It was dark out. The gas lamps would not ignite in the freezing cold and so the streets remained in shadow as the white banshees blew on the gale, rattling windows and fragile structures. Mrs. Hopkins ordered Margaret, the cook to keep the brisket hot in the warming oven along with the rolls. Margaret sliced several pieces and set them aside to wrap up for later. Mr. Watkins stood at the immense bay window in the large parlor overlooking Grove Street.
“Has Nell returned yet?” Mrs. Hopkins asked.
“No, mum.” He replied quietly.
Mrs. Hopkins shook her head and tried not to wring her hands. She moved back to the kitchen and asked Margaret to go ahead and set the table for supper.
“It’s a bit early.” Margaret said.
“I want everything to be ready so that when Mr. Rhys arrives he will have something hot to eat.” Mrs. Hopkins said sternly.
The front gate squeaked open. Mrs. Hopkins froze in her tracks. She could hear Mr. Watkins make his way to the foyer. She took a step towards the parlor and heard the front door open and felt the wind rush by.
“Sir. Are you alright?” She heard Mr. Watkins ask. Mrs. Hopkins ran to the foyer where Richard stood stomping the snow off his cold feet and pants.
“It’s a fright.” Richard said and he slipped his soggy shoes off right there in the hallway. Mr. Watkins tended to them as Mrs. Hopkins quickly fetched a hot cup of tea. She was so unnerved she could not speak. The chore would give her a few moments to collect her thoughts and form her words. Richard moved quickly into his small study and found the silk lined slippers that Victoria had bought for him in Paris. He began to move to his desk when Mrs. Hopkins appeared in the doorway with a hot concoction. She was ashen and struck strangely silent. Richard shed his suit coat and found his dressing gown that he usually wore when he sat down to read his beloved Civil War books, letters and business papers.
“Thank you so much Mrs. Hopkins. Just set it there on the desk.” He said and he was relieved to finally be home and in the company of family.
“I would like to have a bath before supper so that I might be fresh for Mrs. Rhys.” He said with a gleam in his eye. “I trust she’s well?---oh, she’s probably upstairs with one of her books.” He added as he tied the belt to his robe. “I’ll go upstairs in a moment to see her.”
Mrs. Hopkins set the tea down and almost inaudibly replied, “She left a note.” Then she broke off the rest of her sentence and gazed down at the surface of his desk. He was perplexed. Why would she leave him a note if she was upstairs. He scanned the envelope with her distinct handwriting, broke the wax seal, opened it and began to read. His face went pale. His heart began to race. His breath caught in his throat and a sense of true crisis swelled like a black squall. Mrs. Hopkins slid into one of the chairs as her stoic façade began to crumble.
“I must go to her.” Richard said as he began to pace and pull his hair behind his ears. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and he began a list in his head of things he would need and must do before he set out to cross the east river on foot.
“You’ll freeze to death if you go out again.” Mrs. Hopkins said softly and she dropped her head into her hands.
“I have to go to her.” Richard replied. “I have to!---WATKINS!” The butler appeared in the doorway.
“I’ll need two pairs of wool socks, boots, my black wool morning suit and a fresh shirt.” Richard commanded. Mr. Watkins nodded and disappeared.
“You need to eat something.” Mrs. Hopkins advised.
“I don’t have time.” Richard said and his panic escalated.
“You must.” Mrs. Hopkins insisted. “Or you’ll never make it to the bridge. Margaret has brisket in the oven for you. Drink your tea and I will find a coat.”
He was so frazzled that as he wandered into the kitchen he thought he might throw up. He flitted about in a daze trying to organize his thoughts and feelings. Mrs. McBride led him to the servant’s kitchen table and laid out the hot beef.
“Eat, Mr. Rhys. Please eat.” Margaret pleaded.
The last thing he had eaten was the sausage in Union Square about mid-morning. The tea was warm and soothing and he took a bite of meat then another and another until the plate was clean. He did not realize how hungry he was. He felt better and his anxiety subsided for a moment. He would take things step by step. That is how he had done everything all his life. He would break things or tasks down into elements and perform or finish each and move to the next in a methodical, practical way. Before he knew it he had accomplished his goals. Mrs. Hopkins reappeared. She found Mr. Jones’ deer hunter cap. It was leather with fur lining and earflaps. It would most certainly keep his head warm. She also found his muffler, a thick wool scarf that could be wound about several times. Then she motioned for Richard to follow her. As they made their way into Victoria’s inner bedroom she moved the large door that opened into a smaller room. The room was his wife’s private armoire and all of her fine gowns and day dresses and capes and wraps were hung meticulously on rods that anchored one wall to another. Mrs. Hopkins moved to the very back end of the room and pulled a great bison robe from a shelf.
“I trust if you wear this through the storm that you might make your way to the flatlands without freezing.” She said calmly. She was only about five feet herself and so she held it up as if to hang it on Richard. He was awestruck by the exquisite animal hide and the craftsmanship that went into its design. A giant beaded sun symbol adorned the inside signifying the center of the universe, or perhaps the entrance to a higher world. As he put it on he immediately felt invincible as if some kind of magic had been woven into the leather stitching that held it together. It was a bit musty but the smell of the hide was rich and earthy and alive.
He set out on the desolate silent street making his way west down Grove Street. Mrs. Hopkins had given him one of Victoria’s fox fur muffs for his hands. It wasn’t terribly practical but the wool gloves he had did nothing to stop the cold. Margaret wrapped the brisket and rolls in paper and canvas and stuffed the food into a leather bag that Richard wore underneath the robe. She and Mr. Watkins found wicker chair seats in the cellar. They were extras that had been crafted and stored for the dining set upstairs. With a bit of rope and ingenuity they tied the cumbersome seats to Richard’s boots. He seemed to glide on the surface of the snow. Margaret had spent time in Montreal and was well aware of the necessity of snow shoes to avoid sinking into the drifts. His time would be significantly reduced and energy conserved with the makeshift winter gear. Unbeknownst to them he also carried a long blade for protection and he would use it on anyone who tried to rob him. Afterall, he would have to walk through the five points on his way to the bridge. Once he turned down Hudson the wind blew him over. The gale off the river was fierce and biting but the bison skin kept him quite warm. He struggled down Hudson making good time. A few gas lamps flickered in the winter whirl. They seemed like little dots of golden light that pointed the way. Then he started east on Canal. From there he would make his way to Hester and then down Nassau to get to the Brooklyn Bridge. As he crossed through town he was aware that he was cutting through the neighborhood where the Chinese lived. No one was insane enough to be out in this storm but he saw a few ‘celestials’ peering out from under their caps, eyes set deep and reptilian wondering who the madman was that dared pass through. Soft lantern glow lit up the tenement windows where entire villages lived, twelve people to a small dingy room. The one advantage to walking through this part of town on such a cold and desperate night was that the smell of urine, shit, animal carcasses and general refuse did not hang in the air. Trash that had accrued in the gutters or on the sides of buildings was neatly concealed by cover of snow. He passed near Mott Street where the infamous opium dens were located. Dope fiends of all nationalities stood dazed outside the ‘joints’. The bodies would pile up as the night went on, Richard thought. His mind wandered back to those horrific days in London when he was young and the snow would fall and people invariably died from exposure. Hundreds, if not thousands, spent their nights on graves in the churchyards for lack of a doss and a bed. He wished for snow then because once it melted there were bodies to bury or dump in the Thames and he along with the other tramps of the East End could capitalize on the dead. He worked digging graves after a cold snap and the money held him over until the next grift or pinch or job. He and his chums always collected the bits placed on the corpses eyes. He was Charon. He and his friends were the ushers to the underworld and he knew corpses could not be as hungry as the living and so the coins bought food, socks and sometimes a straw mattress in a slum. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He was in a different place now not just in locale but his mind, his attitudes, his take on life, his intense feelings, his beliefs and passions led from a distant past filled with depravity and poverty to a place of blessing. He never used that word before because he never thought he had experienced it. Perhaps the dead bestowed blessings on those unawares. His thoughts kept moving to Victoria. The note said she was going to the manor house. Surely Mr. Jones built a nice fire and she is warm and cared for. And though Victoria had an iron constitution her pregnancy made her vulnerable. Any undue stress might upset her fragile essence. If anything it was his duty and his desire to keep anything stressful from her.
He knew he was close to the entrance of the bridge. The wind died down for a moment and the monolithic structure appeared like an apparition through the whipping snow. The roar of the gale as it picked up sounded like a freight train and knocked him down so hard that his arms as they reached out to break his fall sunk chest deep into the snow. He righted himself and sat for a moment his face glazed by white frost. His mustache and beard held onto the frozen crystals that made his face ruddy with exposure. Still he was not cold. He wasn’t even chilled as the robe enveloped him and kept the forces of nature at bay. He could see the trains setting idle, black and silent and frozen on the tracks. No one was out. He felt as though he were alone in some wild tundra. Even the predators hid from the wrath of the tempest. He entered the long ramp that led to the span of one of history’s most technological and engineering feats. The Brooklyn Bridge had only been finished for less than two years but it was a lifesaver and necessity in connecting the city of Brooklyn with the island of Manhattan. He could see the great cathedral like gothic arches rise in the misty blue haze of the storm. They stood like guardians to an unseen world, or perhaps, archangels inaugurating the path to Victoria. He made his way up about twenty yards when he saw a figure struggling against the wind and the deep drifts coming towards him. He kept steady and recognized a male figure clutching a motorman’s cap in one hand. His head exposed.
“Did you come from the other side?” Richard yelled trying to communicate above the din of the storm.
“You can’t go up there.” The man yelled back.
“I must.” Richard responded.
“There are sustained eighty mile an hour winds across the center span.” The motorman warned. “Our engineer was blown off into the river.”
“I must cross to Brooklyn.” Richard said. The man shook his head and trudged on down the ramp past Richard. He looked into the stygian blur blowing furiously and pressed forward. He passed over the first anchorage and hugged the stone vaults. It was a lonely trek as the span disappeared into the raging white hurricane. He leaned into the wind and tripped over a prone obstacle covered in snow. As he made contact with the surface he found that the man had frozen completely, arm outstretched as if signaling for help. His face permanently etched with his last terrifying thoughts. He moved on and the wind nearly kept him at a stand still. He thought perhaps it might be wise to crawl to avoid a plunge into the dark waters below. He held onto the rail planks inching his way ever closer to the other side. And as the second anchorage began to appear, the vaults guarding the decent, he looked down for a moment over the span and could only see a swirling blue black abstraction. He looked up beyond the stone guardians and there, also, only a colorless arcane breadth. He wondered if he should’ve left two coins on the dead man’s eyes as recompense to cross the river styx as this surely was a passageway through an unknown underworld. He only hoped that he could fulfill his destination and find himself in the arms of his wife and that she would be safe and their family intact. All other concerns proved tedious and unimportant.
Mrs. Hopkins paced in front of the large kitchen fireplace. Margaret plied her with hot tea. Mr. Watkins sometimes snuck a nip of brandy into it to calm the woman’s nerves. She was beside herself with worry.
“We should not have let him go.” She said almost to herself.
“Do you really think we could have stopped him?” Mr. Watkins replied.
“Henry is right, Miriam. Mr. Rhys would have had to be tied down to keep him from Mrs. Rhys. You know that as well as I.” Margaret added.
“If he succumbs to the storm I’ll never forgive myself.” She said.
“Miriam!” Mr. Watkins said surprised.
“It would kill her. As surely as I am standing here the news of such a terrible tragedy would kill her.” Mrs. Hopkins added.
“Let’s not dwell on those thoughts, dear.” Margaret said softly. “He’s a strong scrappy gentleman and his resolve will carry him there. I know it.”
There was a rapping on the front door. Mr. Watkins jumped up to go and answer it.
“Who would be calling in such a frightful bluster?” Margaret exclaimed.
Mr. Watkins opened the door and two giant, burley Irishman carried the lifeless snow covered body inside. One man produced a clutch and handed it to Mr. Watkins. They laid the body out on one of the chaise lounge couches in the front parlor.
“There was a card with an address inside so we brought her here. Surely she has family?” The Irishman asked.
Mrs. Hopkins and Margaret McBride entered to see what the commotion was all about.
“We found her huddled up against a doorway downtown.” He said in his thick brogue.
Mrs. Hopkins overcome with emotion and her greatest fear, collapsed. Mr. Watkins and Margaret tried to catch her before she crumpled up on the floor.
“Would ye two kind hearted men help us get her into the other room, please.” Margaret requested. They lifted Mrs. Hopkins as easily as a bag of oats and placed her on a bed in one of the guest rooms. Then Margaret escorted the men into the kitchen and poured them a cup of tea as Mr. Watkins tended to Miriam.
“Very kind of ye.” The one said.
“I’m most obliged for your charity.” Margaret said. “What are ye names and where are ye from?” She asked.
“Ryan Murphy, Country Kerry.” The larger one said.
“Sean Brody, Dingle.” The other replied.
“Warm yourselves be the fire while I go check on the others.” She said.
“The one we brought in. I’m sorry to say. She’s dead, mum.” Ryan said. The house grew quiet. Almost deafening except for the shoe scuffs in the other room.
“So she is.” Margaret said softly. “Then I shall see to the governess.” And she tried to hide her tears as she crossed from the kitchen to the hallway.
By the time Richard made his way from the bridge to Flatbush Avenue he realized that all the landmarks and signs he used to navigate Brooklyn were covered by snow or obscured by the wind and falling precipitation. From the moment the storm began mid afternoon its fury never let up. It was constant in its punishing wrath. There were no lamps, no tracks, nothing to help him navigate the white maze he was about to enter. He found shelter briefly in the doorway of a brownstone. He sat for a moment calculating the best route. He dug into the leather bag where the food had been wrapped and bit into a roll that was more like a doughy ice cube than bread. The meat was not any better. It contracted in the cold and became tough like shoe leather. He took a bite or two anyway just to keep his strength up. It would be a two mile walk down Flatbush to Ocean Avenue. From there he would have to keep his bearings. Even in fair weather the path leading to the manor was hard to find. The wind barreled down Flatbush and it seemed for every two steps he took he was blown back an equal distance. It was as if the broad street had become a wind tunnel. Richard veered of the beaten path and took a narrower street that led directly into Prospect Park. As he crested the incline he could see the monument with its bronze statues of Civil War heroes. And he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and rest. From where he stood he could gaze at the face of Lincoln, noble and stoic. Right next to him was General Robert E. Lee gentle and charming mounted on his trusted horse Traveller. The view down Flatbush was a virtual whiteout. He decided he might gain better ground if he walked through the park. At least the trees and natural woodland would break the wind and sift the snow. As he entered through the main gate the park was surprisingly quiet. The gale that howled in the streets was suppressed by the natural barrier of the woods. It was a blue wonderland and it was crisp and pristine. He did not have to lean into the wind as he made his way through the park. The visibility was better as well and as he passed a large elm with low hanging branches he could see a great white owl perched there. Its head would swivel to movement or noise and then as the wind picked up it would puff its feathers and tuck its head away. A few yards further and he noticed another owl taking cover in a large evergreen. He thought it odd to see two owls in a matter of minutes. As he trudged alone he thought maybe it was just the one raptor that was following him. Maybe it had the sense to know that perhaps Richard would be part of its next meal. He stopped for a moment. His eyes fixed on a dark figure moving through the trees. He had heard that there were nomadic small shanty towns that popped up in the park. Dispossessed and desperate people that turned to thievery or even murder to stay alive. He clutched his knife and peered into the thick tangle of dead brush. More movement and then stillness. Richard stepped off the road and into the woods to avoid ambush, the shadow figure in his sights. There was a sudden flapping and the large white owl landed in a tree just above. A shiver ran through him. Perhaps he was being marked by something greater than humanity. He found a niche against some fallen tree branches that formed a makeshift bunker. He kept his eyes on the shadow that moved almost imperceptibly through the trees. He pulled the robe off and spread it out. He saw the sun symbol beaded in the center and he noticed the beautiful feathers that had been attached. They were white speckled with flecks of black. He pulled the robe over the front of him as a kind of camouflage. And it kept him surprisingly warm. As he huddled he recalled a long forgotten memory of Martin the Tosher and his Harper’s weekly Civil War papers. Among those old, dusty accounts were pages about the Indian Wars in America. Engravings of savages dressed in hides and feathers. There was a Lakota Sioux prayer that had been transcribed in one of the articles. It was a prayer to the great Father for protection and from the heavens he sent a great horned owl, a supernatural and magical being to protect his children. Just then the great bird took flight and circled above the open road. The air was still and the snow fell vertically. The shadow figure jumped out of the thicket and into a clearing and Richard could see that it was not at all human. It was a white-tailed deer. It ambled along the road and he thought perhaps he might follow.
Margaret helped Henry soothe Mrs. Hopkins. She was bereft and inconsolable. The events of the day proved too much to bear and Mrs. Hopkins felt as if her entire world had come to an end. Henry seemed to have a better effect on her and he murmured words of encouragement and wisdom that only a man of his age could convey. Margaret felt as though she should see to the body downstairs and perhaps enlist the help of a neighbor’s servant to move the corpse into the cellar where it would keep until the storm subsided. She slowly descended the staircase and moved tentatively to the parlor. As she entered she could see the young woman. Victoria had been the light of the house and her expectancy brought about a kind of joy at the idea of children running about the hallways. She wondered what she would do now that her employer had succumbed. Mr. Rhys would not be able to stay in the house alone. It would be too much, too many memories, a reminder of devastating loss. She crept a bit closer. It was certainly one of Victoria’s wool capes. Her hands crossed about her heart as she lay prone and lifeless. The skin had turned ashen with a tint of blue. The cold had probably frozen her blood Margaret thought. Victoria was now in a peaceful state. Suddenly Margaret let out a wail and her emotions heaved at the tragedy. The thought of the baby never being born only added to Margaret’s grief. So young and vibrant and full of promise and greatness. Margaret was well aware of Victoria’s reform work and so the fact that her effectiveness in the world had been cut short sent another stream of remorse coursing through the Irishwoman’s body. She heaved and cried and shook and it seemed nothing could stop the tidal wave of emotion from intense expression. As she wiped her soggy eyes and blew her nose she moved closer to the woman and she noticed something strange. The body was not of Victoria. She jumped up from her grief and almost skipped up the stairs. She darted into the guest bedroom where Henry had a damp cloth resting over Miriam’s forehead.
“It’s not her!” Margaret exclaimed.
“What?” Henry replied.
“It’s not Victoria! She’s not dead!” She replied almost joyously.
Mrs. Hopkins slowly rose from her prostrated position with a bewildered expression.
“I mean, the woman downstairs is not Victoria---it’s Nell.” Margaret said almost cheerfully.
“Oh, poor Nell.” Mrs. Hopkins said.
“That means Victoria is still alive somewhere---“ Margaret said hopefully.
“Yes! Yes! She must be.” Miriam echoed.
“We have to get Nell to the cellar, though. She’ll spoil in the parlor.” Margaret added.
“Yes, yes, we must.” Henry said as he got up and the three servants moved quickly to transport poor Nell to the basement.
Richard pulled the bison robe tightly about him as he followed the white-tailed deer in the frozen silence. It was strange and eerie with an air of holiness. The wind had ceased altogether and the snow fell lightly. The stag led Richard into a remote clearing. There were headstones and small graves. He brushed away the snow and found names carved into the old limestone a century and a half before. Names such as Voorhees, Wychoff, Kiehle and Van Wyck. He looked up and the deer seemed to be waiting for him. He noticed rounded mounds where the headstones were. It was an all too familiar site. He brushed the snow from a mound under a modest looking stone cross. A vagrant’s last sleep. As he surveyed the area in the dim blue of night he could see perhaps thirty snow covered corpses that dotted the white meadow. He did not have enough coins for them all so he stepped over and around the bodies quietly so as not disturb their everlasting peace. The deer darted out of the clearing and into the thicket on the opposite side. Richard only hoped that he was moving in the right direction. He pulled out his pocket watch and noticed it was 9:20 already. It had taken him over three hours to get to this place. He was only a half hours walk from the manor but which way led to his beloved? Although he spent quite a bit of time in Prospect Park during the summer and fall he was not aware of a small cemetery tucked away in this remote area. And so he could not recalculate his direction. He heard some kind of drumming sound. Rhythmic and captivating. It was faint but clear. He thought maybe he was hallucinating in the harsh weather. The wind picked up and he followed the faint deer tracks onto the road. The drumming seemed to grow a bit louder as he retraced the animal’s steps. Again the wind was so harsh it almost knocked him over. Cernunnos, he thought. The stag. He was the Lord of Wild Things, the Lord of the Underworld to the Celts, Richard’s distant ancestry. Maybe Cernunnos was his guardian angel. It would be fitting considering Richard’s checkered history. But he did not regret the things he did. He reasoned that those dark times led him to redemption and he was grateful for the lessons he had learned. He felt as though he was being led by an unseen powerful force. Whether it was of North American origin or Prehistoric Europe made no difference. Something was pulling the veil between the worlds so that he could navigate the powerful churn of nature and come out of it on the other side. He could hear an animal snorting somewhere close. The snow was falling so hard it was like trying to look through a loosely woven blanket. He lost the deer’s tracks. The snow had buried them without a trace. So he followed the sound and found a large evergreen. A horse’s rear and tail stuck out from the branches. He recognized the bay. He was close, he thought. He was so close to Victoria that he could probably shout her name and she would hear him. He parted the green needles find the bay shivering under the snow covered pine. Curled up at the trunk was Mr. Jones. Richard bent down to find him dead from exposure. A shot of adrenaline struck like lightning through his body. He had to find her. He had to find Victoria and he prayed to all the gods he knew. He prayed to the ghost dancers and to the buffalo spirits. He prayed to the great snow owl and to the Virgin Mary. She must be alive. She must. Or he would lay down right there in the snow and the cold beside her and pass away.
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