Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Dizzy . . . sore. She rubbed her groin. Still some bleeding, probably from . . . from the rape. She visualized Tayler lying on top of her, her legs wrapped around his, their bodies moving in unison. She sobbed quietly, shook her head, trembled inside. Unworthy of any decent soul. Naught but a slut now. She saw an image of her mother’s anguished face. Oh, Mother, I’ve betrayed you, your trust, shamed myself and my family. And now . . . now I’m with child, condemned to be with a man I hate, be his whore . . . or a whore to any man who’ll pay to use me. Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Lord, let me bleed. Suddenly a vision of Johnny Gibbes’ pregnant sister appeared in her mind: the young girl lay alone in her bloody smock, her hair matted, soaked in sweat; writhing, screaming in pain, bleeding to death in desolate agony; finally, lying still, her suddenly vacant eyes staring directly into her own as if warning her what lay ahead.

  She pushed the thought from her mind, replaced it with one from long ago, one of her mother with a pained expression on her face. Over the previous weeks, Emily had seen her occasionally grip a piece of furniture to steady herself, abruptly clutch her abdomen. She’d also noticed other irregularities: more frequent visits to the close stool and privy, abrupt mood changes, unusual tiredness, and sudden dashes outside to gag or vomit. When Emily had asked if something was wrong, her mother had composed herself, smiled softly. “My dear, ’tis naught but the burden of pregnancy . . . I shall have a baby in the spring.” Emily’s face had beamed with excitement as the two had hugged, kissed, laughed, danced around the room. Then with deepest conviction, her mother had told her that the burdens she bore were nothing compared to the joy of bringing a baby—a baby conceived in love—into the world. And now as Emily acknowledged with a chill that she herself was experiencing those same symptoms, she whimpered quietly, again touched her abdomen. Lord, how will I treat this child born of sin? How can I love it? Will I not hate and despise it for the way ’twas conceived? She opened her eyes, stared at the fire. No. I could never do such; I shall love it as God intends. But how shall I not lament that ’twas not conceived by the man I love, my dearest Isna, but rather by the force of a deceiver and blackguard I hate. A breath of hope suddenly brightened her face. But perchance . . . perchance I’m just late, will yet bleed. She glanced at the period stick again then stared into the fire, shook her head. No, ’tis not to be; I know ’tis not to be, for I feel another life within me.

  Emily stared thoughtlessly into the fire for twenty minutes until, for the first time in a month, an image of George congealed in her mind. You were such a good, kind soul, George, but I’ve betrayed your memory, your sacrifice. How strange that in a day’s time two men saved my life: you, who were truer than true and gave your life for mine, while the other forcibly invaded my body and stole the life you saved, along with my eternal soul. And you, Isna, my love, now banished from my life; nay, I cannot bear it . . . but nor can I bear the pain, the shame of facing you now that I’m . . . oh, Isna, how I miss you, how I love you. You must be wondering what’s happened to me, why I’ve abandoned you. I love you, I love you, I love you. She closed her teary eyes, moaned softly. My life is done. She thought of Isna’s vision, her dream, the white fawn, the brown fawns. Never to be. She looked at her doeskin dress hanging on the wall. Must give it away or destroy it lest its presence torment me all my days by reminding me of what was and what might have been. Must also forget you, my Isna . . . now . . . even before you leave in the spring. She felt a surge of nausea rise to her throat, stood, started for the door. But it settled as quickly as it came; so she returned to the fire, sat, tried to calm herself with slow, deep breaths.

  As Emily visualized Isna handing her the doeskin dress, her father moaned, tried to raise his head from the pillow but couldn’t; his lips moved but without sound. She rushed to his bed, knelt beside him. His gaunt face was a pasty, pallid color like old, icy snow, had the texture of an empty, crinkled, rawhide bag, and a deep, thick cough rumbled in his lungs with every breath. He covered his mouth with a blood-soaked rag, pressed his other hand against his chest, again tried to speak, managed only a faint, broken whisper. “Emily . . . my . . . my dear . . . Emily . . . Oh, Em . . . look at me. Shall . . . soon die . . . so much . . . to say . . . to you . . . no time . . . so weak.” He moaned, lay back on the pillow, closed his eyes, trembled.

  Emily rubbed her eyes on her sleeve, leaned over him, whispered, “No, Father, please don’t leave me! I beg you.”

  He opened his eyes, again mouthed words without sound. Emily leaned her ear close to his mouth, whispered, “Speak slowly, Father. Take time, don’t tire yourself. I’m here.”

  He wheezed, rattled, coughed; his voice quivered as he spoke. “Nay . . . my dear . . . few . . . moments left . . . must tell you.”

  She sobbed, held him, moved her ear closer. “Yes, Father. Tell me.”

  “You . . . must be . . . strong . . . my Em . . . as when . . . brother died . . . you . . . were strong . . . Mother and I . . . broke . . . remember?”

  “Aye, Father. But that was different.”

  “No, Em . . . same . . . same . . . you’re strong . . . stronger than I . . . stronger than Mother . . . you will survive . . . must survive . . . live.”

  “Father, don’t leave me.”

  “Emily . . . tell Mother . . . I love her . . . always . . . loved her . . . even when . . . she was . . . angry at me.”

  “Yes, Father. I shall.”

  A faint twinkle appeared in his eyes, a hint of a smile grew on his lips. “Before . . . you . . . were born . . . I forgot . . . anniversary . . . Mother . . . angry . . . I knew not . . . why.” He closed his eyes, rested a moment, panted, intermittently coughed. “When I . . . realized . . . why . . . brought . . . fat goose . . . flowers . . . knelt . . . before her . . . proposed . . . again . . . she smiled . . . kissed me.” He forced a weak smile. “You . . . were conceived . . . that night . . . and what . . . a joy . . . you have . . . always been . . . to us . . . so proud . . . of you.” He closed his eyes, again rested, coughed; his body writhed violently from side to side as if to expel the cough.

  So helpless . . . be strong, Em. She blubbered through heavy tears, “Father, I love you so. I’m so sorry for the things I’ve—”

  “Emily . . . survive . . .tell Mother . . . how deeply . . . love her . . . so sorry . . . brought you here . . . sorry for . . . leaving you . . . here alone . . .”

  “Father, please forgive me for—”

  “Hugh Tayler . . . loves you . . . good man . . . gentry . . . marry him . . . Emily.” He seized her sleeves, tried to lift himself. “Emily . . . marry him . . . survive . . . only way.”

  She eased him back onto the bed. “You must rest, Father. Don’t speak.”

  He nodded weakly, relaxed his grip, closed his eyes, then resumed his rhythmic chest rattle.

  Emily moaned, cried quietly beside him. Such a kind, well-meaning man, and I treated him so poorly. She took her mother’s letter from her apron pocket, looked at it, held it to her cheek. Thank you, Lord, for sparing him the pain of knowing what’s befallen me at the hands of this man he would have me marry. She stared emptily at him for several minutes before a repugnant thought took shape in her mind, hovered there like a stale kitchen smell. In the end, I’ve no choice but to go to Tayler . . . but as wife or whore?

  Tayler sat alone in his cottage, stared at the embroidered kerchief Emily had given him back at Roanoke when their relationship was on the ascent, when her growing affection had warmed his heart, nurtured and encouraged his hopes for the future. He spread it open, read the inscription—Savor Each Day the Lord Provides. A thin mist hung in his eyes as he recalled their moments together, the afternoon in the forest when she’d smiled, handed him the kerchief, then held her hand on his for a long moment. What have I done? He bit his lip, stared at the ground with mournful eyes. The love of my life . . . the most wonderful, kind, gentle, innocently stunning woman in the world . . . and I despoiled her. He laid his face in his hands. Ashamed
. My future, my pathway to salvation, all gone, for she spoke the truth. She will always hate me. But yet, he squinted, raised his cheeks in a puzzled look, she showed the rapture of one lost in passion. Perchance, she did find pleasure but battles guilt within. Or mayhap she had no control at all over how her body responded. Women are indeed complex, confounding creatures. Either way, I was disdainful of her honor . . . but it was my frustration that prompted it—her abandonment of our relationship, her foolish infatuation with that Savage.

  A half hour later, he looked back at the kerchief. I love her as no other, but beyond that I have an obligation to her for what I did, for ’tis likely true that no worthy man will now have her. But mustn’t I also fear she will tell another what I’ve done? And if that should be, am I not then bound to do what I threatened to do to the young Dare child? He nodded. Yes, I am so bound, and though it would grieve me to do so, I will take her life if I must. But most importantly, Emily must know that I will do so; for if others learn what I’ve done, my future and my mission will be in peril. He shook his head. Fie on these thoughts. They torment me without mercy. He thought for a moment. There’s but one way to rid myself of this torment and at the same time satisfy both my love and my obligation to her: make her my wife. He looked at the candle burning beside him. And if that cannot be, then I shall force her, by way of my threat, to become my mistress; and if, in the end, that should fail, as well, then I shall indeed take that young life. He frowned as an unsettling thought infiltrated his mind. If I take the child’s life then all will know of my transgressions; I shall pay dearly, and my future and my mission will be at an end. So my plan must not end there. No, the young one’s death must be but the instrument that convinces Emily I will forever do whatever I say. There must be more, and the more will be the death of her Savage if she fails to keep her silence and do my will. He put another log on the fire, watched the flames take hold, slowly shook his head. Though I’ve gravely wronged her, the great irony is that my taking of her body did naught but enflame my lust to new heights—new heights that demand I soon lie with her again.

  Emily stared at the floor of Elyoner’s cottage with a glum, detached look as she held Virginia to her breast. She glanced briefly at Virginia, offered a thin, fleeting smile as she began to nurse; but the baby soon stopped nursing, began to squirm and sputter. “Ellie, I think you’d better take her.” She shook her head, glanced furtively at Elyoner, shrunk from her probing glare. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My milk seems less each day.” She looked at the baby. Your mother suspects something, little one, but she must never know. And you must keep your life at all costs. Pray she stops staring at me like an interrogating barrister. She forced her gaze back to Elyoner, broached a false smile as she handed Virginia to her. “Ellie, why do you look at me so?”

  “Are you well, Emily? You . . . you seem most unlike yourself these last days . . . as if something troubles you deep within.”

  She feigned a smile. “Of . . . of course, I’m well.” She shook her head. “You’re imagining things, Ellie.”

  “I think not. Your thoughts are elsewhere, mayhap up there on a star.” She looked skyward, lifted her hand toward the ceiling. “I don’t know what it might be, but something is different; ’tis as if you carry a great burden you’re unable to confide. ’Pon my faith, lass, I’m not blind; I’m your dearest friend and know your manner.”

  Emily swallowed hard, again shook her head as her dulled mind drifted in a sea of apprehension. What should I say? “Truly, Ellie, there’s nothing.”

  Elyoner held her rigid glare. “Come now, Em. I’m not fresh from the womb. We women know when something’s amiss, and you’ve not been you for a week now. Forsooth, lass, none of us carry secret burdens well; and there’s great relief in telling others when something afflicts us, great comfort to be gained from another helping us endure our trials. And who better than the friend who loves you so dearly she’d give her life for you?”

  Emily felt her composure crumbling from within. “Truly, Ellie . . .”

  “Em, do you realize how much you’ve cried of late? People don’t do that unless something troubles them deeply.” She paused. “Is it Isna? Has something happened between you? Have you even seen him?”

  A gust of pain stormed into her heart like a North Sea gale; her hands trembled; tears filled her eyes. “No, I . . . I have not.”

  “Did you quarrel?”

  “No.”

  “Then why haven’t you seen him?”

  Emily bit her lower lip, felt warm tears on her cheeks, her heart shattering like broken glass. “I don’t love him anymore.” She lowered her face to her hands and moaned.

  “Then why are you crying? I don’t believe you for an instant, Emily Colman. ’Tis something else.” A compassionate look abruptly took her face. “Oh my Lord! ’Tis your father! How stupid of me. How callous. Oh, Em. Pardon my blindness. Yesterday when I saw him, he . . . I understand your distress.” She laid Virginia in her crib, pulled her smock over her shoulders; hurried to Emily, leaned over her, held her close; kissed her head, caressed her neck.

  Emily whimpered, trembled. “He’s near death, Ellie. What shall I ever do without him?” Father, Isna, losing both of you at once.

  “You shall come and live with us. That’s what you shall do.”

  “Nay! I could never do that. You must have your privacy.”

  “It matters not.”

  “Aye, it does. And I shall not intrude upon you. I’ll do quite well on my own. But Ellie, I shall miss him so. I never truly appreciated him; and now . . . now when he’s slipping away, I feel so guilty that I wasn’t a better daughter. So many times I was brash and short with him. Ellie, give me a kerchief. I can’t stop crying.”

  After a lengthy cry, Emily dabbed her bloodshot eyes, gave Elyoner a faint smile. “Thank you, Ellie. You’re such a dear friend. I . . . I don’t know what I’d do without you and your relentless solace.”

  “Dear Emily, you are the sister I never had. And it shall always be thus. Your sorrow is my sorrow, and it will pass, and I will help it pass.”

  “I love you, my sister.” She smiled a genuine smile, took a deep breath, then looked at the door. “I should return to Father. Thank you, Ellie.”

  “I shall come over and stay with you as soon as this one’s asleep.” She nodded at Virginia. “Call me if you need me sooner. Oh, by the bye, did you meet with Hugh Tayler?”

  Emily blanched, trembled, couldn’t speak.

  “Em, you look as if you’ve seen a dragon.”

  “I . . . I . . . yes . . . I saw him.”

  “You did!”

  “Yes.”

  “In the village, of course?”

  Emily nodded. “Of course.” She bit her lower lip. “Actually . . . actually, Ellie, ’twas in the forest.”

  Elyoner frowned. “Was someone with you?”

  “No, we were . . . we were alone.” She turned away, rubbed her teary eyes, looked back at Elyoner.

  Elyoner gasped, held a long silence. “Emily, did something happen?”

  “No, nothing happened. Ellie, I . . . I must go.” She stood, turned away, covered her mouth with her hand, rushed outside, a muffled wail trailing behind her.

  Myllet said, “Well, Sir, we’ve no disagreement on the threat posed by the Powhatans, but with only twenty-one men, counting you and us three sergeants, we lack the manpower to do as you suggest. If we have four men guarding the village at all times, how can we also have four guarding the water gatherers, clothes washers, hunters, fishermen, and woodcutters? Right there, we’re up to twenty-four men.”

  Waters nodded. “Then we must invent a means to meet our need. For example, we could combine water and washing parties. No one washes their clothing or their body very often anyway, so that might help a little. I admit, the other situations are more worrisome; though when the fishermen are afloat, they probably don’t need four guards; two would likely suffice. In any event, I think ’twould be wise to train a fe
w civilians to augment our men, mayhap as a fourth member of each detachment of three soldiers. What do you think?”

  The three nodded agreement. Smith smiled. “There’s no doubt we’ll have a bevy of volunteers from the ranks of the woodcutters. They’ll see standing guard as far easier work than cutting trees, which could be troublesome if they don’t take the duty seriously. Of course, ’tis our job to see they do, and also that they know how to fight, if necessary.”

  Waters nodded. “Well said, Thomas. And I think you’re the best man to train them.”

  Myllet said, “Good idea, Sir.” He and Gibbes snickered as they jostled Smith.

  Smith smirked at Myllet. “Some things never change.”

  Waters smiled. “Well, you do have the most experience training recruits.”

  He smiled. “Aye. Unfortunately, that is quite true; so I suppose I be your man, Sir.”

  “Good. Then let us choose the men and begin training today.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Waters looked away, pondered for a moment. “I’ve another thought on our defense. What if each group of four guards had mixed weaponry—say two matchlocks and two longbows? Then they’d have the range and killing power of the muskets combined with the long range and high firing rate of the longbows. So while the musketeers were reloading, the two longbowmen could maintain fire at the same rate as the Powhatans; but because of the greater strength of our bows, they could do so from greater range than the Powhatans, thereby overcoming, or at least reducing, our vulnerability during matchlock reloading. What do you think?”