Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Mayhap it will divert him. “Surely, Father.” She poured both of them another cup, handed one to him, sipped the other.

  “As I was saying, Hugh Tayler’s the right man for you. He’s a gentleman through and through, educated, of good family, and . . . and . . . he has wealth, and a young lass should never underestimate the importance of wealth. It can solve many a problem in a marriage.” He hesitated, took a swig of beer, stared at the fire for a moment, then looked back at Emily. “My dear Em, now that I think more deeply of it, I insist you marry Hugh Tayler, for such is my right as your father. Truly, I see no other way to ensure your safety. ’Tis a perfect match, and your mother will be delighted, and I can then go to my maker knowing you’re cared for. Yes, Emily Colman, you shall marry Hugh Tayler as soon as arrangements can be made.”

  Emily stood, glared at her father with parted lips as if she was about to spit. “The beer has softened your mind, Father. You’ve lost your senses, and I’ll have none of it. And I’ll have none of Hugh Tayler either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, as I told you, I have knowledge of his character which you do not.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as nothing you’ll hear from me. ’Tis my business, and it shall remain so.”

  “This is foolishness, Emily Colman. Tell me now, or obey my wishes!”

  “I’ll not.” She gulped the last of the beer, grabbed her shawl, started for the door. Three crisp knocks halted her. She walked slowly to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Hugh Tayler, Emily. May I speak with you?”

  “Hugh, this isn’t a good—”

  Colman said, “Come in, Hugh. Come in.”

  Tayler opened the door, stepped inside.

  Emily flipped her shawl around her shoulders, started for the door. “Hello, Hugh. I was just leaving. Father would love to visit with you.”

  He whispered, “Emily, we must talk.” He looked at Colman. “How are you today, Thomas?”

  “I think I’m better . . . probably this excellent beer.” He lifted his cup. “Emily, remain with us, lass.”

  “Goodbye, Father . . . Hugh.” She walked out the door.

  Tayler followed her outside. “Emily, please. Pardon me for intruding. I can see ’tis an awkward moment. But I wanted to express my deepest sorrow over the young Harvie lad. I truly grieve for you . . . and Mistress Dare . . . and the lad himself, of course.”

  Emily stopped, faced him with a neutral cast. “Thank you, Hugh. I accept your sympathy . . . I know ’tis sincere. And I— ”

  “Emily, I can no longer suffer the sorrow of being parted from you. My love grows stronger even in your absence, and I shall be loosed from my mind if I cannot soon enjoy your company for long enough to clear my good name and show you by my actions that I’m worthy of your affection. So I beg you, fair lady, please oblige me as you said you would. Meet with me in a private place where we may speak our souls without intrusion and interruption, for what I must tell you is of the direst importance. Please, Milady, oblige this poor suffering soul before ’tis too late.”

  She held her stoical look, let his words drift through her heart and mind. I told him I would meet him, hear him; I must honor my word . . . though I would joyfully avoid it. “Hugh, I gave you my word, and I shall keep it. I cannot meet you tomorrow or the next day but three days hence.”

  He smiled humbly, spoke slowly, appreciatively. “Thank you, kind lady. Might we meet just outside the palisades gate at midafternoon on that day?”

  She feigned a smile. “Aye, we shall, Master Tayler. I shall see you then.” “Until then, my fair one. Now I should like to visit your father.”

  “He would enjoy that, Hugh. Goodbye.” She turned, walked away.

  Though the southern sun tempered the afternoon chill, traces of ice clung stubbornly to the banks of the stream where Emily sat on a log at her special place. She’d spent the day slicing fish into strips to be smoked over a fire covered with smoldering green bark, but barely a moment had passed without oppressive guilt tormenting her heart. Though her father’s spirits and combativeness had risen with yesterday’s fresh beer, he’d been unable to roust himself from his bed that morning, and she was now convinced he was failing but wondered why the prospect no longer terrified her as it once had. Yes, the thought of him absent from her life deeply saddened her for the simple fact that he was her father, and she’d never been without him in life; but her fear of the unknown, the uncertainty of existence without him, no longer distressed her. She knew she could survive on her own, be it with the colonists or with Savages; but rueful regret tore at her insides like a wolf ripping flesh from its prey, for her snippy, tart replies to his innocently inflammatory statements. She knew the root of the problem was naught but his personality and inherent tactlessness, so she vigorously decried her lack of self-restraint and inability to overlook trifling shortcomings. She took her mother’s letter from her apron pocket, opened it, skipped to part about her father.

  Please remember everything I taught you about dealing with your father. You’ll need each other to survive and prosper. And in spite of how he sometimes affects you, remember that he loves you deeply.

  Tears dampened her eyes as she vowed to hold her tongue and prayed God would preserve him long enough for her to show him the deep love she harbored for him, the respect he truly deserved.

  She glanced around the forest. Leaves gone, beginning to look stark; a few birds remain but not many. Wonder if the stream will freeze, how much snow we’ll have . . . surely far more than at home . . . home . . . Mother, when will you come to us? She reached into her pocket, searched for her missing locket as if touching its place would return it to her. She visualized her mother lifting her young brother from his bucket bath, wrapping him in a large cloth, dabbing him dry while singing a soft lullaby, then folding him into a blanket, rocking him gently in her arms. When he started to fuss, she sat, lowered her smock, nursed him. She saw herself holding Henry, then Virginia, cuddling, nurturing, bonding. Oh, Mother, would that you could know that I, too, am nursing a child. She ached at Henry’s loss, thanked God for Virginia’s life, told him she’d delighted in sharing herself with both of them, wondered if the bond could possibly be any stronger if they were her own, thought not.

  The birds stopped singing. Emily instinctively searched the forest, smiled when Isna soundlessly emerged from the brush. She sprang to her feet, ran to his waiting arms, met him with a lengthy kiss, pressed her body against his, and savored the sudden euphoria that glowed like a warm fire in her mind. She pulled back, looked into his eyes, smiled. Something different. She pulled back further, looked him up and down. That’s what it is.

  He wore a soft, tan buckskin shirt that reached to his thighs; the long sleeves, shoulders, and chest were painted a light blue, the bottom fringed all around, and the entire underside of the sleeves adorned with a line of thin, foot-long tassels of black hair. Buckskin leggings, fringed from waist to foot on their outside seams, covered his legs from his waist to the bottom of his moccasins; and his hair hung long and loose down his back to his waist, with his five eagle feathers protruding to the side in their usual fan shape. Emily gawked wide-eyed at the large necklace of sixteen, six-inch-long bear claws that hung loosely about his neck. “Isna, those claws are huge. Are they . . . are they from . . .”

  “Yes. They’re from the great bear.” He grasped the longest ones, which hung in the center. “These are the ones he used to tear at Isna’s head.”

  Emily stared at the necklace, her eyes wide with awe. “ Isna, Emily cannot imagine something so big as this bear. Wakan Tanka watched over Isna that day.”

  “Yes. But remember, the bear had told Isna in his vision that he must take his life and his spirit. So he knew he would eventually yield to Isna and could not do so if Isna were dead. He fought hard, so Isna would respect and honor the value of his gift and use his strength wisely. And this Isna strives to do.”

  “Emily knows this is so.”
She smiled, looked again at his shirt and leggings. “ Isna looks warm. Is this what he wears in winter in his land?” They walked hand in hand to Emily’s log and sat.

  “This and much more. It is very cold there. Much wah.” He extended his arms upward, fluttered his fingers as he lowered his arms to shoulder height, then moved them back and forth horizontally.

  “Snow . . . wah. Very deep?”

  He nodded. “Also kha-gha.” He pointed at the ice clinging to the stream bank, held his hands palms down in front, spread them back and forth. “Hard water, kha-gha, covers the Mother-of-All-Rivers.”

  “What does Isna do in such cold?”

  He smiled. “Hunt a little . . . but mostly sit in the lodge by a large fire and tell stories.”

  Emily chuckled.

  “The Lakota also paint stories on large skins to remember the important things that happened that year . . . it is called the winter count.”

  Like a book. “Who else lives in Isna’s lodge? Does he have a . . .” She grimaced at her words.

  His look saddened. “No. Isna has no wife . . . he nearly did, but she, and Isna’s parents and young brother, were killed by our enemies, the people who call themselves the first peoples . . . two half-brothers now share my lodge.”

  Emily looked embarrassed, ashamed. “ Isna. Emily is sorry. Forgive her. She—”

  “But Isna found the people who killed them, and it is their hair that hangs from his sleeves.” He held his arms out to his sides. “And their scalps, with the rest of their hair, hang in his lodge.”

  With wide eyes and parted lips, she looked at his sleeves, pointed. “That is their hair . . . human hair?”

  He nodded.

  “My God,” she said in English, looked away, hand over her mouth. How barbaric . . . yet, they did kill his entire family . . . and his—

  “Why is Emily not married? No woman is as beautiful . . . or wonderful as she.”

  In less than a breath, Emily’s cheeks turned sunburn red. “Some . . . some girls Emily’s age are married, but . . . but Emily has never loved anyone enough to want to marry him . . . until . . .” She stared into his eyes with a sensuous, lusty look, fought the urge to pull him to the ground and entangle his body in wild passion. What’s happening to me? Such feelings, temptations. She swallowed hard. Chastity used to be easy. Her body shuddered, breasts heaved with her breath. But now . . . now I can’t restrain myself?

  He took her hands in his, met her gaze with a desirous look, pulled her close until her breasts were against his chest, then kissed her with the softness of a butterfly. Pulling slightly back to study her eyes, he smiled softly, gently, silently, took a slow, deep breath. “Emily, there will be dancing tonight. The Chesapeakes will thank their gods for the harvest. The Lakota will dance with them. Perhaps Emily will come to the village and watch . . . and perhaps dance.”

  “Yes, Isna. Emily would like that. She will come.”

  “Come when you hear the drums. Isna will await you.”

  She smiled. “I shall. And do the Lakota dance like the Chesapeakes?”

  “Yes. But we dance for many reasons: to celebrate the harvest, bravery of a warrior, the taking of scalps, victories, a good hunt . . . a good marriage. Everyone dances. It is part of our life. Do your people dance?”

  “Sometimes. Emily likes it very much, but her people don’t dance to thank God for things; they dance because it makes them happy. And they laugh and tell stories and play games and drink beer and wine.”

  “What are these things?”

  “They are drinks that make one feel very good and happy, but too much can make one’s mind soft and make one act like a different person from who they are. So one must take care.”

  “Perhaps a warrior will not take such a drink, for it would be a bad thing if he had to fight while his mind was soft.”

  Emily chuckled. “That is so, Isna.”

  “And games? Does Emily play games?”

  “A few, but mostly we sing—my family, especially.” She smiled to herself, visualized her family sitting in front of the fireplace at home in England then dancing arm in arm around their small gathering room. Such fun we had . . . and God willing, will have again.

  “The Lakota sing much but mostly when they dance. And they play games.”

  “What kind of games?”

  “Many, but the people most enjoy the kicking-ball game.”

  “And how is it played?”

  He raised an eyebrow; his lips curved into a mischievous grin. He raised his index finger in front of her, stepped to the stream; reached in, scooped up a handful of mud, plopped it on the bank; then tore off several handfuls of long, dry grass, squeezed it into the mud, shaped it into a ball about four inches in diameter, and wrapped more grass around the outside. Next he walked to a close-by tree, cut out three narrow strips of thin bark about two feet long, wrapped and tied them around the ball. He handed the ball to Emily, walked a few feet into the forest to a fallen tree; broke off two, four-foot-long sticks that were curved on the bottom, broke the curved parts to about a five-inch length; returned to Emily, handed her a stick.

  She smiled at him suspiciously. “What would Isna have this young girl do?”

  “First, she must rise to her feet. One cannot play this game sitting on Mother Earth.” He walked to the side of the clearing, placed two short logs about three feet apart, then did the same at the opposite side of the clearing. He pointed at the first pair of logs. “Emily must use her stick to hit the ball between those logs to score a point.” He pointed at the other end. “And Isna must do the same with those logs. One may also kick the ball but cannot touch it with hands.”

  “Emily can do this easily. What’s the sport of it?”

  “Will this young girl be able to do it when Isna tries to stop her?”

  A trace of concern crept over Emily’s face. “Oh . . . and will this young girl also be allowed to stop Isna from hitting the ball between his logs?”

  He smiled devilishly. “If she can. Let us see if Emily plays Lakota games as well as she speaks Lakota words.”

  She gave him an arrogant, nose-in-the-air look. “Emily is ready. How do we start?”

  He nodded, took the ball from her, placed it equidistant between the two goals. “Emily stands there on that side of the ball, facing her logs; and Isna stands here on this side, facing his; and when the first winged creature makes its song, we start. Emily will also understand that it is fair to bump into another player if he is in your way.”

  “That is not fair. Isna is much bigger and stronger than Emily.”

  “Isna will be gentle.”

  She smiled. “Emily won’t. Let us begin.”

  Both held their sticks beside the ball, waited for a bird to sing. They waited . . . and waited . . . until finally, Emily said, “Perhaps we should—”

  A bird chirped; but before Emily could react, Isna batted the ball to her side, raced to his logs, knocked the ball between them. He looked back at her. “ Isna did not tell Emily that he is very good at this game. She will have to move quickly to make a goal.”

  “Humph! Very well. Emily now sees how to play. It will not be so easy for Isna the next time.”

  Isna placed the ball in the center again, but as he let go, a bird chirped, and Emily whacked the ball with a hard blow that caught the tips of his fingers between her stick and the ball. He groaned, shook the sting from his hand while Emily darted around him after the ball, pushed it toward her goal. He leaped after her, thrust his stick at the ball as she was winding up to shoot. His stick knocked the ball to her right; but she stuck her foot out, stopped it, quickly pushed it between the two logs for a goal, then raised her hands and stick in the air as she jumped up and down. “Emily told Isna it would not be so easy this time.”

  Isna said, “One is not allowed to hit another with his stick . . . but Isna will forgive Emily since she is new. Emily may keep her point.”

  She gave him a smug look then a devious smile, retriev
ed the ball, returned it to the center of the clearing. “Emily must nurse Virginia. Next point wins.”

  “Women do not set rules. Lakota men are the deciders . . . but Isna will allow it this time.”

  She frowned. “Start on the next winged voice.”

  A bird chirped; Isna smacked the ball to Emily’s side, started after it; but she stuck out her stick, tripped him, chased after the ball as he fell. He leaped to his feet, caught up, then stepped in front of her as she pushed the ball toward her goal. She lowered her shoulder, charged into his stomach. As he fell backward, his feet tangled with hers; she tripped, fell laughing to the ground on top of him. They looked into one another’s eyes, hesitated, pulled into a tight embrace, kissed. She wrapped a leg around his, pressed her middle into his groin, fondled the back of his neck, moved her hand to his side as he did the same—heart racing, panting, passion flooding her mind.

  Emily thought, can’t stop. Lord, help me. Mother! Emily, stop! She pulled her face back from his, stared at him with a sad, exasperated look, her heart pounding against his like a drum. “Oh, Isna. Emily wants you.”

  “And Isna, you. But this must not be the time . . . and Emily . . . it is also possible that the time never comes . . . but even so, now cannot be the time.”

  They sat up, stared at each other for a quiet moment, caught their breath. He rose, backed away toward the edge of the forest. “Wait here. Isna will show Emily something.”

  What’s he doing? She watched him intently as he approached the forest, leaned behind a bush, picked something up, then backed toward her while masking whatever it was with his body. What is he doing?

  When he reached her, he set the items on the ground. On the bottom was a round, brown object about two feet in diameter, made of thick, tough-looking hide, and on top of it, a light-tan, soft-looking leather bundle folded neatly into a two-foot square. He slid the round object from beneath the bundle, turned around to face her, flipped it over. He watched her eyes as she studied the painted figures on its face, the five eagle feathers hanging equally spaced across the bottom edge. “This is Isna’s war shield. It is made from the thick hump of the man pte, the bull pte, called tah-tahn-ka.”