A Chinese war ship was docked at the end of the island known as Manhattan an Indian name that means ‘the island of little hills’. It was used mainly as hunting grounds by the indigenous peoples. No permanent Indian villages existed there and so the local tribe sold it to the Dutch settlers for goods amounting to sixty guilders. A man known only as Rimpoche climbed aboard the ship. He had finally met up with his own kind and longed for the rugged mountains of Lhasa. Refusing to leave her native land a young woman waved goodbye and wept. She would never see her father again. The Lenni Lenape Indians also known as the Delawares had adopted her as their own, but she came from a distant land. Rimpoche was a sherpa with grand dreams. He had met Jan VanDerSpool after he had sold all of his possessions and set out for the West along the silk road. Vanderspool regaled him with tales of a foreign land where the natives built cities of gold and there was more than plenty to be had even for a large family. Rimpoche possessed great skill at handling oxen and skinning reindeer. Fur trading could make a man wealthy in the new world he was told. So he had emigrated on a Dutch ship landing on the very new settlement of New Amsterdam. From there he set out as a servant to a party of French and Indian trappers. After many months of nomadic existence Rimpoche had traveled through what would become Canada and then into the great lakes area. This is where he met his wife. She was of the Lakota Sioux nation and together they had a daughter. Rimpoche blended in almost imperceptibly with the tribe and became accustomed to their culture and ways. He earned eagle feathers that he wore proudly in his long hair and he fought valiantly to protect his new ancestry from warring neighbors. Then one summer day when the rains came his wife and daughter were out gathering berries a storm rose up off the plains. The women ran to find cover when suddenly lightning struck Rimpoche’s wife killing her instantly. His daughter had been unconscious for some time before she awoke to find that her hair had turned completely white. She was only ten years old. Grief stricken and inconsolable, Rimpoche left the Dakota Territory with his daughter yearning to return to Tibet. When they reached the Delaware River they waited and waited and Rimpoche prayed every day and every night that some of his kinsman might bring him home. When the great Chief Tamanend saw the woman child with white hair he thought she was a prophet. They spoke different languages but were able to communicate through sign. She had caught a lightning bolt from the Great Spirit and survived and so she was revered among the Lenni Lenapi people as a medicine woman. After living three years with the Delaware Indians his daughter felt she was home and told her father that she would stay. She watched the ship sail off from the harbor and out into the Atlantic Ocean. Her new family began their way up the old Indian trail that cut through the center of the island to the north country. They were meeting with the Mahican tribe for peace talks and trade. The image of the ship sailing away invaded her thoughts and she wept for days.
The wind howled and blew with such a furry that it sounded as though the house might fall down around them. The bay tethered to the old iron stove grew restless as the night gave way to the wee hours of the morning. Its iron horseshoes clacking against the slate floor mingled with the low moan and whistle of the gale as it penetrated the window sashes and chimney flues. The snow piled up so high that it began to press against the glass on the grand windows in the large parlor. Richard had kept the fire stoked and burning with fury until the room grew almost unbearably hot. Before long he would have to find more wood to keep the blaze alight. He knew he would have to tend to more mundane chores in a little while but for now he did not let the sound of the tempest distract him nor the state of the fuel supply to worry him. He was building the foundation to something far more lasting and profound.
Richard hovered above his wife leaving only an inch or two between them. He surveyed her landscape as a hawk might oversee its domain. With a penetrating gaze he memorized her peaks and valleys touching down to bestow a kiss on her ivory skin. He would drink her in for long silent moments and light on her neck, her lips, her breast or thigh lingering there until she could not contain herself. He was careful not to make her bear any of his weight so as not to crush the tiny life inside. He was skillful and attentive and magnificently erect. She let her hands read him, every inch. A soft, gentle caress and then at times an aggressive directive to move him close to her and against her. Their perspiration made gliding easy. They would have to be careful not to catch a chill and so the buffalo robe would provide ample warmth once they climbed under it for sleep. The hide possessed a kind of aboriginal magic and it fed the passions of the two lovers with a blessing from the earth. Breathlessly he heard her say, “Only a little bit?” He gazed at her for a moment with a look of caution and had decided that no matter what he would not enter. He did not want to cause any undue harm to his wife or his child and so he would finish another way. She was so exquisite, though that his will power and promise seemed to waver in the moment. She took his face in her hands and pulled him close and kissed him long and hard. As one hand grabbed hold of his neck the other disappeared and began a rhythmic stroke that surprised and awakened him. He took a moment and remembered the first time he had ever experienced the sensation. He had met a French girl who worked an apple cart near Piccadilly. Claire. She was a bit older and a lot more knowledgeable than he. Martin warned that she was just a common whore with the blight and that he should stay away. But she was sweet and exotic and he loved to hear her speak in broken English. She had a low raspy voice like a woman of fifty but it did not match the round freckled face of her youthful appearance. She was the first girl he had ever been with and she taught him things, not just sexual things but a kind of understanding of the female mind.
“Women are always in control. Remember that and you will be a Cassanova.” She advised. “Satisfy them first and they will be yours forever.”
She meant satisfaction not just in fornicating, but in a romantic sense. Fulfillment resides in rapt attention to detail. “Let your gifts have deep meaning and your letters witty. Never make fun of her. And never ever, suffer the fool.”
“What do you mean?” He asked.
“Do not let a woman take advantage of you. This is where you must be in control. If she takes you for granted then give her the cold shoulder and find another.” Clair counseled. Then she touched him and kissed him in that place that made him a man and he let the rush take him and he spent himself quickly.
“I will teach you.” She said laughing. “This will never do. You need to hold back as long as possible otherwise there is no pleasure. Comprendre?”
For weeks Richard would let Claire do things to him and he was able to train his mind into restraint. Each visit lasted longer until once she was satisfied once, twice multiple times then he could finish. She taught him the art of kissing and petting and for hours they would be intertwined in a passionate embrace never going beyond a cursory fondle. It taught him patience and perseverance and longevity in lovemaking. And he fell in love with her. He had gone so far as apprentice himself to long hours of cotton ginning, combing out the stray fibers from the moving mechanical teeth, an extremely dangerous job. He was going to marry her and take her away. But in one of their last nights together as he kissed her he began to reveal his plans: that he would make enough money to take care of her so she would not have to sell apples on the street any longer. A darkness moved across her face and she said, “I will not be possessed.” He was confused. He did not understand. He loved her so and wanted to take care of her.
“I am independent and I like being the center of a man’s attention.” She said. He knew what she meant and all his planning and affection seemed to unravel at that moment.
“So you would rather be a whore.” He said quietly.
“Yes.” Claire replied cheerfully. He never saw her again. Following her advice he would not suffer a fool. Unfortunately Claire’s need for attention resulted in her untimely death. Jealousy is a dangerous monster and a few months later she was found floating in the Thames with her neck broken. He quit his apprenticeship and resumed his normal grift on the streets. He never spoke of her again.
Richard let Victoria stroke him until she was unbridled with anticipation. He kissed her and began to move down her body but she pulled his face close to hers and she gazed at him intensely. He looked away for a moment and closed his eyes and kissed her again and again.
“Now.” She whispered breathlessly. And he hesitated. “What if we never leave?” And her hushed voice echoed with the reality of the moment. If the storm raged and the city paralyzed, the chances of them perishing together in the cold rose sharply. Eventually they would have to burn the furniture and kill the horse to survive. She reminded him of the present. Life is spent living in the moment. Tomorrow may never arrive and the past may be laden with regrets. And so he touched her and found that place and plunged himself inside and she moved in tandem with him and he felt himself starting to lose control and as they rocked and the fire burned and storm blew and the snow fell he lost himself inside of her. It was almost as he if he had been born into a different kind of consciousness. In this watery world of motion he could ‘see’ beyond the sun, beyond the tenth emanation. There, like a silent sentinel was the glowing orb of the moon and it was within reach. It was her and she was the reflection of the great divine.
“Let go.” She whispered and he let himself explore his own pleasure and he sat upright lifting her onto him and they coiled about each other and she moved in ways that drove him wild until finally he was spent and she held him in her arms like the newborn she was about to have.
Mr. Watkins had dozed briefly as he was trying to focus on the arcane texts. Margaret held another book and was thumbing through the pages looking for some kind of explanation.
“Perhaps, it is a simple apparition that has no answer.” Mr. Watkins said softly. “Sometimes when spirits materialize their communications make sense only to them.”
“No…ye’re mistaken.” Margaret said curtly. Then they dove into their respective pages and continued their search. The fire crackled and popped and the soft sounds of pages turning mixed with the wind bearing down on the old townhouse.
“mmmm…” Mr. Watkins murmured.
“What?...What is it?” Margaret asked.
“The rings of Saturn are referred to as Ansa. Handles no doubt, when looking at an illustration straight on.”
“Saturn, ye say. Well what the sam hill does that mean?” Margaret said a bit cranky.
“We’re both tired and we need rest and so maybe it will be made clear tomorrow.” He advised.
“What do you think of when you read about Saturn, Mr. Watkins?” She replied not even acknowledging his last request. He sat for a moment to ponder the question.
“Time.” He replied softly. “Father time.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Margaret said excitedly. “The auld woman is a ghost, dead and gone for who knows how long.” she said speaking aloud to no one in particular.
“On the other hand she may not be a ghost at all.” Mr. Watkins said coming to life.
“If she is Indian as you’ve described then she may be a spirit.” He said as he stood and gazed into the fire.
“A ghost, a spirit. Aren’t they the same?” Margaret asked.
“Not necessarily. Ghosts are the residue of a life that has passed on. Died. A spirit could be the manifestation of an intelligence that was never incarnate.” Mr. Watkins said. And his discovery filled him with excitement. Margaret looked a bit confused.
“A spirit could also be an angel or guide or demigod, if you will.” Mr. Watkins said.
Margaret threw herself to the floor and clasped her hands tightly in prayer, “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph please deliver us from a demon if that’s what she is!” She exclaimed. “Save poor Nellie’s soul! She was a good Catholic girl and I can attest to her attendin’ the mass every Sunday.” She cried. Just then Mrs. Hopkins burst in cloaked in her nightgown and robe.
“What is all this racket?” She demanded.
Margaret clutched at Mrs. Hopkins who was not fond of personal contact. “I saw a ghost, sure. Downstairs in the cellar praying and babbling just on the other side of poor Nellie.” She said close to tears. “I hope she’s not got the devil in her. I hope that the auld woman was not out collectin’ souls for the cauldron.”
“Remember yourself, Mrs. McBride.” Mrs. Hopkins admonished. “And, you, Henry. I am disappointed that you have found yourself caught up in her hysterics.”
“Mrs. Hopkins, I assure you I was trying to calm the cook---“ He replied with an air of resignation,
“She told me to say thank you Ansa. Thank you Ansa, please---Now why would a ghost say such a thing? Why would a spirit go and get me all worked up into a tizzy if there wasn’t somethin’ important to be conveyed. I hope she’s not after the souls of the living! Sure.” Margaret blabbered on.
“Cause and effect!” Mr. Watkins said emphatically. The two women stared at him blankly. “Cause and effect, Newtonian science. That’s it.”
“Mr. Watkins, it is too late, or rather too early in the morning to be discussing mathematics and ghosts. I implore you both to go to bed at once and cease disturbing the rest of this house.” Mrs. Hopkins commanded. She turned on her heel and was out the door in a flash. Margaret started to giggle and tried hard to conceal her amusement. Then Mr. Watkins began to giggle and the whole bedroom was awash in laughter. Big belly laughs that rendered them asthmatic and sweaty. They wheezed and turned red and doubled over with hilarity.
“Shhhhh. Shhhhh. She’ll be in here again with a strap, sure.” Margaret said whispering.
“Margaret, don’t you see? Cause and effect. Fate. Destiny.” He alluded.
“That Nell died?” Margaret said soberly.
“Perhaps. But you described the old woman putting her hands together, yes? Clasped like so?” He continued and he threaded his fingers so his hands became a woven ball. Margaret nodded. “And then you said you knew that Mr. Rhys had reached the manor.” He added. Margaret nodded again.
“And I felt warm. As if a someone had safely wrapped themselves about me,” She said softly.
“Ansa means a handle, right? And what do we do with a handle, we hold.” Then he put his hands together. “Fate. Destiny. Holds Time to a commitment.” Then Mr. Watkins sat down on his bed stunned by his own discovery. Margaret was spellbound still trying to grasp the concept.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rhys.” She murmured. “Fated?”
“And that is why the old crone asked you to thank Ansa.” Mr. Watkins said.
Victoria had fallen asleep in Richard’s arms. The Bison robe draped over them keeping them warm in each other’s embrace. She was so becoming at that moment that it made his heart swell. He could hear it beat in rhythm with hers. If there ever was a moment to be taken up in the rapture this would be it, he thought. If they died in each other’s arms this night then the world would know no greater love. He let his hand rest on her belly and he could feel the shape of a tiny being resting there suspended within waiting for a breath, waiting to open its eyes and see the world. Richard recalled that his musings were not that different from those he had earlier that day when the sun was rising and he gathered the yellow flowers for his wife. So much had happened in such a short period of time. Hours had been held in the balance between life and death, his and hers. And the intensity of holding onto the dream of survival and reunion and the invisible forces that brought them together. Today they had spent their lives in the shadow of the moon. And the shadow only strengthened what was already there. It defied words and can only be held in the heart with a knowing pierced with understanding. He closed his eyes and let the flicker of the firelight dance against his eyelids and before he knew it he had settled down into a deep slumber.
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