Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  “No! I refuse. I shall kill myself . . . or go live with Elyoner . . . or Emme . . . or the Chesapeakes. I’ll simply not accept it.”

  “Emily, don’t say such things.” He coughed again. “I’m loathe to say it, but arranged marriages remain quite legal and binding under English law, and—”

  “Try it, Father! I dare you!” She opened the door.

  “Emily, please. Hear me. Consider the benefits.”

  She looked back at him, said, “Goodbye, Father,” walked out the door.

  “Emily. Come back. Don’t begrudge Hugh. He came to me openly and honestly . . . as a gentlemen should. Emily!”

  Emily walked briskly toward the edge of the village and her special place beyond. I’m too enraged to think. She kicked at the ground as she walked. As she passed Elyoner’s cottage, Elyoner walked outside.

  “Emily. What ails you, lass? You look furious.”

  “I am!” She held her forward gaze, crossed her arms, and stomped into the forest as if she were walking through foot-deep snow.

  When she reached her special place, Emily sat by the stream, stared at the water swirling in a lazy eddy beside her. Her blue shawl covered her shoulders, and she wrapped her chilly hands in the long ends that hung across her chest to her waist. I was too harsh . . . unkind. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Father cares only for my safety and well-being, and I should not treat him so. His cough is truly worsening. Please, Lord, let it leave him. Still . . . I cannot abide what he did, and I cannot . . . will not . . . marry Hugh Tayler . . . even if what Johnny’s told me is untrue, which I know ’tis not. Oh, Mother, help me. Help me know what to do. Yes, Mother, I’m finished with Hugh Tayler . . . yes, Isna is a Savage, but . . . no! He’s a Savage only because that’s what we in our ignorance have chosen to call people we judge less civilized than ourselves. In truth, he’s a Lakota warrior . . . a brave man . . . with values, gentleness, honor, dignity . . . more genuine than most English gentlemen I’ve met . . . and being with him excites me like nothing I’ve ever known.

  She stared at the center of the stream. I must apologize to Father . . . but I shall hold my position. She looked up, surveyed the orange, red, yellow, and green leaves around her; listened to the soft whisper of the stream; heard three different bird songs, the screech of a hawk, the gentle breath of the light breeze rustling the treetops; savored the refreshing chill in the air that invigorated her with every breath. How beautiful you are today, my world. How free from my tribulations. My Lord, I see your face in all around me. What better way to know you and worship you than to admire and delight in the beauty you’ve provided. I wish I could know your mind, for you know what is to become of me . . . of us . . . whether we’ll be alive a year from now . . . how I shall resolve my trials . . . whether I shall know happiness or sadness in the days ahead. Please let me choose my actions in a way that pleases you. And let me know how to govern my feelings, my emotions . . . yes, my passions . . . with Isna. I don’t know how to proceed with him, for in spite of my feelings, he is a Lakota, and he will return to his people. And I am English and must be with my people, my family. So I fear that giving my heart, which I cannot control, can lead only to my deep sorrow at his parting . . . but so be it, for I cannot be without him if he is near . . . I shall simply bear the pain of his one day vanishing from my life. As for now, I shall enjoy my time with him to the fullest.

  She drew her gaze back to the eddy, smiled at herself. Seems to be a rather boastful sort . . . but perchance ’tis a warrior trait rather than a personal flaw. No matter . . . I warm at his presence. So let yourself be free, Emily Colman. Dream of him now; let your mind imagine what it will.

  She closed her eyes. Isna and I are here by the stream . . . talking with signs and words. He looks into my eyes and . . . she shook her head. “Don’t be a twit, Emily Colman! Do something useful.” Practice your Lakota words. Yes. Practice.

  “Man . . . wee-chah-shah.

  Woman . . . ween-yahn.

  Father . . . ah-tay.

  Mother . . . ee-nah.

  White men . . . wah-see-chew.

  Friend . . . tee-blow.

  Water . . . m-nee.

  Yes . . . hahn.

  Sky . . .” She sensed a stiff, new silence around her. Birds stopped singing . . . like at the massacre. Her body tensed; her neck tingled with a sudden chill; she studied the forest for movement, clutched her knife, listened, waited. After half a minute, she looked back at the water. Seconds later, Isna’s reflection appeared beside hers.

  “Oh!” She sprang to her feet, faced him. Something different about him, she thought.

  His hair was parted on the right side of his head and hung freely to his waist on that side and behind; while to the left, it was clasped at shoulder height by a four-inch-wide strip of leather which gave it a neat, formal look. In spite of the early fall chill, he remained clad in only a buckskin loincloth and moccasins. But what caught her attention was his eagle-bone choker made of five separate necklaces stacked on top of one another, each a ring of end-to-end, tubular, white eagle bones an eighth-inch thick and two inches long, arranged with the bones of each necklace in perfect alignment with those of the adjoining necklace, so they could be tied together at the ends of each bone with vertical strips of sinew to form the choker.

  Emily’s pulse quickened. Want to touch him, hold him . . . Em! Control yourself! Trembling, she stood straight and formal, looked into his eyes, whispered, “Isna,” then signed, “Isna scared Emily . . . she was visiting Mother Earth again.”

  He smiled, reached out, held her hands, studied the intricacies and graceful lines of her face as he thought, her eyes shame the sky . . . their brightness outshines the moon and the sun. “Emily.” His face grew suddenly grave as he signed, “There are many dangers in this forest.”

  “Yes, but Isna will protect Emily.”

  “Isna is not always here.”

  “But every person needs a place to be alone . . . to think.”

  “Perhaps there is a place closer to Emily’s village where she can think alone. And perhaps she will come here only with Isna or some other protector.”

  “Emily will think on Isna’s words.” Starting to talk like him.

  He nodded, guided her to the grass, where they searched each other’s eyes until his hands spoke. “Does Emily mourn her friend who died saving her?”

  Sudden tears appeared in her eyes; her voice quivered. “Hahn.”

  “Isna is sorry he upset Emily,” he signed, “but . . . why does Emily not slice her arms with her knife for this friend?”

  She looked confused for a moment then said, “Emily does not understand . . . hee-ya okah-nee-zhay.”

  “Lakota women slash their arms and legs, cut off their hair, and wail when in mourning. Do white women not do this?”

  Emily’s lips parted; her eyes looked like big, white bird eggs with a small dot of blue in the middle. She shook her head, said, “No . . . hee-ya.” She dabbed her eyes with her shawl, signed, “White women weep and moan . . . and Emily weeps for her friend . . . and her heart aches for him . . . but she loved him as a friend . . . not as a . . .”

  He nodded. “ Isna understands.”

  She signed, “Emily knows he is now at peace with”—she said, “God.”

  “Who is this person?”

  How can I explain this? I know no sign for God. She raised her right index finger, assumed a thoughtful look, then smiled. “God.” She spread her arms wide and looked at the sky.

  He signed, “Sky.”

  She shook her head, said, “Hee-ya,” and signed, “higher than the sky . . . everywhere.”

  He smiled, nodded, said, “Wakan Tanka.” He lowered his forehead slightly toward her, assumed a serious demeanor, signed for her to watch carefully, then moved his hands slowly so she could follow. “There are three types of peace. The first peace—the greatest peace—enters men’s souls when they escape the things of this world and look within to become one with the great powers of t
he universe. And when this happens, they see that Wakan Tanka is at the center of all, that there are no limits to his presence, and that he lives within each man’s soul and everywhere in the universe. There is no greater peace than this first peace, and the other two are but images of it—like seeing one’s face in the water—for this first, great peace must exist before the second and third can come to be. The second peace is the peace between people who know the first peace, and the third is between nations who know the first peace. So Emily will see that the first peace must live in each man’s soul before it can grow to peace between people and nations.”

  Tears glistened in Emily’s eyes. “Isna, this is beautiful. Emily thinks Wakan Tanka and”—she said, “God”—“are the same. And her people believe as the Lakota do . . . but Emily has never heard it explained so well, so clearly.” She smiled, nodded quickly several times. “Strangely, Christians have been taught that the people who live in this land do not believe in God, have no honor, no values, kill each other at will.”

  Isna smiled. “It is true that the third peace, the peace between nations, is often not attained by the Lakota or their enemies. But still, the Lakota believe in the harmony of all things in the universe because Wakan Tanka lives within each of these things—the forests, each piece of grass, rocks, waters, hills, sky, moon, sun, the two-legged and four-legged and winged peoples. And because of Wakan Tanka’s presence, all of these things have spirits and life . . . yet Wakan Tanka is also over all these things, and has allowed man alone to be the determiner . . . and sometimes man determines poorly.”

  “Isna, Emily’s people know these same things to be true, but they have a church with a chief . . . a queen . . . at its head to tell them how to live.”

  “How can any person tell another how to live? Isna does not understand this. A human being must believe and feel and live every day on his own . . . in harmony with himself and the universe around and inside him. It must be something he knows on his own and holds sacred . . . not something he does because he is told.”

  Emily nodded, considered his words for a moment, then smiled. “Most people ignore the Queen and do as they please, and some are good and some not so good. And some are truly evil.”

  “This is the nature of man, and so it is with the Lakota . . . but truth is the Lakota way of life, and they rub out those who speak untruth or withhold truth because such people will also break customs and rules and will eventually hurt others to gratify themselves, which makes them a danger to all the people.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded.

  “Most of Emily’s people . . . white men . . . don’t think of harmony . . . they think only of themselves, their work, their own lives. So I see good in the Lakota way of thinking, for when one is at peace with oneself and the universe, one will be at peace with God . . . Wakan Tanka.” I want to hold him close . . . feel his heart beat with mine.

  Isna glanced at something behind her, sprang to his feet.

  Emily spun about, stood, grasped her knife, searched for danger.

  Realizing he’d frightened her, he smiled, held up a hand, then stepped a few feet away to a purple flower that held its head proudly above the colorful carpet of leaves. He picked the flower, returned to her, held her right hand with his left.

  Her breathing raced with her pulse; they searched each other’s eyes.

  Slowly, measuredly, he held the flower to her parted lips, leaned forward, and touched his lips to the petals.

  She closed her eyes as he lowered the flower, felt his breath, then his lips as they met hers with the lingering softness of a gentle summer breeze. He again gazed into her eyes, laid the flower in her hand and touched her cheek with the lightness of a down feather, then led her into the forest, toward the village.

  As they approached the village, they stopped, faced one another. Isna touched her cheek, turned toward the Chesapeake village, and walked away.

  Emily stared after him, waiting for him to look back so she could see his face one more time. When he did, she waved inconspicuously with her right hand, smiled, kissed the air.

  He repeated her gestures then walked into the Chesapeake village.

  As Emily entered the village, Hugh Tayler spied her, hurried toward her, raised his hand. “Emily, wait . . . may we speak?”

  Emily’s heart raced with alarm; she gauged the distance to her cottage, realized she couldn’t reach it before he overtook her, took a deep breath, faced him.

  As he approached, he said, “Emily . . . Emily . . . it’s been days since we’ve spoken. May I—”

  “No, Hugh. I do not wish to speak to you. Father told me of the bargain the two of you struck . . . and I despise you for it. Leave me!”

  Tayler frowned, lowered his gaze to the ground like a guilty schoolboy. “Emily, I . . . I only sought to—”

  “I said leave me . . . be gone from me this instant.”

  “Emily, please let me explain—”

  “No . . . you knew my mind on the subject of betrothal, and you willfully ignored it. I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

  “Emily, you treat me unjustly. How can you thusly wound the man who loves you so?”

  “Your going behind my back makes it easy.”

  “When we last spoke, you told me you would meet with me again, let me defend myself against the frivolous, wrongful charges levied against me by your . . . your secret source. Do you not intend to keep your word?”

  Emily glared at him, took another deep breath. “No! I do not!” She turned, walked away.

  Virginia suckled Emily’s breast with fervor; while Henry refused Elyoner’s, turned away, sputtered, coughed, then tentatively nursed for a moment before repeating the cycle. Both women cringed each time he did so. Emily said, “ ’Tis like Father’s cough . . . deep and chesty, a lot of phlegm. Seems fine one moment, then he’s doubled over the next. At least this one’s not so bad . . . at least not yet.”

  “Aye, but it’s hung on far too long, and I think he’s losing weight, do you not agree?”

  “Indeed I do. And it matters not which of us nurses him. He’s simply got no appetite . . . he’s a most discontented little lad. And I know not what we can do to help him; and sadder still, there’s no one for us to ask. Grieves me to see him suffer so and be so incapable of helping him.”

  Elyoner studied the wall for a few seconds, looked at Emily. “Perchance you could query some Chesapeake mothers to see what they do for colic . . . if they even have it?”

  Emily nodded. “I shall, Ellie, this afternoon. I shall.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “Meanwhile, mayhap we could lull him with a gentle tune. Do you know ‘Green-sleeves,’ my favorite?”

  “Of course. ’Tis mine, as well. Same for the Queen’s court, I’m told. Oooh! Virginia’s hungry today. Sucking hard, she is . . . are you ready?”

  “Aye, I am . . . but let’s skip the chorus after the first time through.”

  Emily nodded as they began floating their mellow notes toward Henry.

  Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

  To cast me off discourteously.

  And I have loved you so long,

  Delighting in your company.

  Green-Sleeves was all my joy

  Green-Sleeves was my delight,

  Green-Sleeves was my heart of gold,

  And who but my Lady Green-Sleeves.

  I have been ready at your hand,

  To grant whatever you would crave,

  I have both wagered life and land,

  Your love and good-will for to have.

  A pall of sadness appeared on Emily’s face with the first words of the song, deepened with each verse. Pox upon me. It may as well be Hugh Tayler singing this song. Swirls of compassion, then guilt, drifted through her heart.

  If you intend thus to disdain,

  It does the more enrapture me,

  And even so, I still remain

  A lover in captivity.

  My men were clothed all
in green,

  And they did ever wait on thee;

  All this was gallant to be seen,

  And yet thou wouldst not love me.

  Emily’s mind filled with images of the good moments she and Hugh had passed together, joking, teasing, touching, sharing their intimacies.

  Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,

  but still thou hadst it readily.

  Thy music still to play and sing;

  And yet thou wouldst not love me.

  Elyoner looked at Emily. “Psst.” She nodded at Henry, who had settled and was nursing with conviction, then she suddenly shot her gaze back to Emily. “ Em, you look ill. What afflicts you?”

  “Nothing, Ellie.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No . . . in truth, those lyrics saddened me, made me think of Hugh. Am I not his Lady Green-sleeves? Forsooth, I’ve heard some of those same sentiments from his own lips.”

  Elyoner nodded. “I understand. ’Tis only natural. But you would truly be insane to be with him . . . and to be brutally frank, that he tried to trap you into marriage is . . . well . . . nakedly despicable, and I’m aghast your father agreed to it.”

  A moment later, the babies finished suckling; Emily and Elyoner lifted their smocks over their shoulders, buttoned their shirts, lifted the babies over their shoulders, and gently jostled them up and down as they thumped their backs.

  “Well, as angry as I was when Father told me, I can’t blame him, Ellie; and indeed, I’ve forgiven him, for I know he cares only for my safety.” A sunless look spread across her face. “Though he hasn’t said so, I think he believes he’s dying; and it saddens my soul, for I fear he may be right. Every day he coughs more and seems weaker; and now he sometimes gets chills and muscle aches with the cough, and . . . and, Ellie, I can’t suffer the thought of Father dying . . . being without him. I love him so”—she smiled faintly— “though you wouldn’t know it from our frequent arguments . . . and my awful rudeness to him.”

  Elyoner walked to her, held her hand, looked at her with compassion. “My poor Emily. I think your father will heal in due time; but should the worst happen, you’ll have a home with Ananias and me . . . and Virginia and Henry, of course.”