Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  At two thirty, Allie realized she was still awake, wide awake, far from sleep. She got out of bed, returned to the bathroom, and searched the top drawer for her Melatonin. “Damn it! Where is it? Know it’s here.” She checked two other drawers, slammed them closed. On the way out of the bathroom she remembered it was in her makeup kit. She found it, washed-down three pills, then returned to the bed. Forty-five minutes later, she still watched the fan, her mind seemingly spinning in sync with its rotation. “I’ll make them work!” She returned to the bathroom, downed three more Melatonin, crawled back into bed. Twenty minutes later, she slipped gracefully off the precipice of sleep, her thoughts trailing to oblivion behind her. Dreams . . . dreams . . . why . . .

  Two hundred miles to the northwest of the colonists, four Savages untied their travois from their waists, set about gathering firewood for the approaching night. One pulled a stick the length of his forearm from a deer-hide bag, then a flat chip of wood half the length of the stick and the width of a man’s hand. Next he removed a flat rock with a hole in it as wide as the fire stick diameter, then some tinder, which he laid around and inside a notch in the chip, adjacent to a hole that was also the diameter of the stick. Last came a short, bow-shaped stick with a loose piece of sinew attached to the ends. He looped the sinew around the fire stick and fitted the bottom into the friction hole in the chip, the top into the hole in the rock. He pressed heavily on the rock with his left hand while rapidly rotating the stick back and forth with his right hand until the friction generated smoke, then a glowing ember in the hole. He quickly laid the tinder on the ember, blew gently until it flamed, and placed it on the ground, adding several twigs, then some larger sticks, but not enough to generate a smoke column that might be seen by an enemy. Though their campsite was in a rocky, wooded, mountainous area that offered excellent concealment, they listened carefully and remained alert for any sound that might signal approaching danger.

  The cool mountain air was refreshing after a complete moon cycle of days in the low, hot river country; and they savored it as they sat around their modest fire, sipping water from their large animal-stomach bags and chewing pieces of dried venison. The climb up the mountains had been strenuous, as the large, furry robes they carried were twelve hands long and ten hands wide, and weighed as much as a rock that took both hands to lift and throw. Each man carried six such robes, a heavy load, but their expected reward would more than repay their effort. The coastal tribes prized the large hides for their winter warmth and summer softness, paid dearly for them with beautiful shells and jewelry crafted from the red stones found inland from the sea, as well as with an occasional pearl. The four would use their bounty for gifts and to trade for more wealth with others of their own tribe, far to the north in their land of many big waters.

  They had made good time paddling their canoes south down the Mother-of-All-Rivers, each man with his own canoe and load of robes, staying in the middle of the river to avoid enemies and stopping only after dark and in unpopulated, defensible spots on the shore. Each night they had taken turns standing guard, and all four had drunk enough water before sleeping to ensure the urge to urinate would wake them early enough to have them safely back on the water before daylight. But the level of effort demanded of them had dramatically increased when they reached the big river that flowed in on their left, for thereafter, they had to paddle upstream for many days. They had loaded all the robes into two canoes, which had then been towed behind the other two canoes, each of which carried two men. Finally, after paddling up another, smaller river that flowed in from their right, they had reached the place to leave the water and cross the mountains directly toward the rising sun. But before beginning their ascent, they had carefully hidden the canoes for the return trip and constructed their four travois, which had promptly reminded them that dragging a heavy load of hides up a steep mountainside was no easier than paddling upstream. So all four had been eager to reach the summit and begin the easy downhill drag to the flatter land on the other side, and thence across it to the Great-Water-That-Cannot-Be-Drunk. Thus, when they had finally crossed the summit, their spirits had risen accordingly, as evidenced in more-frequent smiles and lighter conversation.

  The four men did not look or dress like the coastal people. All had full heads of long black hair that hung behind their shoulders to their waists and wore nothing but thin leather loincloths and rugged leather moccasins. But one looked different from the others. He had a smaller, straighter nose and less-prominent cheekbones and wore five white, black-tipped eagle feathers that protruded to the right in the shape of a fan behind his head. His dark eyes had a sharp depth to them that made them look like they could see inside a man’s soul, read its contents; while his occasional wry smiles revealed a quiet confidence and easy humor that belied the fact that the exhilaration of battle and the hunt supplanted all else in his demeanor—possessed him, filled him with the fierce, unshakeable fixation of a dangerous predator. He was a handsome man by any standard, and the others treated him with a soft deference that showed him to be their leader.

  Thomas and Emily Colman stood outside the cottage they shared with the Howes, swatted at the mosquitoes whining endlessly around them. As the sun approached the horizon, a dull gray slowly infiltrated the daylight and consumed it into darkness, bringing an imagined coolness to the air; but it did nothing to diminish the stifling humidity that draped itself like a heavy, wet, impenetrable blanket over every living thing. Thomas Colman said, “We saw you sitting with Master Tayler this afternoon while we were here working on the cottage. Both of you were smiling, so the conversation must have been agreeable?” She didn’t reply, so he continued. “Unfortunately, young George noticed, as well, kept looking over at you. He’s rather infatuated with you, you know.”

  “Oh?” It annoyed her that he mentioned George, had to state the obvious—the obvious being something she didn’t want to hear, and this particular obvious filling her with guilt. She knew seeing her with Tayler would have bothered George immensely, probably even hurt him; but now it bothered her, made her ache for any pain she’d caused him, frustrated her because she cared deeply for George but knew she’d someday have to rebuff his infatuation. The conflict tortured her, burned inside her.

  “So was it an agreeable discourse?”

  “Aye, Father. ’Twas agreeable . . . do you have to know everything? He’s interesting, charming, and as clever a wit as I suspected. I like him, and I’ll see him again, probably often. He’ll soon be asking your permission. I’ve already given mine.” He doesn’t need to know the family background, she thought. None of his business. Between Hugh and me.

  Though he was well used to her sharp responses, they always took him by surprise, set him back a step or two. “I see. A little improper . . . he should have come to me first . . . but—”

  “Father, don’t be so stuffy. We’re not in London, and this isn’t exactly a civilized place. I don’t know why you think that way. ’Tis silly.”

  “Come now, Em, some things are core to our culture and shouldn’t be discarded just because we’re suddenly in the wild. There’s a thin line between civilization and savagery, and we need to be mindful of it, keep ourselves on the proper side of the line or risk falling backward . . . I suppose you’re already calling each other by your first names?”

  “Of course.” She knew he was right about civilization but resented his fixation on decorum, his intrusion into her personal life; so she replied in her favorite snippy way, the one that always annoyed him. She smiled inside as she recalled the times he’d pressed her too hard about young men who’d fancied her and to whom she’d been attracted. Rather than tolerate his probing and lecturing, she’d simply closed her lips, then sneaked out of the house late at night and met the lads elsewhere, though one time her risky brashness had nearly cost her virginity—most precious of her possessions, the prize she’d protect at all costs for the man she’d someday marry. Only her quick mind and quick feet had saved her. With a conti
nuous stream of suitors—some young, some older; some true, some not so true—she’d developed a keen ability to read people’s sincerity like a manuscript, could usually discern a devious intention from only a few words and an unguarded look. Those people—the ones who thought you were too stupid to know what they were trying to do—were the ones she detested most in the world; and because she could see through them in seconds, she didn’t need her father’s well-intentioned, but annoying, injection of laborious English propriety into every situation. Nonetheless, she regretted her abrupt, but seemingly uncontrollable rudeness to him, wished she could hold her tongue, treat him more respectfully, but she could never seem to resist the temptation to jab him with a verbal barb when he crossed her imaginary line. No one else had that effect on her, and it saddened her that her father, whom she loved with all her heart, had to be the only person in the world who could so quickly and unwittingly provoke her. When she thought about it, she realized that the problem was her own intolerant brashness; that she was predisposed to misinterpreting, and overreacting to, whatever he said; that she alone was responsible for making the caring, respectful relationship they both desired so difficult to achieve. She wished her mother were here; she always knew how to calm things, suppress the fiery emotions, and get them to communicate like normal people.

  Colman continued, “Well, I am impressed with the man. And he seemed to work hard today. I believe he’ll prosper here if anyone does. So, since you wish it, I shall give my permission for him to visit you.” He looked away for a moment, then back at Emily. “ Em, I . . . I love you, my daughter . . . and I wish you and I could . . .” He shook his head, finished his sentence with a warm hug that communicated what he was trying to say.

  She replied with her own hug, leaned her head against his chest. “Father, I love you too. I hate it when I’m short with you.”

  After they’d savored the embrace for a moment, he asked, “How’s Elyoner? I heard she was down with the morning sickness. Did you see her?”

  “Aye. She’s miserable, indeed, and quite ready for the little rascal to show itself, tired of puking all day. The heat makes it worse.”

  “Poor girl. She’s quite huge, don’t you think? I don’t remember your mother ever being that big.”

  “I’m not the one to ask, but she herself thinks ’tis so, though she says the size of the mother’s belly has naught to do with the size of the child.”

  “Indeed.” He glanced at John White’s cottage on the other side of the village. “I understand the governor returned from the ship with a foul countenance. Seems he made no headway with Fernandez, and then learning of the Savages lurking about, threatening the soldiers made it worse. And, of course, there was the second dead man. Unfortunate woman, finding her husband like that. My God, I can’t imagine how she felt, how shocked. Then about forty people cornered him, screamed at him about deceiving us and leading us into danger and certain death. He was quite flustered by the time it was over, called a meeting of the twelve Assistants for tomorrow morning. I’m sure George will relay whatever transpires; should be a vicious gathering with all that’s happened, and I shall be eager to hear about it. Perhaps you were right in challenging him about the first dead man. He does seem to keep secrets, which I find disconcerting, though I understand his concerns about panicking the colony. I must say, I’m mildly worried about our chances here myself . . . and there could be far more to fear than we yet know.”

  Indeed there is, thought Emily. “I believe you’re right, Father. But we must—”

  The Howes emerged from the cottage, each holding a candle. The elder George said, “Thomas, I’m ready. Good meal . . . I jest, ’twas awful. Let’s find Roger Baylye and see what he can tell us of the day’s events.”

  Colman kissed Emily on the forehead, walked off behind Howe.

  Young George gawked at Emily with a look that said he yearned to kiss her, as well. “It’s too hot in there. Shall we sit out here and fight the mosquitoes for a while?”

  “Of course.” She sat herself on the ground, swiped at the mosquito that had repeatedly attacked her for the last two minutes. “You made good progress on the cottage today. Already feels like home.” She exhaled with a cynical, unladylike snort. “Pardon my sarcasm, George. Where did you find the reeds?”

  “Down by the water, over there.” He pointed south. “About a third of a league. We went with three other groups and some soldiers . . . always with soldiers. Father wants to go back there tomorrow, but not for reeds. He saw hordes of crabs, says it’s a perfect spot. He should know: they’re his favorite food, even over mussels. We used to crab a lot before my mother died, but . . .”

  “Well, crabs sound a far sight better than hardtack. I hope he has a bountiful catch.”

  “He will. How’s Master Tayler today?”

  She mildly resented his query, gave him a bored look, then thought how his look betrayed his pain. “He’s fine, George.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “George, that’s not a proper question. Of course, I like him. I like you, as well. But a girl can’t go around explaining how she feels every time she talks to someone. ’Tis not—”

  “Sorry, sorry. You’re right.”

  Emily felt his anguish, considered telling him now that their relationship was but a friendship, could never be a romance, but decided against it. That discussion would come in a different setting, on a different day. “George, don’t you know how much I value your friendship? Let’s not let anything interfere with that.”

  “I understand, Em . . . guess we should talk about something else, eh?”

  She nodded, gave him a soft, sympathetic smile, touched his hand.

  He laid his other hand over hers, his soft smile signaling the warmth he felt flowing up his arms to his heart. “Very well. I heard about the second dead man.” He paused, stared into her eyes. “You know a lot about what happened here with the earlier expedition don’t you?”

  Careful, Em. “A little.”

  “Can you tell me? I keep hearing little undertones from the men I talk to . . . only rumors, mind you, but unsettling rumors.” He paused for her to speak, but she held her silence. “They said the soldiers who were here before us committed atrocities against the Savages, that they hate us and mean to kill us if we stay. Is that true?”

  In half a second, she realized the events of the previous expedition would soon be common knowledge, saw no reason to hide them from George, or anyone else, any longer. Through no fault of his own, Governor White had led them into this situation; and if they were to survive, they had to know what they faced. “ ’Tis so, George. Only Manteo, Governor White, and two others know these things . . . because they were here. And as you’ve probably guessed, since Manteo and I talked a lot on the ship, he’s the one who told me what happened. He’s a good, honest man and my friend, as well. So to begin, a soldier named Lane, whose name you’ve heard from Governor White, commanded the one hundred soldiers who were here and built the cottages and old palisades. They seem to have been a more savage lot than the Savages themselves, for they burned several villages and murdered many people along the river west of here, took prisoners, as well. Manteo said they were brutal and merciless. Well, there were Savages here on this island at that time, and they were friendly to Lane’s men at first: taught them how to raise corn and hunt and fish. But the soldiers grew lazy and didn’t want to work. They wanted the Savages to feed them and do everything for them, wanted them to be slaves. And as you might guess, the Savages would have none of it and soon came to hate them. Lane knew of their displeasure and suspected they were planning to attack; so he attacked them first and killed several, including their leader. They cut off his head and stuck it on a pole in the center of the village to rot, like they do at home when someone falls from grace or commits treason. Then—”

  “Are they still here . . . on the island?”

  “No.”

  George relaxed his taut look.

  “But they’re
right over there”—she pointed west—“across that little neck of water between us and the main. And over there is not very far from right here. Those two Savages the soldiers shot at today were probably from there. ’Tis but a short canoe trip, and that’s why we’re at great risk, especially without a good place to defend ourselves. They hate us for what Lane did and would have us dead or gone.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Indeed, I am. I’ve never had anyone try to kill me before. But fear doesn’t help anything; only being vigilant and prepared will help. We need to defend ourselves or leave, like the 15 men did . . . well, now 13 men . . . if they escaped. Life would be much simpler, of course, if the governor convinced Fernandez to take us north to the Chesapeake, where we belong, where the Savages are friendly. But the soldiers can’t get back on the boat, so there are no means of persuasion; thus, all we can do is hope the governor and the Assistants, like your father, can figure a way to avoid or deal with the danger. At least we have a standing village of sorts and a start on some palisades. And if they leave the pinnace and a shallop or two with us, as rumored, we could even sail and row ourselves up the coast to Chesapeake . . . ’tis only about sixteen leagues. There’s even talk of moving into the main in the spring, but that’s toward some of the tribes Lane brutalized, and I don’t think I like that idea.”

  After a long silence mostly spent swatting mosquitoes, George picked up a couple pebbles, tossed them into the darkness. “Emily, I’d not tell this to anyone but you; but since my mother died, I’ve sensed a dreadful evil stalking Father and me. This place makes it worse.”

  “George! Stop the gloomy talk. Nothing will happen to you and your father. We’ve soldiers to protect us, and . . . and things are gloomy enough. Don’t make it worse with such thoughts. Now cheer yourself.” She held his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Know that I care deeply for you and your father.”