

  When he saw her raven sitting solitary in the dirt, he fished in his pocket for a moment until he produced his own treasure.

  The boy held it up, a wide toothless grin stretching across his face.

  “See? Da gave you the Raven, but I have the Eagle. It’s better than the Raven,” he bragged.

  “No it’s not!” she hissed.

  “Aye, it is! My Da said so!”

  “You’re a liar, and I’m telling!” she shrieked. She jumped up and left him in the dirt.

  It was the last time she saw him. Grandpa said not to speak of it, poor Marcus could not bear it. His little son, disappeared without a trace. The police said the mother must have taken him.

  Divorced spouses kidnap their kids all the time. It was just one of those sad things that happen sometimes.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes and burrowed in closer to Winn. Memories like that, well, they were best forgotten. There was surely enough trouble in this time to keep her occupied.

  Poor Marcus. They never found his son, and Marcus carried on somehow. She hoped he did not suffer now in the same manner. If only she could find a way to tell him she was alive, that she missed him. Then perhaps the leaving of him would not ache so much.

  ***

  Winn placed a pile of kindling onto the fire, stirring it with a long stick. Embers of the morning sun darted over the horizon, yet the moon still shone above. Although the men had been awake for some time, they let the women sleep longer, knowing they would need rest to travel on as the day grew warmer.

  Makedewa sat on a log near the fire, tossing in bits of a branch he picked apart in his hands. His demeanor was unchanged from his usual angry mask, the same scowl he wore upon waking and the one he walked with each day.

  Winn wondered if his younger brother would ever find happiness, or at least something to occupy his anger other than planning the next raid on the English. Oftentimes rash, known among the villagers as a hothead, Winn knew the warrior was a much deeper man than his disguise portrayed. Unlike Chetan, who laughed and loved with no care what others thought, Makedewa lacked such confidence. Winn wished he would not suffer so much for his own pride.

  “Nemattanew killed Morgan White. I know not why, but I am sure of it.” Makedewa continued to stare into the fire as he spoke, his gaze unwavering.

  “Did he admit as much to you?” Winn asked. Makedewa nodded.

  “He said the English will never find the body.”

  Winn let out his breath in a sigh as he shook his head. It served no purpose to agitate the English at this time, and Nemattanew was aware of that fact more so than any Powhatan brave. With one rash act, the foolish warrior had given the English cause to mistrust them all, making it even more dangerous for the Paspahegh to remain cordial with the settlers.

  “We should return to the village today. Ready the horses and pack our supplies.” He stared hard at Makedewa. “My Uncle will hear of this, and he will not be pleased. I hope Nemattanew has not brought his wrath upon us.”

  Makedewa grunted, and set off to dismantle the campsite. Winn looked toward the cabin where Benjamin lived. He wondered if he should wake the man to bid him goodbye. Glancing down at Maggie, sleeping peacefully beneath his furs, he decided against it. The image of the Englishman spying on them in the woods made his chest tighten, sparking his ire.

  No, it was better this way. Let things cool between them before they met again. There had never been anything they could not find agreement on, and although Benjamin mediated between the English and Paspaheghs, he was still a loyal friend. Winn wondered if things now stood changed. He was willing to wager they did, after seeing how Benjamin stared at his woman.

  His woman.

  Winn tickled her neck until her sleepy jade eyes opened and she smiled up at him, despite him rousing her from her dreams. He kissed her gently along her ear and buried his face in the sweet meadow scent of her hair for a moment.

  “Time to wake, ntehem. We leave soon.”

  He resisted the urge to melt back down into the furs with her, instead taking her hand to help her to her feet.

  Chapter 12

  She was happy to be back in the village. It was almost funny that she now viewed it as the height of civilization, especially since she never thought she would survive a week within the culture, yet after she had been exposed
to the way the English lived she was quite content to remain among the Paspahegh. In fact, she would be happy to stay anywhere, as long as Winn were there.

  Maggie noticed the sounds of whispered uproar throughout the village, and she looked up to see what they were fussing about. Across the thruway near the horse corral, a group of men entered.

  White men.

  She sat up straighter and stuck her fisted hands in her lap, her eyes searching the warriors who gathered for any sign of hostility. Were the men friends, or enemies?

  Their group consisted of a half-dozen men, all dressed in similar knee high breeches and linen shirts, wielding rifles which they kept slung over their backs in what Maggie perceived must be a less threatening gesture than if they carried them outright. On entering the village, one bold man led the others, flanked by the reluctant entourage who followed with caution. It was Benjamin Dixon.

  Shouts rose from the men, and for a moment Maggie was terrified there would be a violent response. Her fear dissipated quickly when she saw a warrior break from the crowd of men to approach the visitors. Benjamin clasped arms with the warrior and Maggie saw a broad smile crease his face.

  The warrior who welcomed him was none other than Winn.

  “Who are those men?” Maggie nudged Teyas, who was watching the exchange as well.

  “You know Benjamin Dixon. He is a friend to us. He brings many of the English with him today,” Teyas answered with a frown. “I hope they do not need more corn, we have little to share,” she sighed.

  “Do they always need supplies?”

  “Most times. They are lazy people, they grow little food on their own.”

  “They look like trouble,” Maggie said, her voice escalating a pitch. It made her nervous to see the English visit the village, no matter what pretense they offered, since she knew full well how they abused the kindness of the Indians.

  Teyas shrugged, and shushed her. Winn approached, Benjamin walking in stride beside him. Winn led the white men by the fire next to where the warriors gathered, escorting them to a place of honor apart from the others. Not quite as welcoming as Winn but not hostile, either, the warriors made space for the guests and settled back into the spirit of the feast. The hollow thud of a drum resounded, and the interruption seemed forgotten.