Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (75 page)

“Did Isna kill Grizzly?”

“Yes. But he did not give his powers easily; he nearly killed
Isna
before yielding. And that, Isna now knows, is because he wanted to teach Isna that things of great value are not easily earned.”

“Isna, this is a great truth . . . but how . . . how could a single young man kill so great a bear? Was Isna not afraid?”

“Yes . . . at first . . . even though the great bear himself had told Isna to do what he was doing; but then his spirit started coming into Isna’s, strengthening it, and Isna lost his fear.”

“But how did Isna take his life?”

“With many arrows, three strong spears, and finally, when Isna himself was about to die, with his knife. But before he yielded his spirit, he knocked Isna to the ground with his huge paws and tore at his head and shoulders with his teeth and long claws, which were nearly as long as Isna’s forearm.”

Emily’s hands covered her mouth then reached out, held his, her eyes wide with astonishment as she spoke carefully, measuredly. “Isna . . . the bear . . . the white fawn . . . the other fawns . . . the old woman . . . the last white fawn . . . all were in
Emily’s
dream as well. How can this be?”

He stared silently at her for a long, thoughtful moment. “I know not.” He glanced at the sky then slowly back to her eyes as if pulled there by an invisible string. Illumination crept slowly across his face like a gentle wave rolling onto the shore. “But
this
Isna
does
know: Wakan Tanka acts in mysterious ways, and that he sent Isna’s spirit vision to
Emily
means he has made Emily and Isna a dreaming pair . . . and a dreaming pair is bound together for life.”

They stared into one another’s eyes, mulled the implications of his words. Chills rippled down Emily’s back. Without speaking, they touched hands, embraced, rolled onto the leaves; their lips met, spread, tongues touched, caressed, explored; breath and hearts raced; bodies pressed together, moved as one on the forest floor; restraint evaporated like a snowflake in a raging inferno.

Suddenly, Isna stopped, drew back, looked into her eyes, waited to catch his breath. “Emily, this cannot happen now. Our blood flows too warm . . . we must not let it be so.”

She took a deep, quivering breath, stared into his eyes. “Isna is right. Though Emily would willfully yield to her passions, Isna is right. We must not.” She closed her eyes. Mother, help me. Such temptation I’ve never known. I know not how to control it; and if ever I am to break my vow ’twill be here, now, with this man who stirs my blood like no other.

Thomas Colman lay in bed on his side, propped up on his elbow coughing blood onto a rag which he quickly shoved inside his sleeve when he heard Emily open the cottage door. She carried a tankard in each hand, wore a bright, airy smile on her face. “ ’Tis ready, Father. Here, you shall have the first taste.” She put the tankards on the table, poured a cupful, and handed it to Colman.

“I know not if I dare, my dear. I’m probably too weak, could send me to sleep. You go ahead. We’ll toast your mother and brother.” He coughed.

“Very well.” She carried the cup to his bed, sat on the stool beside him. “Been a long time, Father. I’ve indeed missed my beer.”

“I, as well.” He studied the cup for a moment, abruptly smiled, slapped the bed with his hand. “Alack, I say! I care not if it puts me out. Bring me a cup of that brew, Daughter. Live hearty, for tomorrow, we may—”

“Father! Don’t say that! ’Tis bad luck. I don’t want to hear that word . . . heard it enough, seen it enough.” Her frown softened, a gentle smile took its place. “But I see no harm in a glass of ale.” She poured another cup, handed it to him. “So here’s to Mother and Brother Johnny, along with our prayer that they’re on their way to us soon. Eh?”

“To their health and safe journey.” Both took a sip. “Not too bad for corn beer.” He chuckled. “But John White had best return with as many beer kegs as people.”

Emily took another big gulp. “I rather like it, Father. But mayhap that’s because we’ve been so long without.”

“Go slow, young Em.” He coughed again.

Emily giggled. “Of course, Father.”

An hour later, they’d finished one tankard and half of another. Colman sat on a stool beside Emily as they completed a rousing verse of
The Keeper
. Suddenly, tears filled his eyes; he stopped singing, stared at the fire in the back of the room, rubbed his sleeve across his eyes.

“Father, what is it?”

“I’m afraid, Emily. Your old father’s afraid. Afraid he’ll die before he sees your mother and brother.” He shook his head. “One day I think I’m improving, but the next, I know not. I’m so weak, tired, filled with aches, so unlike myself. And the cough. The damned cough.”

Emily knelt beside him, held her arms around him. “I’ve seen it, Father, seen you coughing blood, as well. I’m gravely worried.” This can’t happen . . . not to Father . . . not without Mother here . . . but, God, I fear it is. Please stop it.

“I thought ’twas but a passing thing when it started back at Roanoke, but now . . . now I’m truly afraid, Emily . . . and mostly for you, for I fear I shall
not
recover; and more than all else, I dread leaving you alone in this land. So ’tis my sacred duty to ensure you know what
could
befall me and prepare you for what may come if it does.”

“Father. Don’t talk like that. You’ll not die.” Her eyes tried to fill with tears, but she held them back. “I sha’n’t let you. I simply sha’n’t. You’re going to get well. I know it. I shall ask the Chesapeakes, and Isna, if they have any cures for such an ailment. We’ll find something. Perchance you could sweat it out in a sweat lodge like the Lakota use to purify themselves for a vision. Or perchance—”

“For a what?” He coughed.

“A vision. Never mind. I was just speaking my mind.”

“Well, it
does
seem that you spend much time with those Savages. And I truly don’t approve of it. Forsooth, they’re naught but primitive heathens. I can’t imagine you could find anything interesting or attractive about them.” He nodded. “Yes, Emily, in truth, it bothers me deeply.”

“ ’Tis not for you to like or dislike, Father. ’Tis for me alone.” She felt an immediate jab of remorse. Be calm, Em; be kind. His illness magnifies his lack of grace. Understand; be patient.

“Well, you know my thoughts, Daughter. You should, at this moment, be married to Hugh Tayler, and . . . Emily, please give me another cup of that beer. It actually makes me feel a bit better.”

Mayhap it will divert him. “Surely, Father.” She poured both of them another cup, handed one to him, sipped the other.

“As I was saying, Hugh Tayler’s the right man for you. He’s a gentleman through and through, educated, of good family, and . . .
and
. . . he has wealth, and a young lass should never underestimate the importance of wealth. It can solve many a problem in a marriage.” He hesitated, took a swig of beer, stared at the fire for a moment, then looked back at Emily. “My dear Em, now that I think more deeply of it, I
insist
you marry Hugh Tayler, for such is my right as your father. Truly, I see no other way to ensure your safety. ’Tis a perfect match, and your mother will be delighted, and I can then go to my maker knowing you’re cared for. Yes, Emily Colman, you
shall
marry Hugh Tayler as soon as arrangements can be made.”

Emily stood, glared at her father with parted lips as if she was about to spit. “The beer has softened your mind, Father. You’ve lost your senses, and I’ll have none of it. And I’ll have none of Hugh Tayler either.”

“Why not?”

“Because, as I told you, I have knowledge of his character which you do not.”

“Such as?”

“Such as nothing you’ll hear from me. ’Tis my business, and it shall remain so.”

“This is foolishness, Emily Colman. Tell me now, or obey my wishes!”

“I’ll not.” She gulped the last of the beer, grabbed her shawl, started for the door. Three crisp knocks halted her. She walked slowly to the door. “Who is it?”

“Hugh Tayler, Emily. May I speak with you?”

“Hugh, this isn’t a good—”

Colman said, “Come in, Hugh. Come in.”

Tayler opened the door, stepped inside.

Emily flipped her shawl around her shoulders, started for the door. “Hello, Hugh. I was just leaving. Father would love to visit with you.”

He whispered, “Emily, we must talk.” He looked at Colman. “How are you today, Thomas?”

“I think I’m better . . . probably this excellent beer.” He lifted his cup. “Emily, remain with us, lass.”

“Goodbye, Father . . . Hugh.” She walked out the door.

Tayler followed her outside. “Emily, please. Pardon me for intruding. I can see ’tis an awkward moment. But I wanted to express my deepest sorrow over the young Harvie lad. I truly grieve for you . . . and Mistress Dare . . . and the lad himself, of course.”

Emily stopped, faced him with a neutral cast. “Thank you, Hugh. I accept your sympathy . . . I know ’tis sincere. And I— ”

“Emily, I can no longer suffer the sorrow of being parted from you. My love grows stronger even in your absence, and I shall be loosed from my mind if I cannot soon enjoy your company for long enough to clear my good name and show you by my actions that I’m worthy of your affection. So I beg you, fair lady, please oblige me as you said you would. Meet with me in a private place where we may speak our souls without intrusion and interruption, for what I must tell you is of the direst importance. Please, Milady, oblige this poor suffering soul before ’tis too late.”

She held her stoical look, let his words drift through her heart and mind. I told him I would meet him, hear him; I must honor my word . . . though I would joyfully avoid it. “Hugh, I gave you my word, and I shall keep it. I cannot meet you tomorrow or the next day but three days hence.”

He smiled humbly, spoke slowly, appreciatively. “Thank you, kind lady. Might we meet just outside the palisades gate at midafternoon on that day?”

She feigned a smile. “Aye, we shall, Master Tayler. I shall see you then.” “Until then, my fair one. Now I should like to visit your father.”

“He would enjoy that, Hugh. Goodbye.” She turned, walked away.

Though the southern sun tempered the afternoon chill, traces of ice clung stubbornly to the banks of the stream where Emily sat on a log at her special place. She’d spent the day slicing fish into strips to be smoked over a
fire covered with smoldering green bark, but barely a moment had passed without oppressive guilt tormenting her heart. Though her father’s spirits and combativeness had risen with yesterday’s fresh beer, he’d been unable to roust himself from his bed that morning, and she was now convinced he was failing but wondered why the prospect no longer terrified her as it once had. Yes, the thought of him absent from her life deeply saddened her for the simple fact that he
was
her father, and she’d never been without him in life; but her fear of the unknown, the uncertainty of existence without him, no longer distressed her. She knew she could survive on her own, be it with the colonists or with Savages; but rueful regret tore at her insides like a wolf ripping flesh from its prey, for her snippy, tart replies to his innocently inflammatory statements. She knew the root of the problem was naught but his personality and inherent tactlessness, so she vigorously decried her lack of self-restraint and inability to overlook trifling shortcomings. She took her mother’s letter from her apron pocket, opened it, skipped to part about her father.

Please remember everything I taught you about dealing with your father. You’ll need each other to survive and prosper. And in spite of how he sometimes affects you, remember that he loves you deeply
.

Tears dampened her eyes as she vowed to hold her tongue and prayed God would preserve him long enough for her to show him the deep love she harbored for him, the respect he truly deserved.

She glanced around the forest. Leaves gone, beginning to look stark; a few birds remain but not many. Wonder if the stream will freeze, how much snow we’ll have . . . surely far more than at home . . . home . . . Mother, when will you come to us? She reached into her pocket, searched for her missing locket as if touching its place would return it to her. She visualized her mother lifting her young brother from his bucket bath, wrapping him in a large cloth, dabbing him dry while singing a soft lullaby, then folding him into a blanket, rocking him gently in her arms. When he started to fuss, she sat, lowered her smock, nursed him. She saw herself holding Henry, then Virginia, cuddling, nurturing, bonding. Oh, Mother, would that you could
know that I, too, am nursing a child. She ached at Henry’s loss, thanked God for Virginia’s life, told him she’d delighted in sharing herself with both of them, wondered if the bond could possibly be any stronger if they were her own, thought not.