by Nancy Holder
“Or,” Dee continued, looking at the men who stood crowded around him, “it could be a European child, born on American soil.”
Sir Francis Drake grimaced. “Bloody Spaniards,” he muttered. “We’re about to go to war with them, and it sounds like we’ll have to start sniffing about for the Slayer in their colonies. A fine situation.”
“Could be the French,” someone else put in.
“Even worse.”
“Or,” said Raleigh, his voice ringing, “it could be an English child.”
“We’ve no colonies, Walter,” said Drake. “No offense, my friend, but your last attempt at Roanoke was disastrous. Your cousin Grenville did a fine job of alienating the savages, and Lane practically wept like a girl in order to accompany us home.”
“Our first attempts failed because we stranded soldiers and expected them to be diplomats and farmers,” said Raleigh. “And Roanoke was a poor place, I know that now. But I’ve been able to procure backing for another attempt. This time, I want families. Women are a civilizing influence, and men are less likely to grow bored and quarrel with the natives if their wives and children are at risk. And,” he added, arching a black eyebrow, “we will not settle at Roanoke. We will create the City of Raleigh on the mainland, at Chesapeake. This way, if Dee is right—”
“I am,” said Dee, his voice revealing his offense.
“—then we English have at least a chance of having this Slayer born to a godly Protestant Englishwoman. John,” Raleigh continued, turning to White, “you’ve been to the New World before. It’ll be a different site, but you have at least some experience. And we’ll need a Watcher, just in case a girl-child born there does turn out to be the Chosen One. We’ll miss your fine drawings, but you’ll be of more use to the Council and the Slayer there than here.”
White didn’t know how to respond. He was chagrined at the thought of leaving England again for so long, possibly for the rest of his life. He had enjoyed sketching the Indians and flora and fauna of Virginia, but he had looked forward to returning to the Council, to helping fight demons, and recording their images to aid future Watchers in their own quests. He was not a natural leader of men, not like Raleigh and Drake. And yet, the thought that he might be the Watcher of the coming Slayer—
“You honor me, Sir Walter. My own family shall be among those who settle. When do we depart?”
JULY 1587
The journey had begun ill, and continued so. The three ships, led by the Lion under expatriate Portuguese sailor Simon Fernandez, had gotten off to a late start. The long journey over the open ocean to the West Indies and thence to Virginia had been dreadful at best, indescribably horrific during the frequent storms. The 116 colonists had endured vile food, poisoned fruits, and noxious water. Throughout it all, Fernandez had played the part of a villain. He had put privateering and profit over the good of the colonists, despite the fact that Raleigh’s gold was paying for the venture, and had continually made and broken so many promises that White had lost count. He would not be sorry to see Fernandez depart once he had deposited them at Chesapeake.
Finally, in late July, the little fleet anchored off Roanoke Island. White and a few men went ashore in the small pinnace. White felt a stirring of fond familiarity. He’d liked this place. But it would not be home. He was here to look for fifteen men left behind when Governor Lane departed last year, and then proceed on to the permanent site at Chesapeake.
“Governor!” It was one of Fernandez’s men, calling from the Lion. “Leave your men on the shore. Only you and three men may reboard to gather your supplies and assist the rest off this vessel.”
“What?” Surely White had been mistaken, but the man leered.
“You’re all staying here. Captain says the summer is too far gone—he won’t go on to Chesapeake!”
Even as White gaped, searching for words of protest, the swarthy Portuguese appeared on the deck. His eyes met White’s, and he grinned. Sick, White realized he had no options. The deed was done. There would be no lush Chesapeake, only the harsh reality of Roanoke, which had already failed before, all because a greedy captain wished to continue to plunder.
“Don’t look so sad, White!” bellowed Fernandez. “I’ll be back by the end of summer, to see if any of you are tired of this New World!”
He felt a hand on his shoulder. His son-in-law, Ananias Dare. White looked into the younger man’s face, knowing his impotence and fear was reflected on his features.
“You and Eleanor should have stayed in England,” he said, his voice breaking. “Roanoke is no place to give birth.”
“Perhaps better here than onboard the ship. We are all in God’s hands. This must be our destiny,” said Ananias. “And the baby will come regardless.”
There was nothing more to say. They continued on toward the beach, and White felt the eyes of some who were not as kind as Ananias boring into him.
“God’s teeth,” swore Christopher Cooper, one of White’s ten assistants. “Look.”
It had been hard to see the sun-bleached bones against the paleness of the sand, but now that the eye had picked it out, it was impossible not to see it. The skeleton was naked, flesh and clothing both stripped away by the harsh environment. As they approached, silent and horrified, they saw several arrowheads lying on the sand inside the rib cage.
“Shot to death,” said Cooper, softly and angrily.
“No,” said George Howe, another of White’s assistants who had gone around to the other side of the corpse. “Bludgeoned. Look.” He indicated a massive hole in the skull.
White swallowed hard and, despite the heat of the summer’s day, felt cold. In many cultures plagued by demons and vampires, it was common to enact a “second death.” The brain was often seen as the site of the demon’s power. Once the creature had been slain by conventional means, its skull was often smashed to pieces to ensure it did not rise again. The same could be accomplished by cutting off the head, a slightly—but only slightly—more civilized method. It seemed this glorious New World was not free of the Old World’s demons. If this man’s skull had been crushed, it could be assumed that someone feared he would rise again . . . as a monster.
Yet he could not tell these men this, not yet. Not until he was certain that the danger was real, and not just an ancient tradition the Indians had kept alive throughout God-alone-knew how many centuries. He’d have to speak with his friend Manteo, whom he trusted to tell him the truth.
“Butchers,” said Roger Pratt, practically spitting the word. “Not enough to kill a man with an arrow, eh?”
“It is probably part of their primitive religion,” said White, trying to sound as though he meant the words he said.
Reverently, they gathered the bones. They would give the man a decent burial. There was no way to tell if this had been an innocent man slain by the Indians, or was being drained and about to be Turned and then, once dead, would rise to walk as one of the undead. Even if he had been well on his way to becoming a vampire, these old bones were no threat and deserved at least that much.
With this grim discovery, the men settled in for the night. They ate their cold, moldy provisions and talked in low voices about the fifteen men who had been left behind.
* * *
White’s mood improved when he took stock of the remaining buildings as he led the company to the site three days later. The fort itself had been razed. While the houses were damaged and overgrown with melon vines, on which deer were happily grazing, they needed only minor repairs. In fact, his old dwelling, in which he had sketched so often, was still intact. In Chesapeake, they’d have had to start from scratch. Here, he knew the land, at least; he knew the Indians. And the Croatoan Indians Manteo and Towaye, who had lived with Raleigh for the last few years, had traveled back with them; it would be good to have allies to consult. Perhaps this was the better way after all.
“We will be fine, Father,” said Eleanor. She rubbed her enormous stomach. “At least my son will be born in a proper Eng
lish house!”
The climate and labor did not seem to agree with one of the assistants, a hitherto jovial fellow named George Howe. With each passing day, Howe seemed to grow paler and weaker. He tired easily, and White worried about him. Does this place have new diseases of which we are not aware?
Six days later, he would learn the truth.
White had been peacefully sketching when young Thomas Archard hastened up to him, his face flushed with exertion.
“It’s Master Howe!” he cried, almost sobbing. “He’s dead, he’s dead!”
The boy’s hysterical cries had caught the attention of everyone in the encampment. Husbands looked to wives, mothers reached for their children. White cursed inwardly, for Tom had blurted out the news right in front of young Georgie, Howe’s eleven-year-old son. Georgie went pale as a sheet, but White could spare no time to comfort the orphan.
Wordlessly, he put down his pen. He, Cooper, and Ananias followed where the boy led. White’s first thought was that poor George Howe, with his increasing weakness, had died of exhaustion, even though White had ordered him to stop the hard labor and to try to catch crabs for their supper instead. The site Howe had selected was two miles away, on the shoreline again, and the image was all too familiar, if the more grotesque for its freshness.
George Howe had not died from exhaustion. In order to better reach the crabs, he had stripped to next to nothing. Now, he lay facedown in bloody sand. Sixteen arrows pierced his body like a pincushion. Worse, though, was the dreadful mess the Indians had made of Howe’s head. Brain and bits of bone were spattered about.
Tom lost control now and began to cry, turning toward Ananias and burying his head in the older’ man’s chest. Ananias patted him awkwardly. His eyes met White’s, and White nodded.
Ananias had seen what he had seen; two small holes in Howe’s throat. They could have been mistaken for insect bites, but both Ananias and White had seen this before. No wonder Howe had been weakening by the day. They would all need to take the utmost care. During the balmy nights, the open air was more pleasant than the unfinished buildings, and most of the men had taken advantage of that. They would need to rebuild the fort, and quickly, sleeping on the pinnace in the meantime. They—
“We’ve got to find them,” said Cooper. His face glowed with a thirst for revenge. “We’ve got to find the savages and kill them. Look at him! Poor Georgie!”
“We’ll take care of Georgie,” said Ananias before White could speak.
“We must be certain who did this,” said White, keeping up appearances even though he knew that, though the Indians had killed George Howe, they were not the most dangerous enemy. And he could not speak what was uppermost in his mind: If Howe was gradually being drained and about to be Turned, then they were right to kill him. “I’ll speak with Manteo.”
AUGUST 18,1587
I sent a small group to Croatoan Sound, where Manteo’s people told Edward Stafford that Howe had been slain by the hostile Roanoacs. I desired strongly to establish friendly relations with various other tribes on the mainland as well as the Croatoan, and, if possible, even the Roanoac. To that end, the Croatoans agreed to pass along an invitation to the Roanoac werowances to speak with me within seven days. When that time had elapsed and none of the chiefs showed, I yielded to pressure from the hawks in our midst to exact revenge against the Roanoacs.
White paused, the candle beside him flickering. He didn’t want to write this down, but he had to. Sighing, he continued.
We made a terrible error. When we reached the Roanoac village of Dasemunkepeuc, creeping in the night, we surprised several Indians—but they were innocent Croatoans, come to gather what supplies the Roanoacs had left behind when they fled. We thus inadvertently killed our allies, including a woman with a child.
At least Manteo had understood it was the most unfortunate of accidents. It was hard for English eyes to distinguish among the tribes, and at night, in the heart of the Roanoac camp—what else was one to expect but Roanoacs? Thank God Manteo and the Croatoans were still their friends. Manteo had even been baptized in the Christian faith just four days ago. He’d been dubbed the Lord of Roanoke.
“Father,” came Eleanor’s soft voice.
“Not now, my dear, I’ll lose my thoughts,” he replied.
“Father!” The word was now a shout, and as he turned, he saw her sink slowly down to the earth, leaning against the doorframe and clutching her belly.
* * *
For the next seven hours, Ananias Dare and John White listened to Eleanor Dare’s screams, moans, and whimpers as she labored to bring forth the first English child born on American soil. They heard the doctor and the midwife’s soothing murmurs, but it was of little comfort. Ananias looked awful.
“I would I could be there,” he muttered as he paced outside the small house.
“Nonsense,” said White. “It isn’t proper. The babe will be a fine, healthy son, Ananias. You’ll see.”
At that precise moment, a lusty wail filled the air. Both men whirled and stared at the door. Dr. Stevens, wiping blood and other fluids from his hands, opened the door and motioned that they could enter.
White thought his beloved daughter looked like the Madonna with the Christ Child as she sat, propped up on pillows, suckling the babe.
“How is he?” asked Ananias.
“She is a miracle,” Eleanor breathed softly, looking down at the tiny child. “We’ll name her Virginia, after our good queen.”
White trembled. A girl. John Dee’s words floated back to him: My Show Stone has told me that very soon, the Slayer for whom we wait shall be born. Her birthplace is the New World. And Raleigh’s comment: It could be an English child.
Dear God, White half-thought, half-prayed, do I behold the next Slayer?
* * *
After George Howe’s death, those who knew about such things took great care to protect the colony from vampire attack. Reverend John Bright, the minister, blessed each house as it went up. Salt was spread over the entrances, supposedly a simple tradition, but much more than that. White pushed hard for all the houses to be built quickly and for a protective wall to be ringed about them. Some argued that this would send the wrong message to the friendly Croatoans. White did not worry. He had spoken in private to Manteo, and had learned much.
“We call them the Night Walkers,” said Manteo. “They are those who refuse to stay buried. After death, those who have the marks”—he touched the side of his neck—“if their skull is not smashed, they can Walk again. It is a second killing.”
“You can also put a stake of wood through their hearts or cut off their heads,” White had said. “In our land, we have Walkers, too. Although most people do not believe they exist.”
“They are very real,” Manteo had said. And White believed him. No, the Croatoans would understand the precautions. They knew what the danger was from those who Walked in the night. He had finally decided to tell Manteo his greatest secret. The Indian had proved himself a loyal friend, and if the danger was as great as White feared, they would need his support.
“Where I come from,” White had said, “there is a mighty warrior we call the Slayer. She is born to each generation, and her role is to destroy Walkers and other demons. Our God has gifted her with many talents—great strength, swift healing, superior senses, so that she may fight for us and protect us.”
Manteo laughed, showing white teeth against brown skin. “You play with me, John White. A girl cannot do such things.”
“The Slayer can. I tell you this because I have reason to believe that she will be born here, soon. In our colony, or perhaps in your tribe. We do not know. I wished you to know of her, so that if she is born to your people, you can tell me. I am a Watcher—someone who trains the Slayer. It is vital that she be trained, or else she won’t be prepared for the trials to come. Will you tell me if such a girl is born to you, Manteo?”
“If a girl-child who has these skills is born to the Croatoan, White, then you w
ill hear us shouting aloud.”
Yes, I have made the right decision. He was so lost in recollecting the conversation that the ink had dried on his quill. He scarce noticed when Ananias approached him. “Governor,” said his son-in-law, “we must talk.”
The other six assistants entered the small house, somber and determined. White knew immediately this was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
“What is it, gentlemen? How may I be of service?”
“That’s just what we’ve come for,” said Cooper, shifting his weight from one foot to the other uneasily. “We need you to help us.”
“Because of the savages and the delays that cursed Portuguese captain put us through, we are dangerously low on supplies,” Roger Bailie continued. “According to the Croatoans, it’s going to be a bad winter. We’ll use up the rest then and have nothing left to plant in the spring.”
White nodded, seeing where the conversation was going. “When Fernandez returns—if indeed he does, the blackguard—I’ll send someone back to England with a request for supplies. Who would like to volunteer?”
Silence greeted his question. “We were thinking, sir, that maybe it ought to be you,” said Pratt.
“Out of the question.” He was the Watcher, and he was beginning to believe that his little granddaughter might be the One he was supposed to be Watching. Of course, no one but his daughter and Ananias knew of that particular complication. “Someone else must go.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” stammered Dyonis Harvie, “but we’ve made up our minds. You’re the only one with enough influence in London to get us a ship back soon enough to do us any good.”
Sickened, White glanced from face to face, looking for someone, anyone, to raise a protest. Even Ananias looked at the floor. Ananias knew how important White’s secondary mission was. He knew about the Watchers Council, and Dee’s prophecy. He also knew about the Walkers. And yet he was willing to see White return to England.
