Meihtawk batted away an insect. “He and his warriors are still united in their desire to subdue the English, to make use of their trade goods. The men of James Towne are regarded as much an enemy as the Monacans and other warring tribes.”
And in turn, the English would stop at nothing less than all Naturals becoming subjects of the English king.
He heaved a rare, unguarded sigh. Why the previous all-powerful chief, Powhatan, had not wiped the fragile settlement of James Towne off the map in 1607 remained a mystery.
They reached Menmend in the noonday heat, famished and sweating heavily. The vast village contained a great many yi-hakan, those round huts made of reeds and bent saplings. A great stir rose up at their appearance, a few of Mattachanna’s kin rushing toward them. The women especially were gracious, their features carrying such an echo of Mattachanna that his eyes smarted. Amid much fanfare, they led him to Opechancanough, who stood with favored wives and esteemed werowances beneath a large arbor.
Tall and lithe, the powerful chief looked first at Jett, then at Xander, his pleasure in their coming apparent, though the werowances stayed stoic. Rife with superstitions and spirit worship, all but a few of them regarded him with equal wariness, even hostility. He was reminded of the outcry that arose at Mattachanna’s heartfelt plea to be instructed in Christianity, to learn more about the talking book and the living God of the Bible. Because of her openness to his faith, their own relationship had flowered.
Facing Opechancanough, he stored the sweet memory away as his lengthy absence settled over him. Opechancanough bore a slight limp, and a jagged scar marred his naked side. From the English or a warring tribe?
Standing before such an assembly, Xander felt the weight of the Powhatans’ grim regard of the Tassantassas, the English. Though they feared the colonists’ guns and weapons, they found the settlers a helpless bunch, unclean and equally foul of temper, blindingly arrogant and greedy for gain, unable to provide for themselves and nearly starved out of existence early on. From an early age he’d purposed to be guilty of none of those things.
Hand straying to the precautionary pistol hidden in his pocket, he was unsure if he’d even survive this unexpected summons. Though he was able to speak with a certain freedom of expression, knowing their tongue, he was by no means fluent in all their ways. But to the headman’s every query, Xander had, in the past, given a truthful reply. He did not flatter or deal in deceit. Nor did he take sides. He had earned his name among them.
To his relief, he was seated as a guest and offered a pipe of tobacco, which was shared with the chief and his attendants. Only after the ritual smoking could any discussion ensue. Grateful to be off his feet and collect his thoughts, he found their leaf bitter, a far cry from Rose-n-Vale’s smooth sweetness.
Gradually the awkwardness of first arriving in camp abated. Opechancanough’s eyes narrowed with humor as he observed Jett sitting obediently at his master’s side. Powhatan curs were small hunting dogs, not pets, and were an unruly lot oft eaten during starving times. To see a sleek, well-fed English dog, obedient to his owner, was a startling sight. Even now most were warily regarding the giant greyhound, no doubt sensing he would defend his master at all costs. Or perhaps transform into a more frightening apparition at will.
“I bring gifts.” Xander gestured to his horse, which patiently bore his load beneath a willow oak. “I can provide more at your bidding, the best to be had from Tassantassas ships that come over the great water from the land of the English king.”
At the chief’s nod, he and Meihtawk began unpacking saddlebags, displaying the wares on corn-husk mats spread upon the ground for that purpose. A whisper of excitement stirred among the wives at the bright ribbons and sewing notions.
Opechancanough lingered with pleasure on the copper, though he seemed pleased enough at the variety and abundance of offerings. Yet all knew these were but a pittance, mere trinkets, meant to mollify at worst, promote peace at best. An expected gesture of goodwill.
“My desire is to reopen a path between our people.” Xander could state his aim no more simply than that. He could not help it if the men of James Towne had different motives, would mock his being here as a fool’s errand. He purposed to do what he could, the Lord guard his life. Never did he forget he had farmed Powhatan land, or what once had been.
“You speak and act from the heart and make me strong, True Word. And you will not be against what it is I have to tell you.” The chief stood and motioned for the proceedings to continue. “But first, we will feast.”
Heaping trays of roasted bear meat and venison, smoked fish, oysters and crab, birds of every feather, dried maize, and powcohiscara, a delicacy made from walnuts and other nut meats, soon surrounded him. Finally, a full two hours later, Xander tossed a bone Jett’s way. Sated, he could not help but feel he was being fattened for slaughter. At best, he needed fortifying ahead of the private, intense meeting to come.
Alone with the chief, Xander stifled a yawn. He’d long schooled himself to the Naturals’ unhurried rhythms and ponderous silences. In his youth while part of an English delegation, he’d witnessed one of the chief’s attendants slain on the spot for an untimely interruption, after which Opechancanough resumed speaking where he had left off. ’Twas a lesson not soon forgotten.
As usual, Opechancanough began with a recitation of the misdeeds done them by the Tassantassas since Mattachanna had died and the old alliance between them had again eroded. But even this trailed off into more personal matters. It seemed the chief’s grief for his favored daughter had given way to his interest in Oceanus, whom he had seen but once since his birth.
“And how is my daughter’s son, my grandson, who lives across the great water?”
The question struck an increasingly raw nerve. How could he honestly answer with so many leagues and lost time between them? “Last I heard, Oceanus is well and old enough to travel. I have written to his guardian to tell him the time has come to return him home.”
“Such is well and good.” A slight smile eased the chief’s weather-beaten features. “A boy should not be so far from the land of his birth lest he forget the old ways and the faces and customs of his people.”
On this they agreed. Overcome by a twist of pathos, Xander fixed his attention on the elaborately carved corner post of the chief’s dwelling. Yet it was Oceanus’s face he saw. A baby, not a boy. “Once he returns, I will bring him to see you here. Surely he has the look of his mother about him and perhaps you yourself.”
With a nod, Opechancanough’s warmth vanished. “Let us now speak again of other, more serious matters. My spies bring a bad report. Of late, we learn that the white chief, Harvey, attempts to sway the Susquehannock and lesser tribes to serve as guides in expeditions to make war on us.”
Spirits leaden, Xander listened, unsurprised at news of further scheming. “I keep no company with Harvey as I have decided to step down from the governor’s council. I know nothing firsthand.”
A long pause, filled with purling tobacco smoke and displeasure. “Yet surely you hear secondhand of the mischief the governor and his men make? Though you are not among them, their treachery knows no end.”
“I do know this . . .” Xander exhaled a wisp of smoke. “Beware of armed slavers sent to harm or capture any Naturals on the borders of English settlements, the tributaries foremost.”