Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (52 page)

Winn returned later with a sack in his hands.  She glanced up at him through tear-swollen eyes. 

“Finola woke and she spoke to me. She said Kwetii will be fine,” she whispered. She did not mention the rest of
Finola’s predictions, keeping the news close to her heart for the moment. There would be plenty of time to share it with Winn after Kwetii was healed.

“Gwen told me. Finola is a wise
Seer
, I am sure she speaks the truth.”

He sank down beside her and took something from the sack. His eyes were hollow beneath his thick brows, creased at the edges as if speaking aloud pained him.

“I bought this for you when we were in town. I meant to give it to you when I returned.”

He handed her a small, leather bound book. It was worn around the edges, but the stitching was intact and it still smelled of tanned hide when she flipped through the pages. It was handmade, with shimmering golden flecks pressed into the paper, and a flat jade
colored stone embedded in the cover beneath the etching of a rainbow.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“John Jackson said it belonged to an English Princess. How he came to have it, I do not know, but he parted with it, no less. I thought it might make you smile when you read it to our daughter,” he said softly.

He brushed the tears from her cheek and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You read. We will listen,” he said.

Winn placed the open book on the bed next to Kwetii and thumbed to the first page.

She rested her shoulder against his and started to read. Although she squinted at the scrolled Old English words, she had little difficulty reading the familiar first lines.

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. She lived in a grand castle…”

*****

Maggie woke to the sound of a gentle snore.  Tiny fingers were twisted in her hair, gently pulling in rhythm with the rise and fall of Kwetii’s chest.  It was a purring snore, one she made often when sleeping. The strained whistling sound was gone.

Winn stirred when Maggie moved and she placed two fingers to her lips to silence him as he opened his mouth to speak, his blue eyes wide and hopeful.  There would be time later to tell him her news, but for now it would wait as they enjoyed the peaceful slumber of the little girl between them.

“It is time to give her a new name,” he whispered. “She has earned one of her own.”

“I like her name,” Maggie said softly. Winn smiled.

“As do I, but we cannot call her
little one
forever.  She will not like that when she is grown.”

“Do you have another name?” she asked.  The question had never occurred to her, even though she knew it was common for the Paspahegh people to have several names throughout their lifetimes.

“
Opinkwe
,” he said, his voice low. “The boy with a white face,” he added, more as an afterthought to himself rather than to her unasked question. “That is what
Opinkwe
means. It is my secret name, one I tell no man, lest he take my spirit by calling my true name.”

Her throat tightened at the sadness in his tone. She leaned into his chest and settled back against him, pulling his warm arms around her.

“You,
ntehem
,” he said as his lips pressed into her hair, “You have no need to call my true name. My spirit is already yours to command.”

She smiled.

“I will hold you to that, warrior,” she answered.

Winn

Winn watched the dancers as the music pounded around them. It was like the Paspahegh dances he was accustomed to in some ways, with a crowd gathered in a circle around those who knew the steps. The rumble of a deep hollow drum pounded out the beat, and the singing of the women along with the squeal of a lyre rounded out the melee.  Maggie danced with the other women, swirling past him in her long flowing
gunna, her arms locked at the elbows with Teyas as they laughed. The long dress reminded him of the time she spent with the English, and although he knew it was not the same, it still caused a stir of annoyance down deep.

“Erich says you plan to leave. Is there naught I can say to keep ye here?”

Winn eyed his father. He stopped calling him Pale Feather, a title which he could see clearly irritated the man, yet Winn still struggled with how to speak to him.  Marcus took a sip from his drinking horn as Winn considered his response.

“Jarl Dagr. Marcus Neilsson. What should I call you, father?” Winn asked as he continued to stare into the crowd.  Marcus cleared his throat.

“Dagr Markús Neilsson is the name borne to me. Jarl is by right of blood, as is the title of Chief.  Dagr Markús was the name given to me by my father to honor his father.  And Neilsson marks me as get of my sire. Call me what ye will.”

“I have only known you as Pale Feather,” Winn replied.  He left the rest unspoken.

“Well, the Paspahegh called me that. Use it if ye must, it is only a name.” Marcus drained the last of the mead from his drinking horn and held it out to Winn. “There’s more to these people than ye know. Take this horn. It belonged to my father, and his sire before him. I give it now to you, my eldest son, so that you will know your place here among your people.”

Marcus placed the horn into his hand before Winn could dismiss him. It felt heavy in his grip, warmed by his father’s fist, and he looked down at it in his curiosity. It was the vessel of a king, and Marcus had placed it in his hand.

“I think you hand this to the wrong son,” Winn said, turning it over in his hands before he handed it back to Marcus. Marcus flexed his jaw. They both glanced over to the long table, where Benjamin sat at the head, surrounded by the other men.  His brother, nearly a replica of Marcus, laughed along with Erich and Cormaic, as the younger men hung on his every word.  Yes, Benjamin had always been a charismatic one. Winn once admired that about him. Winn had also once believed his brother was an honest man, beyond reproach.

“Nay. Keep it. Think on this before you leave. You belong with these people, just as much as ye once belonged to the Paspahegh.  Think of yer wife, as well, lad.  She has kin here, the same as ye. It willna be an easy life if ye return to the tribe.” Marcus paused, looking toward Maggie as she danced. “Has she told ye much of the future? Of what happens to the tribes?”

“Yes. I know we will be driven from our lands. I know the English will never stop, that they will keep coming from across the sea.”

Winn felt his ire rise, and felt his muscles quiver as he gripped the drinking horn. Marcus waved a hand toward the men at the table.

“Nothing is truly gone. These men you see, their sons will live on, as will their sons.  My sons will live on.  Someday, your daughter will have daughters, who will survive as we always have. It is about surviving, here, in this place where ye are now, and making a life for yer bairns. We stay here, away from the cities, and someday our children will venture into that world. But not yet, not until the time is right.  If I have learned naught from time-travel, I have at least learned that.”

“So running and hiding is how you wish to survive,” Winn said evenly. Over the last few weeks, his father had gained his grudging respect, but perhaps it was misplaced.

“We fight when we must.  Yes, we have killed plenty of English. Erich tells me for the most part they stay clear of us here.  What issue is there with knowing the future, and using it to keep yer kin safe? It canna be such a bad thing, if we can use it that way.”

“I can keep my kin safe without your magic,” Winn said. He spotted Maggie making her way through the crowd toward them, and Marcus straightened up when he noticed her as well.

“Aye, that ye can, Winn
Nielsson
. That ye can.” Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder. “Maggie will never be safe amongst the Powhatan, no matter what yer uncle has promised ye. Think on it before you make yer choice.”

Winn covered his scowl when Maggie launched herself into his arms.  She laughed as he swirled her around, burying his face in her soft auburn hair to inhale her sweet honeysuckle scent.  Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with mischief as she glanced back and forth between him and Marcus.

“Why aren’t you dancing? Does the brooding Viking have you stuck in some dull conversation?” she asked him, wrapping her arms around his waist.  He shrugged out of her grasp as Marcus chuckled.

“You dance, I will watch,” he said.

“And ye haven’t seen brooding yet, my lady, if ye think that was it!” Marcus laughed. “I’ll take a turn with ye, if ye insist. I still have moves.”

“Right. Your moves? I know you can’t dance, you old fart. But we can give it a whirl if you want,” she giggled, taking Marcus by the arm.  “Oh, wait, let me check on Kwetii first. I’ll be right back. Gwen put her to sleep and I need to say goodnight.”

Maggie dropped a quick kiss on Winn’s cheek and then punched Marcus in the arm before she jaunted off out of the Northern Hall.

“What did she just say?” Winn asked. “And why did she hit you?” The only meaning he gleaned from her utterance was that she was going to check on their daughter.  Marcus shrugged as he rubbed his bicep.

“Future talk. I took my oath as protector seriously. Nary a lad put a hand on that hellion if I could help it,” he sighed. “She still has a mean right hook.”

Winn grunted in reply. Marcus clapped him on the shoulder and left him standing there with the drinking horn in his hand.  He noticed Chetan dancing with Rebecca in the middle of the crowd, and was not surprised to see Makedewa glaring at them from the corner.  When the song paused, Cormaic switched places with Chetan, and suddenly Makedewa went from indifferent annoyance to full-blown fury. Winn saw Makedewa’s eyes narrow at the dancing pair as they flew by.  He also noticed the way Cormaic pulled Rebecca a bit closer when they swirled near the men. 

He wanted to laugh at his brother, but after seeing how disturbed the younger man was, he decided to join him. Perhaps they would share mead from the exotic drinking horn that now belonged to him.

When Winn reached his brother’s side, Cormaic swung Rebecca so close that her skirts flared out and brushed his knee. He dimmed the grin from his face as Makedewa made a rough snorting sound and proceeded to gulp his drink.

“You should dance with her,” Winn advised his brother.

“Warriors do not dance like that,” Makedewa barked.

“I see many warriors here dancing. One with your woman,” Winn replied, his brow raised slightly.

“She is not my woman. She can dance with that Viking if she wishes. I could take him in battle with nothing but my fists,” Makedewa muttered.

“Then fight him. I will tell him you challenge him on the field tomorrow.”

“Fine. Do it.”

Makedewa dumped out what was left of his mead as he watched the dancers.  Chetan walked up and gave him a hearty shove.

“She dances well,” Chetan said.

“Enough!” Makedewa snarled. Winn and Chetan watched him stalk out of the Northern Hall, and the moment he was clear they burst into laughter.

“I have never seen him act this way. Why doesn’t he speak to her and be done with it?” Winn asked. Chetan took the drinking horn Winn held and turned it over, examining it as he shrugged.

“I think he should bed her,” Chetan replied, “Before he loses his
opomens
.”

Winn grinned at the slur. Chetan used many of the taunts Maggie taught him from the future. Lose his balls, indeed.

As Chetan went off to fill the drinking horn, Winn looked over to the long table where Marcus sat. Did his customs mean he could not let his brother drink from the horn? Yet Marcus had offered it to both Winn and Maggie on the first night of their arrival, so he could see no error in letting Chetan drink from it.  If there were rules attached to the object, his father should have advised him of such before he gifted it.

“Here,
Jarl
Winn,” Chetan said when he returned, thrusting the horn at him as Winn scowled. “What? The others call you such. They say you are Jarl here, as is your father.”

“Enough, brother,” Winn said.  He looked around for Maggie, who had not returned. It had been long enough to bid their daughter goodnight, so he decided to check on them both. “Hold that for me. I will be back.”

Chetan shrugged and took a drink from the horn.

“Find Makedewa. Tell him to stop acting a fool and return. Tell him his woman misses him,” Chetan laughed.

Winn shook his head as he left and mumbled a retort to his brother. Rebecca was dancing happily with Cormaic, just as when Makedewa had left. Even if he found Makedewa, the last thing Winn would do was tell him to return.

Winn followed the gravel path through the village toward the Long House he shared with Maggie. The Norse strung blown glass globes from house to house, the orbs filled with lit candles that cast an eerie glow through the courtyard. A crescent shaped moon gave little light overhead, and instead they relied on the candles to illuminate the way. Maggie said it made her feel safe to have the candles burn at night, that it reminded her of streetlights in her own time. It seemed she had known little darkness in the future time the Bloodstone snatched her from.

He slowed his pace as he reached the Long House. The plank door was flung wide, and he heard the murmur of voices inside, one of which was not his daughter.