Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (15 page)

“Well, that’s the best thing to do. If it’s meant to be, it’ll find a way to happen. Dad and I had a few false starts before we got it together. You’re an awesome gal, Allie, and if it doesn’t work out, it ain’t the end of the world. Just a temporary setback. So how’s everything else?”

Allie wondered if she should tell her about the dreams.

“Last time we talked you said something about a weird dream. Had anymore?” Her tone reflected more than casual interest.

“Why do you ask, Mom?”

“Oh, just curious. That’s all.”

“Well . . . yeah . . . I have . . . several, in fact. Kinda confused about them, too . . . really strange . . . unlike any dreams I’ve ever had before.” Allie could feel her mother thinking through the phone, knew the silence meant she was onto something, trying to figure it out, deciding what to say, thinking, thinking, knew more than she’d tell. What does she know? Shouldn’t have said anything.

After a long silence, her mother spoke. “Allie, I . . . I was thinking about coming . . . coming over to visit you in a few days. Got time?”

Sounds worried. “Sure, Mom, but what’s wrong? You sound real serious. Someone die? Hurt? What’s going on? Is it Petey?”

“No, nothing like that. Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you. Petey’s fine. Just rode him yesterday.”

“Well . . . you sound really worried.” She waited for a response that didn’t come.

Nancy O’Shay wondered if it could be . . . if Allie was the one. It was certainly the right timing, if Great-Grandma’s stories were true. But maybe the stories
weren’t
true; maybe they were just kid stories, stories an old, old woman told a little girl. “No, not to worry. Everything’s fine. Just want to see your cheery face and have a good visit.”

“Jeez, Mom, it doesn’t matter what you say now; you’ve got me all worked up, and I know there’s something you’re not telling me. I hear it in your voice.”

Long silence. “Allie, sorry if I sound weird, but you’re getting yourself all stoked up about nothing. Honestly, Hon, everything’s okay. So would Tuesday work?”

“Sure, Mom, Tuesday’s fine. But don’t do this to me. You’re pissing me off. What’s going on? It’s about my dreams, isn’t it? You know something, and you’re not telling me.”

“Allie, it’s . . . it’s . . . wait a sec! Dad’s calling me. Needs me, right now! Gotta go. See you Tuesday.” The phone went dead.

“Jeez. Now what?”

Chapter 6

E
mily sat on a canvas tarp on the floor beside George, her knees pulled up beneath her chin, silently watched him in the shadowy light of the cottage. Her feet were bare, and she wore only her linen smock with the front untied and open to the top of her breasts. The faint light of two nearby candles flickered on her face like a miniature aurora. George sat cross-legged, hands in his lap, back slightly hunched, staring without expression or sound at the dark wall by the doorway. Emily grasped George’s hand, studied his face with misty, empathetic eyes. My poor, poor friend, how my heart cries for you. Such a man, such a father. I must help you; somehow I
must
help you. “Hear me, George, answer me.” She rubbed her eyes then closed them. Lord, please tell me what to do.

Then, like a leaf floating slowly but inevitably down a meandering stream, Emily’s mind drifted back to the terror of that horrible night: she and George had been in the cottage, cringing at the frequent crashes of nearby thunder, water pouring through the unfinished roof, drenching them in spite of the small canvas tarps they held over their heads. The other crabbers had noticed George Howe missing just before dusk when the storm broke, and most of the men in the colony were still out searching, calling for him. Fearing the worst, John White had ordered young George to stay behind, which had sat poorly with him. He had been unable to calm himself, worn a pale, frightened look that revealed unspeakable fears. Finally, he had stood, said, “ Em, I must go,” then walked out the door. Emily had raced into the downpour behind him, called futilely to him to stay, then shaken her head and jogged after him.

The heavy rain had thickened the deepening darkness to an opaque curtain in every direction, forcing them to keep a slow, cautious pace as they started down the trail the search party had taken. They had gone but a hundred yards when they heard voices, saw a glimmer of dim torchlight ahead, quickened their pace. Two minutes later they had encountered a group of men with torches, seen that several at the rear carried a tarp with something heavy in it. The men had stopped as George and Emily approached; a flash of lightning had illuminated Thomas Colman’s pallid face. “George, go back.”

Emily had grabbed his arm with both hands. “George, don’t go there.”

He had pulled away, moved forward into Colman’s waiting grasp, twisted free, shoved his way through the men to the tarp, which now lay on the ground. There in the mud and rain, the faltering torchlight had illuminated a man with an unrecognizable, crushed, bloody head, his body riddled with arrows. His clothes had identified him as George Howe.

Emily had turned away, stepped into the brush, retched. Young George had momentarily stared down at his father in grim silence then fallen into the catatonic state that had gripped him like a vice ever since. He had stared at his father’s shrouded corpse all night and not attended his burial the next day, then sat in the same spot, taking nothing but an occasional sip of water, for two days. Emily had been beside him most of that time, unable to reconcile her own grief and unable to console him or coax him from his stupor. She had spoken to him several times, tried to inspire a reply, but he had held both his trance and his silence. Finally, she lifted his hand, kissed it, held it to her breast, stared at him through sudden tears, questioned his expressionless face with pleading eyes. “I miss you, George. Come back to me. Be with me again.”

Thomas Colman had silently watched his daughter from the other side of the room for over an hour. He sat on one of the four makeshift beds, crafted of dried grass stuffed and stitched into a rectangular canvas bag that was long, wide, and thick enough to hold an adult off the ground. In addition to the beds, the room held a crudely lashed stick table and four stump stools, each an eighteen-inch-long, sawed-off segment of a twelve-inch-diameter log. A wool blanket hung from a rope across a back corner
to make a private place to change clothes or use the close stool when going outside was not practical. Foodstuffs were stacked on another lashed-stick table that stood three feet above the ground next to two buckets of water in the other rear corner; and a damp, stale, smoky smell permeated everything in the room. Until that moment, Emily had not moved or spoken, had remained as motionless as George, held his hand, waited patiently for a change, as she studied his face.

Colman rose, walked to Emily’s side, sat beside her. He wrapped his right arm around her shoulder, tenderly pulled her to his side. Laying his other hand gently on her cheek, he eased her head to his chest in a comforting embrace. She spread her arms around him and held him with all her strength, trembling as pent-up tears filled her eyes.

Several minutes passed before Emily settled to an occasional sniffle and Colman said, “Emily, ’tis horrible what’s happened . . . horrible for all of us, for what it means to our future; but far more horrible for young George, for he was already deeply wounded by his mother’s death.” He grimaced, shook his head. “This additional loss would surely undo him, Em, if he did not have you for a friend. Forsooth, I think you alone can save him, and ’tis certain he’ll need you now more than before, for he feels your strength. ’Tis your mother’s strength, you know.” He caressed her cheek. “But I think your strength is perhaps greater than hers—definitely greater than mine—I’ve admired it your entire life. Nothing deters you from doing what is right, and . . . and your father is very proud of you.”

Emily closed her eyes, saw her mother’s face, instinctively reached for her locket, then realized her apron lay across the room by her clothes.

“Dear daughter, I cannot know what this event means for the colony in the long term, but it gives me pause today . . . pause to wonder if we made the right decision in coming here. George’s loss may be only an isolated incident, or it may be the beginning of a desperate struggle for survival. I know not which, but either way, I fear I’ve placed us—you especially—in a circumstance that may be beyond our ability to control. And for that I am deeply sorry.”

She looked up at his face, saw the candlelight reflected in his tortured eyes. “Father, you owe me no apology. I’m a grown woman, and I made my
own
choice to come here with you.” She rubbed the remaining tears from her eyes. “I could have said no, but I didn’t. And now it appears we’re to remain here, unless, of course, we relocate ourselves somewhere. So, in fact, we’ve no choice but to persevere and face what comes . . . together. I love you, Father.” She laid her head on his chest, snuggled in close, and tightened her arms around him.

“And I, you, dear Emily.” He held his embrace, glanced at George. “Isn’t it strange how the pain of others can bring people closer together?” He stared at the fire. “Em, I’ve seldom told you how much I love you and how proud I am of you, and I’m ashamed for that. Nor have I held you close as often as I should have.” He tightened his embrace. “Like I did when you were a little girl. Fathers should never stop hugging their little girls, even when they become big girls, and my failure to do so shames me now. Why, if I were to die suddenly like poor George, without first holding you, I . . . I’d be most upset with myself in the hereafter . . . were I fortunate enough to find myself there.” He smiled to himself. “You know, your mother—”

“Hello . . . Emily?” A female voice called from outside the cottage door. Emily released her father. “ Elyoner, come in.”

A ripely pregnant woman about twenty-three years old waddled through the doorway. Colman rose, lifted a stump stool, and set it beside Emily. “Good evening, Elyoner.”

“Good evening, Thomas . . . Emily.” Elyoner was slightly taller than Emily, with a pink complexion and kind, loving, brown eyes. A green ribbon gathered her blonde, shoulder-length hair loosely behind her neck, highlighted her slightly prominent forehead. While she was not particularly attractive, her face radiated the warm glow of imminent motherhood, which gave her a calm, gentle look. “How’s George?” She sat down on the stump, using both hands to support the baby in her womb.

“No change,” Emily said. “And I’ve no idea what to do to help him either. Master Jones was by and said he’d seen such cases before but knew no treatment other than time. So I guess we wait.”

Colman interrupted. “ Elyoner, is Ananias at your cottage?”

“Yes, he is. He just returned from the Assistants’ meeting with Father a short time ago, and he’s full of news and opinions. So I’m sure he’d enjoy a visit.”

“Very well. I’ll be off then.” Colman stood, nodded his respects to the ladies, then walked out the door.

Elyoner studied George with a compassionate look, shook her head back and forth several times. “Such a pity . . . poor man. Father said both of you saw the body. I can’t imagine the horror of it.”

“We did. And
horror
does not describe what we saw. Elyoner, it was unimaginably grotesque to see so kind and gentle a man brutalized in that manner. I puked my insides, and you see what it did to George. Truly, I don’t know how one human being could do that to another . . . but then I think of the depredations Lane’s men committed against the Savages last year. Back and forth it goes, and good souls on both sides are in the middle. You’re aware, aren’t you, that Manteo told me everything about the earlier expedition, on the ship?” She raised her eyebrows in anticipation.

“I am. Father told me . . . and strangely, you probably know far more than I about those earlier times, for he’s kept me blind to such ugly events.”

Emily smiled. “I’m sure the governor wasn’t very happy with me that first night. Did he tell you of my impudence in asking him a rather embarrassing question in front of my father and Master Howe? His face turned so red I thought it was going to burst into flames. Rather stupid of me, it was.” She chuckled philosophically, more to herself than to Elyoner.

“Well, in spite of your question, Father admires your spunk and calmed himself rather quickly. He has much on his mind these days.”

Emily nodded. “I’m certain of that . . . Elyoner, I have George on
my
mind. Please tell me how to help him. I want so to bring him back, but . . .”

“I’ve no ideas, Emily. You’re giving him a friend’s love, and right now, I don’t think there’s anything else that can be done. You seemed to have a rather close relationship before this happened . . . at least I saw you together often.”

“I fear he’s quite infatuated, perhaps in love with me.”

“And you?”

“I’m not sure. Actually, that’s not altogether true. I care strongly for him, but as a dear friend, not romantically . . . yet I often wonder if . . . if in spite of our age difference, it might someday be otherwise. But I’ve no idea how things will be between us when he revives. Father thinks he’ll need me more than before, and I guess, if that’s true, his love will become deeper still. I honestly can’t say how I’ll feel . . . or how I’ll react. But what I
can
say is that I’d give my life to save his.”