The Owl in the Milky Way

Tamanend sent half a dozen Lenape braves to scout the territory around Fort Orange.  Fort Orange was the leading trading post with the Dutch West India Company led by van Rensselaer. It was Tamanend’s mission to find a solution to the tensions between the Mahicans---their brothers, and the Dutch fur traders whose colony had begun spreading as more and more Dutch settled the area and usurped the land.  He also sent an emissary to Schodac the council place where the chief of the Mahicans resided to let them know that a meeting was eminent.  As the old women in the peace party began to make camp and prepare an evening meal, Tamanend sent for Unega who was out gathering firewood with the other girls.  As she broke through the tree line with an armload of kindling an older woman took the wood and gently nudged her in the direction of the great chief.

“Come, sit.” He said, his voice resonant and gentle.  She sat beside him once again her white hair picking up the saffron color of the small campfire.

“I should like to thank this ‘Ansa’ you speak of.”  He added.  She sat silently taking him in.  He was asking her who ‘Ansa’ was without speaking.  So she took a breath and began. 

“The Owl.” She said softly.  He seemed puzzled.  “The owl will show you if you let her.”

He smiled and contemplated the night bird for some time. Then his smile faded as Owls usually foretell death and misfortune. “Don’t be afraid.”  She whispered and a slight, knowing smile crept over her lips. The owl is the messenger of the psychic realms and strong medicine if handled by a medicine man or woman. The owl sees in the dark and maybe even through the dark.

“She is like the corn maiden.  Every year we plant the seeds.  Some grow strong, others remain weak and die.  Then the cold moon comes and everything dies.  When the sun comes back the seeds are already there waiting to be born.” She explained. “My father taught me that it is a wheel.  He called it samsara.  Our deeds go before us.  When our debts are paid we can choose to come back.  Sometimes we come back for those we love.”  She said and her dark eyes remained steadfast.  These beliefs were not foreign to Tamanend.  It was another way of explaining the Great Spirit and the ways of the unseen worlds above. 

“Ansa”. He repeated.  She sat for a moment trying to find the right words.

“Where I come from the Lakota believe that the world has been destroyed four times.  The great purification is at hand.  Time will speed up as we move closer to the center of the corn path---the Milky Way. We are moving quickly from the third world into the fifth.  In the fifth world we will be more like spirits.  We will be closer to that place that we originate from and we will be free of time and space. We will be like the owl.  We will be wise.” She said and her words were laden with truth and change.  Her face crinkled up and then she began again.  “White men will come and they will spread across the land as plentiful as grass and as quickly as the wind.” Then she stopped and gazed out over the lush forest.  The leaves were beginning to change color.  Oranges, reds and yellows filled her eyes. That hue between yellow and orange, that brilliant saffron color reminded her of her father and his Tibetan robes and she missed him terribly.  As the trees moved in the wind she could feel him speaking, his robes lit by the dying sun as the leaves rattled and fluttered communicating in their own language.

Tamanend studied her and he felt so close with this strange girl that he had just taken in.  He was transfixed.  He could take her as a wife if he wanted but she was more than just a young woman.   He could feel his life force intertwining with hers and yet there was no physical element to it.  He felt rather fatherly and protective of her and he knew she was not meant for procreation, although she most likely would bear children.  His heart swelled when he was near her and as she walked about camp or followed along with the other women on the path he would periodically look back and see her stark white hair and it would ease his mind and comfort his anxiety as he led his people through these challenging times.  He was a leader and a diplomat and he would lead by instinct and not by power.  This is what his mother taught and he listened.

“There will be an Englishman who will come to you and you must welcome him.” She said suddenly.  “It is a grand design that Ansa has planned.” She added and there was a kind of finality to her voice.  Then suddenly she grasped his hand and held it to her heart. Tamanend was taken aback by her earnestness and fervor.  Her face revealed a deep passion and her eyes welled up.  “You will know this Englishman and yet he may not remember you.  Make him remember. Then you will know Ansa.” She got up quickly and let her face bathe in the dark blue of twilight.  He watched her walk away and rejoin the women as they cooked.  The warm wisps of tobacco smoke formed rings that moved like wheels through his field of vision.  The wheel of samsara turned like the sacred circle that has no beginning or end and there before him he could see the snake swallowing its tail.

 

His skin was so pale she thought she could almost see through him.  His hair was ringing wet and the sweat rolled off of his body as if he were lying in the rain.  She was beside herself.  He was disappearing before her very eyes.  She stoked the fire nervously and the flames licked high in the hearth and the room was once again hot.  Even she perspired in the intensity of the heat.  She had completely forgotten that they were in the midst of one of the harshest blizzards in New York’s history.  The pop and hiss of the snow-laden logs fought with Richard’s shallow labored breathing creating a discordant din. It seeped into her mind and made her uneasy.  Her emotions swelled and then ebbed between her desires to hold fast to him and even lay down her own life for a miracle, and the practical aspects of nursing. She had covered him with the great buffalo robe to try and break the fever.  The coarse hair held in the heat and was the perfect covering for his malady.  She knelt down and slipped her hand over his chest as he shivered uncontrollably.  She could still feel his heart beating.  He was alive…for now.  She let her hand rest on his smooth skin.  He was not hairy.  His chest seemed more like that of a strong, muscular boy.  Her fingers moved over his breast and she realized just how young he was.  He was only twenty-seven at his last birthday.  To die at twenty-seven from a fever seemed like such an unfitting end for such a passionate, talented life.  He had so much to offer the world and he was only beginning to mine his brilliance and his gifts.  The thought made her weep again and she could not stand to witness his demise.  It was excruciatingly painful.

She moved to the next room to collect her Bible and perhaps to pray once again.  She was born into the Anglican Church as most nobility is, but she felt a kinship to the Presbyterians, as their words were passionate and personal while the Anglican Church seemed to preach by rote and tradition, an ecclesiastical formal dogma.  She had developed a taste for service from her time spent with the queen.  Queen Victoria was interested in reform and change must come through example.  From a very early age Victoria Thornton committed herself toward charitable goals and her achievements could be seen and felt in the orphan’s asylums throughout London and the east coast of the United States.  As she entered the hallway she decided to peek out and survey the weather.  She moved into the grand parlor and pulled back the great velvet curtains.  The snow had stopped.  The night sky was crisp and blue and a crescent moon hovered just above the tree line.  Everything seemed magical in that liminal state somewhere between night and day.  The powdered snow caught the moonlight and twinkled like earthly stars sprinkled across the ground.  The land undulated like a great white animal still in hibernation.  It lay quiet sensually beckoning for life to reemerge.  Hooo, hooo.  She heard the faint call.  She gazed over the frozen mounds and the gray trees. Hooo, hooo. She heard it again. A horned owl had perched high in the tree across the yard.  She watched it as it hooted and swooped down and vanished in the white landscape. Something in her wanted the sky to open up and let it snow once again.  She was familiar with the hardship of snow and perhaps if it kept snowing he would not die. The snow to her represented the sky breathing. It was silly and completely illogical but her mind was grasping at strange synchronicities and ineffable relativities.  Then she remembered that she had fallen asleep for a few minutes as she read her scriptures earlier in the day. She recalled dreaming of someone coming to help her---to help her tend to Richard.  And the woman promised to come back.  It was so vivid that she felt as though someone had actually arrived at the manor.  She felt slightly disoriented and she chocked it up to extreme fatigue.  It had to be a dream.  No one could have trudged through the high snowdrifts and limited visibility to even find the manor house, let alone stop by.  She moved the curtain back over the window and turned to rejoin her husband in the smaller parlor.  As she lay the cool rag over his forehead his eyes fluttered and she could see that he was conscious.

“Richard---Richard.” She whispered.  He mouthed the word Brooklyn.

“Yes.  Yes, dear, we’re still in Brooklyn.”  She said smiling and hopeful.  He kept his eyes open for a long moment and gazed at her as if taking in every nuance.  Then his lids flickered again and it seemed as though he might lose consciousness.

“Richard!---Richard---Stay with me---please.  Stay with me a little longer.”  She pleaded softly.  He fought against his own body and tried to keep his eyes focused on her.

“I’m afraid.  I’m so afraid.”  She said and her whisper trailed into tears and soft sobs.  She quickly peeled away her bodice and skirt and slipped under the bison robe next to him.  She placed his hand on her pregnant belly and held it there as the baby inside rolled and moved.

“Remember?”  She whispered.  His eyes had closed.  She laid her head on his chest and she could hear his heart beating strong and steady.  “You must remember.”  She calmed herself with a deep breath and then silence flooded the room.  Even Michelangelo stood staring as if in disbelief.  She moved his hand up to her heart and let it rest there as her beats raced half in fright and half by sheer will and the distress she felt jolted him back into the ‘now’.  The wheeze of his congestion returned and the familiarity of the surroundings began a slow churn.  She took another tack.

“What shall we name him?...What shall we name our son?”  She said and her voice evened out and there was comfort there.  “Hmmm?”  She moved his trembling hand back down to her abdomen.  His breathing seemed less labored for the moment.

“Malachy.” He barely whispered.  She was surprised that a name like Malachy would be his choice.

“Malachy?” She repeated.

“My brother.”  He said and his eyes struggled to remain open.  She was stunned.  She thought he was an orphan.  All of his memories that he had recounted were of him alone in the dirty streets of London.  She had no idea that he had a sibling or, perhaps, many. 

“Was Malachy in the orphanage with you?” She asked.  He shook his head and his eyes closed again.

“He drowned.” He said barely loud enough for her to hear and he wheezed loudly and a croupy viscous cough emerged that rattled him fiercely. She pressed herself against him hoping that her own body would ease his suffering.  He shivered so intensely that she felt as though he was experiencing a seizure.  Then once it was over he was quiet and calm and his breathing evened out and became shallow and she laid her head against his chest again and the heartbeats that felt strong only minutes before were weak and slow. 

“It stopped snowing.”  She whispered.  “They will be coming for us soon.”  He did not respond.  She kept his hand firmly on her belly.  “You will know him.”  She commanded.  Then she kissed him softly and moved his hair from his face.  His chest rose and fell again over and over.  After a while she got up and placed another log on the fire.  She put her bodice and skirt back on all the while repeating the name ‘Malachy’ in her mind.   Malachy.  T’was an Irish name.  Malachy Rhys.  The room was stifling and so she moved out into the hallway and the cool air felt refreshing.  There in the empty corridor it was silent.  She climbed the stairs to the second floor.  At the end of the hallway stood the wooden effigy of Tammany.  The blue of the night sky cascaded through the windows illuminating the floorboards just underneath him.  He looked like a grand wizard in the odd illumination, his face stark and sculpted, angular and stern.  She had forgotten her Bible and she wondered what made her stop there on that spot just in front of him.  The faint sound of drumming began.  It was in rhythm to her own heartbeat.  And for the first time she imagined the unthinkable.  She could see herself delivering this child alone.  Without her husband.  And she could see herself managing to move through the rest of her life.  The remaining years on earth would pale compared to the ones she had spent with Richard, but the child would bring joy and a part of him would live on.  That is what children are for, she reasoned.  And she would love this child the most and provide for it with everything in her being.  She might even spoil him, but she did not care.  She would survive the storm and her child would be born healthy.  She could see it as if projecting her dreams and musings on the wall.  And it brought a kind of peace to her.  Who was she to question the workings of the universe?  Perhaps suffering was all part of her arrangement with her soul in this place.  And maybe, just maybe if she looked at it from another perspective it did not include suffering of any kind.  Maybe, if she looked at these few years that she had spent with Richard as a blessing and a gift then maybe there is no grief or agony at the loss only gratitude for the opportunity to have known him, to have loved him beyond all else.  And to know that he loved her in return more than anything on earth. The feeling lives on even though the mortals must pass.  And those left behind are free to experience ever-greater love.

“Richard!  Don’t go. Not yet.  Please!  Please stay.  Make him stay!”  She beckoned to the wooden chief.  “I’m not ready for this yet.  Call him back.” She cried.  Just then the drumming stopped and she heard the sounds of footsteps below.  She remained still holding her breath.  Maybe it was just Michelangelo shifting in the kitchen.  The house remained silent for a moment then the footsteps resumed.  Victoria thought maybe Richard had felt well enough to get up.  It would be a miracle!  She moved quickly down the stairs and onto the landing.  Then she heard someone say, “Hello?”