Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Emily stared into empty space. Strange, but I feel sorry for him . . . yet how shall I ever face him or speak to him again . . . perhaps ’twould be better if he’d died in the tempest. She shook her head. Shame upon you for such thoughts, Emily Colman. “What of the army?”

  Gibbes glanced at her with a somber look. “Worse than his earlier years, and since I was in his unit, I know the complete truth of it, even though I was but a simple soldier and he, an officer. The entire company knew.” A worried look suddenly spread across his face like night shadows following the setting sun. He looked around as if to ensure no one was listening. “Before I continue, I must tell you that Hugh Tayler knows I know everything about him . . . and as you know, he saw us talking at Roanoke. With no uncertainty, my life will be in danger if he ever suspects I’ve told you the truth about him. So I pray, Mistress, please keep all I’ve told you secret.”

  “Johnny, surely you don’t believe he’d—”

  “Aye, he would, and without hesitation. He’s a brutal, selfish, evil man, and he’ll destroy anyone or anything in his way. And Mistress Emily, if he even suspects I’ve turned you against him, he’ll kill me dead, as sure as there’s a sun in the sky.”

  She looked away. “I cannot put you in such danger. Tell me no more. We must tell Master Baylye. We cannot simply sit by and—”

  “Tayler’s clever, and telling Baylye may be worse than simply taking my chances.”

  She shook her head. “Johnny, you should not have said anything to me, shouldn’t have risked your life on my behalf.”

  “Nay, Emily. I did so because you’re in danger of falling prey to his evil . . . like my sister. I did it for both of you—her memory, and your future—and I beg you, please, never again allow yourself to be alone with him . . . never.”

  Emily’s teary eyes glistened in the sunlight; her stomach churned. She shuddered, nodded, wished she’d never met Tayler; wished she wouldn’t have to bear the grim truth about him, fear for herself, fear for Johnny Gibbes. She took a deep breath. “Tell me the rest.”

  He nodded. “Very well. When we engaged in our first battle in Holland, Tayler—Lieutenant Tayler—was—”

  Roger Baylye yelled, “Hello! Hello over there!” He and Thomas Colman quickened their pace toward six colonists who had gathered a small pile of driftwood and were laying a fire. Two lay motionless on the sand, their backs bare, their shirts pulled over their heads.

  Christopher Cooper replied, “Roger. Thank God. We prayed there’d be others . . . we’re building a fire for the night in case we find some fish on the shore . . . Roger, we’re very hungry and thirsty, and two of us”—he waited for Baylye to reach him, leaned close, whispered—“ two of us are sick . . . rapid heartbeats, short breath . . . as if they’ve run a great distance. They’re very hot; and both have headaches, cramps, dizziness, and who knows what else.” He glanced at the two. “They also seem lost in their own heads . . . and I know not if they can go on.”

  Baylye said, “I’ve seen this before. ’Tis the sun that does it . . . and in God’s name, I don’t know what we can do for them without shade and water.”

  Sergeant Gibbes said, “Governor, we can find some sticks and make them a tent with our shirts . . . at least for the remainder of the day.”

  “That’s a splendid idea, Sergeant Gibbes . . . as are the ideas of waiting for others to find us and building a fire to cook fish . . . excellent ideas, and I’d gladly embrace them . . . if we weren’t in the situation we’re in.” He looked at each person in turn, gauged their expressions, read little but raw, numb exhaustion. “Unfortunately, there may be hostile Savages about, and a fire would tell them our location . . . we’ve naught but one sword and our eating knives among us.” He glanced at the two sick men. “Of greater concern is the possibility that without shelter and water, some could die tomorrow. Thus I fear we must walk through the night, so we can find water and shade as soon as possible in the morning.” He looked north to where the sound ended and the outer banks merged with the main, estimated the distance at ten miles. “ ’Tis less than two hours until sunset; so until then, I propose we do as Sergeant Gibbes suggested—shield the two who are ill; then at dusk, we shall head north with all the haste we can summon. We shall carry these two, if necessary. At least we won’t get lost out here on the outer banks, and—”

  “Hello! Hello there!” a voice to the south yelled.

  All but the two sick men looked south. Cooper said, “Looks to be Master Tayler and Sergeant Myllet.”

  Thomas Colman glanced at Emily, saw the frightened look on her face. He walked to her side and put his arm around her waist. “What’s wrong, Em? You look horrified. Are you not excited to see Hugh alive?” He started toward Tayler, then looked back at Emily, wondered what dismayed her.

  Emily watched Tayler and Myllet approach the group, shake hands with the men. Gibbes and Myllet embraced, smiled at one another, hit each other on the shoulder, embraced again.

  Tayler spoke to Colman then spied Emily standing behind the men.

  Her body stiffened as his eyes found hers, lingered, searched. She fought to conceal the anger, fear, revulsion, and confusion that swirled in her mind.

  Tayler walked briskly to her, held his gaze on her eyes, opened his arms to embrace her.

  She stepped back, held her hands up in front of her chest as she gave him an inscrutable look.

  He leaned forward to kiss her.

  She looked away. “No, Hugh, I cannot.”

  He whispered, “Emily, what’s wrong?”

  The others watched in curious silence.

  “George perished in the storm, Hugh . . . after he saved Father and me. I’m not able to think of anything else yet.”

  He hesitated then nodded. “I understand . . . but I’m so glad you’re alive. I . . . I had horrible fears you’d . . .” He again stepped toward her.

  “No, Hugh. I cannot. I thought about you, as well . . . but I’m not ready. Please understand.”

  He forced a smile. “Emily, can we talk somewhere?” He motioned his eyes toward the others. “I’m so thankful you’re here before me; and I desperately need to hold you, tell you how much I love you, talk to you. My soul aches for you. Please, let me . . .”

  In her periphery, Emily saw Johnny Gibbes, his hand on his dagger, glaring intensely at Tayler’s back. “Hugh, I’m here because of George and no other reason but God’s mercy; and ’tis true, we’ve much to talk about . . . but not now, not here. Please forgive me . . . I need time . . . perchance when we reach Chesapeake.”

  He hesitated, wondered what was behind her sudden coolness, the same coolness she’d shown just before they left Roanoke. She’s heard something about me, but what? And from whom? He looked behind, surveyed the watching people with an innocuous glance that abruptly hardened into a hateful glare when it stopped on Johnny Gibbes and Michael Myllet.

  The Panther and his wife lay naked, panting, beaded with sweat on a bed of soft deer pelts. She was a striking young woman about nineteen, with sharp features; mysterious, intense, dark eyes that admiringly studied his face; full lips that curved gracefully into an exhausted, satisfied smile. Her long, black hair spread like a fan beneath her shoulders, complimented her breasts, which still had a firm, erect look and melded proportionately with the gentle curves of her lower body.

  The Panther’s sinewy, muscular body had a spent look as he gently massaged her inner thigh where it met her triangle of hair. His eyes blankly stared at the top of the lodge while he euphorically savored the lingering aftertaste of their passionate love. Then for a moment, he thought of his first wife, his lost children, felt a ripple in his heart as he remembered the pure, intense love they’d shared, their plans for their family, their joy at the births of their two sons. He didn’t think he could love his new wife as deeply and unselfishly as he had the first; but her beauty and ability to make wild, frenzied love—love that nested in his mind for hours or days afterward— would carry their relationship a lon
g way. He’d suspected for a few weeks that she carried their child, and believed its birth would strengthen their love, move them closer to that lost first love. But he knew he could never draw his mind completely into the present until he severed the final tie to the past, and that could not happen until he did to a white woman what the white warriors had done to his first wife. With the whites moving to the Chesapeakes’ country, he knew that the arrival of that moment was at hand, and he knew exactly with whom it would be.

  He’d earlier considered exacting his revenge on the captured white woman from Roanoke, but she’d been claimed by another warrior who’d taken her as his wife shortly before she killed herself. No loss, he thought, for she was unworthy, lacked the courage to satisfy his thirst for revenge. But the one he’d nearly taken at Roanoke—the one with hair like the night and eyes the color of a cold, clear winter sky—was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Not only was she beautiful, she was more courageous and defiant in the face of danger than any woman he’d ever encountered in his world, and that he respected above all else, and that placed her above all others as the choice for his revenge. He’d thought he killed her; but Roanoke watchers, one of whom had been with him at the attack, had recently reported seeing her in the village. He smiled imperceptibly, felt a twinge of excitement surge through his body as he reached down to his side where she’d stabbed him, touched the nearly healed wound; understood for the first time why his heart had stirred so forcefully when he’d looked into her eyes, wondered in the course of a heartbeat how a white woman could have such power, the power to touch his deepest soul. Even her look of exhausted submission at the end had moved him; she’d fought to the limits of her strength, exhausted herself, then serenely faced her fate. He knew he’d again see her fierce determination, her will to live, and ultimately, her look of submission when he took her body and then ended her life to sever his tie to the past . . . but perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

  He looked at his wife, captured her eyes with his, rolled toward her, kissed her, probed her mouth with his tongue; he heard and felt her breathing quicken as she embraced him, felt her hand slide to his loin, caress his manhood. He felt himself becoming aroused but suddenly decided he had too many important things on his mind to make love a second time this night. His first duty was to the people, and he had to think on their behalf. He touched her cheek. “I love to love you, my beautiful, wild young woman . . . but I have much to do tomorrow, and you’ve already exhausted me.” He smiled, kissed her gently on the lips, again touched her cheek, then rolled onto his backside and laid his left hand on her breast, forced his mind from the soft sensuousness of her body to that evening’s council held with Wahunsunacock.

  As always, the entrance to the great chief’s council hall had been imposing: first, a walk through the long quarters, which were longer than nine men lying head to foot, half as wide, and constructed of a framework of arched, bound saplings covered with large panels of tree bark; then the approach to the narrower council hall at the end; and finally, the entrance to the hall and arrival before Wahunsunacock’s seat of honor, which was an elevated, wall-to-wall bench at the end of the narrow hall, upon which had sat the paramount chief of the Powhatan chiefdom and his two favorite wives. The lesser chiefs, other trusted warriors, and more of Wahunsunacock’s wives had sat in two parallel rows that ran from the hall entrance all the way to the great chief. A small fire had crackled and burned near the entrance to the hall, at the head of the two rows; and as always when he held a council, Wahunsunacock had worn his finest jewelry and headdress, which consisted of nearly as many skyward-pointing turkey feathers as there were people in the hall. He’d greeted each person’s arrival with a nod at the spot where they should sit; and when the Panther had arrived, the dim, fire lit hall had already been thick with musty smoke and quiet whispers; he’d felt a surge of warm pride when Wahunsunacock had met his gaze, nodded at the spot immediately below his right foot at the end of the line—the most honored position, other than his own, in the hall. The Panther had returned the nod, sat in his place, looked up and down the lines, acknowledging the other council members, then fixed his eyes on the ground in front of him to summon the words he’d speak when called upon by the great chief.

  Moments before the council had begun, the Panther’s mind had drifted back to his many exploits in battle, most against the Monacan people, their bitter enemies who lived toward the setting sun where the mountains rose. They spoke a different language from the Powhatan peoples, a language similar to what he’d heard from traders from many moon cycles to the north, where there were rumored to be huge lakes with drinkable water— lakes nearly as large as the Great-Water-That-Cannot-Be-Drunk. He’d killed eight Monacans in his twenty-six years, some easily, some with great difficulty, nearly lost his own life several times in the process; but fighting brave, dangerous enemies was life’s greatest challenge and its greatest honor . . . even if one died. And he knew his intense bravery and the wisdom that guided it were the reasons Wahunsunacock had chosen him as his most trusted and valued advisor.

  Several lesser Powhatan chiefs had spoken first. They’d told how the Roanokes had seen the English leaving Roanoke Island, how visitors to the Chesapeakes had learned that these people were coming to settle with the Chesapeakes by the big bay; and they’d spoken about new incursions into their territory by the Monacans, the latter having resulted in the killing of two Powhatan warriors when Monacan and Powhatan hunting parties unexpectedly encountered one another several days before. Then another lesser chief, from the Nansemond people, who bordered the Chesapeakes, had called for a punitive raid against the Chesapeakes for their refusal to become full members of Wahunsunacock’s chiefdom and for allowing the English to live with them. Many mouths had buzzed and many heads had nodded at the comment, but Wahunsunacock and the Panther had shown no reaction.

  The next speaker had been Wahunsunacock’s shaman, a man of great honor—not for his exploits in war but for the remarkable accuracy of his visions and prophecies. He’d previously told of a dream he’d had of a nation rising from the Chesapeakes’ land to destroy the Powhatan chiefdom. He hadn’t been able to accurately identify the people in the risen nation but had assumed they were the Chesapeakes; so though the Powhatans never decided for war without serious consideration of the potential gains and risks, the council had immediately voted to rub out the Chesapeakes if they ever grew in strength and belligerence toward the chiefdom. But this night, the shaman had spoken of a new dream: a vision of white men growing strong in the Chesapeake land, rampaging through Powhatan villages, accompanied by Chesapeake warriors, killing, raping, forever destroying their world. He’d concluded that this dream confirmed that the white men were the nation he’d dreamed of in his first dream and that the Chesapeakes were merely their allies; and though his dream had not shown him when the destruction of the Powhatans would occur, a voice in the dream had told him that the Powhatans could avert the danger only by attacking and annihilating the white men first. A stunned silence had filled the great hall. The Panther had studied the shaman’s face to discern whether or not he was exaggerating, taking liberties with his dreams as shamans sometimes did, but he’d seen only the face of an old man worried to the core of his soul.

  After a prolonged silence, Wahunsunacock had looked at the Panther. “Wahunsunacock would hear Kills-Like-the-Panther.”

  The Panther had risen, nodded at the great chief, drifted his gaze to the eyes of every other man in the room. “We have heard many voices tonight. All spoke with wisdom and with the good of the people in their hearts. I have listened and heard and thought on every word, and asked our spirit leader, Okeus, to guide my thoughts. This is what he has told me. The English and their fulfillment of our great shaman’s prophecy are the greatest threat we face. They remain strong, with many great sticks that bark, and a direct attack on them now will bring many weeping women and children among us. For that reason, we should bide our time, let winter take its toll, let them grow
hungry, fight with each other, perhaps kill each other; then nibble at them like small fish, kill a few when we can do so with little risk, capture a few, torture them, test their bravery as they die slowly, leave what remains of their bodies where the others can find them, and feel their hearts fill with fear. Then when they’re weak, diminished in numbers, and without the protection of a fort, we shall attack and annihilate them and their Chesapeake friends.” He’d paused, again looked into each man’s eyes, thought of his first wife and children lying dead, his new wife, the child in her womb. “They will not have the strength or heart to build a fort in winter. They may begin it, but they will wait until spring to complete it, which means we have until then to attack. So we have time to be careful, choose the right moment, the right weakness, the right vulnerability; we can then rub them out without losing more of our own people than we can suffer to lose, for we must expect to face other white men in the seasons ahead and must preserve our strength and will to do so.”

  He’d paused while private discussions of his words rippled around the lodge, then glanced at Wahunsunacock, who’d nodded at him without expression. A moment later, he’d looked back at the council, raised his arms for silence. “We have heard that the Monacans are encroaching on our territory. We’ve always fought these people and always will. But they pose far less danger to us than the English, and we cannot fight two big wars at the same time.” He had watched the nods of approval ripple their way down the two lines, like small waves. “So I tell you that Okeus has let me see that we must first make a little war on the Monacans to keep them from our hunting grounds. At the same time, we must harass the English with small attacks as I proposed a moment ago. Then when most, or perhaps all, of the right conditions are in place, we will attack the English and Chesapeakes with all of our force and rub them from the earth.”