Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (18 page)

His black eyes narrowed into slits and his weathered face hardened.

“Winkeohkwet will not disobey me. No warrior of mine makes such a mistake. You think you are so important to my nephew, you think he would not crush your skull at my command?”

She was sure he meant every syllable, from his declaration of wonder at her protest to his pledge to murder her himself.  She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and closed her eyes.

“I know he would not hurt me,” she whispered. 

He darted forward and grabbed her neck with one large and surprisingly vise-like hand, the other latched to her shoulder to make it easier to drag her close to his pedestal.  There he slammed her head down onto a flat, round stump protruding from the ground, the skin of her neck and shoulders scraping against the roots that anchored the stump to the ground.  Her vision split into blackness with shredded stars whirling above, but before she could succumb to losing consciousness, his hand loosened on her throat enough for her to gasp air back into her lungs.

“I have killed many Time Walkers. You are one of many, Red Woman, and you will not be the last.”

She saw dark dried blood on the stump, her cheek pressed into the slimy wood that she realized was slick with gore from another recent sacrifice. She gasped another breath of air through her narrowed windpipe, unable to move since his fingers still held her down by the neck.  What could she say to save herself? She was no Pale Witch, nor a witch of any kind, and her magic came from her knowledge of her own time, not some spell.  Her stomach whirled and dropped when she saw him raise a mallet in his other hand.

“I know when you will die,” she croaked. The effect was not instantaneous, but it worked.  He slowly lowered the weapon and removed his hand from her neck, and she gauged her actions against
his by very carefully raising her head. She kneeled in front of him, hoping her attempt at mimicking other Indian women would show him her deference.  Trying to control her rapid breathing as her lungs screamed for more air, she remained hunched over at his command, her cheek caked with wet gore from a previous sacrifice on the stump.

“Then your magic is more powerful than even the Pale Witch,” he said, careful and controlled in his response, spoken more to himself than to her.  “Tell me, Red Woman, when will I die?”

She made the decision, not certain if it would keep her alive, but afraid it was her only hope.

“I see you trick the English by sharing their food.  I see your warriors take many lives in one bloody day, in all the English villages. It will be called the Massacre of 1622. You think it will drive them back across the ocean, but it will not,” she said. Her voice gained conviction as she thought up more nonsense to cast doubt in his mind. “A
Weroance
who knows when his time ends cannot lead his people,” she said. “And the man who kills the Red Woman will curse his people for eternity.”  She dared to look up, and saw his eyes opened wide and his mouth slightly agape. “I have seen it…and it will be!”

She clenched her hands tightly but could not feel the pain as her nails dug into her palms, too focused on the way the deep bronze of his skin faded to a grey tinged pallor on his face.  The hand holding the mallet twitched and rose slightly, indecisive, before it dropped back down at his side.

“Nemattanew!”

The warrior responded to the Weroance’s command with only a few seconds delay, and Maggie realized he had been standing nearby the entire time. 

“Take her to the English, since they claim her as kin. She will share their fate.”

Opechancanough lowered his head close to her crusted cheek, and though her heart pounded loudly in her ears, his words were clear.

“You may keep your life today, Red Woman, as I spared the Pale Witch once before. When you see her, tell her what was done here today,” he whispered. “You will die, but not by my hand.  I will not let you curse my people.”

He straightened up and nodded. Nemattanew grabbed her by her bound wrists and dragged her out of the Long House. 

Part three

C
hapter 21

S
he sat numb in
a wagon, her head feeling as if an axe had split it, although it remained intact and throbbing. Nemattanew rode silently beside the wagon. The man called Thomas Martin who claimed to be her uncle drove from a bench in front of her, ambling along as if it they found a stray Englishwoman every day. She closed her eyes for a moment with a semblance of relief. She was still alive, and that was enough of a victory for the moment.

Whether Thomas had truly mistaken her for his kin or had some other devious plan in mind, she did not know, but she was certain she wanted no part in it either way. She subdued the urge to tell him exactly why she was not his niece, but the warnings from Winn still resonated through her. No one could know where she came from. No one would believe her, and the truth would likely get her strung up for witchery. Her only option was to play along with the English until she had an opportunity to escape.

Thomas Martin finally breeched the silence by clearing his throat with a cough.

“I am glad to see ye hale my niece. It seems the savages treated ye with kindness. I am saddened to hear of yer ordeal since the accident and wish ye a speedy return to good health.”

“W-what accident?” was the only sensible thing she could muster.

“Why, yer fall from the ship. Ye were thought dead in the river. Ye know not what I speak of?”

“Uhm, no. No, I don’t remember falling off a boat,” she murmured. He cracked the reins against the hide of the horse to urge it faster through the dense wooded trail.

“No memory? Have ye lost yer sense, girl?” he asked.

“No! I just don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

“So there it is. The escorts from the Company said ye took a fall no man could survive. Perhaps it jumbled yer memory a bit,” he
shook his head in disgust. “I hope ye recover yer wits soon, or I will lose the price I paid for ye passage,” he grumbled.

“What are you talking about?”

“Yer speech is queer, niece, did my brother speak so? Mayhap he spoke that blasted French and twisted yer English tongue for it.” He shook his head at her expectant appraisal. “No matter. I think young Benjamin has already taken a fancy to ye, so do not worry. He is a good man. Perhaps he will contract for you.”

“Contract me?” she choked. One of his eyebrows rose up and he peered back at her.

“Ye signed the contract before you left England, girl. You will wed one of the men in the colony, which is why I paid ye passage. Jack-of-a-Feather is a good friend to us, be glad he returned ye. Your rescue came at a good time, lest I would be lost of my money with no bride to barter with.”

“There has been some mistake, I am not your niece!”

He looked sideways at her. “Yes. Yes ye are. Hold yer tongue, girl, if ye know what is good for ye.”  He spit out a dark wad of tobacco and clucked to the horses. “Ye have the look of yer mother, ye know, blasted bloody wench she was.”

Maggie had learned something of the time she was stuck in, and knew when it was prudent to keep silent. As much as she wanted to jump from the wagon and start running, she had seen enough of the untamed wilderness and knew better than to risk her neck in it with little more than the doeskin on her back.  As if he read her thoughts, Thomas looked down at her, a frown on his lips and his heavy brows slanted.

“We will get ye into suitable clothes as soon as we return. Yer heathen dress will surely give yer aunt a fright, but she will make do.”

Maggie agreed. She would give anyone a fright with little trouble.

Nighttime had fallen by the time they reached the town.  The wagon came to a stop and Thomas jumped quickly down, but Maggie remained frozen, unable to remove her fingers from where they were clenched around the plank supports.

“Mistress?”

Benjamin stood beside the wagon, holding his hand out to her expectantly. She turned slowly and looked down into his clear blue eyes, noting with a flush that the shade reminded her of Winn’s odd blue Indian eyes. The man smiled at the color rising in her cheeks, and she imagined he assumed it meant something else. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and took his offered hand, and as she stepped down, she glanced past him.

Still seated on his war pony, Nemattanew watched them. His face was a flat mask that betrayed no indication of unease, but Maggie thought she spotted a flicker in his gaze when their eyes met.

She choked back a sob. She had thrived on the strength in her anger, and it fed her resolve to carry on like a dysfunctional crutch.  Now, separated from Winn, she felt that urge drain away like a wound gone bloodless, and the sickly taste of fear pricked her soul as she wondered if he would ever find her. She knew her American history, and she knew Jamestown was not a safe haven. Nemattanew was leaving her here to rot with the other whites, getting rid of the Red Woman one way or another.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. She turned her attention to Benjamin. Taller than the others, with thick wavy dark hair curling around his collar, he took her dusty hand and tucked it in his elbow. A stray curl fell over his brow as he dipped his head to speak.

“Are you steady, Mistress? I will carry ye should ye have need,” he said quietly, heard only to her ears. She shook her head and let him lead her to the house.

Larger than she expected and constructed of stone and wood, she followed Benjamin through the plank doorway inside the house.  Thomas Martin had already roused a woman she imagined was his wife, and she was comforted by the kindness in her eyes.  Short and pleasingly round with a swath of ebony hair twisted at her nape, she listened to a whispered explanation from Thomas and placed both hands to her lips as he eyes widened. The woman then nodded
vigorously and pressed her hands against her heart as she turned to Maggie.

“Welcome home, Margaret. How do ye fair, girl, yer uncle said ye took a blow to the head? We haven’t seen ye since ye were a child, but I am yer Aunt Alice. What a blessing to see ye live and well,” she said. She motioned with a hand for Maggie to follow. “Come with me, we shall leave the men to their business.”

Benjamin nodded at her as if in blessing, and Maggie let her hand slip from his arm to follow Alice into another room off the main area. 

“I fear my dress may be a bit short for you, dear, but it will do until we can fit ye for another.  Anything will serve better than that which ye wear—thank our Lord no other women were about to see ye arrive.
‘Tis good they know nothing of this,” Alice muttered, pulling a white cotton shift from a wooden chest next to the lone window in the room.  Two functional shutters stood open to admit the brisk night breeze, the opening naked and free of glass.  Alice noticed her staring at the space.

“My husband says he will have glass windows for us before the winter falls, dear. He is so busy now with managing those who work the tobacco fields, he canna tend to it yet.  But soon he will remedy that,” she assured Maggie. Maggie said nothing as the woman thrust the shift and a wool dress at her, as if Maggie knew what to do with it. “I will tend to the men and return for ye, dear.”

Maggie stared blankly at her back as she left the room, pulling the door closed firmly behind her.  She sat down on the edge of a narrow cot, one of the few furnishings in the room. Dropping the clothes in a heap on the floor, she put her head in her hands. The tears came fast, staining her dusty cheeks with hot denial.  She had no idea how to get herself out of the unbelievable mess she was in. Maggie lay down on the stiff cot and curled her knees to her chest, hugging herself as she cried.  She startled at the hand on her hair, relieved to see it was only Alice patting her head when she opened her tear-swollen eyes.

“There, there, dearest. Ye just sleep now. The rest will wait for morning.”

The older woman pulled a soft woolen blanket over her shoulders and tucked it under her chin, patting her back softly in comfort. Maggie closed her eyes to the gesture and let the exhaustion of sleep carry off her weary mind.

She heard the lock click securely into place when the woman left.