Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (121 page)

He nodded.

“And . . . and he wore Emily’s black locket around his neck. He must have found it at the massacre place, and . . . and Emily will never hold it again . . . her only remembrance of her father and mother.” She stared vacantly at the forest.

“Emily has their memories in her heart . . . these cannot be taken from her.” He hesitated, watched her ponder his words. “What does this warrior look like?”

She looked instantly fearful. “I shall never forget his face. He had a curved nose, thin, angry features . . . a long scar beside a strip of black paint from his left eye to his chin . . . and a strip of red paint down the bare right side of his forehead, across his right eye, to his chin.” She shuddered. “He had a wild, hateful look in his eyes . . . and he hit Emily with his club . . . again and again . . . as if—”

“Isna has met this warrior . . . he is the one Isna wounded in the forest the day the Powhatans told the Lakota to leave the deer they’d killed. He is a powerful warrior . . . unafraid, and a great leader of his people. He is called
Kills-Like-the-Panther
. . . he and Isna will meet again.”

Emily paled; a pall of fear spread across her face. She slowly faced him, studied his eyes. “How can this be if Isna leaves?”

He turned away. “Isna knows not . . . but it
will
be so.”

She bowed her head, looked at the stream, spoke with a trill in her voice. “The planting moon is nearly full. Isna will leave soon.”

He watched her for a moment then laid his hand on hers. “When the Powhatans attack, they will kill all . . . the men immediately, and the women . . . later. No one will be spared.” He paused. “Isna will not abandon Emily to such an end. Yet Isna is troubled because the other Lakota will not abandon
him
. . . but will stay and fight with him . . . and we will all die here together. But Isna does not want the other Lakota to die for him. He wants them to return to the people and live . . . as he wants Emily to live. Yet Wakan Tanka has not shown him how
both
of these things can be . . . and this troubles Isna’s heart.”

Emily’s mind swirled; thin tears covered her eyes like mist on a window pane; she visualized her mother and brother walking ashore with John White, finding the colony in ashes, rotting, dismembered bodies scattered about.
No
, I
cannot
let these Lakota die for me . . . but what
can
I do? No choices . . . no escape. She fiddled with the grass on the ground beside her. There is but one way we can all live, and that is to not be here whenever the attack comes . . . either because we’re gone forever or gone for a while. She stared at the ground in front of her for a moment then looked quizzically at Isna. “Perhaps Isna will again tell Emily what is expected of a Lakota wife.”

He gave her a twinge of a smile and a suspicious look. “A Lakota woman gathers firewood, brings water, dresses the game killed by her husband, cooks, makes clothes, cleans the lodge, bears children, and”—his smile deepened—“ pleases her husband . . . and obeys him in all matters.”

Her eyes sparkled impishly. “Most of these are also expectations of a good
English
wife . . . but an English wife may disagree with her husband and sometimes . . . perhaps . . . disobey him . . . but not often if she is clever.” She watched his eyes smiling in sync with his lips. “Could Emily go with Isna to the Lakota . . . for a time . . . then return here later . . . when John White has brought more people and soldiers? Would this not save all the Lakota, and Emily, from certain death?”

Isna’s eyes glistened. “Isna has asked Wakan Tanka to put this thought in Emily’s mind . . . for Isna himself could not ask her this.” He looked suddenly serious. “Emily’s gifts of wisdom and enlightenment allow her to see things as a Lakota . . . and Isna already sees her as Lakota . . . and so it will be with
all
the Lakota.”

“Oh, Isna!” A flash of hope filled her eyes but quickly faded to disappointment. “Emily is foolish. She has spoken with her heart, not knowing if her mind will agree. She has never thought of leaving her people, her family and friends, her way of life . . . perhaps forever; and though she has many times dreamed of herself as Lakota, as Isna’s wife, she does not know if the dreams can come true.” She leaned into his arms, laid her cheek against his chest. “Isna must ask Wakan Tanka to show Emily the pathway he wants her to take.”

The two soldiers guarding Tayler’s cottage snapped to attention, held their matchlocks at
present arms
as Waters approached with a brisk but limpy step and a determined, angry look on his face. He nodded at the guards then extended his right hand to open the cottage door, winced at the sharp pain that shot down his arm from his wound. He banged the door open with his left hand, carefully drew his dagger with the right; stomped into the room directly to Tayler, who stood a few feet away; rudely grabbed the front of his shirt with his left hand, poked the dagger point firmly against his throat. “You filthy, low son-of-a-whore, you’re done. You and your fucking henchmen have murdered two fine men who were worth a thousand of you; and if you so much as blink the wrong way, you’re dead; and I’m the judge, jury, and executioner. Understand?” He pressed the dagger harder, formed a deep, red dimple around the point.

Tayler quivered, tilted his head back, glanced down at the dagger. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant. How the hell do you—”

“Fie on you, you scum!” He sliced a shallow, three-inch cut across the bottom of Tayler’s chin.

“Aah! You bastard. I’ll see you die for that.”

“Dead men see nothing, Tayler. Remember what I said.” He waved the dagger slowly, menacingly an inch in front of Tayler’s eyes, then slid it into its sheath, turned, walked out the door.

Tayler picked up a kerchief with his quivering hand, held it against his throat, then removed it, looked at the line of blood across it. A wave of nausea, followed by an airy dizziness, suffused his body and mind. He sat down by the fire, again held the kerchief to his throat. Painful . . . but not like the shoulder where that damned Savage sunk his hatchet into the bone . . . low, filthy swine, all of them.

He stared into the fire for a moment. But is that not the tale of my entire life: always someone causing me trouble, disrupting my plans? He thought of his sad youth, his sadder, more-troubled adulthood. Perchance I
am
insane . . . or partially so. But can an insane person know they’re insane? Perhaps, but . . . but still, I’m not the man I should be . . . something’s always been out of kilter . . . ever since I found Mother . . . hanging there, swaying gently, so still, so . . . so dead . . . abandoned me, she did. Aye, and that’s when all the trouble began, when everything went askew. He glanced at the bloody kerchief. Bleeding’s stopped. Prick! He tossed the kerchief into the fire, watched it burst into flame. Aye, ’twas Mother’s fault. He felt his eyes dampen, as they did whenever he thought of her.
She’s
the reason I’m this way . . . why I’ve done so much wrong in my life . . . never been able to right myself. Always needed someone like her . . . but then she lost her mind . . . or so it seemed . . . Stepfather’s fault. Yes, I’ve
always
needed someone like her . . . someone strong, like . . . like Emily Colman . . . to save me from myself. He rubbed tears from his eyes, imagined Emily smiling affectionately at him, embracing him, wildly kissing his lips.

My Emily, how I’ve wronged you . . . but oh, how you’ve wronged
me
, as well . . . wronged me because you cannot understand how much I need you . . . how much I love you . . . how only you can save me. Still, I love you, will
always
love you . . . no matter what, no matter how you feel about me . . . can never give you up, must make you understand, make you mine, have you with me for all time. My Emily . . . my dear, dear Emily . . . must have you again, know your body, feel your warmth, your essence, your ecstasy. I
must
have you . . . at
any
cost.

Emily nursed Virginia, watched Elyoner spin wool, Emme stare vacantly into the fire. She glanced down at Virginia. So good to hold you again, little one . . . missed you so. She looked at the fire. You could be my own child, my own baby, drawing life from my body. But
that
baby will never be . . . gone forever . . . buried . . . soon to be one with the ground, and . . . and . . . and no! Do not think such thoughts, Emily Colman. Think of naught but the future. But alas . . . that, too, brings pain . . . possibilities few and frightful . . . except for being with Isna . . . yet even
that
brings anguish; for though I would die to be with him, I see
not
how it can be. She imagined her mother and brother kneeling at her father’s grave, sobbing, pleading with God to help them find some trace of her. She saw her father staring at her with a mournful look, mouthing words she could not hear, then George smiling contentedly at her. She shook her head. Dear God, what should I do? Pray, help me do the right thing. Please, Lord. She abruptly shook her head. Stop thinking of
yourself
, Emily Colman!

She looked at Emme. My poor friend. So sad for you . . . must feel like
I
did when George and Father died. Oh, George, so much has happened since you were here. Hope you’ve not witnessed it all. An unwilled smile spread across her face. Always wondered if people in heaven can see what happens on earth. I pray you’re there, George, but that you see naught but good . . . though there’s been precious little of
that
. She again looked at Emme. Got to get you through this, Emme. I miss Johnny, as well . . . so kind to me . . . helpful . . . told me the truth . . . tried to save me from Tayler . . . and then . . . to die like that . . . murdered. Her look soured. May his killers burn in hell, and thank you, God, for letting Isna send them there . . . all but one . . . who will receive his due in time. She took a deep breath, shook her head. Sorry, Lord, ’tis sinful to pleasure in another’s misfortune; but please help Emme . . . not been herself since Johnny died . . . but truly, what else could one expect? Must make her talk, pull her mind from it. She sighed, glanced at Elyoner, met her stare, then flicked her gaze briefly at Emme and back to Elyoner, who replied with a nod. Emily said, “ Emme, have you seen Lieutenant Waters since we treated his wounds?”

Emme shook her head, held her gaze on the fire. “Nay, but I’m told he’s recovered well.”

“Well, he’s
you
to thank for
that
. I was certainly no help.”

“You’d your own troubles.”

She visualized herself lying on her cottage floor bleeding to death, then felt a gust of fear as she saw the Panther glaring at her, her precious locket around his neck. “Well, if you’d not found me, I’d likely not be here with you now.”

Elyoner said, “Em’s right, Emme.
You
were the one responsible for Waters’ recovery . . .
and
for discovering Em’s plight before it was too late. A born nurse you are.” She paused, watched Emme stare at the fire. “And when Father returns, we shall all watch Tayler hang from a tree . . . or be parted from his head with a broadaxe.”

Emme said, “You still believe your father will return?”

“Why . . . why, of course I do . . . I . . . I
must
believe so . . . ’tis our only hope, and without such hope—”

“
I
don’t believe it. I don’t think he’ll
ever
return . . . at least not in time to save us.”

Elyoner’s face flushed. “How can you think that, Emme?”

Emme looked at her without expression. “Because ’tis true . . . I do not say it to upset you . . . how can you possibly believe otherwise?”

Elyoner stared at her, began to tremble.

“Something’s happened to change things, Ellie . . . something beyond your father’s control . . . for we all know he would be here by now if he could.
Something
prevents his return. You must know this in your heart . . . as Johnny and I did weeks ago . . . shortly after we made plans to return to England . . . to have our baby there . . . but then we . . .” Her eyes misted.