The bull shivered and took shelter beneath an evergreen, one of the few that dotted the Rhys property. The wind would cease for minutes providing respite and then howl once again at full force. Other younger deciduous trees had been uprooted or toppled in the storm and buried by the rising drifts. The animal faced the tree letting its tail take the brunt of the storm. The branches broke the wind and sifted the snow. Victoria moved slowly through the drifts and tried frantically to keep up with the deep hoof tracks made by the bull. When she saw the evergreen she nearly cried. It seemed as if some divine presence made the tree appear for her just in the nick of time. The wind died down for a moment and she saw the animal’s tail protruding from the branches. She decided it might be wise to enter the opposite side of the trunk. As she parted the snow caked branches and moved to the center she could see the bull’s big brown eyes with frost laced lashes. Its breath shown like a heavy fog in the silence. She did not grow up near animals and so she had a healthy respect for them especially the larger ones. She spoke gently as she approached thinking that perhaps the animal’s warmth might save her from freezing to death.
“Shhhh. Shhh. Easy now. Easy…” She cooed.
The animal remained motionless and seemed oblivious to her presence. She thought she might take a chance and touch its hide. She placed her hands on it and the hide was only slightly warmer than hers. She knelt down and let her hands float in its misty warm breath. There she could feel a marked difference in temperature and though it may not keep her warm it just might stave off frostbite. A wave of nausea engulfed her once again but she let the bovine’s steady heartbeat and breath calm her jangled nerves. It was the only sound except for the wind and the natural ebb and flow acted like a tonic. She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned against the trunk. She bowed her head to keep her face from the elements and her mind began to wander.
Charles had been fascinated with Natural History and as a young man began aggressively collecting items and taxidermied animals, bones, hides, shells, petrified wood, lava rocks and fossils for which he amassed quite a collection. He even went to Egypt to procure a dozen finely preserved mummies. Victoria forbade him to keep any of these curios in their home except for a few mounted heads and some American Indian artifacts. So Charles built a large cottage to house his treasure and in a meeting with his solicitor he stipulated in his last will and testament that the entire collection go to the Smithsonian in the United States.
1887 was Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. She had ruled on the throne for fifty years and the entire country rejoiced in her commemoration. It was June and the weather agreeable. Victoria had not yet met Richard and was happily content with her work and her charmed life with Charles and their close circle of friends including Beatrice Potter Webb, Annie Besant, George Bernard Shaw, Evangeline Booth and Vincent Morris. Shaw’s brilliant play, Sargent Barbara was loosely based on his friendship with Evangeline and Victoria. Charles had been at the office earlier in the day when a page brought in a flyer for Buffalo Bills’ Wild West. Charles was so excited he left his desk early and went in search of tickets and show times. Victoria was among the retinue that attended that afternoon. It was exciting and fascinating to see real American Indians in their feather headdresses and US cavalrymen all astride horses reenacting the intense battle at Little Bighorn. The crowd gasped and cheered and clapped and wept. The exhibition had been part of the jubilee celebrations and the show was wrought with stunts and courageous horsemanship, shooting exhibitions and Native American dance. After the show Charles and Victoria made their way to the tents where William Cody and his entourage dressed. Victoria was taken with a long Buffalo robe hanging in Bill Cody’s area. It was thick and lush and regal.
“You know I killed 4,860 bison in one year.” Cody said.
“What did you do with them?” Charles asked.
“I sold the meat to the railroad workers and some miners. The hides I sold to fur traders.” Cody replied. Then he looked over his shoulder and saw Victoria enamored with the hide.
“Genuine Nebraska bison.” He remarked. “North Platte.”
She smiled and continued to touch the wiry hair. Just then a small dark man entered the tent quietly.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thornton. I would like to introduce Chief Sitting Bull.” Cody said.
The Indian was the victor of the Battle of Little Bighorn and his warriors led the raid that killed General Custer in 1876. For ten years Sitting Bull was exiled to Saskatchewan, Canada where they lived off the cold land hunted by the U.S. Government at every turn. Sick and tired of a nomadic existence the chief and his band of renegades turned themselves in and were relegated to the reservation in North Dakota. After meeting the legend Bill Cody invited him to be a part of the show. Once around on horseback and wave to the crowd earned the chief fifty dollars a week.
The Indian shook hands with Charles and gave a slight bow to Victoria. He was noble and majestic and his spirit seemed to operate on a different plane while simultaneously carrying on pleasantries in the here and now. She was keenly aware of his being. She thought for a moment that perhaps she might communicate with him without words. And so she focused her attention on what it is that she would like to know about him. After a moment as the men conversed Sitting Bull’s gaze drifted from the conversation to Victoria. It could not be mistaken for a leer or a glance but absolutely and positively an understanding and acknowledgement. He stepped to her and said ”We use every part of the animal. Nothing is left for waste. It is our understanding of nature and our gratitude to Tatanka for his generosity.” He broke his stoic gaze and an almost imperceptible smile washed across his face then he stepped back into the circle of men and graciously listened. Although Victoria did not know who or what ‘Tatanka’ was, she gathered that the deity was not unlike Brahma or Buddha or Jehovah.
“How much for the robe?” Charles asked. “I simply must have it.”
The short bristly hair of the bull reminded Victoria of that day. Out of all the curios Charles collected the Bison robe was hers. It somehow represented power and grace and the overwhelming presence of the ineffable. It was the one thing that kept the indigenous peoples of the plains tribes warm in weather just like this storm. How she wished she had it now. Suddenly the bull huffed and grunted and Victoria quickly moved aside. It turned itself one way and then another under the evergreen canopy. The wind had died again and the snow fell furiously at a slight angle. The animal lumbered out from under the tree and into the crisp whiteness. Victoria watched as it plowed its way through the snow and she decided she must follow. Knowing that its feet would be constantly buried and unable to kick she quickly grasped the animal’s long tail and let it pull her along. The wind picked up again and she could only see the animal’s backside. Everything was a blur. It was strenuous trying to place her feet and legs into the deep tracks of the bull but they made better ground than if she braved the weather alone. They passed a part of a stone column and Victoria recognized it as the extra pieces to the manor house left over from Stanford White’s design. The workmen left it at the back part of the yard and intended on disposing of the material but winter came fast and so the chore would be left for spring. She let go of the tail and the animal trudged on alone in the silence. She knew she was within yards of the house now. If she could get her bearings she could walk right into the back entrance. She took a few labored steps and the faint grey outline of a massive stone structure appeared. Again the wind abated for a moment and there was the great manor waiting silently for her. Finally she found her direction and made her way.
It took twenty minutes to cover about thirty yards of ground. Once inside she went directly to the wood burning stove. The embers were still glowing faintly orange so she stuffed the kindling in and stoked it until it crackled in the frigid cold. She put her hands so close to the flame her fingers seemed to be engulfed. But the heat did not bring back sensation for many minutes. She pulled a metal pan from the pantry, opened the door, scooped in some snow and placed it atop the stove. She was dehydrated and weak. The snow melted quickly and she drank almost half of it. In the other half she placed her cold, numb fingers and waited until the sensation returned. It was getting dark now. She worried that no one would be able to find her. Where was Mr. Jones? Where was Richard? Then her worry escalated into panic. What if Richard had gotten caught in this terrible blizzard and he is stuck in the snow as she was only an hour ago. What if he was stranded and freezing and dying on a road somewhere? Her panic drifted into grief and she sobbed. She was tired and sick and frightened and cold and alone. She wept until her eyes hurt and her cheeks ached. She cried so much that the heaving made her weary and even sleepy and her chest throbbed. She decided she must try to eat something so she fetched the picnic basket and all etiquette aside she plunged into the food as though it were a fresh kill. In between bites of meat and bread she stuffed more kindling wood into the stove and then fetched the larger pieces in the cord by the window. She lit a lantern and went about closing the great velvet curtains in the main room. Then she sealed off the small kitchen by closing the pocket doors. She resumed eating at a slower pace and the house, silent and stony, felt like a sepulcher. Her mind began to wander. Perhaps this is what Christ experienced in the wilderness. Maybe it is the same sort of profound grace he felt in the garden at Gethsemane. At this moment she had never felt so alone in her entire life. Even when tumultuous family issues rose and fell or the marriages, births and deaths of extended family members occurred at regular intervals it seemed as though there was something holding her up. There was always someone to distract her or something to take care of or her work with the less fortunate to make her aware of how insignificant her troubles were. Sitting in the empty house with only her thoughts for company she realized that her faith was being tested. If she lost everything would she be able to go on? Would she still have the will to live? If she walked outside a week from now knowing that she had lost Richard, her child and everyone she loved could she withstand that kind of loss? She prided herself on being of sturdy constitution and stable mind, but the heartache that came with separation seemed like a death blow. She might be able to recover from another miscarriage but she would not recover from the loss of her husband. She would never recover as long as she lived and she knew that to be the truth. The thought punctured her and she had been battered enough with the crisis at hand so she decided to expel any morbid thoughts from now until the snow stopped when she might be able to find help. The small room was beginning to warm up a bit. She shoved more wood from the cord into the small stove and the crackle and the firelight danced against the walls. She felt like perhaps she was not alone. The howling wind and the flames projecting odd shadows on the wall made her feel as if spirits were about. She did not think the house was haunted. She had completely redesigned and rebuilt the farmhouse from its original structure. Parts of it had been moved from the original foundation to a more picturesque part of the property. The only spirits about were connected to her specifically in this life. She thought that maybe her mother was nearby. There was a calming wave of sentimentality that seemed to crest and die away. Her mother had passed so long ago that it seemed like another life but every once in a while her scent would appear on the air and when that happened she was keenly aware that the veil between realms was incredibly thin, not unlike the membrane that wrapped itself about her baby nestling safely within her. She did not feel sick any longer but at times she would be overcome by fatigue. And when she was still for too long the cold wrapped itself about her again. Moving kept the chill at bay. She wanted desperately to close her eyes and sleep but she was afraid that she might die. It was not that she was afraid of death itself, but her overwhelming concern for her unborn child and for Richard gave her the courage and fortitude to keep fighting. The same month as the Golden Jubilee her friend Annie Besant wanted very much for Victoria to meet a most fascinating woman. This lady’s reputation had preceded her from the United States and she was infamous among society’s inner circles. Madam Blavatsky had settled into a friend’s London townhouse for what was meant to be a few weeks holiday. But her health seemed to require months of recuperation. When she was well enough to receive visitors Annie brought Victoria for tea. Madame Blavatsky was the founder of the Theosophical society and the ever popular Spiritualist movement that had taken hold first in Upstate New York and spreading outward from there. She was a medium and psychic and the tenets of her beliefs were that there were seven root races and the current societal conditions proved that the world was engaged in the fifth root race reincarnated from the ancient people of Atlantis. A popular myth attributed to her was that the cataclysm that sunk the island into the depths of the sea happened at 11 minutes before or after the hour. When there is a lull in conversation the time will usually reflect one or the other because our souls become quiet in reverence to the lost people and their knowledge. Some of the beliefs seemed a bit far fetched for Victoria but others seemed intuitively right. She knew that levitation was possible. That transcendence was possible, that the power of prayer and meditation is one the most effective ways of changing the world. The one thing that intrigued Victoria was the idea of materialization. It fit in with the other areas that seemed perfectly within the realm of possibility and at first she was a bit skeptical until she began to investigate her own experience with the natural world. Materialization is the appearance of matter from unknown sources. It is the transformation of something abstract or virtual into something concrete and tangible. And although she was not fully conscious of what she was doing because it came from her emotional, instinctual center rather than her intellectual being, the appearance of Richard on that snowy night in Whitechapel confirmed to her that her soul made something manifest from thin air. He was the right being, the right soul, the right partner, the right lover, the right husband, the right father for her at that very moment and it changed the course of her history forever. Madam Blavatsky only provided a framework for which to interpret the phenomenon. And for that she was thankful to Annie and to Mrs. Blavatsky and for her entire life as she knew it. She would not change one single minute if she were to live it all over again.
Posts
