by Mike Rhynard
“No, Isna. Emily cannot be close to Wakan Tanka. She was cruel to her father. She sometimes spoke angrily to her mother . . . and disobeyed her parents, and”—she bowed her head—“and she did wrong with Tayler.”
Emily gasped, trembled; chills raced through her body. “Saints in heaven, the butterfly is . . . is the center . . . Wakan Tanka?”
“Yes.”
“Isna, I . . . I . . . look at this.” She flipped her long hair downward over her face, exposed the back of her neck, then pointed to a small, purple, butterfly-shaped birthmark an inch below her hairline. “It itches when I dream of the Vikings and . . . and I feel like I’m there with them, feel their thoughts and feelings, their emotions, everything, as if I were a spirit they cannot see.”
Unconscious on the floor beside her bed, Allie O’Shay trembled; herbreathing and pulse raced; her eyes blinked open for a moment then closed.
Emily looked up, flipped her hair behind her shoulders, noticed his wry smile, doubting look. “ Isna thinks Emily jokes.”
He interlocked his thumbs and extended his fingers to imitate a butterfly, flitted it around her face, brushed her cheeks. After a few dives and zooms, it flew up to Emily’s nose, pinched it.
“Fie!”
It then flitted under her chin, tickled her neck.
Emily giggled. “Don’t! I’m ticklish!” She tried to catch his hands with her chin, but the butterfly was too quick, pulled back, flitted around for a second, then dove under her hair and tickled her behind her left ear.
She giggled louder, rolled away into a pile of leaves; but the butterfly pursued, attacked again. Emily rolled to her back, threw a handful of leaves in Isna’s face.
He fell still on the ground beside her; but as she approached to tickle him, he opened his eyes, grabbed her wrists.
“You rascal! Let go of me! Let go!” She squealed, twisted, wrestled to free herself.
Their eyes met; the wrestling ceased. Isna eased his grip, pulled her gently on top of him; their lips drifted together; but as their tongues touched, he suddenly tensed, pulled away. “Did Emily hear that?”
She slid off him onto her knees, shook her head. “What was it?”
“A cry . . . a man’s cry . . . fear or pain . . . from near Emily’s special place.” He sprang to his feet, pulled her to her feet. “ Isna will go there and look.” He snatched his weapons from the ground, started into the forest; slid his hatchet and stone war club inside his waist band; flung his quiver onto his back, nocked an arrow.
“Emily will go with Isna.”
“No, Emily should return to the village.”
“People in the village will have heard the cry and be on their way there. Emily will go with Isna. She has her knife and pistol.”
“The village is too far away for anyone to hear so faint a cry.” He shook his head, looked at her with a frustrated look. “Isna forgets . . . Emily is still an English girl and does not obey a warrior’s commands.” He sighed. “Come! Stay close.”
The two trotted into the forest toward Emily’s special place, less than a quarter mile away.
Ten yards from her special place and still concealed by the forest, Isna stopped, looked back at Emily, twenty yards behind, signed her to slow her pace, be stealthy. When she reached him, he took her hand, led her slowly, quietly to the edge of the clearing, where he motioned her to kneel beside him behind a thick, newly budded bush. Their first glance at the clearing revealed a man’s body—a soldier’s body—lying in the leaves about twenty yards away, his helmet on the ground beside him, and his head, which faced them, bloody and smashed in on the left side.
Emily gasped, held her eyes on the man, grabbed Isna’s arm with a desperate grip, whispered, “ ’Tis Johnny Gibbes . . . my friend. I must help him.” She started to stand.
Isna grabbed her arm, pulled her back to her knees. “No. Do not move. There are white men here . . . Isna feels them, smells them, smells the fire on their big sticks that bark.”
“Isna, I must go to him. He may yet be alive.” She stood, walked slowly into the clearing toward Gibbes.
Isna whispered urgently, “Emily, come back!” She continued toward Gibbes. “Stubborn English girl!” He stood, moved soundlessly behind a tree, then drew his bow, stepped cautiously behind her, his arrow point moving right and left with his eyes as he scanned the tree line around the clearing.
When Emily reached Johnny Gibbes, she thought, Isna’s right, others here, no birdsongs, quiet . . . like the massacre. She knelt, touched Johnny’s cheek, leaned her ear close to his nose and mouth for a moment, then nudged his eyelids closed. Tears filled her eyes, rolled down her cheeks; a wave of nausea rose from her stomach to her throat. Like George Howe, she thought as she cupped her hand over her mouth. Johnny, my dear friend . . . and Emme . . . my poor Emme. She—
Hugh Tayler emerged from the forest; Thomas Butler and John Farre followed. Farre and Butler stopped, aimed their matchlocks at Isna, fifteen yards behind Emily. Tayler, pistol in hand, approached Emily from the front.
Emily looked at Isna, yelled in Lakota, “Run, Isna!”
Isna smiled, held his aim on Tayler.
Tayler said, “Good day, Emily.” He touched his side where she’d wounded him.
“Curse you, Hugh Tayler. You’ve murdered Johnny Gibbes, and by heaven I shall watch you hang for it.” She again looked at Isna. “Go, Isna! They mean to kill you.” Isna stood firm, held his aim.
Tayler sneered, glanced at Isna. “Will you, now! Indeed! You and your Savage look rather outgunned at the moment.” He looked back at Emily. “In truth, Mistress, this is a fortunate day; for though we’d planned to deal with you and your Savage, we’ve received the added bounty of Sergeant Gibbes following us here and revealing himself at a most opportune moment . . . for us. Two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. Now, as I’ve several times promised, I shall afford you the opportunity to watch your Savage die. Then you and I will finish what we started last night.” He stopped two feet in front of her. “Give me your knife and pistol.”
Emily didn’t move.
“Now!”
“Take them yourself.”
He slapped her face with the back of his hand; grabbed her shoulders, spun her around to face Isna; slid his right forearm, pistol in hand, across her throat; pulled her tight against him while he removed her knife, tossed it to the ground, did the same with her pistol.
Emily pleaded hoarsely, “Isna, please go!”
Isna started walking slowly, measuredly toward Tayler and Emily, his drawn bow fixed immovably on Tayler’s head, eight inches above Emily’s.
Tayler yelled, “Farre, quickly, kill him with Gibbes’ pistol, then put it in Gibbes’ hand and lay the Savage’s body near him. Butler, if Farre misses, shoot him with Mistress Colman’s pistol. Be quick!” He slid his left arm across Emily’s chest, pinned her arms against her body, then pressed the side of his pistol against her right arm, just below the shoulder. “Now, Mistress Colman, watch your Savage die.”
“Isna!”
Farre raised Gibbes’ pistol, cocked the hammer, aimed, but Isna’s arrow ripped through his throat before he could pull the trigger. Isna ran toward Butler, dropped his bow, grabbed his hatchet with his left hand, his war club with the right. Butler aimed Emily’s pistol, pulled the trigger; but as the match ignited the powder, Isna dropped to the ground, waited for the ball to whoosh over his head, then sprang to his feet, rushed Butler. Butler’s helmet fell off as he leaned to pick up his matchlock. He’d barely touched it when the two-pound rock on the end of Isna’s war club shattered his skull like a rotten melon dropped on a cobblestone street. “ Hiyaaa!”
As he turned to Tayler and Emily, Isna juggled his weapons to opposite hands, glared menacingly into Tayler’s eyes; he started slowly, resolutely toward him, his hatchet cocked in throwing position over his head. In Lakota, he told Tayler to release her; but Tayler held her tight, stepped slowly backward.
“Emily, tell him to stop,�
�� Tayler instructed.
“Burn in hell!”
Tayler aimed the pistol at Isna, pulled the trigger. Emily heard the hammer, twisted to the right, pushed with all her strength to break Tayler’s aim; Isna hurled his hatchet at Tayler’s exposed left shoulder. The pistol fired high into the air as the hatchet thudded deep into Tayler’s shoulder bone. He screamed, shoved Emily to the ground, dropped to his knees; tugged on the hatchet handle, couldn’t free it; reached for his dagger as Isna kicked him to the ground, raised his war club to smash his head. “Hiyaaa!”
Waters shouted, “Stop!”
Isna held the blow. He looked at Waters, lowered his club, nodded, then walked to Emily, who lay on the ground, knelt beside her. “Is Emily hurt?”
She trembled, moaned faintly, “No.”
Isna stood, grasped her hand, helped her to her feet. She threw her arms around him, pulled him close, laid her head on his chest. “Isna, it . . . it was so fast . . . I . . . I’ve never seen anything so fast . . . so deadly . . . oh, Isna. Hold me.”
“My little fawn.”
One of the soldiers with Waters said, “Shall we bind the Savage, Sir?”
Waters said, “Why? You saw what happened.”
“Yes, sir, but . . . but he killed two of our men, and nearly killed Tayler.”
“Sad to say, those two needed killing. Attend to Sergeant Gibbes while I get the straight of what else happened.”
“Aye, sir, but he’s a Savage. We can’t let him—”
“Did you not hear me, Private?”
“Yes, sir.” He hustled toward Gibbes with two other soldiers.
Waters walked to Tayler, who lay on the ground moaning. He had removed the hatchet but writhed in pain as he tried to stop the bleeding. Waters looked at a nearby soldier. “You there, come help Master Tayler stop bleeding.”
Ananias Dare and Roger Baylye arrived with more soldiers and Emme Merrimoth, who screamed when she saw Johnny Gibbes, rushed to his side. She knelt beside him, cradled his head, wailed wildly, “My Johnny, my Johnny!”
Emily knelt beside her, embraced her, rocked her back and forth. “Emme, Emme, I’m so sorry. Cry, Emme, cry.”
Tayler quit moaning, said, “That Savage killed Gibbes. I saw him do it. Hit him with that club . . . same one he killed Butler with. We all saw him, tried to stop him.”
Emily yelled, “That’s a lie, Hugh Tayler!” She looked at Waters. “Isna heard Johnny scream; and we ran here, found him where he is now. Then Tayler and his men came out of the forest. Tayler grabbed me, and the two soldiers tried to kill Isna . . . then Tayler tried. The first shot was from that one over there.” She pointed at Farre. “The second, from Tayler. The other man never got his shot off.”
Tayler growled, “That’s a lie, Lieutenant. We saw him kill Gibbes, and you must hang him!” Several soldiers murmured ayes of agreement.
Emme stopped crying, wiped her eyes, looked at Waters. “Lieutenant Waters, Johnny and I were walking in the clearing outside the palisades when we saw Tayler and those two slip out the front gate and into the forest. Johnny said something didn’t look right, said he was going to follow them and see what they were up to. I wanted to go with him, but he told me to go back inside the palisades.”
Emily walked over to Isna, translated Emme’s words.
Waters said, “Thank you, Mistress Merrimoth.” He shook his head, looked distraught. “I’m very sorry about Johnny, Mistress. He was a fine young man, an exceptional soldier with a bright future, and . . . and . . . I shall miss him greatly.” He turned away, brushed his sleeve across his eyes. “And I shall personally ensure his killer hangs.” He glared at Tayler.
Tayler shouted, “Damn you, Waters! I told you the Savage did this! He’s killed three of your men and wounded me. Why in hell aren’t you arresting him?”
Baylye and Ananias watched silently.
Waters looked at Isna. “Because he’s committed no crime. I saw you hold Mistress Colman as a shield and try to shoot him.”
Isna looked at Emily. “Perhaps Emily will tell her warrior chief that Isna will show him something.”
Emily nodded, turned to Waters. “Lieutenant Waters, Isna would like to show you something.”
“Aye. What is it?”
Emily nodded at Isna, who beckoned Waters to follow as he and Emily walked toward the edge of the forest. With Baylye and Ananias also in tow, Isna walked directly to a spot on the perimeter of the clearing twenty yards away, turned to Emily, pointed at boot tracks in the damp ground. “Tell them that this is where they talked. See the white man prints—three pairs here and one pair facing the other three?” Emily translated as he spoke.
A few feet away, Isna pointed to a roughed-up area with many deeper tracks. “Here, where the prints are deeper, is where they held him, wrestled with him, and killed him. And that flat place in the leaves, with blood on it, is where he fell.” Isna then followed a clear pathway through the leaves, from where Johnny had fallen to the edge of the clearing, stopped; stood on one leg, lifted a foot; touched his heel, pointed ten feet into the clearing, where there were no leaves and the trail became two parallel furrows, each the width of a boot heel. He next pointed at two sets of complete boot prints, one pair on each side of two shallow, two-inch-wide, furrows leading back toward the forest. “This is the path they made when they dragged him into the clearing to lay their trap for us.” He pointed at the furrows. “These tracks between the soldier footprints are from his heels.”
Waters said, “How did they kill him?”
After Emily translated, Isna led them back to where the men had scuffled, pointed to an eight-inch-diameter hole in the ground. “With a rock . . . taken from here.” He walked several feet deeper into the forest, searched the area carefully for a moment; suddenly stopped, leaned over; picked up an eight-inch rock, pointed at the blood splattered on one side; walked back to the hole, laid the rock perfectly in place.
Waters nodded, smiled at Isna, turned to Emily. “Mistress Colman, please thank your Sav . . . your friend . . . Eeesh . . .”
Emily smiled. “Eee-shnah . . . yes, I shall, Lieutenant.”
While Emily spoke to Isna, Waters, Ananias, and Baylye walked a short distance from the others, conferred in whispers for a moment, then returned to the murder scene. Waters walked up to Tayler. “Hugh Tayler, I arrest you for the murder of Sergeant Johnny Gibbes. Since we’ve no jail or stocks, I place you under guarded house arrest. You are not permitted to leave for any purpose . . . not even nature’s necessities. You may use a close stool and empty it yourself, once a day, under double guard. We will wait two weeks for John White to return and try you; but if he has not returned by then, you will be executed under martial rule.” Sooner, he thought, if Walsingham’s ship arrives first. He looked at the soldiers, pointed at two. “You and you, bind him and lead him to his quarters. Do not allow him to leave for any purpose. Sergeant Myllet will see to your relief in several hours.”
“Aye, sir,” the two spoke in unison.
“The rest of you men carry Sergeant Gibbes to the village in a manner befitting a fallen hero. Then retrieve the other two.”
“Aye, sir.”
Waters turned to Emily, smiled. “Mistress Colman, please tell Isna I hope I never have to fight him.”
As Emily and Isna approached the Chesapeake village, Emily said, “ Isna and Emily, and baby Virginia, are in great danger. Tayler is guarded, but he still has influence with his men. Emily believes they will try to kill us.”
Isna stopped, laid gentle hands on her shoulders. “Isna welcomes this. Perhaps they are braver than their leader, and their scalps will be worth hanging on Isna’s pole.” He paused, looked somberly at the forest then into Emily’s eyes. “ Isna must tell Emily something he has not told her about the Powhatans.”
Emily’s look tightened; fear infiltrated her eyes.
“Two years ago the Powhatans killed thirteen white men who escaped the Roanokes and came here in a big canoe. These men stole fo
od from the Nansemonds, who are neighbors of the Chesapeakes and members of the Powhatan chiefdom. They also killed two Powhatans with their big sticks that bark. The Powhatans and Nansemonds then overwhelmed them and killed or captured all of them. They tested the strength of those they captured, and found them weak. Emily must know that these people have no fear of white men.” He paused again. “Isna has also seen Powhatans among the Chesapeakes . . . watching your village, measuring your strength. These are the reasons Isna believes the Powhatans will soon attack . . . perhaps Emily will tell her young warrior chief.”
Emily blanched, nodded, stared silently into his eyes. Endless danger, endless fear . . . whatever will become of us? Saints above, please speed John White to us.
After she and Isna parted, Emily walked hastily toward the colony. When she was nearly to the palisades, an eerie, unnerving feeling riddled her senses—a familiar feeling of being watched. Instinctive fear flooded her mind, chilled her body. She shuddered, took a few more steps, fought the urge to stop, search for the source. Dear God, I’m terrified, but why? What is it? She stopped, looked at the tree line to the right. Nothing. Anxiety pounded in her heart as she slowly turned to the left, studied the tree line twenty yards away. She gasped; her eyes bloomed wide; her jaw dropped; her body shivered with terror. His eyes . . . seething . . . boring into my soul . . . fear, horror . . . the massacre . . . dear God, the massacre . . . his hate . . . clubbing me . . . killing me. Cannot look at him. She lowered her gaze, felt her senses numb, panted, trembled, felt a deep chill race through her body as she stared at her precious black locket hanging from his neck.