Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  DANGEROUS

  DREAMS

  DANGEROUS

  DREAMS

  A Novel

  MIKE RHYNARD

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance or connection between actual persons, living or dead, and the incidents portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination, fictitious, and/or completely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Mike Rhynard

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2015913968

  ISBN: 9781517054847

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  ISBN: 1517054842

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  It’s done; and I thank the Lord of all for providing me, to whatever degree, the inspiration to conceive Dangerous Dreams and the perseverance to complete it. Next, I thank my most brutally honest and articulate critic—my wife Alida—for her persistent candor and patience over the entire course of the adventure. I also thank my family for politely suffering occasional neglect at the hands of Dangerous Dreams.

  On the technical side, I thank my incredibly diligent and thorough editor, Irene Chambers, for her gentle instillment of long-forgotten and never-known rules of grammar; and Peter O’Connor, my cover designer, for his uncanny ability to convert written thoughts into an intriguing and enticing graphic vision. In addition, I thank my friend Ed Cobleigh for sharing the lessons he learned while publishing his first two novels. And finally, I owe my grateful thanks to my test readers for their candid constructive criticism—Vic Andrews, Carol Buffington, Rita Hess, Saundra Hill, Jean Petersen, Josh Rhynard, Bob Varnum, Brendan Ward, and Nick Yanniello.

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD

  HISTORICAL PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  FOREWORD

  I, Allie O’Shay, was 22 when Father Time clanged us into the third millennium. I remember that time—not because of the new century, but because that’s when my dreams began, and I first discovered their wonder, their burden . . . and their danger. And if I’d known then what lay ahead, I would never have slept again.

  HISTORICAL

  PROLOGUE

  THE NEW WORLD

  The two English landing boats glided ashore in the timid bloom of morning’s first light. Eighteen men, faces and clothes heavy with sweat, stowed their oars, wiped their dripping brows. A man with gray, shoulder-length hair, a short, pointed beard, and a broad-brimmed hat leaped from the first boat, studied the wall of trees that stood like an impregnable rampart before him. He slowly, hesitantly cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello! Hello! ’Tis I. I’ve returned! Are you here? Hello! Hello!” Streams of sweat trickled down his cheeks through his beard, soaking the white shirt tucked loosely into the blousy pants that covered his tights from his waist to the tops of his thigh-length boots. A few others wore similar clothes, but most were soldiers who wore metal helmets and chest armor, held long, bulky muskets, and carried swords at their waists. All scanned the tree line with anxious eyes, waited for a reply.

  Each second of silence begot more frightened glances, more nervous shuffling of feet on the boats. A sudden, loud splash at the left side of the second boat aimed seventeen weapons and pairs of eyes at a soldier who had leaped overboard to relieve himself into the water with a long, satisfied sigh. Three others instantly did the same, while the remaining fourteen climbed into the water, pulled the boats ashore with a loud clamor of armor and weapons that drew an angry scowl from the leader. “Come, men, be at the ready.” He drew his sword, stepped briskly across the narrow shore to the forest wall and an overgrown trail, hacking at the branches and briars that guarded its entrance. The men drew swords, lifted muskets, followed warily behind.

  Thirty yards in, the leader suddenly stopped pointed at three barefoot human prints in the sand, and quickly wiped at the droplets of sweat streaming from his mustache into his beard. He waited for the men to look at the prints, then abruptly turned, resumed his march. The men glanced hesitantly at one another, then again trailed after him with dithering eyes and soft, uneasy whispers.

  A half minute later, a soldier in the middle of the line said, “Sir, look at this.” The leader stopped, turned, walked briskly back to the soldier, as others gathered around him. The man pointed at three, four-inch-high letters carved into the trunk of a large tree: CRO. “Sir, what does it mean?”

  The leader’s eyes misted, disappointment swept his face; but seconds later, his eyes sparkled briefly, a hint of a smile creased his lips; he nodded slowly. “It means they’re not here. They’ve gone to an island down the coast, and . . . and because there’s no cross beside the letters, they did not leave in distress. They’re safe.” He took a long, thoughtful breath, wrinkled his brow into a puzzled look that immediately deepened to concern. “They were to carve a cross next to their destination if they left in distress.” But, he wondered, why would they go there? He studied the letters, sniffled twice, processed a thought, then turned and resumed his march. “Step along men. We’re nearly there.”

  Moments later, he halted, expressionless, lips parted; scanned left-to-right, right-to-left, then back again, as if he couldn’t comprehend what lay before him. The company of men spilled into the clearing at his sides. No one spoke. There inside a palisade of ten-foot-high logs, gates agape, lay the remains of forty or so small grass-mat cottages—disassembled, laid flat on the ground, and overgrown by vines and brambles. Walking briskly to the closest gate, the leader leaned forward, studied a word carved into one of the posts.

  One of the soldiers asked, “What is it, Sir?”

  “ ’Tis the name of the island they went to. So let us survey what remains here and be on our way to them, forthwith. You four men over there”—he pointed at a cluster of soldiers—“set up a perimeter guard around us. There may be Savages about.” The four hurried out the largest gate, surrounded the fifty-foot clearing that encircled the log enclosure. The remaining men then scurried around inside and outside the palisades, searching the remains of the cottages and the grounds, probing the thick undergrowth beyond the clearing.

  An hour’s effort yielded several pigs of lead, a few bags of iron sacker-shot, four small cannon, and a few heavy tools and implements. They also discovered a number of open personal trunks sitting alongside the holes in which they had once been buried. The leader stepped to the trunks; a disgusted look suddenly distorted his face. “My God. Two of these are mine. Look here.” He plucked a sketchbook from one of the trunks, flipped through the pages. “These are my writings and drawings. Fie! Look how they’ve been despoiled—the Savages’ work. They’ve taken everything they valued and left the rest to rot in this wretched weather.” He shook his head, glanced around the grounds to survey what they’d found. He fingered his beard with his right hand, contemplated their findings. Why did they leave so many necessaries—trunks of personal belongings, cannon, shot—and never ret
urn for them? Perchance . . . perchance they left quickly, intended to return . . . but were unable. But why did they leave and not return? And why did they completely dismantle the cottages? Perchance . . .

  He turned to a soldier at his elbow. “Sergeant, collect your men. There’s no more to be done here; let us be away.” Impulsively glancing at the patch of darkening sky above the clearing, he noticed the lofty treetops swaying in the risen wind and thought how they looked like death’s gnarled fingers warning him away from the place. A sudden chill raced from his head to his shoulders, then down his back. “To the boats, men. Quickly! This storm’s caught us by surprise. Leave the trunks. If the sky looks this angry at the ship, the captain will certainly put out to sea to weather the storm—with us or without us. We’ll have to pull hard to reach them in time.” He stepped onto the pathway to the shore. “We’ll return for the trunks and go to the other island to find our people after the storm, perhaps on the morrow. Now quickly, men! To the boats!”

  After the short jog to the shore, they stepped hesitantly from the relative calm of the forest into a bludgeoning gale, which caused them to bend sharply into the wind to advance. At the shore, they quickly pushed the boats into the water, scrambled frantically aboard, and pulled on their oars with the desperate strength that only fear instills. The rain started—a light sprinkle at first, then a pummeling downpour that, with the wind and anguished water, tossed the boats like tiny sticks in a churning cauldron. The leader yelled, “Pull hard, men! Pull!” He clutched the prow of his boat. “Stay close! Pull, pull!”

  Chapter 1

  THREE YEARS EARLIER

  Hugh Tayler sat on the ground, used a short stick to scratch a crude image of a person in the sand. The figure wore a dress. He tried to keep his eyes on his work, but every few seconds his gaze drifted back to a petite young woman who sat ten yards away in the fog that enveloped him and the other forty or so people, many of them soldiers, waiting uneasily on the narrow shore. The girl listened intently to her father, Thomas Colman, and his friend, George Howe. Howe’s son, also George, a young man of seventeen, sat with them, staring at Tayler’s girl with admiring brown eyes, oblivious to the presence of other souls on the shore.

  Tayler was more discreet than the lad, but even a blind man could see God’s finest work in Emily Colman’s face and, with little imagination, in what lay concealed beneath her bulky red skirt and blue shirt. And when she occasionally glanced at him and smiled, his brain flushed, sent a warm glow sweeping through his body like a hot summer wind. No woman in England—and there had been many—had affected him that way, and he had no idea how to react. What was it that aroused him? Maybe the stunning visage of her blue eyes, long dark hair, full lips, rosy complexion, and beguiling smile; or perhaps the subtle, sensuous bounce of her step; or the way her every movement celebrated life. Probably the entire persona, he decided, but whatever it was, all of it accented her piercing eyes—eyes that at once melted his confidence, seemed to read his soul. He’d noticed she had the same effect on others, especially young Howe, who couldn’t take his eyes off her, and yes; whatever it was, it made women envious and men want to do what men do.

  He glanced at Emily again, wished young Howe, who was two years too young for her, would look elsewhere. Tayler had spoken with her several times on the ship from England, but never for long, and never in a manner that could develop the relationship he envisioned for the two of them. Her father had always been present, so he’d kept things on a formal level, which frustrated him immensely though her father believed him to be a man of means and substance, which would work in his favor in time. With 119 passengers, ship’s crew, small herds of goats and pigs, and a few chickens, milling around the deck or crammed into the hold, it was difficult to have a real conversation with anyone. The damned goats—Lord, how he hated their smell—reminded him of his unhappy youth. Even pigs were better, and if the goats all fell overboard or died quickly at the colony, he’d be a happy man. One day when no one was watching, he’d come close to throwing one overboard to feed the sharks that always trailed the vessel, but at the last second had thought better of it.

  He thought the fog had a spooky, foreboding feel to it, like the moors in southern England. He’d learned about those moors as a youth when he and a friend had wandered into their sinister grasp. Terrified of the evil he felt around him, he’d panicked; abandoned the younger lad; run blindly, aimlessly, erratically; saved himself. At the lad’s funeral, he’d lied to the parents, telling them he’d searched for their son for hours. Though he’d detested his actions, his cowardice had stuck with him like dried sap on a hairy arm ever since; but with the exception of a few people in England who only suspected the truth, it was his secret. Now, as he observed the uneasy eyes of those around him, most staring fearfully at the west side of the clearing where a murky, ghostlike wall of trees marked the edge of the decidedly intimidating forest, he realized he was not alone in his assessment of the fog. And the few who dared speak whispered so softly he couldn’t hear them, though seated but a few feet away.

  As Tayler ventured yet another glance at Emily, the sound of snapping branches ripped through the breathless fog like a musket shot, sent hands reaching for weapons, people to their feet; they huddled close together, faced the sound. As eerie as an apparition, four soldiers lunged from the mist, wearing ridged metal helmets and chest armor, swords at their sides, and muskets held diagonally across their chests. After halting and bending over to catch their breath, they stepped to an anxious but dignified-looking man with slightly gray, shoulder-length hair and a short, pointed beard. He wore a white, collared shirt and a tight-fitting gray jacket that constrained his modest paunch and matched his blousy pants, which covered the territory between his waist and thighs. Tall leather boots rose above his knees, and his left hand held a round-brimmed hat with a tall, circular crown. With an air of importance, he glanced around the group of colonists, then walked deeper into the fog to the edge of the forest, stopped, faced the four soldiers who’d followed him. Though barely visible to the people who watched from the clearing, he beckoned to a dark-skinned man, with black, shoulder-length hair, sitting with the civilians. “Manteo.” Manteo had the brown skin, dark eyes, and high cheekbones of a Savage but wore English clothing, which he meticulously brushed off as he rose, approached the important man, who immediately turned to one of the soldiers, whispered, “Pray tell, Lieutenant Waters, what did you find? Were they there?”

  Waters, a handsome, green-eyed, astute-looking young man with a sturdy build and fair hair hesitated, looked dubiously at his men, then spoke haltingly between rapid breaths. “Nay, Governor White . . . they were not.” White raised an index finger to his lips, looked at the people to make sure no one heard, then nodded at Waters to continue. Barely audible, Waters breathed his words. “We found but one; and . . . and . . . Sir, he was dead, long dead, in fact—nothing left but bones and armor . . . and a few strips of rotten flesh. Eight Savage arrows lay with his bones, and the skull was crushed into too many pieces to count, so . . . ”

  “Could you identify him? I have the names.” White bit his lower lip, squinted his eyes into a hard, expectant look. He’d feared something like this. A year was too long to leave so small a contingent in this place, this swirling nest of angry Savages. He assumed a despondent, defeated look and stared at the ground, as if expecting to find solace, perhaps even answers.

  “No, Sir.”

  “And no sign of the others?”

  All four shook their heads.

  “What of the structures, and the palisades?”

  “Cottages standing, Sir, but palisades mostly burned to the ground. They’ll be of little use to us . . . at least not until we do some major repair work and a lot of new construction.”

  White looked away, surveyed the people again. They’d congregated in small groups, spoke in hushed tones, while occasionally glancing his way. Already it begins. They’re waiting for me to tell them what we’ve found, what we’ll do n
ext. What can I tell them? What must I tell them? Why did I persuade Raleigh to make me Governor? I’m no leader, only an artist. A fool I was . . . thought I could do better than Lane, right the wrongs . . . No, Raleigh was the fool . . . for believing me. Yes, ’twas Raleigh’s fault.

  “Sir!” Lieutenant Waters touched White’s shoulder. White flinched then looked blankly, silently at him, seemed unaware of his presence. “Sir, what would you have us do?”

  White heard nothing; his spacey stare saw only the desperate churning of his own mind. Then, as if waking from a dream, he shook his head, motioned the soldiers and Manteo closer—so close they could feel each other’s breath. “You must keep this dead man to yourselves. If the people discover what the Savages have done, they’ll panic.” He looked into each man’s eyes. “I need not tell you what that would mean. Lieutenant Waters, how far is the dead man from the village?”

  “At least 200 yards. And the spot is well concealed by shrubs and trees. We found him only by accident. Sir, there may be others we didn’t find.”

  White looked into the forest; his mind swirled desperately for a course of action. Finally he said, “Go back to the site; bury the man and the arrows deep. Conceal the grave so none will discover it. I will speak to the people and tell them the fifteen soldiers have gone elsewhere or perchance been rescued by a passing ship. Again, you men must keep your silence on this. As you know, six of our women are wives or fiancées of these men, come to meet them. It will not go well if they think them dead. There’s nothing more unsettling than a weeping, shrieking woman. So off with you now. We’ll follow shortly. Be quick with your task.”

  Waters nodded. “Come, men.” The four turned, lifted their muskets, and trotted back into the forest.

  As White and Manteo stepped toward the people, Emily Colman whispered to young George Howe, “Well, George, it looks as if we’re about to know our fate.” George smiled, savored the rush he always felt when she looked at or spoke to him.