Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring)

by Angela Hunt

  The July sun’s blistering heat had already passed overhead as Jocelyn walked past the cornfields. The last sowing of corn had grown tall and ripe, and soon the villagers would begin to bring in the crop.

  But the feast of the green corn was more than a celebration of the coming harvest, ‘twas also a time to put away evil and old quarrels. The young boys of the village had been busy visiting the houses of the village since morning. At each home, they ceremonially extinguished the hearth fire to symbolize the death of old jealousies and grudges. Tonight, after the feast, new fires would be kindled on every hearth.

  On every hearth, Jocelyn thought with a wry smile, but mine. Thomas would have no part in what he considered pagan symbolism.

  Her stomach growled, and Jocelyn happily sniffed the aromas of roasting venison and pork. To whet their appetites for the great feast to come, villagers had fasted throughout the day. After the feast and prayers of thanksgiving to God for a good harvest, men who had anything against another would be reconciled, women would embrace and forgive petty quarrels. After making peace with one another, the entire village would celebrate with a circling dance around the leaping fire in which the dried stalks of corn blazed and smoked.

  And as the fire burned down and the sun set, the villagers of Ocanahonan would hold hands and sing the hymn that had done much to unite the Englishmen’s love of God and the Indians’ love of nature:

  All creatures of our God and King,

  Lift up your voice and with us sing

  Alleluia, alleluia!

  Thou burning sun with golden beam,

  Thou silver moon with softer gleam,

  O praise him, O praise him,

  Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

  Thou rushing wind that art so strong,

  Ye clouds that sail in heav’n along,

  O praise Him, alleluia!

  Thou rising moon in praise rejoice,

  Ye lights of evening find a voice,

  O praise him, O praise him,

  Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

  Thou flowing water, pure and clear,

  Make music for thy Lord to hear,

  Alleluia, alleluia!

  Thou fire so masterful and bright,

  That givest man both warmth and light,

  O praise him, O praise him,

  Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

  And all ye men of tender heart,

  Forgiving others, take your part,

  O sing ye, alleluia!

  Ye who long pain and sorrow bear,

  Praise God and on him cast your care,

  O praise him, O praise him,

  Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

  Let all things their Creator bless,

  And worship him in humbleness,

  O praise him, alleluia!

  Praise, praise the Father, praise the Son,

  And praise the Spirit, Three in One,

  O praise him, O praise him,

  Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

  Jocelyn hurried to the clearing where the great fire had been laid, then squeezed into the circle between Hurit and Audrey. “See how William Wythers follows your Regina?” Audrey said, elbowing Jocelyn in the ribs. She smiled impishly. “Such a handsome boy, William. Are ye thinking to marry your daughter soon?”

  Jocelyn made a face. “At fourteen?”

  “My people believe fourteen is a good age,” Hurit said, a shy smile upon her lips. “If a girl is a woman, what is the point of waiting?”

  “She’s just a child,” Jocelyn said, waving their comments away. But as the flames leaped higher in the darkening sky and she watched her daughter dance with the slim but powerfully built youth, Jocelyn realized with an uncomfortable start that William Wythers was no longer a child. At nineteen, he was well of an age to be married. And there was no denying the mutual attraction between this young man and her daughter.

  “May heaven help me,” Jocelyn choked, clutching Audrey’s arm in feigned alarm. “I’m going to lose my baby!”

  “Don’t sit and cry about it,” Audrey said, her eyes on the impressive form of Rowtag as he led the men in a circle around the fire. “Life is for the living! Let’s get up and dance!”

  And while Jocelyn sputtered in protest, Audrey and Hurit lifted her from the ground and together they joined in the women’s dance of praise and thanksgiving to the God of the harvest.

  Hiding in the shadows, Thomas Colman skirted the party and walked with his hands behind his back, surveying the ghastly scene with a disapproving frown on his face. The huge central fire played over the dancing figures like a demon of light, its caressing fingers of smoke and heat swirling amid the thud of drums and the whine of a harmonica. Thomas stiffened in horrified surprise when he saw that all of the dancers, his wife and daughter included, had painted their faces in bold red designs.

  “Is this what you have brought me to?” he questioned, glaring up through the smoky sky to the heavens above. “There was a time when I thought you had called me to spread the gospel, but now my own people, the chosen ones, have been reduced to pagan practices. My own wife, my own daughter—”

  Blindly, he plunged into the forest, ignoring the trail. Sprawling vines, heavy with the growth of summer, clung to him as he passed, but he pressed through, ripping himself from the thick undergrowth that would hold him captive.

  A fallen tree stopped his progress. “And now,” he whispered, breathing heavily as he leaned upon the tree, “I am the only righteous soul in this place. All others have intermarried with the evil ones, they have sold their souls for comfort and in the name of peace. Like Elijah, I cry to you, God, that I, even I only, am left. Though you had seven thousand priests in Israel with Elijah, there are not seven thousand men of God here. And so with Elijah, I say, it is enough; now, Oh God, take away my life.”

  There was no reply save the whisper of the wind through the trees. Dejected and exhausted beyond words, Thomas turned from the raucous noise of the feast and walked toward the silence of his dark house.

  The answer came to him in the night, and on Sunday morning Thomas addressed his mixed congregation of English and Indians with new zeal in his heart. “We will take missionary journeys like Paul and Silas,” he said, pounding the table before him in a burst of energy. “I have been wrong to expect the savages to come to us. A dangerous spiritual apathy has settled over this place, and we must take the gospel into the wilderness.”

  “Can we hunt while we preach?” one man shouted, and the congregation laughed until Thomas held up a hand. “No,” he said, frowning. “If we do less than undertake the journey for the cause of Christ alone, we weaken our purpose. Did Jesus the Christ think of feeding or clothing himself as he carried the cross to Calvary? Did he worry about the wheat in his field or the stores in his barn? No. He was single-minded, as we shall be. In a week, when the crops are in and our families are settled and prepared for the winter, I will lead whosoever is willing into the wilderness where we shall fish for the souls of men. Whosoever will may join me.”

  He gave the benediction to dismiss the congregation, but every man, woman, and child froze in their places when Ananias Dare stood and held up his hand. “‘Tis passing strange that the minister spoke today of a journey,” he said, managing a smile that did not reach his eyes. “But the council has decided that one last attempt should be made to reach England. Our pinnace is rapidly deteriorating, and before she is totally useless, I’m willing to sail her back to England. My wife will go with me, and I’ll need a crew of twelve men. If God wills, we will return, so I would advise all volunteers to leave their wives and children safely in this place.”

  A barely perceptible murmur wound through the crowd, and Ananias cleared his throat for silence. “There’s no gainsaying that this will be a difficult journey,” he said, rubbing his beard. “I’m no sailor, and no pilot, but my wife has her father’s charts and a few things that might help us. So if you are willing to try for England, go home, discuss the venture with your famil
ies, and speak to me later in the week.”

  Ananias saluted the minister. “I give you good day, reverend.”

  “So you see, Jocelyn and Thomas,” Ananias said, idly turning his hat in his hand as he stood inside their small house, “as you are our closest relations, we’ve no one else to ask for this favor.”

  “We’d be happy to watch over Virginia,” Jocelyn said, her heart filling with compassion as she gazed at Ananias’ tortured face. “But are you sure you must go, Ananias?”

  Ananias gripped his wife’s hand, and Eleanor smiled vacantly. “Papa will be so pleased to see us,” she said, her smile a ghostly imitation of true pleasure. “He told me we should meet him back in Portsmouth. We simply must go, Jocelyn. There’s no question.”

  Ananias met Jocelyn’s gaze. “Mayhap she will recover her wits at home,” he said, lowering his voice. “And ‘tis time to contact the Crown about our fate. And if, perchance, John White does wait in England—”

  “In Portsmouth, dear,” Eleanor interrupted, patting his hand. “He’s in Portsmouth, in the little house, do you remember?”

  “Of course.” Ananias patted her hand again.

  “We understand, Ananias,” Thomas said, his deep voice cutting through Jocelyn’s fears. As always, he was in control. “And we’ll care for Virginia—”

  “Not too closely, for I wouldn’t want her husband to think you are intruding,” Ananias said, smiling.

  “Of course not,” Thomas answered.

  Jocelyn listened with a vague sense of unreality. Fifteen-year-old Virginia Dare was to marry Ahanu, Abooksigun’s youngest son. Somehow it seemed fitting that the first English child born in Virginia should marry one born on the same soil as she, but Jocelyn had been shocked beyond belief when Thomas had agreed to allow the wedding to be held in the church. He was yet unwilling to perform the ceremony, nor would he allow a couple of mixed marriage to visit in his home, but Jocelyn knew his heart had softened if he would permit John Chapman to use the church to marry Virginia and Ahanu.

  “We will see you at the wedding, then,” Ananias said, nodding to Jocelyn. He pulled Eleanor with him, and she gave Jocelyn another imitation of one of her old smiles. “Farewell, sweet coz,” she called as she and Ananias stepped out into the night.

  “I can’t believe they’re actually leaving us,” Jocelyn whispered as she and Thomas stood in the doorway and watched them go. “Will we ever see them again?”

  “It will be as God wills,” Thomas answered.

  Resplendent in his bright red paint and heavily tattooed as benefitting the son of a werowance, Ahanu stepped out of his grass house and presented a gift of suede and fur to his bride. In return, following the custom of the Indians, Virginia Dare gave her new husband an embroidered belt and quiver, then the newlyweds put their gifts aside and held hands as they walked to the church.

  John Chapman was waiting for them, and the assembled guests filed quickly into the rough benches to witness the ceremony. “Ahanu,” Chapman recited when the guests had been seated, “before God and these witnesses, do you take this woman to be your wife?”

  Ahanu nodded. Chapman squinted with his failing eyes and, convinced that Ahanu was in agreement, continued. “Before God and these witnesses, do you, Virginia Dare, take this man to be your husband?”

  “Yes,” Virginia whispered. From where she stood at the back of the church, Jocelyn felt a stirring of envy in her breast. Love for Ahanu had brought a flush of beauty to the girl’s cheek, and Jocelyn wondered: Did I look like that on my wedding day? ‘Twas fifteen years ago, and ‘tis hard to remember.

  “I therefore pronounce you man and wife before God,” John Chapman finished.

  Triumphant Indian yells rent the air as the English applauded and cheered, and Virginia Dare fell into the strong arms of her young groom. From across the room Jocelyn saw Abooksigun stand from his place and wave his arms in victory. Ananias wiped tears from his eyes, but Eleanor stared blankly ahead, her head cocked to one side as if she wondered whose wedding she had just observed.

  The crowd streamed to the loaded tables outside for the wedding feast, but Jocelyn hung back with Thomas, who seemed reluctant to participate in a wedding of which he could not approve. “I think,” he said slowly, watching the revelers, “that I shall leave on my missionary journey on the morrow.”

  “So soon?” Jocelyn asked, alarmed.

  “The harvest is in and I have ten willing men,” Thomas answered. He looked again at the party, then nodded resolutely. “On the morrow, then,” he said, leaving her.

  A light frost covered the ground on the November morning when Thomas rose before sunrise, dressed in his worn black doublet and leggings, and wrapped a loaf of corn bread in a square of cloth. “I do not know when I will return,” he told Jocelyn casually, as if he decided to wander in unknown and dangerous wilderness every day of the year. “But pray that God will preserve us.”

  “I will,” Jocelyn whispered, clutching her shawl around her shoulders in the chill of the room. She knew ‘twas useless to protest.

  Thomas combed his wiry silver hair with his fingers, paused at the board, and looked around to see if he had forgotten aught. For a moment she thought he might kiss her goodbye, but he only nodded abruptly in her direction. “Tell Regina farewell for me when she awakes,” he said, pointing to the attic where Regina slept. Abruptly, before she could reply, he left the house.

  ‘Twas after noon on that same day that Ananias’ party loaded food and supplies aboard the pinnace. Ananias and his men had spent the past week recaulking the leak ship with tar and pitch, and John Prat, a cooper like his late father, had fashioned several new barrels and casks to hold fresh water, vegetables, and stores of dried meat. The men also loaded pine planking, since wood was a valuable commodity in England, and in a leather satchel Ananias carried letters from the planters to wives, children, and friends who waited in England.

  Jocelyn had written no letters. She had no ties to anyone in England, for her entire world now existed in Thomas, Regina, and the ever-expanding town of Ocanahonan.

  She stood on the dock and watched Eleanor move lightly over the deck as the men wrestled with piles of canvas and twisted cables. “Ahoy there, cousin,” Eleanor called down, spotting Jocelyn, and for a moment Jocelyn thought her cousin’s wits had returned. “Have you come to wish us Godspeed?”

  “Yes,” Jocelyn called, waving a square of cloth toward the vessel. “I’ll miss you, coz!”

  “Father’s in his cabin, or he’d come out to say farewell, too,” Eleanor said, looking fragile and delicate as she clung to a cable of the rigging and leaned over the edge of the boat.

  Jocelyn hid a thick swallow in her throat. “Give your papa my love, then,” she called, her voice cracking. “And take care, Eleanor. My love and prayers will go with you.”

  “Thank you,” Eleanor called. She turned prettily and descended below deck, and within an hour the pinnace unleashed her cables and raised her rusty anchor. A gentle breeze filled the oft-mended main sheets, and Ananias Dare and his brave sailors stood on the deck and waved tearful farewells to their friends, wives, and children who would wait in Ocanahonan.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Two weeks later, Jocelyn met Audrey on the path to the well outside the palisade. The chill afternoon air, bathed in the burnished sunlight of autumn, carried faint hints of coming winter days. “Since Thomas and Ananias have both seen fit to rid the camp of men, ‘twas surely God who sent Rowtag and his men to us,” Audrey grumbled, trudging next to Jocelyn as they carried water from the river to the village.

  “At least Thomas and his men will be back soon,” Jocelyn said, pausing a moment to rest her arms. She lowered her buckets to the ground and rubbed her callused palms. Ofttimes she felt like cursing Thomas’ missionary work, for though the harvest was in, there was still much work to be done to prepare their house for the winter. If Thomas didn’t return soon, Jocelyn and Regina would be working alone. In addition, there was the matter of Wi
lliam Wythers, for the boy had dropped broad hints that he’d like to marry Regina soon, and he must needs talk to Thomas first . . .

  Audrey followed Jocelyn’s example and lowered her buckets, but sat on a tree stump and tossed her free-flowing hair over her shoulder. “‘Tis nothing but good, the arrival of Rowtag and his people. I couldn’t believe it when they all wanted to be baptized in the freezing autumn water. When wee John Chapman tried to lift Rowtag out of the river by himself—” She giggled and rolled her eyes. “Well, even a saint such as ye, Jocelyn, would have to admit that Rowtag’s uncommonly handsome, or haven’t ye noticed?”

  “Yes,” Jocelyn said, indulging her friend with a sidelong smile. “I’ve noticed.”

  “He’s a man of strong mental faculties, too, for his people follow him without complaint, if ye take my meaning. They’d all be perishing with the hunger now if he hadn’t brought them here, though we’ve profited, too. Why, his men put the men of the Chawanoac tribe to shame in their hunting. Just last week Rowtag’s braves brought in three bucks, ten swamp hogs—”

  A hulking shadow fell across the path, and Audrey shut her mouth and gaped at the towering image before her. Even Jocelyn stepped back, surprised by the stealth with which Rowtag had approached. Had he heard—or understood—their conversation? In six months, just how much English had he learned?

  “You,” he said, pointing to Audrey.

  “Me?” she asked, blushing to the roots of her red hair.

  Rowtag nodded without smiling, then took Audrey’s hand and pulled her up. “You come with Rowtag.” He pointed to her, then to himself, then toward the grass hut he had recently erected inside the palisade.

  Audrey threw a question over her shoulder: “‘Pon my soul, Jocelyn, do you think he wants to show me his house?”