Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  He looked up at her, his slight smile still on his face. “Truly, we’re having difficulty finding something un-painful to—”

  “Good evening, Mistress Colman.” Hugh Tayler sat his lean but solid frame down on the other side of Emily. He had curly, dark, shoulder-length hair that framed a clean-shaven face with hawkish features, and the firelight lent a sparkle to his dark brown eyes as he smiled a deep smile at Emily.

  “Good evening, Master Tayler. Do you know my friend, George Howe?”

  “Why, yes. We met on the ship.” He nodded at George, who gave a slight nod in reply, then promptly returned his gaze to the ground, started drawing in the dirt with his finger.

  Emily said, “Master Tayler, do you always make such a sudden entrance?”

  Her directness unbalanced him. “Actually, no . . . I . . . I don’t. My apologies, Mistress.” She goes to the point, he thought, forthright and confident for her years.

  “ ’Tis George who warrants the apology.” She smiled, nodded at George, then back at Tayler, waited for him to speak.

  Tayler was astounded that at eight years her senior, he felt like a gawky school boy when she spoke to him, felt her eyes melt his self-assurance like butter in a hot summer sun. “Indeed! My apologies, Master Howe.”

  George nodded once but held his silence, continued doodling on the ground.

  “Are you hungry, Master Tayler?” Emily held out the bag of hardtack.

  “Why, no. But thank you. I merely wanted to see how you fared this day. A long day it was.” He shifted his gaze to Emily’s father and the elder Howe, who had just looked his way. He stood, said, “Good evening, good sirs. How fare you this night?”

  George Howe said, “Very well, given the conditions.” Howe was on the portly side of fit and, when standing, had to lean slightly forward to see his toes. His head was bald, and he looked like a plump monk as he rose and extended his hand to Tayler. “And you, Master Tayler?”

  Colman, who at six-one was the tallest man in the colony, did likewise. “Good evening, Master—”

  Governor White and Manteo approached the group. “Gentlemen, I’ll have a word with you, if you please.”

  Tayler nodded, said, “Governor, as you know, I heard your announcements a short while ago; so, with your leave . . . ?” He again nodded at White, then at Howe and Colman, looked at Emily. My God, she’s stunning. “Adieu, Mistress. Until tomorrow.” As Emily started to stand up, he stepped closer, extended his hand to assist her. He’d never touched her before, and when she accepted his invitation, the pleasing warmth of her hand spread through his mind and body like a drink of good brandy on a chilly day.

  “Adieu, Master Tayler.” She curtsied, watched him turn slowly, walk away, then glance back as he stepped into the darkness.

  White said, “The men have returned. We’ve a good supply of firewood and enough water to get us through the night. Still, I ask you to exercise restraint with both so all may share. Others will join us in the morning, and we’ll have to determine a proper assignment of dwellings and gather more supplies.”

  Colman said, “But what of the Chesapeake?”

  White paused. “I shall return to the ship on the pinnace in the morning when it delivers the next group, and I shall confront Fernandez about our plight here, inform him that since I’m the designated captain of the ship, and he’s but the pilot, his action is tantamount to mutiny. Trust me, friends. I will convince him to take us to Chesapeake. But meanwhile—”

  “And the Savages?” asked Howe.

  “We’ve guards posted around the perimeter. We’ll be safe enough for this night.” An uncomfortable twinge nibbled its way through his insides, made him wish he was in England, sitting by a warm fire, painting watercolors of his memories of earlier expeditions; not here, lying to people, trying to salvage an impossibly dangerous situation.

  Emily said, “Sir, what of the dead man the soldiers found this afternoon? Do you think the Savages killed him in retribution for Lane’s atrocities?”

  The firelight flickered on White’s suddenly blanched face. “How do you know of that, Mistress Colman? Who told you such things?” Anger then confusion flared on his face like a cup of whale oil tossed on a fire.

  Emily started to glance at Manteo, but a jab of caution held her eyes on White. Why did you ask that, stupid girl?

  White’s complexion grew redder; his look hardened; his nostrils, barely visible above his mustache, flared and collapsed with each breath. He glared at Emily, waited for her reply.

  Emily held her silence, cringed, knew she’d hear of her blunder from her father. She met White’s glare with a defensively bland, respectful look.

  The three men watched in disbelief as White leaned his head close to hers, whispered in a hissing tone, audible only to Emily, “Mistress, tell no one of this!”

  Across the narrow strip of water that separated the colonists from the main, a fifty-foot by thirty-foot, bark-covered lodge housed a small fire that cast dancing light on the faces of the twenty Savages who surrounded it in council. Most had clean-shaven heads, but for a narrow strip of two-inch-high, straight, vertical hair down the center; feathers and other objects adorned some of the heads. All were bare-chested, bare-legged and wore loincloths.

  One Savage looked different. The right side of his head was clean-shaven while the left was full-haired and long, pulled together and tied just above the left shoulder. Three narrow, striped feathers hung from the tie and down his back. He had an angry, fierce look and stared into the fire as the spokesman said, “. . . and our scouts have told us that another group of white men from across the big water has come. They carry the big sticks that make thunder, and Sees-the-Enemy felt the stone from one of these sticks fly by his ear like a bee. More of these people are on the big canoe floating beyond the narrow banks, on the big water.” He paused, momentarily looked at the ground then back at the warriors. “They have brought women this time, so I think they plan to stay. We must decide what to do about them.”

  The fierce-looking Savage with three feathers wasn’t listening. He was thinking about his wife and two sons. He’d mourned their loss for over a year before remarrying, had chosen another woman of his tribe, one whose husband, a close friend of his, had died in battle against the mountain tribes.

  The spokesman said, “We all remember what happened the last time they came: the killing, the sickness, the destruction.” He paused, looked at each man in turn. “It must not happen again. We cannot allow it to happen again. These are a crude, ruthless people without honor, and I have heard your wisdom on how we should deal with them. I have heard some say we must avoid them and perhaps move our village. Others counsel that we should attack them a few at a time until they become afraid and go away. And still others say we should rub them all out now before more come and they grow too strong.” His gaze again drifted from man to man; he nodded, studied each pair of eyes. When he had completed the circle, he said, “This is a grave matter, and I will think on it. But before I do,”—he nodded at the fierce-looking man—“I wish to hear the mind of Kills-Like-the-Panther, great warrior and principal counselor to Wahunsunacock, leader of our powerful allies to the north.

  The Panther severed his thoughts of the past, stood, took a deep breath then looked at the spokesman. In the same language but with a slight accent, he said, “I was with my wife and sons, trading with the Chowanoc, on the day the white men attacked and killed many of their people. My wife and both sons died that day after I was shot down by one of the big sticks that make thunder. I watched helplessly as three of them used my wife before killing her. I also saw many people in nearby villages die from the sickness the white men brought upon us. Great leader, I cannot tell you and your people what to do, for hate clouds my mind and does not allow me to see clearly what is best for your people. But for myself, I will fight and kill these intruders until they . . . or I . . . lie dead.”

  Chapter 2

  Allie awoke with a long, wide-mouthed yawn, follo
wed by a deep sigh.

  She then stared at the ceiling fan with a tight-lipped, meditative look. When she sat up, she dangled her legs over the side of the bed, scratched the back of her neck, then looked at the window across the room while leaning her head to the right like a dog trying to understand something. Strange dream. She stood, walked to the bathroom, and drank a cup of water. Wonder what it was about . . . who the people were . . . where they were . . . why I wasn’t in it . . . and . . . and why the hell I dreamed it in the first place. As a doctoral candidate in psychology, Allie questioned things of the mind, challenged their reality, and probed their origins to explore the murky world of the brain, the conscious, the subconscious, the unconscious; and, she concluded, her dream had been richly packed with substance for such investigations.

  She studied herself in the mirror. You’re a bitch, O’Shay! A good-looking bitch, but a bitch, nonetheless. She blinked her yellow-brown eyes, picked up a hand mirror, turned around, and, holding it up so she could see her back in the vanity mirror behind her, studied the small butterfly-shaped birthmark on the back of her neck. Itchy, kinda red this morning. She turned around, stared at herself in the wall mirror. You treated him like crap, Allie. Wasn’t fair. All he did was ask you to live with him, and you acted like he wanted you to be his whore for life. But that’s the trouble with guys today. You sleep with them once and they want you to do it all the time, on demand . . . no, I was right. Maybe the delivery sucked, but I was right. When she’d slept with him, it had been a slow, sensuous, exhausting experience, but satisfying as it had been, she wasn’t going to let it become an everyday occurrence. I really do want to be a halfway decent Catholic girl. But he really is a good guy, didn’t deserve that just for being normal. Maybe I should call him . . . no, better not. Then he’ll think I really love him and want to live with him. But I really do like him. Wonder what he’s thinking right now. Pissed, I’m sure . . . and rightfully so. Decent guys are hard to find, and he’s probably as decent as they get: good values, honest, genuine. You’re a dumbshit, O’Shay. Should call him . . . no, let it simmer. That’s what Dad always says. Never do anything immediately after a good fight, just let it sit, get rid of the emotion, think it through. That’s what I’ll do.

  She turned on her electric toothbrush, started guiding it around its circuit. Jeez, this thing’s noisy. She stared at herself in the mirror. Strange dream. Strange people. Who were they? Scenes from the dream tumbled in her mind like a handful of marbles being shaken in quart jar. When the toothbrush quit, she realized she’d held it in the same spot for the entire cycle. Idiot! She looked at her watch. Whoa! Gotta get outa here. Burnin’ daylight! That was her Dad’s favorite saying. As she splashed water on her face, dried it off, she wondered what he was doing that morning. Probably moving cows around, she thought, given they had a thousand of them on the ranch and had to rotate pastures all summer to properly utilize the grass without overgrazing it.

  She walked into the bedroom, pulled off the t-shirt and flannel pants she slept in, and exchanged them for a pair of shorts and a tank top. Her body was curved and nicely sized in all the right places, had an athlete’s lean tightness—like most small-town Montana girls, she’d played volleyball and basketball in high school. She’d excelled at both and kept her body in top shape; but at five-three and a hundred and ten pounds, she didn’t have the size for the college game in either sport. So she’d picked up soccer and quickly developed into a consistent scoring threat in the club league she played in. Now in grad school, she played with numerous ex-college players, all of whom said she could’ve been a standout on any team in the conference. As she slid her feet into a pair of sandals, her cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Toots. How’s it going?

  “Keepin’ up. Been real busy, lots goin’ on. How about you guys?”

  “We’re fine. Finishing up irrigating and fencing, moving cows around. You know the drill.”

  “Yeah, I do. Miss it a lot.” Growing up on the ranch, Allie had done it all: fed, calved, branded, castrated, fenced, vaccinated, irrigated, moved cattle, sprayed weeds, hayed, fixed machinery, pregnancy tested, weaned, plus all the unexpected stuff that popped up every day and immediately moved to the top of the do--now list. Seemed like every day was two steps forward and three steps back, but you never had time to get bored with any single job because the next season was inevitably just around the corner. And with the exception of winter feeding, which seemed to never end, it was always new, always fresh and exhilarating being outdoors, even smack dab in the middle of some of Mother Nature’s worst tantrums. Pulling a breech calf at twenty-five below was not a job for sissies, nor was it particularly fun, but it did give you a feeling of accomplishment and pride because it saved a mother and a baby, and at the same time preserved the ranch’s bottom line. But most importantly, only a handful of people in the whole world could do it.

  Yes, Allie missed it all. But with two older brothers, the oldest of which shared her passion for the ranch, the writing was on the wall. She couldn’t think of a daughter in their neck of the woods who had older brothers and was running a ranch, unless the brothers had no interest in ranching and the daughter was lucky enough to find a good, honest man willing to face the physical and mental challenges of ranching. So early on, Allie had resigned herself to the facts, made the decision to pursue higher education and a professional career. She had great relationships with both brothers and knew she’d always be welcome on the ranch if she wanted to be there, and this fact mitigated, to a tolerable degree, her disappointment at the inescapable realities of the O’Shay family ranch.

  “I know you do, Allie. You know, Mike and Ellie are doing a really great job, I mean, really great; but Dad and I sure miss you being here, even after five years. I know you’re busy, but I hope you can make it back more this summer. Hey, how’s Erik? He’s a nice kid. We sure enjoyed the dinner with you guys last week.”

  Allie saw Erik’s face, the fight, wished it hadn’t happened, and felt a bubble in her heart for the hurt she’d caused him.

  “Are you there, Hon?”

  “Oh . . . yeah, Mom, I’m here.” She took a deep breath. “Erik and I broke up last night. It was ugly.”

  “Oh, no. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No, not now. Hey, Mom, I’ve gotta git. Got a meeting with my dissertation adviser. I’ll tell you about Erik later, okay?”

  “Okay . . . are you alright?”

  “Yeah, Mom. I’m fine. Gotta go.”

  “Everything else okay?”

  “Yup . . . had a weird dream last night, but no big deal. Bye, Mom. Love you.”

  After a silence long enough to make Allie wonder what she was thinking about, her mother said, “Bye, Allie Girl, love you too.”

  Allie sat next to a stack of books in the university library. The meeting with her adviser had gone well—far better than expected, in fact. The adviser had approved her dissertation topic and approach, had even seemed genuinely interested in the subject. Apparently, she’d considered a closely related topic for her own dissertation, but in the end, had chosen an easier one. She’d always regretted her decision and had remained fascinated with the subject and its possibilities for taking clinical psychology to a new plateau. At one point in her career, she’d planned to take a sabbatical to delve into the topic, but the extended illness of one of her colleagues had precluded her being away, nipped her research aspirations in the bud. Thus, her genuine excitement over Allie’s choice showed in her delighted smile as she spewed out reference after reference that Allie might find useful in preparing for the challenge ahead.

  Allie, on the other hand, was less keen on her topic and clinical psychology in general, and her adviser’s experience of not being able to escape her teaching obligations to pursue research was another nail in the coffin of her growing distaste. In truth, she no longer had any interest in clinical psychology or teaching, so her dissertation topic was now irrele
vant. Both fields were too repetitious, too mundane for Allie. No, what excited Allie was the prospect of investigating the mind itself and its limitless capabilities, every day, creating and congealing theories, confirming or disproving them, discovering what’s really there. Sadly, she’d just figured this out and had already completed the bulk of her course work, mostly on the clinical side. The seminal event in her change of heart had been a guest lecture on the unexplored powers of the mind. It had focused on dreams, their source and meaning, and how they happen. Her takeaway was that the experts know next to diddly-squat about what goes on in the mind, and the rest is either unproven theory or so up-in-the-ether it’s too abstract and tenuous to congeal into even rudimentary theory. How neat, she’d thought, that’s what I want to do. But it was too late. Yeah, she thought, the dream part was really stimulating, but I can’t remember who the lecturer was. Dreams . . . dreams. Hmm . . . neat stuff. Who were those people? That girl was sure pretty, and for some strange reason, I felt close to her.

  Well, what the hell. Guess I better get on with this. She picked up the top book and opened it to the table of contents. This is gonna suck.

  Allie’s finger shook as she dialed Erik’s cell. She pushed the send button and a second later, the end button. Do I really want to do this? She took a deep breath. Yes, I owe it to him. She hit send twice, held the phone to her ear.

  After the fourth ring, Erik’s voice said, “Hi, this is Erik. Can’t talk right now, please leave a message.”

  Allie waited five seconds, then pushed end.

  Two hours later she tried the number again, heard the voicemail click on. Okay, what am I gonna say? “Hi, Erik, it’s Allie. Wish I wasn’t talking to your voicemail, but I guess you’re tied up . . . wanted to tell you I’ve felt really lousy all day . . . because of the way I treated you last night . . . and . . . and I’m sorry, really sorry . . . give me a call when you can. I’d like to tell you in person . . . bye.” So there! Done!