by Mike Rhynard
As the face faded, White’s thoughts drifted to Lane’s Chowanoc attack several months before he’d killed Wingina. Staring into the darkness, he saw the soldiers rushing from their boats, screaming at the Savages, firing their weapons, shooting arrows, swinging swords, killing at will. He again saw the three soldiers throw the beautiful woman to the ground, rip her clothes from her body, hold her down while each raped her in turn; saw one of them crush her head with the butt of his musket when they’d finished with her, then join others in killing her two children who lay but a few feet from her body. His stomach churned; he wanted to lean over the side and vomit but settled for squeezing the sides of the boat with both hands until they were numb.
Manteo tapped his shoulder, awakened him to his present anguish, pointed at dim firelight directly ahead, a little into the trees from the shore, and motioned to him to turn back to the right.
The helmsman saw Manteo’s direction, immediately guided the boat to the new course. The attack plan called for approaching the Savages through the forest so they would be trapped with their backs to the water. The new course would take them to exactly the right spot to execute the plan.
Fifty miles to the north, the Panther lay beside his new wife, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling of his lodge. He’d just awakened from the dream that tormented him every night, soaked him in sweat as he again saw himself lying helpless and wounded on the ground, unable to move, watching the three soldiers rape his wife, kill her with a brutal blow to the head, then kill his sons before rushing off to kill others and torch the village. His hands clenched in unspoken rage; deliberate hate seethed in his heart; he promised his dead wife that before he left the earth he would do to a white woman what had been done to her. He rolled onto his side and gently caressed his sleeping wife’s neck until he fell asleep.
Agnes pushed Elyoner’s smock up above her waist for a better view, positioned a bundle of the rags under her to absorb the blood and afterbirth when they came.
“Huuh! Huuh! Huuh! Aaahhhhh! Hellllp me!” Elyoner’s cold white hands squeezed Emily’s hand on her left and Jane’s on her right. “My God, hellllp me!”
Agnes shouted, “Breathe, Elyoner, breathe!”
“Huuh! Huuh! Huuh!”
“Now push!”
“Aaahhhhh! Going to die!” She spread her knees nearly flat to her sides, then up and back down again as if the motion would move the baby along its way.
“Breathe!”
“Huuh! Huuh! Huuh! Aaahhhhh! Make it come out!”
“I see the head . . . oh, dear Lord, ’tis a shoulder. The baby’s breech. Must find the head.”
“Huuh! Huuh! Huuh! Aaahhhhh!” Elyoner jerked her hands free from Emily and Jane, gripped her thighs, pulled herself up, flopped back, held her belly, tried to squeeze the baby out. “Aaahhhhh!”
Agnes shouted, “Don’t let her do that. Hold her still!”
“Huuh! Huuh! Huuh! Aaahhhhh!”
Emily and Jane grabbed Elyoner’s hands, pulled them back to her sides. Emily yelled, “Hold on, Ellie. Hold me tight. We’ll get you through.”
Agnes eased her fingers inside, gently slid them around, searching for the baby’s head. “Keep pushing, Elyoner! Breathe!”
“Aaahhhhh! Huuh! Huuh! Huuh! Aaahhhhh! Caaaan’t. Going to die!”
“Nay,” Emily shouted. “Keep breathing. Trust Agnes. Don’t quit!”
“Huuh! Huuh! Huuh! Aaahhhhh!”
The twenty-six men concealed themselves in the trees, about fifty yards from the village. Twenty-three Savages—men, women, and children—sat around a large fire talking, occasionally laughing. As the sky began to lighten, the men watched Waters, waited for the signal to attack.
Agnes panted, “There it is. I’ve found it. Now, come around, little one, and—”
Jane shouted, “Agnes, she’s bleeding more. Hurry, dear!”
“Huuh! Huuh! Aaahhhhh! Please get it out!” Elyoner was pale as her smock, growing weak, her screams losing intensity; her head fell back on the bed. “I can’t do it.”
“You must!” Emily shouted. She leaned close to Elyoner’s ear. “Do it! Do it! Keep working, Ellie. Push!”
“Huuh! Huuh! Faint. Huuh! Going to faint. Aaahhhhh!”
Agnes said, “I’ve got it, getting it straight. Almost there.”
Waters raised his arm, thrust it toward the village. All but White let loose blood-chilling cries as they rose from their concealments, charged the village. The stunned Savages leaped to their feet; women and children screamed as their men herded them toward the water and the thin cover of the reeds that grew there. A soldier fired at a woman with a baby on her back, swore as the shot missed. “You fool!” Waters screamed, “Can’t you see that’s a woman?” He bumped the weapon of another soldier aiming at the same woman.
Another soldier stopped, raised his musket, fired at a man helping a child toward the shore. The bullet tore through the man’s middle, slapped him to the ground like a fallen tree; he jerked, writhed, gurgled, as blood filled his lungs.
Myllet shouted, “After them, men. Follow them into those reeds. Don’t let them escape.”
“There now. We’re straight. I’ve got the head. Push again! Jane, Emily, keep on her. Don’t let her leave us. Push, push.”
“Aaahhhhh!”
“Here it comes, Elyoner. ’Tis on the way out. One more. One more. Keep pushing! Almost there!”
“Aaahhhhh!” Elyoner lifted her head, looked forward between her legs, then fell back on the bed, closed her eyes, melted into limp exhaustion.
“Yes. Yes.” Agnes slid the baby out, cut its cord, held it upside down by its ankles. “Ah, a wee little lass, a pretty one, too. Look at that.” She gave her two rapid swats on the rump, turned her quickly upright when she began to cry, wrapped her in a cloth, and handed her to Emily. Smiling radiantly, Emily cradled her for a moment before handing her to Jane and then helping Agnes with the afterbirth.
One of the Savages stopped, faced the soldiers. “John White! John White!” he shouted in rough English. “John White!” He ran toward White. Three soldiers aimed their muskets at him.
“Hold fire!” Manteo screamed. “Hold fire! These are my people. We’ve attacked my people, not your enemies. John, stop them! Stop them!”
Chapter 7
Allie opened her eyes, blinked twice, focused on the ceiling. Lying still, she listened to her mind, her memory, let them take her on a journey through the events of her dream. My God! I just saw a baby being born. I’ve never seen that before. Lots of calves and foals, but never a real person. She remembered she’d been on a basketball trip when her high school health class watched the birth video; it had been the talk of the class for several days. She winced as she saw Elyoner writhing in pain, screaming for help—desperation, hopelessness, fear, at once racking and contorting her usually serene face—the lady groping to find the baby’s head . . . a real live person being born . . . and I was there. But was it a real person? Why would I dream it, real or unreal? When was it . . . where was it? Good Lord, what’s happening to me? So real. Five dreams; same people, same story, goes on and on. The girl . . . Emily . . . she was there helping, first time for her too, scared . . . but she sure had a big smile when she held the baby. Allie smiled. Funny, but I felt her excitement and her awe.
Then, like an amorphous bad memory that suddenly congeals into consciousness, the attack on the Indians appeared in her mind; she felt the anxiety, the fear, the frenzy. They shot that man, shot him in the lungs; he was breathing his own blood, suffocating . . . what a way to die . . . is there a good way? They’re all gonna die, kill each other. Cruel, brutal people, all of them. But the leader didn’t want to do it; he was there another time, saw another massacre when . . . oh my God, when they raped that Indian woman, killed her kids, crushed her head. Her stomach instantly rose toward her throat. It was horrible, brutal. Unexpected tears rose in her eyes, ran down her cheeks. They raped her right there on the ground, with people dying all around them.
She blubbered through her tears. “This sucks! I don’t want to dream anymore.”
She closed her eyes. But Emily . . . I see her the most, like her a lot, feel close to her. But why? She searched the deepest recesses of her mind, wondered, probed, challenged her sense of reality. How can you feel close to someone in a dream, someone you don’t even know, have never seen before? Maybe even someone in another time. Could that be? No, you can’t do that . . . but I do. I think about her, feel her emotions deep inside me. Allie’s eyes blinked open; a sudden shadow of fear swept across her face as a tide of foreboding flooded her mind like a tsunami, sent a tremor rippling through her body. I’m afraid for her. Something bad’s going to happen. I know it. She noticed her hands had tightened into fists, relaxed them.
Gotta talk to someone, find out what’s going on. But who? Who’ll believe me? Maybe that guy I’m meeting today. What’s his name? Jackson, yeah, Doctor Jackson. Probably think I’m crazy. But maybe he can help. Gotta do something . . . maybe I am crazy.
She rolled out of bed and plucked at her damp t-shirt. Soaked, must’ve sweated all night. That’s another thing: it’s all so real, like I’m there and I feel whatever the person I’m dreaming about feels—their emotions, thoughts, pain. But especially with Emily. This can’t be. She turned on the shower, undressed. When she stepped into the shower, the cool water flowed over her shoulders, covered her body, instantly refreshing her. “Ooooooh, I could stand here all day.” When she closed her eyes, an image of Emily running through the forest with a fearful, panicked look on her face drifted slowly through her mind, sent a shiver, colder than the water, from her shoulders to her waist. What was that about?
After the shower, Allie decided to write up some talking points about her dreams, something to use when she spoke to Doctor Jackson. Ought to have a short summary of each dream, too, in case he asks what they’re about. Oooh! Dummy! She remembered that the ostensible reason for the meeting was to explore potential stress-coping therapies related to dreaming, decided she’d better have a little meat on those bones, as well, so she could make a credible case for her quickly contrived hypothesis and get things started in the right direction. She’d then transition into her dream questions—the true, unspoken reason for the meeting. Actually, she thought, my dream hypothesis isn’t too bad, maybe even halfway legitimate. Need to think about that, but meanwhile get something on paper. Then worry about the dreams.
Damn it! I never looked up that place they talked about a couple dreams back. What was it? Wrote it down somewhere. She flipped through several pieces of paper on the desk. Here it is. Chesapeake. She percolated with excitement as she started typing the word into her search engine; but she abruptly stopped, bit her lower lip, stared at the keyboard. In addition to being intelligent, Allie was well-imbued with common sense and discipline; and these now-instinctive attributes had just seized control of her will, convinced her to read about Chesapeake later, told her to now focus on preparing for her meeting.
A short time later, she finished her talking points, solidified what she thought was a clever strategy for picking the professor’s brain about her dreams without him knowing what she was doing. She then surveyed her collection of dream-related library books, which included An Introduction to the Psychology of Dreaming by Bulkeley, The Dreaming Brain by Hobson, Dreamlife by Goodwin, Lucid Dreaming by Waggoner, and The Presence of the Past and Morphic Resonance by Sheldrake. She had no idea why she’d picked any particular title or even what some of them meant; but they’d all come up in her search, along with myriad others, and she’d randomly selected these to review. Since she’d already started Bulkeley’s book, she decided to pick up there and take a more detailed look.
Three hours later, Allie leaned back from the computer, read through the notes she’d made. She’d put an asterisk by comments that seemed particularly pertinent to her dreams; and she now focused on those notes, pausing after each to analyze how they might connect with her dream characteristics.
-*“Psychology of Dreaming”—Bulkeley—summarizes other dream theorists
oJung
✓Some of what’s in our dream comes from ancestors.
✓The scope of the unconscious greatly exceeds the limits of our own lives.
Now that’s interesting because my dreams have zero to do with my personal life; and this basically says some content can be inherited, and that the contents of the unconscious go way beyond what’s happened to us in our lives. Inherited . . . unconscious. Next to the entry she penned, “how, from who, why?”
oHobson—“reciprocal-interaction” theory
✓“Groups of neurons” vie with each other continuously—result is our repeating “cycles” of wake-sleep-dream.
✓The periodic dominance of one group of neurons over the others causes the cycles.
Reciprocal basically means return-in-kind; so this would mean that the dominance of various neuron populations ebbs and flows, and whichever one’s dominant at a given moment determines which cycle you’re in—awake, sleeping and dreaming, or sleeping and not dreaming. Pretty logical.
✓Process happens automatically and in a repetitious manner— inherent in our physiology.
Well, that’s interesting, too. Physiology and neurology interacting. Makes intuitive sense. Second time I’ve seen that. She looked back at her earlier notes. Yeah, it was Goodwin. Starting to sound like the psychology-science connection I’ve been looking for.
oHobson—“activation-synthesis” theory
✓After reciprocal interaction stimulates REM sleep, more-sophisticated processes in the brain integrate arbitrary input data into dreams.
•Dreams visual because during REM certain of the brain’s “neuronal processes” activate vision receptors.
•Dreams emotional because brain’s emotional elements are randomly stimulated.
•Mind reacts by trying to generate sensible stories via integration of available inputs (pictures and tales).
So it’s all about groups of neurons competing with one another to determine the stage we’re in and then activating various receptors and systems—and feelings, too—in the brain to produce dreams. But all this is just as unproven as Freud’s stuff. Still . . .
oHall
✓We dream about things we’ve encountered when awake, such as things, personalities, and situations.
✓The things we hope for and are afraid of in dreams do not differ from those we experience when awake.
Nope, not me. Not with these dreams, anyway.
✓A succession of dreams is easier to interpret than a single dream.
Makes sense. And I’m watching a whole story, about people I don’t know; but I feel strangely close to the girl, and it’s all unfolding in chronological sequence. And I’m certainly not seeing anything that requires interpretation. These dreams have no meaning at all—just stories with no relation to me. Makes me wonder why all these guys keep looking for hidden meanings, like Freud. Why does there have to be hidden meaning . . . or any meaning at all? Maybe some dreams just happen and tell a simple story—without deep, dark repressions or unpleasant happenings from someone’s past . . . but why so many times? Why these people? Why me? But maybe there is meaning, and maybe that’s where the answer is.
oFoulkes
✓Dreams not crazy, spurious things. On the contrary, they’re quite organized.
Mine sure are.
✓Since dreams appear to incorporate recollections from our near-and far-term experiences, they might assist us in recalling and blending certain types of memory.
Hmm. She reread the statement. So, what if my dreams are from something stashed away in the deep recesses of my memory rather than being something I’ve repressed? But how would they have gotten there? I’ve never, ever seen or read anything like what’s in these dreams. And what would have caused them to surface? Crazy. But wait a minute. She looked back at the top of the page to Jung’s theory.
✓Some of what’s in our dream comes from ancestors.<
br />
✓The scope of the unconscious greatly exceeds the limits of our own lives.
Wonder if there’s a connection between Jung’s and Foulkes’ theories. She looked at her notes on Jung—comes from ancestors—exceeds the limits of our own lives, then Foulkes—near- and far-term experiences. She penned a note: “What are his far-term experiences? How far is far-term? Is it far enough to be ancestral?” Now that’s really something to think about.
oBelicki
✓Sleep lab subjects seem to have greater “dream recall.”
✓Stress appears to increase dream recall.
✓People with better imaginations & enhanced capability to visualize and create when awake seem to have better recall.
Don’t know about labs, but the other two sure fit; and this is my stress connection for the dissertation: if someone is stressed from something, they should have greater dream recall, which means we should be able to analyze their dreams more easily and accurately, figure out how they relate to their particular stress generator, and finally, use that knowledge to develop a coping strategy that helps them. “Yes! Good job, O’Shay!” She reached around and patted herself on the shoulder. I think you’re onto something, kiddo. She looked away from the desk, let her mind run for a moment. But why am I having these dreams? Well . . . they did start right after the fight with Erik—an unqualified stressful event, but—her heart suddenly accelerated; a warm glow tickled the back of her head and neck. Haven’t thought of him today, wonder how he’s doing. Really want to see him, but . . . but better give it more time. She looked at her watch. Time for one last look.