The Legend of the Bloodstone

by E. B. Brown

“Let’s go, before I change my mind,” Finola murmured, and Maggie complied. They left the store, arm in arm, walking briskly down the street toward the church where they held Benjamin.

  Maggie peered out from under her hood at the lone man guarding the church and let out a sigh. She had never seen the man before, so hopefully he would not recognize her as well. Even with such luck, she clung to Finola’s arm and let the healer do the talking.

  “I would see Benjamin Dixon to pray with him. Ye would not deny the man such comfort in his last hours?”

  “Nay, Mistress. But be quick about it. The Gov’ner will have my neck if ye dally.”

  “Thank ye, sir. We shall nay tarry.”

  They entered the church and closed the heavy door behind them. Maggie flung the hood off her head when she saw it was empty, save for Benjamin, tied neatly to a pew.

  They ran down the aisle to him, fumbling for the Bloodstone as they dropped down beside him.

  “Benjamin!” she hissed. “Wake up!”

  When he did not stir, she shook his shoulders as hard as she could, unwilling to slap him when his face was so bruised and beaten. The wood pew shuddered beneath them when he jerked upright with a groan.

  “Maggie? What?” he said, seeming confused at first. He glanced around, and his demeanor changed, and he glared at her as if she were the devil.

  “Why are ye here?” he demanded. “Have ye not a lick of sense in yer brain? Did I set ye free for naught?”

  “Benjamin!” she hissed, trying to get his attention.

  “And you! Of all of them, ye would help her? Ah, get ye gone, the both of ye! Let me die without the lot of ye wailing about it.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Benjamin! Shut up for one minute!” she snapped, thrusting the Bloodstone into his hand. “You can go home now, and leave this all behind. I won’t let you die for this, you self-righteous idiot!”

  He jumped back away from the Bloodstone as if burned, his skin draining of color into a sickly grey pallor.

  “Get that away from me!”

  “Take it, you stubborn ox!”

  “Nay, I will take none of ye cursed magic!”

  “You’d rather die here, at the end of a rope?”she asked.

  “Do ye punish me now for my sins, witch? Yes, I knew Winn lived, and now I will hang for what I’ve done. Let me hang in peace, and take that cursed stone away!”

  “You – you shithead!” she screamed. “You knew all along? You let me think he was dead? How could you, you stinking bastard!”

  Maggie leapt at him them, pummeling him with her fists, screeching out her anger at his deceit. He gave no resistance, letting her strike him, welts forming across his face from her blows. Finola pulled her off him as best she could.

  “Enough, child, enough!” Finola cried.

  “How could you? You knew the whole time? You let me think he was dead?” Maggie whispered. She knew he heard it, she could see by the way his shoulders slumped in defeat. Eyes rimmed red, he looked up at her as she strained against Finola with intent to attack him again.

  “I sent him back to the village on his horse, he was near death. I was sure he died,” he admitted.

  “But you knew he survived. It was that day in town, when you spoke to Makedewa and Chetan, wasn’t it?” she whispered, knowing what his answer would be before he nodded.

  “Yes. They told me he lived,” he said. “I knew you would want to go to him. I thought I could keep you – I thought you might love me too, someday, when your memory of him faded.”

  Maggie felt her knees give way and she sank down beside him on the bench. Finola reached into her pocket as Benjamin shrunk away from them. He could hardly move due to the binding, but he made quite an effort, so much that Maggie thought he would cut off circulation to his wrists.

  If only it were his blasted lying neck, they would be through with him. Perhaps she should let him hang after all.

  “Here. You will need this to return to your time,” Finola said, holding the object out to him.

  Maggie felt the breath leave her body as she looked at the object in Finola’s hand. Sitting there, pitted and scarred, just about the size of her palm, was an Iron Eagle.

  The mate of her Raven.

  She was frozen in place, watching as if she had left her body, staring at the scene in front of her yet not truly living it.

  Finola took a small blade from her pocket, and Benjamin held out his hand. He nodded, resigned, tears streaming down his face.

  “Tell me, Finola, that I shall not go to hell by this magic,” he begged. His outstretched hand wavered until she took it into her own. Finola cut the rope from his bound wrists.

  “Nay, dearest. Ye only go back where ye belong.”

  With a flick of her wrist, the Pale Witch sliced his hand, then placed the Bloodstone in his palm. As she closed his fingers over the stone, Maggie took the raven from her pocket.

  “Oh, Benjamin. I didn’t know,” she whispered.

  He kneeled down on the ground, the pulse throbbing in his temple as he gripped the stone, his tortured gaze boring into Maggie as if there might be some semblance of care left between them. His eyes widened with recognition when he saw the Raven, and then they watched him flicker like a ghost until he was no more.

  “Tell Marcus I love him.” she said softly.

  Finola patted her shoulder.

  ***

  Finola ladled stew for them both into glass bowls and set them on the table. Maggie stared at it, unmoving, unwilling to acknowledge the events of the day. The healer ate in silence, casting Maggie an occasional raised eyebrow, but otherwise leaving her to her own thoughts.

  They both looked up when the door opened.

  “Ah, I beg yer pardon, but the store is not open today,” Finola twittered as an unfamiliar brave entered the parlor. He made no sign of hearing her. The scalplock hair made Maggie nervous. She wondered what tribe he hailed from, and why he chose Finola’s store when it was in Paspahegh territory.

  “Perhaps ye did not hear me, sir,” Finola said. The braves studied the axe hanging above the mantle. Her heart leapt into her throat when he pulled it down from its hooks.

  “That is not for sale, sir!” Finola cried.

  Maggie grabbed Finola’s hand, and swung up the brace holding the door. Too late by far, she retreated slowly backward as another unfamiliar brave entered the house. He held a knife in one hand, and wore an empty stare as he approached, his skin smeared with not war paint, but blood. He did not look dressed for attack but his demeanor clearly spoke otherwise, and Maggie swallowed down a hard lump in her throat as he spoke to the first man. She pushed Finola back. She knew exactly what was happening. It was the day she dreaded would come. She knew few details, the occurrence only one tiny speck amongst the inkblot of history she learned as a child, but of what she could recall, it began in an innocent manner.

  In the Indian Massacre of 1622, even women and children were slaughtered. The Indians came unarmed into the homes of the English, and under guise of selling provisions, used whatever tools lay about to kill them. At Martin’s Hundred, more than half were killed, and only two houses and the church left standing.

  “Leave us be,” Maggie demanded, her voice much more brave than she felt. She cried out when Finola tried to strike the man with her knife and was cruelly knocked to the floor.

  “No!” Maggie tried to get to Finola, but the first man grabbed her by the throat and shoved her back against the hearth. She clawed at his wrist as her air way was squeezed, gasping a single breath when he took her braid in his fist and pulled her head back. He thrust his face close to hers, and she winced at his rancid breath, rapidly losing consciousness for the lack of air. The next moments were a blur. She heard the door crash open and then a rash of arguing in Paspahegh, but she felt little as her body slumped to the floor by the hearth.

  Two firm hands pulled her to a sitting position, and she began to choke at the influx of air rushing her lungs. Tears flooded her vision
and she reached out in a panic to ward off the one who held her, slapping and scratching like a cat. She felt her nails connect with flesh and heard a low uttered curse, but instead of the blow she expected, she was crushed against a wide warm chest.

  “Maggie, shhh, stop fighting me,” Winn whispered. She shuddered as she gasped for air, clutching his shoulders at first but then pushing him away.

  “You!” she shouted. “Have you come to finish me off?”

  His jaw hardened and his blue eyes bore down on her.

  “No, Keptchat! I kill my kind to save your blasted white skin!” he snarled, glancing toward the two dead warriors on the floor. Chetan stood behind him, and Makedewa had Finola cradled in his arms. “Why do you not listen? I told you to stay at the cave!”

  “I had to help Benjamin!”

  “Benjamin? You help him, a man that sends you to hang? You would be dead right now if we did not come for Finola! Dead, woman! Damn you!” he roared. Maggie struck out at him and he lunged forward, shoving her back against the mantle, then took the fallen axe near his feet and pounded it into the wall where it split the wood with a sickly cracking sound beside her head. She did not flinch, and glowered back at him in defiance, wordless in her fury as her chest heaved and her heart thundered.

  “He’s a Time Walker, like me! He came from my time!” she shouted. She could see the pulse in his neck throbbing as he grabbed both her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin.

  “So you risk your life-and the life of my son-for him?”

  Chetan grabbed her forearm and hauled her to her feet, his other hand firm against Winn’s chest to hold him off.

  “This fight will wait,” he said. “I will take her with me. We must go.” Chetan glared at Winn in challenge, and Winn punched his brother’s fist away.

  “No. She rides with me,” he growled, snatching her hand away from Chetan. Maggie scowled, but did not argue. Chetan was right, they needed to leave.

  ***

  Winn held her wrist in an unbreakable grip as he pulled her through the streets of Wolstenholme Towne. She followed mutely behind as their small group navigated the clay packed thruway, Chetan leading the way. Shorter than the other men, with sharp eyes and a distinct sense of direction, Chetan ushered them quietly along.

  The silence in the air was unexpected as they tried to steal out of town unnoticed. Maggie looked at Winn’s chest, splattered with fresh blood, and wondered if he had taken part in the planned massacre before he found them. The blood did not belong to him, she could see his body remained undamaged, yet she could not fathom if that was a comforting fact or not.

  As they rounded the corner of a house, a woman’s scream pierced the air, followed by a sickening thump. Heavy footsteps thudded over plank flooring, tap, tap, tapping as they approached. Maggie stood paralyzed as the front door flew open and Master John Boise came running out, stumbling down the stairs, his eyes wild with fear. He saw her there, with Winn, and his face crumpled.

  “Oh, Mistress! Run! Run, get ye gone!” he cried. He reached out for her hand, but before he could grab her, he fell face down to the ground with a distinct uttered sigh, a bloody axe impaled along his spine.

  A warrior left the house closest to them. The brave approached them, his stride long and even, a tall, muscular fellow with bulging biceps and a single feather tucked in his hair, yet he stood otherwise undecorated. Maggie remembered that it was part of their plan, to arrive as any other day, and take the settlers by surprise.

  She looked up at Winn, decorated more extravagantly with his war paint and feathers, looking every bit the mythical warrior, as did Chetan. She had no time to wonder why when he suddenly snatched her roughly around the neck with one arm and placed a knife to her throat. He barked something at his brothers, and she watched helplessly as they spoke.

  The strange warrior asked Winn a question, and Winn made an equally brisk response.

  “I take this one. Find your own!” Winn growled. Maggie twisted against his steel embrace, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. She felt him flinch, but he made no sound, only squeezing her tighter as she struggled.

  Heavy soot filled the air, carried by the afternoon breeze, clogging her throat and causing her eyes to water, even more so than Winn’s grip around her neck. Houses erupted in flames around them, the roof of the house behind them devoured by fire in mere seconds.

  “Help me! Help! Help!” another voice cried. Although Winn still held her, they all turned to stare at the young girl who ran screaming from the burning house behind them. A mountain of blond curls streamed after her as she flew past them, her rosy red cheeks stained with blood and tears as she cried. She stumbled and fell, leapt to her feet, and continued running out into the meadow beyond the open palisade gates.

  The stranger took off after her.

  “Winn, please, don’t let him hurt her!” Maggie pleaded. His grip around her throat lessened and finally he dropped his hand as they watched the man pursue the young girl.

  “Makedewa!” Winn shouted.

  At the sight of the girl, Makedewa dropped Finola none to gently onto the ground, and took off in pursuit. He sprinted after the man who followed her, reaching him quickly. He launched himself at the man and brought him to the ground. Although more wiry than brawn, Makedewa was built like a wrestler with long lean muscles and surprising strength. By the time they reached him, the larger warrior was dead, his throat cut from ear to ear.

  The blond haired girl began to scream, her hysterical cries merely adding to the sudden onset of wailing from the town. She sat on her backside, her eyes frantic, her mouth agape.

  “Yours?” Winn asked, eyeing his brother. Makedewa crouched next to the screaming girl. He put out one hand to touch her, and she slapped him away, screaming louder as if it would have more impact with more volume, kicking her tiny feet about the sand as her cheeks flushed raw. She could not be more than fourteen or fifteen, and she was scared senseless by the looks of her.

  Maggie noticed the look between the men. Winn arched one brow, and Makedewa nodded back so slightly she would have missed it had she not been looking.

  She turned back toward the town as the men decided what to do with the girl.

  Near the palisade gates, a young man laid, his neck in an unnatural angle. An ear of corn was shoved down his throat, the yellow silken end waving in the breeze, but his cause of death was more likely the garden hoe impaled in his chest. A boy lay beside him, a child of no more than five, his head nearly severed from his neck, hanging limply from its starched white collar.

  A woman ran screaming down the middle of the street, quickly fallen by the blow of a well-aimed sickle. A warrior walked up behind her, snatched the sickle from the woman’s fallen body, and took a path into the next house.

  “Come, we must go!” Winn said. Chetan gave a shrilled whistle, and their ponies came forth from the wood line. Chetan mounted up with Finola, who looked to be waking up, and Makedewa tried to get the girl to her feet.

  This time she bit him when he reached for her, and Maggie held her breath. Makedewa was no softhearted brave, and although she had never seen the younger brother with a woman, she suspected he would not handle her assault well.

  “Let me,” Maggie said, leaving Winn’s side. She kneeled down beside the girl. Although the blond-haired hellion did not fight her, she looked like a fuse about to ignite, sitting there shaking with her curls sticking out around her face, sprawled on the ground with her apron around her knees.

  “I’m Maggie, what’s your name?” she said softly. The girl stared back at Maggie, then looked at Makedewa and Winn, then returned to Maggie.

  “Rebecca,” the girl said very softly, so much so that Maggie knew the others had not heard it. Maggie reached slowly and took her shaking hand. Filthy with blood and dirt, Maggie patted it, hoping to gain her trust so they could all live to see another day.

  Fires roared behind them, the flames jumping from house to rooftop, swallowing anything in its path. The Bla
cksmith shop ignited with a bang, the explosion sending them all to their knees with hands over their heads.

  “Rebecca,” Maggie said, pulling the girl to her feet. “Ride with us if you want to live. No one will hurt you.”

  “They killed my parents, and my baby brother,” she whispered.

  “It was not these men. Trust me. They mean you no harm. You’ll ride with Makedewa, I promise we’ll be safe.”

  She tilted her head to Makedewa, who stood watching the exchange with Winn a few paces away. Winn swung up on his pony and held out a hand for her, and she used his foot as an anchor to swing up behind her husband.

  Makedewa held out his hand to Rebecca, and this time, after one quick look back at the burning town, she took it without biting or slapping him. The girl settled behind the warrior, and they prodded their horses into a gallop.

  The stank odor of burning flesh clung to them as they raced away from the scene, the cries of the dying following them for miles, even as they passed long out of range.

  It would take more than distance to forget such a day, if ever they could. Maggie glanced back over her shoulder at the blazing town and shuddered. She clenched her arms tighter on Winn’s waist and hugged him.

  ***

  The horse stopped from nearly a full gallop by burying his haunches in the dirt, his response immediate to Winn’s command. The warrior pulled Maggie into his arms and jumped clear of the beast in one motion, his stride purposeful yet laced with anger as he stalked to the cave. She knew better than to argue. Her skin tingled under his touch when he finally placed his hands on her face, cupping her jaw and clenching her hair with such desperation that she could feel the anguish and fear coarse through him. She moaned when his lips covered hers, rising up against him to meet his kiss. His skin muted with the scent of smoke and his tongue assaulted her own as she tasted the whisky he shared with the settlers before the slaughter. His blue eyes clouded as he pulled back, searching her own desperate gaze for a moment before he crushed his lips again to hers. Short, tender kisses followed along her cheeks, her neck, and back to her forehead, where he rested against her trembling skin. She could not bear to move, her shaking contained by the way he clutched her to his bared chest slick with sweat and blood. Neither one of them dared a word. Their silent truce remained intact when he released her, a fragile stalemate created from their act.