Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (52 page)

Gone forever, too, were the settlers
’ regular visits to Croatoan. Manteo reported that the five men Ananias had left there disappeared one day, and simply never came back to camp. Whether they were drowned in the sea or met with mischief, Manteo could not tell.

So Ananias and the council members tied the pinnace to a dock on the river and left the boat slowly to rot, using the more maneuverable shallop whenever they had to journey on the water. And every afternoon, Eleanor Dare left her maid and her daughter and walked to the dock, watching the horizon for signs of a ship that never appeared. In public, Eleanor referred often to her father, who was always around the corner or in the next house, and Jocelyn understood that her cousin had slipped back to a more comfortable time because she could not accept that her father had abandoned her in the wilderness of Virginia.

“Hurry, Jocelyn, the feast is about to begin,” Audrey called through the minister’s window as she led eight-year-old Fallon by the hand. Jocelyn picked up a ribbon and tied her hair at the base of her neck, then studied her reflection in a bowl of water on the table and smoothed the curly tendrils which escaped to frame her face. She looked neat and prim in her worn English outfit, hopelessly out of style by Ocanahonan standards, and not at all like a woman on her way to the biggest celebration of the year.

From behind a stack of books, Thomas looked up at her. The silvery gray strands which had first appeared in his hair after his illness had multiplied, and dignified furrows lay at the sides of his mouth and upon his forehead. At forty-five, he looked his age, but Jocelyn thought he had never looked more handsome.

“Are you sure you won’t go with me?” she asked, picking up a bundle of bread. “Regina’s there already, and she’d love for you to sit with her, Thomas.”

“You have lost your mind,” he answered smoothly, running his finger over the pages of his book. “Go without me. You always do.”

Jocelyn took two steps toward the door, then turned to face him again. “‘Tis not a pagan feast, you know. Mayhap it used to be, but now we see it as an occasion for rejoicing, a time of forgiveness—”

“Go without me,” Thomas urged again, and because she knew she was wasting her time, Jocelyn left the house.

The July sun’s blistering heat had already passed overhead as Jocelyn walked past the cornfields. The last sowing of corn had grown tall and ripe, and soon the villagers would begin to bring in the crop.

But the feast of the green corn was more than a celebration of the coming harvest,
‘twas also a time to put away evil and old quarrels. The young boys of the village had been busy visiting the houses of the village since morning. At each home, they ceremonially extinguished the hearth fire to symbolize the death of old jealousies and grudges. Tonight, after the feast, new fires would be kindled on every hearth.

On every hearth,
Jocelyn thought with a wry smile, but mine. Thomas would have no part in what he considered pagan symbolism.

Her stomach growled, and Jocelyn happily sniffed the aromas of roasting venison and pork. To whet their appetites for the great feast to come, villagers had fasted throughout the day. After the feast and prayers of thanksgiving to God for a good harvest, men who had anything against another would be reconciled, women would embrace and forgive petty quarrels. After making peace with one another, the entire village would celebrate with a circling dance around the leaping fire in which the dried stalks of corn blazed and smoked.

And as the fire burned down and the sun set, the villagers of Ocanahonan would hold hands and sing the hymn that had done much to unite the Englishmen’s love of God and the Indians’ love of nature:

All creatures of our God and King,

Lift up your voice and with us sing

Alleluia, alleluia!

Thou burning sun with golden beam,

Thou silver moon with softer gleam,

O praise him, O praise him,

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Thou rushing wind that art so strong,

Ye clouds that sail in heav
’n along,

O praise Him, alleluia!

Thou rising moon in praise rejoice,

Ye lights of evening find a voice,

O praise him, O praise him,

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Thou flowing water, pure and clear,

Make music for thy Lord to hear,

Alleluia, alleluia!

Thou fire so masterful and bright,

That givest man both warmth and light,

O praise him, O praise him,

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

And all ye men of tender heart,

Forgiving others, take your part,

O sing ye, alleluia!

Ye who long pain and sorrow bear,

Praise God and on him cast your care,

O praise him, O praise him,

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Let all things their Creator bless,

And worship him in humbleness,

O praise him, alleluia!

Praise, praise the Father, praise the Son,

And praise the Spirit, Three in One,

O praise him, O praise him,

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Jocelyn hurried to the clearing where the great fire had been laid, then squeezed into the circle between Hurit and Audrey. “See how William Wythers follows your Regina?” Audrey said, elbowing Jocelyn in the ribs. She smiled impishly. “Such a handsome boy, William. Are ye thinking to marry your daughter soon?”

Jocelyn made a face. “At fourteen?”

“My people believe fourteen is a good age,” Hurit said, a shy smile upon her lips. “If a girl is a woman, what is the point of waiting?”

“She
’s just a child,” Jocelyn said, waving their comments away. But as the flames leaped higher in the darkening sky and she watched her daughter dance with the slim but powerfully built youth, Jocelyn realized with an uncomfortable start that William Wythers was no longer a child. At nineteen, he was well of an age to be married. And there was no denying the mutual attraction between this young man and her daughter.

“May heaven help me,” Jocelyn choked, clutching Audrey
’s arm in feigned alarm. “I’m going to lose my baby!”

“Don
’t sit and cry about it,” Audrey said, her eyes on the impressive form of Rowtag as he led the men in a circle around the fire. “Life is for the living! Let’s get up and dance!”

And while Jocelyn sputtered in protest, Audrey and Hurit lifted her from the ground and together they joined in the women
’s dance of praise and thanksgiving to the God of the harvest.

Hiding in the shadows, Thomas Colman skirted the party and walked with his hands behind his back, surveying the ghastly scene with a disapproving frown on his face. The huge central fire played over the dancing figures like a demon of light, its caressing fingers of smoke and heat swirling amid the thud of drums and the whine of a harmonica. Thomas stiffened in horrified surprise when he saw that all of the dancers, his wife and daughter included, had painted their faces in bold red designs.

“Is this what you have brought me to?” he questioned, glaring up through the smoky sky to the heavens above. “There was a time when I thought you had called me to spread the gospel, but now my own people, the chosen ones, have been reduced to pagan practices. My own wife, my own daughter—”

Blindly, he plunged into the forest, ignoring the trail. Sprawling vines, heavy with the growth of summer, clung to him as he passed, but he pressed through, ripping himself from the thick undergrowth that would hold him captive.

A fallen tree stopped his progress. “And now,” he whispered, breathing heavily as he leaned upon the tree, “I am the only righteous soul in this place. All others have intermarried with the evil ones, they have sold their souls for comfort and in the name of peace. Like Elijah, I cry to you, God, that I, even I only, am left. Though you had seven thousand priests in Israel with Elijah, there are not seven thousand men of God here. And so with Elijah, I say, it is enough; now, Oh God, take away my life.”

There was no reply save the whisper of the wind through the trees. Dejected and exhausted beyond words, Thomas turned from the raucous noise of the feast and walked toward the silence of his dark house.

The answer came to him in the night, and on Sunday morning Thomas addressed his mixed congregation of English and Indians with new zeal in his heart. “We will take missionary journeys like Paul and Silas,” he said, pounding the table before him in a burst of energy. “I have been wrong to expect the savages to come to us. A dangerous spiritual apathy has settled over this place, and we must take the gospel into the wilderness.”

“Can we hunt while we preach?” one man shouted, and the congregation laughed until Thomas held up a hand. “No,” he said, frowning. “If we do less than undertake the journey for the cause of Christ alone, we weaken our purpose. Did Jesus the Christ think of feeding or clothing himself as he carried the cross to Calvary? Did he worry about the wheat in his field or the stores in his barn? No. He was single-minded, as we shall be. In a week, when the crops are in and our families are settled and prepared for the winter, I will lead whosoever is willing into the wilderness where we shall fish for the souls of men. Whosoever will may join me.”

He gave the benediction to dismiss the congregation, but every man, woman, and child froze in their places when Ananias Dare stood and held up his hand. “‘Tis passing strange that the minister spoke today of a journey,” he said, managing a smile that did not reach his eyes. “But the council has decided that one last attempt should be made to reach England. Our pinnace is rapidly deteriorating, and before she is totally useless, I’m willing to sail her back to England. My wife will go with me, and I’ll need a crew of twelve men. If God wills, we will return, so I would advise all volunteers to leave their wives and children safely in this place.”

A barely perceptible murmur wound through the crowd, and Ananias cleared his throat for silence. “There
’s no gainsaying that this will be a difficult journey,” he said, rubbing his beard. “I’m no sailor, and no pilot, but my wife has her father’s charts and a few things that might help us. So if you are willing to try for England, go home, discuss the venture with your families, and speak to me later in the week.”

Ananias saluted the minister. “I give you good day, reverend.”

“So you see, Jocelyn and Thomas,” Ananias said, idly turning his hat in his hand as he stood inside their small house, “as you are our closest relations, we’ve no one else to ask for this favor.”

“We
’d be happy to watch over Virginia,” Jocelyn said, her heart filling with compassion as she gazed at Ananias’ tortured face. “But are you sure you must go, Ananias?”

Ananias gripped his wife
’s hand, and Eleanor smiled vacantly. “Papa will be so pleased to see us,” she said, her smile a ghostly imitation of true pleasure. “He told me we should meet him back in Portsmouth. We simply must go, Jocelyn. There’s no question.”

Ananias met Jocelyn
’s gaze. “Mayhap she will recover her wits at home,” he said, lowering his voice. “And ‘tis time to contact the Crown about our fate. And if, perchance, John White does wait in England—”

“In Portsmouth, dear,” Eleanor interrupted, patting his hand. “He
’s in Portsmouth, in the little house, do you remember?”

“Of course.” Ananias patted her hand again.

“We understand, Ananias,” Thomas said, his deep voice cutting through Jocelyn’s fears. As always, he was in control. “And we’ll care for Virginia—”

“Not too closely, for I wouldn
’t want her husband to think you are intruding,” Ananias said, smiling.

“Of course not,” Thomas answered.

Jocelyn listened with a vague sense of unreality. Fifteen-year-old Virginia Dare was to marry Ahanu, Abooksigun’s youngest son. Somehow it seemed fitting that the first English child born in Virginia should marry one born on the same soil as she, but Jocelyn had been shocked beyond belief when Thomas had agreed to allow the wedding to be held in the church. He was yet unwilling to perform the ceremony, nor would he allow a couple of mixed marriage to visit in his home, but Jocelyn knew his heart had softened if he would permit John Chapman to use the church to marry Virginia and Ahanu.

“We will see you at the wedding, then,” Ananias said, nodding to Jocelyn. He pulled Eleanor with him, and she gave Jocelyn another imitation of one of her old smiles. “Farewell, sweet coz,” she called as she and Ananias stepped out into the night.

“I can’t believe they’re actually leaving us,” Jocelyn whispered as she and Thomas stood in the doorway and watched them go. “Will we ever see them again?”

“It will be as God wills,” Thomas answered.