The Circular Path of Remnants

The smell of meat cooking and fresh potatoes stewing over the fire permeated the air.  Richard was so hungry that he could taste the smell.  He kept his eyes closed and thought a few more minutes of sleep would preserve his strength and when supper was ready he would get up and eat. 

“Wake up---wake up.”  He heard a man’s voice whisper.  Richard was disoriented by the sound.  In that liminal state between sleep and consciousness he thought perhaps someone had finally found them and came to take Victoria and himself back to Grove Street where they could recuperate under a physician’s care.

“Wake up, man.”  The voice insisted.  Richard opened his eyes slowly and he saw the visage of an Indian hovering over him.  He was gnawing on a piece of meat, the melted fat dripping down his chin.

“It’s me, Uncas.  Come.”  The man said as he grabbed Richard’s hand and attempted to pull him up.  Richard rubbed his eyes for a moment as he sat up.

“You’re not Uncas.”  Richard said.  The man laughed heartily. 

“No, but I interpret him on stage.” Booth said.  “Come, we’ve got to hurry.” He urged.  Richard stood upright and felt lightheaded.  As he caught the sunlight through the window he could see that the snow had melted and that Spring had returned.  Everything was green and lush.

“Where’s Victoria?” Richard asked. 

“She’s waiting for us.  Come.”  Booth insisted.  They wandered out into the yard where Michelangelo was tethered and saddled.  Booth laced his hands and bent over.

“You’ll need some help.”  He said.  Richard began to insist he could mount himself but then felt a wave of weakness and steadied himself with the fence post.  He slipped his boot into Booth’s hands and the assassin hoisted Richard up and onto the animal.  Then in a split second he acrobatically swung himself up, over and behind Richard and adjusted comfortably behind the lip of the saddle.

“Hand me the reins, if you please.”  Booth instructed.  Richard, feeling as though he might pass out, followed orders.  In a moment Booth clicked and they were trotting at a quick pace through the yard and into the farmland of the flatlands.  The air was crisp and fresh and temperate.  Michelangelo was amiable with her adventure.  It had been awhile since she had stretched her legs.  Richard reached down in his trouser pocket and he felt Chelsea’s card.  Somehow it reassured him that he was someplace real and not in the midst of a dream.  They moved along the perimeter of Prospect Park.  People were out in their carriages or strolling along the walkways enjoying a day of leisure.  It reminded Richard of only a few days prior just before the storm moved in.  It seemed as though every New Yorker was out taking in the fine weather. Booth navigated Michelangelo into the park and they moved quickly through the brambles.  Gunshots suddenly pierced the quiet day.  The wooded area filled with smoke and the smell of burnt powder.  Unseen men shouted out commands as others in red coats darted quickly through the brush. 

“Shouldn’t we take cover?”  Richard said startled.

“Remnants.”  Booth replied. As they moved out into an open road they passed a military brigade of Englishmen fighting for the crown.  Wide-eyed and confused Richard took in the spectacle like a small boy.

“Washington is just over that ridge.” Booth pointed out as they passed a large boulder in the woods.  The place no longer resembled a park but a dense woodland area and battleground.  Suddenly Booth halted the horse and pointed to a tall thin man standing just to the left of earthen breastworks, Flatbush Pass.

“That’s him.” Booth said. “That’s our first president.”

“I feel like I’m in a Dicken’s novel.”  Richard replied.  “If there is something I need to know please tell me so that I can go home.”

“Ah.  That won’t do. I could tell you lots of things but you will not understand until you experience them.” He replied enigmatically.

“This is a dream---I, I know it must be a dream.  And you’ve made me Scrooge and I must say I’m too sick and far too tired to do this now.”  Richard pleaded.

“Ah, but that is when the greatest knowledge can take effect.” Booth laughed.  He clicked and Michelangelo moved along unfazed by the gunfire, cannons and screams.  A cloud of smoke cloaked the woods and as they navigated the trail it seemed as though they were floating through a thick bank of fog. Then something within Richard made him shrink at the thought of being in London once again. Something about the dankness and desperate lives existing there made him shiver.  He felt the undeniable pains of hunger just like when he was a child on the streets. The dampness made him cold to his bones.  He forced himself to think of happier times with Victoria and the fog faded and the trail in the park resumed its familiar topography.  As they approached a tunnel Booth handed the reins to Richard and in an instant he was alone.  The horse ambled to a stop.  Everything was quiet.  It seemed as if no one was in the area.  Peace had been restored.  The trail led into the tunnel and Richard was familiar enough with the landscape to know where he was and so he clicked and Michelangelo hesitated.  The sound of horse hooves approaching in the distance made her antsy and she tried to turn the other way.  Richard pulled hard at the reins to keep Michelangelo from reversing.  The horseman barreled through the tunnel and Richard could see that it was an apparition.  He reasoned that it was a figment of his imagination or that perhaps the fever had returned and he was hallucinating.  The hooded figure on a black steed aimed right for Richard and although Richard clicked and kicked and then shouted at Michelangelo she would not budge.  Richard ducked into the saddle as the collision would be imminent.  A tingling rush of air passed through him and as he turned to see the horseman go there was nothing.  He could hear Booth laughing from his hiding place in the woods.  Richard angrily wheeled the animal about, kicked hard and began to retrace his steps.

“There is no return.” Booth shouted.

“You’re bloody mad.” Richard retorted and rode back down the trail.  Booth followed hopping along the brush that grew at the sides of the worn path. 

“You must admit that was a fantastic trick.”  Booth laughed.  “Do you know who the headless horseman was?”

“No and I’m certain I don’t care.” Richard said angrily.

“Lincoln.” Booth snickered.  Richard grew enraged and he looked for something to flog the insufferable actor.  He gazed down at the saddle and found a piece of leather tied to the saddle.  It was for attaching a bedroll or some kind baggage.  With a little effort he slipped the leather thong from its place and wound the end about his wrist.  He moved the reins in a hard right angle and Michelangelo reared up for a moment and turned.  Richard whipped Booth as he fumbled for cover in the brush.

“Leave me be!” Richard shouted. “I’ll hang you with it next!” Richard had moved beyond containment.  His anger was so inflamed that he kicked the poor horse hard.  He felt that if he could gallop back to the manor house at top speed the air would calm him down.

As he rushed through the woods he found himself engulfed once more in the thick fog.  The terrain changed and something about it was familiar.  The scent in the air and the dampness reminded him of his midnight ride to the estate in Northampton to reunite with Victoria a few years before.  The sunlight filtered through the mist and created a dappled effect.  Then suddenly another figure appeared.  It was a man and as he moved closer Richard was aware that it was yet another Indian.  Booth had disappeared slipping inconspicuously into the brush.  The man was regal and graceful and elegant.  His hair was shorn at the sides in Mohawk fashion even though the Mohawks were his mortal enemy.  Richard noticed that the Indian emanated light and calm.  And as he drew near he smiled amiably.  Then he raised his arm and pointed to a large field.  Perhaps this is the direction to go but it was not the way home.  He clicked for Michelangelo to move closer and as he drew nearer he could see the soft doe eyes that were once Victoria’s. 

“I will not tell you wrong.”  The Indian said softly and his voice was familiar like a father’s. 

“Who are you?” Richard asked softly and he felt his heart begin to lift and a wave of emotion rush by.

“Tamanend.”  The man said and his warm smile touched Richard so profoundly that he could feel himself begin to weep. 

“I know you.” Richard said earnestly and he dismounted his ride.  It felt like a reunion of a long lost family member.

“And I, you.” Tamanend said as he held out his arm to shake wrists in the familiar aboriginal way.  “There is much to learn.” He added.  Richard nodded as he wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve. 

“You have found me once again in this life.” The Indian smiled.  “And so you will again in the next.”  And he pointed to Richard’s pocket.  Richard pulled Chelsea’s card out and gazed at it.  Then Tamanend placed his finger on the card and slowly moved his finger to his chest smiling kindly.  Then he faded into the mist with only his soft brown eyes visible and as the sun burned the moisture away the Indian’s eyes melted into the verdant landscape.  Richard realized he had been presented with a riddle and as he pulled himself up onto Michelangelo’s back and began to ride in the direction that Tamanend pointed out, his mind opened up and thoughts and memories from other times began to rush in.  He passed a few farmers that were old enough to be his great-great-grandfather’s age if he had one. But they appeared young and virile like him. They wore the familiar tricorn hats of the time and breeches.  He realized he was witnessing the birth of his beloved America.  But he was born in England in 1861.  And he knew that the American revolution had taken place just under a century before.  It was confusing and his head began to hurt.  He moved through the fields with ease and it seemed as though Michelangelo knew the way.  She crossed a small canal that then opened into farmland.  A Dutch stone house stood alone in the fields.  Vechte Cortelyu had been carved into a fence post.  A young boy ran out excitedly speaking Dutch and guided Michelangelo to the trough in the front of the house.  “feestelijk inhalen!”  Richard let the animal and the boy guide him.  His energy was seeping away and he felt as though he might pass out.  He slid off the horse and the boy grabbed hold of his hand.  “Da!  Da!” He exclaimed and an older gentleman stepped across the threshold and his face betrayed his concern.  He took Richard by the arm and led him inside.  A woman sat at the table snapping beans.  She got up suddenly and the couple helped Richard into a straight-backed chair.  The woman fetched water quickly and the man offered fresh oysters from the canal outside.  It had been a long while since Richard had oysters.  They were seasonal and the winter had been harsh.  As the woman took her knife and broke open the shells the man passed them to Richard and gestured for him to eat.  They slipped easily down his throat and the taste reminded him of summer and champagne and evenings along the boardwalk strolling with Victoria on the beaches of Long Island Sound.  He noticed another man in a top hat and great coat sitting in the corner.  He blended into the shadows of the house So well that Richard almost overlooked him but the glass of green liquid caught the sunlight and Richard’s attention.  By his looks and his dress the gentleman was a contemporary of his and he slowly brought the glass to his lips and took a slow easy pull.  For a moment Richard wondered if he was in a stopping place for the dead.

“I hear you were accused of murdering Shakespeare, Mr. Rhys.” The gentleman said softly.  A shiver shot up through Richard’s spine.  He had thought for sure that the rumors had been put to rest.  It had been almost a year ago and the police constantly kept their eye on him.  He even noticed that plainclothes men wandering the streets in the village might actually be working for Scotland Yard.  The New York Police made no secret of their interest in Richard as an ongoing suspect.   The only reason he was not hauled into the Tombs every other week is because he was married to Victoria. He also had an ironclad alibi. 

“We have not been properly introduced.”  Richard said softly.

“Oh.  Yes…we have.”  The man replied.  Then he took another slow pull of the neon green elixir and pulled away his top hat.

“Mr. Jones.”  Richard exclaimed.  The gentleman smiled amiably.  He looked tired and pre-occupied.  “But…I found you---“ Richard started.

“---Indeed.” Mr. Jones said.

“Frozen.”  Richard added.  Mr. Jones nodded in agreement.

“There is no possible way that you could have been alive.  You had been frozen solid in the snow drift.”  Richard said more for himself than as an explanation.

“I concur.”  Mr. Jones replied gently sipping the absinthe.

“Did you know the prostitute they called ‘Shakespeare’?”  Mr. Jones asked.

Richard took a moment and thought carefully.  Victoria had changed his life and his beliefs of right and wrong and so he wondered what she might do if she were in his situation.  She would tell the truth.

“Yes.  Yes, I did.”  Richard replied.  Mr. Jones smiled.

“Are you Jack the Ripper?” Mr. Jones asked pointedly.

“No.”  Richard said without flinching.  “No.  I am not.  I was not one of her customers.  I was simply a very small benefactor.”  Mr. Jones laughed heartily and took another sip of his drink.

“Charity is for the church.  Money is never given freely without some sort of obligation.  After all when the alms are distributed Christ comes for the heart.  There’s always a trade.”  Mr. Jones said.

“Perhaps.”  Richard replied. “I did not fuck her if that is what you’re on about.” 

“Ahhh, there are other methods of satisfaction.  No one ever suggested that the Whitechapel murderer engaged in sex.”  Mr. Jones explained.  “As a matter of fact he never did.”

“How would you know?” Richard asked.  Mr. Jones smiled knowingly.

“Mrs. Hopkins sent me out one day to the Chinamen.”  He began.  “Apparently the scullery maid, and washwoman had come down with Typhoid and she did not want the laundry infected.  So I was sent out with several items of your clothing.  Mrs. Thornton—

“Mrs. Rhys.” Richard corrected.

“Yes.  Well she certainly bought you some very well tailored suits.”  Mr. Jones smiled.  “I couldn’t resist, you see.”

Richard’s head began to spin.  All that time in London that he had been accused and hounded by the authorities made sense.  It began when he first met Victoria on that snowy night in the East End. 

“My father was a butcher by trade.”  Mr. Jones said quietly.  “I wanted a vocation that was more refined and respected.  But then if it’s in the blood…”

“Why?  Why did you do it?”  Richard asked.  He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

“Something about time.” Mr. Jones mused.  “Something about the summer and the fall…The warm air and the fair sex.  The fragrance of flowers on the misty evenings.  The soft glow of lamplight on bare skin at Cremorne Gardens.  The music and the flesh.  The smell of drink and perspiration and cheap cologne.”  Then he stopped and stared out at some unseen dream and for a moment Richard thought he could hear the faint notes of a string band playing popular music.

“In the wee hours.  Just before dawn…something dark would come over me.  And the soft murmur of a woman’s voice would compel me to own my power.  God would cease to exist.  Not that I ever believed in God.  I was aware of the strength within me and to use it to destroy felt invigorating.  I could let life exist or I could extinguish it with no more thought than a bug.”

“And you paid them.” Richard began “So that made it right.”

“Oh, no.  I never allowed myself the pleasure.  They were helpless and weak.  They weren’t clean.  They might get too close.  They might have lice…or worse a disease.  They weren’t perfect, you see.  So I had to make room for perfection.”  Mr. Jones explained.

“Why ask if I am the murderer when you were all along?”  Richard said getting angry.

“I wanted to allow you the opportunity for confession.” Mr. Jones smiled.

“Why in God’s name would I confess anything to a blackguard like you?”  Richard began.

“We’re not so very different, Mr. Rhys.  You’re indignant righteousness might land in my place.”  Mr. Jones warned.

“Dead.” Richard said.

“Precisely.” Mr. Jones said and in an instant he disintegrated into thin air and the old stone house bustled with familial activity.  Richard grabbed the sleeve of the Dutch boy that welcomed him.

“Have I died?” He asked desperately.

“Why no.  You’re a traveler is all.”  The boy said.

Infinite Kindnesses

A beam of sunlight poked through one of the shutters in the parlor and as the sun made its trek through the sky it shone its brilliance on Richard’s sleeping countenance. He had lain down for a minute and closed his eyes as Victoria greeted the visitor. He was still weak and he had trouble breathing from the croup that had developed over the course of the storm. The fire was warm and inviting but the sun’s light signaled Spring. With his closed eyes and still in a mild dream state he rolled into the sun. The light was brilliant white as he noticed it through his eyelids, the thin membranes creating a warm pinkish flesh color with tiny blood vessels snaking their way across his field of vision. Then he slowly opened them as if coming out of a long hibernation. As the sun struck his hazel eyes they turned a rich burnt sienna color with streaks of forest green emanating out. They were deep pools of brilliant earth tones and they shone like precious stones, like jasper in their brilliance. He almost felt blinded by the intensity and so he rolled slightly out of the direct light and let his eyes refocus on the crown molding of the magnificent house. He scratched himself and realized he had put the card back into his trouser pocket. He pulled it out and gazed at it once again confused and bewildered.

“Chelsea Barrett”, he said aloud to see if the sound might jog his memory.

“Victoria.” He whispered. He kissed her neck and she did not stir. “Victoria.” He repeated and then kissed her neck and ear again and she was sensually awakened. She stirred and moved onto her back gazing up into her husband’s exquisite eyes. She had only nodded off for a few minutes but her sleep was deep and restful. She kissed him and lingered there as it was the single most refined sweetness she could experience.

“I want to name her Chelsea.” Richard whispered and he moved his hand over his wife’s belly.

“Family name?” She replied through a sleepy voice. He shook his head ‘no’. Then after a moment she remembered seeing the card that Richard had found. “Who is she?” She inquired innocently. She was not jealous or possessive since she knew at the core of her being that he was her soul mate and had been before and will continue to re-enter her various lives until the end of time. There was no room for mistrust or insecurity in Victoria’s life. There were more important things to fret about. And yet that did not mean she did not respect and hold him in the highest regard. She loved him more than anything she could fathom.

“I don’t know.” He answered. “I don’t know who she is. She shows up in my dreams and I…well, I just have a feeling.” He continued.

“What kind of feeling?” Victoria asked as she brushed his thick hair from his face.

“I’m not sure. But it…it’s ethereal. That’s all I know.” He replied. A smile bloomed across her face and she took in every inch of him. Then she nodded ‘yes’.

“Chelsea.” She whispered. “It’s a good name. It will suit her.”

Richard caressed his wife’s belly and his effect on her was mesmerizing. All worry and fear skittered away. The tension of illness, cold, hunger and crisis was released and her body was supple and relaxed. His palm moved in a slow counter clockwise motion and he deftly slipped beneath her bodice and the waistband of her skirt. They had been too tired and weak to stoke the fire and so their wool clothing and the bison hide kept them from the chill. The buttons loosened and she wriggled her way free from the confining cloth and his dexterity and skill soothed and awakened her simultaneously. He kissed her tenderly as his hand circled the lower part of her abdomen and brushed the top of her pubic bone. She was downy and soft and he circled round and made a wider sweep as she pulled him closer and her breath grew short and expectant. Her belly was warm and she could feel the life inside move to the sensation. Chelsea. Somehow in the moment she knew the baby would be a girl and she would call her Chelsea. His gentle caress swept around again and his hand slowed as he found the soft fine hair that grew below her belly. Her face flushed and she kissed him passionately as his fingers found themselves engulfed. The release was palpable and he found that fleshy part of her just before the entrance that at times grows firm and wet and sensitive. She was audible in her desire and the physicality of it burned away all cares and concerns for the time being. They had found that piece of heaven that is timeless and rooted to the spirit. She moved her legs apart and widened herself. Her entire spine was like jelly and the electric arousal dictated her motion. He continued to massage that spot that was still outside yet tucked within the folds of her delicate anatomy. She was so beautiful. Every inch. Every pore. And she moved catlike beside him. She kissed him again and again as she unbuttoned her bodice, her breasts taut with pregnancy. She let her hands run through his wild hair as she pulled him down to her chest and offered herself up. She let him suckle her and the sensation and release brought out a loud sigh of ecstasy and, perhaps, relief. Her small pink nipples were erect and ready and though she was only about halfway through her pregnancy he could taste the scant trace of mother’s milk reserved for their child. Her body responded and she wanted more than anything to feel him. He was wonderfully firm and absolutely aroused. Her nimble fingers unbuttoned him and in a matter of moments he was fully in her hands. He was warm and the tip damp and poised on the precipice of exceptional prowess. His fingers slipped easily inside and he moved rhythmically just an inch or two in and her body responded sending a flood to those places. He was single-minded in his desire to find her peak. And amid her soft cries of excitement she whispered, “Inside.”

He shook his head ‘no’. Then he shifted and placed himself outside her folds and moved rhythmically letting her guide him so that there was contact. He was so aroused that a little bit of himself escaped into that downy place on her pubic bone. But he had mastered control of his urge through his breath and it sent him to new heights with each moment. Release was not an option until she had found exaltation. He wanted to taste her and he moved slowly downward as if hovering above her landscape and he widened the sensitive folds with his fingers and kissed her there as she arched her back and moved back and forth in that fashion. He tasted her and his tongue was fully engaged and completely enclosed by her contracting muscles. Her breath metamorphosed into gasps of escalating pleasure. It seemed as though she had no real control over her body and it moved faster and she wrapped her legs about him and she reached for him but could not find that part. ‘Let her desire come first’ he had been instructed and truthfully the act of giving made him ever more ravenous of her. Finally in the wake of a cascading crescendo her body grew limp as she inhaled sharply, her heart racing like a small wild animal. He was so intoxicated and aroused by her that when she reached for him in her euphoria, her simple caress and firm hold made him spend and the sensation was prolonged by the soft sounds of her satisfaction. And he spilled more than he ever had before and for a brief moment he was sorry that he had refused to actually couple. Then thoughts of the children they would have began to drift through his mind. It would be a long life…together. He knew it and so he must care for her even at those odd times when she would forget to care for herself.

Shackamaxon. That is what the Lenape people called the ancient elm tree that stood as a sentinel guarding the sacred lands and village of the Delaware Indians. It was their proverbial tree of life. A part of their cosmology was tethered to the great elm and the elder women of the tribe recounted their oral histories around the evening campfires. Unega sat in rapt attention as the history of these first peoples unfolded before her. Her white hair glistened in the flames of the blaze. And at times her mind would wander to thoughts of her father returning to his native Lhasa in the ancient Himalayan Mountains. Many moons had passed since her father bid farewell and many moons had passed since the English ship landed near the mouth of the Delaware River. Swedes had built farms near the great elm and as the months moved along and the winters came and went the English settlers began to arrive and push the Lenape further and further west from their homes. The Swedes gave up their farms and let the increasing number of religious refugees flood the area.

Unega was not familiar at all with ‘Quakerism’ since she was half aboriginal and half Tibetan and had only seen a few white people in her young life but as she grew older and the influx of immigrants began to arrive she made it her objective to understand. She was aware of the intense spiritual significance of the land and she knew that the awesome power of nature and the workings of the universe would deem it destined for greatness and evolution. It had been written in all of the Eastern ancient texts that a great nation would rise up from the West and recover the secrets of the pre-historic past. It would lead in innovation, equality, invention and political prowess. It would eclipse other empires like the Greek, Romans, Persian and English. And it would blossom in the blink of an eye where it taken centuries to develop in Europe and Asia. In the Middle Eastern scrolls they called it ‘Merika’, “The Star”. They knew it existed but no one had ever been there until now except for the first nations that had always called it home. The dark side of this understanding was that the indigenous peoples and their culture and way of life would be exterminated. As the great lodges of these Quakers began to appear, Unega would sneak about under the cover of darkness and listen just beyond an open window or just below the floor boards of a planked porch. She was fascinated with these people and their glowing countenance. They were polite and considerate and did no harm in their religious and daily expressions. It became very clear to her that these people did not believe in an organized religion. They did not take in ritual or establish tradition. They rather looked like white Buddhist monks meditating for hours at a time climbing the unending stairway to enlightenment. This sect of ‘Christians’ as she knew them to be were of hardy stock and the practice required discipline and endurance and strength of character. She also knew that the act of meditation only strengthened their resolve to be steadfast in their spiritual and pioneering lives. They did not have preachers or priests or ministers. They read aloud from their Bible and sang hymns. They sat for hours in meditation and prayer and they believed that any soul wishing communion with God and messiah could do so without an intermediary. Direct communication with the divine is the established tenet. A strict moral code would engender integrity and it was because of this and the modesty that the Quakers exhibited a kind of trust that Unega could believe in. It was this calculated risk that Tamanend and his people agreed to listen to the agreement set forth by William Penn and his followers. On a Spring day under the sacred elm they spread their blankets on the ground and smoked tobacco and ate together and discussed the code of law that everyone could comply with. Tamanend was impressed that Mr. Penn had taken the time and consideration to learn some of the tribe’s language and so the exchange of information was quick and ideas and grievances lost in translation were kept to a minimum. Penn addressed the congregation first and with great respect toward the Delaware chief began to set forth his ideas for the new utopian society he had hoped to create.

“We thank the great creator our God for bringing together the humble people of this territory and our brothers and sisters within our Religious Society of Friends. Firstly, Freedom of Worship in this colony is to be absolute and that includes the Indian tribes in the area. Secondly, there are to be free and fair trials also including the Indians with a jury comprised of peers --- and tribesman if the person on trial is native. Thirdly, there will be freedom from unjust imprisonment including the native peoples. And lastly, there will be free and fair elections to the new government of the colony.” Penn stated and a hush followed by a low murmur slowly began throughout the crowd.

“I would like to also say that we, as a colony know only too well the grief of losing a home so dear. And so we are prepared to compensate the Delaware peoples for their westward move and ask that there be peace and benevolence between us. Let not there be violence and ill will as has taken place before with Dutch and English. Let us be friends and faithful to our testimonies. I have set this covenant fourth in a treaty that shall benefit all as well as the children yet to be born.”

Unega nudged Tamanend as the quill had been dipped and ready for him to take.

“This is the work of Ansa.” She said and Tamanend gazed at her for a long moment. “It is good.” She whispered. “We shall live in peace while these men still have breath. And it will be our children’s duty to learn from them---their mistakes and their achievements. In that way we will not become extinct.”

Tamanend took the quill and smiled as he painstakingly drew an ‘X’ to signify his mark. He handed the quill back and the colonists clapped and celebrated. The Indians were surprised and then they joined in the celebrations clapping their hands in imitation of the Quakers. The great chief raised his hands and his people reverently bowed and quieted down.

“We shall all live in peace as long as the waters run in the rivers and creeks and as long as the stars and moon endure.” He announced in his tribal language and the interpreter reiterated his sentiments for all to hear. The crowd erupted in loud cheers and hymns thanking God.

Victoria felt as though she had taken Laudanum. She floated blissfully in her satiated position. The spontaneous intimate activity left her ravenous and she wondered if she had the energy to pull herself up and forage for food in the kitchen. They had already eaten the remnants left in the root cellar. The jam was gone from the wedding gift and the cookies Ashley left had been devoured the day before. There was nothing left that was edible but another sweep of the pantry couldn’t hurt. Richard lay on his back gazing up at the ceiling. His face looked like that of a regular customer to an infamous opium den. She rolled over and let her hand rest on his chest. And his face slowly broke into a charming toothy smile. She kissed him and pulled her skirt on. As she wandered out to the kitchen she stopped to make sure Richard was all right. He was lost in his reverie and then closed his eyes. As she stepped onto the flagstone floor she noticed Michelangelo nibbling on a brown paper bag. She had chomped through and eaten almost all of the broccoli. Victoria was mystified as she snatched the bag away from the horse. Michelangelo stamped her hoof in rebellion and snorted in a way that let Victoria know the animal was not happy. As she opened the bag she found fresh meat wrapped in some weird looking transparent material. Fresh potatoes, rice, apples and oranges and a set of two perfectly preserved pork chops rested in the bottom of the sack. Victoria sat down slowly and buried her face in her hands and she wept. Her sobs were profound and laced with joy and gratitude and affection. Ashley had promised and she fulfilled that promise. Another day could be lived without the affliction of hunger and the worry of survival.