Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (67 page)

“I completely agree, but where does the
white
bison enter the story?”

Emily raised her right index finger. “Before she left, Ptesanwin said that as long as the pipe was kept and honored by the people, they would live; but if they ever forgot about it, they’d be without a center and would perish.” She smiled. “Is it not a beautiful story?”

“Aye, it is, Em.”

“And now to your question . . . as Ptesanwin departed, she turned back into a bison cow . . . but it was a
white
bison cow . . . and that’s where she got her name . . . White-Bison-Cow-Woman.”

“Zounds, lass. You’ve been a busy student, and . . .”

Emily sat quietly, an impish smirk on her face, thought how Isna always seemed mischievously annoyed when she asked him to explain things . . . as if he had more important things to do than answer a woman’s incessant questions. He probably did, but he always smiled at her, spoke gently, touched her with the softness of fine linen, then displayed rising yet measured excitement as he told her of his people and their beliefs.

“Emily Colman . . . are you in love?”

Emily looked directly, piercingly into Elyoner’s eyes, smiled. “Ellie, he stirs my blood and soul like nothing in this world.”

Elyoner looked at her, lips slightly parted as if to speak, but without words took a deep, pondering breath. “ Em, I see how you feel; I
feel
how you feel . . . you sparkle at his name . . . and I see a man in Isna with every
attribute a woman could desire. But I cannot part my mind from the reality that he’s of a different culture. Yes, his culture and—”

Emily raised her hand. “Ellie, I know what you’re about to say. And I’ve already had that conversation with myself and made my decision. I shall delight in every moment I pass with Isna . . . for as long as those moments last.”

“But, Em, how can you torment yourself so? You’re placing yourself on a cliff above a bottomless emotional pit into which you can do naught but fall. Hear me, lass, I—”

“Then so be it, Ellie. I
must
be with him, and I will bear whatever happens when he leaves.”

Elyoner bit her lips, sighed. “Very well.” She walked to Emily, knelt beside her, pulled her close. “Em, I cannot suffer to see you hurt. I love you, my dear friend, and I shall stand beside you in whatever lies ahead.”

“Thank you for caring about me, Ellie. I shall manage . . . somehow. I’ve a long winter ahead to know Isna and decide what to do when he departs.” She stood, held Elyoner’s hands, kissed her on the cheek. “I see the sun is high; I must be off with Master Cooper to the Chesapeakes. I shall ask them how they treat colic.” She glanced out the window. “Here come Father and Ananias, and they look quite intent upon something.”

“I’m sure they’ve some new crisis on their minds. I’m told the Assistants are fearful we’ve not enough provisions for the winter.”

“ ’Tis true, and they’ve traded beads and other trinkets to the Chesapeakes for help hunting deer. Isna and his three Lakota are going with a group of them this afternoon to hunt for a few days . . . somewhere near the mountains. It seems that’s where most of the deer are . . . but it’s a place sometimes frequented by Powhatans and their enemies, the Monacans, who live near there and speak a language similar to Isna’s. And that’s why he’s going . . . he said it could be dangerous.” She opened the door.

Elyoner hesitated for a moment then scowled like a scolding mother, wagged her right index finger up and down at Emily. “Before you leave, I have something I must say. Mistress Emily Colman, I well know you intend to do something with regard to Hugh Tayler . . . some fair gesture you think you owe him . . . something that will put your mind at
rest . . . even as you cut yourself free of him. Know you that I do not believe him worthy of such.” She paused. “But if you insist on such a noble, merciful gesture, remember thee well your promise to me. Do not be alone with him.”

Emily faced her with a guilty smile, gave her a quick hug. “I promise, Ellie.”

The ten Powhatan warriors moved swiftly, silently through the dense forest. Each man wore only moccasins, and a fringed, thigh-length apron across his front; while lines, swirls, and splashes of paint adorned their bodies and the shaven right halves of their heads. Each carried a painted-bark shield on his arm, a long bow, an un-nocked arrow in his shield hand, and a knife and stone war club at his side. It was
not
a hunting party.

The Panther had three parallel stripes across his face on each side, that ran from the ridge of his nose across each cheek to the bottom of his jaws— red on top, black in the middle, and yellow on the bottom. Every man had a red design of some sort on the right side of his head; the Panther’s was a collection of lines, in a shell shape that emanated upward from just above his ear to the hairline at the top, where his long hair hung down the left side.

As he jogged at the front of the band, his mind reviewed their plan to surprise the Monacan hunting party they knew was hunting deer in their territory. They’d made two previous raids against the Monacans and on the first had killed two and taken one prisoner for torture. But the Monacans had pursued, and they’d had to kill the prisoner because he’d slowed their pace; the Monacans had outnumbered them and would likely have won an encounter in which the Powhatans did not have the advantage of surprise. The glow of any victory was dulled by heavy losses, and such were to be carefully avoided. He ground his teeth together when he thought of the second raid, led by another warrior, who’d stumbled headlong into the Monacan hunting party; and again outnumbered, they’d lost two warriors: one killed and another taken prisoner. They’d found the prisoner’s body days later, after he’d been
tortured and dismembered, his body left where the Monacans knew the Powhatans would find it. He smiled, for the captured man had been a close friend, an exceptionally brave warrior, and the Panther knew he’d laughed in their faces and taunted them as they tested his courage, knew he’d died a warrior’s death because the Monacans had left his weapons with his body: testimony that he’d died bravely and earned the respect of his tormentors.

As the memory of his friend faded from his mind, the Panther thought of the young white girl with eyes the color of the sky and black hair like their own. He’d been unable to keep her face and the thought of her courage from his mind. Even when he thought of his very pregnant wife and her still-ferocious passion for lovemaking, Blue Eyes displaced her in his mind, captured his desire and his longing, filled him with visions of her naked body tight against his own, their wild, frantic movement together. The fact that a white woman could influence him so, still confounded, even troubled him; but he’d finally concluded it was what he’d known all along: it had been her raw beauty and courage that together captured his mind and now convinced him to take her for his second wife when they annihilated the whites in the spring or perhaps sooner. However, his present wife’s possible reaction to his plan troubled him, for she was aggressively possessive, not the kind to share love with anyone. But she’d have her hands full with their new child, perhaps be more tolerant of his decision. Then again . . . who could predict the emotions of an angry, jealous woman . . . certainly not him. But he had plenty of long winter days ahead to think more on it; it was time
now
to think about the fight at hand, how they would inflict great pain on the enemy while escaping it themselves. He’d done so many times—led lopsided victories, killed many enemies, taken many prisoners, lost few of his own warriors. This fight should be easy because they knew where the Monacans would come from, where they would hunt: deer-rich Powhatan territory where there was excellent cover for ambush. But to think any fight would be easy was to invite defeat, and he cautioned himself to leave nothing to chance, to demand the utmost discipline and fighting skills from his men. A little more time would bring them to the place he’d chosen for the ambush,
with enough time for the good concealment and positioning that would ensure their victory.

Afternoon shadows had begun lengthening from the foot of the narrow section of completed palisades when Emily returned from the Chesapeake village. Hugh Tayler spied her from the village green, hurried toward her. “Emily!”

Isna was glad for his short Lakota bow. It was far less cumbersome than the long bows used by the Chesapeakes, allowed quicker movement through the forest. He and Soft-Nose, one of the other Lakota warriors, were therefore ahead of the two Chesapeakes who accompanied them, and he calculated that he himself led Soft-Nose by perhaps the length of three bow shots but wasn’t sure. The hunting party had split into two groups because too many hunters in a band was counterproductive, created too much noise, alerted the prey and forced it from an area. So the two other Lakota and several Chesapeakes hunted elsewhere to increase the harvest, which they would combine at the end of the day.

All day Isna had tried unsuccessfully to keep Emily from his mind. Visions of her had persistently quickened his heart, drawn his mind from his task. Too dangerous to think of this now, he thought. He forced his mind to the deer’s track. Fresher now, shallow in the leaves, not afraid, not running, close. Slow the pace, be more silent, don’t want a
running
deer I can’t catch. He took one of the four arrows he held in his left hand along with his bow’s handgrip, nocked it, held the bow up in firing position. A few more steps . . . there he is, too much brush, can’t see him well, move slowly, be careful; he pulled the bowstring back, aimed at the shape, advanced slowly, cautiously, one silent step at a time. No sound, breathe slower, quieter, move slowly, feel the earth, touch it before you step; his foot felt a stick; he stepped slightly, cautiously to the right, felt leaves and earth, thanked
Wakan Tanka they were damp. Quiet, closer, better view, big buck, no wind, don’t shoot yet, another step, slow, quiet—he slid noiselessly under a low tree branch—almost ready, two more steps. His heart began to race like it always did before a kill—two or four legged. He moved right, slipped behind a large tree, paused, breathed deep, exhaled slowly, did it again, took a third breath, let half out, held the rest, eased like a slow-crawling turtle from behind the tree, aimed, released.

As the arrow left the bow, a bolt of fear shot down his spine; he instinctively jerked back behind the tree, began to nock another arrow. Deer’s sideways, looking right; something’s there. “Phffft!” An arrow zipped by the tree. “Phffft! Phffft!” Two more. “Phffft-thunk!” One into the tree. He leaned around the trunk, let his arrow fly where the deer had been watching, heard a moan, pulled back behind the tree, nocked a third arrow.

“Hieeeeeeeeee!” War cries rose from the forest where he had shot, began to spread to either side. Silence, then a long, piercing, solitary cry. They come now. He leaned around the tree, loosed his arrow at the lead warrior, saw it hit his side; but he kept on coming, others behind him. Isna dropped his bow, pulled his war club and knife from his waist, shouted, “It’s a good day to die,” charged the ten Powhatans.