Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Suddenly, he heard shouts from the tree, saw that two axe men had come dangerously close together, and someone had yelled at them to reposition themselves farther apart. He shook off a fearful tremor and recalled a long-ago day when he and his best friend, Douglas Murray, both sixteen, had been doing exactly as the two axe men were doing today. Each of the friends had been paired with another partner, and the two pairs raced to see which could fell their tree the quickest. As he caught a quick breath, Waters had glanced at Douglas and his partner to see if they were ahead of, or behind, his own team. He saw that Douglas’ team was slightly ahead; but as he’d quickened his swing, a gnawing discomfort had rooted in his murky subconscious: Douglas and his left-handed partner were too close together, and their axe swings were within glancing range of each other’s legs. A moment later Douglas had screamed in agony as his partner’s axe glanced off the hard oak trunk into his thigh, sliced it to the bone. The three boys had knelt over Douglas, watched the blood spurt from his wound as he screamed, convulsed in wild agony. Partially unnerved, Waters had shouted at one lad to go for help, told the other to hold the leg, keep Douglas from thrashing. He’d pulled off his shirt, wrapped it tightly around the leg, but the blood immediately seeped through and under the wrap. Blood everywhere. He’d pulled the other boy’s blood-stained shirt from his back, wrapped a second bandage around the wound, again to no avail. As he’d wondered what to do next, the color had suddenly drained from Douglas’ face like water into sand. His convulsing had abruptly lessened, then stopped, as he lay still, eyes wide, locked in a vacant stare.

  Shaking the memory from his head, Waters pondered the fact that even though one of the colonists, John Jones, was a physician, there were scant medical supplies to deal with serious injuries, and so resolved to have none such on his watch. Thus when he saw the six women and two soldiers who guarded them approaching with buckets of water, he shouted to the work crews. “Come, men. Let’s have a rest. Find shade; drink and eat. We’ve a good start but a long way to go. Take your weapons with you to the shade.”

  Emily set one of her buckets down by the group of cutters, lifted her round-brimmed sunhat higher on her forehead. “Drink well, gentlemen.”

  Waters, who sat with the cutters, said, “Thank you, Mistress, you’re an angel . . . and not just for your kind deeds.” Waters had admired Emily from afar on the ship but refrained from approaching her when he’d seen how several of the male colonists eyed her. ’Twould be improper for the man-at-arms, commissioned to protect them, to compete with the colony’s civilians for the favor of such a lovely lady, at least under the current, dire circumstances.

  Emily blushed, sent Waters a quick smile. “You’re most kind, Lieutenant.” She nodded then carried her second bucket over to the transport crew which had found shade thirty yards away. Others in Waters’ group gratefully thanked her as she walked toward the transporters. She turned, acknowledged with another smile and a nod.

  As she approached the second group, the men gathered around her then dipped their wooden cups in the bucket. Tayler, who stood twenty feet away, his back to Emily as he leaned his musket against a tree, turned when he heard her name. He watched her, felt his heart quicken as she walked toward him.

  “Master Tayler, aren’t you thirsty?”

  He stared at her for a long moment; his already warm face grew warmer. “I’m thirstier than ever before in my life, Mistress, but I’d rather die of it than walk away from you at this moment.”

  Emily felt a pleasing twinge of embarrassment, smiled, instinctively looking at the ground without speaking.

  “Would you sit with me for a while in my parlor?” He pointed at the grass to his side, extended his other hand to hold hers.

  “Why thank you, Master Tayler, I’d enjoy that.” She held his hand, lowered herself to the grass, then spread her skirt like a fan over her quite-improperly crossed legs. When she removed her hat, her hair, which she’d stuffed up into the crown to keep her neck cooler, dropped down over her shoulders in an unkempt tangle that gave her a wild, primitive, sensuous look. She flipped it twice with her hands then settled her gaze on Tayler.

  He stared at her with a gawky, awestruck hint of a smile.

  “What amuses you, Sir?”

  He shook his head, studied her eyes, started to speak but stuttered twice before putting a sentence together. “Mistress Colman, you honor me . . . thank you for allowing me to converse with you . . . I’ve long hoped for the opportunity.”

  “Master Tayler . . .”

  “No. ’Tis true . . . and with your father’s permission—and, of course, your own—I would warmly savor more such opportunities.”

  “I would enjoy that, Master Tayler . . . you have my permission.” She smiled. “And, I’m quite certain, my father’s, as well. I only hope the urgencies of life here permit such moments. And how do those urgencies treat Master Tayler today?” She glanced at the nearby pile of posts.

  “Please call me Hugh.”

  She studied his face, thought how she enjoyed their quick dialogue, wanted more. “I shall. And you may call me Emily. English decorum does not fit here, does it?”

  He replied excitedly, as if pleased by her response. “Indeed, it does not seem so . . . and I shall call you Emily . . . Emily . . . but forgive me if habit forces me to call you Mistress on occasion.”

  Emily nodded advance forgiveness.

  “So, to answer your question, today’s urgencies have been brutal and inhuman for Hugh Tayler, breaking his back and dulling his mind.” He rubbed his sleeve across his brow. “I’ve never seen such humidity. Or heat. Devilish they are! Quickly destroy any enthusiasm a man has for manual labor. But your presence has markedly tempered their impact on Hugh Tayler.”

  With an inquisitive twinkle in her eyes, Emily said, “So hard labor is not for Hugh Tayler? I heard you were of the gentry, but . . .”

  “Mistress—I mean, Emily—” Another smile. “See, I told you. Anyway, ’tis true, I am of the gentry, but gentry are no strangers to hard work. A good master knows the toils and hardships demanded of his people, and there’s but one way to learn those lessons: experience them. And, sad to say, my father took his responsibilities in that regard quite seriously.” An abrupt, anguished look distorted his face; he looked away.

  Emily laid her hand on his shoulder. “Master Tayler—Hugh—are you . . .?”

  “Sorry. I rather lost myself for a moment . . . a bad thought. I’m afraid my childhood and ascent to manhood were not pleasant. I may be gentry, but as a third son, all that buys one is, perhaps, an education and a pat on the back when you walk out the door. I got the education . . . and some money . . . but not the pat on the back . . . I apologize. This is not what I thought to discuss and bore you with. But since I’ve already opened the door, I’ll close it quickly. My father was an evil, abusive man. Not just to me, but to everyone, including my mother, my brothers, and the people who worked their lives away under his overbearing hand. He’s long dead, and good riddance it is. My oldest brother now owns the estate, and the next brother in line is his manager . . . and I’m here . . . to build a life for myself . . . and for the family I someday hope to have.” He looked directly into her eyes.

  She felt a pang of sympathy, extended her hand, touched his cheek. “And what of your mother?”

  A damp mist covered his eyes; the shadow of anguish again swept his face. “She died when I was six, but we never discovered the cause . . . I missed her very much and for a long time . . . but that’s behind me now.” His heart felt like it was erupting in flames as he recalled finding his mother dead, hanging by her neck in her bedroom. He’d watched his father abuse her mentally and physically, watched him drive her insane; tried to stop him once and been severely beaten for his effort; knew she’d killed herself to escape him. After tying the rope to a ceiling beam, she’d stood on a stool, tied her hands together with her teeth and fingers, then kicked the stool away. He’d wrapped his arms around her legs, tried to lift her, scr
eamed for his father and brothers. When they’d finally rushed into the room, they’d stood still, staring without emotion at her cocked head and white face with its hollow, wide-eyed stare.

  “Hugh, I must quit asking questions. I always seem to find the worst ones to ask.”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” He blinked twice, started to wipe the wetness from his eyes, but seemed to think better of it. “So I understand from your father that your mother and young brother are still in England but will join you sometime in the future? You and your father must miss them a lot.”

  “Indeed.” Emily glimpsed a fleeting image of her mother as she slipped her hand into her pocket, squeezed her locket into her palm.

  “Well, you may miss them, but your father could not have a more efficient or attractive assistant than you, and I can see he appreciates you greatly.”

  “You flatter me, Master Tay—Hugh. I’m sorry.” A smile. “This is truly difficult for me.” She blushed. “I’m not used to addressing older men by their given names . . . but I shall become so.”

  He feigned injury. “Come now. Certainly I don’t qualify as an older man. But yes, you’re correct. I do flatter you. I want to flatter you. You’re most worthy of flattery.”

  Her blush deepened. “I’m not used to flattery either. It embarrasses me. And yes, you are an older man, much older than I. And we young damsels must be wary of who we talk to and how. An older man could take advantage of a young, naive damsel like me, lead her astray.” She smiled, thought how she enjoyed teasing him.

  “If you aren’t careful, I’ll call you Mistress Colman. So behave yourself, Mistress . . . I mean, Emily.” They both laughed again, stared into each other’s eyes. “Emily, your father told me you’re fluent in four languages. Is it true? I know about four words of French, and no Spanish or other language. You impress me again, Lady.”

  She wasn’t used to being called Lady either but liked the sound of it, liked the banter. “You will not woo me with flattery, Master Tayler. See, I beat you to it.” They held their smiles, studied each other’s faces, as if trying to discern the truths behind the eyes.

  “You have indeed, but can you say something to me in Spanish so I can see that you truly know it?”

  “Si, Señor, puedo. Es hora de volver al trabajo.”

  “What did you say? It sounded very serious.”

  “It was serious. I said, ‘Yes, Sir, I can. ’Tis time to return to work.’ ”

  He squinted, pressed his lips together, like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “No. We can’t go back to work yet. I’m just beginning to get to know you. I want to sit right here, or maybe hide with you in the forest, and do nothing but talk to you the rest of the day. The work can wait.”

  “The cutters are on their feet; Lieutenant Waters is about to speak, see him? He’ll come for you in a moment; he needs your strong back. And I must go for more water.” She started to climb to her feet.

  He stood first, held her hand as she rose. “I protest, Lady. I must have more time with you.” His smile gave way to an earnest, almost pleading look. “Emily, I mean what I just said. I do want to spend more time with you . . . much more time. Talking to you, just this small amount today, has enflamed my passion to know you well, to know your heart, your mind. Please say that you’ll allow me that pleasure.”

  Emily regarded him with an undecipherable look. “Hugh, I’ve greatly enjoyed our visit in your parlor and getting to know you, even for so short a time. So yes, we will spend more time together. I look forward to it.”

  Waters was on his feet, looking at the transport crew near Tayler and Emily. “Come, men. The day is fleeting. Let us—”

  A distant yet loud, unnerving shriek tore through the thick, humid air. All stood, looked toward the sound, waited.

  Waters said, “The stream.” Another shriek, more terrible than the first, then continuous wailing, like a chorus of banshees.

  Waters pulled his saber from the ground, slid it into its scabbard, quickly drew his wheel lock pistol—the only firearm in the colony that didn’t require a burning match for powder ignition. “You men”—he pointed at a cluster of six soldiers sitting nearby in the shade—“stay here. Guard these people. Civilians, gather over there.” He pointed at several piles of logs arranged in a loose circle. The shrieking persisted. People glanced at one another; all looked afraid, confused. “The rest of you men come with me. Now! At the quick time!” Fourteen soldiers sprinted across the clearing into the forest, toward the stream, where another group of water bearers had gone to refill their water buckets.

  When they arrived at the stream, they found four women gathered around the wailing woman, their arms around her waist and shoulders, trying to comfort her. The woman’s eyes focused two feet in front of her, where a decomposed body lay on the ground. A few tufts of red hair remained on the crushed skull, and five arrows lay amidst the bones. “My Jamie, my Jamie, dead. Nooo.”

  Waters gently eased the four women out of the way, stood in front of her, then slowly grasped her shoulders. “Madame . . . Madame.”

  The wailing continued; she twisted back and forth, trying to escape his grasp.

  He shook her, shook her again. “Madame, stop.”

  She wailed on, looked Waters in the eye but didn’t see him.

  “Madame.” The wailing unnerved him. As he held her fast with his left hand, he slapped her across the face with his right, then pulled her to his chest. He slowly relaxed his strong grip to a gentle embrace, softly caressed the back of her neck and head until only a quiet whimper remained. “Madame, is this your husband?”

  She spoke softly, hesitantly. “Yes.”

  “How do you know ’tis him? How can you identify him?’

  “He . . . he told me . . . before he left England . . . that he . . . that he was the only . . . the only redhead in . . . in the unit . . . I know ’tis him. What will become of me now? How will I . . .”

  He’d anticipated finding more dead men, feared the possibility. Now he regretted they hadn’t searched the entire area before allowing the people to go to the village, knew there’d be hell to pay for the governor. “We’ll care for you, Madame. Do not fear.” He looked at the other ladies. “Kindly help her back to the village. Then please care for her, calm her. Go to my cottage. You’ll find a flask of rum in my bag. Give her some; try to get her to sleep.” He motioned the women toward the village, then looked at the soldiers, who nervously shuffled their feet, glanced at the dead soldier, then the forest, then back at the soldier. “We’ll escort the ladies to the village. Then, Sergeant Myllet, bring a detail of eight men back here with shovels and bury this man. He died in Her Majesty’s service, and when the governor returns from the ship, we’ll have a proper military ceremony.” He leaned toward Myllet. “Sergeant, be vigilant, keep four men on guard while the others dig. I’m uneasy about this place.”

  “Aye, Sir. I feel it too.”

  They’d gone but fifty steps when Waters stopped, tapped Myllet on the shoulder, then pointed halfway between straight-ahead and full-right. “There . . . see them . . . about sixty yards away . . . just left of that big tree, behind the bush?”

  Myllet looked, raised his musket, and aimed at the two Savages who stood defiantly tall, in plain view, readied bows in hand. “I see them, Sir. Do you want me to fire a warning shot?”

  “I think not. There may be more, may be a trap . . . we need to get these women to the village quickly, prepare for an attack there; we don’t want to fight here. Keep five men; follow behind us at a slow pace; keep your sights on the Savages as long you can. Fix your weapons on them, but do not shoot unless they attack . . . just watch them. They know what our weapons can do, but they also know how long it takes to reload them. I repeat. Do not fire unless they attack.” Now it begins, thought Waters . . . now it begins. A sudden rush worked its way through his body, quickening his pulse, his breathing, exciting a previously unfelt exhilaration at the prospect of leading men in combat.

  “Und
erstand, Sir.”

  Waters held his gaze on the Savages until he lost sight of them behind the trees, but he could still see Myllet and the rear guard doing as he had ordered. Five minutes later and a hundred yards from the village, he finally lost sight of Myllet. A moment later, the colonists spied Waters and his group, immediately scrambled from the circle of logs and rushed toward him. They were halfway to him when the throaty sound of a musket shot rumbled from the forest near Myllet’s position, then two more. “Damn!” Waters’ mind flashed to White’s cautions about the Savages, wondered if Myllet had remembered. “Go back to the palisades! Get inside the circle of logs! Take cover! Go to the logs! Run! Now!”

  Chapter 4

  Allie looked at the clock, saw the big green 1:32 a.m. Hot, sweaty, anxious, she stared uncertainly at the ceiling fan. What’s going on with me . . . same people, three times, never happens . . . like a movie, not a dream . . . that girl’s really pretty.

  She yawned, rolled out of bed, walked to the bathroom, and drank a glass of water, yawned again. Birthmark’s itchy . . . wonder how Erik’s doing. Miss him. Nice work, O’Shay! She looked at herself in the mirror. Gotta sleep, busy day. Wonder what he’s doing right now. Probably asleep; it’s one thirty in the frickin’ morning. She walked clumsily back to the bed, slid under the comforter, then resumed watching the fan. Its motion quickly mesmerized her, relaxed her, helped her think and channel questions into the analytical software of her mind; but the questions remained unanswered, begot still more questions.