Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (115 page)

As Emily and Isna approached the Chesapeake village, Emily said, “ Isna and Emily, and baby Virginia, are in great danger. Tayler is guarded, but he still has influence with his men. Emily believes they will try to kill us.”

Isna stopped, laid gentle hands on her shoulders. “Isna welcomes this. Perhaps they are braver than their leader, and their scalps will be worth hanging on Isna’s pole.” He paused, looked somberly at the forest then into Emily’s eyes. “ Isna must tell Emily something he has not told her about the Powhatans.”

Emily’s look tightened; fear infiltrated her eyes.

“Two years ago the Powhatans killed thirteen white men who escaped the Roanokes and came here in a big canoe. These men stole food from the Nansemonds, who are neighbors of the Chesapeakes and members of the Powhatan chiefdom. They also killed two Powhatans with their big sticks
that bark. The Powhatans and Nansemonds then overwhelmed them and killed or captured all of them. They tested the strength of those they captured, and found them weak. Emily must know that these people have no fear of white men.” He paused again. “Isna has also seen Powhatans among the Chesapeakes . . . watching your village, measuring your strength. These are the reasons Isna believes the Powhatans will soon attack . . . perhaps Emily will tell her young warrior chief.”

Emily blanched, nodded, stared silently into his eyes. Endless danger, endless fear . . . whatever will become of us? Saints above, please speed John White to us.

After she and Isna parted, Emily walked hastily toward the colony. When she was nearly to the palisades, an eerie, unnerving feeling riddled her senses—a familiar feeling of being watched. Instinctive fear flooded her mind, chilled her body. She shuddered, took a few more steps, fought the urge to stop, search for the source. Dear God, I’m terrified, but why? What is it? She stopped, looked at the tree line to the right. Nothing. Anxiety pounded in her heart as she slowly turned to the left, studied the tree line twenty yards away. She gasped; her eyes bloomed wide; her jaw dropped; her body shivered with terror. His eyes . . . seething . . . boring into my soul . . . fear, horror . . . the massacre . . . dear God, the massacre . . . his hate . . . clubbing me . . . killing me. Cannot look at him. She lowered her gaze, felt her senses numb, panted, trembled, felt a deep chill race through her body as she stared at her precious black locket hanging from his neck.

The Panther smirked, faded slowly into the shadowy forest.

Mother . . . dear God . . . help me.

Another cramp doubled Emily onto her bed. What’s happening to me? Hurts so. “Ahhh! Mother, help me. Please make it stop.” She rolled to her
back, pulled up her smock, felt the wetness between her legs, looked at her hand. My God, I’m bleeding . . . badly . . . rags . . . need rags. Panicked, afraid, she rolled off the bed to her knees, screamed as another cramp stabbed her like a dull knife. “Someone help me!” She crawled toward her chest, doubled over with another cramp, threw back the lid; fumbled for her period rags, pulled them from the trunk; started to crawl to the bed, flattened onto the floor with another cramp. “ Ooooooh.” She rolled to her back, pulled up her bloody smock, stuffed the rags firmly between her legs, and squeezed them together. Another cramp. “Ahhh!”

Someone knocked on the door.

Emily moaned weakly, “Who is it?”

“Emme . . . I wanted to visit with you . . . Emily you sound awful; I’m coming in.” Emme burst through door. “God’s blood, Emily, what’s wrong?!”

“Aaaah! Cramps . . . like a period . . . but worse.” She panted, writhed. “Help me, Emme. I’m bleeding . . . gushing . . . don’t know . . . don’t know what . . . what it is. Faint . . . can’t think . . . can’t . . . talk. More . . . more rags . . . need more rags.” Emily’s head slowly relaxed onto the floor, eyes closed, body limp.

Emme knelt beside her, gently smacked her cheek. “Emily, Emily . . . awaken. Do not do this; you cannot die! Noooo!” She stood, rushed to the door. “Ellie, must get Ellie.” She ran outside, raced toward the Dares’ cottage.

As Emme began to knock on the Dares’ door, Allie’s dream went black.

Chapter 24

A
fter three volleys of knocks on Allie’s door, Nancy reached into her purse, fumbled through her oversized bundle of keys, picked one, tried it in the deadbolt. “Damn! Thought that was it.” She flipped through the bundle again as a twinge of panic teased her mind. “Why doesn’t she answer? God, I hope she’s alright! Ah! Here it is.” She slid the key into the slot, turned it. “Thank God!” She quickly opened the door, rushed inside. “Good Lord! What’s going on here?” The room was dark, shades drawn, no light except for a faint glow coming through the bedroom doorway. She walked slowly inside, closed and bolted the door. “Allie?” She flipped on the living room light. “Allie, are you here?” She walked hesitantly toward the bedroom door. “It’s Mom.”

She peered inside. “Oh my God!” The bathroom nightlight cast a dim glow on Allie, unconscious on the bedroom floor, halfway between the bed and bathroom. Nancy rushed to her side, knelt. “Allie, Allie!” Oh jeez, she barfed on herself . . . must have fainted on the way to the bathroom. “Good Lord, what’s happening?” She touched Allie’s chest. “Whew . . . breathing . . . at least she’s alive . . . could have suffocated. Allie!” She tapped Allie’s cheek three times. “Come on, kiddo. Wake up!” She grabbed her shoulders, shook gently. “Come on, Allie Girl. My God, what’s wrong with her?” Tears flooded her eyes; her heartbeat surged like a race horse bursting from the starting gate; she shook harder. “Damn it!” She groped inside her purse. “Damn! Just made a call. Where is it . . . ah, there it is . . . 9-1-1 . . . gotta dial 9-1-1.” She smacked Allie’s pale face again. Her hand trembled as she pressed the 9-1-1 preset. “Never done this before. Come on, Allie, wake up!”

“9-1-1. Please speak slowly and calmly . . . describe your emergency.”

Allie moaned, moved her head, opened her eyes for a moment.

Nancy said, “Uh . . . hang on a sec. I think we’re gonna be okay.” She touched Allie’s cheek, smacked it twice. “Allie, can you hear me? Come on, Hon.”

Allie opened her eyes again. “Mom, what . . . what are you . . .”

“9-1-1, I think she’s waking up. Should be able to handle things. Thanks.”

“Are you sure? I can hang on until you’re sure.”

“No. I think she’s okay. Thanks much. Sorry to bother you.”

“Good luck. 9-1-1 off.”

She pressed
end
. “Allie, what the hell . . .”

Allie slurred a few unintelligible words.

“What did you say? Speak clearly.”

Allie mumbled, “I said . . . what are you doing here, Mom? And . . . man . . . do I ever have a headache . . . dizzy and pukey . . . barely see you. My God! What’s that gross smell? Reeks!”

“You threw up on yourself . . . a good while ago. How long have you been lying here?”

Allie glanced right and left, looked disoriented, unaware she was lying on the floor. “No clue. Don’t remember getting here. What day is it?”

“Wednesday morning. Allie, what the hell have you been doing? Did you get toasted?”

“No . . . mind’s kinda muddled . . . Wednesday morning? Can’t think . . . groggy . . . barely see you.”

“Well, I called about ten times over the last three days, and you never answered. So you must have been doing
something
. Scared the hell out of me!”

“I . . . I was sleeping . . . sleeping . . . dreaming. Must have . . . can’t . . . can’t think . . . tired . . .” Her eyes slowly closed.

“Allie, wake up!” Panic, fear. “Did you take sleeping pills? Come on, wake up!”

Allie’s eyes stayed closed. “Just a few.”

“So you could dream more, right? Damn it, Allie. You know better.”

“Right. Jeez, I’m weak . . . wanna sleep. What day is it?”

“Wednesday morning. I already told you. Damn it! You’re a wreck! Can’t believe you did this to yourself when you know what happened to . . .”

“Needed more dreams . . . and it worked . . . but feel like crap. Gotta sleep . . . gotta . . .”

“Allie O’Shay, don’t you dare sleep. Now get up and help me get you into the bathroom, so we can clean you up. You’re a mess. Come on.” She stood, grasped Allie’s hands, tried to pull her up; but Allie was limp as a bag of potting soil, her eyes still closed. Nancy tried three more times, finally poured cold water on Allie’s face; she pulled her to a sitting position then stepped behind her, grasped her armpits, lifted her to rubbery feet. “Can you walk?”

“No.”

“Then hold on to me. Put your arm around my shoulder.” The two stepped slowly to the bathroom. Nancy sat Allie on the toilet seat, removed her wet t-shirt, cleaned her with a wash cloth. “Stay here while I find a clean shirt. Don’t move.”

“I don’t feel good, Mom.”

“Hang on. I’ll be right back.” Nancy dashed into the bedroom, rifled Allie’s drawers for a t-shirt.

“Gonna puke, Mom.”

“Damn it! Hang on, I’ll be there in a sec.”

“Can’t wait.” Allie stood, started to turn around; lost her balance, grabbed the vanity; leaned over the sink, dry heaved three times. “ Ohhhh.”

Nancy raced into the bathroom, put her arm around Allie’s waist, sat her back on the toilet seat, then slid a clean t-shirt over her head, pulled her arms through the sleeves. “That was real pretty.”

“Can’t help it, Mom . . . wiped out.”

“Okay, come on, we’re going back to the bed.” She pulled Allie to her feet. “Arm around my shoulder again. Okay, here we go.” She walked her back to the bed, rolled her onto it, covered her with a sheet; she stared worriedly at her for a moment. “Just like old times, Allie Girl.” She caressed her forehead then her cheeks. “Can’t believe you did this to yourself after what happened to Great-Grandma Ian.” Gotta get a grip on this quick. How in
the hell could that advisor . . . what’s his name . . . let this happen? SOB’s gonna hear from me . . . must have given her the prescription for the pills. After Nancy walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with water, she returned to the bedroom, decided she’d keep an eye on Allie, walked to the desk, sat. “Hmm.” She picked up Allie’s cell phone. “Off. No wonder she didn’t answer.” She turned it on, brought up the missed calls. Wow. Sixteen missed calls, eight from me . . . six from the advisor . . . there it is . . .
Steve Dressler
. . . jerk. Wonder if she got my emails.