Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (128 page)

Isna stood, turned toward Emily. She gasped, covered her mouth with her hand. A three-inch-wide band of black paint, outlined top and bottom by a thin white line, crossed his face like a mask, from just above his eyebrows to the tops of his cheeks, and sideways to his hair, which hung freely down both sides of his head to his waist. Each cheek had two half-inch-wide, vertical, red stripes an inch apart, that extended from the bottom of the black-and-white band to his jaw. A fifth stripe ran from the bottom of his nose, across his lips, to the tip of his chin. “ Isna frightens Emily. She has never—”

He held his finger to his lips, looked, listened in all directions, sniffed the cool morning air. “The enemy approaches. ’Tis a
good
day to die!”

Her eyes tightened with fearful intensity. “ Isna—”

A shrill bird cry arose from deep in the forest to the east. Then another, and another.

Isna looked toward the sound, nodded twice.

“What is it?”

“Striped-Face.” He strung his bow. “He has seen the enemy.” He checked the cutting edge of his knife, re-sheathed it. “Four of them.” He gripped his tamahaac, swung it over his shoulder twice, tested the edge, stowed it at his waist, then pulled three arrows from his quiver, laid them and his bow on the ground. He removed his white eagle-bone necklace, stashed it in his rucksack, replaced it with his string of grizzly-bear claws.

“Where is he? Will they not find him?”

“He hides to the east, the distance a man can walk while someone guts a deer; and yes, they
may
find him, but not if he is well hidden. The third screech meant they’ve passed him by and are now between us and him, coming toward us from the east. If he is alive, he will follow them and attack from behind when they attack us.”

“But why is he out there?”

“So we are not surprised. True-Dog hides to the west for the same reason.”

Emily glanced at the west gap in the rocks, shivered; she felt another ripple in her heart, glanced at her trembling hands. So afraid . . . too much time to think . . . so different from the massacre.

“We chose this place because it is high ground with good cover; the enemy must come uphill and will not see us until they enter the gaps and we shoot at them.”

She nervously bit off a chunk of dried venison, began to chew, stared at Virginia. What will happen to her if Isna or I die? Or . . . or if both of us die . . . or if the Panther takes me and . . . no! Do not think about it, Em. We
must
prevail. But still, I wonder what it feels like to die . . . like the massacre, I suppose. But I felt nothing after I saw the white light, so . . . so perchance ’twill be quick and painless. But if the Panther takes me, and all the warriors use me . . . dear God, what then? She shook her head, shuddered. I know
what then
.

“Soft-Nose and Isna will guard the east gap since that is where our trail leads. We will try to kill two or three with our bows before they get through the gap; but when the others rush us, it will probably be hand to hand until the end.” He nodded as if listening to himself. “Still, if Striped-Face and True-Dog surprise them from behind, we can win. But if there are more than the four Striped-Face saw . . .” He shook his head.

Emily looked skittishly into his eyes, nodded, then removed her flint and some tinder from the small pouch at her waist, pulled her knife from its sheath. She knelt, held the flint on the tinder, chipped it with the knife until a few sparks took hold; leaned close, blew gently until the sparks flamed and quickly lit her pistol match, then extinguished the tinder with two
rapid pats of her hand; returned the flint and unburned tinder to her pouch, stowed her knife. She stood, faced Isna. “What would Isna have Emily do?”

He smiled, nodded. “ Isna is proud that his wife will fight like a Lakota.” He touched her cheek, stared into her eyes for a lingering moment. “The Powhatans will suspect we are here, perhaps surround us. So we must also defend the west gap.
Emily
must do this . . . alone . . . from over there.” He pointed at the four-foot boulder inside the west gap. True-Dog is out there to help you, but they may find him and rub him out. So if Emily sees or hears
anything
, and the fight has not yet begun, she must call quietly to Isna . . . loudly if the fight
has
begun.” His look hardened. “Call to Soft-Nose if Isna is dead.”

“Isna! Do not—”

“Whatever happens, Emily must not leave her position or remove her eyes from the gap. It may be that only she protects the west end.”

She nodded slowly, her face suddenly pale, forehead beaded with sweat like dew on a window pane; her pistol trembled in her hand. So afraid. But I must—

“Hide the baby over there.” He pointed to a little nook where two boulders on the north side came together eight feet behind Emily’s boulder. “Put her in the back and cover her so she’ll be safe and still.”

“Isna, will . . . will they hurt her?”

He didn’t reply, stared stoically into her eyes. “Do not be afraid, my little fawn. It will be over quickly. Waiting is the difficult part . . . waiting and guessing at what may come.” He held her cheeks, kissed her lips. “Prepare yourself and Virginia . . . they will be here soon.”

Emily nodded, stared emptily into his eyes, wondered if they’d ever hold each other again. She then turned, walked briskly to Virginia, positioned her in the back of the nook, covered her with a deerskin, and placed a few rocks around her for protection. She leaned down, kissed her forehead, stared solemnly at her for a moment. Sleep, my little one; and when you wake, ’twill be over. She stood, walked to her boulder, knelt on her rolled-up deerskin; wrapped her clammy hands around the pistol, cocked it; stole a quick glance at Virginia then fixed her eyes intently on the west gap. Stop shaking, Emily Colman. Be strong. Keep your wits . . . do not
look away, do not move . . . so scared, stomach afloat . . . it all ends here. Mother . . . Father . . . George . . . help me, give me strength . . . Wakan Tanka, be with us.

A half hour passed. The chatter of small animals and birds enlivened the forest with music; Emily strained to hear any dissonant sound. Once, she thought she heard cracking brush, voices, suspiciously loud, frenzied squirrel chatter, but saw nothing. Suddenly, like the phantom breeze that heralds an approaching storm, an eerie silence descended over the forest. They’re here . . . leaves . . . dry leaves . . . a twig . . . yes, they’re here . . . too quiet . . . like the massacre. God, I’m afraid. Stop shaking, Em. She tightened her shaky grip on the pistol, stared nervously at the gap. Do not miss, Em . . . you’ll have but one shot. She reached behind her back, pulled her knife from its sheath, laid it on the ground beside her.

Virginia stirred, sputtered, began to crank, quickly erupted into a rage of angry screaming.

Emily clenched her teeth. Watch the gap, Em! Do not look away. Virginia, stop!

Virginia screamed louder.

Emily bit her lower lip, dug her fingernails into the pistol grip. The gap, Em, watch the gap . . . feel them . . . they’re here . . . do not look away . . . heart ready to explode. She lifted the pistol, rested the barrel on top of the boulder.

The crying escalated to a wild tantrum.

Emily glanced quickly at the nook then back at the gap. Dear God, make her stop. Something’s wrong, must go to her. No, Em, hold fast, hold fast! They’re here, so close.

Virginia gagged, began to cough then choke.

Fie! Emily turned, dashed for the nook, knew she’d blundered. Something behind me, can’t look; dear God, Powhatans in east gap, Isna and Soft-Nose shooting, two Powhatans down, Soft-Nose down, arrow in back, Isna nocking arrow. She spun about on the run, tripped, staggered backward as she saw the Panther enter the west gap, his bow drawn at Isna. “Isna!”

As Isna spun left toward Emily, the Panther’s arrow sliced through his left bicep and pectoral muscle, slid off his sternum, then stopped, pinning his arm to his side. He immediately fell to his right, hit his head firmly against the boulder; he slid to the ground, rolled groggily left, fumbled for his tamahaac as the Panther raced toward him.

“Hiyaa!” The Panther swung his war club at Isna’s head, but Isna rolled right an instant before impact; the club struck rock. The Panther quickly swung again before Isna could move; but the ball from Emily’s pistol blasted through his brain, slammed his shattered skull into the blood-spattered rock above Isna. His body crumpled onto Isna’s chest.

Emily trembled, felt faint, ready to vomit; she stared with a horrified look at the two bloody, motionless men on the ground before her, failed to see the fourth Powhatan warrior enter the west gap, aim his arrow at her back. As he released, True-Dog’s arrow tore through his neck, jerked his aim to the left, where the arrow glanced off Emily’s boulder and into Virginia’s nook.

“Hiyaaa!” True-Dog victoriously pumped his bow in the air as he rushed to help Soft-Nose. Emily’s pistol dropped to the ground. “Isna!” She leaned over the Panther, grabbed his left arm with both hands, frantically pulled him onto his back beside Isna. Isna lay still, eyes closed, his face and chest covered with blood and brains, his left arm still pinned to his side. She dropped to her knees, cradled his head, leaned over him, sobbed hysterically, “Isna, ’tis my fault, all my fault! Wake up! Please, I’m sorry! ’Tis all my fault!”

Soft-Nose slept on his back in a clump of tall grass, a wide strip of cloth wrapped around his chest, a smile on his face, as if enjoying a pleasing dream. True-Dog sat nearby inspecting objects he pulled from his rucksack. Ten feet away, Emily knelt beside a rushing stream, wrung water from a large rag she had torn from the only cloth dress she had brought from Chesapeake—her too-tall dress from the day she had met Isna at Roanoke. Isna sat nearby, propped against a tree, his raw arm wound glistening in the
sunlight from the moisture of Emily’s cleansing and its gentle bleeding. But the wound looked free of infection, as did the five-inch, lateral arrow cut through the fleshy part of his chest. Virginia lay in the tall grass a few feet from Isna, giggled as she occupied herself with the doll Shines gave her.

As she again rinsed and wrung out the cloth, Emily’s mind stuck on the images that had relentlessly haunted her the previous night. Though far beyond mental and physical exhaustion, she’d been unable to sleep, had stared for long periods at the brilliant moon and thin tapestry of stars sprinkled like grains of salt around it. Her mind had repeatedly wandered its way through the day’s abhorrent images, lingered on each, as if a slow-turning page in a picture book. Most unsettling had been the image of the Panther’s disfigured face, his eyeballs blown from their sockets. A piteous sight, she thought . . . nothing like the frenzied, terrifying face that glared at me at Roanoke. She trembled at the recollection, felt a chill shoot down her back. I wonder if he had a wife and children. I took his life from him . . . perchance from a wife and children, as well . . . the life of someone doing what he thought was right for his people. Strange, indeed, that we human beings fight, each believing we are in the right. Yet . . . yet in the end, I’d no choice but to save Isna . . . and I cannot forget that the Panther led the attack that annihilated my people . . . and the Chesapeakes. She sighed, thought of Elyoner, Ananias, Emme, Waters, Baylye, Shines—all dead, brutally slaughtered, mutilated without pity . . .
all
of them gone . . . so final, so complete. And now I’ve no one to long for or feel saddened about leaving. ’Tis over . . . a new life begins . . . for I am now a
Lakota
woman. She raised her head proudly. Wife of a great warrior who will give me many children. She thought of her mother, her locket, wondered if the Panther had carried it with him, then sighed, looked forlornly at the ground. I shall never see it again . . . my sole remembrance of my family . . . England . . . my heritage. She shook her head, smiled. ’Tis gone, Em. You know that . . . so move on.

She finished wringing out the cloth, stood, walked to Isna, knelt beside him. “The swelling is down, and this slow bleeding should stop soon.” She smiled, kissed his cheek. “Emily’s husband is a quick healer.” She folded the damp cloth, gently swabbed the outside of his bicep then the inside. “But this journey will be hard on Isna and Soft-Nose, and we will miss
Striped-Face’s strong arms on his paddle.” She looked suddenly thoughtful. “ Isna, we collected Striped-Face’s jewelry and medicine bundle for his family, but we did not give him a proper Lakota burial. Why not?”

“It is good to leave our dead unburied in enemy territory . . . the bones of a brave enemy in their midst will forever remind them that four Lakota warriors . . . and a Lakota woman . . . killed
their greatest
warrior and his three best men. They will always fear us.”

She nodded. “Emily understands.”

“And my little white fawn will also understand that, though we will miss Striped-Face when we reach our canoes, we need not travel fast. We can take five moons, if need be.” He grimaced as the cloth touched his chest.

“Emily will be more gentle.”

He smiled. “Emily is
very
gentle . . . but sometimes a wound does not listen to the mind when it tells the wound not to hurt.”