Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Waters had asked, “Did you return to where he was last seen?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Very well. Too dark to do any more tonight. Let’s take ten men and search a wider area in the morning.” He’d stared at Smith while his mind raced through possible reasons—all unpalatable—for the man’s disappearance.

  “Well, Sir, I know what you’re thinking, but it could have been something besides Savages. Remember, he had no weapons, so mayhap he hurt himself, and a wolf or bear or panther got him.”

  “Possible, but . . .” Waters had nodded, turned to step back into Baylye’s cottage.

  “Excuse me, Sir. I should also tell you that Master Prat feels ’twas his fault. I told him it wasn’t, but you know how—”

  “Not his fault, Thomas, and you can tell him I said so. Every one of us would have allowed Lassie to take a moment alone in the bush. No one needs an audience for that particular task. Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

  “Hope so, Sir.”

  Waters had turned again, reentered the cottage. “Excuse me, gentlemen. It seems we have a missing man, James Lassie.” Several Assistants had looked surprised. “Late this afternoon, the hunting party he was with, which was led by Roger Prat, was about five miles away when they started back toward the village. Lassie told Roger he had some personal business to attend to . . . by a log over in the trees . . . if you know what I mean. Said he’d catch up as soon as he finished his business, gave his gun and sword to two other men to carry, so he could catch up quickly. It must have been urgent, as I’m told he started loosening his belt as he trotted toward the edge of the forest.” Several Assistants had started to chuckle but quickly realized the impropriety of doing so and held silence. “Master Prat told him ’twould be safer if they just waited there for him, but Lassie asserted he was a grown man and could handle the job alone, said everyone needed a little solitude now and then. Well, they started back toward the village at a slow pace; but when he hadn’t overtaken them after twenty minutes, they went back to where they’d left him, found no trace, no signs of a disturbance in the grass or leaves.” He had shaken his head. “Nothing! Our search parties also found nothing, so I’ll take another party tomorrow and search a wider area. By the bye, Master Prat has been off with the main search party all afternoon, which is why he’s absent from this meeting. Seems to be taking the incident rather personally, which is, of course, absurd.”

  Roger Baylye had said, “That’s alarming news, Lieutenant. I suppose you suspect Savages?”

  “Certainly a good possibility, Sir, but could also have been an animal attack, an injury, or simply getting lost.” He’d noticed the dismay that had suddenly appeared on their faces, betraying vivid remembrances of George Howe’s disappearance and demise, as well as their frustration that after only a brief respite from fear, the all-too-familiar feeling of impending doom haunted them again.

  Baylye had looked at each Assistant. “Well, good luck. All of you please pray for Master Lassie’s deliverance from whatever’s befallen him; but meanwhile, Lieutenant, do you think we should restrict people to the palisades area . . . at least until we discover what’s happened to him?”

  “That might be wise, Sir; but I should think we’d be safe within a quarter mile of the village, wouldn’t you? Especially if we travel in groups?”

  “I suppose, but—”

  The whip tore into Taverner’s back the tenth time. He hung unconscious from the rope, his shredded back oozing blood and tissue fluids onto his stained pants and the ground below. Nearly all of the civilians had turned away, pressed their hands over their mouths; those who had not done so had closed their eyes, while a third of the soldiers had pasty complexions and glassy eyes.

  “Enough,” Waters whispered. He turned around, faced the ranks. “Men, what you just witnessed was unquestionably brutal. But understand you, our situation here is akin to martial law, and we cannot and will not tolerate the slightest deviance from good discipline and behavior. Violations will be dealt with swiftly and harshly.” He pointed, in turn, at three men. “You men. Release the prisoner and treat his wounds. I expect him back in ranks on the morrow. That’s all. Dismissed!” He turned, walked toward Baylye’s cottage as he wondered how long it would be before the next incident.

  Emily stared into the fire at the back of Elyoner’s cottage, its quiet, rhythmic crackle the only sound. She watched the yellow tongues wrap around the log, creep slowly up its sides until, like clasping fingers, they joined over the top, enveloped it. Relentless, she thought, like the march of fate. She watched the blue flames beneath the log, admired the intensity of their color. Even looks hot . . . lying down there below, distributing heat to the rest of the log like a commander sending troops into battle. She heard a loud pop, watched a stream of sparks rise to the smoke hole in the roof, shook her head. Unnerving having a fire inside a grass house. She glanced at Elyoner, who slept soundly, then at Ananias’ empty bed and the crib that sat close enough to the fire to overcome the slight chill that hung in the room. Ananias must be growing weary of me . . . fortunate he and Father are such good friends. She looked back into the fire, thought of Richard Taverner, unconscious, hanging by his hands, his back a bloody, shredded, gooey mess. She breathed deeply, exhaled slowly, stifled the sudden nausea that rose to her throat. She’d nearly retched at the end of the flogging, had rushed away with Elyoner close behind. The two had walked briskly to Emily’s cottage, stopped, looked at one another in silence for minutes before they spoke. Yes, it had been a difficult moment, but not nearly as terrible as little Henry’s death and burial, after which they’d both dashed behind trees and vomited, then sobbed in each other’s arms. She closed her eyes, felt her heart knot as if twisted by a pair of giant hands, felt Henry’s soft, still-warm, lifeless little body pressed against her bosom, his cheek gently touching her own. She’d rocked him back and forth, thought of the hours they’d shared together, their bonding, his instant smiles at the sight of her face; she’d blinked at the tears filling her eyes, trembled, asked God why he’d taken such a helpless, innocent young life, berated him for doing so. She’d then laid him in his crib, stared at him: pale, still, silent. She and Elyoner had embraced, held each other close, then cried on each other’s shoulders until Virginia had awakened, diverted them with hungry sputtering. Now Emily slowly shook her head, drifted into a comatose state as she again slipped under the fire’s magical spell.

  When her mind awoke, Emily realized the big log had burned down to coals before her oblivious eyes, her senses having been thoughtlessly submerged in the fire’s mysterious heart. Bewitching it is . . . as if taunting me . . . telling me it holds all the primordial secrets of the world—past, present, future—but it refuses to yield those secrets, abandons me to my heart. She thought of Tayler, thanked him for staying away while she grieved for Henry. Clearly, he had some decency, but soon she must meet with him, end their relationship. And Father . . . poor Father . . . his gut-ripping cough, lost weight, frequent fevers, ever-increasing time spent lying exhausted on his bed. Where will it end? Mother, please come soon, or I fear you’ll ne’er see him alive. And Mother, please ask God to let me find my locket.

  She put another log on the fire, again stared into the flames, saw her parents, her deceased brother, herself holding her baby brother and Henry on her lap, all beside the fireplace in a new frame house in Chesapeake. Her father smoked his pipe and between puffs joined them in verses of The Keeper, one of their favorite songs. She smiled as she mouthed the words, saw their laughing faces, their bodies swaying to the music, felt their joyful hugs, their warmth.

  The Keeper did a-hunting go

  And under his coat he carried a bow

  All for to shoot at a merry little doe

  Among the leaves so green, O.

  Jackie boy! Master!

  Sing ye well! Very well!

  Hey down, ho down,

  Derry, derry down,

  Among the leaves so green, O!

 
To my hey down, down,

  To my ho down, down,

  Hey down, ho down!

  Derry, derry down,

  Among the leaves so green, O.

  Mother, I miss you so. Her smile melted away as her eyes bored deeper into the fire. She allowed it to pull her inward, beyond the surface of the flames, into its hidden soul, the sanctum of knowledge. Suddenly, she saw flashes of her strange dream of the night before: the huge brown bear walking side by side with a little white fawn as if protecting it, then many brown and white fawns walking behind them before scattering in all directions. What does it mean? Why would I dream such a thing? Isna’s face appeared in the fire, his wry smile, his intense warrior’s glare, then a different smile, a smile of warm affection, adoration, tenderness. Her heart sizzled with desire; within a single beat, a warm glow flowed through her body, down her legs. Her breath quickened; she felt a sudden, damp warmth between her thighs. Isna, I must be with you . . . my life, my all.

  She’d not seen him since the hunting foray to Monacan country and Henry’s passing, but Shines had told her of the encounter with the Powhatans, how Isna had charged ten Powhatans alone, how he and Soft-Nose had killed two, wounded two others, including their leader, held them at bay until the Chesapeakes arrived. The Powhatans had demanded the Lakota and Chesapeakes relinquish Isna’s deer, but he’d refused, stepped forward to claim it. The Powhatan leader had moved to stop him; but as the two grasped their weapons, the second Chesapeake and Lakota hunting party had arrived with bows drawn. And since the Powhatans had left their bows in the forest when they charged Isna, the Chesapeakes and Lakota now had the advantage in both numbers and armament. Shines had measured up to her name when she proudly told Emily of the Powhatan leader’s fury at being outmaneuvered, his promise to kill Isna when next they met. But her smile turned to awe as she described Isna’s calm courage in standing a breath from the Powhatan’s face, smiling at him, telling him not once, but twice, that his scalp would hang in his lodge at the bottom of his scalp pole. She’d beamed with pride when she’d told how the Powhatan leader, whose name was the Panther, had glared at Isna for a long while then turned his back, motioned his men to leave, walked away. The Chesapeakes and Lakota had kept their bows aimed at the Powhatans until they’d picked up their dead and their bows and disappeared into the forest. After a tumultuous victory cry, the hunting parties had gutted the deer and started back to the village with advance and rear scouts, bows ready, in case the Powhatans returned to fight. The Chesapeake warriors said they’d never seen such courage as Isna’s in charging ten Powhatans alone, killing one and wounding the Panther. Emily had stared at Shines, wide-eyed, speechless, her hands trembling, a sudden sweat beading on her forehead. Fie on him, she’d thought. How can he do this to me, risk his life as though it means nothing, and charge into certain death. I can’t bear it. How can I love a Savage . . . but, dear Lord, I do. You know I do, with all my heart and soul. I must see him.

  While the other three Lakota slept, Isna stared into the small but intense fire in the center of his lodge. His gaze penetrated to the fire’s heart, pulled his mind and soul along to search for answers to the questions that haunted him. I love her, he thought, but how can it be so? She’s of a different people with strange thoughts . . . yet she’s not strange. She understands the Lakota, thinks more and more like us, will soon know our language, more of our ways. Perhaps . . . he shook his head . . . no, it can never be. So am I not foolish to remain with her? Perhaps I should leave now, spare us both the pain of leaving later, when that pain will certainly be greater, for my love and desire grow with the speed of a bounding deer. He saw her face in the flames, her raven hair, features that captured and held a man’s eyes, her own eyes of blue fire that enflamed his soul, harvested its secrets, enslaved him, filled him with wild desire. No! I cannot leave her, must be with her, hold her, feel her heart beat with mine, her warmth, her touch, her kiss, her . . . but she will be mourning the death of the child she nursed. Nothing strikes a woman harder than a child’s death, and it will be of no matter that the child was not her own . . . the pain will be the same. Unfortunate that Isna knows not how these people grieve . . . but could it not be the same as the Lakota? Perhaps . . . but not likely, and would it not be bad manners to do the wrong thing and increase her pain . . . and would not a kind person stay away for a time, let her mourn, strengthen her soul from within? Yes, but it could take many days, perhaps an entire moon cycle, for she has seen much death for one so young; Isna must give her time . . . but how much? Even tomorrow is too long.

  Virginia’s whimper broke Emily’s trance, sent an alarming shudder through her mind. She climbed to her feet, walked quickly to the crib, lifted her out, sat on a stool, then dropped her smock and began to nurse. She looked at the sleeping Elyoner. Thank you, Ellie, for letting me be with this little one. Were it not for her, I’d cry myself to death and worry myself into my grave. May God care for our little Henry . . . and help Father recover. And, blessed Lord, please let me see Isna tomorrow.

  Emily and Shines laid strips of venison across thin, green tree branches supported at either end by tall, vertical, forked stakes which held the meat high over a smoky, slow-burning fire outside Shines’ lodge. When the new meat was in place, they collected the dried, brittle meat they had removed from the fire and laid it beside two thick, flat rocks a foot in diameter, sitting on a tanned deer hide spread on the ground. Emily watched attentively as Shines laid several dried strips in a single layer on top of one of the rocks, began pounding them with a second rock, which had a flat bottom and a top that fit comfortably into her small hand. She pounded vigorously until the strips were pulverized into a fine powder which she then brushed off the stone and heaped around it.

  Emily covered her own rock with a layer of dried meat and started pounding along with Shines. After twenty minutes, Shines raised her hand for Emily to stop, covered her rock with dried, purple berries, and resumed pounding. Emily mimicked her until after an hour, Shines again stopped, laid her two rocks aside, and retrieved a wooden bowl of melted animal fat that had been sitting beside the fire. She then sprinkled in the powdered venison and berries, stirring the mixture into a thick paste with a wide stick whittled flat on one end and carved into a handle on the other.

  Emily raised her hand to stop Shines, held a finger over the paste, and asked with her eyes if she could sample it. Shines smiled, nodded at the bowl; Emily scooped up a blob with her index finger; licked a bit, judged the taste; smiled, nodded, licked the remainder from her finger.

  Shines widened her perennial smile, reached behind for a rawhide pouch into which she spooned the remainder of the mix before laying it aside and telling Emily it was to be stored until midwinter when fresh food was scarce.

  Emily signed, “How long will it keep?”

  “Many years.”

  “Long time. What is it called?”

  “Pemmican.”

  Emily said, “Pemmican.”

  Shines nodded.

  “Good. I shall make much pemmican and show the others how to make it. It tastes good, and I think we will need it.” Not something I’d want every day, she thought, but methinks ’twill be wonderful when ’tis all we have.

  “Yes, you will need it. It’s usually all we have at the end of winter, except for fish . . . and fish grow tiresome.”

  Emily nodded. “Shall we make more? I have all day.”

  “Yes, I can help you for a while, but then I must help my mother. You do very well.”

  Emily smiled. “Thank you. And tomorrow, will Shines show me how to make the rawhide bags?”

  “Yes. I like helping you,” she signed then said, “Em’ly friend.”

  Emily smiled, nodded, then said, “And you are my friend, Shines.” She stood, checked the strips of meat drying over the fire, then knelt and resumed pounding. An hour later, she sat back on her heels, surveyed the Chesapeake village, and signed, “Shines, where do the Lakota live?”

  “In that lodge ov
er there.” She pointed to a different-looking lodge that sat at the edge of the village, not far from the forest. “Do you seek Isna?”

  “Uh . . . no . . . well, yes. I haven’t seen him since the hunting party, and . . . and . . . have you seen him today?”

  Shines’ smile broadened again. “I saw him this morning but not since then.”

  Emily spoke slowly, inquisitively. “Shines . . . may a girl visit a warrior at his lodge?”

  “No. It is not done.” She giggled like a little girl with a secret. “But you are not Chesapeake . . . so you may do as you wish.”

  Emily smiled. “Hmm. ’Tis true.” She thought for a moment. “But ’twould be bad manners for my people, as well . . . but then . . . mayhap I don’t care.” She looked at Shines, smirked impishly.

  Shines laughed again. “ Em’ly will do as Em’ly wishes.”

  An hour later, Shines went off to help her mother, but Emily continued making pemmican and flashing frequent glances both at the Lakota lodge and around the village in the hope of seeing Isna. When the sun neared the treetops, she collected the remaining meat, berries, and fat and placed them at the door of Shines’ lodge. She gathered her pouches of pemmican, stuffed them into a large canvas bag, and started toward the colony. As she passed the last Chesapeake lodge, she stopped. I must see him. She turned around, walked to Isna’s lodge; stopped in front, hesitated, looked around to see if anyone was watching; took a deep breath, extended her hand, scratched on the door, as was the protocol. She waited for a long, anxious moment, sighed, then turned to leave but immediately ploughed into Isna who stood directly behind her. “Oh . . . Isna! Emily . . . Emily was looking for—”

  “Isna is here.” His wry smile appeared.

  “Emily . . . Emily has not seen Isna for a while . . . she . . . she wanted to see him again.”