Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (12 page)

Sergeant Myllet pointed at each man as he spoke. “Bishop, Browne, Darige, Sutton, Allen—accompany these civilians to the crabbing grounds on the shore. They know where they’re going, so just follow and protect, muskets ready, eyes and brains alert; watch the forest behind, ahead of, and beside you; spread out, no talk. Concentrate on the task, men. Protect and defend. And as I told you before, do not shoot at
anything
unless you know what you’re shooting at
and
it’s an immediate threat. And if you
do
shoot, reload quickly . . . and keep your matches lit. Questions?”

All five shook their heads.

“Master Howe, here are your escorts. Are you and your men ready?”

“That we are, Sergeant. Thank you. This way, gentlemen.” He pointed at a pathway into the forest, then waved goodbye to young George and Thomas Colman, who were busy attaching bundles of reeds to the cottage sides and roof. He also waved at Emily, who was talking with her pregnant friend, Elyoner. “Ladies, ready yourselves for a feast of fresh crab this night.”

Emily waved back. “I shall, Master Howe. I taste them already. Good luck.”

Twenty minutes later, the crabbers emerged from the forest, proceeded to the water’s edge. Removing his shoes and knee socks, Howe said, “This is the place. Let’s spread out and cover these shallows . . . over here.” He pointed to the south where an expanse of serene water stretched at least 500 yards. A hundred yards to the north, a point of land protruded into the sound blocking the view in that direction. Always curious, Howe decided to crab his way toward the point and then go around it to see what the prospects were on its north side. Each man carried two canvas bags, one slung over each shoulder, as well as a four-foot-long forked stick to hold the crabs against the sea floor while grabbing them from behind with the other hand. Each pair of bags would hold twenty or thirty crabs and was thick enough to prevent the crabs from pinching through the sides. While the soldiers positioned themselves along the tree line, the other men removed their socks and shoes, spread down the shoreline to the south until there was enough space between them to avoid interfering with one another. They then waded into the water, taking care not to lay a bare foot on one of the
strong-clawed creatures scurrying around the sandy bottom. The harvest was immediately bountiful, the men touting their success and bragging to one another with every catch.

After a half hour, George Howe had worked his way to the north point. He had taken ten crabs, but the productivity was less than he’d expected; he wanted to do better, couldn’t bear the thought of one of the other men outdoing the chief crabber. He looked toward the forest, saw that the closest soldier was about a hundred and fifty yards away at the edge of the tree line, his eyes watching the forest as Myllet had instructed. Howe decided to tell the man he was going around the point for a few moments to see what was there and check the crabbing prospects. He didn’t want to yell—the others were making too much noise as it was—so he started wading toward the soldier. After a few steps he decided it wasn’t worth the effort, turned back toward the point. He’d only be out of sight for a few minutes, wouldn’t be missed in so short a time; he could quickly return to the point and summon the entire party if the crabbing looked promising.

The water on the other side of the point was perfect crab habitat, even better than to the south. A thick blanket of chest-high reeds spread from the forest’s edge to about fifty yards into the water. Howe grinned with delight as he saw crab after crab scramble through the reeds to avoid his feet. This is heaven, he thought, as he adjusted his sacks and went to work. The crabs were harder to see among the reeds, but Lord in heaven, there were a lot of them.

After a half hour, he had nearly filled both bags, had been thinking about young George and Emily, hoping in his heart that fate
would
bring them together. A finer lass he’d never seen, and the thought of them together as husband and wife sometime in the future warmed his heart, inspired him to sing his favorite tune, the one composed by King Henry the Eighth himself.

Pastime with good company

I love and shall until I die

Grudge who lust but none deny

So God be pleased thus live will I

For my pastance

Hunt, sing, and dance

My heart is set

All goodly sport

For my comfort

Who shall me let

“Come here, you little blighter,” he said as he missed his third attempt to pin an elusive crab to the bottom. He succeeded on the fourth attempt, dropped the crab into the bag, then continued his song.

Youth must have some dalliance

Of good or ill—

He heard a curt buzzing sound pass his ear like a locust flying by, heard it again, but this time felt a sharp sting and a hard, forward kick in the back of his thigh, then searing pain like a severe cramp. He reached his hand behind the leg, felt the arrow shaft sticking out, the warm blood running down the back of his leg. “My God, I’m shot.” He started to turn; another arrow ripped into his lower back, sliced through his stomach and four inches out the front of his belly. “ Ooohh!” He looked down at the bloody arrow point, saw warm blood and stomach fluids soaking his shirt; staggered to the right; another arrow ripped through his left bicep, lodged in the ribs, pinning the arm to his side. He turned toward the shore and stumbled two steps forward, wondered why the soldiers weren’t there. Another arrow hit his left shoulder, stuck in the bone with awful pain.

He cried out, but the sound vanished in his throat; he fell to his knees, looked down at the water, thought how distorted and pale his reflection was; started crawling toward the shore, wondered if he was dying. A fifth arrow cut into the top of his right shoulder just inside the collar bone, tore deep into his chest behind the front ribs. He gasped for air, none came; felt himself weakening, growing dizzy, disoriented; thought how much he loved his son, begged God to care for him; wondered what the gurgling noise was, who the people approaching him were, prayed they were
soldiers. An icy chill shuddered through his torso as an arrow tore through his throat. He felt himself being dragged through the water, then onto the shore; felt a strange darkness envelope him; heard someone moan as he felt himself dumped on the ground, rolled onto his back; felt the numb thunk of more arrows piercing his stomach, couldn’t breathe. Complete darkness enshrouded him, but it quickly yielded to a strange white light. He watched it grow brighter and brighter, felt himself drifting toward it, his pain gone, a light, airy feeling flooding his senses; saw his wife in the light, her arms open to embrace him. And as the Panther’s stone war club smashed into the left the side of his head, imploding his skull and splattering his brains and blood onto the sand, he embraced her, held her to his breast, felt the light’s glowing warmth surround him.

Another Savage crushed the back of the head, delivered another blow and another until the head was but a pile of red goo. The three Savages then shot one arrow apiece into his genitals, dragged him into the brush, and slipped away into the forest.

Chapter 5

A
s she dashed for the bathroom, the contents of Allie’s stomach rose to her throat like an erupting geyser, driveled between her fingers into the palm of her other hand. After what seemed like an hour of gut-wrenching heaves, she wiped her hands and face with a wad of tissues. “My God,” she moaned between rapid breaths. “That poor man . . . what they did to him.” She hovered over the toilet for a few more minutes, then swallowed a drink of water, washed her face and hands. Still shaken, she walked slowly back to the bedroom, sat on the bed, then leaned forward and lowered her face to her hands. God, what a nightmare . . . so real . . . but it
wasn’t
a nightmare; it was that same dream, same people . . . but later on, like a story that keeps moving. “What the hell’s happening to me?” This is impossible. She shook her head slowly back and forth as she raised it upright. Never seen anyone die before . . . blood, brains. She paused her thoughts, covered her mouth as a dry heave rose from the pit of her stomach to her throat, hung there like a bag of lead. It was like I was there . . . felt his thoughts, his pain . . . saw the light, his wife. My God, what’s happening to me? She threw her pillow across the room, stared out the window. Can’t go on like this.

Suddenly, Allie comprehended the bright, warm afternoon sun flooding the room. Holy shit! My meeting. Eleven o’clock. She took a deep breath, picked up her cell phone, and called her advisor, told her she’d had a problem, forgotten to call her, apologized four times, then asked if they could meet later that afternoon. No, they couldn’t, but tomorrow afternoon would work. Done. Don’t have squat diddly to show her anyway. Better get on it.

Allie sat at her computer, two hours into another assessment of her advisor’s reference list. Bored, she sat back, closed her eyes, began to steer herself onto a mental detour where she decided her topic actually
was
reasonably interesting, for clinical psychology anyway. If she had to do a dissertation on a topic she wasn’t interested in, at least she’d have the satisfaction of contributing something practical and useful to the field—a field known for its egocentrism, where most treatments relied more on the practitioner’s personal experiences than on an enlightened marriage of psychology and science. Having acknowledged her predisposition to cynicism on the subject, she resolved to do something besides whine about it: inject some
scientific
influence that might nudge the field in the right direction, help change the paradigm, improve the value of services rendered, actually help someone.

Since she’d been old enough to notice, she’d watched her parents suffer the inherent stresses of the cattle business: extreme weather in both directions, temperamental cattle markets, drought, hired help quitting at the worst possible times, disease, noxious weeds, predators, bad decisions, excessive calf losses, and much more. All the factors played in a grand equation every year, and the number of years when it all came together to yield profits commensurate with the pain were few. Thank God for the love of the land and the joy of being out on it every single day. Without that, no one would have the hope, the resilience, or the courage to face such challenges year after year. But she’d watched it take a toll on both of them. Even when it turned out right, the stress was still there, hanging over them like a brutal summer sun, sapping their energy, wearing them out before their time. She’d seen that hollow, stunned, faraway look in their eyes when things were bad; the excitement and pride that glistened like sparkling snow on a crisp, sunny, ten-below morning, when things were good. And that was why she’d chosen a dissertation topic that would combine psychology and science to help people cope with severe stress and remain, or become, energetic, motivated contributors to society. Allie felt better, re-generated, refocused; looked at the next item on the list, an abstract entitled,
Stress and Coping Research: Methodological Challenges, Theoretical Advances, and Clinical Applications
. Oooh, looks interesting.” She did
a search on the university’s library website, located the piece. “Great. Good stuff, new too, and the library’s actually got it.”