Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  “Hugh, if I tell Emily I’ve betrothed her without first obtaining her consent, a fury such as God himself has never seen will descend upon me, regardless of the degree of esteem in which she holds you. So while I enthusiastically agree to your betrothal, and indeed pray for it, our best—our only—chance for realizing it will be for me to approach her in a subtle, gentle manner that ensures her willing concurrence.” But how shall I ever do so? I know not how to influence my daughter with any grace or chance of success whatsoever . . . but I must . . . her life depends on it. Only Hugh will love her and protect her if I should die.

  Emily said, “And what of his wound, his limp?”

  Gibbes snickered. “That, dear mistress, came from his next commander, a major, in a pistol and sword duel several months before we sailed from England . . . after the major found out that—forgive me for discussing such matters with a lady—that Tayler had been having a lengthy lovers’ affair with his wife and that she’d become pregnant by him. When Tayler and the major faced each other, Tayler tried to back away and run; but as he turned, the major fired his pistol, hit him in the back of his leg, and laid him on the ground. The major had too much honor to kill a fallen man, so he told him, with sword in hand, to be gone from England as soon as he recovered and that he’d kill him if ever he saw him again. Tayler then resigned his commission, hid out for several months as he looked for a means of escape. He eventually heard of Governor White’s search for colonists and secretly arranged passage.”

  Emily looked away then back at Gibbes. “Johnny, these are damning accusations. Are you absolutely certain of them?”

  “I am, Mistress, for you see, I and two others of our current company, who shall remain unnamed, were present as witnesses. Saw it all with our own eyes, we did . . . and that is yet another reason Tayler wishes I were not here.”

  Emily stared silently at him, nodded twice.

  “Emily, there’s more, but ’tis of such a serious nature that it should be divulged only under the most dire of circumstances, so I shall retain it until such circumstances occur . . . and hopefully, they will not. But I can tell you—and this is hearsay from my parents, from when I was a young child—when he was a lad, Tayler abandoned a friend of his in the fog of the moors, ran away to save himself while the lad drowned. Tayler lied that he’d searched for him and tried to save him. So you see, Tayler’s deviance began at an early age.”

  Emily looked into his eyes. “Johnny, thank you for these truths . . . and I know they are such. I’m deeply hurt by his deceit . . . and embarrassed by my own foolishness . . . but thank you. You are a true friend.”

  “Indeed, Mistress, I care truly and deeply for your safety. You are the kindest and most gracious lady I’ve ever known, and I shall do all in my power to protect you.”

  “Thank you, Johnny.”

  Tayler’s face distorted with frustration. “Very well, Thomas. I cannot say that I disagree with your conclusion. In addition to loving Emily to the depths of my soul, I well know the vigor and spirit that reside in her and know you speak the truth about her response to an arranged betrothal. Thus, I shall wait for you to win her concurrence . . . Thomas, my friend, your cough alarms me. I hope it soon subsides and departs you. Emily needs her father, and she would be unspeakably vulnerable without him.” She was falling in love with me, soon to be mine . . . but I fear that moment is lost, and I do not believe Thomas Colman can rescue it or influence her to marry me . . . unless she decides to do so on her own, and that I now doubt. So I must convince her myself . . . somehow . . . at whatever cost.

  Chapter 15

  At the edge of the Chesapeake village, Emily knelt beside a young Chesapeake woman about her age, leaned over a spread-out deer hide, its perimeter staked, fur side down, to the ground. She repeatedly scraped a flat, three-inch wide, serrated piece of deer bone hafted to a wood handle, across the hide to remove the flesh, so it could be tanned for clothing, moccasins, or other uses. As Emily scraped, she thought how fitting the girl’s name, Shines Like the Moon, was; for the girl’s face seldom displayed anything but a wide, gleaming smile. Emily called her Shines; and she had already taught Emily the Chesapeake words for her name, as well as deer, hide, flesher, tool, brains, tanning, clothes, and moccasins. She had also explained with hand signs how, after the hide had been de-fleshed and the hair removed by burying it in ashes for a time, deer brains would be rubbed on both sides to preserve and soften it. Two women would then repeatedly pull it back and forth over a tightly stretched piece of sinew or a green vine until the desired softness had been achieved. Shines, who like all Chesapeake women wore a wrap-around, fringed-on-the-bottom apron around her midsection and nothing above, often forgot that Emily wasn’t fluent in Chesapeake, and spoke her instructions, at which time Emily would stop scraping, hold up her hand, and sign for her to repeat the instructions with signs. Each time, Shines smiled, shook her head at her oversight, then signed the instructions while speaking some of the words.

  Emily had carefully concentrated on Shines’ demonstration, but when she began fleshing on her own, her mind drifted from her task to Isna. I’ve not seen him for several days . . . but why should I care? I don’t even know him, and he means nothing to me . . . only a Savage. She imagined herself and Isna walking hand in hand in the forest. They stopped, faced each other, stared into one another’s eyes; their lips moved compulsively, slowly, relentlessly together. She shook her head. What’s wrong with you, Emily Colman? Concentrate, lass.

  A shadow suddenly spread across the deer hide in front of her; she saw Shines look behind her. She stopped scraping, looked back over her shoulder; instant warmth flooded her mind and body when she saw Isna standing behind her, his wry smile in bloom and his dark eyes regarding her with an amused sparkle.

  “Emily does well for a beginner,” he signed.

  Emily smiled, climbed to her feet, then wiped her hands on her apron; she looked into his eyes, signed, “Why does Isna always find Emily on the ground?” His eyes see my soul. She tried to look away, couldn’t; rubbed her fingers against her palms, again wiped her hands on her apron.

  He stared into her eyes for a moment then broadened his smile. “Mother Earth must love Emily . . . for she often calls her close . . . but Isna sees that Emily’s dress now stands above Mother Earth, so Emily will no longer fall and spill water upon her.”

  A flush rose from Emily’s chest to the top of her forehead; her bosom heaved with each breath. She stared into his eyes, fidgeting for a moment, then pulled up her skirt, grasped the hem, and showed him where she and Elyoner had shortened it by three inches and stitched it in place. She immediately thought, stupid girl, why are you doing this? He cares naught about the hem of your dress.

  He extended his hand toward the skirt.

  Emily abruptly pulled back, then realized he wanted to feel the cloth; smiling, she held it out to him.

  He rubbed it slowly between his fingers, returned her smile. “Soft . . . like Emily’s cheeks . . . and her eyes.”

  She blushed a deeper red. Lord, help me, I’m burning up. What should I say? What should I do? What does he want with me? Why does he look at me so? She nodded, said, “ Eee-shnah,” then signed, “Did Emily say it right?”

  He nodded.

  She signed, “What does Isna mean?”

  “Alone. But Isna’s full name is,” he signed then said aloud, “Takpe Toka Isna.”

  “What does it mean?”

  He signed, “Kills Enemy Alone.”

  Emily’s jaw dropped; her eyes widened with dismay. God o’ mercy, he’s killed people. She paused while the thought imprinted her mind, then signed, “Kills Enemy Alone?”

  He nodded.

  She said, “Top Kay . . .”

  He shook his head. “Tah-k’pay.”

  “Tah-k’pay.”

  He nodded.

  She said, “Toe . . . Toe . . .”

  “Toe-ka.”

  “Toe-ka,” she repeated.

  He nodded.
>
  “Tah-k’pay Toe-ka Isna. Takpe Toka Isna.”

  He again nodded, proffered a modest smile.

  She tilted her head slightly forward, looked innocently, questioningly up at him, signed, “Kills Enemy Alone?”

  He nodded, touched his chest, said, “Ah-kee-chee-tah,” then signed, “Great warrior . . . killed many enemies . . . touched many enemies.”

  He’s certainly proud. She shook her head, thought for a moment, then signed, “Touched many enemies? What does it mean?”

  He stood erect, assumed a proud, dignified look. “To touch an enemy is braver and more worthy of honor than killing him.”

  Emily’s eyes widened as her hands asked, “How does Isna touch an enemy?”

  “With his hand or bow or club . . . but without killing him. And the greater and more fierce the enemy touched, the greater the bravery and honor.”

  Emily’s face was a picture of fearful anticipation, as if she dreaded his answer to the question she was compelled to ask him. “How . . . how many enemies has Isna . . . has Isna killed?”

  “Nine. Their scalps hang in Isna’s lodge. He was thirteen when he killed the first.” He recalled his fear, his excitement at loosing his arrow at the Little-Shell warrior charging him at a full run, the surprised look on the man’s face when the arrow ripped through his neck and his body failed him, collapsed him to the ground. Before the man had hit, Isna had nocked another arrow; but he hadn’t needed it, had walked slowly up to the man, laid the bow and arrow beside him, pulled out his knife, then bent over him to take his scalp. But he’d been hunting alone and had no one to show him the proper method of scalping this first enemy kill; so he’d not made a clean cut, but it had been good enough for a youthful warrior . . . good enough for the people to honor his bravery with a dance and give him his first feather and his adult name . . . the name he now bore with pride. He smiled. “But when Isna cut the first one’s scalp, he did not cut all the way into his head bone, and—”

  Emily raised both hands to stop him then cupped them over her mouth, turned away. After several seconds, she took a deep breath, composed herself, again faced him. “How dreadful,” she said in English.

  He gave her an inquisitive look.

  She shook her head, signed, “How many has Isna touched?”

  “Seven . . . but one wounded Isna.” He pointed at a scar on his left shoulder. “ Isna cannot count that one, so his touch stick has but six notches.”

  ’Pon my faith, he must do nothing but fight. “ Isna must be greatly honored by his people.”

  “It is so.”

  No modesty. “Tell Emily again what your people are called?”

  He spoke, “Lakota.”

  Emily said, “Lah-ko-tah.”

  He nodded, signed, “It means allied.”

  “Lakota,” she repeated then signed, “What do Isna’s feathers mean?”

  He gave her a long, stolid look, then smiled. “Emily asks many questions for one so young.”

  Emily’s blush reappeared; she pressed her lips together.

  “Each feather is for an act of bravery . . . killing or touching an enemy.” He re-crafted his wry smile. “And now Emily will ask why Isna wears only five feathers instead of fifteen.”

  She smiled, nodded.

  “Because fifteen is too many to wear at one time . . . unless they are in a headdress . . . and headdresses get in the way. Isna’s other feathers hang beside his scalp pole and his touch stick.”

  She tilted her head slightly to the right and studied his eyes, his face, let her look linger, opened her soul to the questions flowing from his eyes. “Why do the Lakota fight so much?”

  His visage hardened. “The Lakota have enemies . . . and the safety of the people is more important than all else . . . far more important than any one person. But know that every Lakota is both peaceful and warlike . . . peaceful and gentle within the circle of the Lakota . . . courageous and ruthless outside the circle . . . peace and war . . . life and death . . . it is the story of man.”

  Emily stared at him, felt a prickly chill dance down the back of her neck. How terrible . . . but how starkly true . . . and not only for his people. How can a Savage understand this?

  “And for the Lakota, it is a great honor to die in battle.”

  She cupped her hand over her mouth. How brutal . . . primitive . . . like the Vikings. “Does Isna wish to die in battle?”

  “If it is meant to be . . . and gladly, to protect the people . . . or for honor.”

  Emily took a deep, contemplative breath, let it drift out slowly between parted lips. I shall never understand this. “Where does Isna travel?”

  “He travels many places . . . to know different people and lands. He also travels to trade for things, like large shells and the furs of the great horned beasts that roam the grasslands in huge herds beyond the mountains toward the setting sun.”

  Emily raised her hands. “Slower. Return to the horned beasts.”

  He nodded as he signed more slowly, “These horned beasts”—he said, “Tah-tonka,” made the sign for male then said, “and P’tay” and made the sign for female—“roam the grasslands in endless herds. The grasslands take many days to cross, but on the other side, tall, snowy mountains . . . much taller than those here . . . reach to the sky. Beyond the mountains, though Isna has not gone so far, lies another great water that cannot be drunk, like the one Emily and her people crossed to come here.” Isna studied her for a moment then touched his lips with his fingertips, nodded at Emily, and one by one, repeated many of the signs he had just made, spoke the Lakota word for each as he did so, exaggerated the pronunciations, and waited for Emily to repeat each word several times. He then repeated the signs randomly, paused after each for Emily to say the Lakota word. When they had finished, he nodded, gave her an admiring smile, and signed, “Emily learns quickly.”

  Their intense, deliberate eyes held on one another’s. Emily wondered, how can he beguile me so? “Lakota words are lovely . . . they sing like the birds.”

  “Isna will teach Emily more. Her pronunciation is very good, and she will soon speak like a Lakota.”

  A sudden, childlike delight sparkled in her eyes, flowed to his like a soft, gentle breeze. “Emily would like that. Will Isna teach her often?”

  “He will . . . but Emily will also teach Isna more of her words, to add to those Manteo taught him.”

  She gave him a slight tilt of her head and the beginnings of a smile. “What did Manteo teach Isna?”

  He signed, “Emily has two names. Her second is”—he said, “Col-man.”

  Emily said, “Yes.”

  “Emily’s friend is”—he said, “El-a-nor.”

  “Yes.”

  “Elyoner’s man is”—he said, “Ann-na-nigh-as.” He studied her, thought, her heart and soul glow in her eyes without fear. She warms my heart.

  “Yes, Isna.” Her eyes remained on his; she trembled, felt a pulsing warmth flow through her body, her mind.

  He slowly extended his hand as if to shake hers but raised it toward her cheek, hesitated, asked with his eyes if he could touch her.

  She nodded slowly, willfully.

  He gently laid his fingers against her cheek, held them there, gazed into her eyes.

  Her heart raced; her breathing quivered. Unable to move her eyes or lips, she laid her hand over his, closed her eyes. My heart . . . my soul . . . spinning.

  He held his touch and gaze for a long moment then slowly withdrew his hand and spoke measuredly, “Emily lifts Isna’s heart like an eagle in the sky. He will see her again soon.”

  Emily whispered slowly, lingeringly, “Yes.” Dizzy, going to faint. My heart, my heart. Is this what love is like? Am I falling in love . . . no . . . I’m already in love. But how . . . how can . . .

  Emily’s complexion was three shades livid, her eyes tight and focused, her hands alive, abrupt, angry. “Father, how dare you betroth me without my agreement! Fie upon thee! By the saints, you’ve no righ
t to do so . . . ’tis ardently against my will. I’m not a swine or a goat waiting to be paired for breeding. How dare you?” She picked up a pewter pot from the table, flung it across the room into the fire, sending a cloud of sparks and smoke into the air, compelling her to look at the smoke hole to be sure she hadn’t started a fire. She pushed the table onto its side, walked to the wall where her shawl hung, snatched it, flitted toward the door.

  “Emily! Please. Calm yourself. You’ll burn us down.”

  “I don’t care. How could you betray me so? Tell me, Father!”

  Colman coughed three times, then once more, clearly for sympathy. “Emily, I sought only to protect you. Our lives are fragile . . . and I have this worsening cough . . . I don’t know what will befall me . . . I wanted only to ensure your protection.”

  A twinge of compassion flirted with her heart. He’s indeed growing more ill . . . ’tis now a deep, vicious cough. “ Elyoner and Ananias will protect me if anything happens to you . . . but you’ll soon recover, so that’s no excuse for treating your daughter like a piece of livestock, and I sha’n’t abide it!”

  “But, Emily, do you not care for Hugh?”

  “No. I do not.”

  He looked confused, off balance. “This is sudden. Why not? You seemed quite taken by him.”

  “There are things . . . things you don’t know . . . about his character . . . other things, as well. But even if I did love him, betrothing me without first asking me would remain a grievous transgression I would never accept. I shall choose my husband . . . not you or anyone else . . . and that’s the end of it. So you can go back to Hugh Tayler and tell him—”

  He shook his head; despair, frustration wrinkled his face like a raisin. “Emily, my dear . . . there are necessities that outweigh love . . . marriage will provide security for you . . . Hugh loves you deeply . . . he’ll protect you, care for your every need.”