Read Dangerous Dreams: A Novel Online
Authors: Mike Rhynard
Dangerous Dreams: A Novel
DANGEROUS
DREAMS
DANGEROUS
DREAMS
A Novel
MIKE RHYNARD
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance or connection between actual persons, living or dead, and the incidents portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination, fictitious, and/or completely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Mike Rhynard
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2015913968
ISBN: 9781517054847
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
ISBN: 1517054842
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I
t’s done; and I thank the Lord of all for providing me, to whatever degree, the inspiration to conceive
Dangerous Dreams
and the perseverance to complete it. Next, I thank my most brutally honest and articulate critic—my wife Alida—for her persistent candor and patience over the entire course of the adventure. I also thank my family for politely suffering occasional neglect at the hands of
Dangerous Dreams
.
On the technical side, I thank my incredibly diligent and thorough editor, Irene Chambers, for her gentle instillment of long-forgotten and never-known rules of grammar; and Peter O’Connor, my cover designer, for his uncanny ability to convert written thoughts into an intriguing and enticing graphic vision. In addition, I thank my friend Ed Cobleigh for sharing the lessons he learned while publishing his first two novels. And finally, I owe my grateful thanks to my test readers for their candid constructive criticism—Vic Andrews, Carol Buffington, Rita Hess, Saundra Hill, Jean Petersen, Josh Rhynard, Bob Varnum, Brendan Ward, and Nick Yanniello.
FOREWORD
I
, Allie O’Shay, was 22 when Father Time clanged us into the third millennium. I remember that time—not because of the new century, but because that’s when my dreams began, and I first discovered their wonder, their burden . . . and their danger. And if I’d known then what lay ahead, I would never have slept again.
HISTORICAL
PROLOGUE
THE NEW WORLD
T
he two English landing boats glided ashore in the timid bloom of morning’s first light. Eighteen men, faces and clothes heavy with sweat, stowed their oars, wiped their dripping brows. A man with gray, shoulder-length hair, a short, pointed beard, and a broad-brimmed hat leaped from the first boat, studied the wall of trees that stood like an impregnable rampart before him. He slowly, hesitantly cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello! Hello! ’Tis I. I’ve returned! Are you here? Hello! Hello!” Streams of sweat trickled down his cheeks through his beard, soaking the white shirt tucked loosely into the blousy pants that covered his tights from his waist to the tops of his thigh-length boots. A few others wore similar clothes, but most were soldiers who wore metal helmets and chest armor, held long, bulky muskets, and carried swords at their waists. All scanned the tree line with anxious eyes, waited for a reply.
Each second of silence begot more frightened glances, more nervous shuffling of feet on the boats. A sudden, loud splash at the left side of the second boat aimed seventeen weapons and pairs of eyes at a soldier who had leaped overboard to relieve himself into the water with a long, satisfied sigh. Three others instantly did the same, while the remaining fourteen
climbed into the water, pulled the boats ashore with a loud clamor of armor and weapons that drew an angry scowl from the leader. “Come, men, be at the ready.” He drew his sword, stepped briskly across the narrow shore to the forest wall and an overgrown trail, hacking at the branches and briars that guarded its entrance. The men drew swords, lifted muskets, followed warily behind.
Thirty yards in, the leader suddenly stopped pointed at three barefoot human prints in the sand, and quickly wiped at the droplets of sweat streaming from his mustache into his beard. He waited for the men to look at the prints, then abruptly turned, resumed his march. The men glanced hesitantly at one another, then again trailed after him with dithering eyes and soft, uneasy whispers.
A half minute later, a soldier in the middle of the line said, “Sir, look at this.” The leader stopped, turned, walked briskly back to the soldier, as others gathered around him. The man pointed at three, four-inch-high letters carved into the trunk of a large tree:
CRO
. “Sir, what does it mean?”
The leader’s eyes misted, disappointment swept his face; but seconds later, his eyes sparkled briefly, a hint of a smile creased his lips; he nodded slowly. “It means they’re not here. They’ve gone to an island down the coast, and . . . and because there’s no cross beside the letters, they did
not
leave in distress. They’re safe.” He took a long, thoughtful breath, wrinkled his brow into a puzzled look that immediately deepened to concern. “They were to carve a cross next to their destination if they left in distress.” But, he wondered, why would they go
there
? He studied the letters, sniffled twice, processed a thought, then turned and resumed his march. “Step along men. We’re nearly there.”
Moments later, he halted, expressionless, lips parted; scanned left-to-right, right-to-left, then back again, as if he couldn’t comprehend what lay before him. The company of men spilled into the clearing at his sides. No one spoke. There inside a palisade of ten-foot-high logs, gates agape, lay the remains of forty or so small grass-mat cottages—disassembled, laid flat on the ground, and overgrown by vines and brambles. Walking briskly to the closest gate, the leader leaned forward, studied a word carved into one of the posts.
One of the soldiers asked, “What is it, Sir?”
“ ’Tis the name of the island they went to. So let us survey what remains here and be on our way to them, forthwith. You four men over there”—he pointed at a cluster of soldiers—“set up a perimeter guard around us. There may be Savages about.” The four hurried out the largest gate, surrounded the fifty-foot clearing that encircled the log enclosure. The remaining men then scurried around inside and outside the palisades, searching the remains of the cottages and the grounds, probing the thick undergrowth beyond the clearing.
An hour’s effort yielded several pigs of lead, a few bags of iron sacker-shot, four small cannon, and a few heavy tools and implements. They also discovered a number of open personal trunks sitting alongside the holes in which they had once been buried. The leader stepped to the trunks; a disgusted look suddenly distorted his face. “My God. Two of these are mine. Look here.” He plucked a sketchbook from one of the trunks, flipped through the pages. “These are my writings and drawings. Fie! Look how they’ve been despoiled—the Savages’ work. They’ve taken everything they valued and left the rest to rot in this wretched weather.” He shook his head, glanced around the grounds to survey what they’d found. He fingered his beard with his right hand, contemplated their findings. Why did they leave so many necessaries—trunks of personal belongings, cannon, shot—and never return for them? Perchance . . . perchance they left quickly, intended to return . . . but were unable. But why did they leave and not return? And why did they completely dismantle the cottages? Perchance . . .