Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  As White raised his hands for silence, he wondered how he could explain the unexplainable, deceive those he was obliged to lead and protect? Like trusting children, eyes full of hope, they gathered around, six of them desperate to hear their loved ones were but a short walk away. “Friends, I have news. As you know, an English military colony, of which I was a member, inhabited this island from 1585 to 1586 under command of a soldier named Lane. And as many of you also know, shortly after the army contingent abandoned the island about a year ago, fifteen soldiers were left here by a passing English ship to hold the colony for Her Majesty. Retrieving these men was the sole purpose of our landing here. Unfortunately, our scouts searched the village for these men but were unable to find them. The village is long deserted.”

  Several women collapsed into tearful moans, their hands hiding their faces. White raised his voice; people glanced at one another, shadows of fear in their eyes. “I’ve dispatched the scouts to another part of the island to continue the search, and I’m most confident we’ll find them or . . . or learn where they’ve gone. I do not believe them to be in danger.” As the lie slid off his lips, his heart began to thump like an execution drum a second before the headsman’s axe falls.

  “Your Honor,” said a plain-looking woman, choking on stifled sobs, “I came here to be with my husband. I must find him. Pray, tell me how?” She began to wail, covered her face with her hands, and spun away from him.

  “We’ll find them, Madame. I promise—”

  “Governor White,” said a plump, unkempt man, “as we disembarked, the ship’s pilot told his seamen not to return us to the ship. Why? This is not our destination. What does he intend for us to do here? We were to settle in the Chesapeake, where you and Sir Walter Raleigh promised us each 500 acres . . . not here.”

  “I do not know why, Sir, but I shall—”

  “How do we know,” a finely dressed man said, “that the Savages didn’t murder those men and hide the bodies?”

  Sweat poured off White’s brow. “We . . . we don’t know . . . but . . . but I’m certain the men are—”

  “When will those who remain on the ship join us?” the unkempt man asked. “And what of our possessions? We’ve little food, no shelter, the day is late.” Grumbling spread like flames through a haystack.

  “I . . . I don’t know . . . I must return to the ship on the morrow and consult with Fernandez, understand his intent, persuade him.” Why did the bastard do this? We can’t survive here; he knows it, willfully condemns us. White slowed his racing mind, nurtured a maturing thought. Perchance he’s been bribed. . . . Yes, yes. Raleigh has enemies, and perhaps they . . . no, whatever the reason, we cannot remain here, must go on to Chesapeake, only sixteen leagues, an easy day’s sail. But where are the missing men? If only my love were alive, she’d know what to do. Damn Fernandez! “On the morrow, I shall talk to the pilot. . . . I must also confer with my Assistants when all are ashore. We will—”

  “And what of us this night?” the richly dressed man said. “Certainly, there are Savages here. Are they friendly?”

  That was the question White least wanted to hear. Pondering his response, he pulled on the tip of his mustache, glanced furtively at Manteo. “Yes, Master Cotsmur, there may indeed be Savages here, but as to their bearing toward us, I am ignorant.” He again glanced at Manteo, felt the sharp, searing burn of guilt from his second lie scorch his soul. He looked at Cotsmur. “However, it would be most prudent of us to be watchful for their presence.” Griping ceased, apprehensive eyes immediately watched the forest. “And as for food, we’ve enough for the night, and there’s abundant water. Our scouts inform me that many cottages from the earlier settlement remain intact, so we should make for the village without delay, gather firewood, collect water, post guards, prepare for the night. Now, maintain your weapons at the ready, and be watchful.” He turned, stepped briskly into the forest.

  The colonists stood like statues, seemingly undecided what to do. Hugh Tayler moved first, picked up his bag, and with a noticeable limp, trailed after White. Thomas and Emily Colman, then the Howes, followed close behind. “Come, friends,” said Tayler. “Let us be away with the Governor. We’ve little daylight left, and we dare not stay here.”

  Thomas Colman whispered to his daughter, “Tayler’s a natural leader, Em, don’t you agree? See how the people follow him. ’Tis excellent fortune that he seems interested in you, and I hope you’ll return that interest . . . with due propriety, of course.” He smiled a weak, mousy smile. Regardless of his intentions, most everything he said to his daughter came out wrong, invariably hit her confrontationally, and ignited her fiery spirit, with a prompt, snippy response the result. No, he’d never had his wife’s gift of easy, unprovocative communication with Emily, and this shortcoming both aggravated and wounded him. He knew it frustrated her, as well, but, though it was an ever-present irritant—one they’d learned to live with, and almost expect—both recognized it had little bearing on their deep love and commitment to one another and their family.

  Emily’s look was at first one of bored hopelessness, but it quickly became one of tenuously controlled anger, punctuated by the burning, venomous glare of her blue eyes. “I shall, Father. And yes, he does seem a leader, and witty, and a true gentleman, but don’t you think it a bit extraordinary for a father to expect his adult daughter to discuss such matters with him?” It was a statement, not a question, and she didn’t wait for a reply. “However, since you’ve already breeched my privacy, yes, I am attracted to him; and, Father, you don’t have to explain the proper dispensing of propriety to me. Mother taught me well.”

  Colman sighed, then said, “I’ve no doubt.” He knew he’d already crossed her boundary, decided not to retreat. “I also note that young Master Howe has—”

  Young George, wearing an uncertain, almost frightened look, positioned himself on the other side of Emily, unwittingly quashed her imminent eruption. As they entered the tunnel of trees that entombed the pathway, they kept a slow, deliberate pace, avoided anything that would make a sound, and tried to brush aside the clinging briars and underbrush that had overgrown it. No one spoke; jittery eyes searched the forest, the dense shroud of fog that enveloped them like a stifling, gray cocoon.

  A woman coughed. Those near her stopped, glared.

  George whispered something, but Emily didn’t hear. Her mind was on the wisp of a shadow she’d seen in her periphery near a large tree about twenty feet to the left of the trail. She stopped, fixed her eyes on the tree, felt a chill slither down her back like a thin, cold, slimy snake. George stopped, followed her gaze to the tree. She whispered, “I saw something by that tree, George . . . a shadow . . . a moving shadow . . . I think. But I see nothing now. Perhaps something’s hiding there . . . so hard to see in this fog, the dark shadows . . . perhaps an animal . . . perhaps a Savage. Shall we look?”

  “I think not. What if it is a Savage?”

  “Then let’s get some soldiers to do it.” Emily looked ahead and behind for a soldier; none were close. “Come, George. Let’s move on. I’m probably seeing things.”

  Sixty feet behind Emily, a soldier saw another wispy shadow, this time to the right of the trail. He stopped, raised his musket, pointed it at a thick bush. Two soldiers behind him stopped, did the same. After ten seconds, he said, “Nothing there,” but his eyes and musket remained fixed on the spot for another twenty seconds. He slowly lowered his musket, proceeded down the trail. “Come lads, let’s be along.”

  Shortly after the last Englishman had passed, two Savages crept silently onto the trail, nocked arrows in their bows, then followed them cautiously down the pathway.

  A minute later, John White stopped. Before him, in a fog-draped clearing, stood a small, lifeless village of grass-mat cottages surrounded by the charred remains of log palisades. Like a squadron of ghosts, the fog meandered silently through the cottages, as if asserting its right of ownership, warning intruders away. As others trickled into the clearing, White
took a step toward the village, listened, watched, took another step, listened again.

  The coughing woman coughed again; no one looked.

  How eerie it is, White thought, how different from the last time, with Lane and the soldiers. Oh, the wrongs done here, how they hang in the air, like the smoke of battle. How can we survive? So much wrong . . .

  A man shouted, “I see the house I want,” dashed forward to claim it. The others hesitated, then, as if in a foot race, charged ahead, darted from cottage to cottage like bees searching for nectar, laying claim, depositing belongings.

  “Stop! Stop!” yelled White. “There are more people to come. We cannot . . .”

  Two men standing in front of a cottage began shoving one another. “ ’Tis mine,” one said.

  “Nay, ’tis mine,” said the other. “I claimed it first. You can’t—”

  The chesty crackle of a discharging matchlock rippled through the heavy evening air.

  In the summer of year 2000, Allie O’Shay awoke with a start, breathed a long sigh as she stared at the ceiling fan’s spinning shadow above her, wondered why it looked like an oblong disc. She felt its cool breath glide softly over her face and body, rubbed her eyes, then consciously voided her mind. Her tangled, shoulder-length hair was lighter than brown but darker than blonde, and her half-open eyes begged for sleep. Was that a dream? Weird one, if it was . . . I wasn’t even in it . . . but it was real. Very real. She took a deep breath, rolled over, then hugged her pillow, squirmed into the inviting softness of the mattress. A feeling of well-being slowly flowed through her body as she drifted back toward the world of sleep. Suddenly, she lifted her head from the pillow, opened her eyes. Who were those people . . . way back in time . . . colonial times . . . strange . . . why . . .

  She lowered the side of her head to the pillow, focused her eyes on the window on the other side of the room, and grimaced as the memory of last night’s disaster with Erik wafted through her mind. Bad fight, ugly fight. She closed her eyes, saw his face, heard him pleading with her. Damn. It’s over, done. She immediately opened her eyes to escape the image, stared into the darkness, then squeezed conscious thought slowly from her mind, like sand falling within an hourglass. Tomorrow . . . think about it tomorrow . . . weird dream . . .

  “But, Sir,” said the young soldier, “ ’Twas a Savage. Even with the fog and shadows, I saw him . . . right over there.” He pointed at the tree line. “He was creeping toward me, I’m sure, Your Honor.”

  Jumpy boy, thought White. But the plausibility of the lad’s story crept relentlessly into his mind like a hungry weasel crawling cautiously into a rabbit hole, drew him back to Lane’s expedition—encounters with Savages, their stealth, their courage. He nodded. “Forsooth, young man. I believe you. I know these people.” He looked at Lieutenant Waters, who stood beside him. “Lieutenant, these Savages are crafty, different from any foe you’ve seen anywhere else. They know how to hide and use the terrain to approach unseen . . . until it’s too late. I’m no soldier, but I’ll tell you, you must never fire too soon because you probably won’t get a second shot. Wait until you have a clear, certain target, one you can’t miss. A Savage can shoot fifteen arrows in the minute it takes you to reload and prime that matchlock musket, and we don’t have enough men for volley fire. So be certain of a kill before you pull a trigger. You must teach this to your men, Lieutenant. Oh, I also suggest you place an archer or two, and perhaps a pikeman, in every contingent to diversify and balance your lethality.” My God, he thought with an invisible shudder, how desperately ill prepared we are. He imagined the starving, terrified colonists cowering behind the burning palisades, hundreds of screaming Savages shooting arrows into them, people crying, shouting, dying, blood all around; then the end: survivors bludgeoned to death by stone clubs, dismembered, brains and body parts scattered on the ground, women raped, taken captive to be wed and bred to uncivilized Savages. A wave of nausea rose to his throat. But if . . . if I can persuade Fernandez to take us north . . . then . . .

  “Yes, Sir,” said Waters.

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Before it’s completely dark, we must collect firewood and water. See to it then post a guard of at least six men around the inside of what remains of the palisades . . . and ensure they have a clear field of view and fire.”

  “But, Sir. My men aren’t laborers. They’re soldiers. The colonists can—”

  “Lieutenant Waters,” White looked sternly into his eyes, “I’m not sending unseasoned colonists into harm’s way. Not this night. You and your men are armed and trained for this.” He leaned his head closer to the Lieutenant’s. “You know what’s happened here, the dead soldier, the arrows. But these people know nothing, and they’re dangerously unprepared for this situation. You must—”

  “Sir, I protest.”

  “Those are my orders, Lieutenant. Carry them out. You must do your duty.”

  Waters stared uncertainly, reluctantly into White’s eyes for a long moment, knew he’d gone too far. Damned civilians. No business giving orders to men of arms. They’ll make a mess of it. Naïve fool . . . yet, my orders are to protect the colony . . . and the governor is the colony. “Yes, Sir.”

  He turned, spoke to his two sergeants who stood twenty feet away watching the exchange. “Myllet, Smith, take four men each. Myllet, your group will gather enough firewood to get us through the night. ’Tis warm, and there’s little to cook, so we only need enough to provide light. Smith, take your men and some buckets. Bring enough water to get us to sunrise. There’s a stream over there.” He pointed to other side of the village. “The one we saw earlier.” His voice faded to a whisper. “Near where we buried the dead man. Be wary. I believe there are Savages about . . . and, men, ’tis not I who directs you to do manual labor for civilians. The governor believes the circumstances warrant it. And we must obey him. So move out quickly.”

  As the grousing soldiers left the village, Emily Colman and her father had already started gathering firewood from around the cottage they and the Howes were sharing. The elder George Howe used his eating knife to scrape fog-dampened bark from a pile of dead sticks, then laid them one at a time in the shape of a cone next to a pile of fuzzy, dry tinder from the inside edge of several large pieces of bark.

  Young George said, “Father, I have my tinder box. Do you want it?”

  “Nay, Son. This dry bark will work. Save the good tinder for a wet day.” With a rapid scraping motion, Howe repeatedly chipped his knife across the piece of flint in his left hand, generated a stream of sparks that shot into the tinder, soon produced a glowing ember. He picked up the tinder ball, blew it gently into a flame, then laid it on the ground, placed the cone of kindling on top. “Wood gatherers, prithee deliver some larger wood to grow this flame. Looks like the fog will be with us all night, and we may need its warmth.”

  Emily and her father laid several larger pieces of wood on the fire. Colman said, “That should hold us until the soldiers return.”

  Emily sat down beside the fire, pulled a few chunks of hardtack from her tote bag. “Here, Father. We haven’t much left, but with fortune, we’ll soon have fresh fish and meat to eat. So why not celebrate our first night in the New World with a feast of foul-smelling hardtack? Come, Master Howe . . . both of you join us.” She smiled as she handed a piece to each man. “Father, did you bring any beer?”

  “Here.” Young George sat down beside Emily, handed her a goatskin of warm beer, which she promptly took a swig of and passed back.

  “Quite satisfying. Thank you, George.”

  George took a long pull, passed it to his father, who, with Thomas Colman, had seated himself beside them. The elder George Howe took the beer, passed a canteen of water to Colman. “Thomas, you’d best have some of this, too. And pass it around, if you will. We’d do well to acquire a strong taste for it, for the beer will soon be gone.”

  Emily pushed herself back another five feet from the fire, wiped a wide bead of sweat from her brow with her sleeve. She slid
her hand into her apron pocket, removed a black locket and held it to her cheek, then stared at the flickering tongues of fire, let her senses pull her mind inward to thoughts of her mother. Yes, Mother, we’re finally here, after three long months. We’re here . . . but here isn’t where it’s supposed to be. ’Tis where two previous expeditions were, where murder was done, where the Savages hate us more than death itself, where we can’t survive. How do I know? Because Manteo, the Savage who befriended me on the ship told me. He’s from an island near here and was taken to England by an earlier expedition and educated. Yes, I am afraid . . . but I won’t show it. I shall be brave, face what comes . . . as you would. I miss you so . . . young brother John, as well. I long for the day you join us, pray we’re alive when you do. She squeezed her locket, saw her mother’s gentle, smiling face in the blue and yellow flames. Oh, forgot to tell you: my good friend Elyoner, the governor’s daughter, will have her baby soon; and, though it’s against custom for an unwed woman to be present, I’m to be there and help. She’s four years older than I, but we’ve grown quite close . . . and she’s told me—

  “Emily, did you hear me?” Young George, who’d also pushed back from the fire, waved his hand up and down in front of her face.

  Emily blinked. “George . . . no . . . I’m sorry, I did not . . . was thinking of my mother and brother . . . how far away.”

  George lowered his gaze to the ground. “My mother’s been gone nearly three years . . . but I still miss her as if she’d died yesterday.” He snorted. “You know, Emily, I’ve never mentioned that to anyone . . . until now . . . to you.”

  She touched his cheek. “Forgive me, George, I’ve worsened your pain.”

  “No, Em. ’Tis always with me.” He closed his eyes, smiled as if savoring the soft warmth of her touch.

  “Well, I’m still sorry, for I know how you feel.” Her eyes saddened. “We lost my first brother to the Bloody Flux two years ago . . . twelve, he was.”