Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (25 page)

The two sergeants looked at one another for a second, nodded, then looked at Waters. Myllet said, “Yes, Sir. I believe he would. He’s a good lad.”

Smith said, “I agree, Sir.”

“Very well. Let’s promote him. Please inform him of his new rank and responsibilities and also of the gist of our conversation. If you have any doubts after you speak to him, let me know . .
_.
and thank you, men. I appreciate your support.”

Both said, “Yes, Sir,” saluted, walked off to find Gibbes.

As he walked toward the palisades, Waters’ mind churned, searched for a pathway to the future that included a surviving colony. He failed, invariably arriving at the same end. If any of us survive this debacle, it will be a miracle. If we don’t starve to death, the Savages will get us: wait until we’re starving, weak, pick us off a few at a time until we’re so decimated they can attack en masse. Must complete the palisades quickly: assign more people to the job, work longer hours, perhaps nights—he snorted cynically—all on less food . . . and we must keep people in large groups, so they’re not vulnerable to piecemeal attack. But we can’t hunt and fish in large groups; the women can’t get water or wash clothes in large groups; people can’t use a privy or latrine in large groups. He looked at the palisades—too many problems, too many slowdowns; Wyles’ accident, wound festering, be lucky to live; everyone overcautious now, slow; three large, vulnerable palisade gaps to complete; need at least ten days . . . do we have that long?

Emily stayed with George all day, watching him, guarding him, shielding and insulating him from any word or thought that might jeopardize his fragile recovery. Hugh Tayler stopped by, visited with her father outside the cottage for a few minutes before Colman parried his request to visit Emily and led him off to work on the palisades. Emily did not speak to George, other than to ask about his well-being. The day made her feel like a wife and mother: she fed her father and George, cleaned the cottage—as well as a dwelling with a dirt floor could be cleaned—washed the few pieces of kitchenware they had, mended torn clothes, and collected their dirty clothes so they could be taken to the stream and washed. But mostly she watched George, eyeing him furtively as she went about her chores. She wondered if he’d speak, what he was thinking, feared he’d ask her about his father. She was astounded, even shocked, at how remote, tentative, seemingly afraid of her he became over the course of the day, concluded that such behavior was probably normal after such a trauma, then resolved to give him whatever he needed to find himself.

George was alert but still internalized; busied himself sharpening his two knives, checking and re-checking his father’s musket; repeatedly and obsessively rearranging their belongings, occasionally pausing to hold a lingering gaze on his father’s possessions.

After several hours of silence, Emily asked George if she could get anything for him.

Without looking at her, he shook his head, remained silent.

Emily sat herself on a stool, took advantage of the silence to again read her mother’s letter, caress her locket, and pray for George’s recovery and the colony’s salvation.

After another half hour, George suddenly stood, walked over to Emily. With a deadpan expression, he said, “Emily, where’s my father?”

A frigid chill slammed into her mind like a North Sea gale, muddled her ability to reason, panicked her. She swallowed hard, tried to think but couldn’t.

George said, “Emily, please tell me where my father is.”

Fear spread over Emily’s face like the shadow of a fast-moving cloud; sweat dampened her forehead; her breathing quickened. He’s pushed it out of his mind, too horrible to think about . . . but if I tell him, we may lose him again . . . but if I don’t . . . if I don’t . . . Christ, help me. “George . . . your father’s dead.”

George stared into her eyes, silently processing her words; he shuffled his feet, wrung his hands, lowered his gaze to the floor. “I feared such, knew in my heart ’twas so . . . saw him in my mind, lying on the ground, feared asking, wanted to . . .”

Emily rose, put her arms around him, held him tightly to her bosom. “George, please stop. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t think about it.”

“I don’t want to think about it, but I keep seeing him. My head hurts. I’m afraid . . . I should have helped him, might have saved him . . .”

“George, you could
not
have saved him. You weren’t there. No one was there. No one could have helped him . . . or saved him.”

“But I should have known he needed help, should have felt it.”

“No, George, that’s not possible. Sometimes—”

“ ’Twas the Savages that killed him, wasn’t it?”

Emily stared silently at him for a moment then said, “Yes.”

“I’m going to kill them, as many as I can. They’re evil . . . they must pay.”

“No, George, they’re
not
evil. They’re just afraid, like we are.” She felt the turmoil within him, sensed his confusion, his conflicted, anguished heart.

“Emily, do you know where he is? Will you take me to him?”

“George, are you sure? You—”

“Yes, Em. Take me there.”

Another pause. “Very well.”

Many in the village observed their procession toward the grave site, stopped their work, watched silently and nodded their respects as they passed.

They walked out to a small clearing about a hundred yards beyond the wall. George Howe’s grave mound was marked by a wooden cross with his name carved on it. George stopped twenty feet from the grave, stared at it
for a moment, grew visibly agitated, then walked hesitantly to it and slowly knelt.

Emily watched from behind as he leaned forward, laid his hands on the mound, then lowered his face to the dirt. Her body tingled with raw emotion, felt like it floated on air.

After a minute, George rose to his feet, walked back to Emily, and looked into her eyes. His face contorted into an ugly sneer. “Emily, stay away from me. I don’t want to be near you anymore.”

Emily felt a knife-like jab in her heart, felt light-headed, about to faint. “But, George . . .” She extended her hands to him.

His face twisted in pain; he grasped his head with both hands like he was trying to hold something inside, glared wildly at her, shouted, “Emily, I said stay away! I don’t ever want to see you again!” He batted her arms away then ran into the forest.

Emily stood stunned, watched him go, her mind numb, emotions disheveled, as if pummeled by a huge wave. She dropped to her knees, sat back on her heels, then lowered her face to her trembling hands, moaning softly as tears trickled between her fingers, onto her lap.

For five minutes, her mind tumbled, turned, twisted, grasped, tumbled again, tried to comprehend what had happened, but the thoughts vanished as quickly as they came. Oblivious to everything around her, she finally ordered herself to act. She rubbed her eyes, dried them on her sleeve, stood, and brushed her skirt with her hands. After glancing quickly at the forest where George had run, she turned and walked back inside the palisades toward her cottage.

People inside had heard George yell but had been unable to discern his words; they stood dumfounded, wondered what had happened, feared to ask. Now they watched as Emily made her resolute way to the cottage. When Hugh Tayler saw her, he read her distress, hurried to her side.

“Emily, what’s wrong? What is it?”

“Go away, Hugh! I can’t talk now.” She didn’t look at him, kept a rigid forward gaze, a steady pace toward the cottage.

“But Emily, I—”

“Go away! Leave me alone!” She knew she was on the verge of hysteria, knew she dare not stop, look at anyone, or talk.

Elyoner had seen her the same time Tayler did, had come running as fast as her weakened condition allowed. “Em, what’s happened? Tell me, Dear.”

Tayler said, “She won’t—”

“Shh! Can’t you see she doesn’t want you here right now? Go away . . . I’m sorry. Please find Ananias for me and tell him to watch the baby.” Elyoner didn’t like Tayler; something in his manner rubbed her wrong, made her uneasy. She wondered if it was because he fancied Emily and was so much older than she. But that was not uncommon, she admitted, then decided she was being too motherly and protective of her young friend. “Thank you, Master Tayler.”

“I . . . I . . . very well, Mistress.” Tayler headed off to find Ananias. Weeping women and angry women unnerved him, rattled his brain. He decided he was glad he’d been sent away. Finding Ananias was something he could manage, though he marveled that Elyoner would leave her newborn baby alone, even to help a friend. Must care very deeply for Emily, he concluded. His heart warmed at the thought of Emily; he looked back to see how she fared, wondered what had happened to her, saw that she and Elyoner were nearly to Emily’s cottage, quickened his pace toward the palisade section where Ananias was working. Probably something to do with the Howe lad, he thought. He felt sorry for George but still resented his close friendship with Emily, hadn’t convinced himself they were just friends.

Elyoner and Emily did not speak while walking to the cottage. Once inside, Elyoner hooked the tie string on the door so no one would enter then stepped to Emily, who stood staring at the wall. Holding her by the shoulders, Elyoner looked into her eyes. “Em, what happened? Was it George?”

Emily hesitated for a moment then wrapped her arms around Elyoner, buried her face on her chest, sobbed. “ Elyoner, hold me.”

“Let it loose, Em. Let it out. Cry to your heart’s will. I’m with you.” After five minutes, Emily’s tears and moans subsided. The two sat and held hands in silence for a moment before Emily told her what had happened, how
George’s words had stunned and wounded her, slashed her confidence to its core, ripped her feelings like a torn piece of dry parchment.

Elyoner listened with a gentle, sympathetic expression, occasionally nodded or spoke an empathetic word.

When Emily finished, she looked depleted, haggard. She sat silently, staring at the floor, entombed in a cloud of shock.

While listening, Elyoner had delved deep into her own mind to explore and understand the possible context and explanations for George’s actions, had begun crafting the words she would speak to her friend. Finally, she said, “ Em, I know you don’t wish to discuss this now, mayhap not for days, but I’m worried about you and believe what I have to say to you will help you.”

Emily didn’t reply, stared at the floor.

“Em, I think George’s injury was far deeper than we imagined, and I’d wager a shilling that his mental state, even though he’s no longer in a stupor, remains disturbed. I’d wager another shilling that in his disturbed state, he associates you with his horrible experience because you, his closest friend, had the misfortune to be with him when it occurred—
it
being the moment he saw his father lying there bloodied, mutilated, and dead—and being near you now reminds him, brings it all painfully back to him. ’Tis not fair to you, but ’tis also beyond his control.”

Emily looked at Elyoner with a blank expression.

“Lord knows, I’m only guessing, but you”—she paused for a few seconds, studied Emily’s face to gauge her temperament—“more than any other, know that George is a kind and generous young man and that you are his truest friend in this world. You also know he loves you.”

After a short silence, Emily said, “I am indeed his friend, Ellie, and as you say, probably his
best
friend. And ’tis also true that he loves me, though ’tis not something I wished for or share toward him to the same degree.”

“I know, Em. But I mention it because I think George was not George when he spoke those angry words to you. ’Twas some other person—one in a temporary state of disturbance—who spoke those words. And if so, with your and God’s help, he’ll eventually become himself again . . . but heaven knows if or when that might be.”

Emily nodded, sniffled twice. “I think—actually, I
know—
you’re right Ellie. ’Tis just that . . . ’twas so violent . . . so unlike him . . . so shocking. I’ve never hurt like this before . . . never knew I could be so vulnerable, especially with someone I’m not even in love with.”

“We’re all vulnerable, Em, though we often don’t realize it until something like this happens.”

Emily reached out, took Elyoner’s hands in hers, and stared into her eyes with a sad half smile. “Ellie, you’re a wonderful friend . . . a wonderful mother to me . . . and I need a mother today. Thank you for being with me. I
will
stand by George and try to help him. Yes, my feelings
are
injured, and I know not for how long. Nor do I know if George will ever speak to me again, but it doesn’t matter. I’m his friend, whether or not he perceives it, and I must help him no matter what . . . and I shall.”