Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Taverner looked down at the girl, watched her cry for a moment, then looked at Farre. “Your turn. Here, I’ll hold the rope.” He grasped the rope, traded places with Farre. As Farre dropped his pants, Taverner looked for the other men, found them twenty feet away and apart. One thrust wildly into his girl from behind, and the other from the front, while the third and fourth men held the terrified girls in place.

  After each man had spent himself twice, Taverner said, “Come, men. We’d best not linger here in case these lasses be missed.”

  As he tightened his belt, Butler said, “What do we do with them, Taverner?”

  “Naught but one thing we can do, you fool.” Taverner walked over to the girl he’d raped first, stood over her as she cried quietly with her eyes closed. He pulled his dagger from his belt, knelt beside her, slit her throat, then cut off a breast as blood gurgled from her neck. He looked at the breast, thrust it into the bag at his waist. “A little remembrance, eh, boys?”

  Butler puked. “Damn you, Taverner. How can you do that?” He looked down at the girl who lay whimpering beside him.

  Taverner said, “To hell with you, man. We can’t just leave ’em be.” He walked over to Butler, knelt, quickly slit the girl’s throat. “Want her tits?”

  Butler puked again, stood, walked away as Taverner cut off one of her breasts, held it up. “Anyone want one?” When no one claimed it, he tossed it over his shoulder, then stood, looked at the third girl, who was already dead, saw that the man who’d killed her had her bloody scalp cut halfway off. “Hurry it up, Tydway!”

  Tydway said, “Calm yourself, Taverner. I ain’t goin’ nowhere ’til she’s got the same as what they done to the Chapman woman.”

  When Tydway had cut the scalp free of the girl’s head and held it up for all to see, Taverner said, “Come. Let’s hide ’em in the trees.”

  After they’d dragged the bodies into the trees and piled a foot of leaves on top of them, the soldiers regrouped in the clearing, retrieved their matchlocks, and trotted into the forest toward the colony.

  My Dearest Emily,

  When you read this, you’ll probably be at sea, probably sick, and probably missing me and your brother as much as we already miss you. My dear, you are the joy of my life, and being parted from you is the most painful and difficult thing I’ve experienced, even more so than giving birth to you and your brothers. I love you, Emily, and I miss your willing, helpful hand, your cheerfulness, your humor, your intelligence, your loyalty, your honesty, your kindness. I haven’t told you often enough how much I love you, but I tell you now that I count the moments until I’m with you and your father again. No separation can dim the love I feel for you, and I pray you thrive and continue to be the fine young woman you’ve become.

  I do not know what lies ahead for you in that new world, but I know you have the mind, the values, and the perseverance to conquer every challenge you face. I know you will survive, no matter what. 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. Second, I want you to remember that your chastity is your most wonderful possession. Nothing in your life is more important. It is the very essence of you, and should be given only to the one you love more than life itself: your husband, none other. I know you understand this. Now, dear Emily, I must go. I pray that God watches over you and protects you and that our family will soon be together again. Godspeed.

  I love you,

  Mother

  Tears streamed down Emily’s cheeks as she folded the crinkled letter, laid it on the table beside her. She wiped her eyes then watched the last grain of sand fall through the neck of her hourglass. She glanced at the fire, focused for a moment on the yellow flames lapping at the nearly consumed log. So wrong that I should have to do this . . . so wrong to give myself to a man out of wedlock . . . a married man, an evil man, a man without conscience. So many times I’ve agonized over this . . . so many times I’ve accepted my fate . . . but in truth, I cannot accept it. And so I agonize again and again. She stood, walked to the table, flipped the hourglass upside down, watched the grains of sand begin to trickle through the neck. One hour . . . one short hour before my next great sin . . . before he again enters my body. She shivered for a second, crossed her arms around her chest. Need some wood. She walked slowly to the woodpile, picked up a pair of medium-sized logs, and laid them on the flames; she thought how quickly they ignited. Fast . . . like the changes in my life since England—one minute, happiness and hope, and the next, neither. She shook her head. Nothing I can do about it. She glanced at her father’s empty bed then stared into the fire. Pray, Lord, don’t let it take long. I cannot bear it.

  She felt her abdomen. Can’t feel much, but—“Oooh! A little pain there.” Perhaps I should tell Tayler . . . he’ll know soon anyway. She studied the crackling flames. Perchance I’ve been wrong; perhaps knowing will change him in some good way. She slapped herself gently on the cheek, snorted cynically. Don’t be foolish, Emily. Nothing will change Hugh Tayler. He’s evil to the core. She peeked at the hourglass again. Going fast. Wonder what it will feel like this time . . . scarcely remember the last. She shivered again, laid her face in her hands, wept softly, replayed the rape: her utter surprise, terror, despair, anger, involuntary pleasure, embarrassment. She composed herself. No good, Em. Won’t change anything. She glanced at the hourglass. Too fast. Never been naked with a man . . . never seen a man naked either . . . probably frighten me. She wiped a new tear from each eye. I suppose I should undress here to make it go quicker . . . just wear my smock with a cape over it. She started to unbuckle her belt, hesitated, laid her hands across her lap, shook her head. No . . . not yet. No hurry. I wonder if he’ll undress me . . . or expect me to undress myself . . . and what of him? Oh, God . . . Mother . . . Father, save me from this. How I’ve let you down. She touched her mother’s letter in her apron pocket; felt, as always, for her missing black locket. George, thank the Lord you cannot see me now . . . but what if you can? Lord, give me strength. My Isna, how I betray you. How can I do this to you . . . you, so loving and true? But how can we ever be together if Tayler is alive? She again covered her face with her hands but only for an instant. “No! Stop torturing yourself, Em. The die is cast; you must live with it; so harden yourself, do what you must.” Her hands began to quiver.

  How can I sin so greatly and willfully? But do I not perform a higher good in protecting Virginia and Isna from harm? Yes . . . I do . . . but I betray my family and my love in so doing. My Lord, please show me a way to escape this evil. She spied a small stick on the floor, immediately thought of Tayler snapping the twig an inch from her eyes, shuddered. I can never escape him if he’s alive. No; nor can Isna be with me. He’ll kill, or try to kill, Tayler, and then Tayler’s men will kill him . . . and that will be the end of it. And my baby and I will never live in peace. She stared into the blue flames at the heart of the fire, let her mind drift. Why do I not do as Emme and Ellie propose . . . end his miserable life now, risk the consequences, take the chance, find another way to support my child . . . Isna said he’d . . . she glanced at the hourglass. Nearly time . . . fifteen minutes. She looked back at the fire. Can I kill a man? The flames suddenly flickered back and forth like fingers waving sideways as if to say no. But what if I do kill him . . . and I’m condemned, hanged, or jailed . . . what becomes of my child? She shook her head. Dare not take such a risk. Killing him was never practical—too immoral, too difficult, especially for me alone—and Tayler’s men might still kill Virginia and Isna, even if he’s dead . . . so where am I? She stared thoughtlessly at the fire for half a minute. “You, Mistress Colman, have no satisfactory choices. You must either submit to Tayler, kill him, or . . . or kill yourself and your child. She shook her head. Would that I’d hung myself in the forest after the rape. She stared at the fire for a long while then glanced at the hourglass, saw that the last grains had fallen; s
he felt as if a noose had tightened firmly, harshly around her neck, felt a sudden wave of nausea sour her stomach. She shuddered, took a deep breath, stood, put three logs on the fire, picked up her cape. Fie! Meant to undress . . . no worry, he’ll do it quickly enough. She tossed the cape over her shoulders, opened the door, looked around to make sure no one was near, then stepped outside, her heart fluttering like one of the little birds whose wings seem to hum.

  The Panther’s wife picked up a deerskin to lie on and a second to cover herself and the baby. She poked her head outside the lodge, saw no one nearby, waddled quickly out the door and into the forest. She’d selected her birthing spot months before—a well-hidden thicket of brush with a thick carpet of leaves. She’d hoped that when her time came, the snow would be gone and leaves budded on the bushes for better concealment. Her wish had been granted, but her anxiety had been heightened by the arrival of Nansemond runners only hours before to tell her husband and Wahunsunacock that the white men had raped, murdered, and mutilated three Nansemond women, not far from the Nansemond village.

  The pains had become much closer; and though her water hadn’t broken, she knew from what her mother and sister had told her, that her time was near. She smiled even as she doubled over with a stabbing shot of pain, thought how proud and happy her husband would be if she delivered him a son; for though he was too good a man to say so, she knew in her heart he wanted a son to replace the ones killed by the white men. She recovered from the contraction, stood erect, proceeded on her way.

  After several more contractions, she arrived at the spot, worked her way into the thicket, felt her water break. She quickly spread one deer hide on the bed of leaves, steadied herself with a branch as she knelt, leaned forward on her forearms, then rolled down onto her back. She immediately decided it was too chilly to lie uncovered, so she pulled the second deerskin over her and braced for the next contraction. When it had passed, she raised her knees, pulled her deerskin apron above her thighs, began to push. Won’t be long, she thought as an image of the Panther, a proud smile on his face, appeared in her mind, hovered there like a bird in a strong headwind.

  Emily stopped in front of Tayler’s door, willed her pounding heart to quiet, but it refused. She took two deep breaths. Lord, give me the strength to endure. Isna . . . Mother . . . Father, pray for me. I love you, Isna. She heard people approaching, quickly opened the door, stepped inside.

  Tayler stood by the fire, clad only in his linen smock, which hung almost to his knees. The two stared awkwardly at one another for a moment as Emily pushed the door closed behind her, flipped her hood down, allowing her long, black hair to fall freely over the front and back of her shoulders, cover the side of her cheeks, highlight her deep, blue, unblinking eyes, which had a wild, threatening look like a dangerous predator deciding to strike.

  Beguiled for a moment, Tayler finally blinked, slowly, haltingly parted his lips to speak. “Good evening, Mistress. Let me help you with your cloak.” He stepped toward her.

  Emily unconsciously leaned back against the door, silently watched his approach. Her heart again pounded; she stepped slightly forward as he removed the cape, hung it on a wood hook by the door.

  He gently took her right hand with his left, led her slowly, almost ceremoniously, toward the fire. “Come . . . let us be near the warmth.” When beside it, he stopped, faced her, took her other hand, stared into her eyes, which glistened hauntingly in the dim firelight. “I’ve missed you, Emily Colman . . . more than you can ever know.” His voice quavered. “And I’ve thought again and again about what I would say to you at this moment.”

  Emily closed her eyes.

  “And I tell you three things. First, I deeply regret what happened in the forest that day; second, you are the most stunningly beautiful woman, inside and out, I have ever known, and I love you with all my heart; and third, with every ounce of my being, I want this night to be the most memorable and passionate of your young life.” He moved closer, laid his hands on her shoulders, kissed her slowly, softly.

  She held her eyes closed, lips sealed, wondered if he could hear the wild, throbbing drumbeat of her heart.

  “I know you hate me and have good reason to do so; but I hope, tonight, to replace those thoughts with new, amorous ones of the Hugh Tayler who will love and cherish you for all of our lives together.” He slid his hands down her sides to her tiny waist, brushed her breasts on the way, kissed her again on the lips, then on the cheek and neck.

  Eyes still closed, Emily tensed her body; her breathing quickened with his.

  He kissed the other side of her neck, slid his right hand slowly down her side to the firm cheeks of her behind, caressed them, pressed his body against her front.

  She felt his stiff cock then a sudden, involuntary rush to her head, a surge of fear. Her mind flooded with images of him on top of her, ramming his prick in and out in ever-quickening rhythm. She trembled like a frightened fawn. Dear Lord, help me. I do not want this. Mother, Isna, please . . .

  Eyelids still pressed together, she felt him ease back, unbutton her shirt to the waist, untie the string of her smock, lay both back over her shoulders; felt the warm air of the fire swirl around her bare breasts; waited apprehensively for what would come next.

  He began to kiss and lightly massage her breasts, whispered haltingly, “Beautiful . . . so perfect . . . so firm.” He teased her nipples with his tongue, caressed her side and behind with his hands.

  She felt her nipples stiffen, her breath quicken. Mother, dear God, make me hate this. She began to pant.

  He continued to manipulate her nipples with his tongue while he pulled her skirt and smock up to her waist, slipped his hand beneath them, then began to smoothly feather the tender flesh of her thigh and behind. “I love you, Emily Colman . . . and I need you.”

  Her breasts heaved as his lips and tongue alternated between her nipples. She panted harder. How can I do this? Hate him. Lord, make him stop.

  Through his smock, he pressed his cock against her, moved it in a slow circular motion against her crotch. A minute later, he eased himself to the side, slid his right hand between her legs, eased it up her soft thighs to the top, caressed her there.

  Emily’s mind enlivened with remembrance: his touch, his forcing himself between her legs, his first thrust inside her; the rupture of her maidenhead, the pounding of his body against hers; her pleasure, her hate, her climax, her despair. She felt the rising dampness between her legs; her chest, back, and forehead beaded with sweat. Her body rose and fell in sync with his hand until suddenly she felt the same urging she’d felt in the forest—that wild, desperate yearning for some mysterious fulfillment, a release from her burgeoning tension. Dear God, don’t let it happen again. As she neared the precipice, Tayler suddenly removed his hand, untied his smock, dropped it to the floor; he touched her bare shoulders, pulled her gently toward his bed, then stopped, started to unbuckle her belt.

  As his hand tugged on the belt, an unforeseen rage suddenly erupted in Emily’s mind like an exploding powder keg. Damn the consequences! She reached behind her back, felt beneath her laid-back shirt and smock, yanked her knife from its sheath, and thrust it into his left side. It hit the bottom rib, deflected downward and vertical, penetrated only two inches instead of eight. She tried to force it deeper, but he jerked sideways, screamed in pain; he pushed both hands violently into her stomach, grabbed his bleeding side. “Damn you, witch! You’ve wounded me.”

  Emily stumbled several steps backward, gasped for breath, held the knife blade toward him. “Stay away from me, you bastard!”

  He stepped toward her.

  She waved the knife at him. “I said stay away!”

  He stopped, leaned over, picked up his smock, pressed it against his wound. “You bitch! You’ll pay for this!”

  As she backed toward the door, Emily grabbed her cloak with her left hand. She flipped her shirt and smock up over her shoulders, flung the door open, rushed outside; twirling the cloak around her, sh
e ran for the Dares’ cottage. Dear God, what have I done? She burst into tears. I’ve killed Virginia and Isna. Don’t let them die, Lord. Please! ’Tis my fault, my selfish fault . . . foolish temper. Punish me! She glanced behind as she neared the cottage, then stopped at the door, pounded frantically.

  Chapter 23

  Waters sat by the fire in his cottage, eyed his three sergeants with a somber look. “So that’s where we stand with the Assistants. As far as Newton, I expect information from him on the morrow.” He smiled. “But if he fails me, we’ll pay him a late-night visit with a rope.” He paused for the three to snicker, add their assent. “That said, the primary reason we’re here tonight is so I may confirm what you already know.” He sighed deeply. “I do not wish to sound defeatist, but I fear greatly for this colony’s survival. Clearly, the Powhatans are a dangerous threat—strong and determined— and they’ve demonstrated their intention to effect our demise. Indeed, I expect them to attack soon . . . in the night . . . with overwhelming force.” He shook his head. “I must confess . . . each night I awake and wonder if this will be the night. Forsooth, I fear that unless Governor White reaches us within a fortnight, we’ve little hope . . . not to mention the fact that we’re slowly starving to death.” He looked at the fire, murmured, “I’m loathe to say it, men; but if there were somewhere to escape to and the means to do it, I’d order an immediate evacuation of this place and go there with great haste . . . but there is no such place. So we shall remain here and do our duty.”