Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  That evening, Allie met her former roommate, Andrea, for a couple beers and pizza. Andrea, who now lived with her boyfriend, mentioned that she’d run into Erik and he’d looked quite dejected; she wondered what was up with the two of them. Allie’s eyes teared as she told Andrea what had happened, how she missed him, thought she’d made a mistake.

  Andrea replied, “Oh, Allie. I’m sorry. That really sucks. You must feel awful. Have you thought about telling him how you feel . . . maybe not right now, but in a week or so? He’s really a good guy, and I think—”

  “Already have. He’s pissed. Needs to chill. So do I . . . do some thinking.”

  Later Allie sat at her desk, eyes welling with tears; thought how she missed Erik, how she’d made a mess of things; then decided it was for the better, for the moment anyway. Andrea and Thomas had been different: they’d decided at the same time that they were in love and wanted to live together, talked about getting married in a year or so. Funny, she thought, the thought of Thomas’ name gave me a twinge for some reason . . . not for him but for someone else with that name. Who? Don’t know another Thomas . . . or do I? She thought for a moment, broached a sudden smile. That’s right! One of them was a Thomas . . . the girl’s father. This is crazy. How can I remember that?

  She visualized them outside their house, talking, hugging each other. They’d had a little fight. She shook her head. She’s a brash one . . . but gentle and kind. She saw the girl reading her mother’s letter in the candlelight, crying, holding her black locket. Damn! How can this be? You can’t remember stuff like this. What was her name? It ends in y. Eh . . . Eh . . . Em . . . Emily. That’s it. Emily . . . Emily what? Co . . . Co . . . Cole . . . Coleman. Yes! Thomas and Emily Coleman. Then she talked to the older guy, the one who died. She took a quick breath. Fear, compassion, sadness at once flooded her mind. He and his son . . . same name. Heard it a bunch. The son loves Emily. How can I know that? Jo . . . Jor . . . George. George . . . H something. Master H-something . . . h-a . . . ha . . . h-e . . . he. No. h-i. No. h-o . . . ho . . . sounds kinda like that, but different . . . ho-oooh . . . haow . . . how . . . Howe! That’s it. George Howe.

  Damn it! Who are these people? What are they to me? Why am I dreaming about them? It’s nuts! In my mind, more and more, like when I saw Braveheart freshman year . . . stuck with me forever . . . such an emotional story, took months to go away. Always in my mind . . . like now. But I don’t want to dream about this anymore . . . it’s bad, scary, and more bad’s gonna happen . . . feel it . . . don’t want to see it.

  She composed herself, closed her eyes, forced herself to relax. Emily . . . really pretty . . . not glamorous beautiful, not prissy or aloof, just striking . . . unbelievably striking. And that older guy—and young George—thought so too, couldn’t take his eyes off her. They talked . . . he’s putting the press on her . . . way older, more mature than George . . . had a tough life. How can I remember this? Not right! What’s his name? Starts with a T. She went to a website of English surnames, checked the T’s. There it is: Tayler. Hmm. Funny spelling. How about the first name? Can’t remember. Wasn’t a vowel. Wasn’t a common name either. She brought up a list of English first names, started with the A’s, was almost through the H’s. “Aha! That’s it: Hugh. Hugh Tayler. Wow! This is impossible!”

  She stared at the desktop, tried to recapture an elusive thought that had teased her mind a second before. What was it . . . what was it? I know! Where the hell are these people? Heard a place name bedsides England. What was it? Heard it a couple times. Not where they are but where they’re supposed to be, where they want to be . . . maybe. Damn it! What was it? Hard sound . . . like chih . . . chah . . . cheh. Yeah, like that. Cheh something. Hell, I don’t know . . . but I’m sure it was a ch sound. She opened an online encyclopedia, typed in che. The closest suggestion to what she remembered was cheese. Sounded kinda like that, but not quite. Maybe ches. She typed in ches. Chesapeake was at the top of the list. That’s it! Chesapeake! “Oh my God! It’s a real place.” Allie’s phone rang. Damn! “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Allie Girl. You sound excited.”

  “I am. Real excited. I just found out something really cool.” Slow down, Allie. “Actually, it’s sorta complicated . . .”

  “Something to do with your dissertation? Not surprised. Learning new things has always turned you on.”

  “Yeah. It’s about the dissertation. But I’ll tell you about it next time we get together . . . when I can lay it out on a piece of paper for you . . . pretty cool stuff. So how’s Dad? And the bro’s?”

  “All doing great. Had a bunch of sick calves the last few weeks, but we’re keeping up with the doctoring so far . . . knocking on wood. Been plenty wet, which is wonderful . . . had a few gnarly cattle drives because of it, but you know the rule.”

  “Yes, I do. Never complain about moisture no matter how miserable you are.” Allie thought of her trail drive from hell when she was thirteen: big cow-calf herd, twelve miles uphill, temperature near freezing, alternately pouring rain and snowing all day—no letup, two layers of rain gear and chinks soaked through, shaking with onset hypothermia, hands too cold and wet to feel the reins, feet too cold and wet to feel the stirrups, never-ending. Just keep going, she’d told herself, be there soon, keep going, keep going, come on cows, move it out . . . “So what’s up? I’ve been really busy.”

  “Well, you never called to tell me about Erik, and . . . well, I’ve been a little curious . . . but only if you want to talk about it. Don’t want to pry.”

  Allie felt a pinch in her heart that now accompanied thoughts of Erik. “Not much to say, Mom. Had a helluva big fight . . . doesn’t matter what about; you know me, fight to the death, take no prisoners. That’s pretty much how it was. So we’re not together anymore . . . at least not for a while. Sucks, big time.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Of course, I miss him! Sorry, didn’t mean to snap. I’m pretty sure I was falling in love with him, maybe still am. He’s a neat guy. I mean, you’ve only met him a couple of times, but he’s really a good man: great values, honest, kind, even gentlemanly, which is rare these days.” Tiny tears trickled onto her cheeks. “We may get back together . . . too soon to tell; but I know he feels the same about me, so maybe we have a chance. Need to give it some time. We’ll see.”

  “Well, that’s the best thing to do. If it’s meant to be, it’ll find a way to happen. Dad and I had a few false starts before we got it together. You’re an awesome gal, Allie, and if it doesn’t work out, it ain’t the end of the world. Just a temporary setback. So how’s everything else?”

  Allie wondered if she should tell her about the dreams.

  “Last time we talked you said something about a weird dream. Had anymore?” Her tone reflected more than casual interest.

  “Why do you ask, Mom?”

  “Oh, just curious. That’s all.”

  “Well . . . yeah . . . I have . . . several, in fact. Kinda confused about them, too . . . really strange . . . unlike any dreams I’ve ever had before.” Allie could feel her mother thinking through the phone, knew the silence meant she was onto something, trying to figure it out, deciding what to say, thinking, thinking, knew more than she’d tell. What does she know? Shouldn’t have said anything.

  After a long silence, her mother spoke. “Allie, I . . . I was thinking about coming . . . coming over to visit you in a few days. Got time?”

  Sounds worried. “Sure, Mom, but what’s wrong? You sound real serious. Someone die? Hurt? What’s going on? Is it Petey?”

  “No, nothing like that. Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you. Petey’s fine. Just rode him yesterday.”

  “Well . . . you sound really worried.” She waited for a response that didn’t come.

  Nancy O’Shay wondered if it could be . . . if Allie was the one. It was certainly the right timing, if Great-Grandma’s stories were true. But maybe the stories weren’t true; maybe they were just kid stories, stories an old, old woman told a
little girl. “No, not to worry. Everything’s fine. Just want to see your cheery face and have a good visit.”

  “Jeez, Mom, it doesn’t matter what you say now; you’ve got me all worked up, and I know there’s something you’re not telling me. I hear it in your voice.”

  Long silence. “Allie, sorry if I sound weird, but you’re getting yourself all stoked up about nothing. Honestly, Hon, everything’s okay. So would Tuesday work?”

  “Sure, Mom, Tuesday’s fine. But don’t do this to me. You’re pissing me off. What’s going on? It’s about my dreams, isn’t it? You know something, and you’re not telling me.”

  “Allie, it’s . . . it’s . . . wait a sec! Dad’s calling me. Needs me, right now! Gotta go. See you Tuesday.” The phone went dead.

  “Jeez. Now what?”

  Chapter 6

  Emily sat on a canvas tarp on the floor beside George, her knees pulled up beneath her chin, silently watched him in the shadowy light of the cottage. Her feet were bare, and she wore only her linen smock with the front untied and open to the top of her breasts. The faint light of two nearby candles flickered on her face like a miniature aurora. George sat cross-legged, hands in his lap, back slightly hunched, staring without expression or sound at the dark wall by the doorway. Emily grasped George’s hand, studied his face with misty, empathetic eyes. My poor, poor friend, how my heart cries for you. Such a man, such a father. I must help you; somehow I must help you. “Hear me, George, answer me.” She rubbed her eyes then closed them. Lord, please tell me what to do.

  Then, like a leaf floating slowly but inevitably down a meandering stream, Emily’s mind drifted back to the terror of that horrible night: she and George had been in the cottage, cringing at the frequent crashes of nearby thunder, water pouring through the unfinished roof, drenching them in spite of the small canvas tarps they held over their heads. The other crabbers had noticed George Howe missing just before dusk when the storm broke, and most of the men in the colony were still out searching, calling for him. Fearing the worst, John White had ordered young George to stay behind, which had sat poorly with him. He had been unable to calm himself, worn a pale, frightened look that revealed unspeakable fears. Finally, he had stood, said, “ Em, I must go,” then walked out the door. Emily had raced into the downpour behind him, called futilely to him to stay, then shaken her head and jogged after him.

  The heavy rain had thickened the deepening darkness to an opaque curtain in every direction, forcing them to keep a slow, cautious pace as they started down the trail the search party had taken. They had gone but a hundred yards when they heard voices, saw a glimmer of dim torchlight ahead, quickened their pace. Two minutes later they had encountered a group of men with torches, seen that several at the rear carried a tarp with something heavy in it. The men had stopped as George and Emily approached; a flash of lightning had illuminated Thomas Colman’s pallid face. “George, go back.”

  Emily had grabbed his arm with both hands. “George, don’t go there.”

  He had pulled away, moved forward into Colman’s waiting grasp, twisted free, shoved his way through the men to the tarp, which now lay on the ground. There in the mud and rain, the faltering torchlight had illuminated a man with an unrecognizable, crushed, bloody head, his body riddled with arrows. His clothes had identified him as George Howe.

  Emily had turned away, stepped into the brush, retched. Young George had momentarily stared down at his father in grim silence then fallen into the catatonic state that had gripped him like a vice ever since. He had stared at his father’s shrouded corpse all night and not attended his burial the next day, then sat in the same spot, taking nothing but an occasional sip of water, for two days. Emily had been beside him most of that time, unable to reconcile her own grief and unable to console him or coax him from his stupor. She had spoken to him several times, tried to inspire a reply, but he had held both his trance and his silence. Finally, she lifted his hand, kissed it, held it to her breast, stared at him through sudden tears, questioned his expressionless face with pleading eyes. “I miss you, George. Come back to me. Be with me again.”

  Thomas Colman had silently watched his daughter from the other side of the room for over an hour. He sat on one of the four makeshift beds, crafted of dried grass stuffed and stitched into a rectangular canvas bag that was long, wide, and thick enough to hold an adult off the ground. In addition to the beds, the room held a crudely lashed stick table and four stump stools, each an eighteen-inch-long, sawed-off segment of a twelve-inch-diameter log. A wool blanket hung from a rope across a back corner to make a private place to change clothes or use the close stool when going outside was not practical. Foodstuffs were stacked on another lashed-stick table that stood three feet above the ground next to two buckets of water in the other rear corner; and a damp, stale, smoky smell permeated everything in the room. Until that moment, Emily had not moved or spoken, had remained as motionless as George, held his hand, waited patiently for a change, as she studied his face.

  Colman rose, walked to Emily’s side, sat beside her. He wrapped his right arm around her shoulder, tenderly pulled her to his side. Laying his other hand gently on her cheek, he eased her head to his chest in a comforting embrace. She spread her arms around him and held him with all her strength, trembling as pent-up tears filled her eyes.

  Several minutes passed before Emily settled to an occasional sniffle and Colman said, “Emily, ’tis horrible what’s happened . . . horrible for all of us, for what it means to our future; but far more horrible for young George, for he was already deeply wounded by his mother’s death.” He grimaced, shook his head. “This additional loss would surely undo him, Em, if he did not have you for a friend. Forsooth, I think you alone can save him, and ’tis certain he’ll need you now more than before, for he feels your strength. ’Tis your mother’s strength, you know.” He caressed her cheek. “But I think your strength is perhaps greater than hers—definitely greater than mine—I’ve admired it your entire life. Nothing deters you from doing what is right, and . . . and your father is very proud of you.”

  Emily closed her eyes, saw her mother’s face, instinctively reached for her locket, then realized her apron lay across the room by her clothes.

  “Dear daughter, I cannot know what this event means for the colony in the long term, but it gives me pause today . . . pause to wonder if we made the right decision in coming here. George’s loss may be only an isolated incident, or it may be the beginning of a desperate struggle for survival. I know not which, but either way, I fear I’ve placed us—you especially—in a circumstance that may be beyond our ability to control. And for that I am deeply sorry.”

  She looked up at his face, saw the candlelight reflected in his tortured eyes. “Father, you owe me no apology. I’m a grown woman, and I made my own choice to come here with you.” She rubbed the remaining tears from her eyes. “I could have said no, but I didn’t. And now it appears we’re to remain here, unless, of course, we relocate ourselves somewhere. So, in fact, we’ve no choice but to persevere and face what comes . . . together. I love you, Father.” She laid her head on his chest, snuggled in close, and tightened her arms around him.

  “And I, you, dear Emily.” He held his embrace, glanced at George. “Isn’t it strange how the pain of others can bring people closer together?” He stared at the fire. “Em, I’ve seldom told you how much I love you and how proud I am of you, and I’m ashamed for that. Nor have I held you close as often as I should have.” He tightened his embrace. “Like I did when you were a little girl. Fathers should never stop hugging their little girls, even when they become big girls, and my failure to do so shames me now. Why, if I were to die suddenly like poor George, without first holding you, I . . . I’d be most upset with myself in the hereafter . . . were I fortunate enough to find myself there.” He smiled to himself. “You know, your mother—”

  “Hello . . . Emily?” A female voice called from outside the cottage door. Emily released her father. “ Elyoner
, come in.”

  A ripely pregnant woman about twenty-three years old waddled through the doorway. Colman rose, lifted a stump stool, and set it beside Emily. “Good evening, Elyoner.”

  “Good evening, Thomas . . . Emily.” Elyoner was slightly taller than Emily, with a pink complexion and kind, loving, brown eyes. A green ribbon gathered her blonde, shoulder-length hair loosely behind her neck, highlighted her slightly prominent forehead. While she was not particularly attractive, her face radiated the warm glow of imminent motherhood, which gave her a calm, gentle look. “How’s George?” She sat down on the stump, using both hands to support the baby in her womb.

  “No change,” Emily said. “And I’ve no idea what to do to help him either. Master Jones was by and said he’d seen such cases before but knew no treatment other than time. So I guess we wait.”

  Colman interrupted. “ Elyoner, is Ananias at your cottage?”

  “Yes, he is. He just returned from the Assistants’ meeting with Father a short time ago, and he’s full of news and opinions. So I’m sure he’d enjoy a visit.”

  “Very well. I’ll be off then.” Colman stood, nodded his respects to the ladies, then walked out the door.

  Elyoner studied George with a compassionate look, shook her head back and forth several times. “Such a pity . . . poor man. Father said both of you saw the body. I can’t imagine the horror of it.”

  “We did. And horror does not describe what we saw. Elyoner, it was unimaginably grotesque to see so kind and gentle a man brutalized in that manner. I puked my insides, and you see what it did to George. Truly, I don’t know how one human being could do that to another . . . but then I think of the depredations Lane’s men committed against the Savages last year. Back and forth it goes, and good souls on both sides are in the middle. You’re aware, aren’t you, that Manteo told me everything about the earlier expedition, on the ship?” She raised her eyebrows in anticipation.