Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (45 page)

“I want to go on the pinnace.”

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I’m courting Mistress Colman, and I want to be with her in case . . . in case there are problems.”

“Well, Hugh, we haven’t the time to negotiate changes. The draw is done, and we must
all
abide by its results; so I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” He turned, walked toward his cottage.

Tayler glared at Baylye’s back as he walked away. Devil take you, you foolish ass. I’ll even
this
score someday, and you won’t like it when I do. He started toward his cottage, saw Emily approaching hers, jogged as fast as his limp allowed to her side. “Emily, I
must
speak with you.”

Emily stopped, regarded him with a blank look; she wanted to confront him, hear his response, so they could either end or resume their relationship, but knew George would arrive in a moment to take her for a last visit to his father’s grave. She spoke in a dry, curt tone. “I’m sorry, Hugh. I’d like to, but I’ve too much to do before we depart. ’Twill have to wait until Chesapeake . . . when we’ve more time. We’ve
none
now.” She stared into his eyes with her most penetrating look, noticed him blinking repeatedly, and thought he seemed different, less confident. “Fare thee well, Hugh. I hope you—all of us—have a safe voyage. See you on the shore in the morning.” She turned away, walked the twenty feet to her cottage, which her father had already begun dismantling, stopped for a moment to visualize the good and bad times they’d had there, then realized that in spite of all, it
had
been their home for two months.

As he watched her walk away, Tayler wondered what she’d heard. Whatever it was, if it was true, it was
past
, a part of the
old
Hugh Tayler, nothing to do with the
new
Hugh Tayler—the Hugh Tayler who deeply loved this fair young woman who’d taken his heart and soul, meant everything to him. She
will
be mine, someday, somehow. May whatever gods exist protect her this night since I cannot.

Emily and George stood hand in hand at George Howe’s grave. They stared in silence for several minutes before George turned, pulled Emily into an embrace and held her to him, felt her breasts, the warmth of her body, the soft texture of her cheek against his. “Emily, I miss him so, and I fear this will be the last time I stand beside him.”

“No, George. When we’re at Chesapeake, you can return when they come to pick up the things we leave behind. Perhaps there will be other trips, as well. We can’t know those things, but we
can
know and remember that your father was a wonderful man and that he’ll live in our memories and hearts until we ourselves join him.”

He sighed. “You’re right, Em. You always see things clearly. I promised him I’d give my all to help this colony succeed, and I shall. And, Emily”— he held her by the shoulders and looked longingly into her eyes—“I still love you more than anything on earth, and I shall forever. I must also tell you that I pray every day for you to love
me
in the same way. Em, I’ll do
anything
for you.” He spoke slowly, clearly. “I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you.”

Emily again embraced him, laid her head against his chest; prayed that it would someday be as he wished, wanted with all her heart to love him. Someday . . . someday I shall. She kissed him on the cheek, looked up at him. “George, we must go.”

Thomas Colman saw Emily approaching from the other side of the village, called to her with an urgent voice. “Em, where have you been? Come quickly. I need your help.”

“I’m coming, Father. I was with George at his father’s grave. I’ll be—”

“Emily!” said an accented voice behind her. She turned around, saw a Savage, instinctively pulled back in fear, then realized it was Manteo. “Whew! Manteo. You startled me. I haven’t seen a . . .”

He held her hands. “Emily, my friend. I heard of the Roanokes’ attack . . . I’m glad you escaped . . . I do not know why they kill women. I came to see you twice while you were asleep. You must hate them very much for what they did to you.”

“I
want
to hate them, Manteo . . . I
should
hate them. But truly, I can’t, for they act as we would if
we
were threatened . . . and as you know, Lane gave them many reasons to feel threatened.”

Manteo nodded. “Emily, your wisdom is great. I’m honored to be your friend, and I’m sorry we must part.”

“Part? Are you not coming with us?”

“I cannot. It would endanger my people.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve heard from my friend”—he motioned toward a different-looking Savage beside him, whom Emily ignored—“ that the Powhatans, who live inland from the Chesapeakes, were with the Roanokes when they attacked George Howe and you. They wear their hair on one side, pulled back over the shoulder, and some—their greatest warriors—wear feathers in their hair to commemorate their great deeds. Did you see any such people?”

Emily’s eyes widened; she saw again the vicious, painted face, the hair and feathers as Manteo described. “I saw one of them, Manteo . . . the one who tried to kill me . . . he had several feathers.” She shook the image from her mind. “But, Manteo, your people—”

“The Powhatans hate your people and will kill anyone who helps you. They know we Croatans, and the Chesapeakes, are friendly to you; and that puts all of us in danger, for the Powhatan chiefdom is strong and has eyes in many places. So you see, I cannot go without endangering my own people. We’re already at risk with your three people on our island . . . we hid them today in case soldiers from the Spanish ship come looking for you.” His face stiffened. “Emily, you may find more danger at Chesapeake than you escape here; I’ve told your leaders this, but they do not listen.”

Emily chilled at his words, flashed the frightened eyes of a child expecting a night of terrifying nightmares. Will we ever be safe? she wondered.

“But I shall miss you, Emily, for no white person knows and respects our ways better than you.” He again motioned toward the different-looking Savage at his side. “And I’ve told my friend about you.”

Once more, Emily ignored the man. “Manteo, you flatter me.”

He shook his head. “No, Emily. I taught you much on the ship, and you learned well, especially your hand signs . . . Oh!” He looked at the other Savage again, then at Emily. With hand signs, he said, “Practice your signs with my friend.” Then he said out loud, “His name is Isna.” It sounded like
eee-shnah
. “He’s here to trade with us and the Chesapeakes, and he and his three tribesmen will live with the Chesapeakes until spring.”

Emily glanced at Isna, started to look back at Manteo; jerked her gaze back to Isna, stared intensely into hypnotic ebony eyes; lingered, felt as if warm water were pouring down the back of her head and shoulders.

Except for a thin braid on either side of his well-proportioned face, Isna’s full-headed black hair hung down his bare back to his waist, while five large eagle feathers, arranged like a fan, protruded to the right from behind his head. He had a smaller, straighter nose and less-prominent cheekbones than any Savage she’d seen; and his lean, muscular body, clad only in a leather loin cloth and moccasins, had the tight, explosive look of a predator about to attack its prey.

“Man . . . Manteo . . . wh . . . why does he trade here?” His eyes . . . so deep, dark . . . can’t look away . . . searching my soul. Blushing, she turned her face slightly toward Manteo but held her eyes and mind on Isna.

“His people are called
Lakota
, and he and his men trade the furs of big-horned animals that live in their land many weeks to the north, near the headwaters of the Mother-of-All-Rivers. They trade for shells we gather from the sea and the red rocks we get from the mountain people.” Manteo held up the red stone that hung on a thong around his neck, but Emily’s eyes remained fixed on Isna. “He came with me today so he could see what a white man looks like. He’s never seen one before but says the grandfathers of his people tell stories told by their grandfathers, and their grandfathers’ grandfathers, of tall white men with long, light colored hair, who came to their people from a great freshwater sea where they then lived—a different place from where they
now
live. He says these men came in ships with tall wolf heads in front, and they wore hard hats, like your soldiers, but of a different shape . . . and their blood is in his veins.

”Emily looked at Manteo, her face enlivened with excitement. My dreams, she thought. The Vikings. “When did—”

Thomas Colman walked up and put his arm on Emily’s shoulder. He nodded at Manteo. “Come, Emily, you
must help me
. We cannot leave until all the cottages are down, so please come now.” He pulled her toward the cottage.

“Fie, Father!” She twisted free, glared at him with daggery eyes. “Don’t treat me like a child.”

He stared at her for a moment, shook his head, walked away.

Emily turned back to Manteo, hugged him. “Thank you for being my friend, Manteo. Tell Isna I shall see him at the Chesapeake camp.”

“You should tell him yourself, Emily.”

I dare not look at him, she thought as she impulsively stared into the depths of his eyes, then spoke with her hands. “I shall see you up north . . . soon.”

“And I, you,” he signed with a wry little smile.

Emily’s heart flamed with unfamiliar, breathtaking passion; she stared into Isna’s eyes but spoke to Manteo. “I shall miss you, Manteo.” She sniffed the air. “Rain coming.”

Manteo’s thin smile faded to a frown as he glanced at the small clouds building to the west. “May the spirit above, the one you call
God
, go with you tonight. The sound is no place to be in a storm. He looked back at Emily, whose eyes were still locked on Isna’s, smiled. “I shall miss you too, Emily, my friend. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”

Emily forced her gaze to the sky then Manteo, as a sudden breeze swept the stagnant air, whipped her hair like fine thread. “Goodbye, Manteo.” She waved slowly then walked away; told herself not to look back at Isna’s piercing black eyes, stopped, looked over her shoulder at him anyway; wondered if Lot’s wife had suffered the same compulsion. His eyes awaited hers; chills raced through her body; she felt a damp warmth between her thighs, a dizzying fog in her mind. His eyes . . . his eyes.

As she forced herself to turn away and walk toward the cottage, she saw the bright, high-riding moon, a sparkling, solitary star beside it. Both glowed like beacons, unwilling to yield to the approaching clouds. Do not leave us, Mother Moon . . . stay . . . guide us through this night. George, I want so to love you . . . Hugh, I don’t know what to think of you, a thousand knives stabbing my heart. Mother . . . Mother, what should I do? His eyes. She looked back where Isna had stood, but he was gone. “God help me . . . help us . . . please let us survive.” She put her hand in her empty apron pocket. Gone forever. Mother, I love you. His eyes . . . never seen such eyes, never felt this way. When she reached the cottage, the first dark clouds reached Mother Moon and her star, began to swallow them like demonic forces of evil enveloping the forces of good at
Armageddon. The wrong winner, she thought. “Lord, please be with us this night. Destroy the evil that stalks us.”