by Mike Rhynard
Only half listening to the chatter and banter of the others, Emily glanced around the clearing to locate the three soldiers. Two leaned on their muskets, gawking at the women, while the third, musket in hand, searched the forest as ordered. She made a mental remembrance to casually mention to Lieutenant Waters that some of his men seemed to have a keener interest in watching women than in watching for Savages, but quickly decided it was an incurable soldier trait not worth mentioning. Resuming her task, she savored the fresh smell of the soapwort, the coolness of the stream on her legs. She listened intently to the sounds of birds and other small creatures, emanating from the forest around her, marveled at their number and clarity. She smiled, wondered if they were talking to each other or over each other in a lively family discussion. Emily loved the forest, had always reveled in its peace and solitude, and today felt a new freedom, a special exhilaration at being in its heart, absorbing its life, its joyful sounds.
One of Emily’s pastimes at home had been to learn the voices of the birds and animals around her. She believed it strengthened her bond with nature, and she considered that bond an essential element of life. Today she’d paired three birds and one small squirrel-like creature with a short tail, with their songs; and she listened, searching for more as she rinsed a bundle of clothes, stepped out of the water, then walked the fifty feet to the tree line to hang them on branches to dry. As she stepped along, she heard a shrill warbling sound she hadn’t heard before. She stopped, aimed her ear toward the opposite side of the stream where the sound had come from, heard it again. The symphony of songs suddenly ceased.
None but Emily noticed. Something’s wrong, she thought, too quiet. She laid her bundle on the grass, scanned the tree line, the guards, the forest beyond them. Two guards had their eyes on her; the third watched the women in the water. As she glanced toward the pool, she heard a dull thud behind her like a rock hitting metal, faced the sound. A naked Savage with a stone war club in his hand stood over the body of a motionless soldier.
“Hiyaaaa!” He shook his war club in the air then bashed the soldier two more times in the head.
Before she could scream, three Savages leaped on another soldier, his last sound the rush of air from his slit throat.
“Hiyy! Hiyaa!”
Two more Savages overwhelmed the remaining soldier, who triggered his matchlock as he fell, firing an aimless shot into the ground.
Phffft! Phffft! Two arrows flew past Emily. She flattened herself to the ground, yelped as an arrow grazed her shoulder.
She heard screams from the pool, told herself to get up, run, but laid flat, pressed her body into the grass. Her heart raced; fear paralyzed her mind. She looked toward the water, saw a woman face down on the bank, motionless, legs in the red water, an arrow in her back—Joyce Archard.
Audrey thrashed out of the water, ran toward the forest on the far side of the stream.
Hiyaa! Hiyaaa! Two Savages churned through the water after her, but one suddenly veered off to pursue Agnes Wood, a closer target whose wet skirt slowed her pace. As the Savage struck her with his club, an arrow sliced across the top of Emily’s shoulder. She screamed, rolled instinctively to the right; felt warm blood trickle down her arm, a flood of nausea confuse her mind. Bleeding, trying to kill me. Arrows thudded into the ground around her. Going to die . . . will it hurt? Get up, Em. Run! Run! Phffft! An arrow whizzed by her ear. She staggered to her feet, raced into the forest toward the village, her heart pounding in her ears. Can’t breathe; run faster, faster, heart bursting, run; someone behind, gaining, closer, closer; run, run! A thorn bush gripped her skirt; she spun around to free it, saw a blur approaching, jerked frantically, ripped the skirt free, started to run again.
“Aah!” A vicious blow to her back tumbled her to the ground. She quickly rolled to face the attack, reached for her knife. The Savage leaped upon her; planted his knee in her stomach, forced the air from her lungs; held her right shoulder on the ground with his left hand; glared into her eyes with a burning, hateful look that froze her soul. His right hand held a stone war club above her head. She couldn’t move, stared into his eyes with a defiant then submissive look that acknowledged her imminent death.
In the two seconds their eyes were engaged, she memorized his face: the curved nose, gaunt features; the right side of his head clean-shaven, covered with red paint that narrowed to a stripe down the right side of his forehead and across his right eye and cheek to his chin; on the left, a full head of coal black hair pulled behind his head and tied above the left shoulder, three long, narrow, striped feathers hanging from the hair; an inch-wide swath of black paint from the left hairline across the eye and down the left cheek to his mouth; the long, prominent scar that ran parallel to the black strip of paint from his eye to his chin—all punctuated by the crazed, malevolent look in his eyes.
She gasped for air, found none, twisted, pushed to escape his knee, take a breath.
In a sudden, swift movement, he seized her by the hands, flung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour, jogged back toward the clearing, his shoulder jarring the air from her lungs with every step. God, help me, she pleaded. Her face banged against his sweaty back; the pungent, masculine aroma of his body flooded her mind. Can’t breathe. Going to die. She saw a knife at his waist, yanked it from its sheath, thrust it into his side.
“Aah!” He threw her to the ground a few feet in front of him, quickly touched his side; looked at the flowing blood, ignored it; raised his war club, sprang toward her.
The ground’s impact kicked the remaining air from Emily’s lungs; she gasped, rolled to the left. His club smashed into the ground where her head had lain a quarter second before. She churned her feet to stand and run, was halfway up when he grabbed the side of her shirt and smock at the collar, ripped them apart and over her arm to her waist, shoved her brutally to the ground. As she rolled onto her back, he reached down, grabbed her hair with his left hand, swung his club at her from the right.
Emily blunted the blow with both forearms. He battered her again, and again; each time her arms blunted the blow; each time the stone came closer to her head until, exhausted, she lowered her bruised, bloodied arms to her sides, stared calmly, serenely into his eyes, surrendered to her fate, and awaited death.
But the Panther held his blow, peered deep into her fearless blue eyes, felt his soul meld with hers—her courage, her wild beauty—realized she was the one, the one he would take and use as his wife had been used. He reached out slowly, gently with both hands to lift her.
Emily felt near death; her body screamed with pain; her chest heaved as it gasped for breath that wouldn’t come; she didn’t move, waited for him to take her, do with her as he wished; her heart pounded like a galley drum.
He touched her chest, slid his hands over her bare breasts, lingered for a moment, then reached under her shoulders to lift her. When she was nearly to her feet, a musket shot crackled through the air, then another. He dropped her to the ground, looked toward the shots then back at Emily; his frenzied look returned, he abruptly swung his club at the left side of her head.
She again raised her bloodied forearms, felt the club smash into the bones; knew she’d moved too slow, felt the stone thud into her head; saw a brilliant white light, then darkness and oblivion.
Chapter 9
Allie screamed, bolted upright in bed, gasped for air; tears filled her eyes. Emily! No! Oh my God. No! Don’t let this happen. Not her. Please, God. Not Emily! She bowed her head, covered her face with her hands, sobbed.
Her mother rushed into the room, sat beside her, and put her arm around her shoulders. “Allie, what’s wrong? What happened?” She pulled Allie’s head against her side, caressed her cheek. “It’s okay, Hon. It’s okay. Easy now.”
Allie moaned, shuddered through her tears. “She’s dead, Mom. She’s dead. They’re all gonna die.”
“Who’s dead, Allie? Who’s gonna die?”
“Emily’s dead, and the others are gonna be.”
/> “So you had a dream, didn’t you?” Nancy felt her heart plunge into a deep abyss, realized she’d waited too long. She felt Allie’s head nodding against her breast. “What did you dream, Hon . . . no, never mind, don’t talk. Just cry it out, Baby.” She pulled her daughter closer, tenderly caressed her neck. She swayed her own head slowly back and forth, angry she hadn’t recognized what was happening or tried to avert it. She eased Allie back onto the bed then onto her side, smoothed her hair, continued caressing her neck and cheek. After twenty minutes of soft tears, Allie slept.
Nancy decided to stay in the bedroom in case of another episode. She walked over to Allie’s desk, saw her dream logs, read them all. Reads like a novel, she thought. Each dream in sequence whether it was the same night or a different night, like chapters in a book or scenes in a movie. Whew. So this is what it’s like. I’ll be damned. Great-Grandma said it was so; I remember now. Sonofabitch. Allie’s the one. She scanned the log again, thought, this is real stuff, real people, real history, like she said. I’m jealous. She looked at Allie for a moment then back at the notes. No, I’m not . . . because I know what’s coming, what happens to people with this gift . . . got to help her before she gets there, but Good Lord, how?
She noticed the stack of papers piled beneath the dream log, picked up Allie’s notes on dream theory and perused them. Heavy stuff, she thought. Looks like she’s trying to develop a theory on the why and the how. That’s my Allie Girl. Always needs to know the why of things. As she laid the papers down, she bumped the computer mouse and the monitor awakened, displayed the write-up on Roanoke. What’s this? As she read, her lips pressed together, the pupils of her eyes tightened. “We shall never know . . . never know . . .” Oh my God. Must be what she’s dreaming, the first great American disaster; and she just saw part of it happen, matches her notes to a tee. Wonder what upset her. Oh yeah, she said Emily was dead. Lord help us . . . same kind of stuff Great-Grandma told me about. Where in the hell do we go from here? She walked to the bed, lay down beside her daughter, put her arm gently around her, then laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.
While her mother had sat at the computer, Allie had dreamed a lucid dream, one in which she was aware she was dreaming. She challenged, begged the dream to show her something from Roanoke, show her Emily alive, vibrant, but she saw only darkness.
When she awoke, she felt her mother’s warmth beside her, absorbed the comfort and surety that flowed from her. But after several minutes of tenuous solace, she again thought of Emily, her struggle, her fear, her—she tried to block the thought—her death. Tears slowly misted her eyes as the realities of her just-completed dream crept painfully into her mind: there had been no dream at all, which confirmed Emily’s death and that her story was over, her life and death merely another step in the colony’s journey to oblivion. Allie closed her eyes; saw Emily’s smile, then her submissive look as the Indian loomed above her; blanked out a phantom vision of her bloody, crushed head that kept prying its way into her mind. She trembled as a deluge of depression suddenly drenched her like a summer shower, made her wish she too were dead, entombed her in a crypt of desolate grief.
Nancy awoke, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Allie. Are you awake?”
Allie sniffled. “Yeah, Mom.”
“How do you feel?
“Crappy . . . pissed.”
“Because of what you dreamed?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“No.”
“You mentioned someone named Emily. Who is she?”
“For God’s sake, give it up, Mom.” Allie sniffled and sighed. “Emily’s a girl I’ve been dreaming about . . . every night for a week or so . . . her and her people . . . colonists in the New World . . . here in America. Mom, I’m so afraid.” She rolled toward her mother, put her arms around her, held her close. “I don’t know what’s happening to me or what to do. I’m losing my mind. It’s all so weird . . . and I’m so, so scared.”
Nancy clutched her daughter as if to restrain her from blowing away. “Okay, Hon. I understand. But tell me more; I may be able to help.”
Allie knew she’d already said too much, wanted to talk to Dressler before she said more, but knew her mother would eventually squeeze it out of her. She was good at that, knew how to get a little grip on something then twist and pull, enlarge and tighten the grip in relentless little nibbles until she’d pulled the whole story out of you. She decided resistance was futile, relaxed, took a deep calming breath. “Okay, Mom. Here it is. After the fight with Erik, I started having these weird dreams. I didn’t think anything of them at first, but when I realized I was having them every night—same people, same story—I wondered what the hell was going on.”
She told her mother every detail of the dreams: their color and vividness, how she felt peoples’ thoughts, heard their dialogue; that the dreams were orderly, not chaotic like most dreams; that she felt relationships, feelings; that the story moved relentlessly forward, even when she wasn’t dreaming; told her of the dreams’ movie-like nature, how they’d steadily drawn her in, entwined her emotions with the story and characters, especially Emily; how she’d developed a craving, almost an addiction, to know what would happen next, wanted to sleep all day so she wouldn’t miss anything. She started to mention the sleeping pills she planned to take that night but thought better of it, wouldn’t need them anyway now that Emily was dead; she realized that Emily was indeed her conduit to the dreams, perhaps to the collective unconscious she’d read about, where the dreams, or their components, might be floating in space.
When she finished, her mother said, “Allie, Hon, sit up. There’s something I need to tell you, and when you hear it you’re going to think we both need to see a shrink.”
“Oh my God.” Allie sat up.
“Al, you’re not the first person in our family to dream.”
“You mean . . .”
“Yes. There’s a family tale—actually, far more than a tale as I see now—that every four or five generations, a woman in the family inherits this gift, or curse, of dreaming the past.”
Allie squinted. “The past? Like me? Are you kidding me, Mom? Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
“Hhrumm. Well . . . I guess because I didn’t know for sure if it was for real or not. You see, your great-great-grandmother, who I told you about last night, told me about the dreams. We called her Great-Grandma Ian because we couldn’t pronounce her real name. She had dreams like yours her entire adult life; and actually, I never thought about it because until you mentioned dreams on the phone that day, I’d actually forgotten all about it. And then when I saw your computer and notes—”
“You looked at my stuff?”
“I’m afraid so, Hon. Sorry. I just happened to see it when I sat down to check my email, and . . .”
Allie stifled her imminent eruption. “Okay . . . I understand. So you didn’t dream?”
Nancy shook her head. “Great-Grandma Ian was the last one to dream. She was in her nineties when I was a little girl. Everyone thought she was nutty, didn’t believe her stories . . . but I did. In fact, I hoped in my heart of hearts I’d be the next one to dream . . . but I wasn’t—not enough generations between us I guess. So, as time went on, I forgot about the dreams, got over the whole deal. But when you were born, I remembered and wondered if you’d be the one. Your generational timing is perfect and Great-Grandma always told me that if I had a little girl, she’d be the next one to dream.” She smiled wistfully. “My little girl . . . but even then, it kind of drifted into oblivion until I heard you mention strange dreams on the phone that day. Then it clicked, and the last few days I’ve put two and two together, and now . . . and now I have to believe everything Ian told me.” And, she thought, it’s the everything part that scares me.
“Wow. Just wow! So she—my great-great-grandma Ian—dreamed history . . . just like me. This is wild.”
Nancy nodded slowly, knowingly. “Ye
s, it is.”
The knowledge of not being the only one to dream history both awed and excited Allie, made her wonder anew why and how it happened to only a chosen few—perhaps a mutation of some kind. She wondered if Ian had dreamed about Emily, about the Lost Colony, had seen what she’d seen— all now meaningless because of Emily’s death.
Emily’s brutal end suddenly reappeared in Allie’s mind; grief again numbed her senses. She sat, morose and misty-eyed, for several minutes processing her mother’s revelations, wondered what would happen next. “Mom, did Ian dream real history? Like, were her dreams validated somehow?”
But before her mother could reply, Allie shook her head briskly. She said, “Wait, Mom. Don’t answer that. I’m trying to get my head around this, and I’m being confusing. What I mean is: there’s the basic historical events, and then there’s all the stuff that happened to individual people, like their feelings, their loves, their hates, all the behind-the-scenes, interpersonal stuff that actually made the history happen. Like, how could any historian ever know or validate that stuff? And how could Ian or I ever know if what we dreamed was true or just vivid imagination? Do you see what I’m saying?”
The color drained from Nancy’s face like the pink of a dissipating cloud at sunset. “I do see what you’re saying, but I don’t know the answer.”
“Mom, you don’t look so good. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine”
She could read her mother like a well-worn book. “You haven’t told me everything, have you, Mom? You’re holding something back again. I feel it.”