Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  “Thank you, Ellie, but let us pray he recovers.”

  They laid the babies in their cribs, returned to their stools. Emily said, “Let us speak of something besides Hugh Tayler and Father’s illness.” Her face beamed with a wide smile and sparkling eyes.

  Elyoner shot her a knowing smirk. “And what might that be, Mistress Colman?”

  “Isna, of course. But mind you, ’tis only a casual relationship . . . mostly educational, for I scarcely know him, though I do greatly relish learning about him and his people.” Emily thought of Isna—his wry smile, piercing eyes, dignified presence, his Lakota pride, his gentleness and patience. Yes, her entire body—mind, soul, heart, newly discovered passions—all simmered in a hot, tingly, dizzying cauldron whenever she thought of him.

  Elyoner smirked. “Indeed! Is that why you light up like a lantern when you hear or speak his name?”

  Emily glanced at her with furrowed brow, hard, tight eyes, fought the sheepish grin that wanted to creep across her face.

  Elyoner’s round, rosy cheeks mushroomed over a perky, knowing smile. “Not being blind, I have noticed you spend considerable time with him . . . and seem to take far more than educational pleasure in it.”

  Emily’s wooden look unexpectedly burst into an ear-to-ear smile and an unrestrained giggle. “You’ve found me out, Ellie Dare. ’Tis true. I delight in every second I’m with him, and I greatly enjoy learning of his peoples’ beliefs and their legends . . . so many things are so close to what we believe. Listen to this. Yesterday he told me about P’tay-sahn-ween and—”

  “Who?”

  “Ptesanwin, the White-P’tay-Cow-Woman. Pte means bison, like the bison that used to roam the plains of Europe in ancient times. Isna says that to the west of the mountains, they’re as many as the stars, and that his people use them for nearly everything: shelter, food, clothes, tools, water bags, string, thread, and many other things. But to the story, Ptesanwin brought the Lakota—and others of their larger group, the Da-kota—a sacred pipe.”

  “A pipe?”

  “Aye. And I think they revere it . . . and follow the teachings associated with it, much as we do the Eucharist.”

  “Oh. Interesting. Go on.”

  “Well, Wakan Tanka, who as far as I can tell is exactly like our God but without Jesus Christ, sent a magical bison cow, or pte, who turned herself into a beautiful woman dressed in white buckskin and delivered the sacred pipe to them. Actually, though I hadn’t thought of it until just now, it does sound a lot like God the Father sending Jesus Christ . . . but without the crucifixion and all . . . to save humanity.”

  Elyoner nodded reflectively. “Most interesting. I’m listening.”

  “Well, as she approached, two young men, one of whom who had impure intentions, met her; and she immediately turned the bad one into a pile of bones, which taught the Lakota and the other Dakota peoples to revere the sanctity of women and honor them forevermore.”

  “I rather like that story.”

  “She then gave them the sacred pipe, which has a red stone bowl meaning the earth, a long wooden stem that signifies everything growing on earth, including people and animals, and twelve eagle feathers that signify everything that flies above the earth. She said that all of these things, together with people who smoke the pipe, speak to Wakan Tanka . . . God. She also told them to walk the earth with the pipe and that the earth is their Grandmother and Mother and very sacred, and that every step taken upon her should be a prayer . . . that every dawn and every day are holy, and that each day’s light comes directly from Wakan Tanka.”

  “A rather beautiful notion . . . but how can so many smoke one pipe?”

  “Well, I’m not certain they do . . . I think it may be symbolic, in the sense that walking the earth with the pipe means living a good life, at peace with all people and things in the universe . . . like Christians walking the Bible’s straight and narrow path. And—”

  “I see what you mean about similarities . . . quite mystical, it is.”

  Emily rippled with enthusiasm. “ ’Tis beyond mystical . . . ’tis completely astounding . . . two cultures an ocean apart, with no contact, having similar views of God and how he wants us to live. Think about it.”

  “I completely agree, but where does the white bison enter the story?”

  Emily raised her right index finger. “Before she left, Ptesanwin said that as long as the pipe was kept and honored by the people, they would live; but if they ever forgot about it, they’d be without a center and would perish.” She smiled. “Is it not a beautiful story?”

  “Aye, it is, Em.”

  “And now to your question . . . as Ptesanwin departed, she turned back into a bison cow . . . but it was a white bison cow . . . and that’s where she got her name . . . White-Bison-Cow-Woman.”

  “Zounds, lass. You’ve been a busy student, and . . .”

  Emily sat quietly, an impish smirk on her face, thought how Isna always seemed mischievously annoyed when she asked him to explain things . . . as if he had more important things to do than answer a woman’s incessant questions. He probably did, but he always smiled at her, spoke gently, touched her with the softness of fine linen, then displayed rising yet measured excitement as he told her of his people and their beliefs.

  “Emily Colman . . . are you in love?”

  Emily looked directly, piercingly into Elyoner’s eyes, smiled. “Ellie, he stirs my blood and soul like nothing in this world.”

  Elyoner looked at her, lips slightly parted as if to speak, but without words took a deep, pondering breath. “ Em, I see how you feel; I feel how you feel . . . you sparkle at his name . . . and I see a man in Isna with every attribute a woman could desire. But I cannot part my mind from the reality that he’s of a different culture. Yes, his culture and—”

  Emily raised her hand. “Ellie, I know what you’re about to say. And I’ve already had that conversation with myself and made my decision. I shall delight in every moment I pass with Isna . . . for as long as those moments last.”

  “But, Em, how can you torment yourself so? You’re placing yourself on a cliff above a bottomless emotional pit into which you can do naught but fall. Hear me, lass, I—”

  “Then so be it, Ellie. I must be with him, and I will bear whatever happens when he leaves.”

  Elyoner bit her lips, sighed. “Very well.” She walked to Emily, knelt beside her, pulled her close. “Em, I cannot suffer to see you hurt. I love you, my dear friend, and I shall stand beside you in whatever lies ahead.”

  “Thank you for caring about me, Ellie. I shall manage . . . somehow. I’ve a long winter ahead to know Isna and decide what to do when he departs.” She stood, held Elyoner’s hands, kissed her on the cheek. “I see the sun is high; I must be off with Master Cooper to the Chesapeakes. I shall ask them how they treat colic.” She glanced out the window. “Here come Father and Ananias, and they look quite intent upon something.”

  “I’m sure they’ve some new crisis on their minds. I’m told the Assistants are fearful we’ve not enough provisions for the winter.”

  “ ’Tis true, and they’ve traded beads and other trinkets to the Chesapeakes for help hunting deer. Isna and his three Lakota are going with a group of them this afternoon to hunt for a few days . . . somewhere near the mountains. It seems that’s where most of the deer are . . . but it’s a place sometimes frequented by Powhatans and their enemies, the Monacans, who live near there and speak a language similar to Isna’s. And that’s why he’s going . . . he said it could be dangerous.” She opened the door.

  Elyoner hesitated for a moment then scowled like a scolding mother, wagged her right index finger up and down at Emily. “Before you leave, I have something I must say. Mistress Emily Colman, I well know you intend to do something with regard to Hugh Tayler . . . some fair gesture you think you owe him . . . something that will put your mind at rest . . . even as you cut yourself free of him. Know you that I do not believe him worthy of such.” She paused. “But
if you insist on such a noble, merciful gesture, remember thee well your promise to me. Do not be alone with him.”

  Emily faced her with a guilty smile, gave her a quick hug. “I promise, Ellie.”

  The ten Powhatan warriors moved swiftly, silently through the dense forest. Each man wore only moccasins, and a fringed, thigh-length apron across his front; while lines, swirls, and splashes of paint adorned their bodies and the shaven right halves of their heads. Each carried a painted-bark shield on his arm, a long bow, an un-nocked arrow in his shield hand, and a knife and stone war club at his side. It was not a hunting party.

  The Panther had three parallel stripes across his face on each side, that ran from the ridge of his nose across each cheek to the bottom of his jaws— red on top, black in the middle, and yellow on the bottom. Every man had a red design of some sort on the right side of his head; the Panther’s was a collection of lines, in a shell shape that emanated upward from just above his ear to the hairline at the top, where his long hair hung down the left side.

  As he jogged at the front of the band, his mind reviewed their plan to surprise the Monacan hunting party they knew was hunting deer in their territory. They’d made two previous raids against the Monacans and on the first had killed two and taken one prisoner for torture. But the Monacans had pursued, and they’d had to kill the prisoner because he’d slowed their pace; the Monacans had outnumbered them and would likely have won an encounter in which the Powhatans did not have the advantage of surprise. The glow of any victory was dulled by heavy losses, and such were to be carefully avoided. He ground his teeth together when he thought of the second raid, led by another warrior, who’d stumbled headlong into the Monacan hunting party; and again outnumbered, they’d lost two warriors: one killed and another taken prisoner. They’d found the prisoner’s body days later, after he’d been tortured and dismembered, his body left where the Monacans knew the Powhatans would find it. He smiled, for the captured man had been a close friend, an exceptionally brave warrior, and the Panther knew he’d laughed in their faces and taunted them as they tested his courage, knew he’d died a warrior’s death because the Monacans had left his weapons with his body: testimony that he’d died bravely and earned the respect of his tormentors.

  As the memory of his friend faded from his mind, the Panther thought of the young white girl with eyes the color of the sky and black hair like their own. He’d been unable to keep her face and the thought of her courage from his mind. Even when he thought of his very pregnant wife and her still-ferocious passion for lovemaking, Blue Eyes displaced her in his mind, captured his desire and his longing, filled him with visions of her naked body tight against his own, their wild, frantic movement together. The fact that a white woman could influence him so, still confounded, even troubled him; but he’d finally concluded it was what he’d known all along: it had been her raw beauty and courage that together captured his mind and now convinced him to take her for his second wife when they annihilated the whites in the spring or perhaps sooner. However, his present wife’s possible reaction to his plan troubled him, for she was aggressively possessive, not the kind to share love with anyone. But she’d have her hands full with their new child, perhaps be more tolerant of his decision. Then again . . . who could predict the emotions of an angry, jealous woman . . . certainly not him. But he had plenty of long winter days ahead to think more on it; it was time now to think about the fight at hand, how they would inflict great pain on the enemy while escaping it themselves. He’d done so many times—led lopsided victories, killed many enemies, taken many prisoners, lost few of his own warriors. This fight should be easy because they knew where the Monacans would come from, where they would hunt: deer-rich Powhatan territory where there was excellent cover for ambush. But to think any fight would be easy was to invite defeat, and he cautioned himself to leave nothing to chance, to demand the utmost discipline and fighting skills from his men. A little more time would bring them to the place he’d chosen for the ambush, with enough time for the good concealment and positioning that would ensure their victory.

  Afternoon shadows had begun lengthening from the foot of the narrow section of completed palisades when Emily returned from the Chesapeake village. Hugh Tayler spied her from the village green, hurried toward her. “Emily!”

  Isna was glad for his short Lakota bow. It was far less cumbersome than the long bows used by the Chesapeakes, allowed quicker movement through the forest. He and Soft-Nose, one of the other Lakota warriors, were therefore ahead of the two Chesapeakes who accompanied them, and he calculated that he himself led Soft-Nose by perhaps the length of three bow shots but wasn’t sure. The hunting party had split into two groups because too many hunters in a band was counterproductive, created too much noise, alerted the prey and forced it from an area. So the two other Lakota and several Chesapeakes hunted elsewhere to increase the harvest, which they would combine at the end of the day.

  All day Isna had tried unsuccessfully to keep Emily from his mind. Visions of her had persistently quickened his heart, drawn his mind from his task. Too dangerous to think of this now, he thought. He forced his mind to the deer’s track. Fresher now, shallow in the leaves, not afraid, not running, close. Slow the pace, be more silent, don’t want a running deer I can’t catch. He took one of the four arrows he held in his left hand along with his bow’s handgrip, nocked it, held the bow up in firing position. A few more steps . . . there he is, too much brush, can’t see him well, move slowly, be careful; he pulled the bowstring back, aimed at the shape, advanced slowly, cautiously, one silent step at a time. No sound, breathe slower, quieter, move slowly, feel the earth, touch it before you step; his foot felt a stick; he stepped slightly, cautiously to the right, felt leaves and earth, thanked Wakan Tanka they were damp. Quiet, closer, better view, big buck, no wind, don’t shoot yet, another step, slow, quiet—he slid noiselessly under a low tree branch—almost ready, two more steps. His heart began to race like it always did before a kill—two or four legged. He moved right, slipped behind a large tree, paused, breathed deep, exhaled slowly, did it again, took a third breath, let half out, held the rest, eased like a slow-crawling turtle from behind the tree, aimed, released.

  As the arrow left the bow, a bolt of fear shot down his spine; he instinctively jerked back behind the tree, began to nock another arrow. Deer’s sideways, looking right; something’s there. “Phffft!” An arrow zipped by the tree. “Phffft! Phffft!” Two more. “Phffft-thunk!” One into the tree. He leaned around the trunk, let his arrow fly where the deer had been watching, heard a moan, pulled back behind the tree, nocked a third arrow.

  “Hieeeeeeeeee!” War cries rose from the forest where he had shot, began to spread to either side. Silence, then a long, piercing, solitary cry. They come now. He leaned around the tree, loosed his arrow at the lead warrior, saw it hit his side; but he kept on coming, others behind him. Isna dropped his bow, pulled his war club and knife from his waist, shouted, “It’s a good day to die,” charged the ten Powhatans.

  Hugh Tayler shifted his deadpan gaze from Emily to the bottom of the palisade section where they stood together.

  Emily watched him with a stern, suspicious look.

  He faced her, started to reach for her hands, but she withdrew them. He took a deep breath. “Emily, in all you’ve told me, there’s but one truth. When I was twelve, I did indeed leave my good friend, Charlie, alone in the moors; and he did, in fact, drown. ’Twas a shameful act of cowardice on my part, and I give no excuse for it beyond my own youthful fear of being lost in a dark, foggy, haunting swamp, an unspeakably terrifying experience. I dream about it every night, and it will torment me until I die.” He shook his head. “No matter that there was really nothing I could do to save him. What matters is that I didn’t try, and I lied about it to his and my parents . . . and I shall forever regret my actions.”

  Emily’s eyes saddened with unwilling compassion. “Hugh . . .”

  “But, Emily, the remainder of what you’v
e been told is completely false, and I shall refute each charge in turn.”

  Her hard look returned. “Go on.”

  “First let me say that I detest the people who’ve slandered me, but I respect your wish to conceal their identities; nevertheless, I know who they are, and I’ll now tell you the truth about them. All three of them are shameless knaves who’ve made a pact to undermine and destroy me.”

  Emily held her silence. Three? Who besides Johnny? She felt a discomforting seed of uneasiness worming its way into her mind.

  Tayler’s face began to redden; his eyes filled with a fiery anger Emily had not seen before, an anger that frightened her. “I’ve already told you about Johnny Gibbes. Now let me tell you about William Waters and Michael Myllet.” He spoke with disgust.

  Emily’s eyes widened. Cannot be, she thought.

  “Waters courted my younger sister; and when she spurned him, he beat her . . . broke her nose, cut her cheeks, blackened her eyes. When I heard of it, I called him out; but he refused to face me, ran away and joined the army, which I would have denounced had I known about it, for I had many influential army friends who could have blocked his commission. But as it turned out, by the time I found out, he was already in and established, and ’tis most difficult to force an officer out once he’s in service. And as for Myllet”—he shook his head, flashed a disgusted sneer—“ he’s but a vagabond who had the fortune, or misfortune, to know Waters’ family, and was able to exploit the connection in the army to rapidly ascend to sergeant’s rank . . . which he ill deserves. He’s a churlish lunkhead, incapable of independent thought . . . a mere dancing puppet for Waters . . . does his bidding like a dog.”

  Emily’s mind spun in confusion; she felt as if the earth beneath her had suddenly vanished, left her tumbling through the air.