Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  “Did you see her?”

  “No . . . but I don’t need to because I only dream through her, and what I dreamed was a dream she was dreaming . . . about the Vikings. At first it was all black—NREM. Then pop! There they were . . . with no gray beforehand . . . the same guys as before: Bjarni, Tryggvi, the others . . . pulling their smaller boats up a high, steep hill . . . like a cliff . . . with the roar of a falls in the background . . . like . . . like”—her eyes bloomed like flowers in fast motion; she percolated with fresh excitement—“ like maybe Niagara Falls.” Pause. “So Steve was right. I was in some kind of null zone, with no dreaming . . . from the pills . . . stuck in NREM. Amazing!” Her eyes grew suddenly dull, vacant; her lips parted. “But what will I see tonight? Emily dying? Someone else dying? Do I really want to go back? Damn, this sucks!”

  “So Emily could still be in big trouble?”

  Allie nodded. “I don’t want to go back . . . afraid in my heart and soul. Something bad’s going to happen. They’re going down, going under . . . all coming to a head. It’s over . . . but I don’t know if I can bear to watch it happen.

  On the fourth night, Allie’s mind clung to Dressler’s words like a phonograph needle stuck in a scratch. He’d said, “Allie, like Christ needing to die on the cross and rise again to fulfill his mission, you’ve got to have closure with this, finish it. You’re strong and smart, and you’ll handle whatever happens. I know you will! Remember, you have an advantage none of your ancestors had: an understanding of why and how the dreams happen. And your mom and I are here if you need us.” He’d then taken her hand in both of his, patted it softly, then gently squeezed it. His touch had warmed her, encouraged her, somehow given her the resolve to go on. “Go for it, Allie Girl!”

  Now at four a.m., after six anxious, unsettled hours, she felt like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane—apprehension and anxiety over what was to come tore at her heart like a hungry dire wolf. But her overpowering attachment to Emily, her unquenchable thirst to know her fate, slowly, relentlessly overcame her fear, transported her back to her dream.

  At first she again saw black, and her lucid heart plunged with disappointment. But suddenly, she saw Tryggvi, Hefnir, and Bjarni, followed by about fifty other Vikings, walking through shallow water and onto the shore of a huge lake. As a large group of Indians approached them, Tryggvi and Bjarni lifted their axes and swords to the ready. From the corner of his mouth, Tryggvi whispered, “More Skraelings, Bjarni. Perhaps these will like you better than the others did.”

  “Go poke yourself, Tryggvi; they’ve never seen such a warrior and lover as Bjarni the Impregnator.”

  Tryggvi smirked. “I see you still have delusions from that hit on the head, and . . .”

  Blackness.

  Suddenly, Emme and Elyoner sat beside Emily as she lay on her bed in a clean white smock.

  Groggily, Emily said, “I have to find Isna.”

  Elyoner said, “No, Em, you’re not going anywhere. You’ve lost a huge amount of blood, and you’ll probably fall on your pretty face as soon as you stand.”

  “Saints above, Ellie, you are such a fiddly old nag sometimes. I’m fine. I must see Isna, tell him what’s happened. Have either of you seen him about?”

  Both shook their heads. Emme said, “No, but we agree, he must be told what’s happened because . . . because . . . it’s changed things so greatly.”

  Emily sat up. “What do you mean?”

  Emme and Elyoner eyed one another. Elyoner nodded, looked at Emily. “Em, you’ve . . . you’ve lost your baby. That’s why you bled so much.” She again glanced at Emme then back at Emily. “We’ve buried the remains with your father and covered the spot with leaves to avoid suspicion . . . we’ll go there with you . . . when you’re ready.”

  Emily stared blankly at her lap. “My baby . . . gone?”

  “Aye, Em.”

  “As quickly as it came.” She looked at Emme then Elyoner; tears filled her eyes; she blubbered, “How can God do such a thing to an unborn child? How?”

  Elyoner said, “God works in ways we can’t always understand, Em. He closes one door and opens another. And your closed door is the loss of a child you would have loved, but your opened door is freedom from Tayler.”

  Emily looked at her for a moment then lay back on the bed, rolled to her stomach, sobbed.

  Waters and Myllet walked cautiously through the forest with four soldiers behind them. Waters carried a pistol in his right hand, a sabre in his left. Myllet had pistols in both hands, and the four soldiers carried matchlocks at the ready.

  Waters stopped, whispered to the front soldier, Private Warner, “Where are they? How much farther?”

  “Not more than two hundred yards, Sir . . . over there . . . past that thicket.” He pointed his barrel at a thick bunch of bushes about thirty yards away.

  “Very well. Proceed.” Something doesn’t feel right, he thought. Perhaps the strangeness of Warner’s breathless message that Smith wanted him and Myllet to come quickly to his aid, perhaps the unsettling quiet of the forest, perhaps my imagination. Doesn’t matter . . . something’s not right . . . and I don’t trust this friend of Taverner guiding us to this place . . . glad I brought the other three. Odd that Smith would call for Michael and me by name instead of simply asking for help if his situation is dire.

  Twenty yards past the thicket, Waters stopped again, leaned toward Myllet, whispered, “Michael, I don’t like it.”

  “Nor I, Sir. Hair’s on edge over something.”

  “Michael Myllet, where’s your armor?”

  Myllet smiled. “You grabbed me on the way back from the privy, Sir, and—”

  Phffft! Phffft! One arrow tore into Myllet’s chest, the other into his stomach. He staggered two steps backward, fell motionless onto his back.

  Waters yelled, “Cover, men! Take cover!” He leaped behind a tree. Something behind me. He looked back over his right shoulder, gazed down the bore of Warner’s matchlock, heard the click of the serpentine clamp as it dropped the match onto the flash pan, saw the puff of smoke from the priming powder. He ducked and turned as the main charge ignited, but he was too slow; the ball ripped through the top of his right shoulder, slammed him against the tree. “Aah! Get that man!” He saw the other three soldiers tackle Warner to the ground, then glanced at Myllet. “God damn it, Michael! They’ve killed you. The sons of bitches.”

  He peered around the right side of the tree, saw Private Taverner and two archers—Tydway and Mylton, a civilian—all three without armor— emerge from cover, charge toward him. He leaned his pistol against the right side of the tree, aimed at Tydway, squeezed the trigger. The recoil sent a sharp jab of pain through his wounded shoulder. “Ow! Fie! Now what?” He saw Tydway fall to the ground as he pulled back behind the tree. Phffft-thud! An arrow stuck in the tree where his face had been an instant before.

  He again peered around the tree, saw Taverner fifteen yards away, aiming his matchlock at the tree, and Mylton nocking an arrow. He leaned a foot out from the tree, tempted Taverner to shoot, no luck. He looked behind, saw the three soldiers struggling with Warner. On my own. No time to reload. He dropped the pistol, took the sabre in his right hand. Here goes. He charged around the left side of the tree, raced toward Taverner and Mylton at a dead run, zigzagging every few steps. He saw the smoke from Taverner’s gun, heard the ball whoosh by his ear. Almost there. He zigzagged again, saw Mylton trying to track him with his bow. Five more yards, sabre ready, Taverner pulling dagger. “Ah!” Arrow in the leg; keep going, swing at Taverner, head falling off; back slice at Mylton, death cut across stomach—the Master would be proud—Mylton down, screaming, guts hanging out, mercy slash to head. Done!

  Waters stood panting over the two dead men, eyed his bloody leg and shoulder, then glanced back at the three men holding Warner, their mouths agape in awe. He snapped the point of the arrow off, grimaced as he yanked the shaft from his thigh. He hobbled to Myllet, knelt beside him, touched his cheek. “Goodbye,
my dear, dear friend. God be with you.” He lingered a moment, said a prayer, then stood, wiped tears from his eyes, walked to the men holding Warner. “Stand him up, hold him fast.”

  They pulled Warner to his feet; a soldier gripped each arm while the third held a tuft of his hair with his left hand, a dagger at his throat with the right.

  “Private Warner, under martial rule and the commander’s wartime authority, I condemn you to die at this moment for mutiny and attempted murder. Release him.”

  “Sir . . . please . . . they made me do it . . . Taverner and . . . and—” He gagged as Waters’ sword pierced his stomach, pushed through his innards to his spine. His body convulsed; blood and a gurgling sound oozed from his mouth. Waters thrust again, then a third time.

  As the three soldiers lowered Warner’s body to the grass, Waters thrust his sabre into the ground, dropped to his knees, gripped the hilt with both hands to steady himself. Dizzy. “Get help, men.”

  Allie walked clumsily into the living room, stopped, looked at Dressler and her mother. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Nancy stood, rushed to her. “Allie, what is it? What’s happened?”

  She spoke haltingly through her tears, told of her three dreams, then sobbed on her mother’s shoulder. “Mom, they killed Myllet, wounded Waters, the two best men in the colony.” She wailed, “I can’t do this anymore. It’s killing me. Please, Mom, don’t let me go back.”

  But by the end of the day, Allie’s enigmatic but irresistible yearning for Emily again overcame her apprehension, smothered her determination to never dream again. Yet as she slid under the sheets on night five, she felt like a condemned prisoner about to receive a lethal injection—a feathery, ethereal lightness pervaded her being; chills teased her body; her forehead beaded with sweat. But though she desperately feared she’d soon witness something unbearably horrible, her mind compelled her to return to Emily . . . be beside her as she faced her fate.

  Chapter 25

  Emily sat cross-legged beside Isna on the stream bank at her special place, stared broodingly at the purling water as it rippled lazily around and over the rocks in the streambed. She unconsciously rubbed her eyes, thought how comforting the sun’s gentle warmth felt on her face, wished it could stay that way until the next winter. She thought of her lost child, closed her eyes, imagined what it would have looked like—first a boy, then a girl. She looked into the stream, again rubbed the dampness from her eyes; flicked a blade of grass into the current, watched it spin, duck underwater in an eddy, then bob back to the surface; whispered to herself in English, “At the mercy of the water . . . swept away . . . spun . . . pummeled by powerful forces . . . like me and my fate, yet . . . yet it remains afloat.” She glanced blankly at the forest while she smiled, spoke to herself within the sanctum of her mind. And I shall do the same.

  Isna watched her with curious eyes, leaned his head slightly to the right, finally spoke in a tender tone. “What troubles Emily?”

  She held her eyes on the forest, ignored his question for a while, then erupted into tears, speaking angrily as she sobbed. “Does Isna not understand that while Emily’s body is nearly healed, her mind is not? Does he not know that she has just lost her child, a part of her . . . dead . . . gone forever? Does he not understand that Emily will never hold or nurse it, or watch it grow? Does he not know that this loss tears at her heart like a hungry true-dog?” She faced him with pained eyes.

  He stared at her thoughtfully then nodded, reached out and took her hand in his.

  She leaned into his embrace, moaned softly, “Forgive Emily’s anger. ’Tis just . . . just so unfair to the child . . . first it has life, then not . . . yet the child itself is completely helpless. At least we have the power to try and save ourselves, but a baby . . . a baby has nothing.”

  He caressed her cheek. “Isna understands. He has seen this sadness before . . . yet Emily’s grief will strengthen her . . . and she will need this strength in the days ahead.” He gently stroked her hair and the back of her neck. “Isna feels Emily’s sadness.”

  “Emily knows this is so, but ’tis not only for the baby and Isna’s leaving that she grieves . . . there is also a great fear that saddens Emily, a fear Isna does not yet know of.” She looked up at him. “When Emily and Isna last parted . . . at the edge of the forest outside the palisades . . . she saw the Powhatan warrior who tried to carry her away and nearly killed her at the Roanoke massacre. He watched her, stared at her, told her with his eyes that he wants to take her.” She sighed. “He also studied the palisades, which means the Powhatans plan to attack us . . . as Isna has said.”

  He nodded.

  “And . . . and he wore Emily’s black locket around his neck. He must have found it at the massacre place, and . . . and Emily will never hold it again . . . her only remembrance of her father and mother.” She stared vacantly at the forest.

  “Emily has their memories in her heart . . . these cannot be taken from her.” He hesitated, watched her ponder his words. “What does this warrior look like?”

  She looked instantly fearful. “I shall never forget his face. He had a curved nose, thin, angry features . . . a long scar beside a strip of black paint from his left eye to his chin . . . and a strip of red paint down the bare right side of his forehead, across his right eye, to his chin.” She shuddered. “He had a wild, hateful look in his eyes . . . and he hit Emily with his club . . . again and again . . . as if—”

  “Isna has met this warrior . . . he is the one Isna wounded in the forest the day the Powhatans told the Lakota to leave the deer they’d killed. He is a powerful warrior . . . unafraid, and a great leader of his people. He is called Kills-Like-the-Panther. . . he and Isna will meet again.”

  Emily paled; a pall of fear spread across her face. She slowly faced him, studied his eyes. “How can this be if Isna leaves?”

  He turned away. “Isna knows not . . . but it will be so.”

  She bowed her head, looked at the stream, spoke with a trill in her voice. “The planting moon is nearly full. Isna will leave soon.”

  He watched her for a moment then laid his hand on hers. “When the Powhatans attack, they will kill all . . . the men immediately, and the women . . . later. No one will be spared.” He paused. “Isna will not abandon Emily to such an end. Yet Isna is troubled because the other Lakota will not abandon him . . . but will stay and fight with him . . . and we will all die here together. But Isna does not want the other Lakota to die for him. He wants them to return to the people and live . . . as he wants Emily to live. Yet Wakan Tanka has not shown him how both of these things can be . . . and this troubles Isna’s heart.”

  Emily’s mind swirled; thin tears covered her eyes like mist on a window pane; she visualized her mother and brother walking ashore with John White, finding the colony in ashes, rotting, dismembered bodies scattered about. No, I cannot let these Lakota die for me . . . but what can I do? No choices . . . no escape. She fiddled with the grass on the ground beside her. There is but one way we can all live, and that is to not be here whenever the attack comes . . . either because we’re gone forever or gone for a while. She stared at the ground in front of her for a moment then looked quizzically at Isna. “Perhaps Isna will again tell Emily what is expected of a Lakota wife.”

  He gave her a twinge of a smile and a suspicious look. “A Lakota woman gathers firewood, brings water, dresses the game killed by her husband, cooks, makes clothes, cleans the lodge, bears children, and”—his smile deepened—“ pleases her husband . . . and obeys him in all matters.”

  Her eyes sparkled impishly. “Most of these are also expectations of a good English wife . . . but an English wife may disagree with her husband and sometimes . . . perhaps . . . disobey him . . . but not often if she is clever.” She watched his eyes smiling in sync with his lips. “Could Emily go with Isna to the Lakota . . . for a time . . . then return here later . . . when John White has brought more people and soldiers? Would this not save all the Lakota, and Emily, fro
m certain death?”

  Isna’s eyes glistened. “Isna has asked Wakan Tanka to put this thought in Emily’s mind . . . for Isna himself could not ask her this.” He looked suddenly serious. “Emily’s gifts of wisdom and enlightenment allow her to see things as a Lakota . . . and Isna already sees her as Lakota . . . and so it will be with all the Lakota.”

  “Oh, Isna!” A flash of hope filled her eyes but quickly faded to disappointment. “Emily is foolish. She has spoken with her heart, not knowing if her mind will agree. She has never thought of leaving her people, her family and friends, her way of life . . . perhaps forever; and though she has many times dreamed of herself as Lakota, as Isna’s wife, she does not know if the dreams can come true.” She leaned into his arms, laid her cheek against his chest. “Isna must ask Wakan Tanka to show Emily the pathway he wants her to take.”

  The two soldiers guarding Tayler’s cottage snapped to attention, held their matchlocks at present arms as Waters approached with a brisk but limpy step and a determined, angry look on his face. He nodded at the guards then extended his right hand to open the cottage door, winced at the sharp pain that shot down his arm from his wound. He banged the door open with his left hand, carefully drew his dagger with the right; stomped into the room directly to Tayler, who stood a few feet away; rudely grabbed the front of his shirt with his left hand, poked the dagger point firmly against his throat. “You filthy, low son-of-a-whore, you’re done. You and your fucking henchmen have murdered two fine men who were worth a thousand of you; and if you so much as blink the wrong way, you’re dead; and I’m the judge, jury, and executioner. Understand?” He pressed the dagger harder, formed a deep, red dimple around the point.

  Tayler quivered, tilted his head back, glanced down at the dagger. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant. How the hell do you—”