12
The creaking door announced Connor”s presence as he stepped into the musty confines of the cottage. Emmy looked up from where she sat huddled on a dilapidated stool, her face etched with worry.
”Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. ”Traveling back to the village alone...”
”Em, you know I need to go. Supplies cannot wait and the trading post is our only hope.”
Emmy bit her lip. ”You said they’ve been restless, that they seemed hostile last time you went there. Why can’t I go with you?”
He did not wish to worry her any further, but she had to understand. The warning Derek gave him about dealing with the Indians still resonated in his thoughts and he would not risk it. ”Some of them are slave traders. They fetch a high price for women. You’re not going anywhere near them,” he told her. He stood, determination steeling his gaze. ”I will return with everything we need. I promise.”
Emmy rose and threw her arms around him, and he returned the embrace, comforting her the best he could. The reality of their situation was that storm weather was moving in, and the days were growing cold. Frost coated the ground each morning when they woke, and it was only a matter of time before the season would turn. They needed to get on the road to civilization, somewhere closer to Smithville. Each day they remained in the broken down cottage was a day wasted.
“Here,” he said, taking the pistol from his belt. It was a weapon brought with them from the future, and his sister was well trained with it. He held it up to her to show his intent, then placed it on the table. “Use it if you need to. Keep it while I’m gone. I’ll be back in a few days.”
He turned and strode for the door, never looking back.
Connor moved through the forest, nearing the trading post. Despite the cold, he felt invigorated by the crisp air, inhaling deeply the scent of pine and snow. As he walked, his thoughts turned to his duty, and to the reasons why they went to the past.
Soon the sounds of the trading post grew louder. Voices raised in barter, the chopping of wood, the snorting and stamping of horses. He stepped from the trees into the bustling center. All around him Ricahecrian men shouted boisterously as they traded furs and meat for metal tools, cloth and grain.
As he made his way through the crowd, he felt eyes upon him. The Indians regarded him with what seemed caution, even suspicion. Unease trickled down his spine. Only a few weeks ago they had greeted him as a friend. Now their demeanor suggested he was not welcome.
He kept his head high, unwilling to show fear. He would gather what supplies he could and make a quick exit. He moved through the trading post, keeping his gaze fixed ahead even as he felt the scrutiny of the Ricahecrian warriors around him. Their attire had changed since he last visited - now dressed for war in leather breastplates and feathers.
His mind raced, taking in the details around him. The warriors seemed to have more weapons displayed than normal, their faces impassive. Yet he sensed the tension simmering beneath the surface. Instinct kicked in. He needed to get out of the village. Something was not right.
He changed course, heading for the tree line rather than the trading stalls. If he could make it to the woods, he stood a chance of escaping unseen. His heart pounded as he willed himself not to break into a run. Any sign of fear could trigger an attack.
He was mere steps from the shelter of the pines when a sinewy arm shot out, blocking his path. Connor recoiled, meeting the obsidian gaze of a warrior. The man spoke in Ricahecrian, too fast for him to grasp. But the meaning was clear - he was not leaving.
Panic clawed at his throat.
He held up his hands slowly, trying to appear non-threatening. ”I mean no harm,” he said calmly. ”I only wish to return to leave.”
The warrior narrowed his eyes, barking something in his native tongue. Connor sensed the man did not fully trust him, despite his many peaceable trades with the Indians. Around them, more warriors were gathering, hands on their weapons.
His throat tightened. He had to diffuse this situation before it turned violent.
”Please,” he implored the warrior in front of him. ”Let me pass. I will trade anything you wish - furs, tobacco, iron tools.”
The warrior spat dismissively on the ground. Connor felt a spark of frustration. He glanced back at the tree line, gauging if he could make a dash for it. But he was surrounded now on all sides.
Out of options, he slowly removed his musket from his back, holding it out to the warrior. ”Take this as a show of good faith,” he said through gritted teeth.
The warrior accepted it warily. Connor felt naked without the weapon, but it had been the only bargaining chip he had left.
”Now let me leave in peace,” he said, meeting the warrior”s gaze. Around them, the tension seemed to dissipate slightly as the warriors waited to see what their leader commanded.
A Ricahecrian warrior stepped forward, a stone club in his hand. Connor tensed, cursing himself for letting his guard down. It was Wicawa Ni Tu, one of their leaders. The warrior said something in his native tongue that he couldn”t understand.
”I don”t want any trouble,” Connor said evenly. ”Just let me pass.”
Wicawa Ni Tu shook his head, gesturing aggressively with his club. Before Connor could react, two more warriors emerged to join the leader. He was outnumbered.
With no other choice, he turned and ran. The warriors gave chase, yelling fiercely. His lungs burned as he sprinted through the woods. A thrown club glanced off his shoulder, causing him to stumble.
Suddenly, a warrior tackled him from behind. They tumbled to the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He thrashed as the warrior wrestled to subdue him. But it was no use - the man was too strong.
The warrior roughly tied his wrists together with a leather cord. The breath left his lungs in a painful whoosh when the man kneed him in the back, and his face was pressed down into the gritty soil.
Connor regained conscious, a slow ease back to reality accompanied by the rising ache in his body and limbs. He was in a sitting position upright against a tree, his hand bound in front of him. Apparently, they did not consider him much of a threat, as he was not otherwise bound, but in all truth, he had no hope of fleeing his captors. They were everywhere, and it was clear they were preparing for battle.
The tall Manahoac brave Wicawa Ni Tu stood before him. The man wore his dark hair long and braided, with both sides of his scalp shaved in a crescent shape above his ears. Threaded through his hair was an assortment of dark-tipped feathers and his skin was painted with black and vermilion stain, all evidence of his standing among his peers as a War Chief. His left eye betrayed that he had once been wounded, protruding slightly beneath a ragged patch of scar tissue that extended to his cheek. His attire indicated no influence of the English, being only a simple breechcloth and leggings with a mantle of turkey feathers over his shoulders.
“What do you want from me?” Connor asked, daring to make a plea. The warrior’s brows narrowed, and he kneeled, snatching Connor’s hand.
“Other tribes tell tales of the power your kind,” the man said, his English halting but clear. “The blood in your veins is said to heal even the dead. Surely, then, you can take away the sickness from my people.”
A rush of bile burned his throat when the man stared hard at the scar on Connor’s hand and then dropped it. How did the native know about the Blooded Ones? And what exactly did he believe Connor could do for him?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connor lied. The words tumbled from his mouth as an act of pure defiance.
The warrior grunted a cold laugh. He motioned to others, and two men came to restraint Connor. He fought them, but he was not match, his head pounding from the beating he endured and his bones weak from the binding. One of them held out his bound hands, and another took a blade to his wrist, slicing a long, thin stroke across his flesh.
Blood flowed freely, caught in a bowl held beneath his fists. They bled him.
Hours later, they bled him again.
And then, again.
The soil was cold beneath his cheek. He opened his eyes, not daring to move. Each time he woke, they re-opened the wounds to his wrists and let his blood drip into the bowl. Then they wrapped the gashes and left him, until they tried again. His head was clouded, his senses failing him. He’d spent enough time saving lives in the emergency department to know his situation was dire; they’d taken more blood than he could give.
Across the clearing, strangers were gathered, both English and native. The new band of natives stood with the English, as if they were aligned in some duty, and Connor could see one of them engaged in a tense conversation with Wicawa Ni Tu. He heard some of the natives say Pamunkey, and they seemed at odds with each other. Another warrior, dressed in the mixed attire of one who lived among the English, stood with Wicawa Ni Tu in the middle of the clearing. Other men were on their knees behind him, held at gunpoint by the Colonial Militia—were they Wicawa Ni Tu’s men, captured by the Pamunkey?
Wicawa Ni Tu scowled at the other native and his hand slipped down to his side to rest over the butt of the knife at his belt. For a long moment they stared at each other, until Wicawa Ni Tu broke the silence with a wry grin and shake of his head, the grey and black feathers tied in his hair bobbing with the motion. Connor shifted slightly, easing his ear from the ground so that he might hear what the men discussed.
“Daniel Neilsson,” Wicawa Ni Tu said. “I know of your uncle, Winkeohkwet. Like you, he too has aligned with the English. Perhaps your sense has been twisted by him, just as he was twisted by his ties to the Time Walkers.”
Daniel Neilsson? It was him, the man his sister would build a life with. The man she would share two sons with. Nicholas and Alec.
“My uncle calls for peace, as do I,” Daniel replied, his voice low.
Wicawa Ni Tu’s eyes narrowed. “So say you,” he replied. “Tell me, then, Daniel Neilsson. What will you give me for this trade? What I require from you is a simple thing.”
“And what, may I ask, do you require of me?” Daniel returned.
“Many of our people are sick. They are plagued by a fever and suffer in pain for weeks, and many more die than live. I need the blood of a Time Walker to cure them.”
“I am filled with sorrow for your people, but Time Walkers no longer live among us. Opechancanough ensured their deaths many years ago,” Daniel said.
“If that is so, then why do I hold one here as my prisoner?” Wicawa Ni Tu demanded. He raised his hand and barked a command in his own tongue, and two warriors moved toward Connor.
He froze. They dragged him forward, his knees boneless and dragging on the ground. He let his head remain limp, unwilling to fight them, lest they retaliate with more bloodletting. The bandages on both of his wrists were saturated, and dark bruises littered his flesh. When the men released him, he collapsed to the ground, reaching out with shaking hands in an attempt to lift himself from the cold earth.
Wicawa Ni Tu snatched one of his hands, wrenching it outward to present it to Daniel.
Too weak to resist, he let them look. It was clear Daniel was stunned. He knew the mark. It was the mark of a Bloodstone, borne by those who traveled through time – so why did the native seem so unsettled by it?
“I have bled him, but he is weak. He is not strong enough to heal my people. I need another, one with more powerful blood. I hear tales that the women are most powerful, so bring me one of those. This one has a woman hidden somewhere, maybe he has children; he trades supplies with us and my men have seen her with him. Bring me a woman Time Walker and I will sign your treaty. I will lead my people away from these lands.”
Connor used the last of his strength to raise his head. He stared into the dark eyes of the Pamunkey man. Was Daniel an enemy, or a savior?
“I do not know this man, nor his kin. I cannot give you what I do not have,” Daniel said slowly, shifting his eyes away.
Wicawa Ni Tu dropped Connor’s hand. He stalked over to Daniel, stopping only a pace away. Daniel held his ground.
“I want the rest of his kind. Do not speak untruth to me. I know you know where they hide, just as your uncle protected them from Opechancanough’s wrath. Bring them to me and we will settle this now.”
Connor’s stomach lurched when he heard Daniel’s reply.
“I will find his kind,” Daniel said. “If I succeed, I will bring them to you. You have my word on this. And now I ask for your word in return.”
Wicawa Ni Tu nodded. “So it is. Tell your English Colonel we will leave. We will seek other lands west of here. And when you find the family of my Time Walker,” he said, his voice low and purposeful, “You will bring them to me.”
They struck a bargain—with Emmy’s life.
Yet it was not finished. Wicawa Ni Tu took the bloodstone knife he’d stolen from Connor and threw it, impaling it in the ground at Daniel’s feet. As Daniel moved to clasp Wicawa Ni Tu’s arm, the scream of gunfire pierced the silence, and he could smell the thick scent of gunpowder infuse the air. Connor scrambled backward away from the men in time to see the first man fall, and then another shot echoed, and the wails of helpless denial streamed forth from the Ricahecrian people as another warrior was shot. The warrior scattered, veering off to engage the battle. The English Militia picked off the rest in short order, leaving five bodies on the frozen ground as warriors dispersed around them. Bellowed war cries filled the space and the bodies of men in battle crashed together in the echo of the clearing.
Shrieks from the dying came from the battlefield. Wicawa Ni Tu and Daniel were absorbed in the mele, fighting others. Connor did not hesitate, reaching out and quickly snatching his bloodstone dagger that was forgotten on the ground. He crawled, and finally stumbled to his feet, falling twice before he tripped over a discarded musket and picked it up, using it as a crutch to scramble away.
In the middle of the clearing stood a bold Pamunkey warrior, surrounded by three Ricahecrian men. His gaze was raw and wild and clear – but it was evident he would take many with him when he fell. Bracing himself in a crouch with the spread of his eagle feather mantle flaring wide across his back, the world exploded around him and he started to move. It was a torturous slow dance, the song of a soul and the whisper of defiance, and it played before his eyes as if the remnants of some legendary tale. His mantle swirled around him with each strike; the Pamunkey warrior felled two men before the blow came that sent him to his knees. Was he their chief? Connor did not know.
Connor took one last glance at the chaos and made his decision. He secured the musket strap across his body. As he turned to run, a splitting pain pierced his shoulder, sending him hurtling to the ground. He rolled to his side, his hand instinctively flexing to the source of the pain, and was stunned to feel the pointed end of an arrow protruding from his flesh.
No. He would not die in the dirt in a Ricahecrian village. If what Ronan said was true, this was not the place he would meet his end. He needed to get away, whatever it took. He needed to get back to his sister, before Daniel went searching for her.
He stuck out and hand, taking a deep painful breath, and pushed up onto one knee. He gritted his teeth and surged up, and stumbled as he gained momentum. The rush of water guided him, and it was that which he focused on, swallowing back the blood that bubbled on his lips. Ahead, there was the bank of the river and he slid down it.
There was a canoe, and he fell over the side of it. With the last of his strength, he pushed it into the water, and slithered down inside it, curling up on his side as it drifted away from the battle.
Connor”s arms shook with the strain of each stroke as he navigated the stolen canoe through the choppy waters. The river, swollen with the early spring rains, fought against him, its currents mocking his desperation. Every jolt sent a fresh wave of agony radiating from the arrow lodged through his back and chest, its tip a cruel reminder of the battle he had barely escaped.
The sounds of the conflict had faded behind him, replaced now by the relentless rush of the river and his own labored breathing. Blood, warm and sticky, seeped between his fingers as he clutched at the wound, the metallic scent mingling with the earthy dampness of the river.
As the adrenaline that fueled his escape began to wane, the pain sharpened, focusing his mind on the dire reality of his situation. He spotted a narrow bend in the river, the bank shielded by a thick grove of trees. With the last ounces of his strength, he steered the canoe toward shore, the vessel scraping against the loose gravel with a grating sound that signaled his temporary salvation.
Crawling from the canoe, his boots sank into the soft mud, the cold of the wet earth seeping through his trousers. Each movement was a calculated agony, but survival overshadowed the pain. He dragged himself up the bank, his hands clutching at roots and stones, pulling his battered body into the shelter of the woods.
He found refuge under a fallen crop of trees, a chaotic jumble that formed a makeshift den. He ripped off the long edge of his tattered undershirt, he tore it in half, prepared for what he must do.
Lying back against the damp leaves, he grasped the arrow shaft with a shaky hand. His mind screamed in protest, every instinct crying out against the impending pain. He steeled himself, memories of his time as an emergency physician flashing through his mind—reminders of who he was, what he still needed to be. With a grunt, he snapped off the protruding tip of the arrow, the sound of breaking bone echoing in his ears. He knotted half of the torn cloth and placed it crosswise over his shoulder, making a slipknot.
The world spun as he slowly, painstakingly, pulled the remainder of the arrow through his shoulder. He pressed a the balled-up half of the linen against the wound as he pulled. The pain was blinding, a white-hot sear that threatened to overwhelm his senses. Blood flowed freely now, dark against the verdant forest floor. He tightened the slipknot, drawing the makeshift bandage against the wound, fastening securely to keep the pressure even.
As his vision blurred and his body succumbed to shock, his last conscious thought was a prayer that his escape had gone unnoticed by his enemy. With that, he let the darkness take him, his body going limp as he passed out beneath the cover of the fallen trees, hidden from view, alone with the quiet of the woods and the slow, steady drip of his own lifeblood mingling with the earth.
“Is he dead?”
He heard the voices of young girls, but he kept his eyes closed.
“No. He breathes. There is some life in him,” a second girlish voice said.
“Leave the food for him,” the first voice intoned.
He cracked an eyelid. Two native girls stood a few feet away in deep conversation. They were arguing about him, and it seemed they made a decision when the second girl placed a sack on the ground. She also left a full deer bladder, which sloshed when she dropped it next to the sack, and his throat ached at the thought of a long drink of water.
They visited every few days, bringing him a small supply of sustenance. They did not speak to him or come too close, and on the occasion that he tried to engage them, they left with the food. So he maintained their polite distant friendship, keeping silent and merely nodding politely when they brought his gifts. They seemed to regard him as an injured animal, but he was glad to endure it.
The wound to his shoulder was an oddity, and it took some time to realize there was more to it than a clean piercing of the flesh by an arrow. The bleeding stopped, and the flesh seemed to harden, yet soon a grey discoloration afflicted the site, and it slowly began to spread. He recalled watching the natives dip their arrow tips into a bowl of something black and rancid as they prepared for battle, and with a rising unease he realized that the hole in his shoulder was no simple injury.
With each day that passed, the poison leeched deeper. It spread to his joints, making them ache with each gesture. Soon he no longer was able to keep down food, and he knew his time as a mortal would soon come to an end.
Be it sheer stubborn willfulness, or some innate gift of immortality that now surged in his veins, he managed to set out again on the canoe.
It took him days to track the path of his sister’s travel from the cottage. She was not alone, however, and he was not comforted when he discovered the steps of others with her, as if she left with at least two other people.
When he finally came close enough to see that she was still alive, his heart froze in his chest, and he was barely able to expand his aching lungs to take a breath.
She stood by a canoe on the river’s edge—with Daniel. And the man’s hand was on his sister.
He reacted. He started toward them across the beach from his hiding spot, lifted the dagger, and threw it.
It whooshed narrowly past Daniel and impaled into the side of the canoe with a solid thunk.
Connor emerged from the trees. His long brown overcoat was opened and flapping in the breeze as he walked towards them, pointing the musket. The tips of his fingers were numb, gripping the weapon, but he tried to ignore the lack of purchase he had on it. He saw Daniel push Emmy back, as if he were protecting her. Was she a captive, or not?
Connor saw his sister look at the dagger impaled in the canoe, and then her gaze shifted back to him. She slowly rose, despite an obvious protest from Daniel.
“Release her!” Connor called out. “Release the woman, or I will shoot!” It was a bold faced lie, but it was all he had. Daniel had not harmed his sister, but Connor heard the promise the man made to Wicawa Ni Tu. He had to get his sister away from him, whatever it took.
The second warrior stepped out from the shallow water to stand by Daniel’s side, his musket aimed and unwavering.
“You have one shot, friend, and you cannot kill us both,” Daniel replied.
Emmy pushed past Daniel and broke into a run, shoving her gun back into her belt as she reached him. She barreled into him hard, throwing her arms around him as if he were a ghost that would fade from her sight.
“Em,” he whispered, hugging her. The way she squeezed him seemed to crush every bone in his body, but he tried not to flinch.
“You’re okay,” she cried, clutching him as he hugged her with his free arm and lifted her slightly off her feet.
“I’m here,” he assured her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and tangled in her hair. The musket he held was still aimed, wavering in his free hand while Daniel and the other man approached, and after wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her fist, she gently pushed the gun in his hands down. He lowered it, grateful to be relieved of that burden. The aching numbness was spreading; the strength rapidly drained, as if his veins could carry no more sustenance, ebbing away.
“It’s okay, they’re not our enemies,” she explained.
“Good,” Connor replied, “Because this gun is empty, and I wasn’t looking forward to fighting two men with my bare hands.” The tension left his shoulders, and a sharp pain suddenly snatched his breath. He clutched his chest and collapsed down on one knee with a groan.
He heard Emmy cry out to the others. “Help me!”
And then he heard no more.
“I’m fine,” Connor muttered, slapping at her hands when she tried to loosen his shirt. He knew he was filthy and smelled of something rank, but even that discomfort could not keep his sister from demanding answers from him.
“You’re far from fine. What happened to you? Jesus, you stink like you took a bath in a pile of garbage,” Emmy replied. She handed him her flask and he took a long sip of the whiskey-spiked cider, shaking his head a bit as he swallowed it down.
“Last of the whiskey?” he asked.
“Seriously? The hell with the whiskey, and stop avoiding my question,” Emmy shot back. “Are you wounded? Let me see.”
He sighed, averting his gaze. He clutched the flask, unwilling to let her see exactly how bad it was.
“I’m fine, I’m just weak from the blood loss. There’s nothing for you to do about it, so quit pawing me,” he said. He held up his hands, revealing that both of his wrists were bound, showing her the stains of old dark blood that had seeped through and dried on the linen. He was not actively bleeding, so she rolled her eyes but left him alone, sitting back to listen to what he had to say.
“One of the Ricahecrians noticed my scar, and he alerted the others. Their War Chief took me prisoner. Seems they have a lot of people dying right now, a bloody flux or something, even the Chief’s wife and children were ill,” he said, his voice low and measured. “He thought I could heal his people. I guess it’s lucky for me he didn’t know how to use the magic, because when his wife died he surely would have drained every last drop of my blood.”
“He – he bled you?” she asked.
“Yeah. He didn’t know it’s only the newborn blood that can heal. He kept trying … over and over. One of the elders improved for a few days, so he thought my blood was working, but he realized soon enough something was wrong. I wasn’t going to give him any tips, either, so he decided he wanted my woman.”
“Your woman?”
“You. He wanted you. They remembered when I took you to the village to trade. He was told the women Time Walkers held more power than the men, so he wanted you.”
Emmy rocked back on her haunches, her hands clasped in her lap.
“Christ,” she whispered. “Why did I ever doubt him?”
“Who?” he asked.
“Daniel. I tried to go to the trade village to look for you. Daniel stopped me,” she said.
Connor frowned. He clearly recalled Daniel making a promise to Wicawa Ni Tu, that Daniel would deliver Connor’s woman to the other warrior in exchange for peace. So what had changed? Or had nothing changed, and Daniel was simply fooling Emmy into believing he would not hurt her?
“Him? You can’t possibly trust the natives. You know what they did to our kind. Opechancanough wiped them all out – none survived.”
“He’s not like that,” she insisted. “I’d be dead if not for him. We saved each other.”
Connor let out a muffled snort, launching into a coughing fit spasm from the effort. He was not ready to believe she was safe—not with Daniel, anyway.
“He’s like a wounded bear, Emmy. You think he won’t hurt you, because you saved his life? Look at him, for Christ’s sake,” Connor said. “I’ve known men like him. They’re all safe when they’re wounded. It’s when he’s whole again that you’ll see it – what he really is. And he’s not going to be what you want him to be.”
She looked at Daniel then, and Connor could not deny the clear connection between them. Daniel stood outside with his companion, Keke, watching them. His arms were crossed over his chest, and as she looked at him, he raised one thick dark brow in question, and once she issued him a smile, he nodded and turned back to the other man. Connor was stunned to see how the warrior deferred to Emmy.
“No, I don’t believe that. I know him. He’d never hurt me. I don’t know how it happened, but it did – I love him. And I trust him. Above anyone else.”
Connor closed his eyes for a long moment. Sweat dappled his forehead and moistened his clammy skin. By the Gods, what was he going to do? He knew Emmy was meant to build a life in the past. Was it truly with Daniel Neilsson, a man who promised to hand her over to Wicawa Ni Tu?
“Don’t trust anyone, Emmy. Didn’t I teach you better than that?” Connor said softly, barely above a whisper.
“It’s not that simple,” she replied.
Nor would it ever be. A shadow fell across the alcove, and he closed his eyes. He knew a conversation with Daniel was in order, but he was not eager for it.