The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  Maggie walked ahead of Winn outside after the ceremony. Their family and friends set off in groups, but she knew she would see them all soon at the celebration. She noted Benjamin and Jora talking with Erich and Chetan, and for once, she felt that all those she loved might remain in one place.

  Intent on serious conversation with John Basse, Winn engaged in yet another religious quarrel. She smiled, swinging her arms a bit as they strolled through the town square. Their home was not far outside Basse’s Choice, and it was a pleasant walk.

  “Yer own daughter was just marrit’ as a good Christian woman. Can ye not see ‘tis the right path?” John argued.

  “Does it make your God any less if I do not believe in him?” Winn replied. It was an answer that set John off, causing him to expel an abrupt sigh.

  “Well, I suppose not. But I beg ye, consider more on this matter. Ye have my friendship even if ye keep yer ungodly ways,” John muttered.

  Winn laughed at the insult. It was rare for John to display such humor, but they all knew it was meant in jest. Winn moved his family onto English lands, banking on the pledge of friendship with John. There was little they agreed on regarding religion, but the strength of their friendship was unquestioned.

  Beyond the town square she noticed a man approach. As Winn and John continued their banter, she stared at the figure. Tall and straight, with wide shoulders and a confident gait, the man strode toward them with a steady pace. In the distance she could make out a swatch of thick curling hair, his dark locks tied loosely back at his nape. She noted his clothes were odd, the snug fit of his trousers reminding her of a pair of blue jeans.

  Oh, she thought as he came clear into view. She was having a daydream. It was Marcus.

  She stopped walking, content for the moment to simply stare at his ghost. God, she missed him! How he would have loved to see Kyra married, or to meet Dagr and Malcolm.

  The ghost was young and strong, clearly a picture of health that she did not expect. She smiled, glad he did not return to her as some morbid version of himself with his death wounds on display.

  He stopped a few feet away, so she closed the space between them, placing her hand on his cheek. The warmth surprised her, as did the pressure of his hand when he closed it over hers.

  “I miss you so much!” she whispered.

  “I dinna see why, as it’s been naught but one day. Ye go on dates longer than that, ye silly chit,” he replied. She shook her head, her senses obviously in failure.

  “What did you say?” she demanded.

  “Yer addled,” he snorted. “And a bit older than I recall. D’ye have a husband yet?”

  She heard Winn and John approach, their conversation suddenly ceased. “Of course I do!” she weakly replied. “And – and my daughter was just married!”

  “Oh. I suppose I am late then,” he grumbled. Marcus pushed past her and stuck out his hand. “Winkeohkwet,” he said with a nod.

  “You are late,” Winn grinned as he clasped arms with his father. Maggie was grateful when Winn placed his other hand on her waist, the way her head was spinning nearly too much to bear.

  “I’ll take some food, and I’ll meet yer weans. I dinna make this trip for idle conversation,” Marcus announced.

  When the men resumed walking as if it were any other day, she jerked her hand from Winn’s and ground to a halt.

  “Wait a second!” she shouted.

  All three men turned back to her. A boyish grin graced Winn’s face, and John chuckled as she threw herself into Marcus’s arms.

  “You – you’re breaking the rules! Is it really you? You’re here!” she laughed. He was as young and strong as ever, swinging her easily in a circle while she hugged him.

  “Ah, well, it’s not a time I’ve once lived, if ye wish to be precise. So the time travel police can kiss my fine Norse arse!”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. Marcus smiled as he took her hand and placed it in Winn’s.

  “He said he’d have some good sweet mead fer me,” Marcus said, nodding to Winn. “Let’s get to it, I’d say.”

  “Of course,” she laughed, wiping her tears. “Let’s get to it.”

  In that magical time between dusk and dawn, Maggie found solace as she walked down the path. She left her boots at her bedside, needing to feel the cool sand beneath her feet and the sting of the air upon her cheeks. Winn slept soundly in their bed, and as she closed the door of the space they shared, she wondered how long it would be before Winn noticed her absence.

  At Basse’s Choice, the small chapel where Kyra was married sat in the center of town. Although Winn had yet to convert to Christianity, the Basse family welcomed the displaced Norse and accepted them as kin. Of the Nansemond that stayed, most had already converted, leaving only a few of Maggie’s family for John Basse to worry over. She smiled. John was a good man and a good friend.

  The elderly vicar grew accustomed to her early visits. Most mornings he simply sat beside her as she stared at the wooden cross above the altar. At times, he offered her consolation, placing his stubby hand over hers. Today, however, he shook his head sadly at her and did not sit. He clutched his linen robe, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Yer dreams keep ye awake yet again, my dear?” the vicar asked.

  Maggie nodded. He raised a brow at the position of her toes, which were propped gainfully on top of the pew in front of her. She dropped her feet and offered a wry smile in apology.

  “It is in yer power to rest easy,” he said.

  “Oh, is it?” she replied, curious to know what answer he might give. She enjoyed hearing his pure thoughts, the strength of his conviction something she admired despite their differences.

  “It is. Ye need to accept our Lord as yer savior. Pledge yer obedience and abandon yer heathen ways. Ye and yer husband are sinners, but God is great and he shall forgive even the likes of ye.”

  Uttering a sigh, she stared at the vicar. She was grateful when he patted her hand and shuffled off, since she was unable to form words to answer him. He could never accept the things she knew to be true, and as such, she could never truly believe his God was the only way. It was an impasse, one she lived with quite easily.

  Soon she heard his footsteps pad across the plank floor and she closed her eyes. Winn worried, and for that she held regret. As much as he always protected her, she wished she could do the same for him. She did not wish to cause him distress over her scattered thoughts.

  “What can I do,” Winn asked, “to keep you in my arms until I wake?”

  He took her hand and pulled her to the altar, where he looked at the tall wooden cross with curiosity.

  “Does it ease you, ntehem? They say one must only accept this God, and then your burden will be lifted,” Winn said softly.

  “I have no burden,” she replied.

  He tilted his head toward her, his blue eyes slanted.

  “I know your anger at me. I do not fault you for it. I killed your father. Someday…someday I hope you can forgive me.”

  With her fingers tight around his she let the tears fall. Beautiful Winn, her faithful husband. He blamed himself, and it only made her hate herself more.

  “No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Never. I don’t think that at all. The only person I cannot forgive is myself.”

  He let her grip his hand, unmoving as she struggled to explain.

  “I’m glad he’s dead. What is wrong with me, Winn? Why am I glad my father is dead?”

  “I think you are happy our children are safe. You are happy to live without fear. If that is wrong, so be it.”

  “I must be a monster to wish my own father dead. The vicar said –”

  “Forget what he said.”

  As they kneeled together in the darkness of the church, he twisted his fingers into her hair at her nape. She bowed her head, resting her forehead gently against his.

  “He said we were sinners. I couldn’t tell him he was wrong,” she whispered. Winn clutched her tighter, his b
reath warm against her cheek when he spoke.

  “Should I ask forgiveness for what I have done? If it means I must take it all back, then I shall not ever ask it. If loving you makes me a sinner, I will gladly bear that title. And for every day that I breathe, I tell you this: there is no promise I would not break, no duty I would not abandon…no man I would not kill, if it meant you belonged to me. For today and all the days of time, you are mine. And I shall keep you,” he said, “For I am not finished with you yet.”

  He kissed the tears from her cheeks as he swept her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he took her to bed.

  She slept in peace by his side, as she did for the rest of her days.

  Epilogue

  Chetan

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT of Capt. Morgan White, of Isle of Wight County, in Virginia, and Born at James Town, near Savage Hill, in ye parish of James Citie in Virginia.

  To my good Christian wife Kyra Neilsson one-fourth part of all my movable estate (that is to say) the same to be equally divided between my wife and three daughters Rebecca, Susannah Basse and Finola. To eldest dau. Rebecca my dwelling House near Basse’s Choice, with ye land and houses from Pagan creek. To second dau. Susannah all the land that Daniel Neilsson now liveth on on the Easterly side of Bethlehem Creek, that land now named Bethsaida; To Finola another daughter, all lands and houses whlyeth on Red Pt. My brew house and land at James Town to be sold and monies to be divided between my said kinfolk Jonathan Dixon my wives cousin, to William Basse my nephew, to Peter Basse my son-in-law. My land in England by Berry and Alvenstoak in Hampshire, near Gosport and Portsmouth, to be redeemed if not to be sold outright and the proceeds divided between my three daus. To my relation by marriage and executor of this will Gabriel Basse, all lands on the hillside beyond James Citie, to include the site with the creek and a cave long since deserted. My will is that a new house and barn to be made as discussed with Gabriel Basse prior to my decline and that same place shall forever bequeathed to mine own children and mine childrens heirs. Also to honore my wives mother I give and bequeath four female cattle to remain for a Stock forever for poor Fatherless Children that hath nothing left them to bring them up, and for Old People past their labour or Lame People that are Destitute in this lower parish of the Isle of Wight county. My will is that the overseers of the Poor with consent of my children from time to time are to see this my will in this particular really performed as is in my will expressed and not otherways. Recorded 10 March, 1699.

  Tall and fair skinned, Chetan’s grandson Gabriel Basse could easily be mistaken for an Englishmen. Yet if one was looking and knew which features to consider, he clearly had a touch of the First People within him. As Gabriel worked with the other men to dig up the foundation, Chetan was struck with a pang of homesickness that would not ebb. With Gabe’s head bent to his work and his raven-black hair falling over his shoulder, he reminded him of Ahi Kekeleksu, and an ache swelled in Chetan’s chest. Yes, Ahi Kekeleksu had gone to the spirit world many years before, as had most of those Chetan held close to his heart. Yet watching the man before him, this blood of his blood, Chetan could not help but acknowledge that life continued on despite how men tried to change it.

  His desire to see the stones won over. Although his bones ached with the strain of age and his fingers shook when he gripped the long handle of the shovel, he thrust it into the earth on that sacred spot. What he sought was not buried deep, and when the metal blade hit the ancient box, Gabriel heard the clatter and moved to assist him.

  “What is it, Grandfather?” Gabe asked, squatting down beside Chetan. Chetan scraped the soil away with his fingers, clawing through it with increasing eagerness until he had a firm grip on two sides of the box. He could not lift it, however, nor could Gabe, so they split the lock with the shovel blade and opened it.

  The breath left his lungs in a long exhale as the scent of old magic and memories assaulted him. Chetan took one of the stones in his hand. It was a deep green color, nearly black, with a vein of bright crimson running through the center as if it lived. Sitting in his palm, the Bloodstone felt heavy, more than a stone of such tiny size should feel.

  “Ye had me there, I thought it might be treasure. ‘Tis only a bunch of stones,” Gabe laughed. Gabe picked one up, turning it over in his fingers, then tossed it back into the pile inside the old Viking chest.

  Chetan made a low grunting acknowledgement. Only a stone, no less.

  “’Tis a cave up near the waterfall, we nearly missed it, it was hidden so well. Looks like someone lived here once. D’ye know what tribes settled nearby, Grandfather?” Gabe asked. Chetan closed his fingers around the Bloodstone and nodded.

  “Oh, there were many that lived here,” Chetan answered. “This place holds their memories. Here, start the foundation on this spot. It is a good place for your new barn.”

  “Well, if ye think so. I suppose it’s as good a spot as any,” Gabe replied. The younger man wiped the back of his hand across his brow, then picked up his shovel. “I shall tell the others.”

  Chetan watched him join the others, the Bloodstone still clutched in his hand. Did he imagine that it felt warm, or that he could hear the murmurs of spirits passed whisper around him? The longer he held it, the stronger the voice surged, until like an avalanche of dust it filled him. He inhaled it, breathed in the heady scent of the past, letting it take him back to that time when it all started.

  “What is so amusing, brother?” Winn asked as they rode back to the village together. Chetan continued to smirk, knowing Maggie was waiting for Winn and that the two had parted on bad terms. He also had the feeling Winn would only make things worse, and he wished to spare his older brother undue grief.

  “Well, I look forward to returning home. The men speak of what women to take to furs,” Chetan answered.

  “So what?” Winn snapped.

  “If you do not take your captive to furs, I will take her. I like her red hair and pretty pale skin.” Chetan meant it in half-jest, but Winn needed prodding to see his way forward with the woman. He knew he made an impact when his brother’s face exploded with rage.

  “I am not ready to share my captive,” Winn growled.

  Chetan lifted one corner of his mouth in a wry smile. “Then claim her yourself.”

  “Why do you rile me, Chetan?” Winn demanded.

  Chetan looked sideways at him, shaking his head with a sigh.

  “If you do not claim her, another man will challenge you. Then I must challenge him, and I do not wish to fight. But if I must save my stupid brother from himself, I will.”

  Chetan smacked Winn’s thigh with the long end of his reins, leaving a welt across his skin and a scowl on his brother’s lips. Winn looked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the taunt.

  “Any man who tries to take what is mine will die a quick death,” Winn muttered.

  “Then stop being a fool. Or I will take her from you and die smiling for it,” Chetan replied.

  He meant to urge his brother toward his path that day. Never in all the years they spent together would Chetan ever admit that it meant more to him, that a part of him wondered how things might have been different. If Winn had killed her when they met, instead of saving her. Or if Winn had simply not cared, and turned her over to his brother.

  In the end, Chetan did not covet that which never belonged to him, but he thought of it now and then. Yet the memory of a lifelong friendship with the woman served him just as well, and he found solace in recollection of all the times they had shared. Quiet conversations, listening to her stories, sharing her delight in the life before them, those were the precious times. Her blood held a centuries-old magic, one more powerful than any should ever control, but it was not only that which made her special. Her smile, her fire, the heart of a warrior in her soul–those were the things that Chetan cherished.

  Those were the things he recalled when the spirits visited him at night. They called to him more of late, asking why he did not join them. H
e did not understand such questions himself so he could give them no response, no reason why he should live to see ninety years when his brothers had not, when even Ahi Kekeleksu had not.

  Makedewa, lost so young with his wife. Benjamin, who was buried with Jora. One of the young men helping Gabe was of Benjamin’s blood.

  And Winn. Well, Winn’s ghost did not visit him often, but Chetan knew he was there. Maggie would be at his side, no matter what. They had lived as one and died with souls entwined, and no one expected anything less from them.

  Chetan looked down at the stone in his hand as the voices whispered louder.

  “Ride faster, brother, you’re falling behind!” Makedewa shouted.

  Chetan sighed.

  “Are ye well, Grandfather? Ye look tired. Sit down, I’ll move the rocks,” Gabe said. Chetan felt the hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the ground, and he gladly sat down in the dirt.

  “Yes, yes. This old man is tired,” he whispered.

  “Here, drink,” Gabe insisted, pushing a flask of whiskey to his lips. Chetan gently pushed it away, shaking his head.

  “Make me a promise, Gabe. Build this barn here, on this spot, over these stones.”

  “All right, just rest. I’ll build it here, I promise ye,” Gabe agreed, seeming eager to placate the old man. Chetan placed the stone back in the chest, carefully covering the tip of the pewter flask he noticed poking out. The old flask needed to stay where Maggie placed it, and so did the stones.

  Finally, something he could do. A task he could finish, to see that they all lived on.

  “Will you ride with me, brother?” Winn asked, his voice like an echo of a fading breeze.

  Chetan closed his eyes. He could see them clearly now, those he loved. Winn on a sorrel horse, and Maggie galloping ahead on Blaze down the beach, her laughter trailing back to them.