Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (120 page)

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

E
mily 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.”