Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (72 page)

She nodded. “Understand.”

“Then, I’d like you to take the theory I’ve just laid out and critique it, try to poke holes in it; but where you challenge something, be prepared to defend your challenge and offer an alternative theory.”

Allie’s smile was fixed to her face like a clown’s face paint. This is totally cool stuff, she thought. Then a ripple of disappointment fluttered into
her heart. How am I gonna find time to dream? Everything’s all set up for max dreamtime, but now there’s no time. Damn it!

“When you’re ready, we’ll discuss it point by point and solidify our approach. And when that’s done, I’d like you to take the list we made of your dream characteristics and assess which of them might be explained by, or related to, the various elements of the formative causation theory we settle on. Okay?”

“Okay. And I guess I should get into Hobson’s
Dreaming Brain
in my spare time?”

He resumed his professorial deportment then smiled. “You’re a superb student, Ms. O’Shay. You read my mind.”

Allie’s spirits effervesced as she changed into her night clothes and danced nimbly into the lab. The stimulation of the afternoon’s analysis had momentarily lifted her spirits from the pit of depression she’d drowned in since the dreams began. “Hi, Ginger. How’s it goin’ tonight?”

“Great! Got a good rest, and I’m ready for the next installment of Allie O’Shay’s novel.”

Allie laughed; then as if preordained, her mind plunged into melancholy anticipation of her coming dreams, and an unwelcome feeling of foreboding began to smolder within her. Was Emily alive? Did she go with Tayler? Was Isna alive? Virginia? Henry? She felt like Christ lying down on the cross to be crucified, as she stretched out on the bed, stared at the ceiling, took a deep breath, then bared the top of her chest and extended her arms to the sides.

Forty-five minutes later, she sent Ginger to Dr. Dressler for a sleeping pill. “I’m not messing around tonight.”

A moment later, Ginger returned with a small cup of water, a little cup containing one and a half pills, and a piece of paper and pen attached to a clipboard. “He doesn’t want to mess around either. Here.” She handed Allie the clipboard. “He figures you can handle one and a half pills, but you need to sign this paper giving your permission and acknowledging the risks.”

“Done.” She smiled knowingly at Ginger, who smirked back at her.

As she waited to fall asleep, Allie pondered formative causation, morphic resonance, the little she knew of genetics, and Emily . . . always Emily . . . her hopes, her fears, her loves, her . . .

Chapter 17

T
he cat-o’-nine-tails, with three knots at the end of each tail, ripped long, deep gashes in Richard Taverner’s bare back. He groaned as his flesh splayed open, beaded with blood that ran down his back and onto the ground. His body trembled; he struggled to stay on his feet, braced for the next blow.

Sergeant Myllet dangled the whip limply at his side as he glanced questioningly at Lieutenant Waters. Waters nodded subtly, at which Myllet stepped a long pace backward, jiggled the whip to untangle the four-foot-long strands, and flipped them behind him; he stepped forward with an abrupt, forceful stride, threw the full weight of his body into his next stroke.

Nine new gashes appeared: more raw flesh, blood. Taverner cried out; his legs buckled; he hung by his wrists, which were bound to a tree, turned his head partially to the side. “I’ll kill you, Myllet. God damn you to hell. I’ll kill you.”

With the exception of the perimeter guards, the entire contingent of soldiers stood at attention behind Myllet and Waters; civilians, including Emily and Elyoner, watched from around the green. As Myllet prepared for another blow, Waters held an expressionless stare on Taverner, let his mind drift, wondered where the discipline and morale of his men would be in another month. It was only fall, and they ware already acting like they’d been through a full winter of starvation and deprivation. Tempers were short, grumbling rampant; he wondered how the hell they’d survive the long winter ahead. The Chesapeakes had told them that strange animal behavior, the premature departure of certain birds, the sudden, early falling of leaves, and the calm, crisp evenings meant that the winter would
be severe. He prayed it would not be so then wondered how many more times he’d have to mete out punishments to maintain discipline. Taverner had been a clumsy thief, gotten himself caught. Waters was certain there’d been other, more careful or lucky thieves who
hadn’t
been caught, knew there’d be more, knew he’d inevitably have to judge a capital offense, impose a death penalty in the face of deteriorating morale and discipline. He then admitted to himself the disquieting but inescapable plausibility of a total breakdown in discipline, knew only John White’s timely return could preclude or salvage such a situation.

Taverner screamed as the fourth lash ripped into his mutilated, bloody back, which looked like a piece of raw meat being sliced for stew. Spontaneous, breathless gasps rippled through the civilians.

Waters doubted Taverner could survive another sixteen lashes, decided to end it after six more . . .
if
he remained conscious that long. How convenient, he thought, that Taverner was so disliked by the other men—he’d been suspected of stealing before and frequently started fights over foolish matters. No, there’d been no grumbling from the men, and Myllet hadn’t blinked when ordered to deliver the punishment. How much more difficult ’twill be, he thought, when a
popular
man has to be disciplined. Yes, that day—and he knew it was coming—would challenge his leadership; for he’d heard of entire units refusing to participate in punishments of popular soldiers, which then left their commanders no option but to do it themselves and prosecute those who’d refused for insubordination; and that action, in turn, had inevitably prompted a death plunge in discipline. His stomach felt like a bag of down feathers fluttering in the breeze; he nibbled on his lower lip, acknowledged that the small size of his unit fostered uncommonly close personal ties among the men, greatly enhanced the potential of a
death plunge
scenario. So he prayed that John White would soon return with a bevy of enthusiastic colonists and a large contingent of uncynicized soldiers to save them from seemingly inevitable disaster.

Myllet winced with involuntary compassion as he struck Taverner the fifth time, splattering blood on the front of his own shirt and pants. He glanced at Waters, who again nodded for him to continue, then stepped back to prepare for the sixth blow.

Waters’ mind swirled between pity and his resolve to make a convincing example of Taverner, but how much was enough? Taverner was still able to pull himself to his feet, so Waters decided he could suffer a few more lashes to solidify discipline, further establish his authority and credibility with the men. But to escape the discomfort gnawing at his heart, he drifted his mind to the previous night’s Assistants meeting—another unpleasant, worrisome affair—at which he’d reported that palisades construction had fallen behind schedule and completion now looked improbable, if not impossible, before winter. ’Twas only October, but they’d already seen snowflakes, and he’d grown increasingly uneasy about the impact of the food shortages Baylye forecast. So since the existing palisades provided a modest amount of cover—an amount that was unlikely to increase materially before deep winter—he’d proposed they reallocate their manpower to increasing the winter food supply. The Assistants had voiced immediate, unanimous assent, and the proposal had been adopted. But while the Assistants had celebrated their reprieve from the detested palisades, Sergeant Smith had knocked on the door, called him outside, reported that James Lassie, a member of a hunting party, was missing, then explained what had happened.

Waters had asked, “Did you return to where he was last seen?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Very well. Too dark to do any more tonight. Let’s take ten men and search a wider area in the morning.” He’d stared at Smith while his mind raced through possible reasons—all unpalatable—for the man’s disappearance.

“Well, Sir, I know what you’re thinking, but it could have been something besides Savages. Remember, he had no weapons, so mayhap he hurt himself, and a wolf or bear or panther got him.”

“Possible, but . . .” Waters had nodded, turned to step back into Baylye’s cottage.

“Excuse me, Sir. I should also tell you that Master Prat feels ’twas his fault. I told him it wasn’t, but you know how—”

“Not his fault, Thomas, and you can tell him I said so. Every one of us would have allowed Lassie to take a moment alone in the bush. No one needs an audience for that particular task. Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

“Hope so, Sir.”

Waters had turned again, reentered the cottage. “Excuse me, gentlemen. It seems we have a missing man, James Lassie.” Several Assistants had looked surprised. “Late this afternoon, the hunting party he was with, which was led by Roger Prat, was about five miles away when they started back toward the village. Lassie told Roger he had some
personal
business to attend to . . . by a log over in the trees . . . if you know what I mean. Said he’d catch up as soon as he finished his business, gave his gun and sword to two other men to carry, so he could catch up quickly. It must have been urgent, as I’m told he started loosening his belt as he trotted toward the edge of the forest.” Several Assistants had started to chuckle but quickly realized the impropriety of doing so and held silence. “Master Prat told him ’twould be safer if they just waited there for him, but Lassie asserted he was a grown man and could handle the job alone, said everyone needed a little solitude now and then. Well, they started back toward the village at a slow pace; but when he hadn’t overtaken them after twenty minutes, they went back to where they’d left him, found no trace, no signs of a disturbance in the grass or leaves.” He had shaken his head. “Nothing! Our search parties also found nothing, so I’ll take another party tomorrow and search a wider area. By the bye, Master Prat has been off with the main search party all afternoon, which is why he’s absent from this meeting. Seems to be taking the incident rather personally, which is, of course, absurd.”

Roger Baylye had said, “That’s alarming news, Lieutenant. I suppose you suspect Savages?”

“Certainly a good possibility, Sir, but could also have been an animal attack, an injury, or simply getting lost.” He’d noticed the dismay that had suddenly appeared on their faces, betraying vivid remembrances of George Howe’s disappearance and demise, as well as their frustration that after only a brief respite from fear, the all-too-familiar feeling of impending doom haunted them again.

Baylye had looked at each Assistant. “Well, good luck. All of you please pray for Master Lassie’s deliverance from whatever’s befallen him; but meanwhile, Lieutenant, do you think we should restrict people to the palisades area . . . at least until we discover what’s happened to him?”

“That might be wise, Sir; but I should think we’d be safe within a quarter mile of the village, wouldn’t you? Especially if we travel in groups?”

“I suppose, but—”

The whip tore into Taverner’s back the tenth time. He hung unconscious from the rope, his shredded back oozing blood and tissue fluids onto his stained pants and the ground below. Nearly all of the civilians had turned away, pressed their hands over their mouths; those who had not done so had closed their eyes, while a third of the soldiers had pasty complexions and glassy eyes.

“Enough,” Waters whispered. He turned around, faced the ranks. “Men, what you just witnessed was unquestionably brutal. But understand you, our situation here is akin to martial law, and we cannot and
will
not tolerate the slightest deviance from good discipline and behavior. Violations
will
be dealt with swiftly and harshly.” He pointed, in turn, at three men. “You men. Release the prisoner and treat his wounds. I expect him back in ranks on the morrow. That’s all. Dismissed!” He turned, walked toward Baylye’s cottage as he wondered how long it would be before the next incident.