Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (31 page)

Fallon stepped forward and clasped his friend in an embrace.
“Brody, how can it be you? Your term of service—”

“
Finished. Seven years I worked for that smith, and I earned my suit of clothes and my cow. I’m done with smithing for the rest of my life.”

“
But to come on this voyage—”

Brody grinned recklessly.
“Can you be forgetting that mine is the spirit of adventure? I asked at the school and they told me I’d find you here. So I sold my cow for passage aboard this ship, and I’m going to Virginia as a free man.”

His laughing eyes swept the cabin and the busy bodies of the excited boys.
“And you, are you nursemaid to this entire lot?”

Fallon nodded.
“Yea. I’m to see them installed in good situations in the colony.”

“
And then what, me friend? Do you have to remain as a teacher?”

Fallon leaned against the cannon and folded his arms, wondering how much he should reveal to his friend.
Brody would not understand Fallon’s desire to venture into the wilderness, he probably dreamt of tobacco plantations and gold. “I’ll not be a teacher,” he said finally. “I’m free to stay or return to England, whatever I like.” He grinned. “I served my seven years too, remember? I’m as free as you are, Brody McRyan.”

Brody clapped his arm around Fallon
’s shoulders. “Then after you’ve disposed of your brats, why don’t we go into the wilderness and search for gold? Or mayhap we’ll find beautiful Indian princesses to marry. What say you, Fallon? Are you suited for an adventure?”

Fallon smiled at his friend in wonder.
Brody had always been able to lift his spirits and never failed to surprise him. “I’faith, you’ve no idea of the adventure that’s been laid before me,” he said, chuckling. “And if y’are of a mind to come along, well, y’are more than welcome to join me.”

Brody slapped Fallon
’s back in agreement, then turned to hustle a couple of nearby boys out of their places by the window. Fallon turned and looked toward the docks again. The setting sun threw long shadows of the ship upon the water and the quick footsteps of the seamen, anxious to have done with their chores before the light faded, pounded overhead as the bosun called for the gangplank to be set out of the way.

As he watched the seamen pull the gangplank aboard, Fallon felt as though some part of his body was being torn away.
He had never pretended to be at home in England, but he could not deny that living here had forever changed his life. Smith had sent him to England to learn about the birthplace of his father, and Fallon had gained enough understanding to know that he was, forever and always, what the English called an
American
.

Twenty-five

A
s winter’s chill breath abated and spring laid honey-thick sunshine upon the village of Weromacomico, the great chief Powhatan breathed his last. His children and grandchildren knelt at his side when life left his body, and Itopatin and Opechancanough came from their villages to aid in the chief’s funereal.

While the warriors of the tribe sat outside the chief
’s hut and composed songs to honor Powhatan’s greatness and wisdom, the priests tended their leader’s body. Through an incision on the left side of his chest, the inner organs were removed and laid to dry on mats in the sun. Once the chief had been disemboweled, the priests cut and scraped the remaining flesh from his bones, then carefully laid the suit of skin next to the organic materials in the sun. The bones, still joined together by ligaments, were dried as well, then covered with leather to simulate the flesh as it had once been. Finally, after days of mourning, singing, dancing, and frantic prayers, the priests stitched the dried skin over the skeleton. The remains were hoisted upon a high deck in a special temple where a kiwasa, a four-foot idol, guarded Powhatan’s body. The kiwasa, who knelt in eternal contemplation of the great chief’s deeds, had been painted black as night but for a white breast and a flesh-colored face. The idol wore a chain of white beads and copper ornaments, decoration fitting for a highly esteemed werowance.

While the priests lay Powhatan to rest, the conjurors and warriors danced around the fire, tossing tobacco into the hallowed flames to delight the gods who would speed the soul of Powhatan on to his eternal journey.
They stamped, danced, and clapped in their enthusiastic wish for the chief’s continued success. “Come ravens, come eagles, come sparrows,” chanted the children as they marched around the fire. “Speed the soul of our chief to the place of immortality.”

Numees stood apart from the other women, watching the ceremonies in a pose of weary dignity.
Neither Powhatan’s life nor his death had touched her directly. As a child she had feared him except when playful Pocahontas had made his somber face break forth in a rare smile, and the chief had not smiled since the news of his favorite daughter’s death. Indeed, Numees sensed that the sad news she brought had gradually stolen life from this the greatest king of all Indian tribes.

A handful of women sat near the fire with ashes on their heads.
They lifted their faces in mourning, a counterbalance to the braves who danced joyfully in their effort to send the great chief into eternity. Numees paused a moment. She knew enough about the one true God to reject participation in the religious rituals, but her infinitely sorrowful spirit yearned to express her grief for Pocahontas.

Without hesitation, Numees crossed to the place where the women sat, seated herself beside them, and tossed a handful of ashes over her dark hair.
As they wailed in agony, her heart filled once again with the bitterness of old grief, and she opened her mouth in a wordless cry to question God’s mercy and justice.

Powhatan had declared before his death that the position of
the Powhatan
—the leadership of the entire family of thirty-four tribes—was to be shared between his brothers, Opechancanough and Itopatin. But in the same hour that the two rival brothers arrived at Weromacomico for the funereal, Opechancanough petitioned the council of elders that he not be required to relinquish any part of total command to his younger, lame brother. With a firm voice and eloquent reasoning, he convinced the elders that he, and not Itopatin, was the only logical choice to become
the Powhatan.

The elders announced their decision before a convocation of several tribes at Weromacomico.
“The chief, the Powhatan, is not a dictator, but a persuader and giver of wise counsel,” the eldest of the elders announced, standing before the circle of waiting tribes. “We need a werowance of honesty, compassion, wisdom. Both Opechancanough and Itopatin are such men. Our departed chief trusted them both, they were as his right hands. But nothing will be accomplished if we are divided, as a mighty nation we must stand as one.”

Shouts of agreement filled the air, and after a moment the elder held up his hand for silence.
“And so we have chosen Opechancanough. Though he has lived seventy-four summers, he has the strength of a bear, the vision of an eagle, and the cunning of a fox. And he has lived with the clothed men; he speaks as one with the Spanish and the English; he knows their God and their kings. He is the man to lead us.”

Again, the crowd cheered, and the elder took his place in the circle around the village fire.
Opechancanough sat motionless beside him, for modesty prevented him from acknowledging the favor of his people, but the crowd went wild in dancing and song.

Numees did not dance, but sat silently in front of her hut.
On her face she still wore the black clay of mourning; ashes still grayed her hair. She watched everything with clear, impassive eyes, and wondered at one point why Opechancanough appeared to be staring at her.

She learned the answer a few days later.
She had left the village to draw water from the river, and lost herself in a happy memory of Pocahontas until a dark shadow fell across her path. Startled, she glanced up, and fell back a step when she recognized that the great chief stood before her.

Numees bowed her head in respect and felt a creeping uneasiness at the bottom of her heart when the chief spoke to her in English.
“Why did you come back?” he asked, his tone blunt and heavy.

She blinked, confused, and lowered her eyes.
“Did no one tell you? I was distressed by news of Matoaka’s death and angered because the Englishman gave her child to a woman in England.”

Opechancanough paused, seeming to weigh her words.
“Have you a desire to return to the English?”

“
Why would I return?” she asked, meeting his flinty gaze.

“
Your eyes are blue,” he answered, as if a world of truth could be found in that simple statement.

Numees felt an inexpressible surge of anger rise within her, and her jaw clenched as she rejected his words.
“So God hath given me blue eyes!” she stormed, not caring if she roused the chief’s wrath. “God hath also given me Matoaka as a sister, and the Powhatan as my people.”

“
Of which God do you speak?” Opechancanough answered, tilting his head as he regarded her. “Tell me so that I may see into your heart. Is your God the
manitou
of the Powhatan, or Jesus the Christ of the English?”

For the first time in their encounter, Numees could not find words.
Was this a test? If she rejected the false gods of her tribe, would Opechancanough cast her out? Probably, for he hated the God of the clothed men. But how could she reject the truth of Jesus Christ, when even the stars and the sunrise proved the words she had learned in the Holy Book?
The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament showeth his handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge. There is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard . . .

“
I know about the one true God who created the world, the one the Powhatan call the almighty and eternal
Mantoac
,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I have read his words in the English holy book, and I have read of his son, Jesus the Christ. I believe the words of the holy book.”

A shadow clouded the chief’s face. “In lands far from here I have seen men kill and enslave others in the name of this Jesus,” he said in a sharp tone he’d never used with her before. “How do I know that your heart will not lead you to betray the people of the Powhatan?”

“
Because God hath betrayed me,” she cried, the words pouring from her heart before she could stop them. Stung by the force of her own feelings, she fell to her knees in the dirt at the chief’s feet. “He hath taken Pocahontas, my sister. Sometime, I don’t remember when, he took my parents, for no one has ever claimed me. I am alone in the world, mighty Opechancanough, and this God in whom I can’t help but believe hath given me naught but sorrow.”

She covered her face with her hands, tasting the anguish of her tears, then she felt the chief
’s hands under her elbows. Patiently, almost tenderly, he lifted her to stand before him.

“
You shall no longer be called, Numees, sister, but from this day you will be Kimi, woman-with-a-secret. For you must say nothing of this God to our people. If you do, you will die. Do you understand?”

“
Yea,” she whispered.

“
And you shall live with us, and marry one of our warriors, and bear children of the Powhatan so that we may be long on this earth.”

Wordlessly, she nodded before him, and he touched a
finger to her wet cheek, then pressed it to his face as if he shared her sorrow. “Kimi,” he said again, turning away. “Do not forget what I have said.”

That night, as the tribe feasted in celebration of the new force in leadership, Opechancanough sat in his position of honor surrounded by his favorite wives.
He had many wives, several of them young enough to be his granddaughters, and children were born to him every year. Younger men marveled at his strength, older men were openly envious of his virility. The conjurors claimed the gods had gifted him, but only he knew the truth behind his unusual power.

It is well you named the girl Kimi
, a dark voice whispered in his mind,
for you carry a secret that she alone might guess
.

The corner of his mouth rose in a half-smile.
Nearly fifty summers had passed since the night he had murdered the two Catholic priests who had tried to turn him from the ways of his people. No living soul watched him drink their consecrated blood and offer his life in service to the dark power that fought against all men of God. Supernatural vigor surged through his mortal veins as he drank from the reddened chalice, and since that day he had known he possessed the gift of immortality. Already he had outlived his younger brother and now, at last, he could build the Powhatan confederacy into a force that would rid the land of Europeans for all time.